The Butcher and I just taught the Redheaded Kid how to boil water and make hot dogs. He’s really tickled with himself. It’s cute.
But now we’re fighting with him about being prejudiced against tall scrawny white guys, because he refused to watch any movie with Jessie Eisenberg and/or Michael Sera in it.
I’m not sure how a dude gets to be the Redheaded Kid’s age without knowing how to boil water, but he assures us he’s a good omelet cooker and can make a fine grilled cheese sandwich.
I was just admiring this shirt in the mirror and it made me wish I could just wear a uniform. Like men can get away with buying five suits and wearing those same five suits every damn day. Sure, you might flip out a different tie now and then, but you know what you’re going to wear.
I should have bought this shirt in every color and just made it what I wear.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that, but there it is.
Listen, I know things work differently for the rich and famous, but this news depresses me.
Mrs. W., me, two other walkers, and a jogger. I’m glad about it. It makes this feel like, somehow, a rural neighborhood. Like we all live out in the kind of country, but we can get to know each other on sight.
Plus, I like knowing that, if I’m hit by a car or something, someone might stumble across me.
But it also makes me feel like I live in a neighborhood full of badasses. I notice that a lot of the people I would guess to be in their late 50s, early 60s and older walk with huge walking sticks. At first, I thought this was just some weird cultural thing, like everyone in Whites Creek was practicing in case they were called on to become a wizard or something. But I’ve also seen guys walking with a golf club, so it dawned on me that it’s a stray dog/coyote whooping stick.
Smart. Not that I’ve run into many strays, but people do have a tendency to dump animals out here.
So, yes, people, you should know, before you dump your animal out in the “country” thinking one of us will pick it up and care for it, that its likely life is to either get hit by a car, eaten by coyotes, or have its head bashed in by my bad-ass neighbors. If you do not want the end of your dog’s life to be it alone, frightened, and in tremendous pain, don’t be dumping it off up here.
Whew, that ended on a depressing note.
Tiny Cat Pants 