The curious case of the socks in the sink
Me, to the cat this morning: "I think I left my socks in the sink."
After I said it, it occurred to me that there were several problems with this statement, and as a result it totally preoccupied me on the way to work today:
- I was talking to myself. I hear from others that it’s generally a bad sign when someone starts talking to herself, but Jeff can attest that I talk to myself all the damn time. Sometimes it sounds like a veritable, full-fledged conversation, and I’m the only person in the room. (Yes, I answer myself too. I recognize how close I am coming to becoming the crazy person in the grocery store who talks to the chutneys.) Alternately, I could cast this in a more positive light and say…
- I was talking to the cat. It should be noted that I was talking to Edmund, who in addition to being a cat and therefore not understanding spoken English, is possibly one of the most adorably and relentlessly stupid animals I have ever had the privilege of being owned by. Even if cats in general were capable of comprehending the general intention of speech, and I’m fairly certain that Tenzing does comprehend a few things, Edmund, bless him, is not a rock star among cats.
- We haven’t even touched on the actual content of the statement, have we? I swear, I really did have a reason** for setting my socks in the sink.***
** Don’t believe me? Really, I did. I needed socks for work today, but I didn’t need to put them on immediately because my feet weren’t cold, so I pulled them from the dryer and set them on the kitchen sink while I was assembling a package I planned to mail to a friend sometime this week. Got the package ready, realized I needed something from the back, went to get it, and a few minutes later realized I had no socks on.
*** Though I’m guessing this really isn’t helping my cause much.
**** Yep, definitely not.
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talking to self
Isn’t the whole point of having pets to validate talking to one’s self?
That’s the great thing about bluetooth headsets, too. No one is sure whether you are schizophrenic, or technically savvy . That conversation could just as easily be with your spouse, your boss, a chutney, or all three at once (now there’s a twist on “will work for food”), and none of the other shoppers need ever know.
Actually...
Sometimes I think the real point of having the furbeasts is to keep my feet warm at night. They certainly serve well as giant space heaters for my feet. Or lap. Or legs. Or wherever they decide to roost.
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