Everyone at the grocery store is an idiot. I left there more stressed and frustrated than I had entered.
I head to my apartment, where I need to pick up things and eat. I’ve had a tiny bag of cheese doodles (blech!) and a Coke all day. There’s a squirrel outside my door. JUST outside my door, clinging to the threshold. I slam my car door and stomp up to the steps. Nothing. I’m not about to go up the steps because I now figure the bastard is rabid and will jump on my head. I don’t want a squirrel on my head. If he doesn’t jump on my head (or even if he bounces off my head), he will get into my apartment. Getting a squirrel out of my apartment is not my idea of a good time. I get back in my car and stare at him for at least ten minutes. He hardly moves but moves enough to let me know he’s alive. Thanks, you little bastard. Rude! Leave! I turn my car off again, slam the door again, approach the squirrel again. Nothing. I find a rock and throw it near the squirrel. It bounces off the wall, and the squirrel is unimpressed. I stare at him some more. He doesn’t care some more. I throw two more rocks at him. Pebbles, really. I’m not a monster. One gently plunks off his body – he is hit by a rock, hurled by a giant, predatory thing, and he doesn’t move or acknowledge! Ignorant cur! I hate him now. My neighbors are all staring. I get in my car and leave, hungry, dejected, and angry with myself.
To this very moment, I remain agitated and angry with myself. I am also angry with Charlie. (All squirrels are named Charlie.) Who does this?! Who hangs out at a stranger’s door, uninvited, and doesn’t leave, not even when tiny stones are pelted at him? Rude, rude, rude! And what grown woman gets bested by a squirrel? Charlie outsmarted me. I am sad.
My tale of woe seems to be bringing joy to others, so there’s my silver lining. I hope you had a good, long laugh at my expense. Thank you, and goodnight.
So there. Ha! Indeed.
I baked pies tonight. Why pies? Because you can never make enough crust for just pie. I also made Little French Assholes, which cannot be defined clearly. Suffice it to say that leftover pie crust in the Tastic family is rolled flat, buttered, cinnamon-ed, sugared, rolled up, sliced, baked, and dubbed "Little French Assholes." It's a dry, vaguely sweet treat named by my great grandmother, who was a lovable bigot of sorts.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: my pies are ugly, yet hopefully tasty.
I'm a drunk, sleepy girl. Happy Friday, everyone!