Sunday: Mighty Mouse Versus Mickey Mouse
Ken and I were driving back from the cottage and we had been talking about comic books, and what could be done with old ones (eg: using them to decoupage the drawers of dressers, which is one of my new, crazy ideas that I may or may not ever do) and I started thinking for some weird reason about Mighty Mouse.
Me: Do you think the Disney people sued the people who created Mighty Mouse?
Ken: I don’t think you can copyright a mouse. There are only so many different ways to draw a mouse.
Me: Yes, but why a mouse at all? He could have been a different type of vermin altogether.
Ken: I guess because it’s alliterative.
Me: Well, they could have made him a rat. Raunchy Rat. Rambunctious Rat.
Ken: Really Fast Rat.
Me: Sure honey—that’s the spirit. Racy Rat. See, there are all kinds of superhero names for rats, and they don’t infringe on copyright. Even if rats ARE really gross.
Ken: All I know is, I used to come home every day from Kindergarten and watch Mighty Mouse while I ate lunch. It never occurred to me that he was a rip-off of Mickey Mouse.
Me: Well, all I know is, the only difference between Mickey and Mighty is that one of them has a cape.
But then I did some research and it turns out that Mighty Mouse is WAY more awesome than Mickey Mouse. For one, it’s not just a cape—it’s an OPERA cape. Because Mighty Mouse doesn’t just speak—he sings operatic arias in a very deep, non-mouse-like baritone. TO THE NAZIS. When did Mickey Mouse ever battle the SS? There was the “Barnyard Battle” but that was World War ONE soldiers NOT the Nazis. And there was no singing. Just little Mickey squeaking away at the bad army guys. The Nazis were so intimidated by Mighty Mouse that they named a tank after him. It was a sh*tty tank by all accounts but it’s not Mighty Mouse’s fault that the Nazis were crap tank builders… I think it’s pretty apparent at this point that historical accuracy is NOT my forte. But I’m sticking with my original premise—Mighty Mouse is like Mickey to the power of 5. I’m not great with math either, but I think that’s a lot. So take THAT, Disney Corporation.
Wednesday: I consider whether being a woman or man is more awesome
Ken and I were talking about Caitlyn Jenner, and I said, in a kind of grumpy way, that it was OK for HER, because she got to be a woman after all the hard stuff was done, and that being a woman wasn’t as simple as putting on lip gloss and deciding what colour corset to wear for your Vanity Fair cover shoot. But Ken said that I was being judge-y, that Caitlyn Jenner probably knew that, and that it wasn’t easy being a man either. I agreed, after snickering just a little, that being a man was probably hard too. But I said I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be a man because being a woman is amazing, despite everything, and it was no wonder Bruce Jenner spent all of his life wanting to join our club. Then Ken said, Wait, that’s not fair, being a man is amazing too, so I challenged him to tell me three things about being a man that are better than being a woman. He didn’t even have to think—right away he gave me this list: Peeing outside, taking your shirt off, and not worrying about ANYTHING. And I said, Gosh, I can’t imagine WHY Caitlyn Jenner would have wanted to give all that wonderful stuff up. Then I reminded him of the following: I can pee outside, but it’s just icky and hard on the quad muscles. I can take my shirt off legally, but why the hell would I want to? Frankly, most men shouldn’t either. Last summer, I drove by a 90 year-old man on a riding lawnmower. He was shirtless and bouncing along the grass. You know how there are certain things you wish you could “unsee” but you just can’t erase it from your mind? That was one of them. And finally, yes, Ken doesn’t worry about anything. That’s because he has a wife who WORRIES ABOUT EVERYTHING!! How the hell does he think anything ever gets done in our house?*
(*Obviously, this is satirical. I couldn’t manage without Ken, who does more than his fair share of hard work around here. Although it’s true that he never worries about anything because I do all that FOR him.)
Friday: Raven gets her due.
I got home and Friday afternoon and Raven was sitting in the living room. She had her back to me, and refused to look at me.
Me: What’s wrong? I haven’t seen you all week and this is how you greet me?
Raven: I read your last blog.
Me: So? Didn’t you think it was funny?
Raven: Funny? FUNNY!? That’s like the 4th time you’ve written extensively about that oaf Titus. You know what I get? POO. Every goddamn time, you talk about my poo. I’m fed up with it.
Me: Well, you poo a LOT. But I take your point.
So I feel compelled to write a little something about Raven. Which is hard, because, aside from the pooing and her keen literary analysis skills, she doesn’t actually do much (sorry, Raven, but you know it’s true. For example, you just spent 11 hours lying on the back of the chair in the living room). But she DOES have some tricks and little quirks that endear her to us:
She comes when you call her. Most of the time. Other times, she just looks at you like, “What?”
She will meow at you until you follow her, then she will lead you to the bathroom and let you know what she needs with a series of glances. The other day, she beckoned me forth, and when we arrived, she sat down in front of the litter box. She looked at me, then looked at the box dolefully. I looked at her. Then she looked at the box again and I realized it needed to be cleaned. Which I did, resulting in her promptly using it again WHILE I WAS IN THE ROOM. No sense of dignity, that one. (And notice I didn’t mention the poo). She also does the same thing with the water bowl and the food bowl.
She will jump up onto your lap if you pat your knee, then jump down when you stand up. You don’t even have to say anything—she just GETS the force of gravity.
She likes to play this game where, when you walk behind her, she starts to run away from you like she thinks you’re chasing her. Even when you say, “I’m not chasing you—calm down!”, she still keeps playing.
She waits until you stand up from your chair then jumps into the warm spot. Then when you try to sit back down, she won’t move. You pretty much have to sit AROUND her, or perch on the edge of the seat to avoid squashing her.
She refuses to go outside. You know how some cats lurk by the door and try to dart out any chance they get? Not Raven. Once, she accidentally wandered out onto the front porch when the door was left open. When I saw her, she was just sitting there looking confused and scared. Then she saw me and ran back INTO the house. Yep, definitely not a nature lover.
I think her best trick, though, is that when she’s really happy to see you, not only does she purr, but she leans up and gives you little kisses on your face. I don’t mean licking—I mean little pecks with her muzzle that let you know that she loves you. And we love you too, you crazy, poopy cat.