it's a...!

Kittennnnn! Oh yes, I adopted. Despite my rant about an unfortunate experience at a local shelter a couple months ago, I went back. Call me a hypocrite? No no no. Call me a good Samaritan.

OK: interjection point. I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hood and am enjoying the cornucopia of individuals... just in time for Thanksgiving. There's a man sitting next to the door doing the woman cross (legs) and keeps making this weird gurgly-growly throat-clearing noise. It makes me a little nauseated I think. Or maybe the nausea is coming from my evening last night taking care of a wee one with diarrhea and her brother who threw up chicken noodley things all over Creation. I don't think I've ever smelled something quite as awful as that. And... I'm rambling.

Back to the good news. Last Wednesday I finally gave in and paid a visit to the shelter. On a mission. I checked out a few of the prospects in the older cat alley (seriously, shelters are among the saddest and weirdest places imaginable--this cat place smelled like an old sponge dipped in ammonia and looked like the inside of a loony bin), then made my way to the kitten boxes. I picked out three wee ones to take into the adoption room and voila, there was no line (thank gee-oh-dee). While waiting for the precious little babes to be fetched, I browsed the older cats one more time and in walked two little boys who clearly took 2 hours apiece on their outfits. I think they were 12. These boys were adorable and obviously gay. I was immediately enamored of the one who couldn't stop flipping his gorgeous hair, so I struck up a conversation. And let me just tell you, this conversation was much more enjoyable than the one I had about 3 hours later with a creepy cat woman at Petsmart. Somehow in recommending cat beds to me, she admitted to being a 40-year-old cat lady whose knowledge only reaches as far as her seven kitties' litter boxes. Creepy.

Needless to say, I chose two: A brother and sister who I promptly named George and Stella. They needed me. I had to. Don't judge. When George crawled up into my lap with his little white-booted paws and fell asleep purring, closely followed by Stella who snuggled up next to him, my fate was sealed. There was no turning back. For some reason people have been getting really surprised that I adopted them. Really? Are you really that astonished that I would save two kittens from the treacherous depths of an animal shelter or worse, a creepy cat lady's home where they pick a number and play charades dressed in baby clothes? Come on people. Even the little girl (See-->Africa) I babysat for last night was a skeptic:
"Do you have a puppy?" Her.
"No, but I have two kitties." Me.
"Oh, but do you have a puppy? Why don't you have a puppy?" Her.

I guess in her mind in order to legitimize having kitties, I needed a puppy. Puppies rule, kittens drool.

Anyway, I picked them up Thursday night and what did I do Friday night? I laid in bed with them curled up on and next to me watching P.S. I Love You and sobbing at all the right parts. Once I realized that I was on a slippery slope to social destruction, I vowed only to allow myself a handful of these nights. I mean come on, as a woman of 23, I should probably be spending my weekends bouncing around the bars, challenging people to dance parties, making friends right and left, right? Well, usually. When it comes to my options, sometimes I prefer a good snuggle sesh followed by waking up un-hungover. <--It's a win-win if you ask me.

Anyway, one thing I definitely will NOT be doing is writing about all of George and Stella's antics, cuteness, blahblahblah because I've read a few too many blogs written by cat- or dog-obsessed people. And. It's. Weird.
...You're welcome.

That guy is still making the gurgly noises. I'm about to throw a box of Kleenex at his Jersey-blown hairdo.