A lot has changed in the last year-and-a-half since I last wrote in this blog. I moved to Germany, and then I moved to Toronto, Canada. I started--and finished--my dissertation research for my PhD. And then I started writing that dissertation. Oh, also, I got engaged to The Fiancee. And Downton Abbey produced a third season... So many changes!
Among the most important of these changes are the distances in both time and space our Lord has mercifully placed between me and that feline Specimen aka Bovine-Butt aka Lucy(fer).
But, on that note, I will tell you one thing that hasn't changed--not for all the miles and months in the world. And that is that she still haunts me. I wake up sometimes at night, and she is there, just as she used to be: one entire pawed arm stretched lazily underneath my dead-bolted bedroom door in her fatty catty sleep, so as to more easily claw the soles of my feet to the point of bleeding as soon as I take my first step upon awakening in the morning. I plug my ears and I still hear her--not just her meows, mind you, but her plodding and pacing and plumping her catty fatty paws all over the ground. I pinch my nose and I still smell her... [Editor's note: material has been censored from this blog post.]
The Lucy apparitions became too much to bear, especially since at times she appeared in my blind-spot (review: Lucy is quite large.) And I found it necessary, for my own sanity and the sanity of those around me, to once again seek out help from the Reluctant [Former] Roomate of Cat Owner Whisperer.
At first, the RRCO Whisperer seemed to think these visitations were outside of her expertise.
"From what you are telling me," she commented, "it seems you are being visited by a large species of cow--I'm guessing a holstein, perhaps even a bull. But I only work with troubled cats and their owners."
So I had to explain some issues that Lucy has with her size. And why her visitations are so problematic, especially while driving. The RRCO agreed to continue our therapy sessions, even though the bovine-like tendencies of Lucy mean she is on the fringes of her certification.
"Well, one thing I can say right off the bat," the RRCO Whisperer told me seriously. "You need to be writing about this stuff. For thereapeutic reasons. You need to be getting this off your chest. Processing."
"But I already did that for a while," I told her. "I had a blog and everything. I stopped when I moved away from Lucy, because I thought my troubles with her were over and the blog had served its purpose."
The RRCO Whisperer stared at me for a long time, and removed her glasses in a very astute manner.
"My child, then you must return to that blog. Return with all your heart. Put your sorrow, fear, disgust and general taxonomical confusion as to Lucy's cat-cow status into words. And only then, then shall you experience healing once again."
So, that is why, after a long hiatus and many life changes, Randumb Acts of Lucy is back.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Lucian Dreams: A Near Death Experience (NDE)
I had a weird dream last night.
First off, I had a very sore throat in the dream--unrelated to the Spanish Flu epidemic which recently broke out in The Apartment. The sore throat turned out to be cancer of the esophagus--and when the word "esophagus" plays a prominent role in your dream, you know you're in for a weird one.
So, esophagal cancer. The doctors told me they needed to operate, immediately. The procedure was to entail nothing short of slitting my throat, reaching into my neck like a sack of toys, and pulling out a white ball--the cancer. OK, fine, I thought in my dream.
To make matters better, my friend The Anesthesiologist took me to the operating room, but unfortunately he couldn't put me under because he knew me, and there were ethical codes against that sort of thing. So he said he would just stay there and make sure the other doctors didn't screw up. This seemed to be a really good idea. I think in any life-threatening operation--whether in reality or in the subconscious--you want your own personal doctor breathing down the other doctors' necks the whole time, just in case they are up to no good. They may have accidentally taken my voice box out instead of the bouncy ball cancer, because I think the voice box closely resembles a bouncy ball--just in box form.
Anyway, my friend The Anesthesiologist told me they are going to start putting me under, that they have an IV hooked up and I'm going to start feeling sleepy, which I do immediately. Honestly, this wasn't that much of a stretch, seeing as though I was already asleep to begin with.
Now, here's where it gets rather philosophical. You know how we all have those dreams where we fall off a cliff, or a building, or start to drive into a tree... And we wake up just before we die, wipe the beads of sweat off our forehead, and stare into the pre-dawn darkness in relief, grateful to just be alive? Well, I don't always wake up in time. I mean, so far I've always eventually woken up at some point thereafter, but not always before I die in the dream. I have already died several times in the dream world--usually I die of cancer or some other terminal illness. It feels a lot like falling asleep, dying in the dream world--just heavier and more relaxing, and very peaceful. Actually the most peaceful feeling in the world. The first time this happened, when I woke up, I started crying--that's how at peace I had felt in the dream. I stopped crying when I realized how weird and morbid that was. Recently, in real life, I found out I have hypoglycemia, and that my blood sugar levels at night were nearly low enough to go into a coma. Since I found that out, I've thought a little about all those dreams I had in which I was dying, and it all kind of freaks me out, because maybe all those times I was nearly comatose, and that's why I felt so peaceful.
That said, the dream last night had nothing to do with all of that. There was one point in my dream I thought to myself "Here we go again, I'm about to die again..." But, no. It was a totally different animal.
Anyway. So, I start to feel sleepy, as though I am beginning to go unconscious. It feels rather nice and relaxing, sort of like the death dreams. "This feels so nice," I thought to my dream self. "I wish I could have throat cancer every day." Meanwhile, my friend The Anesthesiologist is holding my hand and telling me that I'm getting very sleepy. Looking back upon my dream, this seems a rather obvious observation, and I wonder whether he needed to waste his breath pointing out such a self-evident fact in my dream. Are all Anesthesiologists that perceptive?
"Guys, I think she's under," my friend said loudly. I was sleepy and half-drugged, but I could still hear the doctors getting the OR ready for the procedure: setting instruments on the table, talking in muffled voices, that sort of thing. I don't think I should still be hearing this if I were truly unconscious and ready to be operated on, I thought. Crap!
I tried to tell The Anesthesiologist that I was not, in fact, anesthatized. HOLD THE SCALPEL, YOU IDIOTS! I tried to scream at the doctors. But as is usual for the vast majority of my dreams, I couldn't really speak beyond a few narcoleptic mumbles. Also, per usual, I couldn't see worth a darn in that dream--and not just because in that dream I was feigning unconsciousness. Somehow in my haste of falling asleep at night, I always forget to bring my glasses with me to the flip side. You'd think, being of PhD caliber and everything, my brain would be imaginative enough to allow me the luxury of having 20/20 vision at least in my wildest fantasies--but no, way too much of a stretch for this cerebral cortex, apparently.
So I began to resign myself to the fact (are there facts in dreams? I don't know. That might be a logical fallacy on my part) that I was about to be sliced open while still semi-conscious. I began to imagine in my dream what it would feel like to have my throat sliced open (it was a painful day dream within my night dream). I listened to the doctors preparing for surgery once more--these were, after all, the sounds of my imminent demise. I heard one of the doctors rustle something on the table. Then, another one dropped something made of glass on the floor and I heard it shatter. Another doctor set something--probably a puke bucket, I surmised--next to my head on the bed...
...One of the doctors meowed into my ear...
"THAT'S NOT AN OPERATION!" I screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed. "THAT'S A CAT! LUCY, I'M GOING TO FREAKING KILL YOU! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!"
Pillows were thrown. Blankets were thrown. I think, possibly, my cell phone also got thrown because it has been working even worse than usual today. By the time I was fully awake, my room was completely disheveled and Lucy was cowering somewhere deep inside the vestiges of the Lair.
Only later, as I was cleaning up the remnants of Lucy's nocturnal escapades in my room did I realize the sound of the doctor knocking something glass off the table in the operating room had actually been Lucy knocking over the framed picture of herself she had given me for Valentine's Day. Evidently the whole night had been an episode of grappling with unrequited love. It is quite possible Lucy was planning on removing my throat cancer with those very shards of glass.
My short term strategy is to lock my bedroom door at night. And install various spring loaded knives, should the door just happen to open as a result of feisty paws.
First off, I had a very sore throat in the dream--unrelated to the Spanish Flu epidemic which recently broke out in The Apartment. The sore throat turned out to be cancer of the esophagus--and when the word "esophagus" plays a prominent role in your dream, you know you're in for a weird one.
So, esophagal cancer. The doctors told me they needed to operate, immediately. The procedure was to entail nothing short of slitting my throat, reaching into my neck like a sack of toys, and pulling out a white ball--the cancer. OK, fine, I thought in my dream.
To make matters better, my friend The Anesthesiologist took me to the operating room, but unfortunately he couldn't put me under because he knew me, and there were ethical codes against that sort of thing. So he said he would just stay there and make sure the other doctors didn't screw up. This seemed to be a really good idea. I think in any life-threatening operation--whether in reality or in the subconscious--you want your own personal doctor breathing down the other doctors' necks the whole time, just in case they are up to no good. They may have accidentally taken my voice box out instead of the bouncy ball cancer, because I think the voice box closely resembles a bouncy ball--just in box form.
Anyway, my friend The Anesthesiologist told me they are going to start putting me under, that they have an IV hooked up and I'm going to start feeling sleepy, which I do immediately. Honestly, this wasn't that much of a stretch, seeing as though I was already asleep to begin with.
Now, here's where it gets rather philosophical. You know how we all have those dreams where we fall off a cliff, or a building, or start to drive into a tree... And we wake up just before we die, wipe the beads of sweat off our forehead, and stare into the pre-dawn darkness in relief, grateful to just be alive? Well, I don't always wake up in time. I mean, so far I've always eventually woken up at some point thereafter, but not always before I die in the dream. I have already died several times in the dream world--usually I die of cancer or some other terminal illness. It feels a lot like falling asleep, dying in the dream world--just heavier and more relaxing, and very peaceful. Actually the most peaceful feeling in the world. The first time this happened, when I woke up, I started crying--that's how at peace I had felt in the dream. I stopped crying when I realized how weird and morbid that was. Recently, in real life, I found out I have hypoglycemia, and that my blood sugar levels at night were nearly low enough to go into a coma. Since I found that out, I've thought a little about all those dreams I had in which I was dying, and it all kind of freaks me out, because maybe all those times I was nearly comatose, and that's why I felt so peaceful.
That said, the dream last night had nothing to do with all of that. There was one point in my dream I thought to myself "Here we go again, I'm about to die again..." But, no. It was a totally different animal.
Anyway. So, I start to feel sleepy, as though I am beginning to go unconscious. It feels rather nice and relaxing, sort of like the death dreams. "This feels so nice," I thought to my dream self. "I wish I could have throat cancer every day." Meanwhile, my friend The Anesthesiologist is holding my hand and telling me that I'm getting very sleepy. Looking back upon my dream, this seems a rather obvious observation, and I wonder whether he needed to waste his breath pointing out such a self-evident fact in my dream. Are all Anesthesiologists that perceptive?
"Guys, I think she's under," my friend said loudly. I was sleepy and half-drugged, but I could still hear the doctors getting the OR ready for the procedure: setting instruments on the table, talking in muffled voices, that sort of thing. I don't think I should still be hearing this if I were truly unconscious and ready to be operated on, I thought. Crap!
I tried to tell The Anesthesiologist that I was not, in fact, anesthatized. HOLD THE SCALPEL, YOU IDIOTS! I tried to scream at the doctors. But as is usual for the vast majority of my dreams, I couldn't really speak beyond a few narcoleptic mumbles. Also, per usual, I couldn't see worth a darn in that dream--and not just because in that dream I was feigning unconsciousness. Somehow in my haste of falling asleep at night, I always forget to bring my glasses with me to the flip side. You'd think, being of PhD caliber and everything, my brain would be imaginative enough to allow me the luxury of having 20/20 vision at least in my wildest fantasies--but no, way too much of a stretch for this cerebral cortex, apparently.
So I began to resign myself to the fact (are there facts in dreams? I don't know. That might be a logical fallacy on my part) that I was about to be sliced open while still semi-conscious. I began to imagine in my dream what it would feel like to have my throat sliced open (it was a painful day dream within my night dream). I listened to the doctors preparing for surgery once more--these were, after all, the sounds of my imminent demise. I heard one of the doctors rustle something on the table. Then, another one dropped something made of glass on the floor and I heard it shatter. Another doctor set something--probably a puke bucket, I surmised--next to my head on the bed...
...One of the doctors meowed into my ear...
"THAT'S NOT AN OPERATION!" I screamed, sitting bolt upright in bed. "THAT'S A CAT! LUCY, I'M GOING TO FREAKING KILL YOU! GET OUT OF MY ROOM!"
Pillows were thrown. Blankets were thrown. I think, possibly, my cell phone also got thrown because it has been working even worse than usual today. By the time I was fully awake, my room was completely disheveled and Lucy was cowering somewhere deep inside the vestiges of the Lair.
Only later, as I was cleaning up the remnants of Lucy's nocturnal escapades in my room did I realize the sound of the doctor knocking something glass off the table in the operating room had actually been Lucy knocking over the framed picture of herself she had given me for Valentine's Day. Evidently the whole night had been an episode of grappling with unrequited love. It is quite possible Lucy was planning on removing my throat cancer with those very shards of glass.
My short term strategy is to lock my bedroom door at night. And install various spring loaded knives, should the door just happen to open as a result of feisty paws.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Good Epidemics Produce Even Better Epitaphs
Well, it finally happened. After 94 years, the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 has hit our apartment. <morbid laugh>
In all likelihood, the illness was likely spread to the apartment through a recent episode of an engrossing British television drama that shall remain nameless, in which, just when the beloved men and women of Downton Abbey think their troubles and WWI are over, poor sweet Lavinia falls prey to the disastrous global influenza pandemic, encouraging her beloved fiance Matthew (who has just regained the use of his limbs which were badly paralyzed on the battle field) to marry Mary (who's about to marry a psycho journalist tycoon whose only saving grace is that he rescued her family and reputation from certain ruin after a Turkish diplomat died in their house in the midst of an affair-esque escapade with Mary) because she knew he was secretly in love with her the whole time, which causes Matthew to fall into a depressively guilty stupor, causing viewers the world over to wonder whether he will do us the honor of committing suicide before things get any worse...
And the next thing you know, The Roommate and I are feeling feverish and clammy, and slightly sick to our stomachs. This is not surprising to me, since several times, now, I've caught the early stages of tuberculosis from many a Russian novel (The Chekhov strains of tuberculosis are much easier to bear than that of Tolstoy or especially Dostoevsky). What can I say, I'm a sucker for artistically transmitted diseases (ATDs). But The Roommate's weak constitution and hopelessly enabling codependent tendencies made her an easy prey to fall victim to the Spanish Flu, and although I quickly recovered from my bout with the Downton strain of H1N1, The Roommate quickly succumbed. Within hours, the apartment was transformed into a nursing ward, and what I hoped would be a dramatic death vigil with a hopeful twist of life and recovery at the end.
Sensing my opportunity, I began to intervene, using my expertise as a self-certified death coach.
First, I tried my best to make The Roommate comfortable. I made her some of my famous raw ginger infusion. I went out and bought some ginger ale and gatorade to help with dehydration. I set her up in the living room with pillows, blankets and a cup of water with a straw. She quickly dozed off, waking periodically to run to the bathroom or complain about how she felt.
At a certain point, I felt her awakenings were becoming more and more... shall we say... stuporous. That is not a word, the spell check informs me, but upon my word, her awakenings were positively stuporous. Meaning she was in a stupor more than she was awake.
"Dearest Roommate," I pulled the chair up to the death-- er-- sickbed. "I think it's time you got your affairs in order."
"MMmm..." The roommate gurgled. It was either a stomach-full-of-stomach-acid gurgle, or the death rattle. One can never be too careful with this type of thing.
"I think you should start thinking of... Well... Your assets," I glowered, spitting the words out and staring at Lucy who sat smugly. Yes, she had just heard me refer to her as an asset, but it had to be done. "As your death coach, I'd like to do you the favor of drawing up your will--just in case."
"What?" The Roommate opened her eyes.
"Look, nearly three percent of the world's population died of the Spanish flu--and most of them were young adults just like you. Read about it on wikipedia. I just think we need to face the facts."
"What year is it?" The Roommate asked, her eyes narrowing. It was better--or rather worse--than I thought, if she was that delirious.
"2012," I told her, pulling my legal pad out from behind me.
"My point exactly," The Roommate said, her words coming out of her mouth as firey as her fever. "Get with the times, Cole. And then get me some more ginger ale."
"Hey, people die of influenza everyday. You think that just because you were born in a certain century, it makes you immune? When influenza strikes, there's no looking back. You just have to look forward. And pretty much what you're looking forward to right now is the possibility of death. Frankly, I just want to be clear: if you die, I'm not taking Lucy. So we better write up your will right now, because as soon as your heart stops beating, I'm washing my hands of that tyrant."
The Roommate stared at me.
"I think this whole death coach thing has gone to your head," she glared.
"Famous last words," I glared right back. As a death coach, I have learned that people often try to avoid their impending demise, and the only way to get through to them is to face them head on with the unyielding reality of mortality.
"Well, if you really want to write up a will for me, I bequeath all my vomit to you," she smiled. "I'd like you to start a trust fund with it. For future generations of death coaches."
I wrote it down on the legal pad, finally we were getting somewhere. When I looked up again, The Roommate was sleeping. This is what I mean about codependence--it's like The Roommate is addicted to denial.
"You know, I have virtually no recollection of the last few days," The Roommate commented a few mornings later as we were sitting at breakfast. It was the first time she had gotten up from the couch to eat a full meal. "I don't even remember you cooking or bringing me water or anything--it's like I was just somewhere else."
Addicted to denial indeed, I thought, as I looked at the legal pad sitting on the coffee table. Lucy was sitting on top of it, her tail twitching as she stared at me knowingly. It's a shame there were no cat flu pandemics in 1918, because I think Lucy would be a really good candidate if they were taking volunteers.
In all likelihood, the illness was likely spread to the apartment through a recent episode of an engrossing British television drama that shall remain nameless, in which, just when the beloved men and women of Downton Abbey think their troubles and WWI are over, poor sweet Lavinia falls prey to the disastrous global influenza pandemic, encouraging her beloved fiance Matthew (who has just regained the use of his limbs which were badly paralyzed on the battle field) to marry Mary (who's about to marry a psycho journalist tycoon whose only saving grace is that he rescued her family and reputation from certain ruin after a Turkish diplomat died in their house in the midst of an affair-esque escapade with Mary) because she knew he was secretly in love with her the whole time, which causes Matthew to fall into a depressively guilty stupor, causing viewers the world over to wonder whether he will do us the honor of committing suicide before things get any worse...
And the next thing you know, The Roommate and I are feeling feverish and clammy, and slightly sick to our stomachs. This is not surprising to me, since several times, now, I've caught the early stages of tuberculosis from many a Russian novel (The Chekhov strains of tuberculosis are much easier to bear than that of Tolstoy or especially Dostoevsky). What can I say, I'm a sucker for artistically transmitted diseases (ATDs). But The Roommate's weak constitution and hopelessly enabling codependent tendencies made her an easy prey to fall victim to the Spanish Flu, and although I quickly recovered from my bout with the Downton strain of H1N1, The Roommate quickly succumbed. Within hours, the apartment was transformed into a nursing ward, and what I hoped would be a dramatic death vigil with a hopeful twist of life and recovery at the end.
Sensing my opportunity, I began to intervene, using my expertise as a self-certified death coach.
First, I tried my best to make The Roommate comfortable. I made her some of my famous raw ginger infusion. I went out and bought some ginger ale and gatorade to help with dehydration. I set her up in the living room with pillows, blankets and a cup of water with a straw. She quickly dozed off, waking periodically to run to the bathroom or complain about how she felt.
At a certain point, I felt her awakenings were becoming more and more... shall we say... stuporous. That is not a word, the spell check informs me, but upon my word, her awakenings were positively stuporous. Meaning she was in a stupor more than she was awake.
"Dearest Roommate," I pulled the chair up to the death-- er-- sickbed. "I think it's time you got your affairs in order."
"MMmm..." The roommate gurgled. It was either a stomach-full-of-stomach-acid gurgle, or the death rattle. One can never be too careful with this type of thing.
"I think you should start thinking of... Well... Your assets," I glowered, spitting the words out and staring at Lucy who sat smugly. Yes, she had just heard me refer to her as an asset, but it had to be done. "As your death coach, I'd like to do you the favor of drawing up your will--just in case."
"What?" The Roommate opened her eyes.
"Look, nearly three percent of the world's population died of the Spanish flu--and most of them were young adults just like you. Read about it on wikipedia. I just think we need to face the facts."
"What year is it?" The Roommate asked, her eyes narrowing. It was better--or rather worse--than I thought, if she was that delirious.
"2012," I told her, pulling my legal pad out from behind me.
"My point exactly," The Roommate said, her words coming out of her mouth as firey as her fever. "Get with the times, Cole. And then get me some more ginger ale."
"Hey, people die of influenza everyday. You think that just because you were born in a certain century, it makes you immune? When influenza strikes, there's no looking back. You just have to look forward. And pretty much what you're looking forward to right now is the possibility of death. Frankly, I just want to be clear: if you die, I'm not taking Lucy. So we better write up your will right now, because as soon as your heart stops beating, I'm washing my hands of that tyrant."
The Roommate stared at me.
"I think this whole death coach thing has gone to your head," she glared.
"Famous last words," I glared right back. As a death coach, I have learned that people often try to avoid their impending demise, and the only way to get through to them is to face them head on with the unyielding reality of mortality.
"Well, if you really want to write up a will for me, I bequeath all my vomit to you," she smiled. "I'd like you to start a trust fund with it. For future generations of death coaches."
I wrote it down on the legal pad, finally we were getting somewhere. When I looked up again, The Roommate was sleeping. This is what I mean about codependence--it's like The Roommate is addicted to denial.
"You know, I have virtually no recollection of the last few days," The Roommate commented a few mornings later as we were sitting at breakfast. It was the first time she had gotten up from the couch to eat a full meal. "I don't even remember you cooking or bringing me water or anything--it's like I was just somewhere else."
Addicted to denial indeed, I thought, as I looked at the legal pad sitting on the coffee table. Lucy was sitting on top of it, her tail twitching as she stared at me knowingly. It's a shame there were no cat flu pandemics in 1918, because I think Lucy would be a really good candidate if they were taking volunteers.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
A Valentine From The Underworld.
Tuesday morning at approximately 8:30 AM, I entered by bedroom unsuspectingly. I was, shall we say, in a most vulnerable state, having just showered and wearing a bathrobe--i.e. I was without The Spraybottle, or any other form of anti-cat defense that has passed The Roommate's official standards of non-lethality. What I found upon entering my bedroom was in no uncertain terms disturbing.
To understand how disturbing the following events were, at this point in my story, I would ask my readership to be reminded of my relational status or, more precisely, lack thereof. With this in mind, I add that receiving some acknowledgment of Valentine's Day from any living, moving creature would ordinarily be received by a single, twenty something young lady with unfeigned tenderness. The only exception to this unspoken rule is when one's alleged Valentine is an un-distant relation of the fallen angel of darkness.
What I found, then, was a huge bouquet of flowers (salmon-colored carnations, pink roses and DAISIES--the demon even knows my favorite bloom!) So that I would have no confusion as to who left such an enticing collection of poison petals, there was a framed picture next to the bouquet. Was the picture of the coffee shop guy mentioned in some previous post? No, and thank goodness, because he turned out to be twice my age (awkward!) Was it some other kind male suitor destined to be the love of my life? NO, no, and no! The picture in question was none other than Lucy pawing at a camera. In a word bubble next to the picture was scrawled in clawy-cat-like font "I only have eyes for you." I screamed, and wrapped my robe more tightly around myself. If my life were a horror movie (and sometimes I daresay it is), this would be the point where the piercing music cuts in, and everyone watching starts shouting "No! Don't turn around--he's right there! Run away! He's going to kill you!" But I didn't listen, mostly because if it really was a horror movie, I can't actually hear the people in the movie theater shouting out unsolicited, life-saving advice.
And so, as I turned around in sheer terror, I saw Lucy sitting in the middle of my doorway staring, flicking her tail restlessly toward me as though beckoning me for something... Something sinister.
And then she pulled a chainsaw from her abdominal fat pouch and slashed me to pieces, figuratively not literally.
The Roommate is a seasoned life coach. If The Roommate happens to never find a full-time job with her mad French Horn playin' skillz, she would be a perfect life coach for the rich and famous. She's always using trite euphemisms to excuse unhealthy and/ or hideously erratic behavior. I think this really helps make people (well, more so, cats) feel better about themselves and view their self-destructive moral vices as marketable traits . For example, Lucy is never loud and annoying, she's always "verbal" and "expressive." She's never fat and ugly, she's "voluptuous" and "muscular." Lucy never breaks rules and destroys things, she just "thinks independently" and "gets curious."
To understand how disturbing the following events were, at this point in my story, I would ask my readership to be reminded of my relational status or, more precisely, lack thereof. With this in mind, I add that receiving some acknowledgment of Valentine's Day from any living, moving creature would ordinarily be received by a single, twenty something young lady with unfeigned tenderness. The only exception to this unspoken rule is when one's alleged Valentine is an un-distant relation of the fallen angel of darkness.
What I found, then, was a huge bouquet of flowers (salmon-colored carnations, pink roses and DAISIES--the demon even knows my favorite bloom!) So that I would have no confusion as to who left such an enticing collection of poison petals, there was a framed picture next to the bouquet. Was the picture of the coffee shop guy mentioned in some previous post? No, and thank goodness, because he turned out to be twice my age (awkward!) Was it some other kind male suitor destined to be the love of my life? NO, no, and no! The picture in question was none other than Lucy pawing at a camera. In a word bubble next to the picture was scrawled in clawy-cat-like font "I only have eyes for you." I screamed, and wrapped my robe more tightly around myself. If my life were a horror movie (and sometimes I daresay it is), this would be the point where the piercing music cuts in, and everyone watching starts shouting "No! Don't turn around--he's right there! Run away! He's going to kill you!" But I didn't listen, mostly because if it really was a horror movie, I can't actually hear the people in the movie theater shouting out unsolicited, life-saving advice.
And so, as I turned around in sheer terror, I saw Lucy sitting in the middle of my doorway staring, flicking her tail restlessly toward me as though beckoning me for something... Something sinister.
And then she pulled a chainsaw from her abdominal fat pouch and slashed me to pieces, figuratively not literally.
***
The Roommate is a seasoned life coach. If The Roommate happens to never find a full-time job with her mad French Horn playin' skillz, she would be a perfect life coach for the rich and famous. She's always using trite euphemisms to excuse unhealthy and/ or hideously erratic behavior. I think this really helps make people (well, more so, cats) feel better about themselves and view their self-destructive moral vices as marketable traits . For example, Lucy is never loud and annoying, she's always "verbal" and "expressive." She's never fat and ugly, she's "voluptuous" and "muscular." Lucy never breaks rules and destroys things, she just "thinks independently" and "gets curious."
Since cohabitating with The Roommate many moons prior, I noticed this about her in a way I hadn't when we'd been "just friends." The life coaching quality is definitely something I am not very blessed with, but what I am blessed with is a keen sense of childlike covetousness, so naturally I began to grow irrationally jealous of The Roommate's skill almost immediately after moving in together. In the midst of this personal struggle, someone (ok, it was The Roommate herself, I told you she's a good life coach) wisely advised me to find what I am good at besides life coaching--we're all good at something, and we all have our own strengths when it comes to communication. We can't all be life coaches, after all, just some of us. So I thought for many days and decided that I do have a good skill to bring to the coaching arena.
While The Roommate may excel as a life coach, what I really think I'm good at is more so being a death coach.
***
You may find my reaction to the Valentine from Hell a little over-the-top. That neither surprises nor dissuades me, since my dear readers are naturally unaware of Lucy's long tradition of making predatory advances towards me, specifically those of the non-platonic variety (that is about the best I can describe it while keeping this blog rated PG-13). How many times have I been innocently taking a shower only to realize Lucy had been watching me through the shower curtain? One time, she even got in the shower with me, and I didn't even notice until I stepped on her tail by accident. Another time she tried to take a bath with me--she perched on the edge of the tub, she was buck naked, and began licking herself (that is the cat equivalent of bathing so, yes, she was trying to take a bath with me). I put an end to all that--now I wear nothing less than a full-body scuba suit in the shower, and the moment I have a cat siting, I shoot her with my waterproof tazer eyes (well, I'm practicing that at least, I haven't been able to turn her into a pillar of stone yet). But THEN Lucy started hiding out in my closet. Sometimes I'll be in my room going about my business, and I happen to glance up, only to see two eyes peering out at me from some deep vestige of my closet. She'd been watching me the whole time. There are a lot more stories like this, but I'm blushing just thinking about them. I will the litany of my victimhood at that.
So when I saw that picture, I just lost it. I saw my life flash before my eyes, and in it, I was an 80-year-old-cat-woman whose of love of her life is some senile, wrinkly old hairball that the neighbor kids spy on the front porch as they walk home from school on sunny afternoons. But pretty soon the kids stop walking past my house, because they can't tell if the senile wrinkly thing is a cat or a cow, and it scares them. That, and I tried to give them candy once that had razor blades in them. But I couldn't help that, because I'm an old cat lady, and old cat ladies are weird, especially old cat-cow ladies--plus I can't see very well, due to my failing eyesight. And that's what I've become, or am becoming, or... I don't know.
My point is, that picture just really annoyed me, and Lucy beckoning me and trying to be seductive with her tail annoyed me. And I've put up with her advances long enough.
My point is, that picture just really annoyed me, and Lucy beckoning me and trying to be seductive with her tail annoyed me. And I've put up with her advances long enough.
***
I recently began my campaign of properly coaching Lucy.
I recently began my campaign of properly coaching Lucy.
"Lucy, I think it's time we discussed the topic of your mortality," I told Lucy one morning, sitting down on the floor near the bathroom door. We were waiting for the Roommate to finish her morning ablutions. I saw "we" because it is part of Lucy's morning routine to try to get in to the bathroom while I do my business (I told you, I'm not exaggerating about her advances!) "I know you don't want to discuss it, but I think it's something everyone should think about at some point in their lives, especially cats, because cats die much sooner than humans."
Lucy blinked her eyes sleepily in my general direction. As a self-certified death coach, I'm used to this sort of feline apathy.
"I just want what's best for you. I just want to see you reach your full mortuary potential," I told her. She sniffed the air. "Don't change the subject, Lucy. You need to face this. You're going to die some day. And, as your death coach, if I can just be honest here... With any luck, your death will be sooner rather than later, to give you a chance to learn this lesson so that you can move on to bigger and better things."
But by then, the birds outside were waking up and chirping, and Lucy was getting the crazed cat-nip look in her eyes. Suddenly she used her demon powers to about fly to the window. Then, of course, she started in with her bird-calling meow, which Lucy uses to sound as much like a bird as possible, thinking she will entice those fine, feathered friends into her lair. Lucy is such a narcissistic epicurean, she is a product of our post-modern, post-sane Western culture. She'd rather live, drink and be merry today (i.e. meow at birds all day) rather than face the truth about tomorrow (i.e. certain death). It made me sad, because as I watched Lucy's pupils dilate at the birds, I realized how sad it really is: friends, Lucy will never get those birds. There's a window between her and them. Nonetheless, she would spend her whole day fantasizing about killing them, without once stopping to think about her own mortality. As her personal death coach, this is very difficult for me to bear. I think Lucy may be in existential denial.
But by then, the birds outside were waking up and chirping, and Lucy was getting the crazed cat-nip look in her eyes. Suddenly she used her demon powers to about fly to the window. Then, of course, she started in with her bird-calling meow, which Lucy uses to sound as much like a bird as possible, thinking she will entice those fine, feathered friends into her lair. Lucy is such a narcissistic epicurean, she is a product of our post-modern, post-sane Western culture. She'd rather live, drink and be merry today (i.e. meow at birds all day) rather than face the truth about tomorrow (i.e. certain death). It made me sad, because as I watched Lucy's pupils dilate at the birds, I realized how sad it really is: friends, Lucy will never get those birds. There's a window between her and them. Nonetheless, she would spend her whole day fantasizing about killing them, without once stopping to think about her own mortality. As her personal death coach, this is very difficult for me to bear. I think Lucy may be in existential denial.
***
"So, are you and Lucy, you know... An item?" A fellow human winked at me who happens to know both the Roommate and me.
"Oh, shove off," I told her, because I've been watching a lot of British television shows lately, and trying to practice my Anglish.
"But, she gave you a Valentine," the human being commented. "That means you're together."
Then I pulled my chainsaw out. But I am better than Lucy--my chainsaw is my mouth, and the sharp points on the chain are words spoken with an undeniable aptness appropriate for the moment at hand.
But before I could use my words, the human being gave me some cookies and I acquiesced.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
A Morning Prayer, adapted from the Orthodox prayer book.
A rough transcription of this morning's prayer time:
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Lucy's Lil' Handicap: Part 2
"I think we have a problem, and I'm glad we're both here, because I'd really like your feedback on it," The Roommate began, delicately wiping some stray polish from the side of her finger. We have mice again, I thought. Or rodents. But then I remembered that mice are merely one form of rodents, and my thoughts were being redundant. Rats, is what I meant to think, I thought. Rats are also rodents but different from mice, that's why I accidentally thought "rodents," but what I really meant was rats. I know a lot about rats, because rats (or rather the fleas on them) were the harbingers of the Bubonic Plague in AD 1347, and I am a historian, so I'm pretty passionate about rats and plagues. In fact, did you know that the Bubonic Plague actually affected the Mongolian empire even more than...
"Did you hear what I said?" The Roommate asked, looking up.
"We could just use mousetraps," I commented. "Or rat poison--is that legal? We could experiment..."
"What are you talking about?" The Roommate griped. "We have mice?!"
"What? Don't we?" I asked. "What were you talking about?"
"I was talking about Lucy!" The Roommate stared at me impatiently.
"But she doesn't even catch mice--she's too fat, remember last time? She just laid on her belly and watched one run past her," I reminded The Roommate, whose codependency sometimes impedes her memory.
"No, I said nothing about mice. I was talking about Lucy's problem, and not the mice-catching problem. Well, sort of--it's related to her body shape issue," The Roommmate stammered. She likes to use "body shape" instead of "morbid obesity" when it comes to Lucy, because I think it makes The Roommate feel better about herself. Lucy on the other hand seems to have the exact opposite of shame about the issue, she flaunts her fat flap all over the apartment like a sack of gold nuggets.
"Is she dying?" I asked. I don't believe in being afraid of death, particularly the death of one's cat. I believe in such deaths one should feel the opposite of fear, i.e. expectation.
"NO, she is not dying," The Roommate practically threw her words at me. "Get your mind out of the gutter. No. I just noticed something about Lucy. Her body shape is impeding her from doing something very necessary--"
"Being a feline rather than a bovine?"
"No! Are you going to be supportive or not?" The Roommate chided.
"Of course I'm going to be supportive. And we all know Lucy's so big she needs--"
"No, I mean supportive for real--not supportive in a sarcastic way because you are going to follow it up with some tagline about Lucy's body shape," The Roommate. "Just think of how you'd feel if..."
"If what?"
"If you were so big you could no longer lick your back to get it clean after using the litter box!" The Roommate glared at me. "That's what I'm talking about!"
There are moments in life like this, such as when one bungie jumps off a sky scraper, moments that seem like eternities. My friends and I call these montage moments, because what happens is a photo montage plays like in a movie--usually a flashback of your whole life. Well, in this moment, a montage played in my mind but it was not a montage of my life. It was a montage of about a million comebacks, fat quips, hilarious jokes, maniacal laughter... A montage of Lucy's "body shape" issues, her emotional eating habits, her lazy laying, her gold nugget bag... In short, a montage of joy. joy. joy. There was so much joy I was unable to respond to The Roommate--I think I was disassociating with reality due to so much joy. That or shape shifting, because I don't think I've ever done that before, so I don't know what it feels like. In fact, I think it is happening again, because the montage is coming back...
More to come in the post-montage third installment of this episode. heh heh.
"Did you hear what I said?" The Roommate asked, looking up.
"We could just use mousetraps," I commented. "Or rat poison--is that legal? We could experiment..."
"What are you talking about?" The Roommate griped. "We have mice?!"
"What? Don't we?" I asked. "What were you talking about?"
"I was talking about Lucy!" The Roommate stared at me impatiently.
"But she doesn't even catch mice--she's too fat, remember last time? She just laid on her belly and watched one run past her," I reminded The Roommate, whose codependency sometimes impedes her memory.
"No, I said nothing about mice. I was talking about Lucy's problem, and not the mice-catching problem. Well, sort of--it's related to her body shape issue," The Roommmate stammered. She likes to use "body shape" instead of "morbid obesity" when it comes to Lucy, because I think it makes The Roommate feel better about herself. Lucy on the other hand seems to have the exact opposite of shame about the issue, she flaunts her fat flap all over the apartment like a sack of gold nuggets.
"Is she dying?" I asked. I don't believe in being afraid of death, particularly the death of one's cat. I believe in such deaths one should feel the opposite of fear, i.e. expectation.
"NO, she is not dying," The Roommate practically threw her words at me. "Get your mind out of the gutter. No. I just noticed something about Lucy. Her body shape is impeding her from doing something very necessary--"
"Being a feline rather than a bovine?"
"No! Are you going to be supportive or not?" The Roommate chided.
"Of course I'm going to be supportive. And we all know Lucy's so big she needs--"
"No, I mean supportive for real--not supportive in a sarcastic way because you are going to follow it up with some tagline about Lucy's body shape," The Roommate. "Just think of how you'd feel if..."
"If what?"
"If you were so big you could no longer lick your back to get it clean after using the litter box!" The Roommate glared at me. "That's what I'm talking about!"
There are moments in life like this, such as when one bungie jumps off a sky scraper, moments that seem like eternities. My friends and I call these montage moments, because what happens is a photo montage plays like in a movie--usually a flashback of your whole life. Well, in this moment, a montage played in my mind but it was not a montage of my life. It was a montage of about a million comebacks, fat quips, hilarious jokes, maniacal laughter... A montage of Lucy's "body shape" issues, her emotional eating habits, her lazy laying, her gold nugget bag... In short, a montage of joy. joy. joy. There was so much joy I was unable to respond to The Roommate--I think I was disassociating with reality due to so much joy. That or shape shifting, because I don't think I've ever done that before, so I don't know what it feels like. In fact, I think it is happening again, because the montage is coming back...
More to come in the post-montage third installment of this episode. heh heh.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Lucy's Little Handicap, Part 1
After living with me for many moons, The Roommate has really learned how to push my buttons. Some days it's confusing to me who is actually pushing the buttons here, Lucy or her Freaky Cat Keeper Lady (aka The Roommate). Other days, it's just confusing to me where the phrase "pushing my buttons" actually came from, because normally I have positive associations with button pushing--it was a favorite pastime for me as a child, for instance. So the whole turn of words gets a little muddled in my mind once in a while.
Let's get back to the button pushing at hand, though.
One night shortly after I started this blog--which was not so many moons ago, mind you--the roommate and I were reclining on our (her) mutual couch, painting our nails (I was painting mine silver, she was painting hers gold, in case this is an interrogation). Normally, this is a time when we catch up on the latest contemporary events and global issues, such as: what does it really mean when the nice, funny, long-distance runner guy working at the coffee house--whom I'd only met once before, briefly--picks up my tab and spends his break sitting at my table and chatting? And proceeds to do roughly the same thing each time I come to the coffee house? BUT NEVER ASKS FOR MY NUMBER?! What does this mean?!?! (Based on a true story, cue somber music, give audience time to ruminate.)
Also, the Roommate and I discuss the fiscal crisis in the European Union, and usually we tackle world hunger at some point. (cue upbeat, "getting stuff done" type music.)
But last week.... Oh, last week. I don't even know where to start, it is that tantalizing. Sometimes, when one writes, it is every bit the daunting process of sculpting a fine statue out of marble--one must painstakingly file away the stone,allowing the shape to slowly emerge out of the stone like a frozen angel rising up out of a frigid, icy sea of marble. Other times, however, the story flies out of thin air like a ferocious psychopath, screaming the lines at you, and you can just get your chainsaw and hack away like a maniac at all that marble standing in your way, skipping right past all the delicate patience of writing (overrated!) to the good stuff. Chainsaws don't even cut through marble, but when the story is this good, I forget to keep my metaphors consistent and it doesn't even matter! From now on, I'm in charge of the metaphors and I say: hack all that stupid superficial marble away, Mr. Chainsaw. The following story will speak for itself, no waiting or patience or drafting necessary! Here is the story. Here is honestly what happened last week while The Roommate and I were painting nails...
Will the Roommate push my buttons? What will Lucy's little handicap be? Why are we talking about marble sculptures? For the answers to these questions, and many more*, stay tuned for Part 2, because at the moment it's past my bedtime. But I will be back, and I will have the chainsaw with me. And you will get the story.
*= one answer you won't find, though, is what the whole thing with the coffee house man means. I'm pretty sure it will just remain one of those existential mysteries of life.
Let's get back to the button pushing at hand, though.
One night shortly after I started this blog--which was not so many moons ago, mind you--the roommate and I were reclining on our (her) mutual couch, painting our nails (I was painting mine silver, she was painting hers gold, in case this is an interrogation). Normally, this is a time when we catch up on the latest contemporary events and global issues, such as: what does it really mean when the nice, funny, long-distance runner guy working at the coffee house--whom I'd only met once before, briefly--picks up my tab and spends his break sitting at my table and chatting? And proceeds to do roughly the same thing each time I come to the coffee house? BUT NEVER ASKS FOR MY NUMBER?! What does this mean?!?! (Based on a true story, cue somber music, give audience time to ruminate.)
Also, the Roommate and I discuss the fiscal crisis in the European Union, and usually we tackle world hunger at some point. (cue upbeat, "getting stuff done" type music.)
But last week.... Oh, last week. I don't even know where to start, it is that tantalizing. Sometimes, when one writes, it is every bit the daunting process of sculpting a fine statue out of marble--one must painstakingly file away the stone,allowing the shape to slowly emerge out of the stone like a frozen angel rising up out of a frigid, icy sea of marble. Other times, however, the story flies out of thin air like a ferocious psychopath, screaming the lines at you, and you can just get your chainsaw and hack away like a maniac at all that marble standing in your way, skipping right past all the delicate patience of writing (overrated!) to the good stuff. Chainsaws don't even cut through marble, but when the story is this good, I forget to keep my metaphors consistent and it doesn't even matter! From now on, I'm in charge of the metaphors and I say: hack all that stupid superficial marble away, Mr. Chainsaw. The following story will speak for itself, no waiting or patience or drafting necessary! Here is the story. Here is honestly what happened last week while The Roommate and I were painting nails...
Will the Roommate push my buttons? What will Lucy's little handicap be? Why are we talking about marble sculptures? For the answers to these questions, and many more*, stay tuned for Part 2, because at the moment it's past my bedtime. But I will be back, and I will have the chainsaw with me. And you will get the story.
*= one answer you won't find, though, is what the whole thing with the coffee house man means. I'm pretty sure it will just remain one of those existential mysteries of life.
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