The Butcher still has his hair, so I guess I owe y’all a bottle of shampoo, which we still don’t have, but I promise to pick up at Target. I will just need a count of how many people I owe shampoo to. So, everyone, raise your hand so I can get a count.
Anyway, I am picking the Butcher up some clippers, so I kind of win the bet, too, because he would have been bald yesterday if he could have. So, I guess that means, when you go to the store, if you intend to buy me shampoo, but don’t, we’ll be even.
I told the Butcher he’ll have to wait until I was sure I wasn’t going to have a repeat of last month before I left the house.
He cracks me up. He’s all, “Damn.” and then he sits thoughtfully for a second and says, “If that happens, you should just lay down and shut your eyes, and wait for the paramedics. Who’s going to question a woman laying in Target in a puddle of blood?”
Who indeed?
Lord knows that’s just the kind of thing I want to explain to the first-responders.
“No, no. Everything’s fine. I’m just too mortified to move from this place.”
Ha, I know it’s exactly these kinds of posts that keep you coming back to Tiny Cat Pants.
Tiny Cat Pants 