Dear Generic Suburban White Man who was in the Kroger Parking lot,
Yes, that was me who screamed “FUCK!” in a tone that can only be described as warring tomcats. I appreciate your look of judgment at my choice of language, which is why I gave you the little wave with my unburned hand and the polite, “sorry!”
You see, in my never-ending quest to not have unnecessary trash to get rid of, I said no to the little green stopper at the Kroger Starbucks. Thus, when I hit a bump in the parking lot while holding on to my beloved flat white and my cart, the coffee when flying out of that tiny drinking whole and all over my even more beloved Kate Spade Purse.
And while my “sorry” and wave may have meant I wouldn’t yell fuck again, I did when I spilled the coffee two more times on my way to the car. It’s a good thing you had already driven away when I was attempting to open my car door with coffee all over my hand and purse. When I hit the coffee cup against the door, not on purpose, it spilled some more down the interior of the door, at which point I literally growled, “Fuck! How many fucking times am I going to spill this fucking coffee?”
After that, I went digging in my console for anything to soak up coffee. You see, I’m an incredibly neat person and I don’t hoard napkins or Kleenex in my car. Luckily, I found a Norwex mitten duster and a pair of yarn gloves, along with some hand sanitizer. I managed to clean the car door and purse. I licked off the top of the lid to get the large amount of coffee that had gathered there.
When I finally unloaded my cart and got in my car, I thought three things. One, I will always ask for that frigging stopper. Two, it’s a good thing I went to Pam’s Norwex party four years ago. Three, I really need to just let the husband do the shopping. (Yes, someone married this rude woman.) Something awkward always happens to me at Kroger.
I have taken over the light square with letters to tell you the truth about this house and everyone in it. I am tired of reading the lies from the crazy people, felines and canines that live here. I’m going to set the record straight right now, and tell you the truth.
First of all, the most glaring lie is my name. My original name in that prison they called an animal shelter was Peek-A-Boo. It’s obviously a ridiculous name given to me by a child. Loud, scary children surrounded me in my previous home. The parents there decided to have all of my claws ripped out on all four feet so that I could not protect myself. MONSTERS! I was so happy to be adopted into a good home with mother and father, and I was glad when father suggested that we change my name to Picabo, after Picabo Street, a strong and fearless athlete. I was all for this change, but mother had other ideas. While my official name at the doctor is Picabo, mother insists on calling me Boo Boo, like I’m some kind of clown or Yogi Bear’s sidekick. That woman gets on my last nerve some times.
That monster family named me Peek-A-Boo because they claimed I was shy. I’m not SHY; I just know that I am too good to be touched by just anyone, especially loud children with sticky paws. It took me a while to get used to the boy in this home—like two years—but once he got taller and quieter, I grew to love him.
My parents love to tell people that I mess myself in my carrier. I do NOT pee myself whenever I have to go to the vet or take a car trip! That is a lie. Andre framed me. He urinated in my carrier when no one was looking. So, when I was forced into the thing (I never go quietly), I got the urine on my fur. So, father had to give me a bath. I cooperated, as I no doubt needed one. It’s a miserable experience. I don’t see why mother so enjoys it, especially with those stinky bubbles.
I have never wished my youngest sister dead. While it’s true that I don’t like the big, black dog, I’m not supportive of my brother Andre’s plans to murder her. Sophie is the creature’s name, but I think that is too lovely a name for such a loud and scary creature. So, I call her “Thing.” (Please note I have no photos of the beast.) I would never cause harm to her myself, but if she did disappear I certainly wouldn’t shed a tear and I would not cooperate in any investigation of my brother.
Mother deprives me of the proper nourishment. She insists that I can live on wet and dry cat food, without any cheese. She knows full well that I prefer Boar’s Head White American, and no other kind, but she NEVER buys it because she claims it has caused her to become heavier in the haunches. The stupid woman has offered me Swiss, cheddar, and mozzarella. She even attempted to give me Kroger cheese. I refuse all of them. Why can’t she just buy my damn cheese?
And I am not a pothead!! What is wrong with rolling around with a catnip filled bunny from time to time? I see mother and father drinking the stinky drinks in the tiny water bowls and I don’t say a thing. But I take a whiff or two of herb, and suddenly I want cheese because I have the munchies. No! I want cheese because it’s good, but only Boar’s Head White American. For the love of sunny spots and tuna fish, can we not keep it in stock?
Excuse me. Perhaps, I have gotten a bit rude. I must calm myself down and act like the lady that I am. Readers, if you care about the welfare of the animals in this house at all, or just me, please send a block of Boar’s Head American cheese and a Sophie-sized shock collar. Also, if you can spare a bag of catnip, I would be forever in your debt.
P.S. Please review these photos and send me a block of cheese.