Best reason ever.

Well, I cannot be a grandmother.

And I have been reeling from this knowledge all the way since Tuesday, folks.

Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, yesterday Adam and I went to Barnes & Noble after we finished vacuuming, dusting, washing and shaving the Grapes of Wrath set. We like it there. We would live there. Take out a small cot under the Babysitters' Club section.

I've forgotten what I was saying.

Oh yes.

I sharply spy the new Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition on the rack by the register.

We unanimously decide to get this.

He pays, as he is a boy. I purchase a small bright bookmark featuring the picture of a kitten in a sweater looking put out.

We go home, silently doff our coats, turn on the light and take up positions on the couch for the viewing.

Now, let it be said that Adam and I enjoy this magazine for different reasons.

Ever since I can remember, in the magazine rack next to my grandfather's ancient recliner was one Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I have no idea what year it was from, but it remained in that rack for the better part of my childhood and teen years.

And every holiday and occasion my brother, my cousin Megan and I would look at this book.

I found it almost unbelievable how they could paint those bathing suits on those girls and make it look SO real. We would peer and peer to see if we could see any trace of nipple or any other body part that would make us think, "well, really then, I suppose this is not quite so impressive as it seems after all." But no. So I've always liked seeing that spread to see how well done it is.

Adam reads this magazine for God knows why. I guess watching girls suffering in harsh weather conditions wearing only their bones and the occasional brightly patterned tea bag.

Whatever.

But just for everyone's information, the painted bathing suit spread in this year's issue is lacking in real-ness. In my opinion. And in Adam's. And he knows. He is a painter.

There are some erroneously placed shadows, and someone got over-ambitious and decided they could make two-dimensional ruffly lace look like the real thing.

Try again.

So anyway, that was pretty much a bust. Ahaha.

The most amusing part of the whole exercise was when it occurred to me what a sight it would be for Maggie to behold when she walked in the door from work to discover Adam and I seated on the couch poring and squinting over the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue together.

She didn't.

Also.

When I adopted and raised and those three fuzzy Happy Meal sized kittens, I knew that one day, they would need to be spayed/neutered.

I knew this most certainly about Betty, for if she were ever to reproduce the world would undoubtedly be overtaken by her bat-gargoyle soulless spawn and every human would be furious for the rest of their lives.

Ouisus I knew would grow to be a refrigerator and a hunk o' burning pussy, as it were, and be extremely sought after by all the cats within the tri-state area. And I didn't want him breaking any hearts.

Suprise I would love to have reproduce, as he is wonderful and I love him in every way, but unfortunately, his general unawareness of everything around him down to and including his own body and whether or not he can walk across the ceiling on his tongue would most probably render him useless in figuring out the mechanics of where to stick it.

Having said all that, and in light of the fact that once Betty went into heat she began aggressively sexually accosting any male that came to our house in a most embarrassing way (sorry Matt Shofner) and Suprise, in a good humor, commenced merrily spraying on everything Brett owns just to spread the good cheer, I made appointments for the children to have their parts sawed off.

So I take them in for a pre-surgery check up/rabies shot.

I discover a deaf cat in the lobby of the vet clinic. This is fun because you stand by it's cage until it turns around and then it is startled and jumps and goes "YEOOOOW."

They examine Betty. They coo and ooh and ahh and call her things like "sweet angel" and "petite little lady."

I bite my tongue and roll my eyes. I wish that Adam were there so we could pompously scoff at this gross misperception together. (Maggie loves Betty. She is not all alone in the world.)

They examine Suprise. Who, by the way, is the most relaxed cat I have every come across. He has sat in my lap the entire car ride and gazed contemplatively out the window, occassionally bathing a paw. He has spent Betty's examination reclining in the corner chair, leafing through the February issue of Cat Fancy.

While examining Suprise they discover (besides that he is amazing), that my baby only has one descended testicle. I figure this is not uncommon. But the vet then proceeds to press on his lower body searching for said testicle. She presses higher and higher, until finally, somewhere around his larynx, she says, "Ah. There it is."

I find this peculiar.

But he is Suprise. He does lots of Suprising things. Which now include storing one of his balls on his clavicle.

All this means, she tells me, is that instead of them just popping open his scrotum and spooning out his testicles there, they will have to do a deeply invasive procedure to fish out the rogue ball.

I immediately almost burst into tears.

But I take comfort in the fact that, no matter what they do to him, anesthesia or not, he will not notice. He's just that laid back.

All goes according to plan. Betty sails through surgery- a "routine spay" they tell me (much to mine and Adam's secret disappointment), and Suprise does as well, with the exception of them having to do a bit more shoveling around through his abdomen than they had previously anticipated.

Again- tears.

We go to pick them up. They tell me, "That will be $256.00. For Suprise." I smile and say, "No it will not."

So I pay something I find feasible, though I am forced to go a little overboard due to the wandering nut. Apparently, when they have to go on expansive testicles searches, they really are putting themselves out so they can charge you more money.

We return Suprise home. His roommate Wilson has forgotten about him completely in the five hours he has been out of the house and hisses and moans to beat the band. I give him a withering look and a sharp smack on the rump. Suprise immediately lurches himself up onto the round footstool and sits up straight as an arrow. He is squinting violently and swaying from side to side.

I call Brett four hours later to check in on him.

He is still on the footstool.

But the next morning, he was all duckies and cupcakes. That's my boy.

So I am pleased.

Also it is really something to relish when you can cancel certain things you were planning on paying for by saying, "I'm sorry, I can't come to that now. My cat had one undescended testicle."

I was in China three times today. Now I have to go save all the depressed people from their blue rashes.

Someone gave me a rose today. I don't know who it was.

Nor, Hannah, do I care.