Buying Cat Food

My cats are not the type that I can let go hungry for even a little bit. The cat food bowl is not allowed to even go down halfway before the orange cat begins stalking me throughout the apartment howling as if he's at death's door. I do my best to make sure that I get a new bag of IAMS before the other bag even runs out, but this wasn't the case yesterday; the bag had already run out. So I had to go to the Rite-Aid.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.















The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?

Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.

















If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats, party hats, tiaras, and baskets of fruit on my head and have people take pictures of me.








































When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.

BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!

Yesterday, a lovely woman who I casually know called me "precious." She wasn't making a reference to the movie about the abused teen in Harlem, either. "Precious" is not an adjective that I (and definitely my coworkers) generally use to describe me. I could see "salty," or "fresh-mouthed," or "tornado," but not "precious."
It got me thinking about my spiritual advisor. I have known L______ for close to 20 years. We met when I was 18-years-old, but became friends when I was 19.
She has blond curly hair, very soft looking, like baby hair, and blue eyes. Now that she's in her 60s, her hair is thinner, but it still evokes a baby girl. When I first saw her, I could see the most excellent life energy she exuded; it drew me to her. Men love her. Women do too, once they get over their fears.
She blazes with light. I suppose it would be the light of God. I have been places with her and people are taken aback. They are confused by her light - it blinds them. They are angry, sometimes, because of their confusion and want to squelch her light. She doesn't allow this, but she allows them to be. Many men want to possess her to have that light.
When she was three-years-old, she would stand in her driveway and greet the neighbors. Here was this little dumpling in a dress with a dirty face waving and shouting "Hi!" to people. She always had an open heart and was interested in people.
L is the kind of person you can tell anything - anything - to and feel safe. She will love you.
She has worked hard to be this kind of person. She will tell you freely about her unsavory behavior of the past. She showed me a photograph of her at 16-years-old from a house party. She was drunk. Her hair in a Jackie O-flip, she stared alluringly at the camera. You could tell she felt warm in that picture, drunk in a good way, before you feel nauseous and dizzy and want to vomit. She had a scratch on her face, barely noticeable, because she had gotten in a fight with one of her girlfriends.
She tells the story of being on her knees in adulthood, so drunk that she was vomiting and shitting at the same time. She cupped her hand by her ass to prevent too much shit from getting on the floor.
She tells the story of having sex with three men in the same day and not even washing herself between. "Man, I thought I was hot stuff!" she exclaims. "Boy, was I delusional!"
In her early 40s, L made the decision to stop drinking. She has stayed stopped for more than 20 years. She has worked hard to develop a close relationship with God and it gives her joy. She helps people every day of her life. She meditates. She practices yoga. She is a vegan. She doesn't use curse words.
Last year a tragedy struck her family. Her sister's daughter drowned in the ocean. L called me up, shaken up, and told me that she loved me and to enjoy every day because we never know when life will be taken away. Later, she told me matter of factly that she would not be dancing at her niece's grave.
"Huh?" I asked.
L then explained that at one sister's burial years prior (L comes from a family of eleven children), she had brought a boom box and performed an interpretive dance in her leotards in the cemetary. She knew that her deceased sister would have loved her performance, but the living relatives did not appreciate it.
When I was 19, she took me to Quaker meetings (I looked for the Oatmeal guy, but he never appeared). Who would have thought a young drug addict would be open to attending Quaker meetings? L has that effect on people.
She always told me that I was a precious gift. It sounded absurd to me. Sometimes she would make me say that I was a precious gift. I would giggle. She would drop me at the corner of where I was living at the time and wait until I climbed to the porch. Then, for the whole world to hear, she would shout, "BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!" and speed away (that was kind of naughty of her, I think). My teenage eyes would dart frantically up and down the block to see which people were staring at the precious gift in their midst.
Gratitude does not come naturally for me. I have to constantly, consciously remind myself of things for which I am grateful. My spiritual advisor is always at the top of the list.