I Am Unwell

I have a cold and it isn't yet in the Ah hab a code stage.

I should have recognized it creeping up on me. I was so tired in the evenings this week that I would nod off around 7:30, then when I woke up would put myself to bed. I had little bursts of energy. Uncharacteristically so, usually at work so I'm all caught up there. Last night, I desperately tried to read A Clash of Kings but my eyes burned. I had to settle for watching a movie.

This morning, the truth was made known to me as I sniffled and snuffled and wiped away sticky tears from my eyes. Dang! I've got a cold.

Luckily, I'm also at the stage where an Advil Sinus pill works to clear up everything.

It's snowing. I went back to bed after breakfast and when I woke up, the snow had already covered my car roof and windshield.

Oh, Dylan is feeling so much better. He's acting like a kitten again in a lot of ways. I don't know how much of it is the relief of feeling better or if it's because the pain medicine is still working. I hope it's because he feels better because this is the Dylan I've been missing. I woke up this morning and he was cuddled next to me, his chin resting on my shoulder. I've missed that boy.

Clinger

Since I came home Friday evening, there has been a shake up in the order of things. One thing has become clear to me: When I leave for work tomorrow, I will have to surgically detach Dylan from me.

He's with me everywhere.

Right now, he's leaning his cheek against the laptop so he can get the warmth from the fan.

When I went to bed, he curled up with me. When I turned over, he got up and cuddled on my other side.

He was upset when I dared shower without him.

More than once, he has managed to pop open the study door.

The other cats may wonder where I am, but Dylan has no doubt that I'm exactly where I need to be - right next to him.

A Lot About Nothing

Usually at this time of the morning, I'm dressed for work and getting ready to go. But since we're enjoying a pea-soup fog, I'm waiting until it's vaguely daylight outside.

Cousin Karen Update

I've been thinking about this hard, the whole situation. I realized that part of my initial enthusiasm in lending a hand was selfish. I have a hard time admitting when I'm lonely. It's just background noise at this point. I remembered that it doesn't take much for my gregariousness quota to be full. I'm not sure this would work on a long-term basis.

I also realized that my Cousin Danny is legally her next of kin. So I started texting him the other day. He sounded far more rational than she did. (It's not her fault.) He sounded fairly confident about the loss mitigation/mediation program they're going through, but I got no other details. I haven't been able to reach him to actually speak to him.

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Emma Update

Emma had been ill for over a week, unable to keep anything down. When I talked to her Monday evening, she sounded like she was at death's door. Sven was at home, so I told her to get dressed and let Sven take her to the tiny emergency room they have in Podunkville. Astoundingly, she did. They gave her IV fluids and sent her home with anti-barf meds.

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Boris Update

Friends, he is slowing down. He's no longer grooming himself, but he still has an appetite and still loves to cuddle. He has a jones for Whiskas Temptations. He likes to get brushed. So he gets all of these things in abundance.

Everyone else is A-OK, although I suspect Dylan has arthritis in his front paws. It's hard to realize that the youngest one, Blue is 10 this year. And kind of scary, too.

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Me Update

I'm tired of being tired. I'm very grateful for finally achieving a balanced mood, but the balance has to be carefully watched, all the time. One side effect of all of these drugs is to make me sleepy and/or fatigued. By the time I get home, I'm lucky to pour a bowl of cereal for myself and dole out cat food for the kitties. I get into my jammies, watch a movie, and fall into bed.

There has to be and is a better way. It's all very simple. I need to make myself a cup of coffee around 3 - 4 p.m. Good coffee, not that in-the-office bile. And while I normally take coffee black, in the afternoons it has to have some 1/2 & 1/2 in it. This is sketchy at work, although the company graciously provides milk and 1/2 & 1/2. I go in at 9 am and the fridge is full. I go in at 3 pm to the kitchen and there's 1/4 of an inch of skim milk left. The easy and rational solution is for me to take my own but disguise it so no one will think she can "borrow" it and no one will mind.

There is a serious misunderstanding at work of what's yours and what's mine, especially when it comes to the contents of the refrigerator. And if this is the biggest problem I have at work, I am truly blessed.

I have projects and things I want to accomplish at home but I'm getting exactly nowhere with them because all I do at home is sleep. At this point, I doubt Cousin Karen will come to live with me, but I still want to sort out the house. It's needed sorting for a couple of years now and I want to do it. Before, I didn't care but for some reason (head meds?) I care now. I see what needs to be done, have a reasonable plan in place for doing it, but when I lift a hand, it's usually to change into my pajamas. Wake up, Becs, wake up!

Just a Glimpse

I am now at the point in mourning for Taylor where the heavy ache is gone. I still haven't removed all of her stuff from the house, but a good bit of it (medical stuff) has gone in the trash.

This is the stage where I expect to see her. And because I expect to see her, my mind puts her there for a second. I always make the same sound when I think I see her - an unsurprised "oh" - which is followed by a surprised "oh".

But the other cats have finally realized that Taylor is not coming back. I have rarely seen such relaxed cats. There was always a definite tension when Taylor walked into the room.

Lately, Blue has taken to flinging himself on me and this is quite a moment considering that he weighs at least twenty pounds. I have been able to pay more attention to Boris, who is very happy to have it. Dylan, Sophie, Brianna, they're all coming around, but I have noticed a weird dynamic between Sophie and Brianna. I think they're trying to sort out who's the Queen of the Hill. Sophie's quick but Brianna is so crazy that you can't anticipate her next move.

And me, I find myself with an unclenched neck. It's easy to take care of one sick old cat (Boris), especially is he's cooperative and good-natured.

They are pretty demanding when they first see me - food! Give us food!

Something which I myself would enjoy now.

Hm. Scrambled eggs. Now I need a place to hide away, oh I believe in scrambled eggs.

Dylan Update and I Don't Like The Sound of This

Dr. Tingly was his usual cheerful (and exceedingly tan - I'm sure he has a wing of his shore house that should rightly be mine) self.

Here's how it went down, without the baby talk:

Dr. T (scouring Dylan's records): I notice that he has a lot of upper respiratory infections. And nobody else gets these when he does?

Me: I usually rush him in as soon as I can. (Because he's my favorite.)

Dr. T (examining Dylan): Have you ever noticed these two brown spots in his left eye?

Me: (At first I think I have. Then I'm afraid I haven't) Uh-

Dr. T: We need to watch that. It's frequently the indication of a tumor.

A TUMOR? ARE YOU SAYING MY BELOVED HAS A TUMOR?

Dr. T: Was he tested for Feline AIDS or Leukemia when you got him?

Me (increasingly doubting myself as a competent pet owner): I usually brought any cats that were new directly to Hunky Vet, whose practice you absorbed.

MY CAT HAS FELINE AIDS? FELINE LEUKEMIA?

Dr. T scans the records: Ah. Here. Yes, In 2000.

2000!!

Dr. T: Negative for both. But still...do you mind if we re-test him?

Me (all of my cats are going to die of Feline AIDS or Feline Leukemia): No, no. No, please.

Dr. T: I just can't figure out why he gets these upper respiratory infections.

And then I remember. The big beautiful chicken-hearted pussy cat totally freaks out at stress.

Diego mows the lawn. Dylan gets stressed.
I run the vacuum cleaner. Dylan gets stressed.
It's Monday and I go back to work after a weekend of servitude. Dylan gets stressed.

And somewhere along the line, I realize that Dr. Tingly is deliberately trying to freak me out. You bastard, I think. And what really decides me on this is when he says something about if the tests are negative, one of the techs will come out and tell me. Otherwise, he and I Will Have to Talk.

And I thought, hell to the no! There are lots of multi-cat households where one cat has Feline AIDS and the others remain uninfected. It's transmitted (as I recall) through bites and Dylan just can't be bothered to get into that vigorous of an argument with the cats here. I think, you are not going to give me The Talk. Get the hell away from me.

In the end, Dylan got a whacking great shot of antibiotics and I got several lectures, which I will ignore.

Don't you touch my cat, bub. You'll draw back a nub. And you're much too tanned for "bloody stump" to be a good look for you.

Re-enactments Nightly!

Dylan so loved the fact that I waded in knee high filthy water that to rescue him, now that the basement is generally open to the cats, he runs down the stairs any chance he gets.

Then he runs around the corner to the dark part of the basement, sits neatly with his tail curled around his toes, and waits for me to come find him.

My part is to slowly follow him into the dark part of the basement, spot him, spot him spotting me, and cry, "Dylan!" He stands on all fours with his tail quavering. I have to then pick him up and carry him up the stairs.

He gets to the landing, dances around a little bit, then runs back downstairs.

Maybe I should start calling him "Rerun".

The Rearrangement

The rearrangement of cats on various totem poles has begun. Slowly. But it has started.

I'm worried that Brianna and Sophie aren't around much. I can always find Brianna in the basement and she's always happy to be found. Sophie is like a ghost cat. Here, then gone, not to be found in the interim.

Even Taylor seems at loose ends. I think she's busy terrorizing Brianna.

Dylan is a little extra-clingy. Blue has discovered the vacancy.

The one who initially had the hardest time was Boris. Every morning when I sat on the couch, it would be Dylan on my lap, then Gus to the left of me and Boris to the left of him. I've been giving Boris extra attention because he was so sadly lost. But now he's discovered the empty spot where Gussy used to sit and has come closer.

It continues.

And as for me, I still have not realized the full extent of how Gussy ran my life.

I've begun clearing out the many spaces, blankets, special places where Gussy ate to get away from the other cats, however briefly.

It reminds me of recovering from the death of a person who died after a long illness. You don't realize that you have pills, boxes of hypodermics, bottles of medicine, special pillows, special equipment, wash cloths, wipes, blankets that were used to make the patient rest a little easier. You're unsure of how exactly to pack it all away, but you know that you have to.

The New World Order

I knew Gus was the kingpin and lynch pin of the household, but I didn't truly understand how much.

This morning, the gang is at sixes and sevens.

When I woke up, Taylor was nowhere to be found. She had become a bed cat, centering herself in the exact center of the bed, no matter where I happened to be. Instead, Sophie was on the bed. Boris was in the Big Chair, still making room for Gus. Blue came out of hiding. Brianna showed up from the basement long enough to eat breakfast. And Dylan, of course, was still most emphatically Dylan.

I hadn't realized that Gus was such a talker. The house is oddly quiet. I am not being harried from place to place to do his bidding. It's more of a relief than I thought. And yet, I miss it.

As for me, I am castigating myself for doing it too soon, for making excuses about being at the end of my rope, at dreading the next week or two when I would do nothing but urge Gus to eat and drink, at following him around to wipe off the blood on his nose.

There is no perfect time for any of this.

And the little world that will reassemble itself in my house will be far from perfect, too.

I Have a Little Shadow...

I go to bed. Dylan sleeps with his face next to my ear, so he purrs me to sleep.

I come into the pseudo-office to type. There's a fuzzy cat bed next to the monitor. In theory, he sleeps there but in reality, he turns upside down and stretches a paw out to me. Then he gets up and threads behind the monitor, in front of the monitor, over to me, where he pat pat pats my arm. Then puts his front paws on my chest and smears his head all over my face. And I realize I will lose, so I pick him up and cuddle him.

I think about hot chocolate and walk into the kitchen. He follows me.

I watch a video. He's in my lap.

Oh, the past month has been a thing of beauty for him. I have told him a couple of times that all of this comes to an end on Monday. Monday has no meaning to cats. I am either here or not-here and I should be here as much as possible.

Today is raw, cold, windy, rainy and I know the minute I make a move for the warm sanctuary of the bed, there he'll be.

The Cats Will Play

Things were in a sorry state for a little bit.

Taylor spent the entire weekend at the vet's. I could have flown to Paris, stayed at a nice little hotel and stuffed myself silly with macarons for what it cost, but, meh. I signed up for this.

I had many chirpy messages from Dr. Knightly. I love her. The cats love her. Every time she left me a message it went along the lines of "Taylor is such a love, but she still feels kind of low. Every time I open her cage, she gives that little chirp and comes to give me head butts."

I took in the fact that I don't think Taylor loves me this much. Possibly, I don't love her as much as Dr. Knightly does. I thought about this. When I went to pick up Taylor, I got all somber and said, "I don't do this lightly. In fact, I've only done it once before in my life [Katy and M the Perfect Roomie, who were made for each other]. But if you think Taylor would be better off with you, if you want her, I will let her go." I hastened to add that of course I would still be responsible for the bill Taylor'd just run up.

Dr. Knightly was a little overwhelmed. Even though I know she has to have heard this hundreds of times before. She said, "My husband would put me out with the recycling if I brought home another cat. I have six as it is." I said I understood. She excused herself for a moment, then came back.

Taylor was presented to me. Oh, she was not a happy camper. I imagine I wouldn't be either, if I'd gone through what she had. Twice.

I worried about her. Yesterday morning, I had to bring her out into the kitchen. She looked at me and wobbled back to bed. Last night, she found me. This morning, she wobbled out on her own. This evening, she met me at the door.

The last couple of evenings, I've spent some time playing with the cats. You should see Gus light up when he sees (through his cataract-y eyes) the feather-on-a-string toy come out. Dylan will kill himself chasing the thing. For his birthday, I think I'm going to give him a bunch of feathers for him to gut.

Brianna emerged from the basement to chase the laser. Blue is on to me. He just blinked up at me. I know you have a laser pointer in your hand, he blinked smugly.

I hear Sophie in the never-ending chase for the ball in a circle.

It'll be Spring soon. Time to wake up.

Weekend Roundup 7

Hear, Hear!

I've decided to postpone the hearing aids. It's not strictly a money issue. It's more an issue of where I buy them. The audiologist I went to is close to work. I may not be at Big Finance much longer and would then have to drive a very long way to get the aids adjusted or whatever. I'm going to find a place close to home. Because I live in the Bad Medical Care Vortex of Jersey, this may take a while.

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Come to Jesus

I called my recruiter at the contracting company that placed me at Big Finance. I told her I don't expect my contract to be renewed after the end of March. "It's a little too much employee versus contractor," I said, not naming names.

"This isn't the first time I've heard that about Big Finance," she said.

Oh, really? Thanks for cluing me in, sunshine.

She asked me to send her my latest resume. I did. She asked me if I'm willing to go to Jersey City. I am. Or New York. Not so much.

Half an hour later, she asked me if I'd like to take a gig at...Mighty Citadel! Yet again. All of maybe eight very trafficky miles from home. Yes. And yes again.

We'll see what happens. Meanwhile, I continue the quest on my own.

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Weird Start to the Weekend

I was supposed to meet up with the Queen Bee around 8:30 this morning. At 9 o'clock, she hadn't shown and I remembered we had left it up in the air when last we met. So I phoned her and she said she'd been crazy lately (I so relate) and yes, she was on her way.

Now that I'm home, it's lunch time and I feel like I've lost any momentum that I had for the day. I'm being torn in a couple of different directions and I don't like that.

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A Study on Feline Cinematic Preferences

Last night, I finished watching "Order of the Phoenix." Dylan had been cuddled up next to me on the couch. At one point, I noticed that he was engrossed in the movie. (Things moving around! Interesting!)

That finished and I put on "300" (yes, again). Dylan decamped. The theme music started and Taylor hopped up next to me, sitting where Dylan had sat, engrossed in the movie. (Gerard Butler's abs! And pecs! Although I don't think Taylor was interested for the same reason I was.) When I got up to turn off the TV, she gave me a look and scampered off to bed. Dylan was already there. I got into bed and he gave my face a going-over. Microdermabrasion!

Love and Laundry

Yes, I've been up for hours. And hours. And have gotten a fair amount done around the house.

I made sure to wash my favorite weekend outfit - jeans, a short-sleeved sweater and my SmartWool socks. When they were done, I brought them upstairs and put them on the bed. Dylan promptly curled up on them.

That is so sweet, I thought. He loves me that much.

I remembered the times when I was a teenager when my mom would throw a freshly-washed and dried blanket at me. On chilly winter days, it was just the best. I pulled that sweet warmth around me and felt very contented.

This morning as I wrestled my clothes away from Dylan, I noticed they were still warm from the dryer. "Booger," I accused. "It's not me you're after. It's the warmth in the clothes." He blinked up at me, guiltless.

Thus another life lesson from the cat:

Never mistake heat for love.

Weekend Roundup 4

Roving around the Amazon

I'm reading a riveting book, The Lost City of Z. It's nonfiction, about "Colonel" Fawcett, intrepid explorer of the Amazon. He was the first European to dig into the Amazon with an anthropological slant.

He nearly died on an expedition when they'd desperately left behind most of their food. There was nothing to eat - or so they thought - and he joined the "Amazon is a green hell" club. Later, he learned how to approach the Indians there. Verrry, verrrry carefully.

And what happened to Colonel Fawcett? Nobody living knows for sure, although it's likely that he was murdered by Indians. Did he find El Dorado? Maybe.

The fantastic thing to me is how for centuries, no one believed the natives of South America capable of sustaining a large civilization. I suppose they completely forgot that the Europeans had walked in on those broad stone boulevards leading to the many cities, covered with all kinds of fatal germs that killed off most of the population.

This is a ripping good yarn. Two thumbs up.

I also have a book waiting for me on Teddy Roosevelt's rumble in the jungle, his 1914 expedition to the Amazon. He didn't finesse it as well as the Colonel, but then again, he did manage to make it out alive.

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Dylan, Dylan, Dylan, Dylan

He's sitting on the desk right now, giving himself a much-needed bath. He's 99% recovered from his illness and is more than ever the cat I love. He's gone back to a lot of his old habits - cuddling up with me at night, finding me in the morning, jumping on me and demanding affection. This is the Dilly of old and I can't believe how much I missed him.

I also realize guiltily that Katy had been sick for much longer than I initially thought.

Other cats act a little freaky when there's a dying cat in their midst.

But everybody's pretty much back to usual now. Boris wants up on the counter in the morning. Gus finishes his breakfast and sits next to the couch going meowmeowmeow until I go over, pick him up and we do Gussy Cuddle Time.

It's good.

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I make the NY Times



I commented as "Nikki".

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/08/19/your-open-house-horror-stories/?scp=1&sq=open%20house&st=cse

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Angry? Moi?

I'll probably be writing about this some more.

I have finally acquiesced to WolfWoman's diagnosis of me as an angry person.

A couple of weeks, I was talking about the rusted-shut iron box I lugged around with me. Pondering over the last couple of days, I solved the mystery. What's inside it is all kinds of anger, rage, and fury. And as it turns out, it was not as tightly sealed as I had thought.

Rest easy in the fact that I do not believe in the "go ahead and let it all explode! Get it out there!" school of thought. Now that I see it, I realize that throughout my life, it's been shooting out fireworks and stars and bullets. But now that I see it, I hope I will be better able to control it.

Yes, of course, I bought a couple of books about it. It isn't real unless there's a book about it in the house.

So far as I understand it, anger is (among other things) what happens when my expectations don't match what can reasonably be expected and what does happen.

I know that there are people who are addicted to anger, who like to pick fights, who don't care who they hurt as long as they get that adrenaline rush. My mother was that kind of person.

Conversely, despite hurting people and scaring the living hell out of them, she still expected people to love her. She needed a lot of loving but had managed to sabotage herself to the point where only people with tranquilizer guns would get near her. It makes me feel sorry for her.

What I haven't run into yet is an examination of baby rage. I imagine that I started to be really angry when I was less than a year old, because I think I was probably pretty scared most of the time. My parents split up when I was less than a year old and I have no doubt that I was a silent witness to a lot of loud fights and arguments.

Lots and lots to think about on this one. What I have learned is that exercise and meditation are good at releasing anger and also help keep it from even turning into anger.

Yep. Lots to think about on this one.

Dylan

Dylan
Wants in the bathroom
Because I'm there.

Likes grits with lots of butter
Because I do.

Sleeps in the crook of my elbow every night of his life
Because I need him there.

Hits my noggin with his
Because I'm crying.

Skulks around the couch for the milk mug on the end table
Because I'm there.

Plays hide & seek with the shower curtain
Because it makes me laugh.

Scratches at the closed bedroom door
Because I'm on the other side.

Meows for me to pick him up
Because I'm sitting at the desk.

Dylan
Knows that I will always
let him in
share my grits
make a space for him wherever I am sleeping
will look up from my tears and pet him
always pour the milk into a mug he can fit his whiskers into
open the shower curtain for him to hide in, in the first place
come out of the bedroom
pick him up
love him forever.

Every Day Is Caturday 1

Here's the status of my brood:

1. Gus is still with us, which amazes me. He's still getting thinner, though. When I was at BJs, I bought baby food called "Yummy Meals", with which Gus agrees whole-heartedly. He's gotten a lot louder in the mornings and sometimes his yelling sounds...pained. He's decided that he must have a morning cuddle and will yell at me until I pick him up and hold him against me.
2. Boris is not only a water-fiend now, but he expects to be brushed while he's up near the sink. Hm. Wonder how that happened? Could it be that I did it once? He's gotten smaller over the past year and his bedraggledness worried me. He still has a good appetite, still meows like a kitten, and still walks on the flat of his feet where most other cats walk on their tip-toes.
3. Katy's arthritis bothers her a lot. She has it in her front paws, in her shoulders and elbows. She is the most picked-on cat in my household. Sophie loves to stalk and chase her. Katy lives in MD's old room, either in the closet or on my desk. She is disappointed every time she walks in here and find me and not MD.
4. Taylor has made some strides over the last year. I can pick her up without being afraid that she'll tear my face off. She wants desperately to be loved. When I pick her up, her front paws immediately clutch around my neck, she presses her little body as hard as she can against me and meows in my ear. She's my enforcer. If I yell at a cat, Taylor jumps down from me and goes after that cat. Which makes me a lot more reluctant to yell at anyone.
5. Phoebe's fat gene is working overtime. She mostly lives on my bed, has no interest in anything but dry food, yet she's nearly spherical. She is beautiful, a mostly-grey tortie, and when I talk to her and say her name, her head always pops up and she makes a "Mrrr?" sound. I love that. She will also give me forehead a bath anytime she's near it.
6. Dylan is jealous of everybody who gets near me. He will launch himself to chase any cat that I've just been petting. He still comes to bed with me every night but lately his favorite spot is in my office, next to the electric piano.
7. Brianna. Maybe not quite so brainless. She has a perfect nest for herself in the basement, old comforters that she knocked down and shaped into one of the warmest places in the house. If she's not there, she's trying to snuggle up with Gus, who only wants to snuggle up with me.
8. Sophie lets me touch her! She lets me pet her! I can even pick her up and hold her (tightly) against me. She lives to chase Katy. Sophie now hops up on the arm of the sofa to get pet. Her fur is so soft, thick, and silky that I have to rub hard to get her to purr.
9. Blue is acquiring nicknames at last. Blue-ster. Brewster. The Bluesman. He is huge. If he wasn't such a coward, he could take down all the cats just by sitting on them. He loves to be picked up, but the cat has to weigh over twenty pounds. It takes some forethought to pick up Blue and cuddle him.

And yes, sometimes I have to count them. And yes, I frequently go through a roll-call when I'm talking to them. "Blue! Boris! Taylor! Taylor! Stop it!" And Blue and Boris looked mystified and Taylor chases whichever one is nearer.

Every Day Is Caturday

The cats are in a delirium of joy. I've been home for two whole days and they love it.

Everybody's happy. And why not? I, their slave, am here to do their furry bidding.

Cats. Cats. More cats.

When I wake up, I'm usually surrounded by Phoebe, Gus, Dylan, Katy, with Taylor bitching somewhere on the side. When I get out of bed, I'm followed by Sophie and led by Gus.

Sitting here at my desk, playing video games, Blue came in and pawed at me until I picked him up. He sat on my chest, all 25+ lbs of him, and started to do a blissful little kneading dance. Then, drooling, he collapsed on me, paws still going back and forth. I put him down. He got back up. I put him down. He got back up again.

Boris stood at the kitchen sink, meowing to be picked up and for me to turn the faucet on. When he didn't quit meowing and head-butting me, I got the brush and began grooming him.

Even Sophie is coming around. I just heard her in the living room, on the loving seat, meowing so I would come pet her.

I think we're all in for a rude shock come Monday morning.

Whatever Gus Wants, Gus Gets

I've kept it on the DL that Gus seems to be doing okay. More than okay. Pretty well, actually. I stopped giving him the vile vitamin mixture a month ago. I could probably pop another appetite stimulant pill into his mouth because he's getting thin again.

But I've learned some things about Gus.

When I wake up every morning, he starts howling at me. Actually, most of the cats mob me. Fine, they want food. I understand that. But Gus just howls and howls until I pick him up.

He settles himself into the crook of my arm, his back against my arm. I rub his furry belly. The howling stops the moment I pick him up and a deep, intense rumbling purr starts up. He nudges my hand. It's like the old lady in "The Producers" - hold me, touch me.

I do that and then put him down to feed the other cats.

After I settle myself on the couch, Gus is back in my lap for another morning cuddle. This one lasts longer. I always knew Gus was a sweetheart, but without his enmity with Butch in his way and his Mo-Daddy's shadow gone, Gus is a star.

In fact, I've been paying more attention to all of them. I go nose to nose with The Big Blue Cat while he perches on the cat tree and pet him into overstimulated ecstasy. I go in search of Briannadanna and find her curled up in old comforters she's knocked to the floor in the basement. She makes a large and comfy nest in these things. I get worried if I can't find her, but when she's missing, she's almost always in her nest.

And The Monkey, aka Taylor, the clingiest, most paranoid cat I've ever met. (Except the departed Queenie, who was simply psychopathic.) With a lot of loving, Monkey Face is not nearly as bad as she used to be. She will actually let other cats on the couch while she's up there. And when Dylan forsakes the bed, she hops into his spot, cuddled under the blankets with me.

I love them more than I knew.

Sunday Morning Nap

Slowly, I wake up. I'm in bed, napping after a hectic early morning.

Dylan is asleep in my arms, his chin resting on my hand. We have a very particular way of nestling in together. I'm on my left side with my left hand almost under my chin. Dylan flops down next to me, usually getting under the covers, and settles himself so his back is against my stomach. He gives out a great sighing purr, then lets his head fall onto my arm.

When I went to sleep, that's how he was settled. When I woke up, there he was in the same position. He's just over nine years old now and I've had him for all but the first eight weeks of his life.

As I wake up, I'm looking at the world between Dylan's ears. When he wakes up and knows I'm awake, he starts to purr again.

I try to remember how this started. Ah. When he first came to my house, I took him to bed with me every single night, that's how. At first, he was too small to jump up on the bed by himself. By the time he was big enough to jump on the bed, it was a habit. Some night I don't remember, I went to bed, called, "C'mon, Dylan. Bedtime." and he trotted after me and settled in next to me.

Sometimes I kiss him on his silky black head and hope it will be this way forever.

Dotty old woman and her cats.

Everyone Needs A Hobby

Observe, if you will, what used to be the headphones for my laptop. I found them about five minutes ago.

I don't know who the guilty party is, but I only have two suspects.

What you see is my kitchen table. Blue, the 25 lb behemoth sweetie, lives on the kitchen table now that Butchy has gone. He is a cat of many appetites.

On the other hand, whenever I use the laptop at the kitchen table, Dylan is right there, demanding my attention and lately has been making a play for the headphones.

Either way, this is the end of my latest set of Skullcandy ear phones, made into so much electronic licorice by one spiteful fat cat. Sigh.

An Inauspicious Start to the Week

Run, run, run, run awayyyy

It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.

Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.

Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.

This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.

That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.

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Disaster! Mayhem!

The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)

If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.

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And furthermore...

My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.

The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.

I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.

There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.

Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.

I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.

I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...

How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?

How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.