Of Tucheem And Other Non-Sequiturs

What is it about cats that attracts them to the most snag- or puncture-worthy surfaces in the house, especially when they’re feeling all knead-the-paws-with-claws-out-cuz-I-lurrrrrrrrrv-you-so-much affectionate? They are aces at playing the Sesame Street game One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others (Because It’s New). Lay on the old, pre-snagged, cat-hairy afghan? Pour quoi, when there’s a freshly knitted sweater near to paw. Sharpen claws on the old graying carpet on the stairs? Mais non! There’s a brand new area rug that needs to be taught how to shed fibers.

My cat has perpetual midlife crisis. As soon as her favorite cuddle gets a little shabby and a few bald patches, it’s time to get a divorce and move on to a new main squeeze. At the moment our house contains a wealth of new kitty boyfriend material (photos coming soon to a blog near you): recently finished goldfish sweater, just started Vogue Knitting Fall 2005 pattern #11 bulky cable pullover, new leather sofa, new area rugs in the living room and front entry stall.

Yes, stall. Trying to get into my house through the front door is a bit like squeezing into that one in public restrooms that’s been shrunk several inches to accommodate the luxuriously appointed handicapped potty suite right next door. You can’t figure out how to shut the door without standing on or rubbing up against something you’d rather not.

In other news, we have just bid farewell to my parents who drove for two long days from their house to ours to drop off their old and our new Pontiac Montana van. A more aptly named vehicle would be hard to find. The thing’s as huge as its namesake Big Square(-ish) State. Even 2 Year Old will find it a challenge to hide the floor under her customary sand and cracker crumb coating. We’ll have to get a Massachusetts license plate for the front and a New Hampshire license plate for the rear. Oh, just kidding. It’s technically a minivan but to a veteran Mazda 323/Protégé driver, it seems almost big enough to paint Orange Yellow and hang a swinging stop sign out the driver’s side window; an idea dangerous to suggest to power-starved control freaks like yours truly. I love the idea of terrorizing the Dunkin Donut coffee-charged Massholes careening down I-93, zipping in and out of overpopulated lanes of traffic with impunity. I’m picturing switching on the flashing red lights, whipping out the mini stop sign, and watching them tumble bumper over teakettle as they slam on their brakes. Yeah, right. As if they’d actually stop for something like a school bus (sigh). A girl can daydream, though.

As for the title of this post, I am reliably informed that the plural of tuckus, also spelled tuches, might more accurately be tucheem. I guess that means I can refer to you denters affectionately as my Tucheem Team.