gadflies

* Now that I have resurrected my blog, I find myself analyzing events in blog prose. As something happens, I am writing the blog for it in my mind.

* Oh-dark-thirty and I hear the unmistakeable wuh-uh-wuh-uh-wuh-uh of a cat getting ready to barf on the floor and the written words "IlovemycatsIlovemycatsIlovemycats..." form in my half-conscious brain. I do love my cats, I don't think I could get thru the day without fuzz-therapy as H calls it, but Christ-on-a-popsicle-stick! Who told cats that barfing was acceptable, anyway?? Yah, so you just had to scarf up all the catfood to keep the others from getting it, so suck it up and digest it now, instead of depositing a lump of slimy cat kibble on the carpet! The dogs love it, H thinks that aspect is disgusting,but hey..they're dogs, dogs are scavengers, and it makes it easier for me.... But what they've been arfing lately is not fit for even dogs of non-discriminating tastes. Just stuff that stains and and lies in wait for unsuspecting bare feet.


* I'm getting better, I am on a roll longer in the morning, but still wonk out and can't seem to get restarted any time after about ... oh, say noon. Without the Wellbutrin, there are whole weeks of time missing, I can't remember what I was doing and I find things that should have been done squirrelled away.


* The cat box is clean again...you scoff and say, why is that a big deal? I love my cats, but unlike the stuffed animals come to life that I always wished for, cats pee and poop. I know, why did I have to ruin your fantasy...but it's true, they are walking, purring, mmrrwowing little bags of cat pee and poop. In this day and age of wall-to-wall idiots behind the wheel and sociopaths who don't keep their pitbulls leashed, cats must stay indoors to expect any sort of prolonged lifespan, and that means we catlovers must also be shovelers of feline waste. The born-organized person who has allowed themselves to sink into the sordid life of cat-ownership, keeps the litter box oh-so-freshly-scooped. The rest of us have to plot for days to actually go in there and clean the damned thing out. We keep rationalizing that oh, it's only been a couple of days...until we face the fecal reality that has taken over our sweet little fuzzies' boudoir. Between disposable diapers and catboxes, it's a wonder there's any room at all left in the average landfill. I can only imagine the delightful smell.

* When was I not paying attention? When did clutter eat my house? when did I get clinically obese? When did I get so stiff and sore it's an issue just getting up and down from the couch...when did I get old? When did my mother get even older? I watch her walk, lopsidedly with a cane and nearly burst into tears. She was so nimble, agile...like the proberbial mountain goat. She could dance with my dad all night long, ride horses, climb through the Iowa back country...I don't want to become her, but here I am, at only 54 looking down the barrel of being just like her. And yet I sit here...


* ..W points his “wand” at me and says don’t make me send you to another plane…I’m thinking, like plane of existence and he says, you know like a real plane that flies (hand motion up) and then crashes (hand motion down)…and then there’s another Lost…and you’re in it…

I totally lost it at that point.

He makes me want to change, to go on...the road goes ever on, as the book says...some day, I will not follow the road any longer, but I must walk down it for now, best enjoy it.

(And I didn't really mean to copy LL's last post format, it just worked out that way :P)