I often lose him in the nooks and crannies of our small apartment that happen to be busting at the seams. When I think I have looked everywhere, I panic, entering worst-case-scenario mode bestowed upon me by my dear mother. I begin to believe he has somehow grown three feet taller, evolved 3 million years to develop opposable thumbs, and gained supercat strength to open a window and jumped 20 feet to his broken-bodied, bloody death.
Or worse, that he's managed to weasel his way inside the wall and has gotten his voluptuous, curvaceous body stuck back there and I'll never find him, until I hear his sad meowing somewhere back there with all the rotting mouse carcasses, but the fire department can't get him out in time before he starves to death, because being the diva that he is, he turns his nose up at eating rotting mouse carcass.
Or worst of all, that he's somehow unlocked both locks on the door, with those new opposable thumbs, and escaped into our building's hallways, leading to a hefty fine from our apartment management company!
I am starting to realize that I am going to be the world's most paranoid helicopter parent. My unborn kids have a lot of freaking out to look forward to. I can't wait to pass it on to them for my grandchildren, the way Sandy H. has passed it on to me.
Luckily, we usually find Franco. Where's Franco?
|Some of these are the guest towels. |
And yes, I plan only on lint-rolling them before handing them off to you.
Martha would not approve.