So five minutes ago I had nothing to post about, but since I live in crazy-town all that has changed. Normally I don't open my door for strangers when I'm home alone because invariably it's some nut-job from the Meth Lab Acres Apartment Community down the street wanting to use my phone to call their drug-addicted kid's parole officer (and don't you dare say yes even once because they WILL come back and it WILL be when you are sleeping). So when the doorbell rang I discretely glanced through the window and saw an unfamiliar car and decided not to answer it. Rossby, who goes nuts anytime someone rings the doorbell, made it obvious that I was home by barking wildly and running back and forth from the front door to the window to my hiding place in the kitchen. After about a minute the doorbell rang again. I looked again to make sure it wasn't someone I knew and retreated to the kitchen to hide. That's when the knocking started. It was obvious she was never going to leave and by this point I thought there might be some kind of non-parole officer related emergency so I scooped Rossby up and opened the door.
"I live on the next street over, I haven't been getting my bank statements, have they been coming here?"
"No, sorry" I replied thinking that would be a sufficient answer.
"Well I live on the next street over and I need my bank statements."
"If I see anything I'll be sure to bring it over" I replied.
"Is your last name Sullivan? How long have you lived here?"
"No, it's not, and we've been here about a year."
By this point I was getting really tired of this pointless conversation and was starting to tune out a little because she'd gone back to talking about how bad she needs her bank statements and how frustrated she is and how she's going to change banks if something doesn't change and Bitchy Preggo Becca is about to say "What does any of this have to do with me?" instead of what the Normal Becca was saying: "Uh huh. Yes that's frustrating. You should really call your bank." Then Rossby started freaking out. Thrashing. Wimpering. Everything. Bank statement lady said
"Well I'm sorry to have bothered you"
"No problem, I'll let you know if I see anything." said Normal Becca (still in control thank goodness).
Still holding Rossby I closed and locked the front door and turned around to see a pretty long haired calico cat in my living room. I don't have a cat. Rossby eats cats. Visions of horrific Animal Planet lion on gazelle footage filled my head as I stood stock still by the door still holding a now very excited Rossby. Quickly (faster than I've moved in months) I threw Rossby into the bathroom and closed the door (this was met by much whining and protesting from behind the closed door "Please can I eat the cat? Please? Mom?") I grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck to get him out from under the dining room table but he got away and went even further under the table. Rossby by this time was pounding on the bathroom door and whining with all he had. I paused briefly to wonder if everyone's life is as weird as mine. I couldn't get the cat out from under the table because I pretty much can't even pick up a sock off the floor without a Herculean effort and getting the cat would require squatting and leaning and reaching all at the same time. Finally I got him to go outside by standing on the porch with the door open calling him and shaking my keys. I let Killer out of the bathroom and he has been frantically sniffing the carpet under the table ever since