When I saw that life coach, he told me there technically is no such thing as stress. We just react to things and GET stressed. If we change our reaction, we could, in truth, not have stress at all.
I was dreaming about some large murder woman chasing me at 5:38 this morning (I kept asking everyone for help but everyone looked at me like I was crazy) when
the kitten starting peeping. I call him the Boy from Eeep-anema. He’s very squeaky. He’s six weeks old now, and really, really should be eating solid food, but he is not. I had another foster kitten like this once, one who was big and strong and had all his teefs, and there he’d be every day, meow as deep as a man’s.
And I’d give him a damn bottle. It was like bottle-feeding Jethro Bodean.
After I fed him this morning, he followed me around while I fed Edsel, fed the regularly scheduled cats, made coffee. SQUEEEEEK, he’d say. SQUEEK! He attempted crawling up my leg, and let me tell you something. I love kittens. God knows I do. But I
the crawl up the leg. Hate. I guess it’s part of my mostly wanting to be left alone thing.
Do you know what annoys me? Is any time anyone says I LIVE for attention. I saw a group on Facebook say that about me when they thought I wasn’t looking. I had someone at work say it just the other day when we were on our 3 o’clock walk.
Do people say that because I write this stupid blog? Or because I tell a funny story in one line on social media? Because let me tell you what: I do those from the privacy of my home, where I live alone. Really, most of my day is spent trying to be left alone. I have noticed, actually, that people who say that are people who seek attention themselves. I know one person who GETS ON A STAGE on the regular who has repeatedly made little you-want-attention jabs. Once when I broke a fucking bone and was just trying to limp to my desk to work in silence.
Anyway. The kitten. He wanted attention.
“What?” I asked. “What do you want? What is it?”
I picked him up and he didn’t care. I tried to distract him with play and he didn’t care.
Turned out he wanted a SECOND bottle. Good lord he should be on solid food.
So now he’s fat and content, playing with his pet rat that is technically Milhous’s pet rat that he loaned to the cause.
They spent so much time bopping at each other under the door that I said screw it and I let them hang out while I make the kitten’s bottles. I think part of why he isn’t eating is he just has no idea he can eat. I’ve presented him with 17,000 flat small dishes of kitten food mixed with formula (Slogan: God, really?) and he’s just had no clue what to do with it.
MEOW. I’m pulling down my 401(k) and need my bottle. MEOW.
Oh my god. This kitten is every man I’ve dated.
Anyway, now I’m supposed to be at work in five minutes and I haven’t even showered yet, but I felt guilty that I hadn’t blogged at you all week and then blogged one day of mostly pictures and then if I skipped today and then it’d be the weekend you’d all turn on me like potato salad at the hot picnic, so.
I leave you with this. I was sweeping the hall, not for drugs, last night and moved the candlestick, which apparently I rarely do, which makes sense because it’s tall and heavy and besides, what could be under–
…oh. Apparently Milhous’s SECOND stash is here. His first is under that drawer beneath the oven. I see 104 bottle caps, tinsel from freaking CHRISTMAS, a buckle from god knows what that broke, a truffle wrapper and an empty tube of flea meds, which sounds super safe to play with.
Someone asked me out yesterday, FOR yesterday, and I said no because I had too much cat care to do. Now, that’s pathetic.
Anyway, that’s my spinster morning and also I guess part of my spinster evening yesterday and now it is one minute till work and Paula H&B has had seven coronaries that I haven’t even SHOWERED yet, so goodbye.
June, now in a stress-free package!