Then & Now: Sundays

THEN

Twenty years ago

The Sunday morning newspaper, late as usual, hits the driveway with a thud. The Shopwells are poised and ready for the shopping inserts. The Sunday eyeopener pot of coffee has been consumed and all heads are in peak caffeinated condition. Twelve cats lurk inside and outside the back door ready for the Sunday morning ritual.

Mr. Shopwell prepares to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He rinses the carafe, slowly pours 12 cups of filtered water into the tank, methodically unfolds a paper filter, and smooths it into the filter basket, opens the cupboard and chooses an appropriate blend, measures beans into the grinder, grinds for a count of seven, sniffs the aroma as he carefully pours the coffee into the filter, pauses for just a moment, and flips the switch. He stands guard over the pot, ready for the first and freshest cup.

Mrs. Shopwell gets up to scoop the poop and feed the cats. Her furry slippers scuffle over to the pooper scooper stand. Two of the cats follow her as she scoops all three litter boxes, and each takes a moment to deposit fresh tootsie roll shaped poops. Mrs. Shopwell makes one last pass through the litter boxes, nose turned up to avoid the fresh aroma. Six cats stand guard at the food barrel ready to pounce on fresh scooped kibble. Their noses twitch at the aroma.

Mrs. Shopwell’s sister Marty is visiting but she knows the ritual too. She makes an excuse to head for the bathroom muttering something about having too much coffee already. That leaves Artie, Marty’s girlfriend who just happens to visit enough to know the ritual, stuck with the job of stumbling over the remaining four cats to get to the bottom of the long, steep, narrow driveway to retrieve the coveted newspaper.

Yes, the newspaper is coveted. Not coveted enough to be the one passively elected to retrieve it. But, coveted enough that the arrival of the newspaper at the table creates a brief moment of havoc. All the cats retreat at the first rustle of the newspaper and watch from afar as eight hands scuffle and grasp at the colorful Sunday inserts. Not the news. Just the ads. It’s a retail therapy kind of day and everyone is ready for some retail inspiration.

As the paper rustling stops, the cats return to survey their battle ground. The table is covered with four categorically stacked paper piles. Computer ads have been separated into PC and Mac piles. Department store ads have been ripped apart into tools and lady’s underwear. The news, business and sports are strewn on the floor.

As the coffee cups are refilled the cats take their positions. After a few feeble attempts at coming between newspaper and noses, an exhaustible task on Sundays, they resort to languishing in the heedlessly tossed floor papers.

Mrs. Shopwell settles into the PC ads offering insinuating remarks about Macs while Marty peruses the Mac ads offering frequent rebuttals in defense of Macs. Artie says something about cutting precise round circles with a new super powered model jigsaw and Marty mutters, “all circles are round.” Mr. Shopwell is silent in words but loud in breath as he gazes at underwire, push-up, and figure enhancing bras in Victoria Secret ads.

NOW

Once known as Mr. & Mrs. Shopwell, the figments of imagination have aged into a caricature of Herman and Myrtle.

The twelve cats crossed that rainbow bridge long ago. These days Trumpette and Wanda rule over the litter box. Since the cat population is down by ten, Myrtle figures it’s Herman’s turn to scoop the poop. According to her calculations: 12 cats x 12 years x 365 days x 12 scoops per day = 630,720 scoops. If Herman scoops twice a day for 2 cats, he will have to scoop for 432 years to catch up.

Now about the coffee. Herman still does the morning ritual, but since he only must place a pod in the pot and push the brew button, Myrtle insists he bring her a fresh cup of joe before she gets out of bed.

As for the newspaper. The only day the official newspaper arrives is on Sunday and only because Sunday is digital detox day. Myrtle has decreed she will not turn on any electronic device on the sabbath (unless no one is looking). Herman has lost interest in the bra ads since he spends hours viewing ladies trying on underwear on YouTube but he does snip the grocery coupons. Myrtle sips her coffee, sends Herman off to the store, and prepares the weekly honey do list.

So, nothing has changed. Herman remains clueless.

Purrsistence

Are you sure you want to delete this file?

Update: In response to one of the comments left below, I began to feel guilty (maybe more like petrified) about using this picture of a print. In order to avoid the copyright police I did the best I could to find the artist – not a difficult task and it came with a bonus. Check out Art That Makes You Laugh but be forewarned – you will laugh, be inspired and want to own one of his pieces. And just so you know, Jeff Leedy responded to my confession and says the picture can stay.

What the heck happened this year? And the blog? Where did it go? I just realized the titles for my last three posts could tell a story. Three months ago I mentioned I wanted to write. Nine days later marijuana had arrived. Two months after that I looked at the news feed on Facebook and saw it was I Love to Write Day.

So here’s the story. I felt trumped. No amount of word tweaking, plot twisting, or new endings could turn my 90,000 word memoir into the Erma Bombeck kind of masterpiece I had imagined in my head. It was just not going to happen. In an angry moment I placed Trumpette (our neurotic cat) dangerously close to the delete key.

But, a miracle happened. Marijuana had arrived. Trumpette inhaled a hefty dose and the next thing I knew she was attacking fireflies at the patio door in the middle of a sunny day. Wait. I got that wrong. We don’t have fireflies in California. I guess it was night time and they were moths. It seems I was in a kind of fog, maybe a contact high? I found myself back at the keyboard. Magic happened. While Trumpette purred off the pot, I rewrote the entire book. In one night. It was done. I sent it off to the publisher. And then I quit writing until I-Love-To-Write-Day came.

Remember that Bullet Journal I had started a few months back? I began a new list:

Blog – maybe consider fiction
Send Trumpette to rehab
Find out why the publisher hasn’t contacted me
Revise – try again

Foiled Again

After 374 sleepless nights I have discovered it really is true that cats hate foil. The “nameless one,” has stopped climbing the blinds since I redecorated my bedroom with one full box of foil.

Several months ago I discovered scat mats. Cats hate electrical shocks. The “nameless one” has stopped rattling my closet doors since five foot scat mats guard each door.

So, I’m getting smarter in my old age. But now I must wear a sleep mask to avoid the glare of morning sun on foil and slippers lest I forget about the scat mat when choosing my morning attire.

The nameless one was such an sweet tiny thing, black with a sprinkling of gray, a quiet meow and a kinky tail. She begged to come home with us. My intuition was lost in the sorrowful gaze of this poor abandoned kitten. She crossed impenetrable boundaries and leaped into my arms. I’ll admit it – she has provided plenty of distractions from the serious side of life – but there needs to be a bit more balance. Which brings me to why she is called “the nameless one.”

After posting frequent exhibits of her behavior on Facebook for the last year, no one has been able to come up with a suitable name. There were great ideas – everything from Amber to Zelda. A couple of days ago I wanted to name her “Eve” after an “Eve of Destruction” (note the tattered edges of the blinds). She has been addressed as Shadow, Samantha, Mystic, Storm, Superwoman, Sabrina and many other names. She won’t answer to any except at dinner time. Then you can call her anything you please.

Next issue – the Nameless One has been thinking outside of the box. Ideas other than spraying my pillowcase with essence of lavender every night?