So the cat decides that she wants to use a corner of my daughter’s room to pee. Her cat box is down in the basement, and the cat’s old.
“Fuck them,” she says (because that’s what cats say), “I’m going to pee right here.”
Anyone who has had cats knows that if a cat pees on something, you have to toss it out. It’s going to smell like cat pee forever.
And if your house smells like cat pee, your guests are going to talk about you behind your back. Cable news shows are going to show up late at night doing mini-documentaries about you. DYFS social workers start knocking on your door to check on your children. All sorts of stuff.
So you have to toss it out.
But I can’t toss out a whole room. What I can do is cut out that piece of carpet that the cat peed on and replace it with remnant carpet from the same rug that I’ve saved in the basement.
Which brings me to Lowe’s (Lowe’s is like Home Depot for hipsters — what-the-hell, I’m a hipster). I’m there with the Wife-Beast to grab some carpet padding. She says, “What if this doesn’t work? We’ll have to replace the carpet. How big is the room?” She wants to price out some Lowe’s carpeting.
“The room is like 15-feet by 13 feet,” I answer.
“No. I think it’s 13-feet by 11 feet.”
Now you don’t know my wife but, let me tell you, if I don’t play my cards right: Armageddon. “Nah. It’s 15-feet. I just measured where the pee was …”
“I don’t care what you measured. I know the plans. It’s not 15-feet,” she interrupts.
“Tell you what. When we get home, I’ll measure it. If I’m wrong, you kiss me on the cheek; if I’m right, you can kiss my ass.” I smile. She smiles. But still says …
“It’s not 15-feet.”
We’ll see.
What happens when we got home played out on Twitter. It went something like this:
Me: My wife & I are arguing over the size of the bedroom. She doesn’t like what the tape measure says so she’s looking for the blueprints.
She: You are wrong @jimformation. The blueprints do not lie! I can’t help it you don’t know how to measure!!!!
Me: She’s putting her hands on me because the blueprints say one thing & the tape measurer says something else! CALL 911! CALL 911!
Me (to my dog): She was mean to me, Digger. She said, “Punching you in the stomach is NOT MEAN!”
She: You’re emphasizing the wrong words. It should read, “Punching YOU in the stomach is not mean.”
So when the cops came to break things up, she says, “We were sparring.“
So I says to Johnny Law: “We weren’t sparring! She knows Muay Thai kickboxing; I don’t. Look at my bruises; I call it an ass-kicking.“
She: Men are weird.
Me: Women are weird. But their boobs feel nice.
For the record, the local 5-0 didn’t come to the house. The were never called. And if she EVER came at me with her Muay Thai shit, I’d just have to jiu-jitsu her ass.
…
…
Umm. Don’t tell her I said that, ‘k?