You’re sitting around on a Saturday night after a fine dinner with fine friends (discussing an appropriately obscure American independent film*). You’re talking about your upcoming trip to Vancouver (and remembering that Canada is, indeed, another country. Must. Bring. Passport. Remember. What. Happened. To. Catharine.). You playfully recount the day’s meeting with the new cat sitter. You remind the husband that he needs to print the cute Get Well note for the old cat sitter — she likes cute.
Then, oh, somewhere around what should be your last glass of wine, you remember. You’ve taken care of the job. The clients. The house. The cats. The newspaper. Everything but…what is it? What is left to consider?
The blog. You need to hire a blog-sitter. Going rates are not so high (free comes to mind), but quality is a concern. You’re leaving your baby in the hands of a stranger. Unless, hmm, maybe you can rope a friend, maybe a friend who succumbed to a second margarita, into feeding and watering the blog for a day or two. Devious, yes. Unethical, oh, not so much. He ordered the margarita after reciting the alphabet backward.
After that, it’s easy to justify. It’s his own fault. You create an account, a password, a haphazard set of instructions (don’t discuss Dylan, and please no Guided By Voices, and if you can work Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah into a sentence, more power to you). You leave town. The cats are fine. They always are.
Jim Connelly will be driving for the next two days. Maybe more, Vancouver’s supposedly very nice. Good weather.
* – Meaning nothing makes sense, including the ending, but at least it was in English. Sort of.
