[A day late because of my Coffee Garden “refugees…” distraction yesterday].
This morning I rose at 4:51 to a chorus of frantic meowing, which translated to “we are kittens; we demand freedom” and my older cats scrambled when the door opened because they eye this new batch with fresh suspicion, and they had just trained the old batch not to come near them, godammit, and now these new little assholes are using their litter box and scampering about the house like happy little fucking morons. It’s bullshit, they think, and I secretly wonder what would happen if cats had access to weapons and Internet forums. #wmd
The kittens climb over the laundry that is indelicately piled in the hallway and contains all the clothes that need washing as well as all the clothes that could even be worn which basically means I have no clean clothes.
True: I’m not a fancy person. Fancy requires commitment and it’s my belief that if you go to work with an ironed shirt even one time–bam!–the pressure to perform becomes totally out of control; usually when I leave the house I may or may not be covered in cat hair or cat crap or dog crap (or both), and there have been moments during my work day when I’ve said “oh my god! What’s that smell?!” and wasn’t even that surprised to find out that it was me.
Because I’m busy. I have two jobs, both of which require me to spend a large portion of the day peeling off sections of lint rollers and frantically washing my hands. Yesterday, I had six animals and two kindergarteners climb onto my lap; I scooped five litter boxes and walked three dogs; helped one girl with lice pull back her hair, reminded one boy to stop picking his nose, one not to hysterically laugh when he passed gas, and washed a thirds accidentally-flicked applesauce off my bottom lip with what i’m sure was–to him–surrealistic zeal. And today, by 8:10 a.m., I had Baby Man rub against me with a suspiciously wet tail and gave two kittens a bath because they fell into the toilet.
The remnants of my life are always visible upon me and while I’m not proud to look down and say “holy shit; have I looked this bad all day?” I have accepted that your heart tells you who you are and if you don’t listen, you end up clogged and pissed off,
And not everyone is here to be like that lady last night with the black and cream patent Kate Spade, coiffed hair, tailored coat, and slight air of frigidity who was beautiful and orderly and a veritable wonder to me.
So I’m out of pants. Yesterday I wore what amounts to a fashion “concoction”. Sweater over dress, dress over yoga pants (yes Carlo: again) with my Nepalese boots cleverly(?) disguising the fact that I ran out of socks a full week ago; and, today, my pants are my “Velcro” pants, size 6 miracles that energetically manifest lint and fuzz and dirt and copious quantities of cat hair up and down their length even when no animals are even present which is not a joke and not at all funny. It’s like being a walking advertisement for witchcraft.
Life is short. Be real. Everyone has a place in this world.