Poseidon and I have some stimulating conversations in the morning, usually spawned by out-there questions he asks (I think I will start a weekly blog series titled "Things Poseidon Says"). Anyway, most of our more interesting convos take take place in the bathroom each morning as we get ready for work. Today was no exception.
Poseidon: "I've been leaving the shower door open every morning, and I've noticed less mildew."
Me: "I've been squirting the shower down at least once a week with Scrubbing Bubbles, so maybe that is the reason our mildew problem has vanished?"
Poseidon: Blah, blah, blah, some nonsense, reiterating the leaving-the-shower-door-open thing, blah, blah, blah.
We both then turn our attention to Kwinn, licking the shower (as he does every morning). Spotless.
Me: "Or, it has nothing to do with either one of us, and everything to do with that cat licking the shower clean."
Our mutual silence moved us both to drop our ends of the rope. We have a cat to thank for that clean shower (and a vet who may very well bury our bodies in our own backyard should she discover this).
This could very well be one of the more difficult decisions I've ever had to make. The decision to shut the cats out of our bedroom at night after 13 years of attachment parenting. I've spoiled my cats from day one, and I know I have no one to blame for the neediness I've instilled in them, but moi.
Last week, we began the heartbreaking routine (heartbreaking for me...blissful for Poseidon) of closing our bedroom door at night, forcing Kwinn and Kat to sleep elsewhere in the house.
Why, after 13 years, do I do this? Simple. My sleep has become ever more restless, and my little furry babies are partly to blame (eh, ok, mostly to blame). If they wake up, and want attention, they bite me, or swat at me until I wake up and pet them. Being awakened from deep REM sleep by a couple of four-leggers biting my cheek is not cool, but again, I've allowed this behavior to develop over many years, and I always respond by petting them and cooing at them. They KNOW this. It is now problematic because their demands for attention have progressed aggressively, and something had to be done.
Source: catsvshuman.com
My heart was breaking the first few nights, but the cats seem to have adapted better than expected, and I have been sleeping more soundly. I know this has affected Kwinn much more than Kat because he is the epitome of a "mama's boy." He will eventually be completely over having to make due with one of his many blankets (aka girlfriends) downstairs. Kat, she is probably over it already. As long as she gets her food, she cares not where she sleeps, and trust me, she can sometimes find the oddest of sleeping spots. Truth be told, they immediately handled this better I did.
I'm very happy I finally decided to do this...if for no other reason than to make Poseidon stop declaring me "p-whipped."
A few months ago, Poseidon and I were discussing what we would do if we had trust funds, and after a bit of back and forth, we decided it didn't matter because we don't have trust funds.
The conversation-ender came from Poseidon, "The only beings in this house with trust funds are those cats."
Not sure what made me think of that today. Oh, wait, I know why I remember the conversation about trust funds: Poseidon and I are going to have to make some not-so-cheap home repairs in the very near future, and those cats do not ever like to share.
I'm not going to bore anyone with the "What I did for Christmas" spiel. Most everyone who reads my blog knows that Poseidon and I spent Christmas in Alaska visiting our dear friends N. & T, and I won't recap everything, as a matter-of-fact, it would be difficult to write about this amazing trip, so I won't. But, I am going to upload one of my favorite pictures from the trip.
Me and a bear (and Poseidon ready to dial 911 if necessary):
Kwinn did something new yesterday, without dying. I took some clothes out of the dryer to fold, and that cat, without hesitation, jumped into the dryer and plopped himself down, rolled over on his back and purred with the fury of a freight train.
He is 12, which in human years is somewhere between 60 and dead. Kwinn, like most cats, is
Kwinn
a true creature of habit, so once he starts with something, it's embedded in his tiny little Siamese cat brain for a good month or two. This means Poseidon and I (mostly Poseidon, he doesn't trust me to do laundry) will have to make sure we close the dryer door from now until he forgets where the dryer is.
Death by heat is something I fear with Kwinn. He isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he has gusto, so he goes for things, full on. Like the time he stuck his head in a huge candle .5 seconds after I blew it out. I'll paint the picture for you, because I don't have a picture, but it was a huge candle, puddle of hot wax, and one cat who decided to do a face plant in the warmth. I was scraping wax from his face and whiskers for over a week. That was 1 life.
Two weeks ago, he was prancing near the fireplace, and stuck his tail into the flames. Luckily, I was sitting on the hearth, and I saw his tail light up like a cigarette, so I grabbed his tail and put out the flames before they made their way up his back. He acted as though nothing had happened. The house smelled liked singed hair for a day. That was 2.
If Poseidon and I have the laptop on our laps, Kwinn insists (I noticed recently that I use the word 'insist' frequently when talking about cats) on cuddling as close to the laptop as he possibly can. I imagine Kwinn will get some sort of tumor from the radiation, as will we all. We love technology, and it's here to stay, so just repeat after me: "Made bed. Lie."
The cable box - The cat lays on the cable box and sleeps. We just got new cable boxes, and he is now bigger than the boxes themselves, but that doesn't stop the little weirdo. He is a svelte cat, but he hangs over all four sides of the box. Oh, and see above about radiation.
Poseidon and I are fortunate enough to have a great sun porch, which means Kiwnn is fortunate enough to have a great sun porch. He takes advantage of the sun porch. What cat wouldn't? It's like a big square box with windows on all sides. It's like, a sun pool!
Kwinn...still in dryer
On the weekends, I'm up much earlier than Poseidon, so I go downstairs and hang by myself, except I'm not really by myself because Kwinn follows me. He finds the sunny spot on the carpet, which isn't really a spot, more like a slat, from the light coming through the blind. Anyway. He finds it. He sleeps. He also likes the warmth of blankets. Remember, he likes to date blankets?
And now. The dryer. I've read urban legends about cats found dead in dryers (and babies, kids, pigs, dogs, etc.) and it worries me. Kwinn is a heat-seeking junkie, but his temperature receptors, like most cats, are most reliable on the face, so he is likely to burn the rest of his body before his head realizes he is on fire.
I was around for the critical close-to-death instances, and able to put out the fires (literally and figuratively). Fortunately for all of us, the microwave is too high for Kwinn to reach, or my next post might read like one of those urban legends, starring Kwinn (only his name will of course be changed each time the story is retold).
Halloween? Done. Election Day? Over. What's next? And, no, it isn't Christmas, even though the malls and local stores might be trying in spectacular fashion to convince you otherwise. It's Thanksgiving. You know, turkey day, mashed potatoes, black Friday shopping, football, the obligatory list of things to be thankful for and all that jazz?
I was searching for November fashion accessories when out of the clear blue Google, these appeared! Throwing practicality out the door, then sure, I would wear these:
1. This first pair reminds me of a dream Poseidon had recently, and he shared it with me. In the dream, he was having dinner with some old band mates, and they were starving, and one of the bandies was cooking dinner for them. The meal turned out to be old pieces of shoe and denim, baking in the oven. Everyone knows that you don't serve shoe with denim, but Poseidon's dreams are often strange. Very strange.
Photo from shoetease.com
2. Honestly, with this pair, my brain said mohawk before it went to turkey. I suppose these might remind some of a turkey, but I'm seeing a Joy Division concert goer, waiting in line outside Pip's Disco in Manchester UK, 1978.
Photo from shoesmitten.com
3. Two fascinating facts I've learned about turkeys recently:
A turkey can run at speeds up to 20 mph when spooked
Turkeys can burst into flight at speeds between 50-55 mph in seconds.
Sadly, the turkey contributing to these boots must not have been in this sample group.
Photo from shoeblog.com
4. Yes, I know this is a peacock, not a turkey...oddly enough, when I Googled Thanksgiving fashion, I got the peacock shoe. Maybe some serve peacock instead of turkey for Thanksgiving dinner? Does peacock go better with broccoli, or asparagus?
Last night was a night filled with excitement, anticipation, and anxiety. We watched the election returns like mad crazy people...my sister is staying with us this week, so she added to the madness with her anxious sighing and fist banging on the sofa each time Romney won a state.
Just as the results started coming in, Kwinn and Kat began chasing each other...all through the house. They haven't done this in a while, as Kwinn despises Kat, so he usually ignores her begging requests to play, and busies himself with his own tail. Odd. Something is up with these two felines and their sudden furtive movements. Within a few minutes though, they quieted down and each took an opposite side of the room to chill and watch the returns.
At one point, I believe it was when Romney won Indiana, and my sister seemed ready to spiral out of control, I noticed Kwinn, sitting next to her on the sofa. He was staring at her, but he seemed unusually calm. Calmness in this neurotic Siamese is a sign. That little mongrel voted for Romney! I'm very nearly certain that Kwinn, despite his obvious lack of opposable thumbs, somehow wandered down the street and circled the ballet next to Romney's name.
Kat? Her only thoughts are of food, even during the election returns. Who will feed me? Are you going to feed me now? How about now? Now? When am I going to see food in my bowl? After she eats, we usually don't see her. She only pops in every few hours to see if, by chance, she might coax us into feeding her, again. She is the 47%, and she voted.
Several years ago, I attended yoga classes twice each week. I continued the routine for 2 months, but I just didn't quite get the "hang" of it. My body honestly did not appreciate being twisted into balloon animal shapes, and my mind wandered. Over the years, my yoga practice has consisted of attending classes in a one-off fashion, and nothing more serious or devotional than that.
Let's try meditation, shall we? I did. Last year I attended a 6-week "Introduction to Meditation" course, meeting one night a week at the Shambhala Center. I was into it. I even purchased my own Zafu cushion and Zabuton mat. Like I said, I was into it...for a while. Sadly, both cushion and mat are used more by Kwinn than by me. When I see the mat and cushion, lonely, on the floor, I silently scold myself for not practicing, then I bitch about Kwinn's cat hair. It's a dismal day when you realize your cat meditates more than you do.
So, back to yoga. On Sunday, I went to a yoga class. My first in a few months. I enjoyed the instructor, and my body found its rhythm during our final sun salutation series, and I felt great.
As with most yoga classes, we ended with shavasana. My body always feels relaxed during this pose, but for the life of me (no pun intended...you know, life, and the shavasana--a.k.a. the dead pose), I cannot shut my mind off! During the time I should have been enjoying shavasana, stupid thoughts raced through my head and I felt like there truly was a hamster running in a wheel up there and he was determined to go the full 26.2 distance. These were some of my actual thoughts (the thoughts I will admit to):
"Oh God, I really don't think I will be able to get off this mat without assistance. Do I ask T. for help, or do I wait and ask the instructor after everyone has gone?"
"Flea medicine for cats. Flea medicine for cats. Flea meds for cats. Flea cats." By repeating phrases over and over in my head, I actually believe I will remember them. Notice, my reminders shorten each time? The more repetitions I can pack into my brain, the more likely I will remember. Shorter is better.
This particular instructor likes to use yoga blankets during the corpse pose. She asked us to put them over us like a blanket. This is a public studio, so my prevalent thought during the pose, "How many people have had these blankets over them, and when were they last washed?" I don't skeeve out often about germs, but for some reason, while my head should have been in off-mode, this thought hung around.
"Man, I didn't even shower today. I can't believe Poseidon and I slept on the futon in the sun porch last night. Poseidon, I'm sure he isn't even awake right now. Am I wearing underwear, or did I just throw on my yoga pants? Did I really see a raccoon last night hanging off the bird feeder while his feet wrapped around the side of the house?"
"Did I buy enough Diet Coke to last until Wednesday? I don't want to go to the grocery store today. Shit, what was I supposed to do after class? Oh, oh, cats. Flea medicine. Did I determine which is closer, PetsMart, or PetCo?
While my thoughts raced, and my body tried to relax under the blanket used by many, many yoga practitioners, I'd not really achieved my goal of settling in. Before I knew it, the yoga instructor's soothing voice was transitioning us from deep relaxation to wake. My poor head was screaming, "No, no, it can't be over yet, I didn't relax...wait, wait, I'll focus on breathing, I promise I'll relax this time! Please, I've wasted this precious respite. Do over, do over!!!!"
And, that was that. I opened my eyes, reluctantly, and rolled over on my side (amazingly enough, I was able to get up without assistance...I'm having some neck issues). I got myself up, put away the yoga blanket (back on the shelf for the next victims) and blocks, rolled my mat into the shape of a large straw, big enough for the giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk," and gathered my other belongings.
I said goodbye to Tanya, then headed off to the pet store. I bought the flea medicine. I forgot cat litter because that didn't come up during shavasana, damn it. As I walked toward the check out area, I noticed some fluffy pet cushions on sale. "Kwinn and Kat would love those," I thought, then realized these cushions were not filled with buckwheat, simply polyester fluff, and therefore will not advance Kwinn's meditation practice, so I paid for what I had, drove back home, where Poseidon was napping on the sofa, Kat ran upstairs in anticipation of being given medicine (she would rather be eaten to death by fleas), and Kwinn nodded my direction with what looked to be his version of namaste.
I foresee an epic battle in my neighborhood; a battle so fierce that King Arthur himself would applaud me for my ferociousness.
I suppose I never thought of an acorn as a bitter enemy, something I need to take up arms against, but those buggers are doing their damnedest to put me in a shallow grave...early.
Last night was my third night of restless sleep due to Mother Nature's little brown cap-wearing nuisances dropping on my roof, and I'm ready to declare war. I need my sleep or I'm going to be so cranky that Poseidon will lock me in the little people room. I don't like the little people room.
Maybe you are thinking, "The acorn is a small tree nut, how much noise can one actually make?" Perhaps I'm just being baby. No, I don't think so. An acorn or two plummeting to earth via my roof isn't such a big deal, but when a whole damn oak tree of acorns launch in one night, I'm thinking machine gun rounds couldn't be louder. Just as I start slipping into a deep REM sleep, "BAM!" another acorn lands on the roof.
I'm going to head off on a slightly different path now, because a buried memory just came back to haunt me...
Several years ago, in my early twenties, my downtown apartment building was shaped like a U, with a courtyard in the middle, and during the fall, it was such a gorgeous place to live. There was one particular week that I remember well. As I walked from my building to the street, nearly everyday for the entire week, I was pelted, in the head, with an acorn from a HUGE oak tree in the courtyard.
The first couple of times this pelting happened, I thought very little of it. The third day, I was irritated. I looked up and I saw several squirrels scurrying along the branches. Those little rats-with-tails were throwing acorns at me, on purpose.
Of course, I didn't really believe they were doing this to me intentionally, but now having seen the Geico commercial where the squirrels high-five each other when they cause near accidents, I'm not so sure.
Back
to present day. I can't decide if the acorns are falling from the oaks
onto the house naturally, or if the squirrels are helping them, and by
"helping" I mean hurling them like Olympic discus throwers because of
the anti-squirrel bird feeder in the backyard? Maybe I'm barking up the
wrong tree (haha) with the acorn thing. Perhaps it is the squirrels we need to defend our kingdom against?
I stumbled upon this today, and now I think we (I mean, our cats) cannot live another day without this. My cats stink. A stink beyond what might be considered grossly offensive. I've never smelled a dead body, but...hell, a dead body would be able to smell my cats.
The cat box skeeves me out. Poseidon avoids the thing, so it usually falls on my shoulders (which now require visits to a chiropractor) to deal with. It is my own fault. I don't scoop everyday. Oh, for the love of shiny objects, I barely scoop once a week. When the smell has me edging toward unconsciousness, I pick up the scooper.
Our current litter box is ugly. It had a plastic flap over the opening, but Kat didn't know how to push it open with her nose, so she opted out of being a lady and did her business on the floor. As she is 11 years old, it's pointless and mind numbing to try to teach her anything now. But, she's very pretty, so I guess we will keep her.
I like the top-entry design. This will probably keep the floor around the box a bit cleaner. I also like the retro buttery yellow color. The fashionista in me thinks that if I buy a more fashionable cat litter box, I'll clean it more often. I seriously doubt that will happen, but this I do know: With a price tag of $180, Poseidon is going to require something from me in writing (something about I promise I'll clean, the blah, blah, blah) before he allows me to click the "BUY ME" button.
ETA. I'm getting no money for endorsing this product by the way, I just found it, liked it, linked to it.
