If you haven’t noticed, I been busy.
House-guests: cat, smelly man friends, Jake family, everyone, no one, everyone soon again.
Jobs: stationary store, professional old-lady-hanger-outer, fill-in Boxer’s waitress, occasional power-point consultation for globe-trotting retired ceramics professor.
Laundry: not done, no underwear left. Bills: paid, cringe-worthy. Many cool friend-times: gone by the wayside. Bed: unmade. Plants: sprouting, but moldy.
And someone needs to go steal us some toilet paper.
I am sleepy, coffee-fueled, a supportive lady friend, a bike widow, Law & Order starved, eccentrically dressed, cat-loving, a not-quite-twenty-three-year-old smushy sad girl who looks like a child when she wears her raincoat.
It rains a lot.
Images from recent times.
When we finally got hold of the new Fleet Foxes album, courtesy of The Little Guy, we listened to it without cease– all night while Jake wrote his final paper as an undergraduate Philosophy student, as soon as we woke in the morning with the sunshine and the leaves of our fledgling plants and I swear it made everything more beautiful, dripping with expectation. Eggs became more egg-like, half-beaten in the bowl before breakfast, the sugar jar and salt and pepper shakers filled, coffee brimming in our cups, everything bountiful and gleaming.
It did not hurt that Suzanne and I drove The Little Baby Cat home to this soundtrack of great potential, or that he so closely resembled the kitty on album cover artwork.
[sightings: Penn Street, Huntingdon, PA]
Just when you think you’ve got every cat’s number, you find out that you are wrong. I walk past this window at least twice daily, and I’ve only seen this little guy once. Immediately personable, Mr. Window Cat presented himself grandly to my harried camera.
NO WAY, TRIPLE CATS! (just across the street)
Through the slew of bicycles and pizza parties and minumum wage drugery and pro-wrestling know-how and figuring out to deal with the impending loss of my current kitty…I’m blog foddering all along.