You wake up this morning with Operation: Hide Cat on your mind. The house inspection is for potential buyers of the block of apartments you live in that the wealthy, evil, cat-hating landlord is trying to sell. You spent last night fantasizing about killing said evil landlord with his own shovel but have watched too many CSI episodes to believe that you could destroy all forensic evidence of your involvement. This fantasy will remain just that. For now.
The cat at the centre of the operation wakes you up at 6:20am with a paw in the face. This is a welcome change from the usual claw in the eye. You lure the cat into the study and shut the door because it's not breakfast time yet, and make a mental note to wear a protective mask for the following morning. Cats never forget.
The next interruption is an 8am knock on the door from your regular postman. He smells like an ashtray, as usual. He asks if you were sleeping or already awake when he knocked on the door. You wonder how boring his job is for him to ask such an inane question. He clearly isn't sorry for waking you up, so naturally he is a sadist who purposely wakes up women to check out their pyjamas. Today you are wearing your most boring pair. There aren't even any ducks on them. You think to yourself with smug satisfaction: "The joke is on you, my friend. Next time it'll be a mumu".
By 12:30pm you have successfully hidden all the cat stuff in the house. You are so paranoid about being caught carrying the cat to the car that you put her carrier in a plastic garbage bag. You stop short at wearing a beige overcoat and dark sunglasses but think it not too conspicuous to hum the Pink Panther theme tune. Of course, you leave the cat enough air holes in the bag because unlike certain postmen, you aren't a sadist.
The inspection occurs without incident. You are impressed and amused by how polite the potential buyers are. One man insisted on introducing himself by name and waving goodbye. You fervently hope that this man wins the upcoming auction because somebody that polite surely doesn't hate cats. He probably doesn't even own his own shovel.
By night time you are exhausted from job-searching and cat-hiding. You proceed to watch the final season of Sex and the City. Everything is going fine until the scene where Samantha cheats on Smith with Richard Wright. Although you have watched this episode countless times it always pulls at your heartstrings. Why, Samantha, WHY? Why would you sleep with Dexter Morgan's dad? The tears that ensue are hurriedly wiped away and you outwardly blame the stress, weariness and your boyfriend's absence for the fact that you are crying over an episode of Sex and the City. This is so much worse than crying over The Bold and the Beautiful. Not that this ever happened. Ever.
It's bed time.
Happy Cry Over Samantha Jones' Terrible Choice Day!
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