Now that I’m getting up a little after 5:00 SOME mornings, to go to the trainer, I seem to be waking up a little after 5:00 MOST mornings, whether I need to go to the trainer or not. Which is sort of hideous and yet sort of convenient. It’s 6:50 a.m. now and I’ve already cleaned the litter box, vacuumed, fed everyone, made coffee, given a pill to that demon Iris and given Edsel his chondroitin. Also, whose brilliant idea was it to get three pets in a 16-month span, so they’d all age at the same time and cost me big dollars?
^^My plan, here, was to put in a photo of Lily saying, “lillee perfectly well” but instead I came across my foster kittens, fmr., and died.^^ The girl, Frida, got adopted but the boys are still at the shelter.
Anyway, my aging pets. So far, my mother has provided all of Edsel’s chondroitin since she gave me all the leftover chondroitin from her poor dog, who died, and how well does that chondroitin work, then, but anyway I like how I act like I’m pulling out my pockets of empty, over here. BUT I’VE STILL HAD TO BUY HIS FISH OIL.
That’s a peach in the foreground, not the ass of an Oompah Loompah. Hey, I don’t tell you guys ALL my details.
I discovered yesterday, because I’m Christopher Columbus and here’s a smallpox blanket, that Facebook has a place where you can list all your hobbies on your About page. Naturally I selected hobbies I’ve never heard of in my life.
I mean, I know what it means to learn Punjabi. I know what love is, Jennay. Also also too, below my riveting hobbies, as you can see, are my featured pictures, and what even is that? Featured where? But I can’t get enough of the picture of my mother with one of the many many many many scary paintings from my childhood.
One wonders why I grew up with that anxiety. I remember staring at this painting, with that horrified, far-off look that kid gets in The Shining, and in my being-molded childhood mind, I thought those were his feet at the bottom, there, when really the artist kind of started making a ruffle and then left to kill himself.
Why didn’t I inherit my mother’s jawline? I’m Alexa Ray Joel. No offense, dad.
In other news that has nothing to do with anything except I’m Blondie Blathers, I went to the local jewelry store near my house. I’ve always gone to that jewelry store, even when I lived in a regular neighborhood where people make image books and have Christmas china. I took a ring in for repair in June and never heard back, and yesterday I finally just went in there and asked about it, they seemed kind of surprised to see me but got my ring out, I paid the $37 and brought it home and realized he hadn’t actually worked on it. Oh, dear.
But since I was down in that neighborhood, I went to the hippie crystal store. I’ve shown you this store many times in my blogging life, dating back to when the store cats were kittens. Have you ever noticed that most store cats are cranky? I guess they get over petted. Anyway, one of the store cats is a total Kitler but he never lets me capture him on film. A Kitler is a cat who resembles Hitler. Here’s an example of a Kitler. Show your work.
Whoever went to the bother to make this little sleeve is my people.
As I walked back to my car, with my defunct ring and my lack of hippie purchases, I noticed how pretty my car was and I stopped to take a photo.
I would have gotten a better angle but this car came SCREAMING at me and almost hit me, and it was stupid stupid annoying stupid Vilhelm Oyster, who COULD HAVE KILLED ME and thought he was hilarious.
Ohmygod, with Vilhelm. However, it’s been years since we’ve seen him. Well, it’s been years since YOU’VE seen him. I see him every dang day at work. When I first started there, eight years and three months ago but who’s counting, we worked in the same little room that just held The Poet, me, Vilhelm, Deb Downer and this woman from the Spanish team who had an annoying ringtone.
Then he got moved to another floor.
But then we got moved to the SAME floor and the SAME room and we’ve been reunited for two years now. I’ve been at 11 different desks in 8 years and three months. My current chair is my least-favorite (I’m on a very trafficky row, and you really see who goes to the breakroom 39492940102 times a day in that row) (also, Dear people who stomp when they walk: Stop stomping when you walk) and I’ve been there the longest. Once I was in this quiet corner away from everyone and that lasted maybe four months.
Anyway. After my near-death experience with stupid Vilhelm, I went home and threw the Blu for old stiff-hips, over here, till I heard, “Can Milhous come out and play?”
The woman next door asks that nearly every day. Her cat, Sissy, and Mil are best friends.
“Well, let me see if he wants out,” I said, heading for my back door, so to speak. “Mil–“
There he was. He was coiled like a spring waiting to come out. But mostly he wanted to rub on my ankles, and rub on Edsel, and purr. He’s a very purry cat. The whole time I’ve been writing you, he’s been on the little footstool at my feet, purring.
The woman next door was talking to him from behind the fence, like that neighbor on that toolman show, whatever it was called. “Come here, Milhous! That’s a girl! Come on over.” Finally she picked up Sissy and dangled her like an enticing puppet, over the fence. Milhous jumped up there, curious. Sissy curious.
“Oh, let me get my phone!” I announced, mincing dramatically into the house.
When Sissy and Milhous get married, this will be the photo on their wedding program. What do you mean, “Sad cat lady”?
Milhous is the friendliest cat. He got in a fight with the big mean yellow cat who roams around, whom I secretly love, and it makes me feel bad because knowing how friendly he is, I know he didn’t want to fight. He did what he had to do, for his country. Or this part of the block. Don’t be fooled by the scars that I got, I’m still Milly from the block.
What do you mean, “Sad cat lady, part deux”?
Okay, I have to go. I have to go to work, and dress my cats up in little outfits. It’s Wild West day here, so I’ll put on their little holsters.
See ya, ya varmints.