I’m writing to you from the kitchen today; it looks so pretty that I just decided to be in here. I know I have to iron the ding-dang tablecloth. I keep thinking it and then thinking about other things that are more fun than dragging out the ironing board.
Also, I am sick of these cats. Who decided to get all these cats? [looks behind her accusingly]
First, Iris had to get special food for her stomach that costs $479 a bag. And everyone wanted to eat it. I fed her in a separate room, here in the kitchen on the little shelf in here. But every time I looked over there, someone was munching her kibble, which sounded dirtier than it is.
Finally, they were all so obsessed with her food that I just called the beleaguered vet.
“Would it be OK if that was just everyone’s food?” I asked him.
“Oh, sure! It’s just for easy digestion! But you need to keep Forest on his canned kitten food till he’s 1.”
So now that I’m spending 9 million dollars a day on special digestion cat food, what do you think everyone wants now? Is it the canned effing kitten food? All I’m ever doing is PULLING everyone BACK, like they’re fans at a Beatles concert, over that canned kitten food. Meanwhile,
Here’s Forest over at Iris’s food.
So that’s relaxing.
March. Forest will be a year old in March. Then we’re all eating that special stomach food, even me.
While I was typing this, I heard all sorts of barking and realized Edsel was still outside for his morning constitutional and the woman next door had let HER dog, Cinnamon, out. This led Edsel to lose his mind and bark at the fence, really low. I don’t mean his voice was really low like Barry White. I mean his SNOUT was really low and he was carrying on like a crazy person and meanwhile Cinnamon remained unimpressed on her side of the fence.
You should’ve seen it. It was like two sides of an emotional coin over there. Which just made a ton of sense. But maybe they were like those drama masks, only the masks were insane and stoic. It’s kind of like when the Tasmanian Devil is having a fit and Bugs Bunny just stands there.
Cinnamon is a large unflappable light-brown pit bull who likes me because I give her treats. She could not care LESS about Edsel, who considers Cinnamon the great enemy.
In general, I’d like to speak to the manager of these pets. Honestly, where IS the person in charge here?
Also, I’m running into the same problem every morning. I write this stupid blog from about 7:30 to 8:30. I mean, it doesn’t always take the whole hour, but that is the general time frame. And lately, every day I’m getting all sorts of texts and messages at that time.
I’ve gotten to the point where I’m just not answering them till 8:30. I tried the whole: “Talk to you at 8:30!” ploy and it seems to make no difference, so now I’m just pretending those messages aren’t there. Honestly if you give people an inch.
I JUST WANT MY TIME TO WRITE. And I know you’re gonna be all, “You can turn those off, JOOOON” but it’s a pain to turn it on and off all the time and my big fear is I’ll forget to turn it back on. As opposed to my charm, which I can’t seem to turn off.
And I know people just want to write while it’s on their mind but then I get that urgency feeling. It NAGS at me, that little message there. I’m tryina write you and yet my mind is telling me, Someone needs something. Someone NEEDS something!!!
Computers just made a lot of things worse. When my grandmother, the one I turned into, wrote her angry letters on her typewriter, it was just her and her typewriter. She had this special typewriter font that looked like cursive. If you got a typed letter in the mail on her special cursive font you were always filled with a kind of dread only a Grammy letter could produce.
Anyway, my point is, nowhere on the typewriter did she have any red 1s letting her know SOMEONE WANTS SOMETHING. DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION HERE.
I gotta go. It’s two minutes till it’s 8:30 and I’ve ignored 10 messages since 7:30 and I’m filled with angst.
Distractedly and barking at an indifferent Cinnamon,