Welcome to Garish Chicken, just lay your coats on the guest-room bed.
And speaking of guest rooms, I’ve got one now, thanks to 16.9 inches of snow that fell on lovely Oklahoma this week. It fell Monday night into Tuesday morning, then again Friday, and I’ve left my house for 1 hour since. And I want that hour back. It was horrifying.
Oklahomans, like Texans and Floridians, and I’m assuming Lousiana-oins and Bhutanese, don’t know how to drive in snow. And our plows can’t even find it, though it’s fucking everywhere. The hour I was out, the plows were out with their giant shovel things aimed in the air, like that’s going to do anyone any amount of good.
Every morning since, Leon (my heeler mix dog named after 70s rock star and Oklahoman Leon Russell… more on that later) goes to the sliding glass door and sighs. I swear to Christ my dog sighs. He’s having squirrel withdrawals.
My cats are probably sick of me (Percy and Penny, no relation) but I’m trying to keep them entertained. They went into complete panic yesterday when I started reorganizing the house. You see, for the first time since I’ve owned this place, it’s only me and my herd of pets who live here. For five years, my gay husband lived with me, then for nearly two, my brother lived here. My gay husband got gay married in Iowa (IOWA!) and my brother went back to college to become a strength coach.
So here I am, in my home, a newly abandoned room ready to have my shit populate it. It’s a three-bedroom house, with me having the master (say it like Vincent Price) bedroom, my cats having the Room Formerly Known as the Guest Room, and the Other Room.
Yesterday I moved the spare bed into the New Guest Room formerly the Other Room, and turned the Cats/RFKATGR into a “Music/Cats Room.” I really wish it was a “Musical Cats Room,” but A) I haven’t purchased any tiny musical instruments, and B) I suspect my cats might be talentless hacks.
Regardless, I like to shower them with pop culture, in case they do become celebrities later and they go on talk shows and need to be well-read. So yesterday, when I’d coaxed them out from behind various pieces of furniture after I’d run both the vacuum AND the spot cleaner, I fed them Special Food. That gets their motor hummin’, lemme tell ya.
So I fed them a pouch o’ Friskies, the whole time singing “You Should Hear How She Talks About You” by Melissa Manchester and dancing. My dog also watched all this.
I’d like to say I am aware of my psychosis, but I hold down two jobs and appear to be somewhat responsible, so I just ignore it, like that black mold that’s growing in my linen closet.
The cats rolled their eyes, perhaps from my singing, perhaps from the sheer pleasure of the pouch-O’ Friskies. I let Leon lick the inside of the pouch, like every day, because my mother let me lick the beaters and that’s just how it works around here.
I’m hoping the streets are clear enough soon that I can go back to work and quit creating blogs about peacocks. But I think I like this one, and I paid $17 for the domain name (like anyone else would want it) so now I’m stuck with it.
Please read me. Maybe I’ll eventually sell some ads and get the real Melissa Manchester to come sing for my cats. She can’t be too expensive, right? Wait, is she still alive? (brief Google session) Yes, she is alive. I don’t have to “Cry Out Loud.”
I apologize for that last sentence.