As I sit—taking a sweaty break from frantically cleaning up after handymen who track in some sort of prehistoric mud that only comes up if you scrape it—writing this post, we are only 72% sure Offspring will be joining us for Thanksgiving. And, due to the stress of getting the house ready around said workmen, for a holiday dinner that may or may not include Private Squdgee BooBoo—who does not answer my texts when I tell him I am at the grocery store and need him to decide within the next 10 minutes whether he wants my thyme roasted carrots or the brown butter Brussels sprouts—I am admitting to you that you are not getting a written-on-Thanksgiving post-Thanksgiving post.
(looks back at weird, long, convoluted sentence)
Instead, I feel like now is a good time to update you on what the Meth Ghosts have been up to.
First, for the new kids: this house is definitely haunted and the ghosts mostly live in the room we use for storage.*
And then, a few days ago, Husband’s stupid loaf cat got herself trapped in there. We didn’t notice for a while—we heard scratching on the door, but as you’ll recall Alexander Hamilton is obsessed with that room so we just yelled at him a bit and didn’t bother to investigate. When I finally realized, I opened the door and she bolted out like we’d tied bells to her tail.**
Then, the next morning, I was getting dressed and…
StupidCat: (pouncing, chasing, playing with nothing)
SC: (stops to rest)
SC: (looks at me)
ME: Who were you playing with just now?
SC: (blank stare)
HAMILTON: (looks up at me) BRRRT!***
SC: (looks away, pounces off with new friend)
I told husband when he got home, with Ham there to back up my story. His reaction?
“At least she found a friend.”
Can we examine this, please? Because she’s fucking terrified of everything—including Alexander Hamilton, people who know her name, and stairs. But somehow the Meth Ghosts are super cool and not at all scary?
ME: Okay, I’m gonna go take a shower and then— (stops, stares)
ME: (returns) Okay. Your cat just came out of the bedroom, pawed at the storage room door, then sat for a moment, staring.
ME: Yeah. Then her head snapped up like she was looking up at someone, she leaped in the air, and pounced off, swatting and playing with her friend.
ME: YOUR CAT IS FRIENDS WITH THE METH GHOSTS.
HIM: As long as they’re not bothering us, right?
* It’s technically bigger than our “guest room” but… we couldn’t make someone sleep in there.
** Not that I know anything about how that would go. Ahem.
***Translation: Gurl. Don’t pretend you don’t know what the fuck just happened.