Pay for the chance to be included in this Kickstarter. Um. Right, no comment.
Men hear the same damn shit, but with an added “The person you said did this to you couldn’t possibly do this to you.”
No comment. Nothing that could be construed as violating our social media policy.
There’s a guy who drives by TSU every day about the same time I drive by TSU who has this beautiful Jaguar, one of the older X series. It’s white, so I always, at first, think it’s a cop car, but then it comes up behind me with its round headlights that give shape to the whole front of the car and the little jaguar hood ornament and I am always hit with this wave of covetousness. I don’t even know if I could afford the insurance on a car like that, let alone to ever own one. But my god, maybe I could just wash it.
It does make me wonder, when I see the newer models, why they’re so butt ugly and ordinary looking.
If I ever drive a Jaguar, I want the whole world to know it. I want it to be all round edges and luxury and Alfred driving me back to Wayne Manor.
I kind of like the new XKs, but there’s no hood ornament. Do they not know how important that is for my envying?
This morning, on our walk, Mrs. Wigglebottom insisted on walking on my right side. What the fuck. It’s been 14 years. I guess we can switch it up. I couldn’t tell any difference, but she walked more quickly, which makes me wonder if she sees better out of her right eye than her left and would prefer it to be on the outside, so to speak.
Anyway, one of the crows was doing its thing in the trees above us. Caw caw caw. Wait a few seconds. Caw caw caw. Now, because I spend a lot of time listening to crows for someone who is not a crow, I know that the response to this is not caw caw caw in return. But I can’t remember what it is, because I am not a crow.
Also, because I had unsettling dreams about my grandma’s bedroom all night. I dreamed, in one, that I’d taken a Russian lover, who was my co-worker in some office job we had in my grandma’s living room. He wooed me by showing me that my computer tower was also a printer. And then I asked him, “Do you want to fuck?” and we went into my grandma’s bedroom and, well, obviously. Russian guys in my dreams always look like the phone oligarch with the tiny giraffe. But the important part is that, in my dream, even though I said I didn’t want a relationship with him, I still called him up and told him everything I was thinking, even though he claimed to not know enough English to understand me. And I would spend this time on the phone with him trying to make sure that the doors to my grandma’s bedroom were locked, even though all her old bras were draped over the handles, making it impossible to even tell if the doors were tightly shut.
The unsettling part of the dream, of all of the dreams I have about my grandma’s house, is that all my grandma’s stuff is still in it. In the dream, I’m never quite sure she’s really dead. At any moment, it seems like she could arrive home and want to know why I’m fucking Russian oligarchs in her bed.
I really have her bed. In real life. The bed I used to sleep next to her in when we’d visit her. That’s my bed now. Obviously, a different mattress, but that frame is the frame that held her and I.
Which leads me to the other unsettling thing for me about the dream. I’m pretty sure the Russian oligarch is mine. And the computer. But I sometimes wonder if I’m dreaming about her house so much because she did. I don’t know if it’s just that some of her dreams linger on, attached to the bed, and get in my head for the dreaming or if she, in need of a live brain to dream about her old house, is dreaming through me. It’s unsettling. And it makes me miss her. And it’s a little embarrassing. Hope you like naked Russian oligarchs fucking your granddaughters, grandma.
When she first started having her strokes, she told us all how we had to watch out for Catholic boys because they knew how much Protestant girls liked to have sex and the Pope had told them how they could lead a girl right up to the point where she would have to have sex or die and then he’d jump out of the car and refuse to have sex with you unless you converted to Catholicism. So, watch out for those Catholic boys.
I love this story, even though it’s full of anti-Catholic nonsense, because it is anti-Catholic nonsense almost completely opposite from the anti-Catholic stereotypes I heard as a young woman.
But anyway, she never told me about Russian Orthodox boys. So, who knows?
I still slept poorly.
So, I looked around and there was no one outside at the AT&T building and so I called back caw caw caw. And there was dead silence from the crow. Nothing. And then a tentative caw caw caw. So, I caw caw caw-ed back and again, silence.
But I’m going to try again. Because I’m taking the silence to mean that the crow knew I was talking to it. Maybe not what the hell I was saying, but that I was trying to say something to it.
Tiny Cat Pants 