What Mess?!?

This afternoon, a neighbor showed up unexpectedly at the door and asked if she could come in so I could sign a petition regarding my building, what I like to call The Fortress.  I said "sure." Big mistake.

I had worked since early morning, and I didn't realize there were bits of cat fur rolling down the tiled hallway and across the wood-planked living-room floor. In addition, the sauce pan used to saute mushrooms was still on the stove, minus the mushrooms. The kitchen sink had a few items in it that I planned to put in the dishwasher four minutes before the bell rang--I never got around to it. 

There were also two small bags of garbage: one contained a bit of used scoopable litter and the other contained two empty cans of cat food, as well as several items I took from the fridge and intended to, yes, that's right, throw down the garbage shute. Not the cleanest this place has ever been, but certainly not horrific. If I had been given four additional minutes, I could have run to the garbage room and then put everything in the dishwasher. Voila! The place would have looked great! Only thing left would have been the rolling cat hair.

I kept apologizing to this person, a stranger, and stammering about the mess in my apartment. Things were being put in the dishwasher as we spoke. I even used vanilla Febreeze spray to make sure everything smelled super. I looked like an indentured servant picking up for the Queen.

So, now GET THIS, on the way out the woman said, "Go. Clean up the mess. Bye!" Huh? Huh? I repeat: Huh?

I let go of the door, and it slammed, narrowly missing her butt. Through the closed door, I shouted "Sorry!" Let's face it, while I can say this place is a mess, this woman can't.

Mess? She said, "Clean up the mess"? What mess?!?

... Got to clean up that cat hair!

Hey, Consider Your Giving a Response a Public Service

Any one here use this?

 

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I've never signed up for either Twitter or FaceBook, but Twitter seems the better of the two evils.

Do you like it? Worth signing up for? Waste of time?

Consider your answer a public service. Thanks!

My Cats Own a Steakhouse

So THIS is what they're doing in their spare time.
Where's my cut of the profits? Never mind that, where's my steak?

Where'd Y'all Go, Bloggers?

I don't know if it's the cold weather, winter doldrums, football, or what, but so many bloggers are missing from their blogs. 3/4 of my "Click Here ..." entries in the sidebar are missing. 

Maybe it's the rapture and I've been left behind. (I really, really, really hope not.) Or maybe you are all busy counting pennies in jars and closets after having overspent at Christmas. Or maybe, just maybe, you are off on vacation in the Bahamas for a couple of weeks.

Dale, of Passion of the Dale, just came back to blogging, and now everyone has left. Huh ... maybe there's some significance to that. Even Sans Pantaloons, who is the most prolific blogger and commenter I know, is missing. 

 
See those poor people above? They are looking for you all. Why else would they be standing around a scrubby bush with pamphlets and maps in their hands, with looks of confusion and sorrow? I see sorrow and TEARS! Oh yes I do.

Please someone, post. It's so lonely out here in blogging world.

A Pillory

Townfolk got a call from Mr. T this afternoon, and this time he's not only threatening to take first-born children and pets weighing less than 10 pounds (I'm trying to fatten up my girl cat Frankie as quickly as I can) but Mr. T said if homeowners attempted to throw snow into the streets or onto sidewalks, they would have to spend three days in the pillory in the center of town. There was also talk of whips, which I dare not get into.

Teri's right. Where are all these cars supposed to be moved to? Huh?

A pillory and a whip:

Ouch.

Guess Who I Heard From?

It's snowing. Guess who called this morning?

Mr. Threatening: "Move your car or your vehicle will be towed. If you don't move your car, you'll be fined $250 and we will take your first-born and pets weighing less than 10 pounds. You have been warned." 

At the end of the message, Mr. T sighed. So early in the winter and he's worn out already. Where is this man's stamina?!

What's the Steering Wheel for?

RAND's early prediction (1954?) of what a home computer would look like.

What's the steering wheel for?