Here’s a dumb thing I just noticed I do. All the other cats get dry kibble, but Forest, who is still technically a kitten, gets canned kitten food. The vet said the canned part is important for male cats. Ima go ahead and assume we’re avoiding crystals. I don’t mean that we’re avoiding Crystal Gayle and Cristal Carrington, although I am. And Crystal Gayle should avoid me, as I will COME AT HER with scissors.
Anyway, while the other cats are situated over their bowls of delicious pellets, I get a can for Forest, who meeps impatiently.
And every day, I announce the flavor to him. “Oooo, ocean whitefish and tuna today, Forest!” I’ll say, then sploonk it in the bowl.
I just noticed myself doing it today. Why do I do this? He doesn’t understand me. And who am I to “Oooo” over any of the flavors, anyway? For all I know, ocean whitefish and tuna is the ham-n-cheese Hot Pocket of canned cat food.
Anyway that’s enough about cats. I’ll never mention cats again.
I was opening the blinds this morning, which by the way takes forever. There are eight of them. Nine if I remember to close the blind in the laundry room. Anyway, I was in the midst of this arduous task when I noticed a woman taking a walk past my house.
She had on a long winter trench coat, as in it was puffy. She had gloves. She had on a knit hat. And then she topped off this look with earmuffs.
“Hey, Google, what’s the temperature?”
“It’s 42 degrees right now,” said Google, who you could tell was also judging this woman. Google was rolling its computer eyes.
It’s 42. You’re not walking on the Arctic Circle. Geez.
Ima feel really bad if that was Faithful Reader and Neighbor Audra walking.
I, too, have been walking, but at night after dinner, to try to ward off this layer of fat I’ve acquired over the break.
The break. Why did I just call it that? Let me get my spiderweb so I can web it in there with my ass thread: Some Break.
Anyway, I know women are supposed to hate themselves and obsess over their weight but I usually don’t and I assure you I need to be talking a walk to, like, Scotland and back each night to burn enough calories.
There’s a woman at work who looks fabulous, and she just walks like 10 miles every night like it’s nothing. Someone else at work needed a document, and the fabulous woman just strolled over the 7 miles and dropped it off.
“You want a …ride home or anything?
“Oh, no! I’m good!”
See, I wish that were me, but I literally dreamt I was eating Little Debbie Swiss Roll Snack Cakes last night, and maybe my goal could be to walk 10 miles to a Little Debbie store.
God, that was a great dream. I was so happy to have a Swiss Roll. I haven’t had a LDSC in, well, since whenever this break started. I really need to stop calling it that.
I’m gonna HAVE Swiss Rolls if I don’t cut it out.
The last time I ordered groceries, I got a bunch of stuff that would be good if we lost power because we were getting an ice storm and they literally said “Power failures are likely,” which is always comforting. So among the many room-temperature groceries I purchased, I got those pink iced animal crackers. Remember those, from childhood?
In case you’re wondering if they’ve held up, if they’ve passed the test of time,
And this particular bag has varied the icing, so sometimes you’re eating a white-iced camel and sometimes a pink-iced monkey. That sounds like an insult. Why, you pink-iced monkey.
My grandmother—the nice one, not the one I turned into—worked in some factory during WWII while my grandfather was off in the war. She told a story often of this man in the factory who would pat her on the ass. That’s how gramma put it. “He was always pattin’ me on the ass.”
My grandmother had patience until she didn’t, and one day she had HAD it and she said, “Why, you goddamn 4-Fer son of a bitch” and hit him over the head with whatever little tool she used in the factory.
Of course, SHE got in trouble for it and not the #metoo guy. They said she’d “questioned his heritage” by calling him a son of a bitch.
The whole story is maddening now, but I’m telling it to you because whenever she told that story, I’d think “4-Fer” was another swear. I thought it was maybe the F word 4 times, although in a million years I never heard gramma say the F word. “Goddamn son of a bitch” you’d hear 46 times a day. But not the F word. (During the war, if you were someone they determined couldn’t fight, you were classified as 4-F.)
Once my mother had a friend over, a friend who outwardly seemed very sweet, and my grandmother dropped something and she said, “Why you — oh, BANANAS!”
It was just so phony that everyone laughed. Don’t whip out the banana for company.
Anyway, I seem to have gone off on a tangent, which is not like me.
I have to go, but I do have one more exciting bit of news. As you know, from your enormous book of June events, months ago, maybe even a year ago, Miss Doxie sent me a Ring doorbell and it’s one of my favorite things. If I were Julie Andrews I’d include it in my song. Doorbells that spy and they call themselves Ring. These are a few of my favorite things.
So she and I were on a Zoom cocktail party the other night. Miss Doxie and me, not Julie Andrews and me, although she is always welcome. Doxie showed me on her tablet the MYRIAD Ring doorbells and cameras she has all over her house and it was beautiful and then she said, “I’m sending you the camera for the back of your house” and two boops on her tablet later, she said, “You’ll get it Thursday.”
But I got it WEDNESDAY, and I am going to put it up on the back of the snake shed, so I can see the alley behind me, which I assume is usually free of shenanigans but you never know now that 72 people have moved in next door. But what I DO know is animals are back there and I cannot WAIT to look at them all with my new wildlife camera. Do you like how I changed what it really is in just one paragraph?
What I’m saying is, brace yourself for many Ring camera captures of raccoons and antelope. And maybe Little Debbies in the wild.
Talk at you.