The Stars and the Cookie Jar

My father is dead. He is a known quantity. He is unequivocal. And I'm getting the paperwork for it.

I think I can go ahead and get married now.

Thank goodness my children will have enough grandfathers on darthrami's side that they won't have to ask questions. One of 'em's crappy, but he's not crappy in that convicted-sex-offender way.

*spins and twirls*

I feel so much better. My paranoia about his maybe-possibly-still-being-alive has been quelled in no uncertain surliness by the semi-lovely people at NYDOCS.

Whee!

ETA: It's Hart Island, not Hart's Island. Did anybody else know that?

I am still grooving around the apartment with darthbast, who tells me firmly that CatMilk Plus is not acceptable, and where is the Organic Cow Brand Half and Half?

(Yeah. My cat has brand loyalty. She invites you to step over here an' make somethin' of it.)

For the past week, we have been capitalist peeg consumer whores. (But see, I'm not even sure we can call it that, as, given a new and steady income on the horizon, we've only been buying necessary things.)It's just that since I moved here and Nothing Went Right With The Old Job, we'd been in an economic dry spell.

So! We have a bed, a bed made to accomodate two fully grown persons, and with a frame, even. We have new sheets for the bed when it arrives. We have a land-line telephone in the apartment. (No dialling 911 until we get the email saying they know where we live!) I have new shoes, darthrami has new clothes. We bought the spray medicine stuff for the kitties' hot spots. We have proper nutritious groceries, including fresh fruit. We have shampoo and razors and ---

God, we're just boring, aren't we?

Most excitingly, we're going to Cambridge next weekend to celebrate with gaudior and rushthatspeaks, and we've hired a car so we can go see other friends, and I'm not worried about the money part of it.

*goes back to dancing around the apartment with the cat*