We wanted to have a barbeque tomorrow to celebrate the removal of years-old layers of dead leaves, sweet gum balls, and general organic garbage that covered our backyard until a few weeks ago. Okay, I love this house and we live in a great neighborhood and I like that our landlord is cool and pretty much leaves us alone, but man, that yard. Just like the gutters, which were so compacted with tree sludge that once Graham got up there and dug it all out, basement dampness during mild rain was reduced by almost everything percent (heavy rains are still a problem). It’s such a perfect yard for barbeques, too. Good size, well-shaded, privacy-fenced, and we’ve got two patio tables with chairs in addition to a picnic table.
But it’s been storming since last night and this is supposed to continue into tomorrow. So again, the inaugural barbeque will have to be delayed, which shouldn’t be too hard to tell people because of this next thing…
This is the part where I get passive-aggressive by complaining about something on the Internet. It’s no more polite than doing it via text, but it makes me feel like less of an angry schoolmarm and the Internet is just what I do, okay?
If someone invites you to something that involves them cooking you food, you’re supposed to RSVP. Always. Even if you can’t make it. Even if you can’t make it for some completely made-up reason like you’re hanging out with your friend from Canada. Especially if the invite includes “BYOB and a side if you are so inclined,” because nobody needs to make a batch of potato salad if another one is going to show up out of nowhere. And, assuming I have no friends at all, no one needs to make that potato salad if no one is going to show up to eat it, because while it’s very good, a regular human being who is training for a 5K should not spend several days eating potato salad out of a serving bowl before it goes bad.
Trust me, I have enough opportunities to be reminded that I’m a loser. Last night, I fed The Cat a couple of small pieces of shredded chicken (roasted until done and unseasoned, so relax, amateur veterinarians of the Internet). Instead of just wolfing it down like normal, he started doing this mouth and jaw thing, which made me worry that he was choking (he wasn’t), having a seizure (he wasn’t), or had been poisoned (he wasn’t). He’s okay now, by the way. I guess he cut his own mouth while trying to get chicken down his throat as fast as possible, which is his own fat fault but was enough for me to consider just how fast I could get him into a cat carrier and to the animal hospital. Part of this thought process involved me putting on real pants and shoes that were not 3-year-old thongs from Old Navy that I wear like house slippers. This was a very small part of the thought process compared to the part devoted to The Cat’s survival, but still. Combined it’s kind of textbook cat lady loser, and generally how I live my life on a daily basis.
I also post cat photos of a healthy The Cat, albeit one whose tongue sticks out of his mouth a little for right now and one who drools in his sleep. Because, you know, cat lady.
(If you’re reading this and weren’t invited, please don’t be pissed off. This was a smaller, inaugural barbeque without kids and only a few people were invited and you will almost certainly be invited to the next one, hopefully one that’s big with great weather, and oh! And maybe on my birthday weekend, because I think I might forgo Chicago in order to continue saving for Seattle! Wheeeeee!)