chores

from mimi smartypants:

Anyway, the cat food is down there in the cabinet, amongst many many bottles of vodka and bourbon and other assorted delights, and Nora opens the cabinet door, squats like an Olympic powerlifter, and bear-hugs the huge Rubbermaid thing, and then she takes off the lid and says, "Cat! Cat! Food! Bowl! Eat! Cat! Eat! Food!" about eight million times. Then she takes the cat-food scoop and digs around, usually managing to snag about four lonely pieces of kibble, and says "Food! Food! Cat! Eat!" Then she walks with such careful slowness to the cat food bowl that you would think she was carrying an unstable explosive compound, and pours in the cat's meager meal. The whole process is then repeated until I say "okay, that's [finally] enough food for the cat," at which point Nora goes tearing off into the living room to where the cat is usually sleeping, gets right up in the cat's face, and yells, "CAT! EAT! FOOD! CAT! EAT! EAT! BOWL! FOOD! EAT!" The cat lifts maybe one eye at this, and Nora runs back into the kitchen and stands there pointing at the cat's bowl screaming "CAT! EAT!" and eventually the cat will come ambling into the room and give me a look that very clearly says THE SMALL ONE IS INSANE. TERMINATE IT NOW. Nora, thrilled to pieces that the cat is now consuming kibble, will clap her hands delightedly and deliver another five-minute monologue about how the "cat" "eats" "food" that we put in a "bowl," and I will (depending on my mood) either be cracking up laughing or slumped on the kitchen floor with my hand over my eyes thinking OH GOD THAT TOOK SO LONG.