Steve insists that the cats will stage a revolt if we switch their kitty litter, which just happens to be the cheap stuff that can only be purchased at Sam's Club in ginormous containers. I am skeptical. I think the sixteen linear feet of litter options at Target look just fine not to mention appropriately sized for non-Amazons who need to get the product off the shelf and into their cart.
However the ramifications of what would occur if he is right and I am wrong are too hideous to contemplate so in response to an urgent text from Steve re. cats and their sanitary needs (he cleans the boxes; I obtain the litter - fair enough) Edward and I made the dutiful trek to Sams after OT; although it was a pain because the parking lot is massive and the store is massive and the carts are massive and the only thing I needed was kitty litter.
But, you know, dire possible consequences, so I parked and walked and got an unsteerable cart and walked and eventually wound up in front of pet supplies where I took a few deep breaths in preparation for hoisting the 42 pound bin up and over and into the cart, which then shook from the force of it.
Edward took a few cautious steps backward. Clearly he doubted my ability to control the giant green things I was swinging around like a square dancer and he was right to do so.
"One more," I said. "Careful."
And I uttered a ladylike wrestler grunt, grabbed the second bin and tossed it into the cart where it juttered to a stop next to the first one, taking my hand with it and smashing my finger between the two.
I howled. I grabbed my finger and bent double and hopped around and howled.
It's not broken but it is bruised like a motherf... like a peach and the fact that I knew those damned oversized cubes were going to get me one day just makes it all the more irritating.
It is my middle finger, naturally.