If I Had Three Thousand Dollars

You know it was a good weekend when you manage to bring both cats to the vet and nobody requires a blood transfusion or a tetanus shot. It’s even better when you don’t feel a burning desire to consume an entire bottle of wine afterwards.

I love our cats dearly, but the only thing they hate more than their cat carriers is the vet’s office. They like to voice their displeasure. Loudly and repeatedly.

Also, our cats might be super fluffy, but their points bits are pointy. Also sharp. Also pokey. Also bitey.

Why yes, I do own a thesaurus.

(It’s called the Internet).

(It’s not that great).

When you stick our cats in their hated carriers and then you convey them to a building that smells overwhelmingly like other animals and their various bodily secretions, well, you’re just asking for trouble. Trouble in the form of snarling, hissing and running laps around the examination room while baring fangs and claws. I’m pretty sure there is a note in their file that says “BAD CATS!” I’m surprised that the vet doesn’t charge us hazard pay. It only takes her, me, Kristian and a very nervous looking vet tech to get them subdued.

Our dog, on the other hand, loves the vet. She’s all “Oh? You want to stick me with some needles? No big deal. Oh? You’re taking a stool sample directly from the source? Enh.”

Our trip to the vet wasn’t the highlight of our weekend (THANK GOD), but it was a pretty decent start. A very, very, very early start. There’s a reason that those early Saturday morning appointments are always available when I call to book something. It’s because all of the people smarter than me have booked their appointments for later in the day so that they can sleep in.

Note to self: no matter how much you pretend, a ten minute nap on Saturday afternoon is in no way, shape or form comparable to sleeping in.

After dropping the cats off at home, we went and picked my cousin, Tigran, up to take him to Guitar Center for his birthday. I’m sure that you’re all shocked to hear this, but he was much happier about his trip than our spoiled felines were. (Ingrates!) Something about buying effects pedals instead of getting rabies shots.

These kids, today.

No stairway? Denied.

Seeing Guitar Center through the eyes of a teenaged boy was pretty cool. Until he said, “Hey! Those are my eyes! You put those back!” Which is when I went back to being all jaded and world-weary.

While Tigran noodled around on every guitar that caught his fancy, I found myself drawn to a beautiful, old, Gibson hollow-body. An ES-175, to be exact. I picked it up, played it for a bit, and then promptly fell in love. There was no price tag on it, and it was pretty beat up looking, so I asked Kristian to go ask how much it cost.

(I think everyone can guess where this is heading).

Yeah, that guitar cost three thousand dollars. It was made in 1953. It’s a very nice guitar.

(The only reason it doesn’t cost more is because it really is a little beat up looking).

People, I have to tell you, that guitar broke my heart.

I mock you, puny human, and your even punier paychecks.

I’m not exactly poor, but I’m not exactly “can afford to drop $3k on a whim” either. Unless “whim” stands for “ransom money.” Or “life saving organ transplantation.” And, even then, I think I’d try to negotiate.

I have several guitars. Nice ones. And I don’t play guitar enough to justify buying a new one. I mean, I play tambourine with my band. Tambourine! Playing any instrument in Rock Band at medium difficulty is harder than it is to play tambourine for real. I’m not exactly a serious musician.

That doesn’t mean I don’t want to bring that beautiful guitar home and make her mine. I would name her Gertrude and she would learn to love me. I might even start practicing more. Maybe.

I thought about things that I could easily sell for $3k (I don’t have any). I thought about selling a kidney (too risky). I thought about selling one of Tigran’s kidneys (he said no, the little ingrate). And then I said goodbye to Gertrude and we walked out of the store. I said I’d come back and visit her, but that was just a lie I told to make her feel better about herself.

Oh, Gertrude, it’s not you, it’s me. No, wait, it’s you.