Saturday, January 24, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
She was ridiculously good tempered about, well, everything. Her round head would squish and stretch into realistic versions of the Cheshire cat's smile every time she touched..or lifted patted, swatted, dropped, or even...as my brother did many times as a child...carried into the bathroom. Of course, my brother Colin did teach her to pee in a toilet that way. She was most certainly not your everyday sort of cat. Where all her siblings were tabbies, she was white with large scattered spots of color all over. Of course my brother picked her when we were seven. Picked her because she wasn't like the other kitties. Of course he named her Splotches, and Splotches was not ever like any other kitty.
Splotches owned the world. Nothing was beyond her little kitty reach. If she liked the way your dinner smelled, she would invite herself in. If she wanted to nap in the middle of the street, no moving vehicle would stop her. They would stop for her. Neither her heart murmur nor the loss of her claws on her front feet slowed her hunting of everything from voles to blue jays. She got dirty like a dog, and she let my brother hold her in his arms while he slept. Which he did almost every night.
It was because of this nighttime ritual that the rest of the family clued in that something might be wrong. Splotches may have kept her own hours, but she came home often. When she wasn't home for the second night in a row, Colin began to insist she was lost. We had to find her. We searched the woods near our cottage for an entire day with no luck. My brother and I carefully treaded that fine childish line between hope and loss.
And then, under our favorite huge and bending tree by the stream, we paused and we looked up.
There she was.
A shock of white high above us, rocketing us out of the trees screaming towards our parents. We danced and yelled until our father found a way to get to her. He hammered found pieces of wood into the tree until he could reach her, leaving a ladder in his wake.
When our farther reached her, he declared down to us that she had climbed thirty feet into the tree. She wasn't skittish or difficult on the way down. She calmly allowed dad to carry her down to my brother.
Perhaps I should mention that it's a little difficult to climb down a tree on a homemade ladder single handed while carrying a thirty pound cat, no matter how well mannered she is. Regardless, we were overjoyed to have her back, and for the rest of her life our father looked at her with a certain amount of respect.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Dear Mr. President,
Please don’t think me too critical for writing this today, but in an otherwise hope-filled and galvanizing speech there was one negative note which gave me pause. You called us non-believers.
I understand the difficulty in finding an appropriate and speech-worthy title for every faction in our salad-bowl culture. I realize that you meant us no slight, and that of course it was in reference to our lack of theist beliefs, but….
Wars, hate and crime, even when wrecked in religion’s name, are not caused by religion. These things we know are done by human beings. That these are some of our very human failings, we know. We also know that religion does not feed the hungry, nurse the wounded or comfort the dying. These things too, are done by human beings. Our greatest achievements in the arts and sciences, our most breathtaking discoveries are, just like our greatest failings, done by human beings. So perhaps, Mr. President, you can see why I challenge you to find another term for us. Something more fitting for what we do believe. We believe in humanity.
An Atheist in America
Sunday, January 18, 2009
I have no idea why I had to have them, but they were a prized possession during high school. Ridiculously tight, florescent brushed denim, with such a low rise, most underwear wouldn't fit inside them. I loved them. A few years later, I was embarrassed to admit they were in my closet. I unloaded them to a resale shop and considered myself very grown up. Not even a week later, there was a seventies themed costume party, and I had nothing to wear. Really. Not one thing in my closet could even pretend to be as seventies as those pants. I have no memory of what I actually wore to said party, but I do distinctly recall the despair and inferiority my outfit caused me.
So, now I have more clothes than will fit in my closet, most of which I can't imagine wearing, but I'm loathe to give anything away. Every time I tackle my closet, no matter how serious I am about making space, I find my way blocked my that one pair of green pants.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
It's quite the project.
Then, after reaching my so-far unachievable goal of clothing organization, I'll tackle my books. I love my books. they are arranged on the 6 bookcases by subject, with Fiction shelved alphabetically. I need to pack them all up. Just thinking about it leaves me feeling faint.
Why? would am I putting myself through this? Sadism? Self-improvement?
Edmund and I had the talk.
It will be me, Edmund, Edward, the two cats, and whatever of our belongings we can fit, all together in the 375sq.ft. apartment I've been living in for the last two years.
It will be libraries and record collections moving into storage.
It will be battles of furniture, art, toys and that most precious commodity of all...space.
and hilarity ensues...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Blog is not the big winner, but I'm not giving up.
Monday, January 12, 2009
I think the problem is trying to meet all my goals at the same time. I managed to clean out my closet this weekend, work both Saturday and Sunday and catch up on sleep, but I couldn't just get online and blog!
I'm trying harder for this week...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Journaling wasn't as bad...while it lasted. I wouldn't exactly call it a routine, but I wrote...sometimes. I eventually filled the book, though it took me several years. Even now, when I say I filled my journal, I mean that I got as far as I'm ever going to get. It's full enough.
Now, I'm trying to blog every day. This is not working so well. I'm trying to write every day, but without internet at home, nor the extra time to sit down and write...I'm not sure if this will last either. So far I've only missed one day (out of four), which isn't too discouraging. I hope though, that this one will become a routine, not just another chance for blank pages.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
So, no. Anthony Bourdain, stay away from me. I don't want to try adventurous new foods. Really, I'm okay with puffy tacos and macaroni for the rest of my days. I don't want to find out just how many foods actually make me throw up.
Monday, January 5, 2009
It's been awhile since you cheated on me/dumped me/I dumped you, and I'm not sure why, but I feel like I should get everything off my chest. Even after all this time, I still hate you/ think you're pretty cool/could care less. Did you have to break me/drink so much/be so lame? I guess it wasn't all horrible/dangerous/sleep-inducing. I really had fun that time we drove to New Orleans/filmed that movie/went to that show, but it could never make up for you being a jerk/crazy/boring. I guess the past is what it is, so I hope you won't mind when I say I hope you rot in hell/have fun/move on.