The Magic Is Fading
As the temperature rises and my hair looks more and more like a brillo pad the magic of Mayberry begins to wane. It’s not so much that I mind looking like a psychotic clown as the extreme danger of my head catching fire whenever I try to comb my hair. Aside from the heat and the static, the only good side of which is watching the cats attach themselves to the ceiling every time they’re pet, is the bugs. Last night as I was making dinner I noticed Niobe crunching away on something by the fireplace and making the most awful face. Thinking she’d found another fly or perhaps an ant I went to make sure she was ok only to discover she was covered in slobbery spider bits. Checking the fireplace I find that a second black widow spider is curled up in its web where it blends in nicely with the black metal frame. After the high pitched girlish screams stopped I reassured Sean that all men scream like that and then convinced him to kill the spider. After several wild flings he managed to mash its guts so thoroughly into the wall that nothing short of a sandblaster will remove it.
I’m a little bummed this morning. My porch kitties haven’t been coming around much lately and when they do they eat so voraciously that at this rate we?ll all be eating cat food soon. I can only assume they?ve had their kittens, probably in some filthy damp box or trash bin, and only come around to catch a quick bite. Last night Puff, the sweetest and friendliest of the porch kitties cried and begged even longer than she normally does to come inside and I noticed that she was looking big. I?d hoped that at least she would be spared but decided it would be better to be safe than sorry. So I lured her into a cat carrier with some lunch meat and put her in the garage over night. I would?ve brought her in but she’s an outside cat and I can’t risk her giving something to my cats. The animal shelter doesn’t open until eleven so Sean’s coming home for lunch to take her in. I feel badly that she’s all alone out there in the garage and probably feeling betrayed and I worry that she may have already had her kittens and needs to get back to them. But the thought of her out there in the heat and wind with a pack of half starved kittens just breaks my heart.
The furniture is supposed to come in this week, the living room set anyway. It’s about time because my poor ass can’t handle much more time on the floor. I got my bread maker to and let me tell you, it’s going to be the death of me. Not because it’s hard to use but because the bread is to good and that’s saying something when the bread in question is made from rice. It’s so nice to sit in my dining room at my own table and drink my tea, eat my toast and read one of the hundreds of magazines that pile up so high there?s a real risk of being crushed under a tower of smiling babies and half naked women. Not that we can sit on the new furniture when it gets here. I’ve discovered that while I love all the things I bought I can’t use them because I’m just not worthy of their greatness. My good cookware sits on the counter unused like an expensive work of art. The beautiful red velvet quilt that will look so splendid in my medieval themed room is packed away in the closet where no errant cat claw can snag its delicate gold threading. And don’t even get me started on the new towels. I went to release the cats from their nocturnal prison, ie the bathroom, only to find they had pulled down my new towels and used them as a scratching pad. They were kind enough to pull them over the giant pile of puke in what I must assume was their attempt to clean up their own mess. When I came out of my faint I spent the morning cleaning puke from locations I didn’t think cats had the agility, or thumbs, to put it in.
On the bright side, my favorite stalker from high school has found me. She’s on heavy medication and swears she doesn’t collect my hair anymore so I felt in the interest of public safety I should probably go ahead and talk to her. If you’re good you might even get to talk to her. Seems her therapist thinks she should vent her uncontrollable rage and unthinkable perversions by journaling and I’ve convinced her the best way to escape ones past is by broadcasting it to the general population via blog. I figure public ridicule is just the remedy for her low self esteem. Just do me a favor and don’t make fun of her lisp and don’t stare at the hunchback, she’s rather sensitive and the last guy who picked on her was subjected to the most inhumane tortures imaginable. And when the sex was over she made him get engaged. Poor Mickey was never the same.
Good luck and blessings, Prana