Guess what fell out of my ceiling...

If you said a small jewelry box, you'd be correct. But go ahead guess what else fell out of the ceiling? A comic book. A bagged, boarded and graded comic book. Yep, I do have SWSNBN's earrings. Go figure. In my ceiling. WTF? Somehow I suspect Weezer...

We decided to do some laundry around eleven...

I have a nice washer and dryer. My old ones both died at the same time last year and I got some dang pretty floor models with slight scratching at deep discount. My basement ain't bad for being in an old business. I had ample time after the break up to drylock my basement, put in some new vinyl tile and build shelves. Weezer and I tried to put in the drop ceiling, then I gave the hell up and had a professional finish it. Krypto rode down in the laundry basket, highly amused at everything. I hope she likes the basement, cause that's where the litterbox is going as soon as she's big enough to handle the stairs. I have some cool stuff stored down there and after we put in the first load, I showed Maricel some of my action figures. That's not a metaphor for anything, okay? Then we heard Krypto mewing. We didn't see her. It got louder and more plaintive and then I heard scratching sounds above my head. She was up in my ceiling. CRAP! There was a tile slightly askew and it looked as if she'd climbed up on one of my shelves and made her way into the forbidden land of ceiling. I got a flashlight and a ladder and pushed the tile away. Something fell out, that was not a cat. Krypto was literally screaming by then. I shined the light into the darkness and called her. She wailed some more. I didn't want to tear out the ceiling, so I sent Maricel up for some meat. It only took half an hour to rescue our baby. Whereupon we punished her for her bad behavior by showering her with love. That'll learn her. Oh, by the way...

It's profoundly humbling...

When someone you respect (or adore) says the kinds of things to you that you've always thought you wanted to hear. Especially if they seem sincere. Dear God, I really love that girl. The idea of her getting hurt makes me sick to my stomach. It also makes me want to take the darn shotgun and go hunting for a fat, pale dude with braids. If you are that dude, watch you ample backside, bud. It could easily be full of bird shot. Just saying...

Oh yeah, the kitten is fine...

Thank you for your concern...

At least the blood came up...

I highly recommend the Armstrong commercial floor tiles. I shut up shop early and took Maricel out for dinner. She seemed fine, I was still a little freaked out. I'm still a little freaked out. Then we came home, Ellen stopped by to see if we were okay, which we were. I made some more martinis. By the way, a couple of martini-infused evenings does not mean I'm an alcoholic. Thanks for the kind referrals to AA, though. We went to bed at seven, though not to sleep. Wink, Wink nudge nudge, you know what I mean? I feel better now.

I missed the excitement again...

When I got home, the police were there talking to Maricel. When our fat white dude with dreds was done harassing my nearly comatose cousin, he came back here looking for something. Maricel said he came into the store yelling and screaming about something that made not a lick of sense to her. Then he grabbed her by the shirt, called her a bitch and said that he wanted it back. He did not elaborate on what "it" was. He smelled like liquor, just like they said he did at the hospital. So she grabbed the boxcutter under the counter and stuck him in the hand with it. Four times, as hard as she could. Hence the blood all over the floor of my store. Good thing I went with the linoleum over carpet. I did not feel as flip as I sound here. At the time my hands were shaking. After the police left, I hugged Maricel so hard she couldn't breathe.
"He's lucky I didn't go for the shotgun." She said referring to the sawed-off shotgun I kept under the counter. If the police saw it, they didn't say anything about the present my grandpa gave me when I opened the store. He didn't want me to be one of those comic store owners murdered for twenty bucks.
"Christ, what the hell has Weezer done?" I wondered.
"He wouldn't say what it was he wanted." Maricel said. "He was just drunk and mad."
"Your aunt was right, you aren't safe here." I said.