* * *
There’s this Tim McGraw song called Red Rag Top, and the song is about a man reflecting back upon a relationship he had when he was 20 (she was 18). Ultimately, she gets pregnant, has an abortion, and the relationship ends. It’s not a new song, but they’ve lately been playing the hell out of it on the local country station, and there’s this part:
We took one more trip around the sun,
It was all make believe in the end
that just makes me want to burst into tears every time I hear it. It’s not my favorite Tim McGraw song – Angry All the Time is, by far – and in fact I neither love it nor hate it, but that one bit, those two short lines somehow break my heart every single time.
* * *
The canning jars, canning book, and canning kit I ordered came yesterday. What was missing? The expensive-ass pressure canner. Not in the box, and according to the online tracking number I got, it was supposed to be in the same shipment.
I want to email them and say “What the FUCK? If I’d known it was going to take so goddamn long to get the goddamn thing, I would have gotten up off my dead ass and gone to the STORE and bought one!”
(Instead, I emailed them and said “Um, hi. Is my pressure canner shipping separately? Thanks!” No answer yet. FUCKERS.)
* * *
Hey.
Look what the cat left for you!
BOO!
They left it in the middle of the kitchen rug, and I about screamed and ran around in circles. I was on the phone with Fred when I spotted it, and I said “I’m going to blow on it to see if it’s still alive” and he said “Don’t BLOW on it. Just poke it with something!”
Just poke it with something. Right. So it could come to life and grab whatever I was poking it with and beat me to death with it? I THINK NOT.
So I blew on it, and it kicked weakly, so I grabbed a plastic container, pushed it into the plastic container with a fork, and tossed it out the back door.
I don’t believe I’d like to ever see another cicada in the house again THANKS ANYWAY CATS.
* * *
All of the kittens have officially been petted multiple times. Except for Tina Louise, they don’t LIKE being petted, but they’ll tolerate it. Grudgingly. For a minute or two before they run away. Of course, if they’re walking by you and reach out to pet them, they run off. They’re not CRAZY, after all. But if they’re in a position where they feel like they’re trapped – ie, on the cat tree or in the kitty condo – they don’t lose their minds if you pet them, aside from a few hisses.
This is a huge step forward as far as I’m concerned, and it’s all due to Fred, who is totally The Cat Whisperer when it comes to this bunch of fosters.
Clearly enjoying it. Or thinking “It BURNS. Your love BURNS MY SOUL, lady!” One or the other.
A new litter box = Big Excitement in Kittentown.
’cause this is thriller, thriller night
There ain’t no second chance against the thing with forty eyes
You know it’s thriller, thriller night
You’re fighting for your life inside of killer, thriller tonight
(
Bunches of kitten pics, hither.)
* * *
Previously
2006: The discerning decorator always considers that cats are decor accessories as well as beloved, spoiled-rotten pets and takes into account the decor of their home before adopting said animals.
2005: “If I can make four percoset get me high for the next year, you just might.”
2004: (Don’t lecture me, I KNOW. I swear I’ll wear sunscreen from now on okay, MOTHER?)
2003: No entry.
2002: Hell. O. Dolly. God in heaven, they were SO DAMN GOOD.
2001: Plus I’m taking this newfangled thing they call “pen and paper.”
2000: No entry.]]>