You can’t help it. “Oh Ta,” you ask, “I love your cats as much as the next Topaz & Drusy Groupie – by the way, we’re totally having a Groupie Weekend with matching t-shirts and koi cupcakes because We Heart teh Little Black Catses! – but you’re three for three. What gives?”
Princess Drusy in gray, size 7.
About the little things I may never shut my elegant trap, but about big stuff I’m more circumspect. A few weeks ago, a sports medicine doctor stared at my X-rays and went a little pale. On the one hand, I was wildly relieved that whatever was causing my cross-eyed complaining was visible on film. On the other, I wish my problems had been a little more camera-shy. The stupefying outcome of this appointment: apparently, I haven’t been complaining enough.
I know. I didn’t see that coming.
Side-by-side Drusy-to-Sweetpea size comparison.
Pete and I took stock of our situation and did what anyone would do: we went shopping. We obsessively scoured the intertoobz for stationary bicycles and non-skid footwear for yoga and pilates. Then we went out and sat on a score of stationary bikes and finally we bought one, which turned out to be the cheapest one we saw anywhere. I bought two pair of new sneakers with sturdy treads, and that was good news for little black cats who fit perfectly into boxes the size of two of my shoes.
Exercise has always been the answer. I’m going to need non-skid yoga gloves.
A girl and her trebuchet.
Princess Drusy, she of the fawn-like legs and kissy disposition, loves to share a glass of water with her favorite humans. I oblige her by pouring eight to twelve ounces of her preferred potable into widemouth glasses, taking a sip myself and setting them down where she will find them. She sweetly obliges me by drinking, drinking, drinking and wandering off to be wonderful elsewhere – unless I too am on the move. Then Drusy must know where and why, especially if it might involve the bathroom and another drink from the sink.
The giant kitten wants me all to herself. That should come as no surprise to you since all of the cats want me all to themselves. I’m like a rock star to them.
This is not my cat. I lack the fu of Photoshop that everyone in the whole world seems to have now. Even so, every morning, the giant kitten I call Sweetpea and Pete calls Attila the Adorable Hun decides at an indecent hour that it is time for me to wake up. If the bedroom door has been open all night, this decision is delivered in the form of a 14 pound cat landing on my head which, you’ll be pleased to hear, is irresistably delicious. If the bedroom door has been closed all night, Sweetpea bashes her head against the door in a manner that suggests I might need a bigger boat.
Or maybe I should quit chumming before bedtime, I can’t say. In the old days of tiny Topaz and swift Drusy’s heartwrenchingly adorable and terrifying kitteny morning rampages, I could shut the bedroom door and pout that they might miss me. Now I worry that I might be causing a kitty concussion. I bet the Beatles felt the same way.
Edith and Andy in Guatemala, 1976
Today is the anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. Answers.com:
The worst factory fire in the history of New York City occurred on March 25, 1911, in the Asch building, where the Triangle Shirtwaist Company occupied the top three of ten floors. Five hundred women, mostly Jewish immigrants between thirteen and twenty-three years old, were employed there. The owners had locked the doors leading to the exits to keep the women at their sewing machines. In less than fifteen minutes, 146 women died. The event galvanized support for additional efforts to be made to increase safety in the workplace. It also garnered support for labor unions in the garment district, and in particular for the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union.
Crooks and Liars, 24 March 2009:
Lanny Davis enlisted by Big Business to promote a “Third Way” Corporate Compromise on EFCA
Money never misses a chance to lock the doors and let us burn.
Pete’s baking bread. The house is filled with the muscular aromas of yeast and molasses. Tomorrow morning, I’ll eat a slice of delicious fresh bread without lifting a hand. Should I complain that he left out raisins?
My brother forwarded a collection of images of outstanding test failures. I liked this one very much. It reminded me of the Little Prince’s drawing that was not a hat. Physics, you see, must be full of elephants we can’t see.
Last week, I had an appointment with a sports medicine specialist because regular doctors have different goals than I do. For instance, I believe I should be able to dance until I turn a gilded 100, though medical professionals regard this as evidence of a fantasy-prone personality. It’s hard to convince doctors you, as the user of your body, might know something about what’s wrong with it, but I managed with the sports medicine specialist. He was very serious about the narrowing of channels and calcification, radiating pain and “bone remodeling” – in fact, he was so serious that when he mentioned the hip joints appeared impact damaged I didn’t make a joke. I didn’t make a joke about going back to my first love, the trampoline – or being one. I passed up the line about going from speed dating to carbon dating. I even kept my trap shut when I wondered if my hip joints could be replaced with Slinkys. I smiled a lot and made an appointment for physical therapy.
Topaz, Queen of the Jungle.
When everything else goes straight to Hell, Pete and I still have Sundays. Pete’s a cyclist and it’s finally warm enough for him to spend an hour this morning on the bike trails along the canal. I skipped an exercise class in favor of rowing upstairs in the attic and discovered the cats love the baker’s rack by a south-facing window and mid-morning sunbeam naps. Rowing makes a racket on the ancient machine but Drusy dozed the whole half hour. I crept downstairs to retrieve the camera but turned around and found her at my heels. Knowing it is totally irresistible to pussycats, I marched all the way back up to the attic and plunked down on the floor, which was like calling the cats through the anchovy phone.