An update on the footwear situation: Q and I went over to use my dad’s grill last week and I got drunk and gave my Tevas to my mom after she complimented me on them and re-sparked the argument between Q and I about whose shoes were stupider. Luckily we wear the same shoe size (my mom and I, not Q and I) and she has eight thousand pairs of flip flops, so I traded up. She called me the next day to ask if I really didn’t want them or was I just drunk and did I wake up wondering where my sandals were, but I reassured her that she should keep them for the sake of me and Q’s relationship. When he overheard this, he groaned and asked if that meant he had to give up his Crocs, which proves that I win because he secretly likes his Crocs and looked like he was about to cry.*
*He didn’t really look like he was going to cry at all, I just overdramaticized it in my head to glean more satisfaction from it.**
**Not that I glean satisfaction from making Q give up his prized possessions, it’s just that my pride was a little hurt from being laughed at by someone wearing Crocs.***
***I love you no matter what you put on your feet, just in case you ever read my blog.****
****I probably ought to tell him I have a blog since I talk about him all the time.*****
*****He would probably just make fun of me and then I’d have to give my blog to my mom.
Q and I have been going runbiking when he gets off work recently. (Runbiking = He runs, I bike, because I’m out of shape and can take breaks while coasting.) It’s awesome because it’s usually around 4 a.m. so I can swerve all over the road and ride circles around him because there are no cars. And also no people, so I can swerve all over the sidewalks and people’s front lawns too. So, the other night we did TWELVE miles and now I’m all proud of myself for not dying and also really impressed that anyone can run twelve miles when I could hardly make it on a bike and had to actually get off and walk the damn bike up one of the hills. In my defense, a fox ran out in front of me* about two thirds of the way up this really long, steep hill and messed up my concentration. Over the course of the whole runbike, I saw two foxes, one deer, one rabbit, one drug deal, and one busted lamppost that was catching leaves on fire. Things I also saw but didn’t tell Q about because then he would think I was a chicken: a monster with bloody dripping jaws in the woods that was waiting for me to stop moving so that it could jump out and eat me. Next time I won’t wear glow-in-the-dark shoelaces so I’m not such an easy target for evil menacing forest monsters.
*I am now completely confident, having had extensive experience almost running over foxes, that the animal I confronted that one time I almost got mauled to death to save a kitten was NOT a fox. It was a COYOTE. Nobody believed me back then, no. They were all, “It was probably a fox or a dog or a mountain lion, you silly drunk.”
EXHIBIT A: Not a coyote.
EXHIBIT B: Not a coyote.
EXHIBIT C: Probably not a coyote.
So, I was up real late one night drunkpainting when I heard this high pitched noise over my headphones. I took them off and listened and the cats were all freaking out, and when I heard the noise again, it was positively chilling. Honest to god, I thought someone was killing a child right outside. I looked out my window and saw a very small black cat cowering by a tree right by the door to my building. I thought maybe the cat was making that noise, but it was like nothing I’d ever heard, and also I thought it might be my parents’ cat because he’s tiny and black and evil and a master of escape except that when he actually does get out he’s terrified because he’s also a chicken. Then I noticed another animal in the shadows about ten feet away that kinda looked like a fox or maybe somebody’s dog, and thought to myself, oh hell no I’m not going to let that foxdog kill that cat, even if it is the Satanic jerkface that lives with my parents. So I threw on my shoes and ran downstairs and out the door.
As the door shut behind me and I stood on the the edge of the stoop, the other animal stepped out of the shadow of the tree like a scene from a freakin’ movie, and I realized with some horror and quite a bit of sudden detachment, that it was NOT A FOX and certainly no one’s dog. It was a fricking coyote, and I was sloppy drunk, and it was looking me right in the eye, and I had probably just interrupted its dinner-hunting, and I suddenly wondered if it was thinking, “Yay, bigger dinner!” I was afraid to turn my back on it because it was so close, so I backed up and took off one shoe. Like I was really going to scare off a goddamn hungry coyote with a shoe. Luckily, as I was grabbing behind my back for the door handle, the cat took the coyote’s distraction as an opportunity to run away, and then someone yelled out a window from one of the other apartments, and the coyote ran off too. And I went back inside and had another beer and wished there was someone I could call at 3 a.m. to tell them I was still alive.
Oh, and it wasn’t my parents’ cat after all. Now every time I see the cat, which turned out to be my neighbor’s, I’m all, “You owe me, buddy.” But he’s all, “Whatever, you stupid human, I still had like six lives left, it wasn’t THAT big a deal.”