Yesterday, I went to the farmer's market.
I am seriously the only person you know who goes to the farmer's market to buy processed food. I bought cookies, little snack crackers, honey. I guess honey isn't processed. I mean, it is, but by bees. That doesn't count, right?
Now, why didn't the other June tell me to turn my one turnip so both of them had pupils? That would've been funnier. Clearly I have to art direct all my future photography.
I kept waiting for this particular booth-renter to tell me I had to buy the turnips, since I placed them on my eyeballs and such. And what was I gonna do with an actual fresh vegetable? "Is there a way I can get this processed and pick it up later?"
There were pretty flowers for sale, too. My mother always says that. Well, she doesn't ALWAYS say that. Sometimes she says things like, "Oh, honey, your hair." and "Do you think Marvin ever has any regrets about marrying you?" but she often says "pretty flowers." And really, do you ever see any ugly flowers?
I bought some pretty flowers, although technically they are pretty blooms on a plant. They will hang in the front of my house, to go with the other hanging plant in front of my house, which I similarly bought at the farmer's market.
I seem to be photographing these hanging plants at weird angles, as though I were seven inches tall, or strung out on LSD or something. I have no idea what it's like to be strung out on LSD. Is that even the correct slang? Aren't you strung out on heroin? Can you even be strung out on LSD? I am so not street.
I understand that we bought our hanging plants and left the farmer's market already, and now I am returning you there, but I am strung out on Vicodin or whatever. I've got a whiskey on my back. I'm chasing the white kitty.
There is a nursery at said market and apparently they have a cat who lives there, either that or I am hallucinating. This is the kind of cat who gets petted and bugged all day, which was evidenced by the fact that I went over and petted and bugged it, and it kept right on sleeping on the sack of seeds, there. I loved this big drink of milk kitty.
After I returned from the market, Emily from Chatting at the Sky came over with her girls so they could all meet Henry. Because it turns out? Little kids? Fascinated by kittens.
I would like to point out the part where I don't have kids, and so clearly know nothing about them. As you may or may not know, I also have an old, cranky cat named Francis. Francis has been lying on my left arm the ENTIRE TIME I have been typing this post.
(I just moved my arm to take this photo, and now he's back on my arm.) Francis is not what you'd call a child-friendly creature.
So I warned Chatting at the Sky's kids (I know how you guys like it when I call her Chatting at the Sky and not Emily) about Francis. I said, "There's another cat who lives here. He is in the back room. He's the meanest cat in the world, so just don't even look at him, or touch him, or go near him."
Okay, who is an idiot? Were they then COMPELLED by this story? Why do I forget everything there is about being a kid? Of COURSE they wanted to go in the back and see the mean, evil Francis. And sure enough, they went back there and looked, and Fran's eyes got huge, and his tail got whippy. He totally lived up to his wretched reputation. I should really give up my dream of being a child psychiatrist.
I must tell you that after those children left this abode Henry and Tallulah both fell into an exhausted sleep such as I have never seen, and if anyone is interested in renting me their children, I will gladly take you up on it. They were both in REM for several hours, giving me much time to enjoy Eleanor Roosevelt (Well, not literally. Her book), and also Winston's cute feet in the sun.
There were a lot of cats in this post. Particularly that one with the hookah that keeps asking me, "Whoooo are youuuuu?"