I didn’t post yesterday because I was packing for my trip to Amsterdam with my brother and Nick so stop yelling at me guilty conscience and let me live my life!
The key is organizational piles.
The “fun mom” pile wouldn’t be complete without responsible but cute shirts typically from Old Navy. Then you’ve got your “I’ll need this to cover up my erotic vibes” which consists of cardigans and black tights. Then there’s the “when did I become a person who wears leather?” pile which only holds a leather jacket I stole from my 12-year-old sister and a scandalous/business casual leather skirt my grandma bought me.
Did I mention I’m cool?
Anyways that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. We arrived at the AirBnB we’re staying at and two cats stared back at me from the couch. That’s when I vaguely remembered that to get such a cheap place in the city I agreed to petsit the host’s cats. I was confused too.
I took the list of instructions including a recipe for their dinner! Cat pâté! Freaking cat pâté.
Nick is allergic so we’ve been keeping him in a corner. Allergic to cats, not pâté. That man loves a mean pâté. And nice pâtés too.
I feel like I usually get paid with free housing when I pet sit but instead I’m paying her to take care of her cats. I’m great at negotiations. This explains my fear of car dealerships.
Anyways we spent the evening doing what people do in Amsterdam. When in Rome, amirite?
We both know I’m talking about walking in the bike line? Man, they love their bikes here. And they do aim.
When we came home last night we weren’t the most sober we could be. We probably could’ve been more. Just a little more.
That’s what I told myself when I woke up this morning and realized I mixed kitty kibble with hot water and then instructed Nick to mash it together with a fork to make “cat pâté”.
I found the actually pâté in tin cans this morning. I also found that the mush had hardened over night so the cats laughed at me silently while I scraped it out. #budgettravel
You know what they say. When in Rome, make cat pâté?
Update: So I assumed we were taking care of these cats because the hosts were going on their own vacation/they were staying with a friend/ living in a cardboard box while we rented their place.
Wrong.
We walked downstairs and as we were about to walk out, the door to the apartment on the ground floor opened and our host stepped out.
“Have a great day, guys!”
I was flabbergasted.
“You mean to tell me that you are living downstairs and I’m taking care of your cats upstairs?! Are you and your cats on a break? Should I drop off your cats later? I’m sure you guys can work it out over some pâté,” I said.
Except I only said that in my head because I’m a pussy.
Yes, that was a cat pun. Excuse me while I go feed the cats.