kitty kitty no name

It’s long overdue for a post about my cat. Here are some facts.

• He doesn’t have a name. When we adopted him, he was called Shannon, which was clearly dumb. I had offered for Jeremy to choose the name as a lure towards getting a cat in the first place (also clearly dumb). Jeremy’s first suggestion was Spaceship Carrot Slicer. Mine was Scout. Nothing really stuck. He is most routinely called Kitty, alternating also between Tronald (Jeremy), Ollie (me), Kitchya (Jeremy) and Trouble / Bugger / Stinker (me).
• He sleeps either in our bed, a purring hot water bottle, or on top of the covers between us in hammock like fashion.
• He wakes up around 5.58am and stamps on my face. When that doesn’t work he attacks my fingers. When that doesn’t work he bites my nose. This is when he gets called Bugger.
• He only drinks out of people glasses and if they’re empty they get batted onto the floor. As does anything else I leave on my bedside table.
• He’s currently not allowed outside. In America terms, this means he’s an ‘inside cat’, which I’ve always argued doesn’t really exist. But we had to sign something swearing not to let him outside because of things like Coyotes, FIV (the kitty version of HIV) and cars. They also seemed to think that since he was a stray, going outside might trigger some sort of nervous breakdown, but he’s escaped a few times and is equally psychotic as he was before he escaped. I expect that, come summer, keeping him inside will be near impossible but, for now, he’s an ‘inside cat’ even though he thinks otherwise.
• He favours Jeremy and routinely bites that hand that feeds him (me).
•  He’s ridiculously, wonderfully, cute. Which makes up for him behaving like devil spawn 30% of the time. 

a      Aaaaand here are the inevitable Cat photos. 

A

See? Unbelievably cute. Jeremy's alright too...

This is known as 'cat-hat'... it's not entirely voluntary

This is 'display of trust'...

Marsupials

This is 'calming pose', which actually works and he doesn't seem to mind 

A few unrelated things

- I hate Lowes (hardware superstore place) and Home Depot. I hate them with a vehemence that screams through my veins. They're too big, filled with far too many boring things and I end up trailing around after Jeremy feeling once again like I used to feel aged 5 when I'd trail around similar places with my parents. Except these days I don't get to be pushed in a trolley. Now, as then, the only thing that can stave off internal boredom-induced combustion, are paint swatches. We now have so many there's an entire drawer dedicated to them.

- I'm writing again. It's like drawing blood from a stone. Since I'm the stone, it's quite painful. I've given myself til early feb to get this rewrite done - currently that seems like the stupidest idea I've ever come up with.

- There was ice on the inside of one of our windows this morning. Don't panic, it doesn't mean our house was below freezing inside, but it does mean this particular window isn't very good and that it's impossibly cold outside.

- All of my clothes are currently bundled in a bag downstairs in the basement, waiting to be folded and put away, because somehow all of my clothes became unfolded and scrumbled up all over the place and I lost patience and put them in a bag instead. I wish I was one of those people who folded clothes and had self control.

- Jeremy doesn't like pulp in orange juice. I learned this yesterday. We have been together over eight years. What else isn't he telling me?

Not Writing

Today was going to be the day I started writing again. My agent has okayed my edit ideas and now all I have to do is breathe life into them and transform my novel into something sellable.

So, I got up at 11.30am, drank coffee and read a newspaper, had a bath, peeled off an hour's worth of wallpaper, got changed, helped Jeremy paint the garage, microwaved some dumplings, got changed again, sat and stared at my computer, called my mother, cried (about nothing in particular), called my mother again, went to the supermarket, lit a fire, cried a little more (about the lack of writing I've done today along with nothing in particular), checked facebook, checked twitter, checked email, read the guardian online, read bbc news online, aaaaaand finally scribbled down on paper a few plot points expanding on the plot points I've already come up with.

I did not add a single word to my novel. I did delete about 5 words.

Tomorrow. It's all going to happen tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to go wash the ink off of my  jumper (I was leaning on a pen while writing this), eat dinner courtesy of Trader Joes (with a little help from Jeremy), sit by the fire and watch repeats of Spartacus: Blood and Sand on cable (which seems to be code for gratuitous sex and violence). I'll mostly not be thinking about the 1 month deadline I've given myself for doing this rewrite. Or the half-stripped wall that glares at me every time I go into my dining room (it may also be Jeremy that's doing the glaring... he doesn't agree that half-stripped is better than full-ugly).

A post that got a bit carried away with itself...

How is it possible that it’s taken me 28 years to realize that a) I love writing and b) I’m fairly good at it? Why has it taken this long for me to understand that my brain needs to be challenged and that writing challenges it in the right way? I wish I could talk with my 17 year old self and tell her not to be such a wuss – to demonstrate some self belief and to try for the scary things. I’d also tell her that dungarees are for decorating only, that straightening irons are going to kill her hair and that it’ll then take 3 – 4 years to fully recover.

(This is where this post goes awry -  totally wasn't originally heading in this direction but it turns out advising my former self is kinda fun)

18 year old self: Loosen up. Alcohol won’t kill you and you can afford to read a few less books about WWI. Realise how good you've got it, try and be cooler than you are and learn to drive dammit.

19 year old self: yes he says the right things but it’s all hot air. And seriously, that hair, those jeans? It’s not a good plan. Also, 19.75 year old self, don’t go chasing Americans across the Atlantic. He’ll come to you and then you’ll be a heck of a lot less neurotic and will get lots more sleep (leading to less neuroses). You’ll also have more money.

20 year old self: Stop being so neurotic. Clearly he loves you. Chill out and stay away from the other one who doesn’t love you but says he does. Bad bad news.  And don’t make decisions on housemates when drunk.

21 year old self: International Relations, while interesting, is a completely impractical degree. If you will insist on studying in America, do something that might actually result in a job. People who study international relations go on to be diplomats, economists or security advisors or other things that involve travel to scary countries and statistics. You are ill equipped for any of these things. And for goodness sake take your passport with you when you take the GRE test. Otherwise your poor choice in housemate will have to go through your laundry (because of course that’s where you’ve left your passport), hand it to a friend who will then have to take a train into london and you’ll be very stressed, poorer and embarrassed.

22 year old self: learn to drive and, failing that, buy a puffy coat. They’re not pretty but they’re warm. Also, tell Jeremy to turn on the darn heating.

23 year old self: steer clear of housemates who dictate what shampoo you use and watch out for bed-mice. Everything will be fine with Jeremy so relax, invest in that travel-card and join the gym.

24 year old self: Seriously, everything’s gonna be fine. OK it might not seem that way but trust me. And you need a thicker duvet - there's no insulation in that flat whatsoever. Also, stop wearing ballet pumps out in January. Your feet get wet and cold and do not help the situation.

25 year old self: See, I told you so. Now don’t go insane over visas and, I know the idea of paying off your overdraft and sleeping on couches sounds like a good one but…

26 year old self: You’re doing ok. Homesickness fades, although it never completely disappears. Not too too long til you get a house and a cat.

27 year old self: in a year’s time you’re going to live 10 minutes away from that job you’ve been offered… consider this before you start throwing ultimatums around.

28 year old self. This probably counts as talking to yourself, which isn’t generally seen as a good thing. Remember to pick up milk on your way home.

29 year old self: Anytime you wanna drop me a note on what not to do, feel free.

I’ll stop now…

what sort of a parent...

I hug my hot-water bottle tight, rub my feet together to encourage blood to flow and wait for my 13.5 tog duvet (brought over from the UK because despite their sub zero winters, I was unable to find a decent duvet here – and even if I did find one there was no way of knowing b/c they don’t use any sort of warmth rating) to start doing it’s job.

*crash smash meow* “Stupid *$#!ing cat” 

(This from the dining room.)

I wait, wondering whether I can pretend to already be asleep or whether I need to get out there and defend my kitty.

I get up.

“This can’t go on. He’s out of control. I’m shutting him away.”

“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’s young. He’s bored. We need to play with him more.”

“He’s staying in this room for the night”

“No he’s not.”

I sweep and vac and do my best to hide the evidence of kitty’s disgrace. I then fetch him from the cold cold room meanie Jeremy has shut him in and take him into our bedroom (which is also cold but there’s me, my hot water bottle, 13.5 tog duvet and electric blanket for him to snuggle next to).

"There’s still glass on the floor out here."

I feign sleep. Jeremy, after grumbling a little more about just how much glass I failed to vac up, comes to bed and, as per usual, ignores my feigning and starts to talk to me. 

“He needs discipline.”

“He’s a cat – he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.”

“We need to isolate him and teach him a lesson.”

“It wont work – he has about a 5 second memory”

“What sort of a parent are you going to be if you can’t even discipline a cat?” *

“It’s not the same” I mumble, letting kitty snuggle into me and moving my fingers out of hunting-reach”

Who, me?

*disclaimer: I'm not pregnant. 

Home Improvement.

"Be optimistic — assume that the paper is dry-strippable. Lift a corner of the paper from the wall with a putty knife. Grasp the paper with both hands and slowly attempt to peel it back at a very low angle."

Then, as it shreds in your hands, avoid the knowitall gaze of your husband and pretend that your decision to start on the main wall rather than a 'smaller section where if it all goes wrong and you get bored and give up it would be less noticeable' was absolutely the right one.

Persevere. Act as if you're not bored already and thinking about making a snack or whether the next episode of gossip girl is available online. Soak the wall in wallpaper removal solution. Wipe it up off of the floor. Look around to check knowitall hasn't seen. Scrape the wall. Remove about 2% of the wallpaper. Reapply solution and consider reading the instructions.

Repeat for all foreseeable weekends until the hideous wallpaper has finally disappeared and/or Jeremy gets fed up of waiting and decides to do it himself.