Wouldn't it be luxurious to not know what day of the week it was? To not have preset places to be...like WORK! Rise and shine whenever; a cup of hot coffee laced with cream, and a good book opened to page 231 as you munch on that warm croissant dripping a bit of butter down your chin? One can at least dream, can't they? I'm going to hold onto that thought just a moment longer.
In the realm of garden tales; mine seems to always be on page one. Each winter the bare bones of this yard cry out for a bit more adornment and each spring I add and add and add. My brain keeps hoping this will be the year I feel that inner glow of magazine picture perfect perfection. As a staff of one I'm beginning to have my doubts, but I haven't given up quite yet. The wrought iron table with umbrella unfurled sits abandoned as the white ash tree drops her extra seeds like a soft green snowfall. I know I'll be seated there next weekend, or the weekend after or the weekend after the weekend after, if I ever pull up that last darn weed.
Life has a way of layering itself upon me until I find myself at the bottom of the heap. Work has been two jobs and the madness can only be escaped by jumping into my little red Camry at lunch break and leaving dust in my wake. If I'm not physically out-to-lunch, people won't let me be. They think they're more important than me because the entity that pays my check agrees they're more important than me. It's so easy to say I'll just quit, but so hard living without perks.
I seem to be subconsciously plotting against myself. A never-ending path of internet searches to create the perfection between yard, house, pets and me I desperately crave; finds me cleaning the six (yes...I said six) cat litter pans in the wee hours of morning two hours after I needed to already be in bed. I wake up like rotten peaches and soured cream, a stale mind in search of caffeine. I'm not a lover of feline toilet detail. I can think of eight thousand two hundred and fifty-one other things I'd rather be doing that scooping up pee and poo. Can't you?
A knock at the door last night sent Dustin into his usual barking frenzy. It was one of the young neighbors from across the street. His friend told him I like cats. Yah...right...I like MY cats. He wants to get rid of his Maine Coon. Maine Coon??? A Maine Coon is the perfect cat...so totally laid back they're like a gift from the gods if you happen to be owned by one. His new apartment will be too small for a cat pan. Oh...come on...I've lived in tiny apartments when I was young and the cat pan went in the closet, bathroom, or by the front door...they come in all sizes...make it work!
He was one excuse after another, so obviously he didn't wish to deal with life a little more complicated. Told him I added three cats to my already two and found four others homes, so it was a total no go. I was pooped out and poor this year. And besides...I have six cat pans, remember? What's wrong with that kid? Only one cat pan would be heaven on earth. I squashed his plans in one minute flat, but I now know he's going to dump his poor cat and I'm so tired of all that negativity people unload into my head.
It was after that unfortunate time when dad thought his only answer to multi-cat propagating purgatory was to box them all up and blast their little lives to smithereens, messing up my little life forevermore. We had the one cat left - Amy...Mom's cat, and we took her with us to Los Angeles...in a bird cage. I kid you not. The bird-less bird cage became our cat carrier. Now Amy wasn't too keen on the idea of being stuffed into that tiny space sitting on my lap in the back seat of that Ford. I wasn't too keen on holding that cage stuffed full of cat for most of the day either, but that's the way it was. Feel free to create the ending ;)
Life was a little blue today.
That's horrible about the cats.
ReplyDeleteIf only we didn't have to have money for things.