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Jubilation! Oh, and mom porn.

Ding dong! The cat is gone! Which old cat? The wicked cat! Ding dong! The wicked cat is gooooooooone…. 

I could just keep singing and singing. You know why? Because singing is what you do when you are ECSTATIC and SUPER HAPPY and OVERJOYED. Such as when you kick your first soccer goal or fall in love or hold your newborn, or when you drive your mother’s devil-spawned, evil-incarnate cat back to Rhode Island, where he can torture the catsitter for a couple of weeks while Mom continues to rehabilitate up here with us. 

Of course, when Smokey Jo is at my mother’s house, he’s a different cat. I swear, I could wave the world’s most delectable leather couch in his direction, matador-style, and he wouldn’t even flex one claw. But here he tore and shredded and consistently pooped precisely two inches outside the litter box, usually while looking me straight in the eye. I would have almost admired his chutzpah if my faculties weren’t so clouded by pure, unadulterated hate and the fur he shed 23 hours a day. 

Presenting the household traitor. As well as He Who Shall Not be Named.

In other happy news, my mother received a glowing report from her hip surgeon during our short foray to the Ocean State, though she pulled a muscle last week, shortly before I twisted my knee on the garage stairs.  (Grace and coordination are not our strong suit. We are, however, geniuses at cribbage. It all evens out.)   

We were three generations of health in that doctor’s office, let me tell you. As my mother stumped into the office on her crutches, I hobbled feebly behind her, favoring my tender knee. An hour into waiting for my mother’s name to be called, Aura began her I-have-to-pee-but-refuse-to-do-it-anywhere-but-home routine, where she kind of drags her legs to prevent errant urine from escaping. By the time we left the waiting room, I caught the other patients sneaking sympathetic glances our way, the kind you’re prone to giving when you see a family made up entirely of cripples. I briefly considered capitalizing on the general atmosphere of pity and making a play for my own bottle of Tylenol #4 with codeine, but eh. My first preschool parent-teacher conference is tomorrow and I need to be SHARP. One cannot become too lackadaisical, or drugged, when it comes to discussing her child’s deftness with fingerpaints. 

Oh, yes–one more thing. I was glancing over the different search terms that have led people to this blog and was a bit taken aback. Think of how bitterly disappointed the person who searched for www.bangamommy.com must have been when he/she ended up here. (You’re curious now, aren’t you? I’ll give you a clue: It’s a .org, not a .com. Apparently mommy-banging qualifies as an organizational activity. Just so you know.)

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