For the last two days at work, I’ve dedicated self to one very detailed project, punctuated by nerve-wracking, “How’s it going?” emails that are nerve-wracking, did I mention?
Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to, and I do enjoy one long detailed project, actually. I find it sort of soothing. But after 16 hours, I was tuckered, is what I was. It was a lot of the concentrating. If I were orange juice, I’d be concentrated.
If I were a card game, I’d be concentration.
I can’t think of any more.
So I got home last night and took off m’shoes, came in and checked on Noir Orphan, in here, in the kitten room, and then fed everyone…
…and realized I needed more dang cat food. I mean, I had dry, but I was totally out of canned, and that was not welcome news. Is what it wasn’t. No one wants a dinner of dry kibble.
So I ate a delicious Lean Cuisine and I watched some TV (streamed the latest episode of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and at this point I don’t CARE who took the dog to the shelter OH MY GOD) and finally got up my gumption and drove the three large minutes to the store.
They sell cases of adult canned food at my store, but they sell the kitten-food cans only individually. Why? Kittens don’t eat, like, twice and then you’re done. You need the case, man.
So I grabbed a case of adults only XXX cat food for her pleasure and then five cans of kitten food, which will feed Dark Victory for 10 days, after which he will probably be ready to go back to the shelter, and I know. Let’s not think about it.
My point is, a normal person would have headed to the checkout area like a normal person who is normal, but guess what I did. I got a hankerin’.
“I’ll bet they have local strawberries,” I thought, and with my case of canned adult PG-13 you-must-be-this-tall-to-eat-this-food cat food and my five teensy baby cans balanced on top, I made my way over to produce and of course spilled everything all over the Ghetto Lion’s tomato display.
“Let me help you,” said a nice woman who clearly felt sorry for the cat lady with the hair.
Finally, I gathered my case of mature audiences cat food and my teensy premie cans of gender reveal kitten food AND my new uncovered carton of local strawberries and minced my way to the express checkout.
There, a large hulking man checked my groceries.
“How you doin’ tonight?” he asked. I told him about spilling all the cat food moments before.
“We used to have a cat when I was growing up,” he said, whisking my strawberries across that thing. What did we all do before we had that glass scanny thing? Did they have to just memorize the price of all the groceries or something? I guess they had price tags.
“Oh, did you?” I always want to hear about other people’s cats. OPP, as it were.
“He was all black, and he had green eyes.” The guy looked wistful.
“Whatever happened to it?” I asked, picturing the entire family taking the day off work to take the cat to the vet for a peaceful death at the age of 47.
“Oh, we moved. We couldn’t take it with us.”
Gifs are big with me lately.
“You…couldn’t take it with you? Why?”
See. I try not to be that person. I try not to DRIVE HOME my opinions, but “We’re moving and can’t take the pet with us” chaps my hide.
“Well, we had a cage for it, but the cage wouldn’t fit in the car.”
“It…oh. Well, who did you end up giving the cat to?” I tried to have poker face, but have you met me?
“Oh, we never thought about that,” he said, “we just drove off.” And that is when
I’m still not over that story. I’ll NEVER be over that story. Mother of pearl that was a horrific story.
And the strawberries weren’t even good.
Tonight I have a party to go to, and tomorrow a bunch of us are going to some sort of prom that includes arm wrestling, and I wish I knew just exactly what I’d gotten myself into with that but I sort of said, hell yeah, I’ll go and then didn’t think about it further, because you know how I am.
As I write you this, old Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night has fallen asleep on my foot, and now Ima feel bad when I move away and leave him behind.