Barfy Monday to all!

I wanted to do some writing today. I was up until the wee hours reading and studying this and that, education and health care and rights and black history and the Stonewall riots, and I was all ready to deal with whatever the Monday news was going to throw at me. First, though, a bit of housework. With my bucket of warm, diluted lavender-scented all-purpose cleaner, and my sponge and brush and rags I started in the bathroom. Housework leads to more housework (and more additions to the to-do list since housework is never actually done). Before long I found it: barf. More like a hairball, but still.

Then I found more on the old dresser. Barf. FFS, cats, is nothing sacred? How do we not know? Even I (a person who sleeps like the dead) wake with a start when I hear that sound. Pet people know that sound, the sort of rhythmic “herk – herk – herk.” Do these sneaky felines wait until we’re gone to leave us secret stashes? Blech!

Their nasty contributions made me think of what mine should be. No, not the rat genetics stuff though that might be helpful to humanity one day. No, not my kid, though he’s pretty neat. Not even the way I like to think I’ve left some things and some people better off than when I found them. Not all, but I am doing my best. No, I think I want to get the money together to fund, and maybe help with, a study to find a surface cats won’t puke on. Then I will make everything out of that, and we can all live happily ever after with our barf machines secure in the thought they’ll not be puking down the sides of our lovely wooden armoires and bookshelves. As is already the case, we won’t have nice things because we can’t as long as they’re around.

The trick now is to find a way to make sharing observations about assholes, fools, and aging (aka whining about mean/dumb people and creaky joints), and pointing out hypocrisy in life and in government, etc. into a lucrative endeavor. Wouldn’t we all like to do that?

Don’t mind me. It’s probably just a mood. I’m missing my period. No, not that period – the other ones. The ones I’m still allowed to use here but not in texts. I’m mourning, and I’m a bit worried about withdrawal. You see, I read this article, and I realize I might not be able to kick this punctuation habit. Hell, the article has me looking for ways to add the punctus in to my writing. As for the other periods, I won’t miss them a bit. Fifty years old so they can fuck off any time now. . .

Oooh, or what if there is some kind of market for all that cat hair we sweep up and pull off the couch in tufts? Not the hairballs, ick, I mean the hair, as a way to fund the study. Cat hair sweaters! Oh, wait. Every person who has a cat has cat hair sweaters. It’s unavoidable.

Money to fund the study. . . Maybe I could just sell pencils on the street corner from a tin cup like my great grandfather did.

Fuck it. I’ll just trade ’em all in for a golden retriever. At least the dog appreciates us.