Wednesday, Jan. 14, 2004 - 10:43 a.m.
Greetings,
It occurred to me this morning as I sat in traffic waiting to pay the toll across the Crescent City Connection that my registration was probably due to be renewed at the DMV.
When I finally got to work, I checked Kharis’s license plate and, voila, April 2004 is the magic moment.
Over the past year I’ve run across lots of little annoying speed bumps that impede my life (and my credit rating) due to changing my address and certain companies not getting the address change, etc. etc.etc.,b.s. b.s. blah.
Hopefully this is the last one.
I hereby write this down as a reminder that I need to go to DMV with $28, a copy of my registration, proof of insurance, lovely jewelry, make-up and good hair because in addition to renewing my registration, I also apparently have to retake my driver’s license photograph and get a new license with the proper address on it. Grrr.
I think next Friday will be D-Day. I can get a haircut in the interim and I have Friday off to accomplish boring ass things like going to the DMV.
I am not moving again at least for YEARS and maybe never. I love Crescentwood and it loves me and together we’ve got an address that we’re proud to let the whole damn state and country and all the credit card companies in the wide, wide, world put into their databases.
So I think I’ve rambled on enough about my vehicle registration. Thank you very much for reading about it.
Other than that though, there’s nothing much to report. It was Tuesday yesterday and so I went to work, did my work, came home and consumed a bologna and cheese sandwich while watching quiz shows like “Lingo” and “Match Game” and the episode of “All in the Family” where Edith, Gloria and Mike leave Archie because he’s so intolerant. Edith and Gloria end up at Gloria’s friend, Trudy’s, apartment (which is decorated in 70s Bohemian style with candles and lots of fabric flung all over and in colors like orange and green) where they have a “Come as you are” party in pajamas and Edith gets a little tipsy on Chianti.
While I did all this, several cats camped out on top of me making it virtually impossible to get back up and make Plantation Mint tea in my Harrods teapot and load dishes into the dishwasher and that sort of thing.
It is a fact that whenever I sit down on the sofa at least two cats will decide to sleep on me. It is also a fact that if I get up, at least one, if not both, of the cats will then curl up where I was sitting and look all indignant as hell when I come back in a couple of minutes. I have to put things like pillows and books on my seat so they won’t sleep there. It’s tragic.
But if they aren’t sprawled all over me snoring, they are chasing each other, catnip mice and imaginary things all over the house and across table tops and places they are not allowed to be which causes Thomas to erupt from his Chamber to yell, “What are you doing on that table, huh? You know you aren’t allowed on that table!” And then he looks at me and wonders why he has to come out of his room to yell at them when I am sitting right there.
I explain, rather guiltily, that my bark has no bite and they ignore me. I’m the one they sleep on; he’s the one they listen to when they are bad. It’s just the way things worked out.
He gives me a disbelieving, frustrated stare, and wheels back into his Chamber to listen to Death in June and write and surf the net and whatever else he does in there.
I, meanwhile, settle back onto the couch with lots of cats on me, and hope I don’t have to go the bathroom or make tea anytime soon.
That’s Tuesday night at Crescentwood really.
Until next time,
Olrun
