I’m sitting out here enjoying what must be the first utterly pleasant weather we’ve had in ages. The dog is eating grass. The orange cat is scrutinizing the inscrutable and the tiny cat is inside because she went out yesterday for ten minutes and that seemed to fill her quota of fresh air for the next little bit.
I talked to the Man from GM yesterday afternoon and a couple we’ve known forever has been married sixty years. I was thinking that, at our age, the chances of us ever finding someone and being married for sixty years are slim and none.
The Man from GM said, “Thirty good years are better than sixty bad ones.”
True enough. If the Man from GM can find himself a woman who will put up with his shit, he will stick with her like glue.
Do y’all remember that weird thing from when we were kids that was like a tube of balloon rubber filled with slime and, I guess, the whole point was that it felt weird and kind of turned in on itself like some tiny hypothetical universe shape?
Well, that is what the orange cat looks like as he stretches out along the slats of the porch, like he has no bones at all, but is just a big bag of cat.