The Volcano Death March

(When I posted my 'ABCs of Me', I mentioned I hiked up a volcano, and got a few questions about that, so I thought I'd tell the story of it here. My apologies that the pictures were taken before I had a digital camera, so these are pictures of pictures. Otherwise, enjoy!)

I’m not a big fan of helicopters or small planes. I’ll fly in them if I have to, but only if there’s no other option.

So when my husband and I were picking the day trips for our our cruise to Hawaii, I didn’t want to do anything that involved helicopters. We knew we wanted to see one of the active volcanoes, and there were two ways to do that—take a helicopter trip, or take a hike.

“Let’s do the hike!” I said. “We’ll see our volcano and work off some of the buffet food at the same time! And we’ll get an authentic, real experience, see all different parts of the volcano, not just be dropped off at the top!”

It sounded like a good idea at the time, and we signed up for the volcano hike filled with optimism and joy, then held hands while we peered over the side of the ship into the sunset. Ah, to be so naive again.

On the day of the hike, they distributed waivers for us to sign as we rode out to the site. I’m pretty particular about reading everything I sign, and read through the extensive list of injuries that we might sustain, including death.

Death.

That’s a pretty intense word, and my husband pointed to it with eyebrows raised.

“They have to put that in there.” I said. “Even if it were a nature walk to look at butterflies, they’d make us sign that. Don’t be such a wuss.” He narrowed his eyes at me and shrugged.

A group of five guides met us when we arrived. The leader gathered us together and told us to listen up:

“If you have any injuries or heart problems, difficulty breathing, this hike is not for you. The bus driver will take you back to the ship and refund your money. If you think you’re in good physical condition, this hike will redefine your idea of what it means to be ‘in shape’. And if you’re not in good physical condition, this hike will help you find religion.”

Ha ha ha. Very funny. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t take that seriously from a group of five guys who were all chain smoking.

“We normally work on a very tight schedule, and today it’s even tighter because your ship has to leave an hour earlier than usual. So we’ll be moving quickly, and you’ll have to keep up.”

Wait, what?

“You will be given a pack that contains five bottles of water and two energy bars. You will need to eat at the midpoints to keep your energy up. If you can carry extra water, please do so.”

Okay. At this point, I started to get a little frightened. But still, I told myself, I work out, and I know my body—I know when to eat and how to hydrate. Five bottles of water for a day hike will be just fine, thank you. Carrying more is just plain stupid.

We headed out; for about twenty minutes we hiked down a paved road that was almost quaint; surrounded by solidified lava flows on either side, you could see the remains of road signs here and there embedded where the lava had wiped out everything in its path. 

Seriously, this is what you're trying to freak me out about?? Come on. I can do this with one foot tied behind my back. 

This is what all the fuss was about? I began to scoff internally. My elliptical back home is way worse than this! What a bunch of ka-hooey!

And then $*^# got real.

The road ended, and was replaced by trails of lava that extended forward and upward as far as the eye could see. Over each ridge of lava was another ridge of lava, because the flows pile up on top of each other in dreadlock-style rivulets of textured rock. And you have to climb these, up, up, up, to get to the top of the volcano and the site of the active flows.

Looks like you just have to climb over this, right? Nope. It kept going like this for two hours. 

This development did not please me. When I think ‘hike’, I assume there is some sort of trail, not just clambering up endless piles of black, unforgiving, volcanic rock.

This is also when the air started to get hot. I know what you’re thinking—well, duh, you’re climbing up a volcano. To a place where there are active lava flows. Which are made of molten rock. Of course it’s gonna be hot!

You’re right. You are. And I have no idea why that never occurred to me, but it didn’t. So this is where I should probably mention that my body and heat do not get along. You know how every year something like four or five people die in Arizona of heat exposure? I’d be one of those people if I lived in Arizona, even if I never left the air-conditioning.

And, to top it all off, we didn’t get any real rest breaks, because we were racing to complete the ‘hike’ in five hours instead of the normal six.

To sum up: I was on a 2.5 hour Stair-master trip directly to hell, which was very confusing for me, since I had always been taught that hell was found in a downward direction.

Yet, I am nothing if not stubborn. There was no way I was going to let our guides be right—I was gonna make it up that volcano if it killed me. I’d show them.

So I climbed. I trudged. I stumbled. And as I did, I drank water almost constantly. At one point, my husband poured a bottle of water over my head and you couldn’t even tell, because my clothes were soaked through with sweat. There was no way my five bottles were going to last even until we got to the top, let alone the trip back.

By the two hour mark, I needed all my focus to continue climbing. My eyes fixed directly in front of me, constantly searching for the next places to put my feet. I lost track of my surroundings completely, saw nothing outside of my direct path of vision. With every step, my body told me I couldn’t go any further, and my mind had to keep lying to my legs: just one more step, we’re almost there.

By the time we reached the top, where the flows mostly leveled out, I was done. The heat was coming off the ground in waves you could almost touch, like we were inside a convection oven. About half of the group had given up and turned back long ago, and I was still in the first 20% of our group to arrive. But that didn’t matter right then; my body had had enough, and I sank down to sit on the ground.

My husband, who had been a little bit ahead of me, came back to my side.

“Don’t stop now! The active flows are right over there!” He said.

“I don’t care.” I said.

“No, seriously, not more than fifty feet!” He said.

“That’s awesome for you.” I said.

“You’ll never forgive yourself if you miss this!” Said he.

“Bite me.” Said I.

But he was right, and I knew it. So I took some cleansing breaths, and I reached down deep inside to I don’t even know where. I stood up on legs that felt like overcooked ravioli, and began to move toward the flow, forcing myself to take every step.

Then, a voice rang out.

“STTTTTOOOOOOOPPPPPPP!!”

I stopped, and looked around to see which idiot was doing what stupid thing.

Predictably, the idiot was me. I was so focused I hadn’t noticed the patch of silvery ‘rock’ that indicated a live flow that was only just starting to crust over. I had stopped only inches from stepping into molten lava so hot I probably would have literally pulled back a stump and nothing more.

The one I almost stepped on didn't have any orange, just that smooth silvery look. 

The heat coming off of these was so intense, it actually messed with my camera. 

In light of this, my husband decided it was a probably a good idea to walk alongside of me for a while, and I managed to make it safely over to the red-and-orange active flows. 

I could not get closer than this to the lava, it was simply too hot. Even this was too much--as soon as the picture was taken, I bolted away from it.

They were truly awesome, in the original sense of the word, as in 'awe-inspiring'. And in the distance, the trails flowed all the way down into the ocean, sending up huge plumes of steam where the water met the liquid fire. It was beautiful, it was amazing, it was a monumental demonstration of the power of nature and the wonders of this earth. It was worth every bit of the torture it took to get there, and I don’t regret doing it for a minute.

But next time I’ll take the helicopter.

©Michelle M. Chouinard, 2014. All rights reserved.

The ABCs of Me...:)

Hello!

Laurel of Wads Of Stuff recently did an 'ABCs of Me' post to share a little bit about herself, and she inspired me to do the same. So here are some facts about me, alphabet-style! As she did, I'm taking a couple of liberties with a few letters that I felt were not the best for me.

A- Age? Yes, sadly, every day I age a little more. Oh, this is about how old I am? Look! Over there! A squirrel on a spaceship!! 

B- Best day? The day I got my Ph.D. 

C-Craving? Chocolate. Always chocolate. Or cheese. That'll work, too.

D-Difficult? Losing the ones I love.

E-Embarrassed? I don't get embarrassed easily, but when I do, I turn about as red as a tomato. I do stupid things all the time, though, so I've inured myself to most of that. The fastest way to embarrass me is to say something nice about me in front of a group of people. I suddenly don't know where to put any of my limbs, or my eyes.

F-Fear? I fear spinning my wheels because I haven't learned lessons I'm supposed to learn. 

G-Gross? Scatalogical humor. Yuck!

H-Height? five-foot-seven. 

I-Interests? Reading, writing, genealogy, psychology, scrapbooking/paper-crafting, cooking, tarot, history, art, nail art.

J-Joy? Writing.

K-Kids? Four kitties and one puppy. The cats may or may not be plotting to kill me (ala The Oatmeal), but my puppy has mah back.

L-Likes? Pina Coladas and walks in the rain. Oh wait, that's a song...

M-Music? Anything that makes me feel good and makes me want to dance.

N-Never? I will never watch E.T. Don't ask, you don't want to know. 

O-Once? Once I climbed a volcano. Next time I'll take the helicopter tour.

P-Pet peeves? I have several grammatical quirks that drive me nuts. I hate it when people misuse 'literally'. I hate it when people say 'less' when they should say 'fewer' (things you can count = fewer. So you have less sugar, but fewer oranges--you don't have less oranges. That's just ungrammatical). I hate it when people say 'The proof is in the pudding'--no, no it isn't. The expression is 'The proof of the pudding is in the taste.', and if you think about it, you'll see that makes a lot more sense. Also, if you say you 'could care less', that means you do actually care. What you're trying to say is you *couldn't* care less. And, to round off my list of crazy, I hate it when people say 'You want to have your cake and eat it, too.'. Everyone has their cake, and then eats it. The trick is to eat your cake, and still have it. The expression is 'You want to eat your cake and have it, too.'. Yes, I do know how crazy this sounds and that the only other Americans who says it this way was the Unibomber, and it's one of the reasons they were able to figure out who he was. So no, I'm not proud of it, but it is correct, dammit!!

Q-Quote: "I'm not afraid to fall, it means I climbed up high. To fall is not to fail, you fail when you don't try."

R-Religion? Spirituality.

S-Siblings? I have one half-sister. Love you!!! 

T-TV shows? Right now, it's Walking Dead, Orange Is The New Black, House Of Cards, The Big Bang Theory, The Goldbergs, Masterchef, Project Runway, and, if I'm honest...Real Housewives of New Jersey. I'm not ashamed. Not at all. Maybe a little. Don't judge me!!

U-Unique: I'm probably the only person on the planet who has a Ph.D but can't figure out how to get the battery out of my laptop computer. 

V-Vacation: I love Europe, cruises, and more and more I like nature-related vacations, like hiking in Point Reyes. 

W-Web? I have a website and two blogs. (see the 'About Me' in the upper-right corner if you want to check them out :) )

X-X-ray? I've had pretty much every part of my body X-rayed. And I've had a several scans, as well. I've had a bumpy life, injury-wise!

Y-Why? Why not?

Z-Zoo Animal? Tasmanian Devil. Although I would have also accepted meerkat and mongoose.

So what questions would you add to a list like this, for bloggers to discuss about themselves?

My first Tweet Poem

Hello!

I'm not much of a poet. I write poems occasionally, but they aren't good, and they're usually just meant to be silly.

Well, a poet friend of mine just introduced me to the concept of a 'Tweet Poem' or a 'Poem Tweet', where you write a poem that can fit into a single tweet.

I was intrigued by the idea, and realized that a silly poem I wrote waaaay back a few years ago would pretty much perfectly fit the bill.

So I did it. I posted my first Tweet Poem.

Here it is, for your reading pleasure:

Ode To A Tasmanian Devil

your little legs are so cute

your beady eyes so sweet

i want to cuddle you

#&%$

i don't use that arm much anyway

Yes, it's silly, but I love it. :)

And if you want to follow me on twitter, you know, just 'cause, I'm @mishka824.

M.

© Michelle M. Chouinard 2014 All rights reserved.

Short fiction exercise: Go Figure

This is a short fiction piece I wrote; the prompt was just to write a piece that had something to do with a butterfly. Enjoy!

**********

Go Figure

It’s amazing what can happen because of a butterfly. Doesn’t Chaos Theory say something like that? I don’t know, doesn’t matter, the point is, it all started with a butterfly. Go figure.

The only exercise I really get these days comes from walking. I can’t afford a gym, and I’m not sure I’d go to one if I could—all those people looking at you, ugh. I just can’t face that. But walking can get boring unless you mix it up, and if I’m bored, I plain won’t do it. On that particular day, I started feeling bored about halfway through, and to top things off, my iPod died. So I was facing thirty minutes with nothing to distract me from the fact I was exercising, and my brain wasn’t really up for that.

I was trying to come up with some game I could play to keep my mind busy, when a monarch butterfly flew across my path. They aren’t rare or anything, you can see ‘em all the time if you know where to look. It just seemed like perfect timing is all, so when it flew around the corner I figured hey why not—I’ll follow it. 

She flitted around the way butterflies do—backtracking, going in circles, then jumping far forward—so I had to really focus to keep up with her, and I probably looked like a crazy person changing direction all the time. But you know, random movements are supposed to fool your muscles, or something like that. At least that’s what they’re saying today.

So I was watching her hard, and after a while when she decided to set herself down for a minute, I looked around while I walked in place. Wouldn’t you know it, I was on a street I’ve never seen before, no idea how we got there. I’m not one of those people that make, what are they called, mental maps? I used to get lost in the building where I worked, no lie. So it probably wasn’t too smart of me to follow a butterfly, truth be told.

The street wasn’t anything special, but just around the corner I caught a glimpse of that pretty woodwork you seen on Victorian houses, what’s it called, corbels? Spandrils? I don’t know. But there it was, in these whimsical colors, navy blue and mint green, with bits of coral here and there. I couldn’t help myself, I have such a weakness for that sort of thing, so I went around the corner to see the rest of it.

It was so charming, covered with all sorts of gables and little porches and it even had a circular stained glass window. It wasn’t huge or anything, and it wasn’t restored perfectly, but it was the kind of house that just makes you happy to look at, you know? So I pulled out my phone to take a picture of it. As I was trying to figure out how to make it look the other way (why do I want a picture of myself anyway, I know what I look like!), I heard someone call my name.

I looked up, and there was a woman at the door. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.

“Maggie, it’s Deanna. Don’t you recognize me?”

Well, I’ll tell you, you coulda knocked me over with a feather. Deanna and I had been best friends way back up until the fourth grade, years and years ago. We did everything together, shared all our secrets. She was always there for me when my mother would have one of her ‘episodes’, and I showed up at her house crying. She’d hug me and let me cry it out, never asked questions I didn’t want to answer. And then she’d find some way to take my mind off of it all. It near broke my heart when she moved away; in those days we didn’t have Facebook or Twitter or My-gram or whatever those all are. We didn’t even have e-mail. I felt like I’d lost a piece of myself, and although we wrote letters, both of us moved around so much after that, we eventually lost touch.

I ran up to her, and we gave each other the biggest hug, tears streaming down both our faces. I guess I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been lonely since my daughter died. Not a lot of people stick with you through something like that; cancer is a horrible way to go, and it took all my energy trying to help her beat it. I just didn’t have time to keep up with my friendships, I guess.

We talked for two hours, catching up on everything in our lives. She had three girls, and one of them has passed too, can you imagine? Talk about knowing what someone is going through. We talked and we cried and we laughed, and I swear, it was like we never left each other’s side.

I had to leave because of my doctor’s appointment, but she’s coming to visit tomorrow. Isn’t it amazing how these things happen? I don’t know how it works, or why, but I’ll tell you this. When I left, that butterfly was perched right up on her fencepost.

Go figure.

© Michelle M. Chouinard 2014 All rights reserved.

Revising = Land of the Lost Writers

I haven't posted for a while because I haven't been doing any writing prompts--after a six week hiatus from my first manuscript, it was time to go back and start revising that sucker.

I was hugely optimistic--writing the first draft had been easy, almost magical at times. There were parts where I struggled, sure, of course, but overall the Muse was on my shoulder whispering in my ear. So I figured, hey, surely writing the darned thing in the first place is the hard part, and the revision should be easy-peasy, right?

Wrong.

From what I gather, every writer is different and has to learn their own rhythm. But as a rule of thumb, I hear tell, the faster your initial draft goes, the longer the revision takes. And that certainly has been true in my case.

My inner writer was given freedom to frolic by NaNoWriMo--the philosophy during that month is that you don't have time to edit yourself as you go, so your inner editor has to be bound and gagged and stashed in your linen closet while you jump into the hedonistic binge of writing 50,000 words in 30 days. As it turns out, I like that unbounded approach very much, and for 2.5 NaNoWriMos now (two regular and one camp), I've been unexpectedly, blissfully prolific.

But my inner editor holds a grudge. He didn't care much for being trussed and abandoned, and when I pulled him out, his stiff muscles put him in a very, very bad mood. Let's just say resentments were made.

I pulled out the manuscript, and with my inner editor back on the job, realized that never in the course of human events has such a steaming pile of crap ever existed. Ever. I also hear tell that this is not an uncommon experience--but it sucks nonetheless.

Another thing I've learned about myself is that I'm just not a very good multi-tasker when it comes to my writing. I'm not a good multi-tasker anytime, truth be told, but it's really bad when hey was that an ice-cream truck I just heard go by? I'd sure like to have me some ice cream. Wait, where was I? Oh yes. I am not able to revise for structure and pace and narrative summary and dialogue and character development and anachronisms (it's mostly historical, my novel) and knock out those cliches and those pesky adverbs and line-edit all at the same time.

As it turns out, I can barely do one of those things at a time. I finished my first revision, which focused on basic structure and pace issues just a few days ago. Then I picked up my second draft to do my read-through, all smug and happy and ready to pat myself on the back for my much improved product. But not only is it fraught with all of those things I haven't revised for yet (and, somehow, more typos than I had when I began), it also still needs work on pacing and structure.

That was not a happy moment in my personal canon of moments.

Don't get me wrong--it's better than it was, a lot better. But I just had hopes that it would be better than it is. A lot better.

Ah well, such is life. I suppose the more time I spend complaining about it on the blog, the longer it will take me to turn it into something somebody somewhere wants to read. So I'd best power the blog post down, and go get on with it.

But those stories about the authors that take 30+ revisions to get their books finished? That is looking less and less silly and more and more optimistic.

Sigh.

Michelle xoxo

© Michelle M. Chouinard 2014 All rights reserved.

DestructoLog

DestructoLog, Cat Date: Meorw, 8014

So far, operation Mommy Insanity has been unsuccessful. On day 1, we planted a mouse under the floorboards in the bathroom. When the boards were torn up during this hellish construction project, the mouse popped out, right in front of Mommy. When she wasn't scared or angry, and only made a joke out of it, we knew we had to bring out the big guns.

So yesterday, we designed what we thought was the perfect plan. We released another of the mice that we'd previously trapped, directly out into the dog's cage. When the dog behaved in her predictably annoying canine fashion, we deployed our coordinated ambush. We scattered fiercely around the room, taking out any and all strategic targets that we could reach--we even exceeded our grandest hopes and exploded our prime objective, her Starbucks mocha. I was particularly proud of Agent 004, who left behind a path of urine as the ultimate final insult.

Yet still, she retained her calm, and refused to release us from our cruel imprisonment; we rotted in this tiny room with her until dinner time.

I'll admit it--we started to despair for a time. If she was going to remain steadfast in the face of even that destruction, what chance did we have?

We stayed up all night trying to brainstorm a new plan. We sent Agent 001 to sleep with her, so she wouldn't be suspicious of us. Then, right as the sun was coming up, Agent 002 came up with a brilliant idea, tactically nearly as old as Catkind itself: we would use her Achilles' Heel to take down the rest of the her, bringing the beast crippled to its knees, and our imprisonment to an end. She would have to surrender to our demands.

We waited patiently as she started her day, and as she worked through the morning. She saves her work often, so we had to work out the timing carefully to be sure we would cause her to lose as much work as possible. We took turns being both cute and mischievous, thereby keeping her totally off guard. After about 3 hours, we saw our moment, and we sent in Agent 002 on what might have turned out to be a suicide mission.

Agent 002 crawled up on her lap and looked lovingly in her eyes. She nuzzled up to Mommy's head, and then snaked about her neck to the other side of the chair. She jumped up on the desk, and reached over to give Mommy a butterfly kiss. Then, ever so nonchalantly, she wound her way around the back of the laptop...and then SPLOOSH! She knocked the Starbucks mocha over the laptop keyboard with admirable precision.

There was no great joy in watching Mommy scream, and jump, and run for a towel. There was no happiness in watching her dab furiously at the keyboard, trying to soak up the liquid before it was too late, knowing that she would never be successful. We took no pleasure in it. But you see, sometimes in war, you have to take casualties. You have to break some eggs if you want to make an omelet. And when it comes right down to it, we didn't start this war--she only has herself to blame.

First, her touchpad went out, and she realized that something was very wrong. Still she kept dabbing, and then the screen filled with static. Her face filled with horror as she realized her motherboard was shorting out.

When she was on her knees, shaking her fists toward the ceiling and sobbing 'why, why, why??', we knew that we'd won. But we did not rejoice.

I must stop writing now, because I hear her footsteps coming to surrender, and to liberate us. So I will sign off now, refusing to gloat in my triumph.

Wait, what's happening? She's doing something on her smart phone...she's posting an ad on Craig's List...if I could just...make out what it says...wait...

"Four cats seek loving homes. $50 per cat--we pay you."

NNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!


[Human note: This is a dramatization of a TRUE story. Well, except for the Craig's List part. But yes, my computer is dead, and I have to buy a new one. I love my cats. I love my cats. I love my cats...]

Mama said there'd be days like this...

Do you remember the Tasmanian Devil? The one who hung out with Bugs Bunny and when he got annoyed he'd start going 'bbllrrabbbllllrrraapppprrr!!' and turn into a tornado?

I want you to keep that image in your  head. We'll be coming back to it.

I'd love to say that the day started out well, but it didn't really. Today is day two of my pipe-replacement journey, and for the second day, I woke up at 8 am. Now, for those of you who don't know, I am a night owl, and I tend to be up working until at least 2am. Most often, I'm up until 3. So before you get all judgy and play the tiniest violin in the world for me, realize what that means--it means only 5-6 hours of sleep, at the most. If you get up at 6 am, imagine having to get up at 3am, and that's the equivalent. Yes, both nights I tried to go to sleep earlier, but I wasn't able to fall asleep earlier, and I just laid awake unable to fall asleep until it was actually farther past my bedtime than normal. So, to sum up, I'm a little sleep deprived. And I don't wake up well on a good day, when I've had plenty of sleep--I used to have a mug that said 'Just hand me my coffee and back slowly away.' You get the picture.

I got up, and prepped the house. What that means is, the dog has to be out in her dog run, and the cats have to go into a room with me, because 1) they can't be allowed outside, and 2) they'll get in the way of the workers. So I brought them into my 'office' with me, where I sat down to get some work done.

I was excited today because I was going to attend a webinar about writing. I made sure everything was all set up, I had my coffee, and I even had a cozy blanket wrapped around me. Ah, the benefits of working from home. Then the seminar started, and I began to listen. I think these things always start out slowly, which was good, because I hear the workers talking about how the stuff we ordered to put the bathroom into place again won't fit, and new stuff has to be reordered. I don't even have to know how or why, I just know it's going to be expensive. Ah, well, c'est la vie. You have to have working pipes, and that bathroom has to be reassembled afterwards.

I turned my attention back to the webinar, and ignored the chatter. Suddenly, the dog started to bark about something. I don't know what--maybe she saw a cat or a possom or a raccoon in the yard. Maybe some bird was taunting her. Maybe that episode of Cosmos she heard in the background the other day finally registered and she was suddenly hit with the vastness of our universe and the absurdity of life when seen from that context. Who knows.

The point is, she went nuts barking, and then, BAM! There's a huge crash against the side of the house. Perhaps it was the cat or possom or raccoon escaping. Perhaps it was a canine suicide attempt in the face of deep philosophical questions about why we're all on this planet.

Whatever it was, it scared the booboo-jeebies out of the cats, who all jumped simultaneously. Keep in mind that my cats are ninjas, and when they jump, they don't just jump--they leap up walls and furniture. So, when they jumped at the scary noise, the fear was reinforced by the sight of three other cats leaping around them in their peripheral vision. So they each understandably tried to run away from the other cats that were leaping and jumping around them.

Okay, now is when I want you to call in that visual of the Tasmanian Devil.

There were  four cats, all trying to out-run each other, and all doing it up at the top of the room. From the top of one bookcase to another, off the lamp, off the top of the desk, banking off walls, off the top of the shoe rack hanging from the back of the door, all faster than the eye can see and the brain can register. Knocking everything down that was stupid enough to be in their path--pictures, printer paper, the shoe rack and all the shoes, small tchotchkes, magazines, my phone, and most important of all: my beloved Starbucks mocha.

I waited for a few seconds assuming they'd each find a spot of sanctuary to hide behind, before realizing that nope, this tilt-a-whirl was self-sustaining. While each thought the other three were chasing them, they were gonna keep running. And leaping. And destroying.

I should probably mention that this is a pretty darn small room, and I am sitting in (roughly) the middle of it, while four cats are dashing around my head at hyperspeed, claws extended, freaking out. And all I know is that if I move a muscle, I'm most likely going to be shredded. Or peed on. Or both.

Let's pause for a moment to do a little math. Each cat has four paws, each of which has five claws. There are four cats. Four times four times five = eighty. 80 claws, all whirling around my head. I've never been so glad in my whole life not to own any polydactyl cats.

I have no idea why I thought this would work. In retrospect, it was probably a fairly stupid thing to do, but you know how it is at the spur of the moment. I put my hands up and said sternly, in a loud voice just below a yell: CALM. DOWN.

And they did.

Holy crap, they actually did. 

They each went to their metaphorical corners. I looked at them, and they looked out at me with accusatory faces, like I'd been the cause of the whole thing, and I owed them an apology. They looked around, and I swear if they'd been able to speak, they would have said "Damn, what a huge mess! You better get to cleaning this up!"

And they did have a point, so I got to cleaning. I sopped up the mocha, started picking up all the things they'd knocked over, and realized that one of them had voided their bladder while in flight. There was a series of little puddles all around the edge of the room, like the trail of bread that Hansel & Gretel laid down to find their way back home, but only if it was incredibly disgusting and led directly to the depths of hell. For the next half hour, I fell in love all over again with my old friend, the Lysol spray can.

After that, I pried one of the cats off the far corner of the bookcase where he'd tried to become one with the wall, and attempted to bring him out of his dissociative fugue state with a can of his favorite yummy noms. Bupkis. He stared at me like I was the devil and he wanted to shred my face. He is still, at this very moment. It's very disconcerting.

What's the moral of the story? I believe it's this:

Thank goodness the webinar was free.

© Michelle M. Chouinard 2014 All rights reserved.