Let me tell you – life has a way of handing me the short end of the banana peel at times. I'm what you might call a certified "shit magnet," the kind of gal who collects cosmic practical jokes like they're Beanie Babies. You know the type: while the rest of you are out there dodging raindrops, I'm over here getting struck by lightning in a phone booth. Rare coincidences? Bizarre mishaps? I've got more plot twists in my laundry basket than a soap opera has villians. And just when I think I've paid my dues to the universe's comedy club – husband gone too soon, me rattling around this house like a loose marble with a dozen fostered, rehabbed and adopted kitties – it winks and says, "Aw, bless your heart. Here's a little somethin' extra.
It's common knowledge among my friends and avid followers that my man passed away a couple months back, and poof – I'm the lone ranger in Catopia, slinging kibble like it's the last supper on the ark. These furballs? At first, it's all purrs and head-butts: "Mama's got the goods – extra treats for everybody!" But give it a week, and they've unionized. "Listen up, lady," they meow in that judgmental way cats do, "you're on the clock now. Pet us till our eyes cross. Feed us till we waddle. And don't you dare breathe without our permission." Jealous? Lord, these critters make sibling rivalry look like a group hug. I'll lean down to give Remus – just Remus – a polite scratch behind those soft ears, and bam: at least three others form a furry flash mob by the door. "Blockade!" they hiss. "Trip wire! Meow the song of our people in protest! Sit on her head!" It's a full-contact sport. I can't so much as powder my nose without an escort of whiskers and attitude. Suffocation by snuggle? Sign me up for the memoir.
So there I am, desperation brewing hotter than fresh coffee, thinking, "Lord, give me a breather. Give THEM a distraction." Cue the automatic cat laser toy – the holy grail of feline fidget spinners. You know the drill: that evil red dot darts around tthe floor and walls like it's late for a hot date, and suddenly your cats morph into warp-speed ninjas, leaping dressers and shadow-boxing ghosts. "Yes!" I whisper to my reflection in the microwave door. "Five whole minutes to scarf a PB&J without a Whiskas intervention or a guilt trip from the peanut gallery."
Now, I'm a school bus driver – emphasis on the "bus," because by the time that last cherub hops off (bless her, she sprints like the driver's got cooties), my brain's already hit the eject button for Netflix and fuzzy socks. But scrolling through the bargain bin of the internet, up pops this ad: "Little Devil Automatic Cat Laser Toy! Just fifteen bucks! Adorable red imp, lasers galore – your kitties will lose their minds!"
Sold! Why nickel-and-dime when you can billionaire it on a bus route budget? Cart, click, checkout. Email dings: "7-14 days to delight." I'm grinning like a fool, visions of laser tag in the living room dancing in my head, me finally – finally – sinking into the couch with a sigh instead of a yowl.
Then... four weeks tick by. Four. Weeks. Blame the Canada Post strike; those fine folks backed up the mail worse than a holiday buffet line. I wave goodbye to my final kid of the day, poke my head into the post office where her mom works, produced the card that promises me a package if only I hand over the card in a trade of good faith and she gives me this lumpy Temu bag. "Huh. What fresh nonsense is this?" I mutter, snatching it like contraband. Truck tires squeal all the way home – I had forgotten what I ordered, but now remembering it's the laser, and I'm jonesing to watch those cats go full Looney Tunes on a phantom mouse.
Packages? I usually open them in the kitchen, right there in the war zone of crumbs and "I'll-wash-that-tomorrow" plates. But not this particular eve. Nah, I beeline for the bedroom, the one room that's still got a whiff of sanctuary. Slip into my holey hazmat suit – what I call pajamas, the kind where "cozy" means "drafty in all the fun places" – and flop on the bed, scissors cocked like a six-shooter. "Come on, Little Devil, work your magic." Rip. Shred. Unwrap. And...Sweet merciful Jesus, no.
No laser.
No perky red dot plotting world domination. What slithers out? A 7-inch real-feel rubberized vibrating... well, let's call it a "personal party favor." Detachable suction cup on the base, bold-as-brass pictograms showing you how to mount it on a table or counter for, ahem, equestrian adventures. I'm clutching this intruder, my ADHD brain doing the cha-cha – firing neurons one second, blue-screening the next: "Wait... is this for the CATS? Do they need... motivation?!" The curious cat squad is nosing the door crack ever wider, eyes like saucers: "Human, that's no yarn ball. It's got veins. And opinions. Cursed chew toy?" I'm fixing to osmosis through the floor, perched there in my threadbare togs, pondering how Temu's elves garbled "Little Devil" into "Dispatch the Big Red Serpent from the Naughty Drawer.
"Breathe, girl. I know! Email support: "Houston, we have a problem. Ordered feline fireworks. Received... fireworks of another stripe. Return label, stat?" Silence. Then a day later – brrring! – the phone. A fella from overseas, English tumbling out like socks in a dryer. "Hullo? You order Little Devil?" "YES – in the cat sense!" "No, you get Big Red Devil! Top-shelf vibrate!" "Nooo, laser pointer! For chasing, not... chasing away loneliness!" By this time sweat's pooling in places sweat has no business pooling, his keyboard's clattering like falling tic tacs, till he pauses: "Devil... laser? Ah! Return Big Red, we ship Little Red. Label on house! Free return! " Hallelujah. Swap: one blush-worthy blunder out, one beam of hope in. Piece of cake, I reckoned.
Cut to today's post office run. I flash my pickup slip, all smug: "Early bird gets the dot!" Post mistress slides over another Temu baggie. Homeward bound, cats mobbing me as I come in the door like I've smuggled fresh caught wild Pacific salmon. This time? I open it on the kitchen counter while discussing multiplying double digits with my 10 year old daughter. I tear it open, and... jackpot? Or jack-in-the-box from Hades? Item one: Big Red Devil, back for an encore or looking for its long lost twin, smirking. Item two: a rubberized real-feel five inch long vibrating tongue tickler, all waggly and winky, batting lashes like, "Fancy a chat?" Item three: the real McCoy, cat laser, blinking innocently: "Sorry I'm late to the party. Excuse my entourage." Return label? Vanished like my dignity. Bank app? Not a nickel billed for this burlesque blunder. Explaining to my child what she witnessed? Possible future counselling.
So, the laser's living its best life – those beasts are pinballing off furniture after that dot, granting me my golden five minutes of "bliss" (or at least uninterrupted blinking). But me? Shackled to a trio of uninvited guests. Three. Vibrators. In my house. The options?
Facebook Marketplace: "Wanted: No judgy eyes. Local widow peddling polite persuasion tools – next town over, cash only." Eww. Who would see that and think "Hey - I just got to have that"? Or possibly the nosy neighbor always watching from the window? "Happy Birthday, Aunt Edna! Got you a tongue twister, lightly haunted by bad decisions"?
Christmas, though – it's lurking like that fruitcake nobody claims. So... perhaps staff party Secret Santa? "Psst, Karen from dispatch: You know you want it."
Or maybe an anonymous drop at the community center: "For educational purposes. Demonstrate 'buyer beware' with batteries not included."
Is there a Vibrator Valhalla? Temu's Museum of Magnificent Mix-Ups? "Behold: One click from kitty chaos to carnal confusion – how 'devil' dialed up the dark side."
I could try Craigslist "free to good home". I never once thought someday I'd be writing to strangers about unwanted real-feel rubberized vibrators but here I am just killing it. I tried shopping like a Billionaire on a schoolbus driver's ration, and it backfired into a phallic farce.
Melanie Laughing in Saskatchewan