A New Cat to Be Crazy About

 Hey, everyone. Here's my cat. For the purpose of this here blog, Imma call him the Tacocat.

Longtime readers may recall that I previously had two cats - one was the Siamese Kitten, who was my constant companion and official Best Cat Ever. The other was the Chongers, the sweet tuxedo cat who came to me and Precocious Daughter in a strange and wonderful way right before the pandemic started (hey! remember the pandemic?) and was the bestest boy until his sudden and untimely passing in February 2023.

Two months after the Chongers left us, and not long after I did my last post before my extended hiatus, the Siamese Kitten left us. She was 16 1/2, and she was just an old girl who tried her best to go on, but I made the decision to let her go before she could suffer.

In the space of two months I went from cat-mom of two to empty nester. Coming on the heels of PDaughter moving to New York to pursue her dream of not living in Texas, it was a lot to get used to. I do firmly believe that the Siamese Kitten's tiny little ghost still lives with me, but that's another post. And anyway, a ghost-cat isn't the same as an actual live cat. For one thing, ghost cats don't wrap their needle-tipped paws around your arm and bite you for no damn reason at all.

Not my cat, but definitely the same vibe.

So I got used to living really, truly alone. I also got used to other things, like not having to sweep cat hair out of every corner of every room every day. And not constantly stepping on little pebbles of cat litter. Also, not having to haul big jugs of said litter from the car to my apartment every few weeks. Ooh, and not having bowls of food and water on the floor to attract bugs.

No, look, I was totes sad. But the point is, life goes on, and we all adapt to change. And I just wasn't emotionally ready to welcome a new kitty into my life immediately after losing two in a short space of time. The other stuff was just gravy. Sad, non-messy gravy.

Well, a year went by, and PDaughter decided I had had enough time to grieve. She came home for a visit, ostensibly to see family and friends, but with a very ulterior motive. On a Saturday morning, she marched me out to the car (it wasn't much of a march, I was a bit hungover) and drove me to the local no-kill shelter. It was time, she said. Time for a new cat.

And there, the Tacocat found us. My resistance was low (again, hungover), and he looked deep in my eyes and said, "There's an easy mark."

Look at this photogenic bastard.

So they boxed him up and we took him home. 

His first day home.
He had just peed in a closet.

You guys, I've always wanted a tabby cat. So it's pretty lucky that he is. It certainly wasn't his personality that drew me to him. That came later, and it went hard. More on that in future posts. 

For now, I just wanted to introduce my Drunkards to this stripey boy who has totally won my heart. 

I may write a poem about him. You've been warned.

I'm Running a Sh*tshow, Part 1

We're moving!

No, not the Siamese Kitten and I. She and I are staying put in our fourth-story apartment for one more year, waiting to see if the housing market calms its tits enough to allow the possibility of moving on up in 2024.

To be honest, I believe the Siamese Kitten is currently living in her final home. She is in her sunset years, and I think she is feeling the loss of her brother the Chongers almost as much as I am. She remains snuggly and feisty and full of surprises. But...well. 

The concept of the Rainbow Bridge is
kind of schmaltzy, but it's there when you
need it most.

But that is not what this post is about.

My IRL office is moving. Not just moving. Moving into a space twice as large as our current space. That is a gut renovation. And combining two separate companies into one following an acquisition that quite frankly has been a nightmare. That's a whole other post. Possibly a book, or an MBA class case study. Seriously. Whoo boy.

I envy people who are able to believe Office Space
is fiction.

Drunkards, guess who is in charge of this shitshow?

My boss and I, purely by serendipity, are like two very oddly shaped jigsaw puzzle pieces that just fit. He is extremely savvy, a strategic thinker, supremely drama-averse, and a master of giving people enough rope to hang themselves. I, on the other hand, am ingenuous, a tactician of the highest order, fascinated by drama, and I deeply distrust the noose otherwise known as "opportunity."

(This is actually a running joke between us...He'll approach me and say, "I have an opportunity for you," which always means I'm about to have some difficult and/or distasteful task offloaded to me. But we both understand the euphemism and acknowledge that I'm banking points every time I run with it, so it's all good.)

We complement each other, and we work together really well. And for better or for worse, he likes to challenge me. So he's made me the acting CEO of Operation Spend $2,000,000. Yeah. Me. Who never had a thousand bucks in the bank until she was in her 50s and who is quite frankly awful at managing people, places, or things.

But super good at nouns.

To my credit, I understand the stakes here: I cannot fail. It's not that I'm too big to fail, like an American bank or airline. It's literally that I'm too small, scared, and insignificant to fail. If I screw this up, I take the fall. And by "the fall," I mean "the ability to pay my rent and my bills, because I'll be screwed like a turtle on its back with no other turtles to show up and flip it over like you see in those adorable videos."

It's not a pretty thought, is it?

I am rising to the challenge, I think? And in the next few posts, with your kind indulgence, I'll outline some of the humorously terrifying (terrifyingly humorous?) ways I'm handling the day-to-day adventure of managing contractors, vendors, landlords, corporate overlords, grumpy co-workers, and one extremely pissed-off custodian who hates my guts.

If you're so inclined, tune in and take notes. There's definitely a TED Talk in here somewhere.

Next up: Mental labor vs. physical labor, and why I'm not good at either.

I Haven't Been Writing

 Those of you who know me IRL or follow the Always Drunk Facebook page know that last week we suddenly, sadly lost our beloved junior tuxedo cat, the Chongers.

July 9, 2009 - February 8, 2023

He was the best boy, and losing him just derailed me. I had so many things I was planning to write here, and just like that, they were gone, as if he took my thoughts with him when he passed. Losing a loved one will do that.

So I haven't been writing. I know that's not how a "real" writer is supposed to deal with sadness. We're supposed to write our way out, over, and through our troubles, use them and bend them to our will like the creative geniuses we are (or aspire to be). 

But sometimes tragedies don't look like inspiration, and troubles don't act like a muse. And sometimes I just want to be sad when something sad happens. So I haven't been writing.

Tomorrow I'll go to the vet - the same vet that saved the Chonger's life shortly after he joined our family in 2020 - and get a little box containing his ashes. And I'll be sad all over again that he left us so unexpectedly. I'll put in on the shelf with the other little boxes containing the ashes of other sweet kitties who left us. I know there are those who will think these boxes are a waste of money and shelf space. And that's OK. I couldn't argue the point if I wanted to. Because I haven't been writing.

This right here, this isn't really writing. This is me filling some space with some words, just to let you know I'm still here. I can't wait to get back to bringing you dumb little posts about monkeys or politics or pooping in a box, which is something else I haven't been doing - but I will. And I'll write about it. Whether you want to read it or not. Because that's what writers do. I guess.

Anyway, tonight I'm snuggling with my Siamese Kitten, who I never expected to outlive the Chongers, but here she is and here we are. Never assume you know how life is going to unfold and who will be there as it does. Love everyone you can. Don't be afraid to say it.

And don't be afraid to write it down.

One Night Only (Probably Not, Though)

 In our last installment, I reported on the health and appetite status of the ever-lovely Siamese Kitten. 

I have an update!

Last night...well, early this morning. Well, 4:30 in the morning, not to put too fine a point on it. Four-thirty is like matinee time for cats, apparently.

Wake up and grab your popcorn.

This morning the Siamese Kitten, clearly having read my blog and wanting me to know that she's feeling much better, decided to put on a show. And what a show! Her performance had everything.

The zoomies!

The yowls!

The toilet paper unrolling!

The kicking of the litter!

The reprise of the zoomies!

The sofa clawing!

And the grand finale...the horking on the carpet!

It was a stirring performance. I honestly wouldn't have been surprised if she'd broken out in a chorus of "Hello My Baby."

Maybe it's not the same without the top hat.

When she was done, she hopped up on my bed and treated me to an outro of purring. It was a tour de force , really.

So yeah, the Siamese Kitten is feeling OK now that she's back on her old food and eating with relish. I mean, not literally with relish. Don't feed your cat relish. That can't be good.

Pro tip: It's not good. (Relish, yuck.)

Here's the epilogue: In addition to kicking cat litter all over the place, she somehow got poop on the floor. I don't mean she kicked a little turd out of her box. I mean she somehow got a smear of poop on the floor. And before I cleaned it up, she had the unmitigated gall to walk up to it, sniff it, and look up at me as if to say, "This is disgusting. Take care of it."

And finally, the post-credits scene. When she horked? Turns out she deposited a nice little pile of semi-digested food exactly on a spot on the carpet that I had just cleaned the night before. 

And...scene.

P.S. I'm really tired. I hope the show goes on hiatus tonight.

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.

Five Years (What a Surprise)

 This Monday marks five years since my divorce was final. 

And now this song will be in my head all day, of course. There are worse fates.

(It's been five years since we lost David Bowie, too. Wow, 2016 really did suck, didn't it?)

To prepare for writing about this milestone, I've spent the last hour or so re-reading old posts from the days, months, and actually years leading up to it. If you don't know or have forgotten, three and a half years elapsed between the time my ex and I separated and the day the divorce decree was signed. I'd love to say it was because our extensive empire of assets, holdings, and bank vaults filled with money took time to be equitably split. But no. It was mostly because even the smallest of worlds can become vast and treacherous when you're navigating toward the exit.

Anyway, those posts are all archived under the "Divorce" tag on the right side of the page if you want to peruse them. I get that reading about somebody else's divorce may not be the most compelling thing in the world - especially if, as in my case, there aren't a lot of publicly available juicy details - but as for me, I'm damn glad those chronicles exist. I had forgotten, deliberately or otherwise, a lot of the stuff I'd written down. Re-living some of those moments has been instructive and emotional. 

On the whole, this is a happy anniversary for me. Of all the bass-ackward things I've done in my life, the most significant was becoming an old married lady without ever having been a young single lady.

It's nearly impossible to Google "single lady"
without getting a picture of Beyonce, so here's
a random picture of a snake in a combat helmet
instead. (RIP, Gandalf the White)

Over the last five years, I've done a lot of things I feel I should have done much earlier in life, like figuring out my own taste in decorating (which turns out to involve a lot of skeletons), putting myself on a budget and learning how to save, motivating myself (and taking responsibility when I don't), and just generally being comfortable in my own skin. I'm not saying I've been wildly successful in each of  these endeavors. But as I cruise through my fifties, I've finally put in the work that I probably should have done in my twenties. 

I'm like Thornton Melon, but again, not wealthy.

Of course, my biggest and best accomplishment - and the reason I would never, ever, actually go back in time and change any of the things I think I've done wrong - is my Precocious Daughter. She'll be a senior in college this Fall, and while I worry constantly that I've screwed up her life in a thousand ways as collateral damage of my own screwups, I'm so proud of the person she's become. I'm not sure she'll ever know how much she helped me through the dark days of the divorce, by being strong and happy and inspiring but also by needing me to be there for her. Like most parents, when I stop to think of all the ways I've failed her I go a little crazy. But then I see what she's become in spite of that, which really is a mark of successful parenting that a lot of us don't embrace as much as we should. 

Any kid who never looked at their parents and thought, "Nah, I don't want to go there" probably didn't turn out as well as they might appear to be from the outside.

Never forget that in the Brady Bunch universe,
Marcia growing up to have a drinking problem
is canon.

This is not the post I meant to write today. I meant it to be funnier, and sillier, and have more advice on how to be a happily divorced person in a world that in many ways really only wants to hear about being happy in a traditional marriage. Oh, well. I'm no stranger to things not going the way I planned them to be. Obviously.

(On that note, here's a post I wrote when I was married about another writer's [ridiculous] definition of a good vs. a bad marriage. It's pretty hilarious, and I recommend all my happily married friends feel free to ignore its advice.)

Maybe I'll write the funny, silly post later. Or maybe I'll spend the rest of the day hanging out with the Siamese Kitten and looking for new skeletons to add to my decor.

Whatever you do today, Drunkards, do it happily. 

Knock-Knock. Who the Hell Is There?

Hi, it's me, talking about ghosts again.

Boo.

For the record, this isn't an "I watch waaay too much Buzzfeed Unsolved" thing. I absolutely do gorge on Buzzfeed Unsolved, but I'm not looking for spooky lights or whipping out the old spirit box. Yet.

Oh, and even though I totally believe in ghosts, I'm a #Shaniac, not a #Boogara. Because Ryan is kind of a whiny bitch, whereas I'd be right next to Shane in an abandoned mission yelling "Hey demon boi!" any day of the week.

Um...if I've lost you and you have no idea what I'm talking about, forget about it. Or check it out.

Prepare to binge watch.

Back to me.

Last night, I slept on my couch. That's a thing I do now that I live alone, partly because sometimes I'm too damn lazy to move to my bedroom, but also because the pull-out couch is much firmer than my bed and I find I toss and turn a lot less. There's also more room for the Siamese Kitten, although she'd rather just curl up in the middle of my pillow while I awkwardly try to fit my head next to her.

So there I was, sleeping, when I was awakened by a noise. A series of noises, actually. A series of thuds. They weren't dull thuds, they weren't sharp thuds. They were just...thuds. Sometimes there was a single thud, sometimes they came in pairs or even three at a time. A few seconds would pass between each one.

They seemed to be coming from various locations - overhead, from the next room, outside. It was hard to tell exactly where they originated. I had no idea what was causing them. My first idea was that the wind was blowing around fairly heavy objects that were on the building roof and/or patios. That would explain the different directions they came from. But when I looked outside there wasn't a breath of wind, and what would have been up on the roof, anyway?

Then I thought maybe it was noise from the construction site next door. But it was way too early for the construction crew to be working. I didn't see people or moving vehicles over there, either.

I even thought it might be the Siamese Kitten having a middle-of-the-night zoom. As she does. Nope, she was fast asleep on my pillow. In fact, she didn't even seem to notice the thuds, except once when she briefly lifted her head, then immediately settled back. The thuds were much louder than her typical thunderpaws, anyway.

The noises were definitely not simply a neighbor walking down the hallway of the building. It's concrete, and it echoes - a lot. The thuds had no echo at all.

Finally, it wasn't noise associated with the furnace. The heat kicked on and then off during this episode - the thuds continued whether it was running or not.

Eventually they just stopped. If they ever came back, I slept through them. Weird.

Ghosts probably hate when we do that.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel at all afraid or uncomfortable during any of this. Strange noises in the night usually freak me out a little - especially when I'm alone. But all I felt was curious as these unexplained thuds beat out their odd tattoo around me.

What do you think, Drunkards? Do I have a (pretty tame) poltergeist? Or am missing a really obvious explanation?

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.

What Cats Can Teach Us About Foreign Policy

You guys.

The Siamese Kitten is being very murder-y.

She's biting my legs. Repeatedly. And making weird cat-on-the-warpath yowly noises in between chomps.

Fortunately, I have enough leg fat to deflect a serious bite. Her mouth just isn't that big.

The crocodile is my thigh in this photo.

Anyway, I did nothing to provoke this vicious attack. Nothing.

Oh, wait. I petted her and told her she was pretty. And she retaliated with murderous intent.

What the hell was I thinking?

Drunkards, let this be a lesson: Do not shower someone with flattery and affection and expect immunity from random, irrational displays of aggression.

You'd think America would have learned this lesson at any time over the last 40 years of dealing with various Middle Eastern regimes.

Clearly, nobody in the government has owned a Siamese cat.

Do not wake the sleeping demon. For real.

I invite any of the Presidential candidates to come to my home with bare legs and interact with the Siamese Kitten.

Whoever emerges with the fewest toothmarks on their flesh gets my vote.

Just putting it out there.

It's Bean-ginning to Look a Lot Like Summer

Bean update, Drunkards.

Yes, that is totally a bonus pic of the Siamese Kitten, who has discovered our postage stamp-sized balcony and decided she is all about that. I'm a little nervous whenever she goes out, because four stories up. But the other day, she went out, saw someone walking a dog in the courtyard 40 feet down, and got freaked out and ran inside. She's gradually alleviating my fears that she'll do something stupid like leap, but I still keep a very close eye on her when she follows me out.

Anyway, after our cool Texas Spring, we've totally entered the hot Texas Summer. As a result, my beans' growth has plateaued. They still look great, but their willy-nilly expansion is no longer happening.

See those pale, browning leaves? I'm regularly pinching those off so that the stronger plants can thrive. I'm dumping 48 oz. of water into the pot every other day, which seems to be enough. Should I do more? Do they need more to graduate from growing to, um, beaning?

I don't know.

There's a chance of rain over the next few days, which makes me happy, because Mother Nature seems to know what my sproutlings need much better than I do.

I just want beans.

I'm not saying this is harder than motherhood. I'm just saying it might possibly be equally hard.

Next update in five days.