Bad Karma on Yom Kippur

I must have some things to atone for over the past year. And I did choose to not go to services last night, which I based on the amount of rain relative to the amount of exhaustion and general blah I was feeling. So it seems only fair that I experience some things out of my control this morning as a reminder of some sort, possibly of Murphy's Law, which I assume is the English equivalent of a good dose of Jewish guilt.

I skipped the gym today, so I put on some jeans and a cool shirt to take the girls to school. MJ got me this shirt, a long sleeve flowy yoga garment the color of a nice claret. And since I am solidly in my fast, I felt willowy and lithe and so I put on this shirt that normally makes me look like a red globe grape. I loved the shirt, and MJ for buying it for me. She did so because she knew I would never treat myself to something like that, since I tend to shop the clearance rack at Target for a taste of funky on a budget. And she thought it would look good on me. And I am pretty sure she also thought if it didn't fit she could keep it for herself.

When I got back from my school run, my husband K was still home, late for work even by his standards. I came inside and he was standing there with a wad of paper towels in his hand. "Did you or the girls spill something over by the back door?" he asked. "Nope, no one was over there. Why?" "I was going to check the locks and I noticed some wet spots on the floor. But it doesn't smell." Not yet, I thought. Wet doesn't just mysteriously show up on the floor. We walked over to the place where he had cleaned the floor moments before, and the cats followed us over to inspect as well. "You sure no one spilled a drink over here?" He took his wad of Kleenex to the trash can in the kitchen, and I stood there thinking, no one drinks pee for breakfast, knowing that piss is the only possible explanation for the strange puddle.

And for confirmation, Yoko sort of squatted right in front of me, mere inches from the floor vent, and strained to produce another accident while I watched. "It's pee," I called out to my husband. "I'm watching Yoko do it again." I stood there to let her finish. No point in chasing her, as then I would have a trail of pee to clean instead of a reasonably well contained leak. She sat there for a while, obviously not enjoying the process or the audience. "Do you think you can take her to the vet this afternoon if I make an appointment?" I asked K. "I guess so," he answered before rushing out the door.

I called the vet's office, hoping for an after lunch appointment. Instead, they wanted her right then, for an all day observation and potential urine collection. Good luck with that one. So I tucked Yoko under my arm and carried her to the garage, where her cat carrier is stored. She thought she was finally going to see what was behind that door we always step through, but then she spied the box, her arch enemy, and the fight was on.

Shoving her into that box was like lacing a giant squid in a straight jacket. Arms and legs I didn't know she even had shot out and blocked the opening of the carrier, and she hooked onto anything within reach with her little switchblades. We wrestled for about a good five minutes before I finally shoved her in. I am not convinced one of her limbs wasn't lost in the process, but I am sure she can regenerate at some point in the future, probably when she will have to be put back in the carrier to come home. She hissed at me but I ignored it. I put her on the front seat and backed out of the driveway before I realized she got me, that I was hit. My palm and the side of my right hand were a little shredded and bloody. We didn't speak the entire way there. Once inside the vet's office, I gave them Yoko's information and story while she tried desperately to claw her way out of her cage. I was more than happy to pass her over to the vet tech.

When I got home, I went upstairs to take a shower. That's when I saw the holes in my brand new couture yoga shirt. That bitch on wheels sliced my shirt open in three different places, and I wore it in public, looking like her crack whore owner. A series of bloody scratches peeked through the holes, adding to the overall sex-for-drugs appearance. That right there is why I shop Target and not Haute Look. Because I manage to fuck up the good stuff the first time I put it on. Somehow I have a hard time believing things like this happen for a reason. Why today? Why that shirt? Why now, when Yoko has never had a bladder infection in her life? I can only assume it is my fault, that I must deserve this because of some transgression I committed. If not, then it is further evidence that sometimes life sucks. Or that it's just a shirt, and get over it. I'll let you know if I figure that out. Right after I pay the vet bill.