Dragonflutters

Yesterday was one of those crazy days where the world stops spinning on it’s lovely diagonal axis and you get a second or two to understand what Mr. Clarke was talking about in ‘Childhood’s End.’ Obviously I’m overexaggerating, but that’s what I do. I say things like “This lotion smells like heaven” when what I really mean is “This lotion adequately performs it’s lotionizing duties but I feel I must be excessively exuberant in my appreciation of the lotion.” That may or may not be a good example but I’m counting on you not to judge me and to continue nodding your head in semi-agreement.

A friend of mine got married yesterday afternoon and another one found out she is having a bundle of joy that comes fully equipped with a sausage and meatballs, which means she instantly began debating the name that will accompany this little boy well into adulthood. Here’s hoping they don’t name him Rupert or Otis.

Both of these girls are like balls of hyper-rotating happiness, radiating fields of glowing human sunshine that thankfully does not require one to wear protective glasses to prevent the dancing sunlight from sneaking in and searing off your corneas. It’s a pleasant kind of sunshine, one that leaves chunks of sparkly glitter in their wake because they’ve got so much giddiness stored up they can’t possibly contain it.

On a different note, this means I am the last remaining single female in my office. If I think really hard about it, I may be the only single PERSON left in my office. This is neither good nor bad, it just is. Just like the love of Tom and Katie just is. And the lure of yellow post-it notes just is. And the thirst-quenching effects of water just is. That was all one potential grammatical nightmare but I had to keep going with my analogy. You understand.

So what I’m thinking is this: I’m going to start dressing my cats in clothing, like, really scary clothing. The best kind is usually made for dogs, so I think I’ll just repurpose it for the cats. Cats have four legs and a head. Dogs have four legs and a head. There’s no reason this won’t work. Then I’m going to double, no, triple my efforts to train The Demonspawn in the delights of walking on a leash. There’s really nothing delightful about it but with the use of many, many cat treats and the lure of an open can of tuna, perhaps I can convince them to go along with my plan.

Once we master the leash walking and the clothes wearing, we’re going for very long walks around the neighborhood. I’m going to start waiving at everyone in lieu of channeling my inner New Yorker and refusing to make eye contact with passer-by. So instead of Inhospitable Southern Lady Who Probably Has A Yankee In The Family, I’m going to be the Gracious But Distinctly Crazy Southern Lady Who Smells Faintly Of Cat Litter.

That or I’m going to get some religion in me. So when people ask for the thousandth time why I am still single at the ovary-shriveling age of 26, I can tell them it’s because I’m married to my lord and savior Mohammed Ali.

**Addendum: Just so we're clear, I'm truly not concerned with my ever present single status. Though if I listened to my grandmother, oh, I don't know EVERY TIME SHE SPEAKS, I'd have settled down and hence would have someone available who, theoretically, would readily volunteer to help me move roughly every 18 months. And Carl is right-- marriages and kids take a lot of time and energy, neither of which I'm willing to spare. if everyone listened to their mothers and fathers and truly believed them when they said marriage and offspring are hard work, no one would actually participate in the propogation of the human race. And if everyone listened to me ramble, no one would get married or let their ovaries accept the knocking of some traveling sperm. Unless you're that girl Erica from 'The Bachelor.' Then I will beg you to listen to me and strongly urge that should the situation arise when someone is willing to loan you their DNA, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU BREED.