Good Thursday to you. I'm on a tight schedule so let's get started.
With the addition of the new (TEMPORARY) kitty, I thought it best to get Fiona to the vet for her shots and to be spayed. Before I was confident that Kitty Noir would be temporary, I had a little freak out that he and Fiona could produce even more cats. Yes, I realize I've been lagging here. Confession number one. I wasn't a responsible pet owner. Please don't tell Betty White.
Now, let me tell you, if you want to see a parade of crazy cat people and other assorted weirdos, line up at the Catsnip Project van at 7:30 a.m.
The phrase holy cats takes on an even more significant meaning. I got pummeled verbally and in writing because the cat carrier was missing a clip. One clip. I felt contrite, but was not contrite enough apparently. The intake woman wrote it on my information sheet and it was written again in bold green letters on the envelope holding Fiona's records. Finally, before she would hand the sedated cat over to me, I got a stern warning about being more responsible. How would I feel if my cat got loose and ran into the field next door to become coyote food or got into the street and hit by a moving vehicle?
It was like I was ten all over again.
These people take cat stuff seriously. And you thought me - with my five cats - was crazy....
Confession number two. Kitty Noir has found a home and I'm not feeling sad about it. Lyra has decided to adopt him. We're sorting out the details and MathMan and I will drive KN/Inky/Anakin/Darth to Illinois to his new home. I can't wait to meet Lyra who has become an important force in getting me to sit down and write/edit every day (sometimes against my will) and I hope MathMan and I will have a chance to visit Chicago, too. I am so homesick for that place I can barely stand it.
Thank you, Lyra, for wanting this kitten. He's going to love being part of your family.
Confession number three. I don't get Google+. It's not like I've put a lot of effort into understanding it, but right now it feels like another train whooshing by while I fuck around with my lipstick on the platform.
Confession number four. I fear I'm developing a slight drinking problem. Worse - I intend to do something about it when I'm certain which may be never because I like the slightly loopy, happy, devil may care sense it lends to the end of each day.
Not that I'm placing blame but someone in my list of Facebook friends invited me to a girls' night party at her house last week and I got turned on to the tasty and tart Airmail Punch. Then another guest showed up with a makeshift Pimms. You can't find the real thing in C-Vegas. Okay, have you tried this stuff? And if so, how did you go this long without telling me about it. I thought we were friends.
Mind you, we weren't exactly drinking Pimms, but rather a recipe including non-carbonated lemonade, raspberry vodka and chopped, fresh strawberries and cucumbers with sprigs of mint. It is, in a single, shouted word - fantastic! And bonus! I counted those strawberries and cukes as fruit and veggie number four and five on my food tracking thing. Of course, I had the good sense to leave off the vodka and the champagne and rum in the Airmail Punch. I know that Sparkpeople Tracker with its mean streak. If I typed in that I drank three punches and two Pimms, it would come back to me with a message reading "Time for a visit to the Betty Ford Clinic, Miss Piggy. And stop trying to pass off alcohol-soaked vegetables and berries as something virtuous. You may as well have had some cake, you liar."
Which I did. Oink oink.
Your turn. Confess your sins, secrets and embarrassing habits. Instead of dishing out the absolution, I'll be serving the Absolut.