I got my first delivery of groceries from Peapod on Friday night. Yep, that’s right I had my milk and eggs and Lean Cusines brought directly to my door and I never put a measly toe inside the grocery store. Ain’t country is grand? God bless Capitalism. Anyway, the motivation behind this luxury was basically I hate hauling 20 pound bags of kitty litter up the Big Gigantor Hill with my wee shopping cart. I prefer my cardio to occur in a climate controlled gym with a US Weekly, decent eye candy and sporty shoes, thank you very much. So, I ordered kitty litter, along with every other big, bulky, or heavy item I could think of. Toilet paper, two jumbo jugs of laundry detergent, paper towels, multiple bags of cat food, that sort of thing. Yeah, and did I mention that I actually ordered ten bags of kitty litter? Ten. Bags. Of. Kitty. Litter. My thought process at the time was that with any luck, I won’t have to haul kitty litter up the Big Stinkin’ Hill until the first snow.
So, the delivery guys showed up in their scheduled time slot, all my items on a dolly, including my litter. They began to unload my groceries and as they dumped the bags of assorted items in my hallway it quickly became obvious they were looking around. It was the worst case of Trying-To-Check-Things-Out-Subtly-But-Failing-Miserably that I’ve ever encountered. I’m a single girl living alone, it was a Friday night, and I began to get a little antsy. Were they going to rob me of my meager, but still prized, possessions or were they secretly judging me for being home on a Friday night? Either option wasn’t really making me too happy. Finally after about five minutes, one of the delivery guys asks shyly, “Um, miss, where are all your cats?” I give him a funny look and reply, “Um, hiding?” He pauses for a moment, plucks up some more courage, and asks, “So, how many do you have?” At this point, I’m not sure where this is going, but I don’t think I’m going to like it. “Two,” I reply. Delivery Guy’s face clears and he sighs, “I thought you were going to have, like, a dozen or something. I mean ten bags of kitty litter and all.” His buddy chimes in and says, “Yeah, we thought you were going to be the, like, some smelly, crazy cat lady.” I was mortified. Let’s be clear: I am NOT a crazy cat lady. It’ll take me about 40 more years and another ten cats before I even become even remotely eligible.
I am never going to order that much litter again.