Well, I thought you were going to offer me the guest bedroom, but if I have to weed, do dishes and clean, I guess I’ll pass. I would definitely do snuggle duty (with the cats), but that wasn’t on your list. Alas.
Silly Lo. I’d have to charge EXTRA for the kitty snuggling, of course!
* * *
I think that officially you have too many cats because I can no longer tell who is who – I guess Sugarbutt, Miz Poo, and Boog are easy enough, but the rest just become a tumble of fur and fangs.
Here’s a quick and easy description of each:
Spot (the oldest): Squeaks annoyingly, begs constantly for food, can be a badass when required. Favorite hiding place: Unknown.
Spanky (second oldest): Dumb but happy. LOVES to keep you company in the bathroom. Has to be kicked out if you’re going to be spending any real time in there, because he stares at you and makes you all kinds of paranoid. Favorite hiding place: under the nearest bed, or under the couch.
Miz Poo: Princess kitty who can be annoyingly friendly. Loves to tromp across your boob whilst searching for snuggles. Favorite hiding place: Why would she hide when she can come demand love from you? (When particularly frightened, she goes flat and assumes you can’t see the big cat lump in the middle of the floor.)
Mister Boogers: He het you. Favorite hiding place: In the cat bed, on the Momma’s bed.
Sugarbutt: Disturbingly happy. The happiest! Cat! Ever! Favorite hiding place: Under Fred’s comforter. He assumes you can’t see the big cat-shaped lump.
Tom Cullen (Tommy): Always willing to shoot you the Sexy Eyes. Favorite hiding place: In the downstairs hall closet.
Maxi (who we usually call Momma): Feisty, tiny little spitfire, who doesn’t think twice about kicking the ass of any dog who comes too close. Hiding place: Hell if I know.
Newt: Sweet, friendly, happy kitty. The second! Happiest! Cat! Ever! Will let you rub his belleh ’til the cows come home.
(Note to myself: Maxi and Newt need their own pages.)
Holy crap! Sugarbutt and Tommy are turning two tomorrow!
* * *
I have mentioned many times, I’m sure, that I love the hell out of the
Keith and the Girl podcasts. Last Thursday I listened to the previous Thursday’s podcast – show number 517: Justice – and it involved
Patrice, their entertainment person. I think it made me laugh out loud about a hundred times, from the beginning where Patrice tells Keith he pumps his arms when he’s about to be an asshole, to the part where they were talking about “killing off” family members to get time off from work, to the part where they were talking about the
woman pulling off her ex-boyfriend’s testicle (“That’s some gorilla strength, right there,” Patrice said.). If you’ve thought about giving Keith and the Girl a try, I highly recommend you start with that one, because it’s definitely an instant favorite of mine.
During the discussion about “killing off” family members to get time off work, I laughed. I’ve never actually “killed off” a family member, but back when I was working as a motel maid at the Interstate Oasis in Brunswick* (now the Econo Lodge), I called and claimed that my grandmother was in the hospital because I’d been up way too late the night before. They believed me (or pretended to), I took one day off, and went into work the next reporting that she was much improved.
I’ve never actually “killed off” a family member, though.
*I’ll discuss more about this horrendous job in a future entry. Someone remind me if I forget to write about it.
* * *
So, I go to get groceries on Mondays – on my way home from the pet store – and Thursdays. It used to be that Fred would do the big grocery run on Saturdays, but he doesn’t like the “good” grocery store in Nearville, and the drive to our beloved Publix in Madison takes 20 minutes, and going there, getting groceries, and coming home, takes up more time than he’d like to spend in the car on a Saturday morning. For a few weeks he was stopping at Publix on his way home Thursdays, but I decided I’d just suck it up and take care of getting groceries all the time, since he has a job and I don’t.
Anyway.
Last Thursday I got a slow start and didn’t get around to leaving the house until about 12:30. If I’d been going to Publix in Madison this would have been a nightmare, because anytime after 10:00, that store is packed. I was going to the “good” grocery store in Nearville, though, and at its business time, that grocery store has less than ten other customers in the store.
I headed out to my car, and saw that there was a cop parked across the street. There’s a street that comes out almost directly across from the end of our driveway, and he was parked so that no one could pull out of that street onto our street.
I called Fred. “You suppose the President’s going to be coming this way to go to the nuclear plant?” I asked. After some discussion, we decided that probably he was, since there were only two ways through Smallville to get to the nuclear plant and our road is the bigger and nicer of the two.
“Get the camera!” Fred said. “Get some pictures! No, wait! Get the tractor out! The president might want to stop and drive it around! No, wait! Make a sign that says “Free green tomatoes if you’re the president”! No, wait! Make a sign that says “Mister President, come meet Mister Boogers!” No, wait! Make a sign that says “Mister President, come admire our fine garden!””
I laughed. “Yeah, right.” I went inside and got the camera, then stood at the end of the driveway. For the next 45 minutes I stood in the hot, hot sun, talking to Fred. I snapped pictures of the cops up and down the road (crappy pictures, as it turned out), I snapped a picture of the helicopter flying overhead, and I looked down the road and waited and waited and waited some more.
(Click on the small pictures to see the full-sized versions)
Finally, I noticed that the roads were all blocked off, and a phalanx of vehicles were coming my way. First was a cop car.
Then some kind of SUV – maybe staffers?
Then a pack – a bevy? – of motorcycle policemen riding in some fancypants triangle formation approached.
I snapped a picture of them, and then the one in front – apparently Very Important – angrily waved at me to get back.
“Yeah well, fuck you, fuckhead motherfucker, this is MY PROPERTY and if I want to stand at the very goddamn end of my goddamn driveway, I will!” I yelled. Or mumbled under my breath as I stumbled over my own feet to back away from the road. One or the other.
I didn’t actually see the president, as I was too busy trying to snap pictures, but I assume he was in one of those limos.
And, the excitement over, I went to get groceries.
* * *
It should be noted that I am no fan of the current President or the current administration. I think they’re all idiots and I don’t know how it is that any Republican thinks they have any chance in hell of winning this election (though that’s probably just the optimist in me). But should the president have seen me standing by the side of the road, laughed out loud and said “Chillin with my gnomies! That’s an excellent t-shirt! Let’s stop and talk to this one!”, I would have fallen over in a dead faint and peed my pants, not necessarily in that order. Like him or not, he’s the President! Of the United States!, you know?
And I would have been all respectful and everything. I know how to mind my manners, and telling a lame duck president you think he’s doing it all wrong is the epitome of wasting your breath anyway.
* * *
So, I went to get groceries. And though this grocery store – the “good one” in Nearville – isn’t that great, it’s good enough for meat, bread, eggs – the staples. I got everything on my list and stood in line, and as the cashier rang up my groceries, the shift manager was bagging them.
“You know, I’m sorry John’s Momma died and everything,” the cashier said to the manager. “But he doesn’t have to be such a jerk to everyone!”
The manager had clearly only been half paying attention, because her head snapped up and she blinked. “John’s Momma, what?” she said.
“John’s Momma died, you know, I mean passed away, and ever since, he’s been a jerk to everyone, and I’m sorry for his loss, but -”
“Wait,” said the manager. “John’s Momma? Earline passed? Oh my goodness, when did Earline pass?!”
The cashier frowned. “Last week, Wednesday or Thursday I think, remember he was off through the weekend?”
The manager stopped and propped her hands on her hips.
“John,” she said sternly. “We’re talking about John HisLastName?”
“Yes!” the cashier said. To me, she said “Debit or credit?”
“Debit, no cash back,” I said. She punched a few buttons.
“Angie, John’s Momma did not pass. I saw her last night at church!”
The cashier stopped, her mouth hanging open. I’m sure mine was hanging open as well; I know I was leaning forward to catch every word.
“But… I sent him flowers! And a card!” the cashier protested.
The manager’s mouth tightened up into a tiny pucker.
As I walked away as slowly as I could, the manager was telling the cashier how she was going to rip John a new one and then she was either going to write him up or fire him. Oh yeah – and Earline was going to hear ALL about THIS.
That’s what he gets for “killing off” his Momma in such a small town, I guess.
(I had to wonder whether John was a Keith and the Girl fan, and if he’d gotten the idea from their show.)
* * *
I got home from getting groceries, put them away, let the cats out into the back yard, and trudged out onto the front porch to put on my shoes for the trek across the yard to check the mail.
Which is when I realized that the cops were setting up again, and I was all “D’oh! I guess he has to get back to the airport for his trip to Mobile for his big speech, so I guess he’s going back by here!”
And I ran into the house to grab the camcorder, figuring that if I got a decent movie, I could pause and take a picture of any good frames.
Except that the camcorder was not charged. So I hauled ass back into the house to grab my camera, and then stood on the front porch and waited for the procession.
First, this cop came along on his motorcycle and yelled “Y’all, get back from the street!” to the people who were standing, um, by the street (there was quite a crowd at the church next door). And not a minute later the whole stinking procession came along, and this is the only picture I was able to get, STUPID HESITATING CAMERA.
And that was the excitement for the week – nay, the month. The year?
Whatever.
* * *
Is it just me, or do these look like weirdly posed scenes, like something you’d see in the JC Penney catalog? I imagine a photographer yelling “Frick! You WANT him, you want him with every feather on your body, but Sugarbutt! You don’t even notice Frick, you’re just standing there being beautiful. Be beautiful, Sugarbutt! Be beautiful and feisty and unattainable, and Frick! Want him! Want him badly, but sadly, knowing that you can never have someone that beautiful. He’s out of your league! PERFECT!”
* * *
Previously
2006: The meals sucked, but we got t-shirts that were pretty cute, so I guess it all worked out.
2005: Can I sue for emotional distress?
2004: No entry.
2003: I never said I had a long attention span.
2002: You can imagine the zany situations.
2001: No entry.
2000: Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.]]>
Finally, I noticed that the roads were all blocked off, and a phalanx of vehicles were coming my way. First was a cop car.
Then some kind of SUV – maybe staffers?
Then a pack – a bevy? – of motorcycle policemen riding in some fancypants triangle formation approached.
I snapped a picture of them, and then the one in front – apparently Very Important – angrily waved at me to get back.
“Yeah well, fuck you, fuckhead motherfucker, this is MY PROPERTY and if I want to stand at the very goddamn end of my goddamn driveway, I will!” I yelled. Or mumbled under my breath as I stumbled over my own feet to back away from the road. One or the other.
I didn’t actually see the president, as I was too busy trying to snap pictures, but I assume he was in one of those limos.
And, the excitement over, I went to get groceries.
First, this cop came along on his motorcycle and yelled “Y’all, get back from the street!” to the people who were standing, um, by the street (there was quite a crowd at the church next door). And not a minute later the whole stinking procession came along, and this is the only picture I was able to get, STUPID HESITATING CAMERA.
And that was the excitement for the week – nay, the month. The year?
Whatever.