Yesterday I forced myself out of the house for a few hours. John is in Ithaca for five days, and when he's gone I tend to slide into lethargy and sloth. Well, as much sloth as taking care of three pets allows. I decided it was time for some serious window shopping, something John is not keen on and which I love. It may be girly of me but I really enjoy mooching around looking at merchandise, trying on clothing I have no intention of buying, and fingering the wholly unnecessary, insanely attractive trinkets designed to lure Martha Stewart wannabes. I was down at the mall, wandering through the household linens section and wondering if Ralph Lauren sheets could possibly need to cost as much as the national debt when some guy in front of me let out a huge, booming laugh.
"Quel dork," I thought sourly. He proceeded to have a hearty, high volume, good-natured conversation with the sales clerk at the counter while I perused the sheet sets. Periodically, he laughed, and my thoughts about him grew darker. I dislike people who take up so much psychic space. Finally, I looked at his face when he nearly backed into me as he left the counter with his wife and his purchase.
"Quel Hollywood dork," I revised, "I should have known it was an actor." It was Tom Wopat, ol' Luke Duke of the Dukes of Hazzard fame.
After that, I motored over to a bookstore in search of help with my HTML. I had submitted my pages to both Doctor HTML and weblint to see if they were up to snuff. Alas, no. They passed muster with the doctor, but weblint ("A kinder, gentler HTML validator") found all kinds of problems and I slunk off metaphorically after having my pages rejected as not being up to standard. Actually, I've been meaning to get a reference book on it, so it was a good excuse. While I was there, I got a spiffy book on using Illustrator. God help me, I'm starting to find the computer section of bookstores interesting.
Pulling into the driveway with my booty, I spied the cat faces at the window looking for me. Don't tell me pet owners don't have parental instincts; I knew instantly that they were guilty of some misdeed. I opened the door and discovered a small pistachio storm had swept through the house in my absence. Pistachios, a previously unknown menace in the southeast, had been scattered all over the living room floor. The cats had ripped open a full bag and the contents had been gleefully licked and batted around. How do I know they licked them? They were both very, very thirsty for the rest of the night.
