Chimney Sweep

It was Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. night and The Precious made a motion, which I seconded, to have a fire in the fireplace.  I like fire.  So The Precious built a nice big crackly one, and we turned off the lights and settled in for a visit with Phil Coulson (his first name is Agent), while the Lady of the House watched over her kittens in front of the TV.
About fifteen minutes into the show, a sudden large dark mass of slobbery shag dropped out of nowhere smack-dab in the middle of the room.  It took a few seconds to figure out that it was a cat.  A long-haired cat.  Definitely not a house cat.  In fact, it wasn't even our cat.  Everybody started talking.
"Who is that?"
"It's that stray!"
"What in the world is wrong with it?"
"Why is its face all icky?"
"How did he get in here?"
"Did somebody leave the back door open?"
"He just jumped out of the fireplace!"
"How do we catch him and get him out of here?"
"He's covered in soot!"
"Is he bloody?"
"It's slobber, his lungs are burned!"
Just then the Lady of the House noticed our unexpected guest, and she didn't waste time asking questions.  She simply unleashed an assault.  Agent Coulson was drowned out by clouds of ash, clumps of fur, and screams of animals.  Poor Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein got caught in the crossfire, which gave the chimney sweep a split-second to seek refuge down the hall under Lefty's bed.
Hunneypunkin began hollering instructions that nobody heard.  Lefty intercepted the Lady of the House and managed to shut her with her children in the utility room without losing any blood or limbs.  Angel Doll and Pixie spirited Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein away to the safety of the princess chambers.  I Googled "how to treat smoke inhalation in cats" while The Precious held his head and rocked himself and shouted, "Stupid cats, we're missing Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
Someone managed to get the stray back outside, where he apparently got enough rest and fresh air to recover even without my internet knowledge.  There's a grate over the chimney now to prevent further incidents.  We've had a cat in the chimney before, but not during fire season.  http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/chewables-thinks-hes-spaniard.html  It took a day or so to get all the sootprints cleaned up and the smoky smell out of the bedroom.
We missed most of the show that night, but it's not that big of a deal.  We can always catch up online or wait for a rerun.  Now if I had missed an episode where Jeremy Renner had made a guest appearance as The Hawk, that would have been a real burn.

Obituary

Chewables http://chevroletmama.blogspot.com/2012/10/chewables-thinks-hes-spaniard.html and his sister Princess were born on Memorial Weekend.  Their mother, Moreo, took an inadvertent trip to the landfill on a trailer full of rubbish the very next day, and though we tried, we were never able to retrieve her.  So Chewables, Princess, and the rest of their brothers and sisters were fostered by a neighbor cat who had just had new babies, on the condition that when the kittens were old enough, all the cats including the mother would move to our place.
When the combined litter was old enough, they did indeed move to our place.  Their mother didn't like it here and kissed them all goodbye, and one by one the kittens moved away too, except for Chewables and Princess.  After a year or so, even Princess left to seek her fortune, but Chewables remained.
Chewables was a ladies man and he, like Abraham of the Bible, became the father of many.  Truth be told, he was eventually the father of all the ladies, at which time he went to the vet.  You know, to be tutored.  After tutoring, Chewables became the caretaker of all our other cats.  He bathed them, played with them, babysat them, and taught them how to hunt.  When we brought Wild One home from Grandpa's farm on Father's Day, Chewables both tamed and befriended him.  Chewables and Wild One were best friends until the day Chewables died.  Until today.
The Precious found Chewables this morning, lying on the patio outside our back door.  No blood, no marks, no broken bones.  He looked like he was sleeping, but with his eyes open.  We picked him up and held him.  We tried to be tough and cool but we just cried like girls.  (We girls did, anyway.  The boys just took off with shovels.)  We were still able to curl him up and snuggle with him.  But this was the only time we ever held him when he didn't purr.
You weren't old enough to die, Chewables.  What happened to you?  You weren't sick.  Did you jump off someplace too high, as you were so fond of doing, but this time hit your head?  We will miss you.  The other cats will miss you.  Jeremy Renner would have liked you a lot.  I don't care what anybody says, I believe that all pets go to heaven.

Adventures in Packing a Lunch

Once upon a season of life when I was employed and Hunneypunkin was un, Hunneypunkin would assign the packing of my lunch for work to one of the children, the night before.  It was a nifty little way of using up dinner leftovers and including The People in my work life at the same time.
I enjoyed opening my lunch when I got to work to see what The People had sent for me.  Sometimes there would be a napkin in my lunch bag, with a note written on it with permanent marker by Angel Doll.  If there were no leftovers from last night's dinner, there would be a sandwich, maybe peanut butter with honey or our own homemade jam.  But usually there would be something I could put in the microwave (God bless my aunt for buying me one because the office didn't have one).  I might have a slice of pizza wrapped in foil, or a bowl of spaghetti.
I learned to peek in my lunch before I left home though, when I opened my lunch one day and there was only a tiny bowl of plain white rice.  I poked around the office to see if there was anything, anything at all, I could add to the rice.  Coffee creamer...sugar...hmm.  Nope, three bites of plain white rice was what I had for lunch.  Bless their little hearts, Daddy had said, "Pack the dinner leftovers for Mama's lunch for tomorrow," and that's all that was left.
Now, Hunneypunkin is employed and I am un, and Hunneypunkin assigns the packing of his own lunches to The People every night.  They generally do a great job, and they know his routine.  Make three sandwiches and stick them in the fridge, fill three wide-mouth water bottles with ice and stick them in the freezer.  Then in the morning, Hunneypunkin fills his bottles of ice with tea and puts them in his lunch bag with his sandwiches from the fridge.
We did have to remind The People once that after they made the sandwiches, they should put them into sandwich bags before refrigerating them.  Also that the sandwiches should indeed be refrigerated after being put into sandwich bags.  We learned that the sandwiches should be made early in the evening, so The People aren't so sleepy they forget to put the lunchmeat in the sandwiches.  Someone had to be reminded once that the ice in the water bottles wouldn't stay frozen unless the water bottles were put in the freezer.  Only once did Hunneypunkin simply forget to take his sandwiches out of the fridge before taking his lunch bag out the door.  Who knew we could find so much humor in the simple act of packing lunch?
This blog post contains no reference whatsoever to Jeremy Renner.

Warring With Hunneypunkin (Or, Magicking Weeds Into Bacon)

Hunneypunkin wants to spray weeds.  The problem is, he doesn't.  (Did I already tell this story?  I don't remember.)  Now I understand that all spring long, when the weeds are sweet and adorable just like all babies, it's either windy or raining or both and you can't spray the weeds in the wain and rinnd.  By the time the spring windses and rainses are gone, the weeds have all turned into big people.  Then, since there are no more rainsies and windsies, Hunneypunkin sprays weeds.  Guess what we have then?  An acre of big, ugly deadness.  Yuck!
I don't like weed spray because it stinks and I'm sure it's poisonous for plants and people and animals and water and ozone and other neat stuff.  I also don't like weeds because they mess with my favoriter plants.  So my solution is for Hunneypunkin to pull, shovel, pick, or hoe the weeds.  The problem is, he doesn't.  Plan B would be for Jeremy Renner to do it, but he lives too far away.  Besides, then there would be a big pile of dead weeds and they'd have to be burned or hauled off to the landfill or sneaked into the neighbor's yard, and that's just too much work.  Plus then if the neighbors return the favor, you're back at square one.
Hunneypunkin and I have had a habit of spiritedly debating the Spray-Versus-Pull Weed War at least three times every spring and twice during summer.  We've made it a tradition, kind of like Christmas only without the snow, candies, gifts, carols, stockings, good cheer, or eggnog.
This year, however, we came up with a different option: pigs.  We tossed a few oinkers in a pen out back.  I worked up the ambition to pull weeds myownself, and don't you know those hogs are pretty happy about eating their green leafies.  It's a pretty decent solution.  Hunneypunkin doesn't have to spray, dig, pull, pick, OR burn, I can feel all green and environmental, my yard looks pretty nice, I get a little exercise, and when the winter comes and the weeds are no more, we'll have bacon.  You KNOW how I feel about bacon.

Random and Limited

I love to be able to congratulate myself on a job well done, but some days all I can manage is a sigh of patheticness over a job halfheartedly started.  But hey, I just returned from a rehabilatory visit to the Pacific Ocean, so what do I care?
I woke up this morning with no muscle ache, joint pain, or skull throb.  Then I tried to evict a half acre of weeds all by myownself .  Yard work isn't good for you.  Bacon.  BACON is what's good for you.  I've never gotten subscapular spasms or lumbar aches from bacon.
The world would be a better place if everyone ate Second Breakfast.
Long live Jeremy Renner.

Disclaimer

ChevroletMama is not my legal name.
I do not believe in leprechauns; the dryer and fridge noises were really just mechanical problems that we have not fixed as yet.
Pixie*, Angel Doll*, Lefty*, and The Precious* were actually born just like most people are and we assume they are mortals like the rest of us but we're not going to test that.
I don't know anyone named Dromiquine.
I do take Christmas Day off.
My sisters-in-law Lovesme and Hatesme are fictitious; in real life I have and love seven, not two, unique and beautiful sisters-in-law.
One of my favorite mottoes truly is "I do what I can."  (Another is "I'm smarter than I look."  Future blog entry right there.)
Spell-check is the only reason I knew there was an "e" in the plural for "motto".
It's true that I have hidden Cheetos from the rest of my family and scrambled to hide them when someone walked into the room, but I have never actually wrapped my snacks in a bra.
"Broken or fixed" is a real game.
The Super-Secret Manual of Pointless Instructions for Guys is an imaginary book.
Jeremy Renner is presumably 98.6° like everyone else.
*Names have been changed because I thought it was fun.

Broken or Fixed

It didn't bug me when my little ones took all afternoon to eat lunch because if they were confined to the table, so were their messes.  I could clean something and it would stay tidy for a whole hour.  Hunneypunkin, however, was annoyed that lunch was still being had when he got home from work for supper, and demanded to know why lunch took so long every day.
So I spied to learn what nonsense was afoot at lunchtime, and that's how I learned to play "Broken or fixed".  When no one was looking, Lefty would tear his sandwich in half, press the halves together, then hold it up and ask, "Is my sandwich broken or fixed?"  The Precious and the sisters would cast their votes as to whether the bread was torn or whole, and Lefty would pull the two halves apart to show who was right.
Then Angel Doll would hold up a baby carrot with both hands and ask, "Broken or fixed," wait for responses, and then let go of the carrot with one hand to prove that the carrot was whole.
Pixie would repeat the act with a cheese stick, scolding anyone who cheated by trying to lean in for a closer look, and The Precious would take a turn with his sandwich.
The game could get rather complex, what with trying to break apart a carrot without anyone else seeing, or pretending to tear a cheese stick in half without actually doing it, or wrapping one's entire body around the plate to hide the breaking--or not--of the food.
The "Broken or fixed" game was forgotten as the People reached double-digit birthdays.  Adolescent appetites replaced the childhood necessity of playing with one's food.  Recently, however, someone remembered the game, and for a short time it was revived.  The only thing more entertaining than watching Jeremy Renner interviews on Youtube, is watching my teenagers playing "Broken or fixed" with their lunches.