2:1 = Heavy Bag

We live on a part of Penfield Road where many walkers and runners pause at the mouth of our wide driveway to cross the street and walk down Park Lane. Standing on the curb, I wonder if any of them turned tonight and looked into the tall windows on the second floor. Because if they did, they would have glimpsed a crazy woman madly beating a heavy bag with a dreamy-looking guy egging her on all while a white cat screamed his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her. Just because he can scream his bloody head off while standing on the bed next to her.

And even if they didn't see it, I'm positive they could have heard the lunatic screaming escaping her lips.

I'm surprised the cops didn't show up .

To protect the punching bag.

But let me back up and try to explain how we got to this meltdown on Penfield Road.

The state of my life can easily be viewed as horrifically stressful. Afterall, we're out-numbered two-to-one, ferocious/obnoxious/demanding/manipulative/criminally cute creatures to humans. This means we are slaves to their demands.

For example, last night Little Dog woke up at 3:30 and decided to pierce my lovely dreams with an imitation of Cujo's Mating Call. Fearing the White Cat had gotten locked in his crate with him (again), I ran downstairs to rescue him. No WC. He was just lonely. I let him outside which got the attention of Big Dog who also wanted to go out and suddenly I'm standing in 17 degree weather in satin jammies and fuzzy slippers trying to get nitwits 1 and 2 back into the house. Back into the house and, for one, into our bed (uninvited). Covered with snowy paws. Which he warmed up by placing them on our legs. (Not unlike how females warm up their feet at night).

So there was that.

Continuing on the theme of not being in charge of the house, I woke up at 7:30 with a cat draped over my neck. While we can all appreciate the delicate softness of fur, I assure you it's not as pleasant when it weights 14.5 pounds and has claws. Thankfully, before I engaged the White Stole in combat, he decided he needed to jump on the Big Dog who then woke up and stood next to the bed whomping her tail against the frame until someone opened an eyelid. That increased the rhythm of the whomping to a feverish pace which made the bed vibrate enough that I fell out onto the fur-encrusted carpet.

It's not an optimal way to begin the day: fur in your eyeballs, satin jammie flipped up over your butt, dog breath in your ear, cat walking on you. After three or four minutes of laying there, you just accept the humiliation and get up.

I depend on the hot water of the shower to wake me up and start the day, to soothe the harsh and involuntary awakening. Which is great when I hit the shower first. Which is usual. Unfortunately, this morning Mr. Showers Until It Runs Cold had an early meeting. So I got "cool to friggin freezing with a splash of icy." I shaved one leg and had to get out. Out to the Recluse Kitty who was telling me how much she hates everyone else in the house, especially the Fat Runt Dog who charged in while she was telling her story to cry about... God knows what.

I left them there with their issues and fled to the office.

The office provides, as any office does, a plethora of stress-inducing opportunities that can drive you over the edge. For example, we have small bathroom for the women which is sometimes full and by full I mean occupied by someone other than me. In such cases, there exists the possibility of debilitating bladder shyness which means you have to flee that lavatory and race up three floors to the almost-always-deserted ladies' room. This takes a lot of time and in that time, your inbox gets filled up with all sorts of treats. And, if you are in a cross-functional role, the treats are of a massively varied natures, challenging your brain on a vast array of levels of competency and insanity.

Oh, and did I mention this was the second day in a row I had to work 8 whole hours? Exhausting, I tell you. Just too much. I feel I can no longer function without at least three hours of fucking around at home doing pretty much nothing but being able to come up with a long list of "somethings" to tell Jamie about when he gets home. None of which reveal how much online shopping happened.

Arriving home, exhausted from my crippling 8 hours of productivity, I opened the door to the nut house. Cat ran outside (21 degrees), dog barked at me, another cat hid, and the trapped dog yelled at me from his cage. I stood there and asked my purse, "Do you hear something?" After tripping over the eight pairs of shoes in the tiny entryway, I inched down the steps with the mail, the packages that I needed to hide, and the recycling bin. I opened the cage and the mass of creatures bounced and howled and danced around me as I moved through the kitchen to put things down.

I kicked them all out.

They were back in within 23 seconds. Wusses.

I fed them. They cried. I pet them. They cried. I let them sit with me. They cried. And just when they all calmed down, Jamie opened the door and everyone popped up and ran (screaming) to meet him. And they kept screaming. Mostly the cat.

I grabbed the obnoxious hellion and presented him to Jamie. TAKE HIM WITH YOU, I said as he pulled on his tennis clothes. He took the cat. I then ran downstairs and grabbed the dog. HIM TOO! I screamed. And Big Dog was behind me, AND HER! LET HER LEAD THEM ALL. I CAN'T TAKE IT! I CAN'T TAKE IT! I QUIT!

And that is when we had to go hit the punching bag.

And now I sit, calm, on the couch. Little Dog is under the blanket on my lap. Obnoxious Cat is behind my head on the couch, Big Dog is at my feet, and Elusive Kitty is hiding in the front room. I may have bruised knuckles, but we're all calm. Until Jamie comes back home again. And then I'm back to the bag.