The other day I got an email titled “Gen X Women: The Latchkey Crones” and honestly, that sounds like murder mystery series I’d read. Or watch. Preferably set in some small village somewhere, although it’d more likely be tired-as-fuck middle aged women who add murder solving to managing teenage dramas, the usual everyday life partner issues, teaching driving, construction, getting homework handled, coordinating aging parents/grandparents/inlawparents, neighborhood to-dos, middle management work bullshit, pet disasters, school conferences, work trips, and a pile of laundry that never ends. What’s a little murder added to the never ending chore list**?
**that’s a list compiled from just a few of my friends’ recent lives.
Well. Now I’m tired.
If it’s set in Scotland and the ladies are cranky, I’d watch the shit out of that show.
There’s an owl outside my window hoo-hoo-hooHOOing loud enough I can hear it despite Ragnar sitting next to me breathing VERY heavily with the occasional deep sigh of disgust. We have no fenced in yard at the moment, and he’s hoping for yet another walk today, because construction stress has all pets in various forms of tizzy. fAngus is wide-eyed in stress most of the time these days, and only emerges from under the middle of the bed or the depths of the closet for food and to sit miserably by the front door so he can escape after the workers have gone. If caught outside when the work trucks arrive, he runs like hell to get in the house and disappears for the day in the depths of the bedroom.
Cat leaf-peeping this time of hear is an important fAngus chore he takes quite seriously, and should not be confused with the human version. Human peeping of leaves is often advertised with pictures of women in varied versions Han Solo gear (leggings, sleeved shirts, vests, knee-high leather boots) holding mugs of cocoa (I presume heavily spiked with whiskey, but that’s just me) watching trees perform their final yawning blaze of glorious color before winter sleep.
Cats care nothing for the weird autumnal rituals humans follow, finding both boots and vests a waste of time. Feline leaf-peeps involve silent-stalking practice, butt-wiggling without rustling, and leaping into piles of crunchy tree leftovers, occasionally accompanied with a horrified death-squeak. If your feline thinks you incompetent at leaf peeping, they may bring you one of their successes, because they worry the human they are in charge of keeping alive will starve without sufficient mouse meat. Stupid humans.
fAngus, unfortunately, has been nursing a sprained shoulder for the past few weeks, and so he’s been keeping his peeps pretty tame due to a limp. He often comes in after patrolling the dangers of the driveway and edges of the woods with us on the last walk with the dogs, because it’s his job to watch for the demons in the dark on our behalf. That’s what cats do, after all. If he feels perky, he’ll take a swipe or two at Minerva, just for fun. Both dogs are a little scared to walk past fAngus on the stairs.
As they should be.
I’m wrapping up this post the morning after I started it: no more hoo-hoo-hooHOOing going on. Sadness. Murder Mittens is currently adorably curled up under a dresser in the bedroom, all pets are napping in the blessed quiet on a day when no construction is going on, all kids are at school (presumably the college one is as well, but I have no actual confirmation of that), it’s Friday, and I have not a single room to pack for demolition. I would totally binge watch a Latchkey Crones murder show this weekend. Dammit.
No Pithy Phrase 