My Cat's on Prozac

Mister Sir's (a.k.a. Tarzan) tail has been in for repair several times over the past few years. Once it was broken, once it had a puncture wound, once it was cut to almost the bone, and, now, he won't stop chewing it for some reason.

Either he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or he has nerve damage in his tail. The first course of treatment is Prozac. Poor Sir. He's wearing a cone around his head so that he cannot chew his tail. Once his tail is healed and he's been on Prozac for three weeks, the cone can come off and we'll see if he resumes chewing his tail or not. Hopefully he won't, because if he does, then it is likely that he has nerve damage in his tail and it will have to be amputated. And that makes me absolutely sick. Sir loves his tail and so do I. It's the best indicator of his mood. If he has no tail, I'll have to rely solely on his ears, and those are harder to read.

Giving Mister Sir Prozac every day is hellish. My hands are covered in bites and scratches and bruises, and that's WITH him wearing the cone. I cannot imagine what would happen if his sharp teeth were completely unhindered! If the Prozac does its job, the cone will come off, but the antidepressants will continue indefinitely. I'll have to come up with a better way to give that cat his pills.

Almost nothing seems to cheer Sir, not even his Wife Biter t-shirt. He wears it without a fight, even. The cone is bringing him down. We've tried convincing him that the cone is a mane, but he's not buying it. He's too smart for that. He's dumb enough to get into the litter box and attempt to use it while we're still pouring in the fresh Tidy Cat, but he's too smart to believe that the cone is a mane. What can I say? Being too smart for our own good runs in the family. So does tail-chewing. Well, if we had tails, we'd be chewing them, I bet. Sir fits in all too well.

KA

Meth Truck

I'll preface this story with the good news: at least my girls are creative.

So, we were in the minivan a few days ago when Courtney told us the story of a meth bust that happened in North Tulsa. Apparently, some guy was cooking meth in his car and was pulled over by a policeman. What gave Meth Man away? It was the smoke belching from his car window.

Madeline took off with the story, saying, "Wouldn't it be funny if there were traveling meth trucks that looked like ice-cream trucks!? They'd drive thorough neighborhoods and all the meth-heads would run to their money jars digging for quarters just like we do when the Pinky-Dinky Ice-Cream truck comes around!"

"Yeah," added Court, "and there'd be a little side window where customers could order, but there'd be constant clouds of smoke wafting by from the bubbling cauldron of meth churning in the back of the truck!"

Chloe: "The thame guy who drives the ithe-cream truck could drive the meth truck because he already looks like he should be driving a meth truck."

And, finally, the funniest contribution from my little Annie, "Da twuck wouldn't pway Pop Does da Weasel, it would go "Riiiiiiiiiicolaaaa! Riiiiiiiiiiicolaaaa!" It would do it all awound the nebowhood."

We busted up laughing and it took half an hour to calm down. Chloe's friend, who was with us, said that we needed our own television show. I doubt that, though it'd not surprise me if we eventually land on Dr. Phil as an example of one of the weirdest families ever.

So, there it is. A traveling meth truck which cruises neighborhoods broadcasting via loudspeaker a brand of cough drops.

If marijuana ever becomes legal, I bet my girls will make a lot more money than they do now from babysitting. Especially if they use Annie's adorable, tiny voice over the loudspeaker.

Riiiiiiiicolaa!



KA

The Bad Look

I can't believe I'm posting this.

This summer, at the pool, I was bobbing along very near the edge when I felt a little body swimming behind me, squiggling in an attempt to pass between me and the pool wall.

A boy no more than five or so and wearing enormous goggles popped breathlessly to the surface just to my left and promptly began flagging down his friend, Seth, who just happens to be my little Mormon next door neighbor. It's no exaggeration to say that I've helped raise Seth. That's probably why he's such a stinker.

Seth to Begoggled Boy: "What?!"

Begoggled Boy: "Dat was a baaaaaad wook!"

Seth: "What was?"

Begoggled Boy: (pointing accusingly at Kimberly Ann) "I was stawing wight at HER butt!"

Seth: (Contorts face in horror)

Kimberly Ann: (Also contorts face in horror and silently resolves to increase squats by a gazillion)

Ladies Sitting at Edge of Pool Observing: (Laugh hysterically and probably inadvertently tinkle themselves, the old hags.)

Well, there it is folks: The Bad Look. By the way, "The Bad Look" is now the official name for my booty, at least according to my daughters. It's also the official term for anything particularly or painfully unattractive. "Sherri's hairdo was one Bad Look, bless her heart."

Wondering if the Homeowner's Association might pay for liposuction as a Neighborhood Beautification project,

Kimberly

Identifying as an Ex-Mormon

Leaving the religion which has been the foundation of my family's heritage for many generations was a process that affected me to my core. For years I identified primarily as a mother and an ex-Mormon. I still loved and respected my Mormon family, and didn't raise religious issues in their presence, but, for a time, being a former Mormon was as much a part of my identity as being a Mormon had been. I cannot explain why; it just was. But I don't think it is anymore.

To everything there is a season, and my season of active ex-Mormonism seems to have passed. I'm still interested in Mormon history and will, of course, try to be a help to anyone who has questions, and the love and affection for the many friends I've met on various discussion boards and at ex-Mormon conferences remains, but I can sense my interest in most things Mormon waning. Perhaps that will change in the future, but for now, I welcome the apathy.

I've decided to transfer more of my energy to the pursuit of shoes. I'm thinking of documenting every pair I own, which will take a good chunk of time, especially considering my rate of shoe accrual. I'll let the Mormons in the family deal with Family History. Footwear History is where it's at for me. I wish I had a picture of my first pair. I'd start a Footwear Tree with those little high-topped white baby shoes perched atop the family line.

KA