Stalking my catsitter

Because it's completely obnoxious, and being completely obnoxious cracks my shit up, I'm hauling my unemployed ass out to the Hamptons for four days of lounging and beach bumming and driving around in a convertible. I leave Monday, right after I get back from three days in Schenectady for Mom's big 4-9. The only problem? My catsitter has completely dropped off the face of the Earth.

I have a "special needs" cat, wich is why I need a catsitter and not just a fabulous roommate. Mulder is diabetic and requires two shots of insulin a day. Unless you have experience administering cat shots, it can be very traumatizing. For you, not the cat. I know because I cried and whined and carried on when I first had to do it, while Mulder looked at me like, "Settle down, Beavis." It hurt me more than it hurt him.

So I'm doing what any normal person would do. I am stalking my catsitter. She no longer has a voicemail message on her cell, which makes me think something happened with her phone. I know the block she lives on, and I walk by a few times a day. She also mentioned she was going back to her old job, also in my neighborhood, so I've been walking by at different times during the day to see if she's there. Today, I'm going to pop in and inquire.

Cousin Desiree: What are you doing?

Me: Stalking my catsitter.

Cousin Desiree: You really don't have anything better to do than stalk your catsitter?

Me: No.

Cousin Desiree: You need to find a job.

Then Cousin Desiree and I discussed how we were always considered the smart ones, and how we're both mostly unemployed, her at 25 and me at 30. Her brother, not generally considered one of the smart ones, is, at 20, the only one bringing in a paycheck. Our grandparents must be so proud.

The Roommate offered to undergo shooting-up-the-cat training, should my catsitter not be located. I hope it doesn't come to that.