I probably won’t be able to write you tomorrow morning. I have to get Forest Lawn, cemetery kitty extraordinaire, to the vet.
Here he is eating Iris’s food. I called the vet to ask about this, and they say it’s OK if everyone eats Iris’s food, although Forest needs a daily can of kitten food as well, which he does eat. So at least I feel less nervous about everyone eating it, not to mention annoyed because it costs. But it’ll cost less to try to buy regular cat food, kitten dry food, kitten wet food, and also special Iris stomach food.
Anyway, Forest and I have to be at the vet between 7 and 9 a.m. tomorrow, where they will promptly remove his man parts, and then I can get him in the evening. I have to be “at” work at 8:30, so I really don’t see when I can blog at you tomorrow, unless I am there at the exact time of 7 a.m. and have we met? That is not going to happen.
I’ve never waited till a cat is 7 months old to fix him. I can’t think of when I had an unfixed cat in the house, cause the shelter always insists on doing it before you can take them home. I wonder if Forest has ever gotten to … you know. Bang a gong. I wonder if he tells the other cats about it and they’re all, like, whoa. For realz? We live in cage then get fix and we get zero tail ever.
Perhaps I need to get out more.
But I can’t. Plague. I like how the numbers are getting alarming again and every photo on my social media is people at restaurants and on trips. Are we just incapable of telling ourselves no? Of not socializing? What horrible thing do we think will happen if we tell ourselves no and feel a bit bored and lonely? It won’t kill you, you know, to feel bored and lonely. Coronavirus might actually kill you, though.
But let’s go back to my table. This image is a whole nother day where Forest is over here eating poor Iris’s food. It’s on this table because then Edsel can’t get it. The rest of the cat food, the bowls that go uneaten, are on the dryer for the same reason. I used to have Iris’s food on a counter but she can’t get to it on her own and I always had to lift her to it like I was her personal elevator. Like I was Mrs. Otis. She can get to the table on her own.
Anyway, the table and chairs are from Peg. I am sure they are “good” because she was a designer, but I am really hankering for a Formica table, a small one. I’d like to put it against the window but the fridge would be in the way, which irks.
What do you think? And where can I get a cute Formica table? These chairs above are so bulky, and don’t really fit in the table and are forever banging against it.
Maybe I don’t want Formica. Maybe I just want a small white table where you can bend the leaves down. You know what I mean? Then I’d have more room in the kitchen. Living in a small house is fine for me, but there’s hardly ever a time I’m not squeezing around something.
I act like I have all this money to just buy tables. Did I tell you what happened with m’car payment? They called me last week to say, “You car payment is late.”
“Late? I have auto payments.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Really? I swear I … well, OK. I’ll pay it now.”
And I did. Then the very next day? They withdrew my autopayment. My auto autopayment. And just try to get ahold of them. You can’t reach a person unless you enter your PIN, which I don’t have. They THINK I have a PIN because the bank that has my car loan is the bank where Marvin still goes, and he never took me off his bank stuff, so technically I could pay using Marvin’s bank info, which I CAN STILL SEE when I look at my car stuff.
I never do this. Because I am a magnificent person.
Anyway, if I knew HIS PIN I could speak to a representative. But since I do not know it and I can’t talk to anyone to tell them all this, I can’t reach a human at my bank.
The whole thing makes me feel very calm. Centered, is what I feel.
What the hell does that even mean? I want actual, concrete words describing what being centered is. I hate those yoga words. Fold down through your heart. Shut yer namastehole.
See. Just one moment with my bank thoughts and I’m already hostile.
Anyway, once the end of the month gets here and I am not living on whatever’s left over after you make two car payments by accident, I want to look at table solutions.
Can I put Peg’s table in the attic or will it come crashing through the ceiling and kill me? “She stayed home so she would’t die and then her table killed her.”
It seems like a good table, have I said that? And one day maybe I’d regret not having it. When, though? I’m old. I’m practically done. Then my loved ones will have to go to my attic, where by the way I have never gone in this house, and lug down Peg’s table and be all, “What’re we gonna do with this?”
For some reason I am scared to look in my attic. I picture a snake lounge area, where they’re all smoking on chaises. Can snakes climb up your house? They must be able to, right? God, snakes are creepy. How do they light their cigarettes?
This just made me think about how October 5 marked 10 years that Ned stopped smoking. He’d smoked like a snake on a lounge chair for 25 years, then made the decision to stop when he read a David Sedaris book, and then? Stopped. He got Chantix from his doctor but he had terrible nightmares so he didn’t take it long. He just stopped.
In a million years I’d never be able to just stop suddenly like that. I have to go back and forth for ages. I always admired his ability to do that. I never knew Ned as a smoker. Once we smoked candy cigarettes but that was as far as that went.
I think candy cigarettes are my favorite candy, because not only is it the candy you can play with, it also just sends a terrible, terrible message to children, and I am always down with that. I feel the same about toy high heels. Not that you eat those. Unless you do. Oddball.
I’d better go. I have to go to work and then I have to go to bed and then I have to get up and take the cemetery cat to get his headstones removed. I’m swamped.
By the way, I saw the chickens again last night. This time they were literally playing in that yard with three children. They were not at all alarmed by said children, they just plucked along as chickens do while children played. I offered them all candy cigarettes and play high heels.
So I guess they’re OK and I should stop worrying about the loose chickens. Is my point.