Blursday

A Day Without Rosy is like...

A day when I get work done. Seriously.

Because she got there first at Big Finance, she got the choice part of the cubicle. Now that she is gone, I spent the first half hour at work switching my PC and phone to the choice part of the cubicle. And then I got work done.

Yesterday was sad. Every time I looked at her, I thought, no more Rosy. People always say they'll stay in touch, but you lose sight of each other.

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Why It's Good to Have A Neighbor With Kids

Because I can walk away from the quarter watermelons for $5, instead buy a whole one for $4, split it in half and give the rest to my neighbor.

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Things I Can Eat Until My Belly Hurts

Watermelon
Butter chicken with fresh buttered naan
Papri chaat
Good chicken & dumplings
Pad Thai
Pie
Cake
Kozy Shack Rice Pudding

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Our Tricksy Brains

Our brains are very tricksy things, they are. Oh, they try to help us, but it's all a trick.

I'm reading What The Internet Is Doing to Our Brains: The Shallows. I try not to think about my brain because I'm just waiting for it to go all "the station is off the air".

Apparently, our brains are plastic and elastic. But, of course, in a tricky way.

Hm. Let me work hard to find an analogy. Let's say that instead of driving my car to work, I have to roller skate instead. My brain will work on setting me up so that I get very, very good at roller skating. And after a year of roller skating, my skating skills are breath-taking, as are my mighty thighs, but I can't drive worth a damn. My depth perception, my perception of speed, my acknowledging of potential road hazards are now all screwed up. And it would take me a long time to acquire my old car driving skills.

Hm. Not quite what I wanted to get across.

Let's say that when I was seven, I had rheumatic fever. That the adults around me were so scared that permanent damage would be done to my heart that they tiptoed around me. My activities at school are severely curtailed. When I get home from school, I go straight to bed. People whisper about how scared they are that I'll have a heart attack.

When the danger is passed and I'm pronounced healthy, my brain is still so stuck in the pattern of seeing myself as ill that the perception is almost impossible to move around.

Your brain is not necessarily your friend. But you can work it. In fact, you should work it, and hard.

It's a good book.

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I Condole You

I have received a surprising number of sympathy cards on Katy's passing. Her ashes are still in my car. I need to nag myself a little harder about bringing her inside.

I miss her every day. I still have passwords set up using various nicknames I gave her over the course of her life.

The people in the "Safe Haven" program told me that when I sent in a description of Katy, I described her as the queen of the household. And for about five years, she was.

Now that crown has been passed on to that Richard III of cats, Taylor. She cracks me up at least once every day and I fiercely love her general pissyness. She won't take anything off anybody. Even when no one is giving her anything.

I was sorting through an area where I have leashes and I came across Katy's harness that I used to take her outside. I didn't do that for so long. I feel guilty about it.

And I feel guilty about not playing with and generally adoring the cats that I have.

I'm still stuck on the pause button. All I want to do is sleep. And eat watermelon. Which reminds me, I should make sure I've got a clear path between where I'm sleeping and the smallest room in the house tonight.

I love watermelon.

Cumulative Effects

Yes, I know I'm depressed. Yes, I have an appointment today with my psychopharmacologist, aka, my shrink.

Yesterday was hard. I realized that I am not over Katy's death and I am not over Phoebe's death. The Taylor scare was almost a direct hit on her scrawny hide and if I didn't have her to press to my heart now, would be in another tally column.

I realized last night and this morning that I have had a lot of unpleasant things happen to me that I've yet to recover from. Part of this is because I've been in a battlefield situation for the past 11 years. I'll spare myself and everyone else the fact that this has been going on since, oh, 1956.

And I also just realized that I don't want to do a year-by-year toting up of the sad, bad stuff. It's sufficient (and avoidant behavior) to say that a lot of bad stuff has happened and I haven't had time to recover from one bad thing when another bad thing bounces its way into my cave like a hand grenade.

I only know that it has left me sad and exhausted.

Along with the grenades jumping around like Mexican jumping beans, I have to deal with the fact that Everyone's Gone to the Moon is a way of life for me at certain times of the year. I think it's fair to say at this point in my life, I will not suddenly become Miss or even Ms. Popularity and will have to sit in my boudoir with my morning chocolate fetched by my maid, creasing my pretty little forehead with worry over which invitation I will accept. EGttM days are hard on me. I thought I had prepared for this one, but it didn't work out that way. And I didn't have the emotional wherewithal to pull together a Plan B.

I know that if another grenade gets tossed into the cave, I'll deal with it. It's what I usually do. Only I have to figure out a better way of dealing with them than throwing myself on them, belly-down. Throwing them out of the cave doesn't seem to be an option.

I realize this sounds like it's out of self-pity, but it is actually a question. Asked of the universe (silent, as usual) and God (silent, as usual), but I wonder when I'll get a break. Worse yet is the thought that maybe I've had a break. That I'm having one now and not a psychotic break. That would require too much energy and the tank is on E at the moment.

When I consider breaks I would like (right now I'm thinking of a massage in a glass-windowed room overlooking the prow of an ocean liner in the Caribbean), I realize how unlikely they are.

Then I go off to brush my teeth, take a shower, and go to work. And be grateful that I have a job to go to.

I think that overall, this stuff is going to add up and become its own grenade. And it's going to be one big motherfucker.

Ever the optimist, c'est moi.

Fat Friday

Pardon Me, Do You Have Any Gray Poupon?

This morning on my way to work, I noticed (how could you not?) a guy in a red Rolls Royce convertible turn opposite me down Leafy River Road. He wore a jaunty straw hat, sunglasses, and had a very dashing scarf tied around his neck.

I said, "Flaunt it, baby! Flaunt it!" (Points if you name the source.)

But I have to tell you, I was not happy with Dashing Rolls Royce Man, who decided on such a fabulously idyllic day (and it was. Oooh, it was) that he would go 35 mph down Leafy River Road. Normal speed? 45 - 50 mph. And it's situated so that passing is dangerous to the point of possibility. Plus skinny bicycle men have discovered this road, which is most decidedly not the place for a bucolic spin.

I was trapped behind five cars and ahead of six cars.

When we go to the end of Leafy Green Road, he was in the front of the line to turn. I zipped up on his right, because I was going across to Farmer Green Road.

I rolled down my window. He rolled down his window. I said, "Do you see the line of cars behind you? Do you know how many people you just made late for work? Do you understand that people have to go to work?"

It may be that he expected me to say something about his very cherry ride. His mouth dropped a little bit.

In a thick Italian accent, he said, "Oh, madam. I am very sorry."

Now it was my turn for my mouth to drop. I rolled up my window. He rolled up his. And I was glad when the light changed.

But you know what? Right now, I think I should have just parked the sad old Bullet on the side of the road and hopped in the car with him.

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The Taylor Report

I took Taylor to see Hunky Vet last night. Apparently, it's been decided that in the future, only Hunky Vet will see my cats.

He did about a thousand dollars worth of tests on Taylor for free. They didn't even get written down in the log.

He looked at Taylor. He checked her eyes. Listened to her heartbeat. Groped her liver. Then he said, "She's going to make a complete recovery. I - well, it's amazing, actually. I seriously was not expecting to see her back here in such good condition. And she's gained half a pound in the last ten days." (Me, too! At least!) "Amazing how she's bounced back."

He sat down opposite me. He looked up at me and said, "Don't take this the wrong way. I know this has been hard on you. But I hope I don't see you again for a long, long time."

On the way out, I picked up the beautiful rosewood box containing Katy's ashes. A week later and she's home again.

One day, when I go - they're all going with me.

I called the North Shore Animal League's Survivor Care program today and told them Katy had died. He asked me how and I gave him the extremely censored version that I've been giving everyone. Because honestly? It's too horrible. If you love animals, it's simply too horrible.
He murmured sympathy. Then wished me a happy weekend.

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Cousin Karen Cometh!

She says she's going to be here around 10 tomorrow morning. I have no idea how she's going to manage that. I have never been able to make it to Richmond in under eight hours.

This might be because I meander once I get past the Virginia border. The geography is essentially the same as it was when I was growing up. If I get off any exit on 95, I know pretty much where I'll wind up.

When I was a kid, in the summer time, the Swapping of the Cousins would be done at the Potomac Bridge. My mom and grandparents would drive to the bridge and settle into the park on the shores of the Potomac. They have grills there, so we'd start a cook-out. Meanwhile, I'd go digging into the sloppy sand to see what I could find. My aunt and uncle and my two cousins would arrive and we would eat. Then my cousins would get in the car with us and we'd drive back to Richmond.

I almost always stop at this park, although I despise the bridge. I dig around in the sand and I remember the cook-outs. I must have thought all of my relatives were immortal, because I never stepped back to savor it. That's why I try so hard to call it to mind when I'm there by myself.

Anyway, Cousin Karen has none of that baggage. It's her first driving trip to Jersey. Even though she's 36 years old, there is still an innocence and naivete about her that makes me worry. Some guy could say to her, "Hey, could you help me find my puppy?" and Cousin Karen would never think twice about it. That's what I worry about sometimes. She trusts people too much.

Random Thoughts About a Katy Cat

I hadn't realized how deeply Katy was part of my life. I suppose it's like this but more so for people who have kids.

Last night, I went to the grocery store on my way home. I had to stock up on cat food and litter. As I rounded the corner, I saw those little pots of greens especially for cats. Without thinking about it, I reached for one. Katy loves these, I thought. Then I put it back.

She loved to go outside. I'm sorry I didn't take her out more. (Yes, she was on a leash, not that she ever wandered too far.)

Brianna hopped on the footstool this morning. It was odd to see anyone but Katy there.

I got a card from the vet's office yesterday. They enclosed a little seed pack of forget-me-nots. As if I could.

It's hard to swallow this, to realize that when I thought Katy had the miz'ry that she was already sick.

I'm so sorry her last moments were filled with panic, fear, and pain.

It's hard to realize that even if I hadn't given her medicine that evening (which I believe provoked her vomiting, which led to the bleeding), that she would have likely died within the week and it would have been just as bad.

It's hard not to resent Taylor's recovery. It's hard to forgive myself for paying attention to her when Katy needed the attention more.

She had been hiding out in the Dyson box for a long time. It wasn't just to get away from Sophie. It was because she was trying to hide, which is always a bad sign in cats.

I'm paying more attention to all the cats now. Although it's hard because I'm so freakin tired all the time.

And a random thought about me: I feel like Anthony Perkins in the beginning of "Meet Joe Black" when he hears a voice saying, "Yes. Yes." I started the other blog about the next ten years and now I realize that there's no guarantee that I'm going to get that. And other than wanting to Put My Affairs in Order, I'm really okay with that.

Besieged

I slept on the couch last night. And this morning, have been hit with little flickering nanoseconds that make me say, "I should have known she was sick. I should have paid attention!" Because she hadn't pestered me at my desk for two weeks. That she'd been living inside the otherwise empty Dyson vacuum cleaner box. That she hadn't pestered me in the bathroom. Or shown her displeasure at the state of the cat boxes. So many things. Too many things.

I was sitting on the couch, drinking my coffee, when I was overwhelmed by an intense need to...go to Costco.

Oh, the old school run-to-Costco! How many years ago was the last one that I could afford? I don't know, but I'm sure it was probably sometime before December 31, 2002.

And this morning, I thought, I would love to go to Costco. To buy things I didn't even know I needed, but would appreciate once I got home. Packs of toothpaste. A waffle iron. Packs of deodorant. Ten pounds of basmati rice, which is actually a conservative amount. Nearly two hundred pounds of cat litter, which is also a conservative amount. A wireless printer / copier / scanner. A new digital camera, since my old one died without notice. Ridiculous things. Four packs of NY strip steaks. Fabulous things. A gazillion-thread set of sheets for my bed. And no doubt things I had no idea even existed.

I've finally learned to recognize this feeling. This is a reaction to feeling besieged, to feeling like the barbarians are not just at the gate but pounding down the front door. It's a strong reaction and it's almost impossible to control. The only way to control it is to stay at home and pace until I've worn myself out.

But I haven't done that. Yeah, I know it's ten o'clock in the morning and to you, the day is young. To me, the day is half-done.

I went to the diner for breakfast. Then I went to Dunkin' Donuts and bought two dozen donuts. Before I left the house, I'd gathered up all the supplies left over from Phoebe's and Katy's illnesses, things that hadn't been used or used up. I went to the vet's office and handed over the donuts and unused medical supplies. I thanked them for all the breaks they've cut me, for all the times they rushed me to the front of the line.

I also wanted to check on something. I like to thing I'm cool and calm in the face of disaster. Last evening, I kind of lost my head. Katy was so horribly sick so horribly fast. I was at a loss for a moment of what to do. (I still have to keep reminding myself that I didn't kill Katy by anything I did. That the poor pussycat would have been dead within the week, anyway. It's hard to remember that.) I was afraid that I'd gone all hysterical in the vet's reception area. I don't really remember because it all happened so quickly but I wanted to make sure that I hadn't gone in all hysterical and upset everyone in the overcrowded waiting room.

According to someone who was there last evening, she hadn't even heard me. That was a relief.

I delivered the donuts. I said thank you a dozen times.

On my way back, I stopped at a yard sale and spent ten whopping dollars. I bought an armload of CDs for about .75 each. John Mayer, Room for Squares. Maroon 5. Switchfoot. Train. En Vogue. (I know. But yes, En Vogue.) I was very happy to find all this music that I like but wouldn't pay $15 for apiece.

That has satisfied most of my acquisition lust, although I can't answer for it if I find my way to the Salvation Army Store today.

This is another "Everyone's gone to the moon" weekend, although according to the traffic reports, most of them have ended up at exit 8A on the Turnpike.

Katy 1999 (?) - 6/25/2010

One of the world's best cats died in my arms this evening. She has gone to the Bridge, to wait for me. I hope where she waits is sunny and has lots of places for roaming. She always was a roaming kind of gal.

Now the Bad News

Thursday night, Katy threw up bright red blood. On Friday morning, I took her to the vet, first thing.

X-rays show that Katy may have pneumonia.

Or she may have lung cancer.

She hasn't been on anti-biotics long enough to know which, but probably this Wednesday, I'll take her back for more x-rays.

Also?

Taylor has not sprung back. In fact, she may be going to the vet even sooner than Katy. I'm worried about her. She's back to hiding in the basement.

Sigh.

At the vet's. Hunky Vet's sister said, "Xman was here on Thursday. Had a kitty put down." It turned out to be Xman's favorite cat. I think he probably still felt the same about the cat as he did when I knew him. He madly adored that cat and had saved him from death not once but twice.

She said that he'd thought about having the cat cremated but when he found out how much it was, he took the kitty's body home. I'm willing to bet he buried the kitty in his back yard.

Hunky Vet's sister said he was there by himself. And I said, "So now he's a sad, lonely, cheap bastard."

But I am sorry about the cat.

But not too much. Because he used to beat the living hell out of poor Borish.

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.

I Just Want to Bang on the Drum All Day

I finally made it up to Camp Yak-a-Lot. Galadriel drove me up to the cabin and showed me a bunk in a dark corner, which is my preference. I realized immediately I would not be going up and down from the cabin to the social center or whatever you want to call it. The center was where meals were held and general gatherings took place.

Galadriel introduced me to her nearest and dearest friends.

After dinner, we (as in "all 70 of us") pulled the tables back and put the chairs into two circles. Soon, a woman came in, carrying huge round containers and boxes and she quickly unpacked at least 70 drums, triangles, cowbells, cymbals, and blocks of wood. She distributed them in the chairs with an obvious pattern to the placement and then called us in.

All but the most reluctant (including Delores, one of Galadriel's friends) joined the circle and we all began banging on our drums just to hear what it sounded like.

I was fascinated and more than eager. Having been brought up to not make one more sound than necessary, I was being urged to deliberately make noise and at times to make noises as loudly as I could.

The instructor was probably in her mid-50s and most notably did not have bat-wing upper arms. Her arms were firm and muscular and I thought if there was any good reason for taking up drumming, this was it.

I had a bodhran-type drum and was very happy to bang the hell out of it. The instructor set the rhythm and we all followed her lead.

One of the things she told us is that everyone has a rhythm to how she says her own name. We were to say it out loud until we could hear that rhythm. Everyone else's was flowy, up and down like hills, but mine was sharp and ends in a half-beat. We went around the group, each one drumming the rhythm of her name.

Then she showed us that everyone had a rhythm in her laughter and told us all to laugh. I was sitting next to Galadriel and her laugh cracked me up. I started laughing, listened to my own laughter, and laughed at that. And kept laughing at Galadriel. And Galadriel and I basically fell on each other's shoulders, we laughed so hard. I couldn't catch my breath. I was crying, I was laughing to hard. And I'd only had half a glass of wine.

If the light had been lower, if I'd had more to drink, if we had been at a campfire outside, I would have been dancing around when the instructor urged people to get up and dance. Nobody did.

It was great. I'd always wanted to play with drums but it seemed like a "boy" thing. But Camp Yak-a-Lot was girls only, with the exception of the caretaker.

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Katy is home and feeling better. I'm feeling better that she's home. She was quite a hit at the vet's office but I know she's happier to be home. And I'm happy that we're both home. Ah...

Think Good Thoughts About Katy

I was so worried about her that I took her to the vet's to board her for the weekend. I knew the petsitter wasn't going to have time to properly look after her.

Good thing I did take her, too, because she's running a fever. She's lethargic and very definitely un-Katy.

I wonder if there are ever-increasing Swiss-cheese holes in my brain. I took Katy over in her carrier, along with her favorite bed. As I left the vet's, I completely forgot the carrier. And then when I got home - the side door was standing wide open.

Is this weekend going to help? Really?

Anyway, I want to forget about the 'neurotic' thing. It makes me very sad. I'm sorry I took the damn thing but I've learned my lesson now.

I wish it would give me a chance to explain things. Yes, now I don't go out of my way for people. Once upon a time, I did, but I got so tired of being trampled on, used, and abused, that I've learned to keep my distance. I am sorry homeless people are homeless - it's a scary thing. But I don't save people. I save cats. And right now, I've got as many as I can handle.

Er, anyway. Think good thoughts about my Katy Baba. I am worried about her. If I didn't have an obligation to be at this weekend thing, I would have canceled to stay home with her.

So much to do. So little time.

The Geriatric Ward

Mo has suddenly gotten old. Very old, almost overnight. He has an old cat's body now. He's lost a lot of weight. His fur is rumpled and dry-looking.

His eyes were watering badly. I felt guilty for not finishing up the antibiotics prescribed for him. I mixed up the rest of the batch and gave him a dose last night and this morning. This evening, he seems the better for it.

But he is still an old man. I hate to see this happen, but it's inevitable.

This morning, I heard a strangled little meow and went in search of it. I found Boris in the litter box, hunched up, looking miserable. Poor Boris. Plugged up again.

My fridge looks like I could run a vet clinic from it. I found the syrup to dose Boris (it's worked twice so far) and he was not pleased.

Gus has taken to following me around. I think he misses Gracie, who was cuddled up with him and Mo almost every morning.

The cats are changing and the dynamic is changing.

Phoebe is coming around for affection. This morning when I woke up, she was at my side. And just below her, to my astonishment, was Sophie.

Katy rarely ventures out of my study. There's a comfy bed on the desk and that's where she's spending most of her days. I realized that Katy's probably close to eleven.

Butch is a loose cannon these days. After eight years of sitting on the kitchen table or the top of the little china cabinet, he can spring up anywhere these days and frequently does.

This morning when I ran down to the basement to fetch something, I spotted Dylan on the basement floor, behind a box. This is nothing like my showman cat.

Things are changing. They always do.

Tales of the Tub, Part II

Katy Approves

Becs and the Amish Piano

I finally decided that I was going to allow myself the luxury of a keyboard. A real, full, honest-ta-Gahd, 88 key keyboard.

I've spent money on the cats, the car, the Maisonette, my health, but nothing fun. Nothing I'd been yearning for, for forty years.

On-line, I went to Sam Ash Music's web site (semi-local chain). I like them because when I went in looking for an electric guitar, they were nice to me. I don't care if they were thinking that I was a pathetic middle-aged bat, they were really nice to me.

I found an $800 Yamaha electric keyboard. It was the cheapest one on the web site and it was a Yamaha and before Steinway went on its knees begging to Bruce Hornsby, Yamaha went begging and he accepted them.

Yes, it's true that I treated myself about ten years ago to a 60-something key keyboard, but no, I want the complete set. I want all 88 keys. I may not be able to play "Mary Had a Little Lamb", but I want all 88 keys in case I start channeling Bruce Hornsby, Leon Russell and Keith Jarrett. Who knows what mayhem could erupt?

When I lived with Xman, I briefly had a regular, true-life piano. Unfortunately, it had to be tuned every six months and I suspected one of the cats was peeing behind it. I left it at the house when I left and it was subsequently given to The Ho.

So I knew I wanted a keyboard that could be easily transported and never had to be tuned.

What bothered me about $800 Yamaha was that it had all kind of crap on it that I didn't want. No, I'm not going to compose my own music. No, I don't need this midi stuff. No, I don't want it to take off and play all by itself. The only person I want playing my piano other than me is Bruce Hornsby. (The reason I'm fixated on Bruce especially right now is because it's only 27 days until I see him in concert again.)

Why couldn't there be a very simple 88 key electronic keyboard? Why couldn't there be, like, an Amish electronic keyboard? Plain. No bells and whistles. Black. Requisite number of keys. How hard could it be? I just want to learn to play the piano. I don't want to put on a light show. Still, this seemed to be about the best I would do.

I walked into the keyboard department and there on a shelf, looking all homeless, dusty and sad, was my Amish piano. It was an old Yamaha war horse that had seen better days, but the action was good. It felt like a real piano. It was a little banged up, but it was good.

On the shelf over it was a brand spanking new Casio. It took some back-and-forthing, but in the long run, I went the plain way. The Casio had all kinds of crazy stuff on it I didn't need.

The Yamaha was used and $400, half of what I'd been prepared to pay and that's always a good thing.

So here it is, given pride of place in my house, in my study / office. Beneath "St. Jerome in His Study". Beneath the "Winter Park Authors in the Park" poster. Beneath the autographed photo of Bruce Hornsby. "Swing, baby, swing!" he wrote. Oh, how I'd love to.

And just for extra Becs goodness, Katy standing next to it.

As the guy from Sam Ash loaded the keyboard into my car, I thought, we'll take these axes. Piano, now. Tomorrow, the guitar.

Glamour Puss

Katy wishes it to be known that the only viable standard of beauty in the cat world is a truly magnificent set of whiskers.

Gus has whiskers like an Ottoman pasha - long, luxuriant, and curved upwards at the end.

Katy's own whiskers are wiry, thick, and white. When she is pleased, there is the "Whiskers forward!" command and instead of having them sleeked back against her head, they bristle forward.

After last night's midnight feast, we were all feeling fine and festive. This morning, Katy lolled in the sink and put on an admirable display of the feline world's finest.