Him: Good morning! How are you?
Me: Good. Say, I have a question for you...
Him: Shoot.
Me: What do you make of the cow?
Him: ...[Looks at me like I might be crazy]... Hmmm, what cow?
Me: ...
Cow: mmmMOOOOOOO!
Does that cow have timing, or does that cow have timing?
(We decided that what the neighbor makes of the cow is that I should call the person in charge of neighborhood cows. I called yesterday morning, the fella said he'd send someone down, and as of tonight, there is still a cow. I can tell from the mmmMOOOOOOO!ing.)
In other news, I partially ran over the kitten with my office chair today. He cried, I panicked. I couldn't find anything overtly wrong with him and he didn't flinch when I prodded him all over, so I assumed he was fine. I monkeyed around online, took the dog outside, got a glass of wine, etc. Then realized I hadn't seen the kitten in a while. Called for him all over the house (Stiiiiinky, Stiiiiiiiiiiiiiinky! STINKY!!!) to no avail. Kept calling and searching for 15 minutes or more before losing all of my shit. Kept picturing poor kitten hiding in a closet somewhere dying from internal injuries from desk chair, too weak to meow a response. Wanted to call Bruce, but he's working and can do very very little from 750 miles away. Called best friend instead, and best friend talked me down. Three minutes after hanging up with her, I found him in the bottom drawer of my desk, sleeping. I called her back to tell her he hadn't died of internal smooshing and heard her boyfriend in the background, feigning great distress and generally mocking me. Now I'm not sure what to do. I understand on a fundamental level why it was very funny for me to be freaking out, because it was highly unlikely that the kitten would be dying in a closet, but at the same time? It wasn't very funny to me. Also, I feel like he could have waited until she hung up to make fun of me. Am I wrong?
I've been reading another book by one of my very favorite authors, Anna Maxted. When we were camping, I read Behaving Like Adults, and it was possibly the best novel I've read in a long time. (Except for Goodbye, Lemon, by Adam Davies, another one of my very favorite authors.) After finishing the Anna Maxted, I came home and borrowed another one straight away from the library. Halfway through Being Committed, I found the most amusing passage about an old song, one that echos my own feelings:
Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me,
I'm off to Alabama with a banjo on my knee!
I heard the tune on one of Jude's plastic toys and recalled the words out of nowhere. And wondered why Susanna would waste her time moping after a man who was so plainly a conceited idiot--moseying off to Alabama with a banjo, daring to imagine her distraught?! She was probably glad to see the back of him--him, his silly banjo, and his unrealistic view of job opportunities in the music business. Susanna--I imagined her demure and blond, in a checked pinafore, baby blue and white--was probably too well brought up to tell him she loathed his banjo playing and him.
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