Summer has moved across country multiple times, even flown to Germany (all 14 lbs of her packed in a little cat carrier, poor thing). She comes running when you call (although I think she has some arthritis setting in from when my ex- ran her over) and "sits" for cat treats. She also single-handedly decimated the mole population in Northern Michigan.
He told me this weekend that we would always be incompatible, so we should stop prolonging this, move on with our lives and look for happiness elsewhere. Freshly rejected and strangely relieved, I discovered it’s one thing to be over someone – entirely different when they are over you. After the discussion, he bought me a microwave* then we went to dinner and a movie, The Break-up. Yeah, isn't it ironic?
*some sort of odd Bostonian traditional parting gift that says "thanks for playing"?
Being alone doesn't bother me - I've had my whole life to practice - but somehow I imagined him as my security blanket, waiting in the wings for us to grow old and travel together after he improved his personality a little. Apparently, he had a different Plan B.
The receptionist was kind enough to call and leave a message where I work after their surgeries:“The surgeries went well, your cats are fine, and you can pick them up Friday afternoon because of the declawing.”
Huh? De-claw-ing? DECLAWING?! That's like going in for a hangnail and coming out with no legs! I went through three tiers of crazy and six shades of purple, took a labored breath, then called back. I was fully prepared to suggest crazy glue, Lee press-on nails and a lifetime of free pet healthcare for this very MAJOR faux pas.
The vet came on the line and apologized profusely for the misunderstanding - he'd performed several declawings, but NOT on my felines, who will still be able to climb the kitty condo and tear up my carpet. It would still be in his best interest to give them extra kitty drugs tonight, though.
November 16, 2005 flashback moment
When all four kittens DID fit in the same carrier. With room to spare.
My boy's got wheels!
The car: a 1987 Chevrolet Camaro. It has 86,000 miles, new tires, 6 cylinders and no air-conditioning, which is supposedly a plus because the car will ride lighter and faster. I imagine WE will be riding lighter, at the very least, since it's been in the high 90's all month.
The cost: $2,400. Patrick paid half from his hard-earned dish-washing stashed cash, his father paid the other. I'm actually prooud of the two for setting aside their pigheadedness long enough to agree on a car, and the police weren't called once the entire weekend.
Bonus Tom Sawyer moment: since we weren't able to pick up the car until 6 p.m., Ed demonstrated proper waxing technique ON MY CAR.
Last night, the following question was asked: after sex, who cleans the man up?
My friend/coworker Jessica, southern belle extraordinaire: I ALWAYS bring him a washcloth and clean him up afterwards.
Me: Are you sleeping with men in wheelchairs? Why can't they jump in the shower or wipe themselves off?
J.: It's a sign of respect. They would do the same for me, so I like to take care of my man like that.
Me: Do you wipe his ass for him, too? I personally like men that are self-sufficient.
J.: that's the reason you'll never be married down here, with an attitude like that.
Me: Well, I don't want to be married if it means a man can't take care of his own hygiene.
(this continued for a heated 10 minutes, untill she asked me to leave, which I did with a huff, a "FINE!" and a squealing of tires).