2002-02-11 - 3:00 p.m.
My cat has it so easy. For instance,
she has no idea that today is Monday, the day that sucks like
an Electrolux, the day when every other productive human being
on the planet trots off to work while I sit around with my sorry-ass
unemployed self, the day that offers 4 more days in a row just.like.today.
A day that inevitably includes tackling that big horking pile
of laundry I've studiously ignored all weekend. A day that is
still shaking off the vestiges of Sunday evening, the dreariest
time period imaginable despite the fact that it is possible to
watch 3 episodes of The Simpsons. Monday: the day that doesn't
even offer a light at the end of the tunnel in the form of a
slutty TV show like Survivor.
For the cat, there is no Monday
(sadly, no Friday at 5 PM either) - every day is a Memento melange
of sleeping on the couch, power-shedding, and acting huffy when
petted. She does have a morning schedule, though. Something like:
5 AM: Clean butt vigorously with tongue. Drink out of owners'
water glasses and laugh to self when they drink out of them later.
6:30 AM: Alarm! Alarm! FOOD!
Yowl loudly at Male Owner, leap off bed.
6:31 AM: Male Owner groggily
resets alarm and crawls back under the covers. Leap back on bed,
make impatient "hruff!" sounds to show displeasure.
Become possessed with the need to dig claws in bedding.
7:00 AM: Alarm! Again! Make
noises like tail has been cut off, because have not had food
for HOURS now.
7:01 AM: Inhale food.
7:05 AM: Wait expectantly outside
bathroom door for Male Owner to emerge from shower. Attempt to
trip Male Owner while he gets paper.
7:15 AM: Press cold, damp nose
in middle of Male Owner's back while he eats breakfast.
7:30 AM: Return to bed. Coma.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
ARTIFACT: Here is my library receipt from yesterday.
2 collections of short stories, 3 novels, one big comic book,
and a book on entertaining. Oh, and I had to pay thirty-freaking-three
bucks in late fines. I suck, royally.
About the book on entertaining
- I have never "entertained", unless you count "Hey,
do you want a beer or something?" as being a hostess. I
just love reading about how I would do it if 1) I were so goshdarn
creative I'd enjoy throwing little theme parties that required
me to spend hours ahead of time crafting the décor with
a hot glue gun not to mention cooking the ferchristsakes meal,
and 2) I knew what the heck foie gras is.
One of the short story collections,
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, is by Raymond
Carver. What an incredible writer. He's so sparse and effective.
It's like each word has been trimmed of any fat - then laid on
the page, just so.
The other is by Dorothy Parker,
whom I dearly wish I could go back in time and have a drink with.
"How's tricks, Dot?" I'd ask, and she would recap her
day and the people she saw in this wicked, biting manner that
would be totally hilarious and I would crap myself laughing.
I know this entry is kinda on
the lame side (DOY). But it's Moooonnday. Here, this is infinitely more entertaining.
back ::: forward
Did you want to read about:
2002-02-08 - a
2002-02-07 - dreams,
2002-02-06 - the
kitchen sink, Kinko's
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004