I was recently the victim of lethal Girl Scout cuteness. I was minding my own business in my local grocery store, stocking us up for the week, and I was *this close* to escaping the store unscathed when out of the blue, I was set upon by two tiny blonde Girl Scouts in full uniform, with little bouncy pigtails and eager, toothy smiles. They uttered the dreaded words, “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?” with what I am now convinced was a fake lisp, and it was all over for me. They struck in my moment of weakness and I ended up walking away with a box of Thin Mints before I even knew what hit me. I don’t go around calling conspiracy theories at the drop of a tin-foil hat, but I’m telling you, the Girl Scouts have deliberately and systemically weaponized little-girl cuteness to drive up cookie sales, and I, for one, don’t want to consider what else they might be capable of.
As noted in my last post, I have ginned up enough courage to begin a new fictional online series, called “The Diary of Wolfpine Glen”. I plan to post updates weekly. Yesterday in preparation, I wrote a few pages—not much, but more than I’ve written in a while—and it felt good. A good creative writing session leaves me feeling clean and refreshed, like working out at the gym. I don't want to do it, but it feels good once I have. I am hoping to get the first installment in the series up by next weekend, although if I get really ambitious, it may be sooner, so stay tuned! You can access to the blog through the link on the right. I have some jitters about putting myself out there like this, but I’m telling myself it will all be okay. It’s just a story—no big deal, right?
Our cat Buddy is strictly indoor-only, with the exception of being allowed on the deck under close supervision. Usually, he’s pretty good at staying put, but last night in a fit of impulse, he jumped off the deck to go after a stray cat, realized he was lost, yowled like a maniac, then scrambled up the tree under our bedroom window and yowled again, begging to be rescued. Mr. Typist dutifully opened the bedroom window and scooped him up to safety. He recounted to story to me this morning, at which time I finally spoke the unspoken: “Mr. Typist,” I said, “We need to face the truth. We have a bad cat.” The reality of this hung between us heavily, but it was relief to finally have said it. We can now openly admit it: Buddy is bad. He is blatantly manipulative, relentless in his pursuit of constant entertainment and attention, an unrepentant psychopath when it comes to wheedling meals out of us, and just generally a brat. But sometimes a creature, even a bad one, is fated to belong to you. In the end, he’s our brat-- and we love him.