Christmas Terror

So, I’m sitting on the floor of my kitchen slash hallway, swilling lukewarm chai and listening to Christopher Moore’s The Stupidest Angel: a heartwarming tale of Christmas Terror – a holiday ritual, the Stupidest Angel CD not the sitting on the floor part. See, I have this kitten (you knew I was going there right?) who should be ready to find a home that is NOT mine, yet he is still kinda terrified, I have tried everything, and being my hovel is so small, and I am already sequestering fur folks in any rooms with doors, I was left with unnailing the ancient pocket door and locking the kitten and his pals into the kitchen slash hallway. Hopefully with the help of the more social kittens and lot of crumpled newspaper we can pull him out of his shell, I already have cats that don’t like people, I don’t need another one. Foster homes always get to keep the leftovers. Luckily, I still have the tiny kitten someone dumped, Mouse’s joi de vive is infectious and he just tackles anyone who doesn’t want to play.

I actually accomplished a few things today. I did a complete book and merchandise inventory, and boy had I put THAT off. I should have done it months ago, but I didn’t really want to know how screwed up I had made things. Funny I can keep other people’s books mercilessly, but when it comes to my own, I’m a bit more shall we say, liberal? and I finally cataloged all the donated books for the rescue group’s fundraising drive, now I just have to get them all online.

I sort of packed all the orders that should go out tomorrow, that is IF the last item actually arrives via UPS like it’s supposed to. Anyway getting them ready, made me feel all virtuous like I was actually getting something done when I wasn’t really. And the chore I felt most smug about was breaking down all those cardboard boxes on the porch, the ones I pretend not to see. they are still in the same spot, but they are all flat so the wind can catch them and slam them against the screens.

Between the typing and battling the winter wonderland, the fingers need a rest, so sitting on the floor watching kittens watch me, isn’t a bad way to contemplate your navel. In a few days I am gonna be 45, ain’t THAT embarrassing? Forty five and I still don’t have a ‘real’ job or a significant other, or health insurance, or a 401K or any of those grownup things grown ups are supposed to have .

I still have nine bookcases in my bedroom and no dresser. Both my UPS man and my Mail Carrier have seen me in my pajamas and not in the fun way. I have a roll of bubble wrap in the bathroom. The only things in my china cabinet are books. I can calculate postal rates in my head and I sleep with my cellphone on ring not vibrate. And I am afraid I am slowing becoming one of those crazy cat ladies they make action figures about.

I wonder if I will be sitting on this floor five years hence. Shall we start pool?

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