Another Day, Another Laundry Pile

Everyday isn’t laundry day in my house, though sometimes it sure does feel like it. I don’t mind doing the laundry, though. This is my first apartment with an in-unit washer and dryer, and they’re both brand new and awesome. For the first time in my adult life, I don’t have to hunt for quarters any time I need clean underwear, and the dryer actually DRIES my clothes. It’s revolutionary, I tell you.

Of course, we all know who absolutely adores laundry day – the gorgeous Miss Isabel. She’s always happiest when towels are part of the mix, but earlier today I was on a roll, and thoughtlessly unloaded and folded a dryer’s worth of towels quicker than she could make it to the bedroom to come play. Realizing my mistake a few minutes later, I threw a couple of the clean towels in with the next load of things to dry, so she could still enjoy a good snuggle. I’m such a sucker, but as you can see, it was totally worth it.

Isabel the Cat in a Laundry Pile

"Mmm...so toasty warm!"

Isabel the Cat in a Laundry Pile - Image 2

"Seriously Mum, this is the best ever..."

Isabel the Cat in a Laundry Pile - Image 3

"I'd invite you to share, but you see, it's such a small pile. It's really only big enough for one of us."

Isabel the Cat in a Laundry Pile - Image 4

"Seriously - you're not going to fit. Especially not with that black box thing strapped to your head."

Isabel the Cat in a Laundry Pile - Image 5

"Oh, all right, you can come play too!"

And much cuddling and purring ensued.

The End.

Made of Stars

Sorry that the last post was private. There are two reasons for that:

1) I needed to vent about a problem I’ve been holding inside for the last year or two, a problem that has become more intense since my move. I wanted to share without making my musings public, something I have tried to do in my private journal in the past, but found unsatisfying. I’m a fast typist, and it’s nice to be able to see many full thoughts come out of my head and start to live and work themselves out on the electronic page. Maybe in the future I’ll share my thoughts with the world. For now, however, if you really wanted to read, I wouldn’t mind, I think. The post is password protected, and I’ll share if you’d like to write me for it.

2) Since the problem concerns another person, I didn’t want to air something I really should be able to talk to them about in person. Since this person’s demeanor makes it virtually impossible for me to share real thoughts without getting laughed at for “thinking too much,” and this in itself seems to lead to a much darker future path in our friendship, I didn’t think it good to air grievances quite as publicly as I would like. My few readers know me well enough by now, I think, to know that I really don’t mind telling all about myself. There’s not much about my life that I don’t find is made richer by sharing, but this is one of those rare times when I believe the problem might come back to bite me in the proverbial ass if I let it live outside of my head and one protected blog page. I haven’t even been able to tell my best friends. Another interesting way the internet has changed relationships forever.

But enough with that. I’ve already written a major post on it today, and now I’m tired of letting negativity into my borders. From now on this afternoon, only positive thoughts. The most positive? I’m back with my band again! I have some photos I’d like to share with you of the band’s practice space, so I’ll save more musings on that precious topic for another post, but let it be known that I’m insanely happy about getting to sing again, and also to hang out with dear old friends that I haven’t seen in years, and love, love, love collaborating with.

Also in my personal news? I’m taking two free online courses in pagan studies at The Pagan Campus. I know I told you about these before, but I’m having so much fun that I had to mention them again. One class is in Numerology, and the other is in Sabbats and Esbats. I’m learning a lot, but also learning how much there is to learn, and that I’m only touching the tip of the iceberg. I love it. I’m so excited to spend the rest of my life honing my craft, and following the right path for me. Having grown up in super heavy-duty Christian country, where people believe that the devil ‘planted’ dinosaur bones in the earth to fool the weak-minded (lol, btw) into believing that the earth is older than a few thousand years, among lots of other weird, backward-ass thoughts that make very little sense, it’s so nice to get to meet people who believe in something that makes all the sense in the world, and find a religion where appreciating and honoring Mother Nature is the common thread. I don’t care to separate the Universe into multiple gods and goddesses, as many pagans do, but I also love the fact that for once I’m being given the right of way to practice what the Universe keeps proving to me every day is real and right and logical, and to finally see and embrace the abundance of love and energy we have at our fingertips, just by opening our eyes to the possibility of being proactive healers instead of sheep. Like Moby says, “We Are All Made of Stars“.

What else? Well, I made 100 overall in my last marketing class, which is good. I think that this next class is going to really kick my butt, so I should probably actually be doing homework right now instead of writing a blog post or two. But that leads me to the next interesting bit…

I dreamed a book last night. Not a short story, not part of a storyline, but an entire book. It’s not an earthshaking novel or anything, something more like a Harlequin romance, but hey, a book’s a book, and now I’m going to start putting it together. In all, I have three books in my head now that need to be written. One’s about an old haunted house in NC, one’s about ghosts and voodoo in New Orleans, and this last one is about a centuries-old curse on a New England family. I have got to get a routine developed. This is just getting silly. Think of the money I could be making, or at least the ways that I could be so much freer in my life if I just got some kind of order mapped out. With three books and the idea for a very strong small business in mind, I believe the only thing that’s truly holding me back right now is not procrastination, but rather fear. And for the life of me, I have no clue why I should be afraid of success. After all, I want so much to be self-sufficient.

So I’m sitting in bed on a rainy Saturday afternoon, listening to The Man curse at the pieces of a bench he’s been trying to build from scratch all day, my beloved Miss Isabel cat curled up beside me, thinking of this new book, the many paths of my life stretched out before me in my mind’s eye, trying to choose the right one, trying not to hurt anyone too much, or disappoint anyone too much, but trying most of all to be true to myself.

Esse Quam Videre.

I’m trying.

 

Murphy

Murphy in October of 2011

You’ve already read about my beautiful eldest cat, Isabel. If you’ve been reading along, you’ve probably caught on by now that there’s another fur child in my household, Izzy’s younger brother Murphy. His story is a little less involved than his sister’s, but every bit as important to our household’s history. Some of you might have experienced the feeling of being a family with loose ties, and how those ties tightened in the face of a major event, good or bad. Murphy’s simple story is the event that brought Isabel, The Man and myself together as fully-functioning family unit.

In the years BM (before Murphy), there was Isabel. She started out smelly and small, and grew to be snappish and larger. She loved me, and I loved her. I also loved The Man, whom I had started dating a few months prior to the disappearance of my late cat, Matthew. There was no love lost between Matthew and The Man; in fact, when The Man and I first began dating, he told me that he “didn’t really like pets.” He’s really fortunate that I can spot a lie a mile away, and understood his asinine comment really translated to “I haven’t ever had a pet of my own, so I don’t know what it means to love one.” Well, Matthew would have gladly raised a leg on The Man if he were a dog and The Man stood still long enough, so for awhile I resigned myself to the possibility of eventually having to dump this guy in favor of my cat. Fate chose a different route for us all, however. Matthew passed on, and Isabel entered our lives, so tiny and at first so sweet that The Man’s heart of stone was turned to mush – for awhile. Until she went half wild and took to treating The Man, in particular, like a favored scratching post. So much for their short-lived love affair, but at least there was mutual interest and healthy respect on The Man’s part. I figured it was a good starting place.

Two years later, we moved in together. We were in a new city, in a new house, with a two year old cat who was getting a little bored all on her lonesome. I started to put out feelers. We needed a new member of the household, but not just anyone. This cat had to be special.

I spent a lot of time researching cat personalities, and realized that Izzy was a bit of a mash-up of Beta and Gamma, being talkative, pushy, thoughtful, and very eager to please when dealing with me, but also very shy and non-verbally expressive in some realms, especially if other people are in the house. She’s a tricky little beast, and I spent months envisioning the type of cat I’d be bringing in to be her brother or sister. I knew there was only one chance to get this right, and it could be very difficult for everyone if I didn’t take my time.

A few months later, a friend of a friend moved to town from Texas, bringing with her SEVEN cats, four of whom were part of a litter of kittens. While out at a party one night, the new girl mentioned her kittens, and that they were weaned but she wanted to keep the mother and family all together a little longer. I found it refreshing, a complete 180 from the life Izzy was born into, so I asked for more info. What were their markings and personalities? What was their mother like?

The Black One (Murphy), napping with his litter mates Tooken and Saki, and their Aunt Ro Rittens

Cat 5, the kittens’ mother, had been an indoor cat who went into heat younger than anyone expected, and pretty much immediately got out of the house and knocked up. As her human mother put it, “babies having babies.” When the resulting progeny arrived, the first was a little brown tabby. Their human was happy – an entire litter of dark kitties, just like their mother! Then the next kitten arrived, and the next, and the next – in the end there were four orange and white tabbies, and one little dark kitten, who picked up the moniker The Black One. That night, the story of The Black One stuck in my head. I knew I couldn’t afford to choose a new child by looks alone, but I promised the girl that when the time came to give her kittens new homes, I’d be waiting.

Murphy's brothers & sisters

Murphy's mom, Cat 5, and her daughter Kitteh Fluff (a.k.a. Flurf)

A few weeks later I got a phone call. I’d just had all of my wisdom teeth out the day before, and was heavily drugged. The call was from two of my friends, roommates, who were on their way to choose kittens. Since everyone knew I was looking for something specific, I was to be given first dibs on the litter. All I had to do was get across town, my cheeks swollen like I was chewing softballs, my mind complete mush. Awesome.

A few hours later I sat in my new friend’s living room, surrounded by cats. I ended up sitting there for about five hours. It was a surreal experience, and not just because of the painkillers. I was watching kittens like my life depended on it, rating their actions in my hazy little mental scorecard. My friends humored me, sitting, watching, waiting, drinking beers. Of the four kittens in Chicago (one had remained behind in Texas), there were two males and two females. The long-haired female, the sweetest, silliest ball of fluff, was to stay with her owner. She and her mother are still as thick as thieves, or so I’ve been told. Of the others, there was The Black One, a mostly-orange male tabby named Tooken, and his sister, an orange and white tabby who was later renamed Saki (I can’t remember her original name). It was a very tough decision, but as I watched the kittens play it became obvious that Tooken was the alpha of the litter. Saki deferred to him, and hung tight to his side. The Black One wandered happily about, attacking the broom, crawling inside of a wicker table, jumping on his siblings, and getting bathed often by everyone. It was clear that he was the baby, and he loved it. He looked high maintenance, though. I was gravitating toward Tooken, even though he wouldn’t be the best choice for Isabel. It was a moment of drugged weakness. Luckily, I came to my senses when Tooken climbed up the back of the television. With The Man having just bought a new flat screen beauty a few weeks earlier, I realized the orange tabby was not the most intelligent pick.

And so that’s how I made one of the best decisions of my life, and came to carry a sleepy, utterly calm brown tabby kitten home that night. The Man greeted me at the door (I have no clue why he wasn’t in attendance for the choosing, but it’s probably best), and there was a brief moment where I was sure it was a mistake, he’d hate the new cat, Izzy would hate the new cat, it was all going to go awry…

Murphy still naps belly up, though he doesn't do it mid-play any more.

Then, wonder of wonders, I watched as The Man began to fall in love with a pet for the first time. Over the next day, I tried the method of introducing cats through a closed door, with the kitten in the bathroom and Isabel outside. He was very happy with the arrangement. She – not so much. Eventually he bounded out on accident, and when Izzy didn’t kill him immediately, I decided to let it slide and see what happened. The first few weeks were oddly sweet. The kitten, who became Murphy after taking a sip of my Guinness, trailed after Isabel constantly, despite her obvious disdain. She hissed, spit, and batted, but still he followed her around, looking like her pint-sized doppelganger. He made a habit of ambushing her from high places as she walked, and pouncing on her as she settled into her naps. He stole her toys. In general, he made such a cute little ass of himself that I’m inclined to think she couldn’t help but fall in love a little bit, herself.

Murphy wore Isabel down with good old fashioned love. This is about two weeks into their relationship, when she'd finally given up and let him nap beside her.

Isabel was orphaned as a very young kitten, and had never had this kind of relationship with another cat. When I walked in to find Murphy giving the perfectly relaxed Isabel a bath, I knew they would be just fine together.

One day I walked into the living room to find them giving each other mutual baths, and I knew that all would be well.  Now, Isabel and Murphy have been together for a little over two years. Once less than half her size, now she’s about half of his. At about 14 lbs., he’s a linebacker of a cat, with the sweetest, most lovable personality. He still tackles his sister once or twice a day, and their epic battles rage through the house, but they also nap together, take baths together, and generally pal around together like siblings should. They look so similar that people assume they’re from the same litter. Since Izzy prefers to remain out of the way and Murphy likes to come out and meet people, some folks that see both but never at the same time just assume it’s the same cat, moving around quickly. Of course it’s easy for me to tell them apart, as Isabel is petite and sharp, and Murphy is bulky and soft, but at night, it’s easiest for me to tell by their tails. Like the witch in “Hansel & Gretel”, I often find myself reaching out in the dark, running a hand down an encroaching cat’s back, and gently squeezing the tip of its tail. If it’s a calm, bony tail, waiting for me to ascertain its owner, it’s Isabel, come to curl up for the night. If it’s a thickly padded tail, twitching with impatience, it’s Murphy and he’s only come to tell me he needs more kibble.

True love - Munkey and The Man napping together a couple of years ago. He's too big to sleep on someone's neck now, but this basic scene still plays out most days at our house.

Murphy (a.k.a. Murph/Munky/The Munky/Munky-man) has always been The Man’s cat, even though I feed him, change his litter, take him to the vet, and give him belly rubs whenever he pleases. He likes me just fine, but he and The Man have bonded in a way I’ll never get to be part of. Their mutual love of napping during baseball games probably has something to do with it. He is a gentle cat, interested in simple pleasures – kibble, belly rubs, shoulder massages, tastes of coconut oil, naps on a velvet throw that we keep on the couch just for him. Like his mother, he can’t meow properly, instead squeaking or just opening his mouth and exhaling loudly when he’s perturbed. He can’t stand the idea of an empty bowl, and often lets me know that he’s going to be running out of food in a few hours. Even though he’s not a big eater, a bowl with less than several teaspoons of kibble is cause for complete red alert-style meltdowns, with much frantic squeaking, so I’ve learned to keep an eye out. He loves to knock the water bowl over in the night, as well, so I get woken up pretty often for that calamity.

He’s never been interested in toys, but he is scarily obsessed with straws. You can’t leave a cup with a straw in it alone for even a second if Murphy’s nearby, and he will be nearby because he has a 6th sense that only works to pinpoint a straw’s location in his domain. I’ve forgotten and walked away from a cup a couple of times, and come back to either a spilled drink with no straw, or just no straw if he’s been particularly clever. A few days ago I brought home a cup with a straw and he sat on the end of the couch, his eyes never leaving the straw for the entirety of my meal. I swear he didn’t even blink, just followed the cup’s journey to my face and back every time. His normally sweet, teddy-bearish face was taut with the kind of intense emotional hunger he only experiences when tubular plastic items are around. Once gifted with the desired object, he becomes a furry little madman, batting his prey about the house for ten minutes or so, then leaving it lifeless on the rug, perforated with tooth marks.

Well, there you have it – my weird little fur family, in a nutshell. I consider myself to be so blessed to have found a brother for Izzy who surpassed my expectations, and who has brought so much joy to our lives. The Man will never again say he doesn’t like animals (in fact, I often catch him telling others that he’s “more of a cat person”). My beautiful Isabel will never be a lonely, maladjusted orphan again. Over the last two years, she’s mellowed, become less inclined to bite, stopped using her claws when she plays or reaches out, and has even started being affectionate to The Man on occasion. As for me, there’s nothing like being woken up at 3am to clean a litter box again, or wondering what on earth could be making that weird noise, just to find it’s a by-product of crazy cat games. In other words, it’s the best.

My beautiful little man, all grown up.

The Cats of New Orleans

Since I’m working from home now, it turns out I end up spending a lot of the day basically Velcro’d to my couch.  My social life is pretty sparse, since I’m not a big drinker and I’m trying to drop some weight, which makes me not too much of a big eater, right now, either.  That means that my only real excursions are rather boring – trips to the gym, grocery store, and the occasional coffee shop.  Thus, it seems like a good idea to start inventing reasons to get the hell out of the house, so as to prevent (or at least slightly impede) my gradual decent into madness.

Which leads me to my new project: taking photos around the neighborhood.  I have a DSLR that I’m trying to learn to use, and even on ‘auto’ (which yes, I know makes me one of those people) it takes decent shots.  I’ve signed up for some classes, starting in early November, but until then I’m not going to shelf my camera and wait to become learned before trying to capture a piece of everything I see and love.  I typically take photos of architectural details, but the other day I saw a number of cats out in people’s gardens around the Lower Garden District.  Here are a few who were kind enough to pose for me.  I guess you could also call this series ‘Cats Behind Bars’!

Magazine Street Cat, New Orleans, October 2011

Magazine Street Cat, New Orleans, October 2011

Catnapping on Magazine Street, New Orleans, October 2011

Catnapping on Magazine Street, New Orleans, October 2011

Unimpressed Cat on St. Mary Street, New Orleans, October 2011

Unimpressed Cat on St. Mary Street, New Orleans, October 2011