Oh, the indignity!

Allow me to share a couple of my recent Rodney Dangerfield no-respect moments:

• A few nights ago, Jess, Steve and I were all in the bedroom watching TV, and Steve was elaborating on all the different suits of armor he'd like to own, and how he would wear a different one every day. Since I've had a lifelong obsession with armor myself, I thought this made him a pretty fuckin' awesome teenager, and I idly asked him, "Where were guys like you when I was in high school?"
  
  Jess looked me square in the eyes and said, "They weren't born yet."
  
  OH! Feel the burn!
  
  
• Little sweet Nala wanted to sleep in my room last night. She's usually a totally timid little kitty, and she was being so affectionate last night that I couldn't possibly refuse her, especially when she purred and chirped and made her little short cat-barking noises like she does when she's feeling vocally inclined. Complete adorability, that's what I'm tryin' to say: tiny, shy, color-coordinated, and irresistable. I fell asleep with Nala stretched out against my leg, purring like a little race car.
  
  About two hours later, I awoke to the rhythm of a cat scratching at my feet. Not, like, sinking its claws into my tootsies; it was more of a digging sensation. Um, or burying. Yeah, that was it. Nala had pissed all over my comforter, and thus my feet, and was now trying to cover it up.
  
  That's right, just call me Piss Foot.
  
  
  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go sit in the tub for about three hours.