Melvin Cornelius likes when I sing to him. Today, Jim chuckled, and shook his head when I sang You Are So Beautiful to my baby boy.
I said, “You’re lucky I don’t put Melvie in clothes, put him to bed in a crib, and sit him in a highchair at meal times.”
To which Jim replied, “I’m lucky??? You’re lucky. Because I’d have to put you in a home, where you’d be hand fed by nurses. In a highchair. And straitjacket.”
I don’t know where my husband comes up with these ridiculous scenarios.
Once, I said to Nicole (when she still lived at home with us), “Wouldn’t it be creepy as fuck if one day we were minding our own business, and Melvin walked into the room on his hind legs and starting talking to us? I’ll bet he walks around in the middle of the night like a person, while we’re all asleep. He probably walks upright into your bedroom, hops up onto your bed to sleep with you, and you don’t even know it.”
The idea frightened her for some reason. She slept with her bedroom door closed for weeks. Melvin would scratch at her door, and I’d hear, “No, Melvin! Go away!”
There’s nothing diabolical about Melvin. Look at that face!
LOOK AT IT!
He’s my special guy, yes he is.
I had a nightmare recently. It was a zombie apocalypse, and I was trying to save Melvie from being caught and eaten. For some reason, Dream Kindra thought that hiding him in a cupboard was the best solution. He kept running away! And I kept putting him back in that goddamned cupboard. Seriously, I need to get my shit together. I need a solid plan. Without one, I’ll be the first to go, and it will be because of my cat. Not even (my secret boyfriend) Norman Reedus would be able to save me and Melvin.
I’m a lost fucking cause, I swear.