A Tale of Two Kitties

Cats be crazy sometimes.

Case in point: The Siamese Kitten.

This here.

She's sleeping in this photo, which she does a lot these days, because she is an elderly kitty - 16 on her last birthday. She has good days and bad days, like most of us. Some days are sleepy days, some days are zoomie days. Again, like most of us.

Definitely not shown here: Me,
getting ready to run.

The Siamese Kitten also has less of an appetite than she used to. She's never been a ravenous girl. She doesn't like most human food, doesn't care all that much about cat treats. But for a little while, just before the holidays, she kind of lost interest in eating much at all. 

Of course I was worried. I tried tempting her with wet food and Lickables and her favorite tuna water, but the Siamese Kitten was mostly apathetic. The next step was the vet, but before I took that step, I thought I'd try changing her regular dry kibble. Maybe she was just off her food. Cats do that sometimes, the little creeps.

Just...ugh.

(And if you're wondering why I didn't immediately take her to the vet, it's because I'm a coward. If the vet found something seriously wrong, like cancer or kidney disease, I would be forced to make the terrifying decision of whether to spend hundreds, even thousands of dollars on medical care for an elderly cat that might only prolong her life by a few months. I want to stress that she didn't seem to be suffering or in pain, and she was still drinking water and using her litter box, so I thought I'd try an easy, inexpensive remedy first.)

Anyway, I bought a random brand of food - nothing fancy, just different from her usual kind. I gave her some...and lo and behold, she began eating it. Her appetite still fluctuated from day to day, but overall she seemed much more inclined to eat the new food.

Now, this whole time I was continuing to feed the junior tuxedo cat, the Chongers, the old food, which he had no problem with. With which he had no problem. He was happy, the Siamese was happy, I was cautiously optimistic.

Then, this past Sunday, as I was feeding both cats, I noticed the Siamese Kitten rubbing up against the container that held the Chongers' food. Like, enthusiastically. I shrugged and went back to bed (hey, it was early and I had a warm friend there).

Even cuter than this guy.

A few minutes later I heard a crash and went back to the kitchen to investigate. The Siamese Kitten had knocked over the (rather large) container of the old kibble and liberated it all over the floor and was happily nibbling away.

Being a sensitive and perceptive observer of feline behavior, I decided this was A Clue.

So this morning, before I left for work I poured her two bowls of food, the old kibble and the replacement kibble. 

Long story short (too late?), guess who's back to loving the chow she rejected a month ago?

As I said, cats be crazy.

Anyone need a 1/3-full bag of Fancy Feast, have a carton of canned kitty pate, and a large bag of crunchy treats?

Never mind, the Chongers says he'll take them all.

Do the Walk of Life

Self-improvement is important.

All the images I got when I Googled "self-improvement"
were hackneyed, so here's a picture of a monkey.

Case in point: This week I realized that I don't look good when I walk.

My IRL workplace has a lot of glass-fronted mirrors and conference rooms. When you walk past them, you can see a decent reflection of yourself if you happen to glance that way.

And of course I happen to glance that way fairly often. Because one of these days I'm going to magically turn into Jennifer Aniston, and how am I going to know it's happened if I don't check my reflection frequently? I can't spend all day in front of the mirror in the restroom.

I tried explaining that I was singing the first act of "Hamilton"
to make sure my hands were clean. It didn't go over well.

Or I'm just vain and insecure about my looks. FINE.

Anyway, a little while ago I began to notice that as I walked down the corridor, I looked...odd. And I don't mean my face; it may very well look odd, but only as odd as it's ever looked. No, I mean the way I was carrying myself. I've always been a fast walker, so it wouldn't be surprising to see that I leaned forward a bit as I went, or led with my shoulders, or whatever. But what I saw wasn't just a lean. For lack of a better word, I looked bent.

This would have been cool.
But is this not what I saw.

My top half was sort of pitched forward in an awkward way that didn't match what my legs were doing. I looked like someone who had gained weight and no longer knew how to carry themselves, like someone who thought they were moving attractively and appropriately but had no idea how they actually appeared to others. Like...

Oh, FUCK.

I kid you not, I looked like Trump's weird fatty-wearing-lifts posture in motion. I held myself like a gorilla with an equilibrium issue. I walked as if I were trying to imitate all the Cosby Kids at once.

Not a good look.

And this is what 40 people saw every day as I moved among them? This was disturbing.

(By the way, I totally am someone who has gained weight and no longer knows how to carry herself, and who thought she looked appropriate but had no idea how she actually appeared. That's the really disturbing part.)

So in the spirit of self-improvement, I've set about training myself to walk properly. Maybe if I had spent more time in my youth walking around with books on my head like all the girls' magazines told me to, this wouldn't be necessary. But here I am, giving myself posture lessons.

It's very strange to have to think about walking while I'm walking. To have to literally tell myself, "No, not like that! Do it like this!" every time I get up from my desk or out of my car. But until moving around gracefully without looking like a deranged orange lunatic becomes second nature, that's exactly what I'm doing.

Basically, I'm forcing myself to keep my shoulders centered over my hips as I walk and to let my legs lead the way. That inevitably slows down my natural gait, so I also have to fight the urge to walk faster. And, since I've noticed that I tend to tense up in my upper half when I walk, I have to remind myself to stay relaxed (not mentally relaxed - let's not move mountains here - just not clench my torso muscles). It's a lot to process. It feels absurdly like, after having spent my whole life pedaling a bike with my hands, I've been told I've been doing it wrong, so I'm having to teach myself to use my feet.

I really should have spent less time reading
books and more time putting them
on my head.

This has been surprisingly difficult, you guys. Whenever I practice my "new" walk, I'm convinced I look like an R. Crumb comic.

Look it up, children.

I feel as if I'm seriously over-correcting my posture and must look ridiculous. But when I pass one of those glass-fronted offices, I'm amazed at what I see. I look...normal. I see someone standing straight and moving naturally. I look simultaneously more relaxed and more confident. God help me, I look slimmer. I do understand that magically turning into Jennifer Aniston has not occurred just because I've changed the way I walk, but there really is a difference, and it's been startling to me.

Has anyone else noticed? I doubt it. I'm sure I'm far more concerned with my appearance than anyone I work with. Besides, they're engineers. The only thing they notice on a regular basis is when a sewer line has been designed three degrees off grade. Or when someone has brought breakfast tacos. That brings all the boys to the yard, way more than the posture of their middle-aged office manager.

But I'm quite pleased with the change. I still have a way to go before this becomes second nature and I don't have to silently narrate every trip to the copy room or check my reflection as I go. But I'll get there.

I'll probably keep the checking my reflection part, though. You know, just to be on the safe side.

I Have Discovered the Phenomenon of Menunpause.

Today's word is:

menunpause n. (men' un 'pawz): the condition of going almost 12 cycles without a menstrual period, signaling the official onset of menopause, only to wake up one random morning with blood coming out of your wherever.

If there are any males still reading...sorry.

But dammit, I was so close.

Shut up, LeBron.

At 48, I realize I'm a few years shy of the average age of onset of menopause. Which is 51, which by the way I will never be 51 because I plan to stop aging next year, possibly by means of drinking snake venom or burning incense or something.

Chicken sacrifice, maybe.
This part of my life plan is still in the "research" stage.

But damn, I was ready to be menopausal. Perimenopause began a couple of years ago: hot flashes, female...um...dryness...skin issues. Yeah. Good times. Also, I gained a crap-ton of weight. Ugh.

Then, over the last year or so, I lost about 15 pounds. Granted, a good part of that was stress-related. You know, that whole selling-my-house, getting divorced, starting-my-life over stress. Hey, 15 pounds is 15 pounds. It wasn't anywhere near my fighting weight, but it was a bright spot in an otherwise dark goddamn period.

Shown here: 2015.

So here I am, a single, independent woman, happily perimenopausal. The hot flashes have faded, the emotions have leveled (OK, somewhat), and months have passed since I last experienced menses. I am cautiously optimistic that my period is, finally, an actual literal full stop.

And then...

Well, over the last couple of months I've regained almost all the weight I lost. I'm eating well: almost zero sugar, lots of lean protein, as many veggies as I can manage. Still, I'm packing on pounds like a fucking Kardashian after a bad breakup.

Insensitive AF, but I'm pre-menopausal.
Bite me.

Normally I would have assumed hormones were the culprit. Except, you know, I'm thisclose to being in menopause, so hormones should no longer be an issue, right?

Sigh.

Yesterday was my day to spend with Drummer Boy. We had a Cowboys game to watch. We had Ro-Tel dip (WITH SAUSAGE) to eat. Precocious Daughter was with her dad for the day.

We were going to get freaky, you guys.

We were going to get Snorkledorf.
Look it up, millennials.

Then I went to the bathroom.

If any guys are still reading...women periodically (swidt?) wipe themselves and see blood on the TP. We know that we're not hemorrhaging, we're just having a visit from Aunt Flo. We can handle this because we are awesome. It means our period has started.

For several decades, our reaction is: ho-hum, time to break out the tampons/pads until my uterus has emptied itself of non-essential baby-nurturing blood and tissue.

Again, we are awesome.

On the rag RIGHT NOW.

But you know what? When you're a certain age, and Aunt Flo hasn't visited since last winter, you're not expecting a random wipe to reveal the 28-day curse. You're just...not.

Go ask Alice, I think she'll know.

So let's sum up.

I now have to wait until at least October 2017 to declare myself in menopause.

My tenuous truce with gaining middle-age weight for no goddamn reason has been broken.

I did not get laid yesterday.

I love being a strong, independent, self-sufficient middle-aged woman...except for the part where I still have to buy Kotex like a teenager.

Menunpause, you guys. Make it trend. Support my cause. Pity me.

Fuck.