![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smackenzieOscar growled and barked at the back door for probably another fifteen minutes. Marya cooked her pork chops and cut into the chicken breasts to see if they were done. They weren't. She fried the sausages while she was waiting for the chicken to cook through, and laughed at Oscar when he was finally distracted from the cat thing outside. Apparently the smell of hot fried grease could grab his attention.
"You're not getting any of this," she told him. He jumped up and put his front paws on the counter by the plate of pork chops anyway. Marya pushed him back down. He barked at her. "No," she said. "What did I just say? This is for me, and the pan is hot." He didn't seem to care.
Marya wrapped the pork chops in tinfoil and put them in the fridge. By now the chicken was done, so she took that out of the oven, put the pan on top of the stove so the chicken could cool off, and tried to find a good knife to cut it up. She figured she'd cut up one of the breasts for chicken salad and eat the other two as is. Maybe if he was good she'd let Oscar have some. Maybe.
He watched her closely as she found a knife and cut one of the chicken breasts into pieces. She dumped the pieces in a bowl, added mayo, cut up some celery, added that, and remembered she had a box of raisins to put in as well. Oscar didn't like raisins or celery, but he was a sucker for anything covered in mayo. Marya thought he was weird. But he was also the dog who liked raw cauliflower, so. She scraped her chicken salad into a plastic container, snapped on the lid, and stuck it in the fridge.
She ate a sausage while she thought about what to do with the rest of them, now that they were cooked. She didn't like cold sausage but she could always stick them in the microwave to warm them up when she finally got around to eating them. They were mild Italian chicken sausages, which she'd started eating when she was dating Cass, because Cass was on a healthy eating kick at the time. Marya lost an entire unopened box of sausage patties because Cass was determined to make everyone else around her eat the same kind of crap she ate. The day after she and Cass broke up, Marya dumped out all the sugar substitute and gave all the sugar-free, fat-free, and taste-free shit in her house to the couple across the street, who were both just starting Weight Watchers. It didn't occur to Marya until later that they might be offended by this entirely random offering of diet food, but it turned out that they weren't offended, because they'd just been telling her that they needed to lose weight but retraining themselves to buy more healthy food was hard and kind of expensive.
Cass was pretty much Marya's last experience with any kind of diet food. But she had to admit, she liked the chicken sausage.
She wrapped the sausage in tinfoil too and put it in the fridge. Mission accomplished, meat cooked. Now her freezer could go on the fritz and she wouldn't have to worry about her meat going bad. Although if her freezer went out, that kind of implied that her fridge was next, and if her fridge died, she was screwed. Her only recourse was to finish the cheese and the milk. Oh, what a hardship.
Now that she was done in the kitchen - except for the dishes - she had time to think about the thing outside that looked like a cat but not really. He was still out there, but he'd finished cleaning himself and was just sitting on his haunches in the grass, watching her back door. It was pretty creepy. He looked even less like a normal housecat from this angle, and he looked bigger. And because of the rain, his no doubt thick and fluffy coat was plastered to his body, which just made Marya wonder how big he looked when he was dry. Wet animals always looked smaller than they did dry, because there was no chance of fluffing up their coats to appear bigger and more impressive.
This thing in her back yard seemed impressive enough wet. Impressive and really patient. She hoped it wasn't waiting for her to let Oscar outside. She was just going to walk him around the neighborhood later, when he had to go out.
She could leave the creature in the back yard. She wasn't going to disturb it, and so far, aside from the general creep factor, it wasn't disturbing her. Oscar seemed about ready to start barking again, now that he'd realized he wasn't getting any chicken or pork chop or sausage, so Marya took some cheese out of the fridge and used it to tempt him into the spare bedroom where her drumkit was. She didn't want to watch the news or listen to the radio any more, and she couldn't get online, and she didn't want to drive around in the rain. But she could practice. She had no idea when she'd ever be able to play a gig again, but there was no harm in keeping herself in tune, so to speak. Besides, she was getting twitchy, and she really really loved her drums.
This was the only time she was glad Oscar was deaf. He lay down just inside the door, put his chin down on his front paws, and went to sleep. Marya warmed up with some drum corps cadences she'd learned from a guy who played in the marching band in college, and the moved on to more complicated patterns. It didn't take long for her to warm up her arms and shoulders and then she just went to town - finding a rhythm, losing a rhythm, listening to the snap of the snare drum and the thud of the kick pedal and the metallic tick of the hihats.
It was soothing and comforting - and exhausting - she knew how to do this. She knew how to judge whether she was good or bad, whether or not she'd learned anything in the eleven years she'd been playing. She knew what kinds of advice to take when people wanted to comment on her drumming, and she knew that sometimes you had to try the advice before you could determine whether or not it was going to be useful. She knew what made someome good, and she had a pretty decent idea of what made someone great.
She herself was not a great drummer, but she was good at it and she liked to do it, and sitting behind her kit rolling through fills and jumped-up marching band cadences made her feel competent and able. She could do this. She couldn't find her dad and she'd lost her grandma and she had no idea if anyone was even left in her city, bu she still had her drums and her cymbals and the drumsticks she'd covered with duct tape to make them last longer. Oscar snoozed on the floor and Marya channeled her inner Neil Peart and her inner Keith Moon and even her inner Max Roach, and for a while everything was as it should be.
words: 1239
total words: 12,085
"You're not getting any of this," she told him. He jumped up and put his front paws on the counter by the plate of pork chops anyway. Marya pushed him back down. He barked at her. "No," she said. "What did I just say? This is for me, and the pan is hot." He didn't seem to care.
Marya wrapped the pork chops in tinfoil and put them in the fridge. By now the chicken was done, so she took that out of the oven, put the pan on top of the stove so the chicken could cool off, and tried to find a good knife to cut it up. She figured she'd cut up one of the breasts for chicken salad and eat the other two as is. Maybe if he was good she'd let Oscar have some. Maybe.
He watched her closely as she found a knife and cut one of the chicken breasts into pieces. She dumped the pieces in a bowl, added mayo, cut up some celery, added that, and remembered she had a box of raisins to put in as well. Oscar didn't like raisins or celery, but he was a sucker for anything covered in mayo. Marya thought he was weird. But he was also the dog who liked raw cauliflower, so. She scraped her chicken salad into a plastic container, snapped on the lid, and stuck it in the fridge.
She ate a sausage while she thought about what to do with the rest of them, now that they were cooked. She didn't like cold sausage but she could always stick them in the microwave to warm them up when she finally got around to eating them. They were mild Italian chicken sausages, which she'd started eating when she was dating Cass, because Cass was on a healthy eating kick at the time. Marya lost an entire unopened box of sausage patties because Cass was determined to make everyone else around her eat the same kind of crap she ate. The day after she and Cass broke up, Marya dumped out all the sugar substitute and gave all the sugar-free, fat-free, and taste-free shit in her house to the couple across the street, who were both just starting Weight Watchers. It didn't occur to Marya until later that they might be offended by this entirely random offering of diet food, but it turned out that they weren't offended, because they'd just been telling her that they needed to lose weight but retraining themselves to buy more healthy food was hard and kind of expensive.
Cass was pretty much Marya's last experience with any kind of diet food. But she had to admit, she liked the chicken sausage.
She wrapped the sausage in tinfoil too and put it in the fridge. Mission accomplished, meat cooked. Now her freezer could go on the fritz and she wouldn't have to worry about her meat going bad. Although if her freezer went out, that kind of implied that her fridge was next, and if her fridge died, she was screwed. Her only recourse was to finish the cheese and the milk. Oh, what a hardship.
Now that she was done in the kitchen - except for the dishes - she had time to think about the thing outside that looked like a cat but not really. He was still out there, but he'd finished cleaning himself and was just sitting on his haunches in the grass, watching her back door. It was pretty creepy. He looked even less like a normal housecat from this angle, and he looked bigger. And because of the rain, his no doubt thick and fluffy coat was plastered to his body, which just made Marya wonder how big he looked when he was dry. Wet animals always looked smaller than they did dry, because there was no chance of fluffing up their coats to appear bigger and more impressive.
This thing in her back yard seemed impressive enough wet. Impressive and really patient. She hoped it wasn't waiting for her to let Oscar outside. She was just going to walk him around the neighborhood later, when he had to go out.
She could leave the creature in the back yard. She wasn't going to disturb it, and so far, aside from the general creep factor, it wasn't disturbing her. Oscar seemed about ready to start barking again, now that he'd realized he wasn't getting any chicken or pork chop or sausage, so Marya took some cheese out of the fridge and used it to tempt him into the spare bedroom where her drumkit was. She didn't want to watch the news or listen to the radio any more, and she couldn't get online, and she didn't want to drive around in the rain. But she could practice. She had no idea when she'd ever be able to play a gig again, but there was no harm in keeping herself in tune, so to speak. Besides, she was getting twitchy, and she really really loved her drums.
This was the only time she was glad Oscar was deaf. He lay down just inside the door, put his chin down on his front paws, and went to sleep. Marya warmed up with some drum corps cadences she'd learned from a guy who played in the marching band in college, and the moved on to more complicated patterns. It didn't take long for her to warm up her arms and shoulders and then she just went to town - finding a rhythm, losing a rhythm, listening to the snap of the snare drum and the thud of the kick pedal and the metallic tick of the hihats.
It was soothing and comforting - and exhausting - she knew how to do this. She knew how to judge whether she was good or bad, whether or not she'd learned anything in the eleven years she'd been playing. She knew what kinds of advice to take when people wanted to comment on her drumming, and she knew that sometimes you had to try the advice before you could determine whether or not it was going to be useful. She knew what made someome good, and she had a pretty decent idea of what made someone great.
She herself was not a great drummer, but she was good at it and she liked to do it, and sitting behind her kit rolling through fills and jumped-up marching band cadences made her feel competent and able. She could do this. She couldn't find her dad and she'd lost her grandma and she had no idea if anyone was even left in her city, bu she still had her drums and her cymbals and the drumsticks she'd covered with duct tape to make them last longer. Oscar snoozed on the floor and Marya channeled her inner Neil Peart and her inner Keith Moon and even her inner Max Roach, and for a while everything was as it should be.
words: 1239
total words: 12,085
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-11-10 02:51 am (UTC)LOL!!!
I'm still creeped out by the not-a-cat, though.