I. My Heart's Goin' Boom Boom Boom

He drags tissue paper to the black sheepskin on the zebra print couch. When I hear mild crunching, I can't see the source but neither do I expect to. He's also dragged tissue behind the futon so when My Little Predator is on the crunchy prowl in the wee hours I'm not dialing 911 and searching my apartment with a big, big knife. So this evening, I noticed the rustle emanating from this new location and grabbed the disposable camera instead of the cleaver.

I'm making a concerted effort to take pictures of Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul. Time is passing not just for me but for others as well, which I often foolishly forget. Every day, I suppose Mom and Grandpa bicker, three of my sisters and my brother look into the eyes of their small children and see the past and future without seeing that instant; every day, Siobhan and I compare notes in person, over the phone or via email. Little things happen each day. We are intent on them or not. It is possible to regard each day as a chance to change the world. Suppose I plant basil in my kitchen and to my great joy my home is perfumed with the sweet earthiness of growing plants and the verdant sensuality of living basil. It is a small thing but the world is now different by the power of one person, basil and joy. So I went shopping.

I hate shopping.

The key to my hating less the shopping nightmare is to go when the other humans are distracted by something else, like sleep, work and hangovers. Since I don't sleep, work is many things but not on Sundays and I didn't happen to go hog-wild Saturday night, on Sunday morning, I hemmed. I hawed. If I had a watch, I'd have tapped it impatiently. Then showered and got into my car in pouring rain, which was still pouring when I got out and picked a soaking-wet carriage which remained soaking wet the whole time I was dropping vegetables into it, so it was like being in the shower with real raspberries and honeydews and bags I can't open. This place is usually a Lite-FM mosh pit and navigating the aisles with a small cart requires great tenacity. I think my strategy of showing up when other people clearly know better is a good one when I only have to apologize for bumping someone or something about a dozen times, and I get to the register and find no line! I mean no line at all. Cashier hoping to talk to me and everything. I looked around for Alan Funt.

When it wasn't an ambush, I handed the cashier money, buttoned my raincoat and swam to my car with my flotilla of fresh vegetables.

II.