Anyway, since I've been gone for a whole bloody month, I expect you people to hook me up with things you think I'll enjoy. Funny posts! Good stories! Naked pictures of Ioan Gruffudd holding my picture up and licking his lips! *cough* I mean, what? Did I type that?
And, just so you don't think I've gotten any less insane in the interim -- which I assure is not the case whatsoever, because, y'all, I signed a lease like a grown up and am now FREAKING ASSIDUOUSLY OUT about that at every turn -- I give you a story of my insanity and my quest to get a cat to share my days and tuna fish sandwhiches:
So, about two houses down from me, there's this house that's covered in
rust stains, has an over grown lawn, a verandah (though I suppose they're
called porches up here, but honestly I care not - verandahs they shall
always be in my Southern fried little mind) covered in boxes, dirty wicker
chairs, natty little blankets, cans and newspapers. Old Christmas lights
dangle from the roof, and there are a variety of stickers on the door.
Things that say "I BRAKE FOR WHALES" and "PETS INSIDE, BE AWARE" and all
like that. There's yellowing bread scattered in the driveway beside it,
for the birds I think, and little dishes with food in them hidden within
the over grown grass. Most people would stay away from this house. Most
people would be right to do so.
The thing is. There are also adorable kittens kind of swarming through the
yard on a regular basis.
That's basically the only rationale I can offer for why I struck up
conversation with the scraggly haired woman in lime green hotpants who
lives there. I was crooning over a tiny tabby when she said, "Hey, you
want one?" I, thinking she was just joking, said, "Oh, please, can I?" and
she said, "Yeah, sure! I'll hold you to that."
Thus began the odyssey of Me and the Crazy Cat Lady with whom I've become
entangled. Deeply entangled.
She -- wants to be my friend? And I still don't have a kitten to show for
it, which is maybe for the best but I think I'm probably getting one on
Thursday. She's -- they're kind of out door kittens. And they're ten
weeks old, so she's getting a friend of hers who works with the pound to
come and catch all of the kittens and then I can come down and have my
pick before the rest of the litter goes to the pound. The thing about
this is: 1) will they be covered in fleas? 2) Do they have rabies? 3) Am I
going to have to teach it to use the litter box? 4) Will it hate me?
Who knows? *I* sure don't.
And I can't seem to get out of this. She -- I intimated that I
didn't want one anymore, and she said to me, "Now see here, young lady.
You entered into a commitment with me, and I plan to hold you to it."
It's pretty scary, particularly because in a moment of extreme stupidity I
gave her my cell phone number. WHAT DO I DO OH GOD SHE IS INSANE.
Anyway. I'm hoping I get the adorable dainty one who followed me all the
home last night with it's little white nose, and paws, and vest. It
stepped in a puddle and was like, "What the Christ is this? It's *wet* and
it's *dirty* and I'm expected to *deal* with it?"
So, essentially, I feel he's the cat for me. I want to name it something
Austen-esque. Like...Willoughby, though he's a bit of a dick, and the only
other thing I can think of is Knightley but that's just too weird for a