Liza Bean Bitey is Sincere in Her Desire to Make Amends

You have to wonder about a day that continues to rescue us, a day that heralds an expanse of time we can call our own. 

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Friday, a day in which we ask ourselves, hey! whatever happened to meeting your cousin last night at the piano bar?  (Answer: forgot it was Thursday.  Yikes.)

But this weekend will be different, won’t it?  All the things that we’ve planned to do, from laundry to lunch to laying limp lackadaisically, we’ll get them done, right?

Right?

Let’s consult the iPod, shall we?  Because as I continue to insist, my iPod, set to “shuffle” and played during my Friday-morning commute, knows all, tells some.

Shh.  Let’s listen.

Groove Me by Maximum Balloon

Got the Time by Joe Jackson

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised by Gil Scott-Heron

Tighten Up by The Bamboos

Gotta Understand by Jurassic 5

Love Rollercoaster by Ohio Players

Uptight (Everything’s Alright) by Stevie Wonder *

Ah!  People, we’ve hit a groove pocket.  This weekend?  Everything you wanted to do will get done; and all the things that creep up on you between today and Sunday?  They’ll get done, too.

We now take you to today’s bit of nonsense, already in process…

“Remember that mouse?”

I look up from my writing.  “Mouse?”

“The one on the stairs,” she says.

Ahh.  That mouse.  Well, who forgets a thing like that?  Headless, limbless, it was more of a mouse fragment than an actual mouse, really.

I may have developed a slight fear of the stairs since that evening...

“Yes, I do,” I say.  I return to my writing.

There is silence for several minutes, and then --

“There may be some small deliveries in the near future,” the cat intones.

Startled, I look up from my writing.  “I’m sorry, what’s that?”

“Oh, you know,” she drawls, her gaze fixed on the argumentative sparrows building a nest on the roof next door.  “Small things.  Inexpensive things.”

Small things?  Possibly.  Inexpensive things?

Never.

I close the lid on my laptop.  “Have you been in my purse again?”

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, smiles in my direction, a disconcertingly dangerous display of tiny, pointy teeth.  “Your purse?” she purrs, an allusion to how infrequently cash makes an appearance in it.

“What about the money I’ve hidden?”

The cat yawns.  “Really,” she murmurs. 

“My cash card?”

Liza Bean, bored, returns to looking at the birds.

“My PayPal account?”

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, a small, steady cat, delightfully symmetrical in both her striping and her stance on work ethics (you should have one, she doesn't have the time) becomes just a tad more still.

“Are you serious?” I cry.  “You broke into my PayPal account?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, languidly.  “Were you going to use that money?”

I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb in and index finger.  “What did you order?”

The sound of the doorbell wafts up the front stairs.  I open my eyes, direct a glare toward the kitty, now adorably winding a moistened paw around and around one ear.

“Would it matter,” she purrs, “if there were gifts for you in the mix?”

I smile.  “There are gifts for me?”

“If it would matter there are,” she says slyly. 

I stand, wearily.  A sigh the size of Iowa escapes me as I head toward the door.

“Pearl!”

I pause at the top of the steps, turn. 

“No purchases from your PayPal account,” she says, the dangerous little smile playing on her lips.  “It’s a pizza.”

The beginnings of a smile play on my lips.  “Remind me to scold you,” I say, running down the steps.

“Ah, yes,” I hear her say behind me.  “I’ll expect that right after the pizza then, shall I?"

* Designates groovy track you may have forgotten about but need to hear today.