I must remember not to let myself be distracted by all the loving and
attentive cats who are attempting to help me in the kitchen.

I chop up the lettuce and shred the cheese for tacos. I set aside a
couple of bowls of lettuce for salads.

I set the salad dressing, the picante sauce, the eggnog (I want to
sample some, since it is once again available), and the quart of root
beer. Note that one of these things is not like the others.

I am petting and sweet-talking the cats while I do all this. Little
Feet and Dulce Mae, in fact, are on the counter.

I shake up the dressing, pop the lid off and pour some dressing on the
salads.

I shake up the eggnog, pop the lid off, and pour a little into a cup.
Yummy!

I shake up the picante sauce, pop the lid off, and set it aside for
the tacos.

I bet you see what's coming.

Not thinking, not even a little bit, I just let the routine take
control. I grab the quart of root beer, shake it up, pop the lid
off...

...and spray Little Feet, Dulce Mae, myself, and half the kitchen with
IBC root beer.

As my badly rendered refrain of Elvis Presley's "All Shook Up" stops
cold.

I somehow managed NOT to drench the lettuce or the cheese, the taco
meat was in the microwave, and the shells were still warming in the
oven. The tacos were delicious. The salad tasted like root beer.

Little Feet and Dulce Mae, however, have decided not to distract me
for awhile. In fact, I think I hear a few cuss words (and maybe a few
well-laid plans for the middle of the night?) from the back room.

I think I had better try to console them RIGHT NOW, before they get
too far into their revenge (big grin).

Hugs and Purrs,
Mark