Just so no one thinks that the last post (Little One's untimely demise and the meltdown it led me into) is a straight-line emotional segue into the next post (in which I become so fucking angry at someone at my job that it will cause me fantasies of torture and revenge for the whole long weekend):
I'm better today. Actually, I was better last night. I came home, cried on my cats for a few minutes and hugged Whitey til he gave me the querulous little teenaged-cat meow that says "MOOOOOOOMMMMM, cut it OUUUUUUUUT!!". Then I changed my contacts (which I'd made into the world's largest deposits of lachrymal proteins, thanks to all that crying) and as I was trying not to jab myself in the eye with the second one, I caught a reflection in the mirror of a flash outside, from the window behind me. Nosy girl that I am, I went out to the porch and half the neighborhood was on the walk, watching an ambulance and two cop cars as the paramedics loaded a stretcher.
"Len, what happened?" I asked my neighbor.
"Didn't you hear everyone out here hollerin'?" he asked. "Man got hit by a car--run over his leg, then backed up and run it over AGAIN. Broke it real bad..."
Apparently the man, who's a friend of the cop across the street, was changing a tire on the street side, right under a streetlight, and this man came down the street and ran his leg over, realized he hit something, and then instead of going FORWARD to park so he could see what it was, dude backed up and ran him over AGAIN. Dumbass....
Since the guy was changing the tire for a cop's daughter, you know damn good and well the police got there with a quickness. The victim went to the hospital, and the driver went to the station. It was just a bad day to be in the road in the 'hood, it seems...for man OR kittycat.
I went in the house, watched _America's Next Top Model_---the Snout is out--and ate dinner, watched _Oliver Twist_, and waited for LJ to bring home dinner. (That is a sweet and wonderful man. He's totally NOT Mr. Cuddly Supportive Boyfriend, but he does what he can in his own way and I appreciate that.)
He came home with an Italian beef sandwich and a friend of his who stayed on the sofa overnight; this house is sort of a de facto homeless shelter for the thugs of Maywood, which is no problem in my opinion. (Though if what I saw on the TV this morning when I got up is any indication, someone owes me for a block of the Spice Channel on next month's cable bill.) We stayed up talking for an hour or so, and finally they broke out the NBA Live 2004 game and I went up to bed.
I still think what happened to Little One was barbaric. And as I was outside talking to Len, a little calico came across our street, skinny on both ends and wide in the middle. "That cat is ALWAYS pregnant," Len said. She walked up, when I called "kitty kitty", and she let me pet her head. I sat on the steps, and she walked up and rubbed on the railing, purring. Finally I picked her up and put her in my lap, and though she was a little nervous, she finally relaxed. I would have taken her in, but this isn't a six-cat house--and certainly not an eight- or ten-cat house. But I have a feeling I may get over that particular bit of logic, and find myself with a mama-cat not too long from now.
Winter's coming, after all.
So yeah--I'm better. (Except that I need to strangle a certain blonde assistant director. But that's the next post.)
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