Activity Being Avoided: nothing – just a large gap between students
Music In My Head: the theme song from Mulberry
Tea Being Drunk: water. The new cafe here heats their tea water in a coffee pot so the tea tastes like coffee. It really, really sucks.
Books Being Read: Wuthering Heights (needed a fix); a foetal novel a friend wrote (you want to read this when it’s published).
Sister #2 is fiendish, even when she’s not trying to be.
Yesterday, I was working (picture sloppy pyjamas, gargantuan tea mug held upright between thighs, the hum of Iron and Wine in the background, curses spewing forth as I wrestled with PowerPoint) when there was a knock at the door. The postlady had a parcel for me, requiring a signature. Though I wasn’t expecting anything – had ordered this book, but only an hour previously, and Amazon ain’t that good – my name was on the package so I signed for it and brought it inside.
I put it on the table for inspection. My name and address were correct (do you know how often my last name is spelled correctly?) but the return address was from a woman in Lithuania. The Customs Declaration was from Lithuania. The opening instructions on the envelope were in… Lithuanian?
I don’t know anyone in Lithuania.
Now, I don’t want anyone to get excited and call the authorities here, but I confess to putting on yellow rubber dish gloves to open the package. (Shut up.)
Here’s the package, just so you can put yourself in my shoes:
Yes, a black pig.
There was no note, no invoice. I squished the pig a little: there weren’t any obvious packages of drugs inside.
Twenty minutes later, I was still breathing, so there clearly wasn’t any anthrax in the package (and that would have shown up on the black pig, surely).
Black toy pigs from Lithuania: internet-shopping-obsessed Sister #2 must be involved.
Well, it took me about 8 hours to get hold of her for confirmation. She was surprised that I hadn’t connected it to a cryptic message she left on my Facebook page a few weeks ago: “Yes, yes. Solution pending.” As I was unaware of any problem that required a solution, and she wasn’t offering any explanation, I promptly forgot about it.
The problem was my dearth of cats. Apparently, the pig is my replacement cat. It will take up space on my bed, sit on my lap, and can be perched on the edge of my cereal bowl, just so everything goes back to normal. She says, “It’s a pig with the significance of an armadillo.” (She is obsessed with Owen Meany, who had a pet stuffed armadillo… whom he tortured and mutilated, but my sister sees that as perfectly acceptable behaviour.)
I love my sister.
So we talked for an hour and a half on Skype, inspecting every aspect of the pig:
I’ve named her Edna. She’s nowhere near as big as my cat was, but she’ll do in a pinch – which is what my catless household is feeling like: a pinch.
Now, I just have to think of a little retribution. And I think I might contact Canada Post about compensation for PTSD.