Well, okay, not quite that sickie. My curliest, babiest cat has a urinary tract infection. He was up all last night mewing at each of our many litter boxes, which, thanks to my mothering brain chemicals, made me start awake repeated. But, today we saw our amazing and always wonderful Dr. Schaubhut who was, as always, amazing and wonderful. He gave the baby an antibiotic and a homeopathic drop to take. Since it's his first infection like this, those should help, but the doc suggested the boy would do better without his beloved dry food. I'm not sure how Pickles will adapt, but I bet without his bowl of dry to visit every ten minutes he might lose some of his "density," if you've ever held him and know what I mean. His density is at a rest right now.
The boy seems to be doing a little better, but since he is so super shy and doesn't come out from under the bed for strangers, he gets to come with me to the beach this weekend. I think he'll enjoy it once we get there. And probably alot more if I remember that he has to go in his carrier butt first. I had to relearn that lesson this morning.
I've got matching ones of those on my décolletage, belly and--most incredibly ouchily--on the palm of my left hand. Amazingly those were all done through the shirt I was wearing, which is now just a shreddy mess of rags. Lesson learned. Tomorrow will be better for both of us.
Let me assure you, though, Tennessee vendor, that although these treats are about the tastiest thing I have ever eaten-- milk chocolate, pecans, caramel and marshmallow? genius-- they will not be a factor in my decision to recommend we do business with you. Or, really, not the only factor. But, you may as well keep 'em coming because you can never be sure.
My San Francisco professional colleague Alison was wearing this amazing novelty t yesterday and gave me permission to blog it.
Get it? It's a Lord of the Rings thing! I thought it was awesome.
Also, Alison suggested I might want to crop out all of the mess behind her, but I think it shows both a) how busy she is multitasking all aspects of consumer subscription marketing and low-dollar fundraising and b) how far from dead print is. So take that, Interweb.
I love four cats (especially ones wearing birthday hats) and flowers and guitars and boat trips in Alaska and French press coffee and lamps and being at home and yarn and birds (especially owls who say "hi") and cupcakes and ice cream cones and tea pots and boots and rainbows and bees and leaves and other stuff! The resemblance is uncanny.
In addition to celebrating Woodra Pooja yesterday, and performing all of the honored rituals including seriously seven rounds of sink hands, I also beat my high Sudoku score.
Of course, it's the Easy version, so rather than being on fire I was really just luke warm. But it's still pretty fast compared to my average time. Although that seems to suggest it was just a fluke.
You know what wasn't a fluke? These cutie little decorator pillows I made yesterday!
I finally used some of this fabric I love to make two 12" pillows. Why are the so small? Have you seen how small my couch is? A bonus is that the gray in them matches well with Ginger's fur.
And the ecru color matches nicely with the sheet I have to drape over my couch to protect it from excessive fur build up. See? Even though I have to protect all of my things from cats, I can still have pretty things. Very small pretty things. And cats.
P.S. A shirt is in the works out of the same fabric. I can't wait to wear it and blend in like camouflage on the couch!
Like, Gigi, Woody has a dual nature that we celebrate on this special day. Woodrow Wilson Gutherie Feline is both an incredible snuggle monster, always close by and looking for under-leg tummy rubs...
But also the world's crankiest old man cat, barely tolerant of the affections of his little brothers.
Thus, Woody teaches us that we are all compassionate, but that being nice doesn't mean letting others walk all over us (or chew our necks). Woody reminds us that, through it all--even if we start out a small snake-eyed frizzy beast...
...even through Elizabethan Collars and knee surgery...
...our foremost duty is to honor and respect the miracle of life and to enjoy every day that we can spend with our fellow living creatures-- especially if they provide us with environments.
To celebrate Woodra Pooja, there be lots of ritualistic face rubbing, with the customary shedding of great amounts of facial fur. Thus, we coat ourselves with the essence of Woody: softness.
Once the rubbing has completed, there will be some eating of wet food mixed with water, plenty of sink hands (with Woody perched on the edge of the tub--not on the sink) and then we will repeat the cheek rubbing and coating of our pants in fur, pretty much every time we sit down.
There will be the traditional offering of a cup of water out of which I have taken sips for paw bathing and drinking.
And there will be appreciation of how beautiful and special all living things are. And we may even get weepy thinking about how lucky we are to have such magical and unique interspecies friends who mean so much to us every day and give us unconditional* love.
And then there will probably be more lap time.
Happy Woodra Pooja!
*Unconditional as long as there is wet food, clean litter and belly rubbing.
Yesterday, I took the day off from Mother Goose, Inc., and blogging for Family Day.
From left to right, that's my dad (although I might not admit it if he keeps telling those bad jokes he told yesterday), my sister, my mom, Aunt Carol and Uncle Larry. I hadn't seen Carol and Larry in many (many, many) years. So, I took them to the Natural History Museum to show them dinosaur bones that were even older than the last time I saw them. Good thinking, right?
Aunt Carol and Uncle Larry are driving back to Maine today. I wish them much luck with their drive and many rest stops along the way with clean bathrooms.
It was super nice to see everyone. Including my old friend the whale.
Are you sitting around, unable to move on with your day, just pondering what songs I find myself humming on the A train this week? Let me help you out of your thought-rut.
There's this one.
I bet Kevin likes that one, and not just because it references Joan Fontaine.
And then this one was my theme song for relaxation yesterday.
And not just because the video features Mary Louise Parker, who shares a middle name with me, or because it features a rotary dial phone.
And, I've been humming this Laura Viers song in the office, and not just because she makes me feel like the one and only thing separating me from being a rock star is musical talent. Did you not get that vibe from that very polished (and unfortunately embedding disabled) Warner Brothers video? Watch her live.
See? I already have the novelty t's, glasses, and general demeanor.
After a happy, rich seventeen years of life, complete with cross-country adventures including rubbing his fur in the dirt on a Navajo reservation and sharing six different apartments in three different states with his people, we are all sad to learn George has left us. He was a noble beast, a proud, big boy with a yen for loving, and a good and honorable friend to Amy and David Bee.
He will be missed. George, I am honored to have known and loved you.
So, some of you will remember the first time I used my oven and CRD and I nearly died from laughter when we learned that, in addition to beeping super super loudly, my smoke detector said in a incredibly calm woman's voice, "Fire. Fire. Carbon Monoxide." And, if the laughter didn't kill us, the panic of trying to stop the beeping (did I mention it was super loud?) might have. The event gave me great concern both about what was burning off inside my oven to cause that smoke and about the extra stress of the beeping--while I was trying to gather all four cats into carriers--in case of a real fire fire. (Carbon monoxide.)
Well, guess what I just learned, at 5:00 am on a Sunday morning, happens when the smoke detector's battery gets low?
"Beep. Beep. Low battery."
I'll let you puzzle out how I managed to a) get the damn thing of the ceiling (I have really high ceilings, being on the top floor), and b) figure out where the battery was. And if that's too easy, you can puzzle out how I disconnected it since it was wired directly into the electrical system. That's right, the battery is only it's backup source of power.
This seems like a really bad over-use of technology. Just because we can, doesn't mean we should.
My fellow commuter seems to be wearing a pair of leather shorts on his head. You can't tell from the angle I had to use to be covert, but there are actually two "legs" of hair on the top of his head. Now, I want to be very clear: I am not mocking. I was actually fascinated and a little confused. Are they really shorts? Is this a known hair thing? Doesn't it make the top of your head hot like the time CRD wore his leather pants to my Tropical Holiday Party in 1996?
As someone who often has Bad Hair Days, I really respect the creativity of this gentleman.
Sigmund's astral body chuckled with contentment yesterday as I learned an important lesson about the nature of desire. It all started with an afternoon sweet treat craving and an ad for a Frappuccino on a cup holder that I played with on my desk during a conference call.
Now, it's no secret that I have long been a fan of Starbucks's product, highly-available coffee. Given my love for the brewed bean purveyor, you might be surprised to learn that I had never tried a Frappuccino. They just seemed so expensive (I get the misto although I really prefer a cappuccino mostly because it costs about a dollar less) and more like a dessert than a beverage, really. I've had the ice coffee, of course, and the weird Vivanno blended smoothie drink, too. But, until yesterday afternoon when I succumbed to my yearning, I had never had the Frappuccino.
Well, desire sure is the yearning for a fundamentally lost object, Sigmund. I'd even go a step further and say it's a yearning for something that one cannot have, that may never have existed. The Frappuccino? Crappuccino, people. Not only wasn't it as good as it was in my imagination, but it was just plain pukey. It didn't taste anything like coffee, was way, way too sweet, and had a certain waxy thickness about its texture that seemed highly unnatural. Gross, gross, gross.
Some things we think we want, with all our hearts, are only wanted because they can't be had. Some things look like delicious sweet treats and we might fantasize about them as afternoon snacks, but in reality those frozen coffee drinks might have been serial womanizers who have horrible, violent tempers who are are registered Republicans.
Ah, desire. First it's red and then it's blue. And every time I see a Frappuccino, it reminds me of you.
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