i gotta buy me a dressy dress the one that i have is such a mess

 

 

 


It's getting a little late to wish anyone Happy Labor Day, I suppose. The day's almost over. And the new year begins very soon.

I was thinking a minute ago that it's a shame we didn't do any invoking of heroes of Labor at our little picnic in the park today. Ah, well. We carry them with us just by having the day off. And I really do feel that I've had a few days off.

shmizla's departing for home at 4 a.m. Foster kitties are in their room for the night; this is likely the week they get spayed and put up for adoption. Me, I'm pretty zonked. Along with the rain that scuttled our croquet & bocce seems to have come a lingering somnolent dampness. You can taste the moisture in the cool night air. It gets a rise from your tongue if you mouthbreathe like the slack-jawed zonkee that is I.

Some of the phrases you'll find if you Google "a mouthbreathing" (  back here. )

Unflattering, on the whole, one can hardly help noticing.

I loved The Pajama Game as a kid. Watched it whenever it came on the TV. The company picnic seemed so cool. And the union stuff. The small talk song, probably a throw-away in the (truly rich) musical, made it onto an eclectic mix cassette I used to play a lot when I was in college. I may well've have listened to that song 100 times. Feeling the sexy in the midst of the silly. Knowing what small talk is the opposite of.

That's Bonnie Raitt's dad, btw. Up there, with Doris.

i gotta buy me a dressy dress the one that i have is such a mess

 

 

 


It's getting a little late to wish anyone Happy Labor Day, I suppose. The day's almost over. And the new year begins very soon.

I was thinking a minute ago that it's a shame we didn't do any invoking of heroes of Labor at our little picnic in the park today. Ah, well. We carry them with us just by having the day off. And I really do feel that I've had a few days off.

shmizla's departing for home at 4 a.m. Foster kitties are in their room for the night; this is likely the week they get spayed and put up for adoption. Me, I'm pretty zonked. Along with the rain that scuttled our croquet & bocce seems to have come a lingering somnolent dampness. You can taste the moisture in the cool night air. It gets a rise from your tongue if you mouthbreathe like the slack-jawed zonkee that is I.

Some of the phrases you'll find if you Google "a mouthbreathing" (  back here. )

Unflattering, on the whole, one can hardly help noticing.

I loved The Pajama Game as a kid. Watched it whenever it came on the TV. The company picnic seemed so cool. And the union stuff. The small talk song, probably a throw-away in the (truly rich) musical, made it onto an eclectic mix cassette I used to play a lot when I was in college. I may well've have listened to that song 100 times. Feeling the sexy in the midst of the silly. Knowing what small talk is the opposite of.

That's Bonnie Raitt's dad, btw. Up there, with Doris.

Want a kitten or (even better) two?

Two who get along with each other so well they'll love you but not need you for entertainment, cuz they're such buds, playing together all super-cute? Two who get along just fine with (my) adult (male) cats? Two who just keep getting more lovey and cuddley, in the mere two weeks I've had them in my foster care & they've been exposed to humans up close?



They're going in for spaying very soon, and since there's room at the shelter they'll be staying there after their surgery until someone adopts them.

Two ideas that catch my chest with a tangible pang: the idea of them living there for days, in one of those cages, or maybe many days, and the idea of them being no longer able to enjoy each other's company. I'm sure they'll be fine, adjusting, as animals do, and as they have done, either way. Just it catches in my chest, thinking about it.

I would guess (and have to think) they have a pretty good chance of adoption, being kitties, and being adorable.

Goodness' sakes, though. Goodness' sakes. It's a workout in the chest cavity. The tear ducts are probably gonna get some play too.

It's looking at them and knowing the cage is next, I think. Mostly. Right now. Right now it's the thinking about that, when I think about the next step for them from me. The dropping them off.

I've been calling the delightful little ones Dusty and Punky (or Punkin). And Punky sometimes has been Trotsky, cuzza how she trots when she gallops along the floor, or Leona, at bigfinedaddy's suggestion---it's the feminine of Trotsky, y'see.

Did I mention they were the runts of the litter? They were the runts of the litter. Their sibs were big enough to go up for adoption when they came to the shelter.

If you're looking for love, there's some love right there.


They're going to be alright, almost no matter what, or pretty much alright, or alright enough for it to be alright. Right?


(Goodness' sakes.)
 

Want a kitten or (even better) two?

Two who get along with each other so well they'll love you but not need you for entertainment, cuz they're such buds, playing together all super-cute? Two who get along just fine with (my) adult (male) cats? Two who just keep getting more lovey and cuddley, in the mere two weeks I've had them in my foster care & they've been exposed to humans up close?



They're going in for spaying very soon, and since there's room at the shelter they'll be staying there after their surgery until someone adopts them.

Two ideas that catch my chest with a tangible pang: the idea of them living there for days, in one of those cages, or maybe many days, and the idea of them being no longer able to enjoy each other's company. I'm sure they'll be fine, adjusting, as animals do, and as they have done, either way. Just it catches in my chest, thinking about it.

I would guess (and have to think) they have a pretty good chance of adoption, being kitties, and being adorable.

Goodness' sakes, though. Goodness' sakes. It's a workout in the chest cavity. The tear ducts are probably gonna get some play too.

It's looking at them and knowing the cage is next, I think. Mostly. Right now. Right now it's the thinking about that, when I think about the next step for them from me. The dropping them off.

I've been calling the delightful little ones Dusty and Punky (or Punkin). And Punky sometimes has been Trotsky, cuzza how she trots when she gallops along the floor, or Leona, at bigfinedaddy's suggestion---it's the feminine of Trotsky, y'see.

Did I mention they were the runts of the litter? They were the runts of the litter. Their sibs were big enough to go up for adoption when they came to the shelter.

If you're looking for love, there's some love right there.


They're going to be alright, almost no matter what, or pretty much alright, or alright enough for it to be alright. Right?


(Goodness' sakes.)