A Stimulus Story

Hi, guys. Long time, no post.

Those of you who are friends, or at least Facebook friends, IRL know a lot of this story already. This is for my faithful Drunkards who maybe only know me from my unfortunately sporadic posts.

You may remember that in February of this year - February, pre-pandemic, isn't that wild? - Precocious Daughter and I were fortunate to bring The Chonk into our lives.

This handsome large boy right here.

The Chonk lived with PDaughter in her campus apartment, and they were very happy. Then...

Well, in mid-March PDaughter and The Chonk came home for Spring Break and never went back. Classes were canceled. The world changed. And The Chonk went from a stable, unchanging life with one human mom to moving twice in two months with new humans and a Siamese Kitten who didn't necessarily relish a new feline roommate.

He got stressed, as one might imagine. He stopped eating. And he got feline fatty liver disease.

Here are some links about this ailment:

http://www.pethealthnetwork.com/cat-health/cat-diseases-conditions-a-z/fatty-liver-disease-cats-not-eating-can-quickly-kill

https://www.preventivevet.com/cats/how-to-prevent-hepatic-lipidosis-fatty-liver-disease-in-cats

https://www.petmd.com/cat/conditions/digestive/c_ct_hepatic_lipidosis

If you don't want to peruse those links, I'll spell it out: When a change in a cat's routine causes stress, he is likely to stop eating, resulting in fatty liver disease. Without aggressive treatment (or even with it), the prognosis for recovery is about 20%.

The Chonk came very close to death, my friends.

Fortunately, we got him to the vet on time, and the vet was fantastic. FANTASTIC. Operating as an essential business in the midst of this COVID-19 awfulness, they were fully committed to the recovery of The Chonk.

When antibiotics and force-feedings at home failed to keep our boy from fading, the vet took him for a period of time, giving him IV fluids and general TLC. And after several days, he responded.

I have never been so happy to pay a vet bill as I was the day we brought The Chonk home.

He's been back with us for five days, and after a couple of touch-and-go days when his appetite still seemed lacking, The Chonk is eating with a vengeance. He's even venturing to eat the Siamese Kitten's food when she's not looking. And that's fine, because The Chonk is nowhere near chonky after this ordeal. He's painfully thin, and we're doing our best to get him back to a normal weight, let alone his former chonkfulness.

Bottom line: I have been extremely fortunate during the current global crisis. I've been working full-time (on only slightly reduced hours), I got a healthy tax rebate just before the shit hit the fan, and I was among the first to receive my stimulus check. The Chonk's illness was emotionally extremely draining, but I was able to get him the care he needed to recover.

So here's the thing.

The Chonk's vet bills - including vet exams, hospitalizations, medicine, and special food - totaled almost exactly USD $1,500.

PDaughter chipped in $300.

Which means my cost to treat The Chonk was $1,200.

Or exactly one government stimulus check.

I don't think much about divine providence, chance, or the like.

But the fact is that the government sent me exactly what I needed to pay my vet bill.

Call it what you will. I'm just happy our formerly chonky boy is still with us.

Not sure if this picture shows it well,
but he is no longer chonky.

As I grieve for every human who has been affected with COVID-19, I also rejoice for the life of this tuxedo-boy who will live to love us for many more days.

I hope you are all well, Drunkards. My family (PD, cats, and all) loves you.

Sleepless Night, with Thoughts of Cat

To quote Elton John:

It's four o'clock in the morning, dammit, listen to me good.

I have insomnia, and I'm stretched out on my sofa, staring at my computer.

My Siamese Kitten is stretched out with me, sound asleep.

And I just realized that this "kitten" is almost 12 years old.

She seems the picture of health. She zooms, and yowls, and jumps to the tops of the kitchen cabinets. Just like any cat in the prime of life.

But as she lies here next to me, I notice that her fur seems thicker and denser...because it's covering less flesh. And I can clearly see the outlines of her shoulder blades, and her spine, in repose.

She is aging.

We're all aging. I'm a damn middle-aged woman. Precocious Daughter has become an adult with a car and a job, and she will start college in a few weeks.

My parents, somehow, are elderly.

Yet I'm fixated on my cat.

She came into our lives when PDaughter was in first grade. I hope that she'll be here in four years when PDaughter gets her degree. That would be sweet.

The Siamese Kitten has saved my life on more than one occasion. Just by being here.

I hope she continues to be here.

And you guys, too.

I hope you've slept well.

Five Faves on Social Media

Lately I've spent more time reading/watching social media than writing/contributing. Life ebbs and flows, and right now that's where the ebb it's been going. See what I did there?

Anyway.

I thought I'd share a few of my current favorite social media accounts with you, so you can see where my head's at. Note: I define social media as Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I'm too old for Tumblr and far too unhip for Instagram*, although some of my faves definitely may be active on those platforms in addition to the ones I list here.

*I do have an Instagram, but frankly it baffles me, so basically I only use it to stalk Fredrik from "Million Dollar Listing New York."

In no particular order, here are the accounts you could follow if you wanted to see the world through my eyes (good God, why?)

WeRateDogs (@dog_rates on Twitter): They're good dogs, Brent. Home of the best doggos and puppers, heartwarmingly and hilariously ranked for your convenience. A true phenomenon.

Single Dad Laughing (Facebook): Parenthood, dating, and lifestyle blogger. I follow him mainly for his daily roundup of memes, which I regularly steal/share on my own Facebook page.

Pictures in History (Facebook): The guy who runs this account consistently posts unique and fascinating photographs - not just the ones that are repeated and repackaged ad nauseam in clickbait articles (and I would know because I'm a sucker for clickbait articles - come at me, bro). Fun stuff.

Moshow the Cat Rapper (@IAmMoshow on Twitter and Facebook): Just what he sounds like - a dude who raps about cats, with his cats (he has five). But more than that, he's a sweet, genuine guy who spreads positivity with every post. If you could use a smile several times a day, give him a look.

Tiny Snek Comics (@TinySnekComics on Facebook and Twitter): The artwork here is so ludicrously simple it's beautiful; the jokes are so blase they're profound. The young man who draws Tiny Snek comics has created an entire visual and verbal language that conveys depth and sincerity through extreme silliness. He just graduated from college, but I hope the real world doesn't end his comics.

*****

There's five. I'll come up with five more another time. In the meantime, do me two favors:

1. Share your favorite social media accounts.

2. If you visit any of mine, tell them Chuck Baudelaire sent you.

I'm off to check my notifications. G'night.

Delightful Men and Their Siamese Cats

A few years ago, I wrote a post called "Beautiful Women and Their Siamese Cats."

Holy crap, it was six and a half years ago.

Where does the time go?

Over there. It definitely goes over there.

Anyway, it's become one of my more popular posts. I don't know if you know this, but people on the Internet like cats. Go figure. A lot of the hits come from people searching for cats, or Siamese, or, presumably, Jane Fonda with a cat on her butt. I don't judge.

But it's not only female celebrities who like Meezers. A bit of searching turned up a whole bunch of famous dudes cuddling with these soft, fluffy, affectionate, loud-mouthed little assholes. I thought I'd share some of them with you.

Anthony Perkins seemed to like Siamese kitties.

I'll resist the urge to say "one psycho deserves
another." Oh, wait.

Andy Warhol dug things that were weird and non-conforming, so it's a perfect match.

It's not easy to snuggle with tomato soup cans.

James Mason had a suave manner and distinctive voice, just like a Siamese cat. And also could be a little creepy, again just like a Siamese.

I'll bet this one was named Lolita.

Siamese cats are graceful and light on their feet. Just like Fred Astaire.

I know from experience that sticking your finger in a Meezer's
mouth is a good way to get gnawed on.

A young Michael Landon found a Siamese cat to be a fine reading companion.

Mind the claws, Little Joe.

I'm not sure what's on Peter Lorre's mind here. But if it's something diabolical, he's in good company.

I love how they're giving each other side-eye.

It's not just actors who like Siamese, though. Here's Tom Jones getting inspired to sing "What's New, Pussycat?"

His fans apparently threw cats onstage in addition to panties
and hotel room keys. Lucky cats.

Unfortunately, these bright-eyed kitties weren't enough to free Syd Barrett from his demons.

In which case, they were truly
powerful demons.

Fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld is said to be quite fond of Siamese cats.

He has excellent taste.

Poet, songwriter, and lover of Brel Rod McKuen took inspiration from Meezers (probably).

Everybody needs a furry muse.

And finally, if you follow Ricky Gervais on social media, you know his best friend Ollie.

Her little white-tipped paws are to die for.

Excuse me, I have to go pet the Siamese kitten now. She's in a rare state of being curled up and not having murder in her eyes.

But I'll still steer clear of her sharp point bits.

Placeholder Feline

I know I haven't posted in a few days. Sorry 'bout that. I'll be back with fresh content soon, I promise. Or threaten.

In the meantime, enjoy this picture of the great Dean Martin grabbing Ann-Margret's pussy.

When you're a star, they have to let you do it.

Anyway, until tomorrow.

Whither Scarlet O'Hairball?

You may recall, my dear Drunkards, that a while back I held a contest to name my Victorian cat doll.

Meow.

The winning name, courtesy of Karen McBoob, was Scarlet O'Hairball. And I promised to display my beautiful and newly named porcelain kitty in my apartment.

But I haven't done that.

I indeed has a sad.

It's taking me and Precocious Daughter a long time to settle in to our new digs. We're still acquiring furniture (newest acquisitions: a bookshelf and a TV stand, both still boxed and awaiting assembly). We're still discarding cardboard boxes. We're still getting used to life as two women looking for love from very different vantage points in life.

There's an ironing board behind my bedroom door because I can't figure out where it belongs, is what I'm saying. 

But here's my point. Scarlet O'Hairball needs to find a home in my home, and she hasn't yet, and I'm not happy about that.

JUST LOOK AT HER.

I need your help. I need some advice on where this beautiful little porcelain kitty in a crimson-satin-and-white-lace dress should live in my small but wonderful home.

Please vote for an option, if you will.

A: On the display shelf in the living room, where everyone can see her.

B: In your bedroom, so you can smile every morning on waking and seeing her beautiful face.

C: On top of the kitchen cabinets, which you are wanting to make a focal point but which at the moment are bare and simply attracting dust that you're afraid to climb up and confront.

D: Keep S. O'H. in her box. She is from another time in your life and doesn't need to be part of your next chapter.

Help me out, you guys. I'll do what you want. Or I'll consider it. Or something. Yeah.

Scarlet and I thank you in advance. I'll let you know how the vote goes. 

Somecat Saved My Life Tonight

I think the Siamese Kitten just saved my life.

Shown here being a dumbass.

I don't know if you understand what it's like to feel completely and utterly alone. As in, your child is with her dad (because, you know, you fucking destroyed your marriage so now you share custody), And your supposed-I-don't-know-whatever boyfriend has blown off the one day that is supposed to be yours without exception. And all the huge life gains you made this week seem completely invalid because you're the only one who gives a shit about them.

AND ALL HE SAYS IS WELL I DIDN'T SEE YOUR GREEN DOT SO I GUESS EVERYTHING IS YOUR FUCKING FAULT SEE YA LOL.

Not important, because my kitten just told me she loves me with a head-boop and a yowl. Which is more emotional reaction than I've received from anywhere else today.

Head-boops are amazingly therapeutic, you guys.

I guess on some level human companionship is favored.

But where I stand, I'll take my cat - who is here with me - over actual humans who only spout platitudes and/or try to blame me for my problems.

I love you, Siamese Kitten.

Fuck off, the rest of you.

Move Toward the Light, Chuck

Today was a little dark, Drunkards.

Possibly not quite this dark. But dark, OK?

You know, like when you remember the famous Bette Davis line from All About Eve: "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night," except you suspect that Bette Davis would have crapped her pants if she knew just how bumpy a day or night could get?

I apologize for making you think about Bette Davis
crapping her pants. It's been that kind of day.

But you know, if you look hard enough, you can find bright spots in just about any day. Just about. I myself have had some completely pitch-black days. But today I was able to find some pinpricks of joy in the inky fabric of the shit the universe felt like throwing at me.

I call that a win.

For example:

I submitted two articles to a startup online magazine, and I got a one word response from the editor, to wit: "Fanfuckingtastic." That made me smile.

Also, I've been waiting two weeks for my Siamese kitten to discover that our new place has very high ceilings and, therefore, an entire level above the kitchen cabinets that she's never known before. Today she discovered it.

So, the color scheme of my apartment is "Siamese kitten."
Tastefully neutral, with claws, I guess?

Finally, Drummer Boy is coming over. Apparently he is bringing me chairs? I don't really have chairs right now. I'm not sure how Drummer Boy can walk into my apartment, see that I'm living on a shoestring and have no furniture, and still say he loves me. Yet that's the sitch.

I'm broke, Drunkards. Flat broke.

Yet I'm so rich I can't comprehend it.

Each of you is part of my wealth. So thank you.

Let's hope tomorrow is lighter for all of us, OK?

Scene from a New Apartment

Wednesday night. First "real" night in the apartment. Meaning, first day I got up in the morning, took Precocious Daughter to school, went to work, picked up PDaughter, went home*, made dinner, wrote a blog post.

*On moving day, I mentioned several times that I had to do or get or find certain things "at home." Each time, Drummer Boy gently reminded me that "at home" no longer meant "at the house." Tonight I'm sitting the living room of my apartment, typing away on the large ottoman that is our only piece of furniture. I'm at home.

Not thinking about selling the house (the next act happens tomorrow, good, bad, or ugh). Not drinking myself catatonic. Listening to the Siamese kitten meowing softly in another room, ever so slowly becoming accustomed to her strange new surroundings. She does like having a kitchen island, I think.

Thinking about tonight's blog post, I fire up the laptop. Pick up the mouse and flip it on its back to turn it on. No red light. I jiggle the switch a few times. No red light in either direction. Batteries are dead.

Oh well, I'll just go the drawer where the batteries are kept.... Were kept. At the house.

I'm not at the house. I'm at home. There's no battery drawer here.

Certainly I brought batteries with me, though. I remember very deliberately divvying up the contents of our junk drawer. Drawers. Don't judge. Making sure that he had a flashlight and I had a flashlight, he had some tape and I had some tape, he had the deck of cards with a queen missing and I had a set of shower curtain rings with one ring missing. Like that.

Apparently people to love to post pictures of their junk on the Internet.
Who knew?

I totally would have split up our stock of AA batteries. Wouldn't I? The goddamn world runs on AA batteries. TV remotes, vibrators...all the important stuff. At the house, we always kept a big old pack of them on hand. AA batteries, that is.

So I go to the plastic bin that holds my share of the junk drawer booty and start rummaging. Yep, there's the tape. There's a box of paper clips. There's a hot glue gun - thank God I saved that bad boy, seeing as I'm so crafty and all.

Is it wrong if I prefer the penguin on the left?

Ah, there they are. Good old...D-cell batteries.

Great Godfrey's hairy coconut, what the hell are those doing here?

I own nothing that takes D-cell batteries. Nothing. Certainly not my vibrator. And not my goddamn mouse.

I rummage some more. Nope. I have one, two, three D-cell batteries and zero batteries that are actually useful to me in any way.

If only we could harness the power of steam.

I could take the batteries out of another device that uses them and put them in the mouse, of course. Because I really hate using the little pad-button thingy on the laptop itself. I'm not good at it. It's like typing with my thumbs; I think it's a generational deficiency. That's my story, anyway.

It's not the end of the world, though. It's just the principle, strange and a little sad, of not being able to find something you've never even had to look very hard for. Just another side effect of being at home.

I smile a little to myself.

I can live with that.

Good and Bad

Good news: Precocious Daughter and I are moved into our new home.

Bad news: The sale of the house has completely fallen apart, and I don't if we can put it back together before financial collapse ensues.

Good news: The Siamese kitten is exploring her new home.

Bad news: She was completely traumatized when we brought her here, and she spent the first 24 hours either yowling miserably or hiding in a drawer.

Good news: My almost-ex has decided to work with me instead of against me, and we're communicating better than we have maybe ever.

Bad news: Everything we're communicating about is sad and stressful, and although we're in agreement, that's not the same as finding a solution.

Good news: I'm finally independent.

Bad news: I'm scared out of my fucking mind.

Good news: Everything works out in the end.

Bad news: Everything doesn't always work out well in the end.

Good news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Bad news: I'm not relying on vodka to get me through this crisis.

Remember, I have drama so you don't have to.

As I Was Saying

So yeah, about names for my Victorian cat doll.

THOSE EYES. ALL THE CREAM FOR YOU.

I got some really, really awesome suggestions from you guys! Thank you so much!

I've narrowed it down to two favorites.

From Christopher Waldrop: Catty Pecksniff.

From Karen McBoob: Scarlet O'Hairball

How to choose?

No, little taco commercial girl.
There can be only one.

Oh, by the way, in response to Karen McBoob's question about whether she might be wearing boots (a la Puss in...): Believe it or not, I had never actually looked under her skirt. But you inspired me.

Turns out she's got bloomers and kitty toes!!!

Pictured: Bloomers and kitty toes!!!

OK.

So.

Although I totally appreciate the Victorian whimsy of Catty Pecksniff, my abiding love of terrible puns compels me to choose Scarlet O'Hairball as the winning name.

And I've decided that Ms. O'Hairball will no longer have to live in a box, but will be given a place of honor in my new apartment. 

She seems like a purrrrrfect accessory.

I hope the Siamese kitten doesn't attack her on sight.

I love you guys, did I mention that?

Because I do.

Just One More, Why Not?

I'm getting pretty fucking tired of this shit, Drunkards.

All I wanted to do tonight was write a post about the awesome names you guys suggested for my Victorian cat doll. But I can't. Because yet another stupid dickless angry young asshole has opened fire on innocent people and slaughtered multiple humans because he thought it was a good idea and HEY, look how easy it is to acquire multiple firearms!

And of course he went down in a hail of bullets and won't have to face the families of his victims. I wish Hell actually existed, so I could take comfort in thoughts of his scrotum being burned away for all eternity. Instead, he gets a free pass to the void while the grieving families of those he murdered will suffer from their losses for the rest of their lives.

All because a small percentage of Constitutionally illiterate Americans and their well-funded gun lobby think we all should have the right to keep and bear weapons of mass destruction.

Which somehow were a damn good reason to go to war with Iraq, but in 'Murica are the embodiment of patriotism, along with fucking apple pie and loving yo' mama.

So the shooter's name was Chris Harper Mercer, and not to indulge in egregious stereotypes, but if he wasn't a 20-something white dude, I'll eat my own dirty panties on YouTube.

CJ Grisham, Ted Nugent, and Wayne LaPierre can all suck my dick. I hate guns. And the people who loudly and threateningly insist on their unabridged right to carry them wherever, whenever they want. Every person who advocates for universal, unregulated access to guns is a moron and a tool and should legally be considered an accessory to murder whenever something like the UCC shooting happens.

If your penis is really that miniscule, do us all a favor and put oversized tires on your pickup truck and whack off to online porn like every other under-endowed loser in the world.

You want to hunt? You want to carry for self-defense? You just think guns are peachy keen and make your sex organ appear more impressive? Fine. Apply for a license, submit to a background check, acquire liability insurance. Then own the fuck out of that gun.

But walking into a Walmart or a pawn shop and shelling out cash for a deadly weapon with absolutely no reconciliation between your past behavior and your future likelihood of violence courtesy of your shiny new gun?

That's not America. That's fucking Crazy States of Blastmeawayistan.

Some of us would appreciate a culture of life in this country.

Along with liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we think that's pretty goddamn important.

Fuck you and your guns.

Really.

Victorian cats, man. That's really all I wanted to write about tonight.

Not this shit.

Goddamn.

Cats, Love, Contest...The Perfect Blog Post, Yes?

To begin:

Confidential to Karen McBoob: I love you. I just fell in love with you. Big sloppy wet kiss.

Mmmmffffgnmrrrrrmmmrgrh.

To continue:

Here's my Victorian cat doll.

My almost-ex unearthed her from the hall closet while searching for our Trivial Pursuit box so we could have one last Family Game Night before ceasing to be a family.

Which turns out to be an incredibly sad thought,
so let's just move on.

Anyway, my Victorian cat doll was the first or second thing I ever bought on eBay, way back in the day. Just because I love Victorian cats, and I couldn't believe you could type "Victorian cat" in eBay and find all of these wonderful things to buy.

Like I was supposed to look at this and not buy it.
Am I a monster?

Honestly, I thought I had already gotten rid of her. There have been so many purges of personal possessions/keepsakes/memories over the last couple of years that I naturally assumed a ceramic cat in a lacy 19th-century dress wouldn't have made the cut. Yet here she is.

Hell yes, I'm keeping her.

By the way, she's never had a name. She deserves a name, I think.

Suggestions are most welcome. I'll pick a name from among them, if they materialize.

The winner gets...a shoutout here, which is probably the most worthless prize anyone could ask for. Hahaha.

But still, that's the prize.

Suggestions are welcome.

I love my Victorian cat doll.

And all of you...but tonight, especially, Karen McBoob.

Namaste, my bitches.

The Story of Josie

Once there was a cat named Josie.

And I'd be lying if I said she was the sweetest, nicest, most loving cat there ever was. In fact, for a majority of her years she was anything but. She was standoffish, ornery, anti-social, unaffectionate, and mean. She had minimal tolerance for human contact, letting you know when she had reached her limit by means of a hiss, a smack, or a bite (or all three, if she felt the need to be emphatic about it). She never let Precocious Daughter touch her at all - ever. Basically, she was the original Grumpy Cat, except if we'd ever tried to put her in adorable poses for a photo shoot, someone would have lost an eye.

My spouse and I got her as an eight-week-old kitten in early 1999. I was feeling bummed because we'd decided to start a family, and I didn't get pregnant immediately. I don't mean we'd been trying unsuccessfully for months; I mean it didn't happen the very first month after I stopped taking the pill, and I felt like a failure. Because I was a bit of a jerk with an apparently loose grasp of how biology works.

Anyway, we decided to take a kitten from a friend whose mom's cat had just had a litter. Maybe I thought we could simply raise it like a human baby, I don't remember. Josie was a merry little kitten. She was playful and frisky and bounced everywhere, the way kittens do. She had such pretty tuxedo-cat markings and beautiful green eyes. All the indications were that she was going to be a happy addition to our household.

Things were great for the first few weeks. Then she was traumatized by our dog. The dog wasn't being mean or aggressive; but she had a longstanding relationship with our older cat, and it was pretty rough-and-tumble. I'm sure she assumed the new kitten would want to play the same games. Except Josie didn't, and in a flash she went from happy and friendly to guarded and introverted. Forever.

It didn't help matters that I got pregnant soon after. My "fertility crisis" lasted two whole months - I was a tool, OK? When PDaughter was born, we set up a bassinet in our bedroom so she could sleep close to us for a while (did you know that newborns cry, like, all night? somehow we didn't). One day we found Josie sleeping in the bassinet, and although it was very cute, we over-reacted as only new parents can and shooed her aggressively away...then lay the baby down in the very spot Josie had just claimed as her own. Their relationship never recovered.

So for years we had a cat who was unfriendly and basically acted as if she could barely stand to be around the people who owned her. As for anyone else who came around, Josie wouldn't even deign to make an appearance. My sister used to insist that we had made up the whole idea of having a tuxedo cat, because no one else ever saw her. She literally hid in a closet if she heard unfamiliar voices in the house.

But she could be pleasant, as long as it was on her own terms. She would take petting exactly when and in precisely what amount she desired. Her fur was wonderfully soft and thick, her purr exceptionally deep and rumbly. It didn't happen often, it never lasted long, but Josie could and did show us her sweet side. It always felt like a treat.

And as she got older, she inevitably mellowed. She actually began to show affection, especially to my spouse. Josie was always "his" cat, and they grew very close. They shared ice cream. She joined him in bed for long petting sessions. She still didn't like anyone else, including PDaughter. But it was nice to feel her velvety fur more than just once in a while.

Last year, along with opening up emotionally, Josie started to slow down physically. She was a pretty whopping big cat in her prime, but she started to lose weight - first a little, then a lot. She didn't always eat much, and when she did she didn't always keep it down very well. She developed a wheeze that my spouse patiently treated with regular steroid shots. We watched her closely, noting that her coat was still shiny, her eyes still bright. We spent more time showing her affection; she did the same. I think she understood what was happening as much as we did.

Last month she turned 16. Almost as if on a pre-arranged schedule, Josie started to fade. Her breathing grew more labored. Her bones began to stick out. Her beautiful tuxedo coat stood up in odd places, because there just wasn't enough of her for all that fur to lay on. Her big green eyes seemed even larger as the rest of her dwindled away.

Last night we decided her suffering had grown too great. She had stopped eating and drinking. Her steps were slow. And she had gone into PDaughter's bedroom - for the first time ever - and allowed herself to be petted. After 15 years, she'd made her peace with our "other" baby. That's when I knew the time had come.

Josie knew, too. All night she made tiny mewing noises. It sounded exactly as if she were saying "Why? Why?" This morning, as we set her on a towel to make the final trip to the vet, she was crying. I don't mean making cat-noises. She was crying tears. So were we.

Our vet is a very short drive from our house. I drove, and my spouse held Josie on his lap, telling her he loved her and she was going to feel better very soon. I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Josie's eyes grew wide. She sputtered a few times and batted her paws at the air, as if she were resisting being picked up one last time. Then she died. Right there, in the car, on her daddy's lap, on her own terms.

We carried her inside and gave her body to the vet. We made arrangements to receive her ashes in a little cedar box. We cried. A lot.

And now Josie's story is over. The little stocking with her name on it is still hanging by the fireplace. She was too sick yesterday to open her last Christmas present. I'll give it to the Siamese Kitten, who will also get extra hugs and pets for a while, until my heart stops hurting. Same for the Darling Dog and the Pigu.

I hope she's already arrived in Heaven and found our old dog. She'll probably smack the crap out of her. That's the kind of cat she was.

32 Random Thoughts

Well, nobody submitted a guest post for tonight (even though I will publish literally anything you submit), so you guys are stuck with me and 32 things that are in my brain tonight. Which is just what you deserve, so there.

Nyah.

1. How does a sentient human male get to be the age of 50 years and 362 days without realizing that it takes like an extra five seconds to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher instead of leaving them on the kitchen counter?

2. The Emmys are the least interesting of the major awards shows, and they know it, so they try way too hard to be good.

3. Robin Williams deserved a much better tribute than he got at the aforementioned Emmys tonight. Jimmy Fallon showed the old Carson clip last week; you couldn't find something else to highlight Robin's brilliance?

4. Conway Twitty recorded a rock and roll version of "Danny Boy" in the 1950s, and it's amazing.




5. Target currently is selling a double-feature DVD of Muppets Take Manhattan and Muppets in Space for $5.00. Fuck yeah, I bought it.

6. I unironically think that Tardar Sauce aka Grumpy Cat is one of the most beautiful cats in the world, and I shamelessly like her Facebook posts because I love her.

That face. Look at it.

7. Many of you know that Precocious Daughter started high school today. Not many of you know that she auditioned for and won a place in the top high school band, but can't take it because of a conflict in her class schedule caused by the fact that freshmen almost never qualify for top band. Yet she's taking the disappointment graciously, because she's the most awesome person ever born (and I take zero credit for that).

8. I've given up on my dreams of returning to a size 4 and will happily settle for returning to a size 8.

9. The above will be easily achieved if I can control my caloric consumption via alcohol.

10. I have little confidence that I can do that.

11. I just discovered that Drummer Boy thinks Grumpy Cat is a boy. Not true.

Totally feminine.

12. Being invited to move your things into someone else's storage unit is perhaps the greatest measure of love there is.

13. I've been asked to do the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge twice. But I don't want to do it.

14. I'M NOT A JOINER, PEOPLE.

15. I don't know what to do when you know someone wants to marry you, but you're scared to death of going down that road again. (Suggestions? Anyone?)

16. Even though most people would label me a liberal, I really don't entirely approve of the job President Obama is doing.

17. I bought a cantaloupe today.

18. I have no idea what to do with a cantaloupe.

19. I don't even like cantaloupe. It was PDaughter's idea.

20. WTF do I do with a cantaloupe?

21. I'm currently reading a 964-page biography of the The Beatles. It's Volume 1 of 3. I love it. Am I slightly obsessed? Maybe.

22. My 15 year old tuxedo cat is sitting on my bed right now. I'm afraid she won't live much longer, and that makes me incredibly sad.

23. I tried to take a picture of her, but I can't get my laptop's webcam to work. Please trust that she is beautiful.

24. Excuse me, I'm going to pee.

25. I forgot to buy toilet paper. That kind of sucks.

26. It's not as if I'm totally out of TP. That would be gross, stop it.

27. My boyfriend just asked me if I like the Lone Ranger. Yeah, that's not a trick question.

28. I'm thinking that after I'm divorced, I'll use my real name in this blog, and Drummer Boy's real name, and everybody's real name. Is that a really good or really bad idea?

29. I'm not a good person, and probably I shouldn't use anybody's real name.

30. PDaughter said she loves cantaloupe, so I bought her one. She asked me if I knew how to cut it, and I said yes. Am I going to hell for lying?

31. I have no idea how it's going to be September next week.

32. If I find out you're responsible for #31, I will cut you.

That's it. That's 32. Fuck off.

Next Monday, submit a goddamn guest post. Just sayin'.

Follow-upses

Here's what's been going on since I wrote some of my recent posts. Because you've probably been on tenterhooks wondering.

Tenterhooks. That's an amazing word.

This is not a tenterhook. But it should be.

On the subject of Ted Nugent: He remains holed up somewhere, cowering in fear of me. OF ME. His Twitter feed has been completely silent since I launched #TedNugentBeatdown. And get this: the last time his website was updated was the very day I first announced my intention to kick Teddy's ass in a violent and embarrassing public forum. Radio silence, even after the newest flap about some poor small town regretting the hell out of asking him to come sing for them.

Coincidence? No way, uh-uh. I've got the Motor City Moron on the run.

On the subject of my cat's personal ghost: On closer inspection, and as suggested by Drunkard

linaThumbe, it's just barely possible that what I thought was a photograph of a spectral manifestation was actually my bedroom's ceiling fan reflected in my laptop screen. I still maintain that the preponderance of evidence totally points to ghost. But I'm willing to entertain alternative theories.

 

As long as they include me seeing a ghost.

 

On the subject of sewing: Drunkards BekS and Smee are trying to pull me into a Stitch and Bitch party. Smee is posting more patterns on her Facebook page. Dear God, I started rummaging through my pattern stash last night. This is exactly how a recovering junkie feels when Lindsay Lohan sends him a friend request, isn't it? (And a personal aside to BekS and Smee: It's not reluctance to sew that keeps me from RSVPing. It's that you expect me to socialize. Can't I be alone with my addiction?)

All I need is a presser foot and some fusible interfacing.
I'm fine.

On the subject of my car: Still no word from the insurance company. More importantly, still no check. They can keep their damn words, I just want money. Unless anyone knows of a car dealership that will accept words as a down payment. In that case, I can afford a damn Mercedes.

If not...

Finally, on the subject of random facts: I loved the response I got to that post. If I promise to do another random facts post, do you guys promise to leave more really entertaining comments about spiders and the Banana Splits and whatnot? I hope my Drunkards know that every comment I get makes me feel like the first time I touched myself while listening to David Bowie. Um...that's a good feeling. Am I oversharing? But that's kind of my point, so...reader comments make me feel like getting off to an androgynous 70s rock star.

Honestly, it's a compliment.

OK, gotta go. If anyone has Teddy Nugget's phone number, pass it along. I'll give you a credit.

My Cat Is Haunted

Last night I posted a bunch of random stuff here because I didn't have much to write about.



As shocking as it is to believe I would
do such a thing.

Anyway, I meant to include a picture of my senior kitty, the Tuxedo Cat, who had jumped onto my bed and allowed her picture to be taken. The Tuxedo Cat is mellowing as she gets older, but she's not an I-Love-You-and-Want-You-To-Take-Endless-Pictures-Of-Me kind of girl. She's more of an I-Shall-Grant-You-Clemency-And-Not-Murder-You-If-You-Photograph-Me-Now kind of cat.



She considers Grumpy Cat a media whore.

I just forgot to include the picture of Tuxedo Cat in the post because I was ranting about bras and candles. This morning I found it on my phone. Here it is.



*sigh* Capture my soul on your electronic device,
if you must.

She's a beautiful girl, and she looks lovely against the purple backdrop of my bedroom wall, if I do say so.

If you look very closely, you can see that yesterday's post is actually on my laptop screen, being written. Oh yeah, I'm pulling back the curtain on the creative process. It's like drinking with Hemingway, or vomiting on Hunter S. Thompson's shoes, or something.

Except when I looked closely, I saw something in the photo that wasn't actually there when I took it.



Prepare to be creeped out, people.

I don't know what that thing in the bottom right-hand corner is.

According to the laws of Basic Cable, anything in a photograph that can't immediately be identified is, by definition, a ghost.

Or, more likely, a ghost's straw boater. Belonging to a ghost
who really admires Jay Gatsby.

Tuxedo Cat is totally checking out a spectral manifestation that humans can only see when captured in a photograph. It's some kind of three-dimensional object floating in space beyond the perception of the living, unless you're a cat.

Wait, let's pretend we saw it on the night-vision scope.

Bathed in eerie green light = completely believable.

I've had ghosts following me around for years, so I'm not freaked out by the idea of sharing my home with spirits. It's just that my ghosts typically have been sound-oriented - you know, disembodied voices, strange whistles or moans, that kind of thing - rather than the spectral apparition type.

My ghosts are probably as physically graceful
as I am.

This leads me to believe that my hat-shaped visitor likely is a ghost belonging to Tuxedo Cat herself and was only visiting my room because she was there. She's a pretty stylin' cat; she would have a ghostly pal who resembled a handsome chapeau.

Or maybe just wore one.
I don't really know...ghost protocol.
SWIDT?

They seem to be buds in the photo. I would think cats and ghosts get along pretty well: they're both mysterious and secretive, and also mostly silent until they decide to randomly make a huge, unnerving ruckus for no logical reason.

Whatever. I love you. It's 3 a.m. Shut up.

So Tuxedo Cat brought her little ghosty friend into my room. No biggie. She's not the kind of cat to put up with any crap, so I'm guessing if this ghost decides to make trouble, she'll claw it back to its own dimension.

I'm kind of pleased to have gotten a picture of the two of them. It's not every day you get to photograph a ghost. Or a 15-year-old cat who mostly only comes out of her closet at feeding time. I feel doubly honored.

But if I start seeing the head that is wearing that hat, I may start randomly zooming around the house and crapping in a box. Because I think I just figured out that ghosts make cats insane.

I'm so getting my own cable show. I just need one of those cameras that make everything green.