I can't express to you how much I want - no, need - Breyer's Mint Chocolate Chip Light Ice Cream
right now. I kind of want to get in my car and drive to the store and buy it.
Things stopping me from this course of action:
1. It's that time of night cool cats like myself call the wee hours of the morning.
2. My car is covered in snow.
3. I haven't showered since yesterday, and it shows.
4. It would involve sneaking out and sneaking back in the house, which opens up the possibility of getting caught, and having to explain to parental units (who routinely say things like, "Ice cream? No thanks. Not in the mood.") why, exactly, it was so imperative that I get to the store.
5. Also, I would have to get out of my desk chair.
Tomorrow is another day.
.ii. cat wranglin' woman
I was able to snag the random black cat not once, but twice, after I wrote Thursday's entry. And this done without a scratch or bite! There were other casualties, however: a flowerpot, my dignity.
On the loss of my dignity: At first, I couldn't figure out a way to grab the guy while he was hiding under the stairs, so I constructed an elaborate plan that involved me scaring him out of the spot and up the stairs toward the first floor of the house - where he would meet a closed door and I would be able to trap and grab him. The plan worked perfectly, except for the part where after he met the closed door, the cat turned around, got all puffed up, hissed, and I responded by throwing my hands up and screaming in terror. Screaming! Like a little girl! Which made my mother, standing behind me, scream too, and then the cat ran away and hid, pretty successfully, in one of the basement windows (which was, like, ten feet off the ground - how he got up there, a mystery).
On the loss of the flowerpot: I reached up for him on the window ledge, which led to him leaping onto a shelf and knocking a flowerpot over, and then jumping to the ground. He ran back to his original hiding place, under the stairs.
The ultimate tool of success was a broom, which I used to push him towards me until I could reach in and grab the scruff of his neck. After I snagged him, and carried him upstairs, I had a nice screaming fight with my parents.
Their opinion: He looked like our neighbor's cat, so we should let him go outside and let him find his way. He's scared! He doesn't want to be here! Just look at him!
My opinion: We should lock him in the bathroom and call our neighbor, and have him come over and get the cat. It's cold!
Our arguments were much less eloquent and far more CAPSLOCKY, and finally ended in me caving, yelling, "FINE!" and, for some reason I still don't understand, putting the cat down a few feet from the back door instead of outside, which, naturally, led to the cat taking off in the wrong direction and hiding under a recliner. We had another fun conversation that went like this:
Parental Units: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?
Self: I DON'T KNOW!
PU: REALLY, WHY THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT?
Self: I DON'T KNOW!
And so we called our neighbors.
Dad: Hi, Bob? It's Jim MyLastName. Just calling because we think we might have your cat here.
Neighbor: Our cat's dead.
So it wasn't that cat. The non-dead black cat did have a collar, though, and has been spotted often in our yard, and so, finally, I gave in to my parents and snagged him and put him in the yard - at which point he immediately made a beeline down the street, which gives me hope that he does have a house to go to. At the very least, he was very healthy when I found him - nice coat, well-fed. Then again, we don't know how long we've been subsidizing him.
More news if the story develops!
.iii. sacramental stories
I've started screening my calls because, I don't know. I think I'm a very important person or something. Really it's because my life is extremely boring and I don't feel like talking to people, because I never feel like I have anything new to say.
So that's why even though I was home all morning, there was a message on the machine when I was leaving for the day on Friday. I decided to listen to it even though I was just barely on time and wouldn't be able to return a phone call anyway.
Answering Machine: Hello, this is Debbie from Shady Pines. This is NOT an emergency. I was just calling to let you know that Father G. stopped by this morning and administered the last rites to your grandfather.
I picked up the phone and dialed my mother and played the message for her.
Self: I have to go! I'm late!
And so I left. This may seem like a very callous reaction - all I can say is that it's a family trait. We don't respond well in crises (Exhibit A: The time Lifeline called to tell us that they'd gotten an emergency message from my grandfather's Lifeline necklace, and that the fire department was on its way - could we meet them there? Sure! we said, and then my mother stopped at the gas station for a Pepsi en route).
In the car, I illegally called my father on my cell because this was, after all, his father we were talking about.
Self: So, uh, Dad, Shady Pines called, and they said it wasn't an emergency, but that Father G. stopped by and administered the last rites?
Dad: Yeah, I got that message too.
Self: Is Grandpa okay?
Dad: He's fine. Father G. just happened to be there.
Self: And so he administered the last rites?
Dad: I guess.
Self: Because he was in the neighborhood.
Self: So I could stop by St. Patrick's right now and get the last rites if I wanted to.
I guess nowadays that's how the sacrament works - it's called Anointing the Sick, and can be done at any time of mental or physical illness, not just on your deathbed. But if that's what you're going for, don't call the family and use the old school sacramental designation! Last rites makes you think, you know, it's the Last Rites, time for deathbed confessions, the whole shebang!
So that was stressful.
.v. film flam
On Saturday I went to see Something New, which was exactly what I hoped it would be. I recommend!