1. Did you leave me $150 by the television?
2. Did you leave me pizza in the fridge for dinner?
3. Did you leave me M&Ms for dessert?
4. What about milk? Did you leave me the last of the milk?
If you did not answer yes to all of those questions, you are not as great as the Butcher.
At least, not today.
I occasionally have kitchen mishaps. And I know Sarcastro appreciates funny things, so when I do something–like set myself on fire–I like to give him a call and share the humor with him.
Today, I was attempting to get a plate out of the cabinet and some stuff fell out, thus causing the stuff on the counter to go everywhere, thus causing a knife to stab me in the foot and beer to spill all over the wound.
The beer seemed to me to be an fortuitous disinfectant and it wasn’t a serious stabbing. Which, in retrospect, I should have immediately made clear when Sarcastro picked up the phone. But I knew I wasn’t even bleeding any more, so I immediately jumped into the Rube Goldbergian scenario that resulted in said stabbing.
Meanwhile, he’s all–do you have some hydrogen peroxide? Is your foot elevated? Is the blood flowing steady or in spurts? When was the last time you had a tetanus shot? Do you know where your insurance card is?
I mean, folks, he went from "Hello" to field surgeon like that.
It was pretty amazing to witness. And then I felt kind of bad, because I was calling to chat about the stupid thing that happened to me and he was plotting the quickest way to my house and then to the hospital. But, in the end, it was really funny, so I’m sharing it with you.
New posts from Tiny Cat Pants are not showing up on Bloglines.
Neither are new posts from Sarcastro, so, you know, it’s a mixed blessing.
Ha, no, I kid.
My question for the rest of you is whether non-Bloglines people are having similar problems. I’m trying to figure out if it’s a Squarespace problem or a Bloglines problem, so, if those of you who use some other kind of feed could just let me know if you’re still able to read TCP, that would help.
Ha, of course, if you aren’t getting new entries, you won’t get this entry.
This will be the most futile cry for help, ever.
Okay, not most ever, but certainly the most full of hyperbole you’ve read today.
We have two cats and our neighborhood is just filled to the brim with cats. They’re every place, slinking along in the underbrush, eyeing you suspiciously from the neighbor’s stoop, sitting with their paws tucked up under them right under the front of your car.
Really, everywhere you look, you cannot help but see a cat or two.
And it made me think that cats really are like punctuation marks. You’re just surveying your landscape and there’s a cat stretched out in the sunlight like an ellipses or the cat is curved over something like a comma so you, too, briefly pause to watch the cat watching the bug or the leaf or whatever. Our tiny cat looks, I think, just like an exclamation point or a semi colon. The orange cat? With his self-important swagger? Full stop.
Oh, Pinkko. It could never work between us. I hate the cops and you associate with more than your fair share of unlicensed travelling pharmaceutical salespeople, who tend to be cop magnets. You’re moving to Berkeley. I live in a little box at the end of a dead end far from there. I don’t really like people. You have a hard time talking to girls.
And yet, I fully intended to finish up some work after Scrubs and before bed, and spent the hour with you instead.
Tiny Cat Pants 