Tub of Cats

Feb. 13, 2012. 8:04am. I am given life by Nancy H. on an assembly line in Musky River, IL. My placenta clings to me, dark brown and sticky. As it slowly hardens into an exoskeletal shell, I am bound in a warm sweetness. It’s almost too much to bear as I lie on the vinyl conveyer belt, struggling to maintain consciousness. Is this living? O Universe, my spirit bursts forth!

Feb. 13, 2012. 8:36am. A life partner! I have been mated with one of mine own kind, as the Creator herself has deemed it be so. We are placed on a marital bed of thin white cardboard, our bodies becoming one, fusing at the sides, which will later produce a satisfying snap when broken apart. As I weep with happiness, I melt myself a little.

Feb. 13, 2012. 8:47am. Our union has been consummated. My mate and I have been sealed together forever within a transparent veil of plastic, keeping the world out and our love in. As if life can’t get any better, we are sent off on our honeymoon in the back of a truck.

Feb. 20, 2012. 4:38pm.  I fear Cupcake and I have hit a rut in our middle age. (She hates it when I call her Cupcake. “I’m not a cupcake!!”, she screams to me.) We never talk, and the tempered seam running down the middle that used to bind us now seems as if it were no more than a coincidental melding of corn syrup, hydrogenated palm kernel oil, and alkalized cocoa. All is dark. We have been stuck in this box, in this damp warehouse that smells of gasoline and rubber, for a week. I sometimes wish Nancy H. had eaten me.

Feb. 22, 2:17pm. Let me teach you a lesson. It’s always darkest before the display. Just when I thought all was lost in that cinder block cave of despair, I (no, we!) sit proudly on a merchandising kiosk strategically located near the check-out of the Rite Aid in Coheegaskaw, MI. “Pick me! Pick me!” Oh, sisters and brothers! Zebra Cakes and Star Crunches! We shall all get picked. We shall all be purchased, whether impulsively or pre-meditated, whether by debit or cash, or even credit. Times is tough, lady. Swipe the card! The music plays on, and the music plays on. But no sound is as sweet as the snap of our shells, souls uniting as bodies are sundered. Cupcake, I love you. “For the last time, I’m not a cupcake!”. No, my love. You are not a cupcake. You are a Swiss Roll. I am a Swiss Roll. We are all Swiss Rolls.

1. Position yourself near his bed. Make a loud noise repeatedly at a certain time everyday. He will eventually have to touch you to make you shut up. He will at least notice you.

2. Wear something that’s bright red and flashy. Put an alarm clock on your head. I’ve never had to do that, since I’m an alarm clock to start with.

3. Never talk about work. Even if he works at an alarm clock factory and you think you might have tons to talk about, like how the new Sanyo 35XGT has a shorter power cord. How stupid! But no one likes a complainer.

4. Let him know the correct time when it changes every minute. 20 years will have gone by before you know it.

5. Learn how to make bread pudding. This was really hard for me, but you should have seen the look on his face when he discovered a bowl of bread pudding on his nightstand. Actually, getting the bread pudding from the kitchen to the bedroom was the hardest part!

6. Have luscious, flowing auburn hair that smells like coconut, as I’ve heard from other alarm clocks at our weekly alarm clock meetings to discuss what men look for in women. It was my turn to take “minutes” at that meeting! I mentioned that at the meeting several times, and the other clocks laughed every time, but it’s weird, because other clocks have taken the minutes, and that joke never occurred to them.

7. There is no time for sadness.

8. If he doesn’t like it when you make an ongoing loud noise repeatedly at an even rhythm, try only making the noise once every 12 minutes. This is called Snooze, but it certainly doesn’t mean you’re a bore!

9. Let him drive. It makes him feel like a man, plus you can stay at home.

…stains on your couch that you don’t know where they came from, and you don’t really care, but they’re the kind of stains that if you saw them on someone else’s couch, you would seriously question their hygiene and not accept any dairy products they offer to you.

“CU There!”

Hope. Assurance. Optimism. We’re not talking about a car commercial or a 2012 campaign ad, or even an Easy Bake oven. Those are bigger and more just like, physically there, you know what I mean? This is a text message, a whisper of a promise. Like the gossamer wings of a really thin moth, maybe a baby moth who just came out of the cocoon and hasn’t had any time yet for its wings to get hardened by the crassness and brutality of the insect world, bugs running into other bugs, all chaos, no order and no cell phones small enough for them to really use.

This text has an air of mystery. Will the recipient truly see that person “there”? Where’s “there”? A wig shop, a drag race, a Burlington Coat Factory? It doesn’t matter though, and I’m lulled into a state of false security that could very well be broken, like a wet paper towel, softly, with no fanfare and a complete disbelief that that just goddam happened. But, not yet… for now, all we need to know is that it’s an almost 99.9% definite thing that you’ll be seen there. Dress your best and try to go to the bathroom, even if you don’t have to. No one likes that person who has to go to the bathroom in the middle of a thing.

1 1/4” x 2 3/4” flat, square-cornered, yet as pliable as a virgin’s innocence, post-it notes

#2 pencils, but then why did Spyros always think of them first?…. first thing in the morning, first thing when he laid his heavy head down at night, his dark Grecian curls spilling out on his pillow, his arms reaching for that slender octagonal body to caress.

Heavy-duty staples that will never let go, no matter what that damn-fool judge says.

3-pocket executive wall file, mounting hardware included. I said, mounting hardware included.

1/3 cut top tab manila file folders to hold Katya’s darkest secrets. As long as her medical reports keep being printed on letter-sized paper, she’s going to keep them from her adoring husband Nick’s eyes. She can’t hurt him like this…. six months to live, and dammit, she’s going to make them the best six months they’ve had since Phuket in ‘77.

Paper clips. Small. Metal. Good at holding things together. Just like that feisty little spitfire Molly O’Rourke. No one’s dyin’ on her watch.

12-pack Sharpies, all black. Emma was in heaven.

1. Smooth. New rubber. Life-saving space age material in novel pet form. Whimsical? You bet. Check your email. You look modern enough to have a new message. I know you’re not serious because half of you is orange. Deep set eyes, vacuums of truth. Set it on high pile. There are a lot of lies and cat hair buried in this shag carpet. Your little feet are cute, but ineffectual. Victim? I did not aim that torch at you. Big oops there. You are good luck to have, if what a person wants most out of life is a tiny rubber gerbil in two pieces.

2. Can I say it? Your forepaws look like little breasts. But I’m kidding! They’re totally paws, I see it now. Really, I only noticed the breast thing when I looked at you in a cynical way. But you are not cynical. Nor are you conical. You are a real tiny rubber gerbil in two pieces.

Why is it called Tumblr, and why is there no “e”? I’m sure I’m not the first person to ask this question, so let’s go back to the archives and take a look:

Mildred C., from Kiawatka, WI:

     Dear Mr. Tumblr,

           Why do you spell your name without an Ernie? Are you Jewish? Your people make such nice bagels. I get them from the store!

Response from Jake B., Tumblr:

     Dear Ms. C.,

             If you could only see my face right now, you’d know how much I love answering questions like this. Have you looked for the “e”? It might be there, if you look hard enough and under your husband (probably on the couch. Men!) But seriously, let us know if you find the “e”. We’re definitely not Jewish.

Here’s another one, this time from far away! But with the internet, everyone is in your goddamn backyard.

Prince Abonem Sulamain, from El-Aslan Zorajafr, Qatar:

Most High Tumblr Mightiness,

            It greatly disturbs me that there is no three pronged eagle in your title. Grab what is yours. As well, may I ask, why have you been destined to bear the moniker of the action of a common household appliance such as a dryer? That is what the “people” use to remove dew from their raiments. Certainly, the virgins in my palace use heated rubies lain upon my undies to give the water back to the desert. Did you like my quotation marks? American Katie is a fine tutor. She will bear me many words, and sons!

Freely imposed love,

Prince “Abbie Sool” (It’s what A.K. calls me!)

Response from Debbie G., Tumblr:

Dear Dr. Abonem S. Equator,

           Have you checked out our FAQ’s? You just start to type and it guesses what question you’re going to ask. It’s like having a crystal ball, something you’re probably used to, since it sounds like you have diamonds and maybe a genie? Sometimes I swear my dog says my name. Was that one of your three wishes? You probably also have a really cool knife. Dustin has a knife, but it’s just gray. He says I should stop trying to look pretty. Thanks for using Tumblr!

I guess we won’t solve this mystery tonight. The Benadryl is finally starting to dissolve in the second glass of wine. Until next time, you keep washing, and I’ll keep tumbling.

tubofcats asked: What do your fingers smell of? The third one, in particular.

Rotunda. I spent all day in one today. p.s. I assume you mean ring finger? That was a portico just leeward of a gazebo.