chuck has taken to calling toonses "t-bag." t-bag has taken to using his tiny rat face as a ballpeen hammer every morning at 6 a.m. before we go to bed, we prop 15 pounds of spare change against the door to "lock" it. unfortunately, t-bag weighs upward of 20 pounds. he has a 20 foot runway that starts in the living room. i can hear his pitter-patter pitter-pattering more quickly, then wham. headbutt. when he gets the door open, he peeks inside and screams:
it's like he has been watching "the shining."
he wants me to get up and watch him eat. this morning i followed him into the living room and he led me to his food dish [which was full]. if i don't watch him, he goes crazy. if i do, he simply nibbles away at his iams weight control content at the audience.
after this morning's show, i popped a soy sleep II and went back to bed. having a cat that has the exact same personality as me is only charming sometimes. i need to buy him a helmet.
i wake to beeps that indicate the coffee pot has been idle for an hour. this means chuck has consumed an entire pot of coffee. this means i'm going to have to grab him by the lapels and rip him from the ceiling.
i crawl toward the red room and read the internet in it's entirety and school everyone i know at word twist on facebook.
it's time to get serious with some errand running. the chalk board is a dusty mess of needed supplies. namely, toilet paper. cannot function without it. [i like to wear my jeans more than one day in a row between washings.]
i put on my favorite errand-running outfit, and leave list in hand.
i stop in at a new norweigan cafe on lake avenue -- takk for maten -- that my friend the norweigan wonder has been pimping pretty hard. it's adorable, with sandwiches made from my favorite cheeses and served on lefsa.
i snag the choicest seat in the house, a hightop in the window where i can pretend to be a live mannequin. or a puppy.
on mesaba avenue i see a strange waving movement out of the corner of my eye. it's a guy on a motorcycle with tiger ears taped to the top of his helmet, a tiger tail taped to the back.
i follow a school bus up central entrance and at a stoplight near cub foods, a dude driving a green chevy gives the kids in the back seat the finger.
target is a treat. the bathroom smells like baby aspirin, so i kick back and chill a bit in my stall until i realize there is something a little unsanitary about a bathroom that smells edible. i leave.
i am trying to find a birthday card for ma pista. i find that it is almost impossible to find a "funny" card that doesn't include a fart joke.
holy crap! someone better do something about tivo STAT! gossip girl, one tree hill, 90210 ... it's obvious that chuck won't be up to the task of cleaning it out. so i settle into the couch, taking one for the team.
eventually it becomes necessary for me to go for a run. when i get to the ymca, i realize i've forgotten my water bottle. and while the woman on the treadie next to me will surely emit enough sweat to keep me hydrated, i decide to hit the vending machine for liquid that doesn't disgust me.
i push E5 for the fruit punch flavor, but in the small print, function brainiac carambola punch promises boost my memory so i can find my car keys. AND IT IS ONLY 2 DOLLARS!
i run enough to coat my body in a layer of silt and threw glares at my treadie partner who had put the turned the fan to blow directly on her with absolutely no oscillation. i bow out of my run right after the song "true faith" by new order, guzzle brainiac and find my keys right where i thought they were: in my PURSE! of all places.
this is what i look like after a run. sort of what i'd look like if i was a seventh-grade girl and just got pantsied in front of the eighth-grade boys basketball team. this red-face business is exactly why if i am ever in a beauty pagent, my talent cannot be running. my capillary recory time is my weakness.
back home for homerun pizza, chocolate soy milk and america's next top model.