STOP THE PRESSES!! WE INTERRUPT OUR USUAL BLOG FOR AN IMPORTANT NEWS FLASH!
First there was Hurricane Katrina. Then there was the Japan Earthquake and tsunami. Later came the tornados in Alabama. Now comes the
Quick Oats incident of 2011.
☂♪
Oatmeal keeps falling on my head and that means the woman will be bit until she's dead. ♪
There I was, peaceably eating my kibble in the kitchen, under the hanging cabinets, when suddenly I felt—
ping—something hit me. Those somethings just kept on falling.
Ping, ping, ping. What could it be? It was white like snow. Luckily for me, it was also as light as snow. I just about escaped when all hell broke loose. The white stuff came raining down furiously. The Woman cursed just as furiously. When she finally stopped the carnage, I found out it was the quick oats. Readers of this blog might've guessed that a 3-lb tub of oats doesn't vanish in my house as fast as, say, a 4-lb chocolate Easter bunny or a 2-lb brownie. No, it stays there almost until its expiration date.
They say oatmeal is supposed to be good for your skin, but I didn't stick around long enough to find out. And forget about the fact that it's supposed to be good for your heart; it damn near gave me a heart attack!
This package was so huge, peeps had to store it on it's side because it didn't fit upright in our cabinet; and, through one of life's little quirks, the top had partly opened. TW couldn't leave well enough alone and just clean up the few oats that were in the cabinet. That would've been too easy. In the process of trying to process what had happened, TW made matters much worse by opening the lid all the way. Oopsy! In less than a second, the kitchen floor was covered in oats, as well as the area rug and my place mat. There was even oats in my kibble and water dishes! I screamed at the woman!
Woman, look what you've done! Get this [bleep] out of my food immediately, if not sooner! I'm telling on you! I was on a roll! I was beside myself! Here I was, trying to grab a few morsels of food and my snack had been interrupted. Although I was angry, more importantly, I now had grade-A blog material. I could nail TW and there wasn't anything she could do! From a safe distance, I gleefully clapped my paws.
I have to hand it to TW, there was nowhere near the crying and histrionics there usually is when something of this magnitude happens. In fact, she seemed to think it would've been hilarious if I'd have gotten completely covered in white oats. She laughed and laughed as I watched from the foyer with a "nut" sign over my head. She was, in fact, having a flashback to the great flour disaster of the 1990s.
Permit me to flash back to that time long before I was born.
Gramma was preparing to fry fish and so she had poured flour onto a piece of paper towel to coat the fish. Autumn ambled into the kitchen; and, before Gramma could stop her, she pulled the paper towel, flour and all, down upon her head. Bless, Bess, what a mess. Legend has it that her calico fur was white for about a week after that. I'd like to know why there are no pictures. If I'd gotten covered with oats, the flashy box would've documented the entire incident in gory detail.
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| Get that thing away from me! |
After she got through laughing, TW's suddenly realized she had to run out to buy chicken for our dinner and it was 3:00 so she swept what she could of the oats into the garbage and ran out the door. (I'll tell you how she threw out the plastic pail that goes inside the garbage can another time.) Before she left, she refilled my kibble—you know what the consequences would've been had she NOT refilled the dish—and told me it wouldn't kill me if I got oats on my feet so I was allowed into the kitchen as if I'd set foot in there unless she came with me.
Listen here, woman! You better do a good job cleaning this mess up or Pop's gonna beat you! Of course, he wouldn't actually beat her, but this cat can dream.
After she came home, and I'd approved of the chicken, she had to break out the vacuum—I wish I had a picture of that to show Pop—and then washed the floor. Her steam cleaner is broken—apparently Shark's aren't very durable—so she had to get down on all fours and scrub. Again, I wish I had a flashy box.
Why is it that I can go for weeks without a blog because nothing exciting—or should I say nothing that would embarrass TW—ever happens. When I finally scrape something together, an event that begs to be written about rears its amusing little head.
