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.

 

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." 

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.

***
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.

***

"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.

A Morning Prayer, adapted from the Orthodox prayer book.

A rough transcription of this morning's prayer time:

"O Lord, grant us to greet [LUCY STOP CLAWING AT THE DOOR, ALRIGHT?] the coming of the day in peace [LUCY!! Knock it OFF!], help me in all things to rely upon your holy will. [LUCILLE! HONESTLY, WHAT IS WRONG <gets up from prayer bench and lunges towards bedroom door>. YEAH, YOU BETTER RUN, YOU FAT BEST. I'M LEAVING MY DOOR OPEN SO I CAN SPRAY YOU NEXT TIME YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT ENTERING.] Bless my dealings with all who surround me. [<~16 squirts with water bottle in general direction of bedroom door>] Teach me to treat all that comes to me throughout the day [LUCY GET OFF THE DANG TABLE. NO. GET AWAY FROM MY FLOWERS. <more squirts, way too many to count>] with peace of soul and with firm conviction that your will governs all. [<HUGE CRASH!> VASE OF FLOWERS FALL TO GROUND. LUCY MEOWS IN DUMBFOUNDED TONE OF VOICE, WITH A FLOWER PETAL STICKING TO HER WHISKERS. LUCY GETS SPRAYED. SEE LUCY GET SPRAYED, SEE LUCY RUN (WADDLE)] In all my deeds and words, guide my thoughts and feelings. ['meow'! LUCY I'M NOT ENABLING YOU TO ENGAGE IN GLUTTONY. WE'RE PRAYING. SHUT UP!] In unforeseen events [<heaving sounds heard from unidentifiable wet-swamp-cat-beast in opposite corner of room> IF YOU THINK I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU FOR EATING THE FLOWER PETALS, I FEEL THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF SORRY. PUKE ALL YOU WANT. SERVES YOU RIGHT.] let me not forget that all are sent by you. Teach me to act firmly and wisely without embittering [NO, DON'T PUKE ON ME! PUKE OVER THERE! PUKE ON MOMMY ROOMMATE, IN HER BED! GO!] and embarrassing others. Give me strength to bear the fatigue of the coming day [LUCY I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. DON'T YOU DARE PUKE ON ME.] with all that it shall bring. Direct my will [WHAT PART OF 'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU PUKE ON ME' DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?!] teach me to pray [AW, SICK! Oh, come on Lucy!] And, Yourself, pray in me. Amen. [GROSS! <wipes cat puke from prayer-folded hands.]"