Going to the Grocery Store

I walked up and down the aisles, picking things off the shelf with the casual ease of someone who’s just gotten paid.  I was thinking about how my parents would take us to Cub Foods when we were little and each of them would have a cart and they would fill them as we walked between them and either they would bicker or we would bicker.  Cans of corn and beans and boxes of Jiffy mix for Sunday morning muffins, crackers and ground beef and cream of mushroom soup for my mom’s meatballs.

I’m distracted by the memories, and trying not to worry about my dad.

I’ve lost my dead people.  My red folder full of the photos I saved from the garbage at my grandma’s funeral and I can’t look for it in any reasonable way, because the longer it takes me to find it, the more I start to panic and the more I start to panic, the more useless my searching becomes.

I also cannot find my parents’ will, but I’m not searching for that at all.

I got home to unload my groceries and found in my bags, crackers, ground beef, and cream of mushroom soup.  Comfort food.

That won’t get eaten before we head north, I’ll bet.

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Well, That’s Too Bad

The Butcher cleaned last night (hurray!), even did the dishes (hurray, hurray!), but it means I can’t put my hands on a camera to take a picture of the tiny cat sitting there with her face in my shoe.

I don’t know why anything with a nose would want to put its face in my shoe and sit there, but I admire her dedication to her task.

Also, some of you may be wondering if the clacking of the keyboard this morning is a little loud for my tastes.  Yes, it is.  A little bit, it is.

Yours, It Was Yours!

So, yeah, we sat around all night and drank so much wine I about couldn’t stand it and talked about who had the most awesomely magnificant penis in the whole blogosphere, large, but not overwhelming; firm, but, well, firm; and your kisses, tender but still manly.

Yes, you, out of all of the men we’ve been with, you are the best lover in the whole blogosphere. 

But a little bit of a slut in a way that makes us feel not so special.

Okay, really, we talked about poop and farts, so, no need to fret, boys.