Oh My God.
So, It's Christmas! I tried, but never really got into the Christmas spirit this year. I think it was because we did absolutely nothing with family (or friends, I guess), and as Anton isn't big on celebrations, everything was just....meh.
I don't want to turn this into whine fest, so! I have absolutely no idea why I'm here. We're watching one of Anton's presents (season 2 of the Clone Wars) and as a birthday present to him, I'm doing my best not to criticize it. I like Star Wars proper, but I don't like the prequals at all. The series gets on my nerves, but. Birthday present.
I think I may have mentioned this a hundred years ago or so, but I think I have ADD- I had all the classic symptoms that girls present as kids, and I certainly have all the adult symptoms. Anton wants me to see a doctor to see if there's non-medicated way to treat it, but me sitting down, finding a doctor that treats adult ADD and takes my insurance and make an appointment with them is the same as tasking me to organize an expedition to the moon.
I've been trying to type up my NaNoWriMo story, but it's been slow going. Writing by hand is comparatively easy. I can change position and location quickly and easily. Typing in the same posture for hours is torture, especially considering I spend 8+ hours a day at work doing a similar thing. But I am going to finish before the end of the year-ish, so I can spend the early part of 2011 editing, re-editing and editing one more time, and seeing where I want to go with it from there. And starting a few more stories, too. My writing may be crap, but in it's rough form is still better than Twilight (hi, hubris!), so there's no point in being modest. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway. I know -these- posts are rambling and hard to follow sometimes (again, ADD. Writing on the computer is dumb.), but my fiction writing isn't- and even if it isn't the next Harry Potter (which it isn't), it's still better than Twilight. (Or Ballad, for that matter.) The only difference is they were published and I haven't tried to be yet. So. Yeah.
In other news, I have a migraine and this show is NOT HELPING. Off to smother some cats.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
You may already be a winner!
So. It's December 4th, in case you don't have access to a calendar. Which means this year's round of NaNoWriMo ended 4 days ago. And guess who was a winner for the first time in 8 attempts?
If you weren't bombarded by my tweets and Facebook statuses, let me inform you that I, Jamie, your fearless blogger, finally. fucking. finished. a NaNo. FINALLY.
I'm hoping this weekend I'll finishing typing up the second of two notebooks I used during November. I'll have ample time- the husband is out visiting family in Arizona until next Friday, so no distractions other then then ones I make up myself, and, you know, work.
I managed to distract myself pretty well today. After waking up far too early to take Anton to the airport, I came home, decided that even though I haven't had my hair cut in nearly two years, now would be a fancy time for one. Once that was done, I went and got nacho fixin's and some Seagrams 7, came home and crawled into bed with the cats. I've nearly watched the entire season of Firefly, read a book and managed not to do any house work other then cleaning the litterboxes. I'll get to that tomorrow, but tonight I'm just worried about talking myself through my first night alone.
Since we moved in together, we have spent all but 6 of the last 1850 nights together. That's just WEIRD. It's like I've forgotten how to sleep on my own, even though I've slept on my own a lot more then 1850 nights. Thank the universe for 5 obnoxious cats that haven't left my side all day. Mad props to the people who have spouses who travel for work. I think it would drive me batty.
Worse, however, is now I think Anton really, really, really wants to move to Arizona. Rampant racism and no water? SIGN. ME. UP.
If you weren't bombarded by my tweets and Facebook statuses, let me inform you that I, Jamie, your fearless blogger, finally. fucking. finished. a NaNo. FINALLY.
I'm hoping this weekend I'll finishing typing up the second of two notebooks I used during November. I'll have ample time- the husband is out visiting family in Arizona until next Friday, so no distractions other then then ones I make up myself, and, you know, work.
I managed to distract myself pretty well today. After waking up far too early to take Anton to the airport, I came home, decided that even though I haven't had my hair cut in nearly two years, now would be a fancy time for one. Once that was done, I went and got nacho fixin's and some Seagrams 7, came home and crawled into bed with the cats. I've nearly watched the entire season of Firefly, read a book and managed not to do any house work other then cleaning the litterboxes. I'll get to that tomorrow, but tonight I'm just worried about talking myself through my first night alone.
Since we moved in together, we have spent all but 6 of the last 1850 nights together. That's just WEIRD. It's like I've forgotten how to sleep on my own, even though I've slept on my own a lot more then 1850 nights. Thank the universe for 5 obnoxious cats that haven't left my side all day. Mad props to the people who have spouses who travel for work. I think it would drive me batty.
Worse, however, is now I think Anton really, really, really wants to move to Arizona. Rampant racism and no water? SIGN. ME. UP.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Birthday time again
I'm finding this hard to write because half of today's subject won't stop insisting that I rub her belly.
Kira and Annabelle, the only cats I have that came from the same place, are 8 now. MY CAT'S ARE GETTING OLD WHICH DEPRESSES ME. I may have to console myself with a basket of kittens.
It's not a great secret that 2001-2002 was pretty much the worst time in my life. I've had depression (been dealing with depression? Suffered from depression?) since I was 8-9, and received zero treatment until I was 19. That's... too long. 2001 was just a cluster-fuck in regards to my mental health and treatment. By summer of 2002 I had been cycled through 9 or ten different medications, none of which had worked very well for me. I went from a huge manic phase (my freshman year of college I was taking any where from 18-22 credit hours a semester, working several jobs and sleeping maybe 2 hours a night, if at all.) to a major depressive one- the medication made it so I slept...all the time. I barely passed winter semester that year- and was on my third college. I was back to living with my mom and her new husband in Port Huron, a town where I knew no one but.my mom and her new husband, and one ex girlfriend of my cousin's. She and I had a sort of friendship...we hung out at school and we both worked at the same store, and would go watch my younger cousin's basketball games back in Brown City. When my mom finally was fed up with me, Erika was the only person I had to turn to. I moved in with her, which was probably one of the worst things I could have done- I would have been better off living under a bridge.
Except for the fact that Erika tried really hard to bond with me for a time. We worked different shifts- I worked midnights and she worked days, and in between we had school, so the rare occasions we were both home, I was usually asleep. Her stealing my clothes and various things didn't really help foster the the sister-friend relationship she wanted. Her last ditch effort was to get a pair of kittens from another co-worker because she knew I liked cats. Really awful reason to get pets (kind of like- our relationship is on the rocks, let's have a baby to save it!), especially considering she'd never had an actual pet before.
Her father was like a lot of other men where we grew up- a total douchenozzle who hunts for fun. Her parent's house is one fucked up house of death, with stuffed 'trophies' everywhere. Bears, deer, pheasants, fish, bobcat...it's creepy. When their barn cat population got 'out of control' he would use the cats as target practice. Erika wasn't a hunter, but she had her father's detachment to the pain of living creatures. She had no idea how to care for cats, and wasn't interested in learning. Why she thought getting kittens would be super fun, I have no idea.
Did I mention the kittens were a surprise? And that they hadn't been socialized at all?
Our co-worker, Melissa, wasn't supposed to have cats because her dad hated them, so her cat was kept in her room at all times. Except that time she escaped while she was in heat. The kittens were kept in secret in her room- under her bed. They never saw anyone but Melissa, and when they were finally big enough to eat solid food, she got rid of them. I DON'T UNDERSTAND PEOPLE AT ALL.
So, these two pathetic black fluffs of fur were brought into our apartment, and hid under the couch for the first few days. They started to come out if I was home alone, but not if Erika was. She was fed up with the litter box existing after a week, and the fact that the kittens wanted nothing to do with her, and demanded I keep them in my room...
Let me explain about my room. Erika was in a one bedroom apartment when I moved in with her...into her boiler room. There was just enough room for a twin bed and a tiny white rack where I kept my clothes, and that was it. The kittens didn't seem to mind, but I felt bad about it and only kept them in there when I was at work.
I don't know how to explain how messed up I was at this time. During the months I lived with Erika I was on Lithium, which took my barely manageable depression and turned it into my own personal hell. I had started cutting the year before and that behavior hadn't lessened at all. I was a walking suicidal zombie. I had to drop out of school (again!) because I had lost all my financial aid when my mom got married, and was stuck working midnights in a grocery store where another employee was stalking me. Everyone thought it was funny. I was terrified. I had a falling out with my father the year before, and now my mom didn't want me around either- the reasoning for both was for something I had no control over. My father said my depression was a sickness that was going to infect his other kids (and then chased my out of the house with a knife and almost ran me off the road with his truck. True pillar of sanity, that one.), and my mom thought depression was something I was making up for attention (which is funny, since I didn't want to be around anyone, let alone draw attention to myself.), and that I was sabotaging her marriage.The only one who understood at all was my grandmother, but I wasn't about to move in with her unless I could be stable.
All I had at that point was those two kittens- Kira and Annabelle. They didn't blame me for anything, they just gave me undivided and devoted attention and love. I was the center of their world, and I truly believe that without them I was probably weeks from committing suicide, if that. The self harming behavior gradually decreased. I started being able to push aside suicidal thoughts because if anything happened to me, I was terrified at what their future would be with Erika. They were completely dependent on me, and I couldn't go dying just because it hurt so hard to be alive.
My life started to get better little by little after that. I managed to make some actual friends that weren't just being pseudo nice to me to try to get back with my sleazy cousin. My mom took pity on the kittens having to live in that crappy apartment, and took them home with her. A few weeks later, she did the same with me. I got off lithium and stopped taking anti-depressants all together- I realize that anti-depressants help thousands of people. I wasn't one of them. (The only time antidepressants did anything positive for me was the first two weeks I was on Zoloft- after I had to sit and watch my apartment building go up in flames with my cats inside. After those two weeks, though, it was useless and I had to come back off it. My brain hates pills.)
After getting a new job and finding a place of my own, I was planning on just taking Kira, as my mom was very insistent on keeping Annabelle. She also told me if I didn't take Boyd, he'd find himself on a farm far far away. (Everyone says they love that cat, but no one likes to live with him.) After my first night away, I received a call to come get Annabelle, too. She had spent the whole night sitting at the door, crying for her sister.
Belle and Kira may be sisters from the same litter, but the most they have in common is their color and their love of Boyd.
Kira sleeps more than any cat I have, and is the biggest bully, too. The first time she met my mom's bully cat, Mia, she clocked her in the face and walked away- mind, Kira was about 3 months old at that point, and Mia was full grown. She puts up with no shit from anyone, but loooooooovvvveesss baby animals. Loves them. There was a bunny in our apartment for a day and she spent the hole day just cleaning him. A few months after I moved out on my own, my mom came home from a trip to her sister's with two kittens. She kept one and brought the other one over- a little gray blue kitten who I named Taran (because if I was already one cat over the 2 cat limit for my apartment complex, what was one more, right?). All three of my cats took too him, but he was Kira's little baby. There was never an acclimation time like there has been introducing any of my other cats to each other, they all took to him right away. I might write more about him later. After he died (he was a very sickly kitten), Kira herself fell into a deep depression. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't drink, she just wandered the house looking for Taran and sleeping in his favorite spots. She lost half her body weight and it was a fight to keep her going (especially since the vet said there was nothing wrong with her). She pulled through, but she hasn't taken to any other animal she's been introduced to since.
She's never been too impressed with other people, either. She used to sleep on the pillow next to me at night, but since Anton came along she won't get on the bed with him there- he apparently doesn't understand that's her side of the bed. She looks like a dragon, and while she's black, she has this warm chocolaty undercoat of brown fur that's almost red in the sunlight. She also has an obsession with water- the fresher, the better. She won't drink out of the same bowl as everyone else, so she gets her own bowl in the bedroom. Heaven help anyone who thinks they can go to bed without filling it.
Annabelle is a lover and a talker. She talks. A lot. I think her favorite time of the day is when everyone goes to bed- Boyd and Chester sleep in bed with us, and Kira and Eoywn sleep on either side of the bed. Annabelle takes that time to sing, in her fashion. Loudly. It's adorable. She certainly takes Boyd on a run for his money for goofiest cat, as well. When I get up in the morning, she's always found a new weird spot to sleep, and when I get home at night she's waiting by the balcony door asking to go out. Conversations usually go like this with her:
A: Out?
J: Not now.
A:....out?
J: Not now. Later.
A:...........now?
J:No, not now. Later.
A:..............................now?
I'm not one of those crazy people who think they hold conversations with their pets, really. I promise. But cats have a wide range of vocalizations and can mimic human speech. Boyd and Annabelle love "out". They'll sit hopefully by the door and parrot it all day if they think there's a chance they'll be let out. Annabelle started with the "now" this summer. My mom's cat Mal will tell you "no." Dogs, in comparison, have about 12 different vocalizations. Dogs are crap.
She's also crazy picky. She can't abide a mess. Just now, she came to sit next to me but the remote and my phone where there. Any of the other four would gladly kick the stuff out of their way as they jumped up, delighted to be inconveniencing me. Annabelle waits until you move it. She won't even step on rumpled covers on the bed- the blankets must be smooth or forget it. She's got several neurosis, and as long as you're prepared for them she's the best cat. If you try to change or fix her, forget it. She'll have none of it and will just make you miserable.
I love my girls. Happy birthday to the best little Halloween cats ever.
Kira and Annabelle, the only cats I have that came from the same place, are 8 now. MY CAT'S ARE GETTING OLD WHICH DEPRESSES ME. I may have to console myself with a basket of kittens.
It's not a great secret that 2001-2002 was pretty much the worst time in my life. I've had depression (been dealing with depression? Suffered from depression?) since I was 8-9, and received zero treatment until I was 19. That's... too long. 2001 was just a cluster-fuck in regards to my mental health and treatment. By summer of 2002 I had been cycled through 9 or ten different medications, none of which had worked very well for me. I went from a huge manic phase (my freshman year of college I was taking any where from 18-22 credit hours a semester, working several jobs and sleeping maybe 2 hours a night, if at all.) to a major depressive one- the medication made it so I slept...all the time. I barely passed winter semester that year- and was on my third college. I was back to living with my mom and her new husband in Port Huron, a town where I knew no one but.my mom and her new husband, and one ex girlfriend of my cousin's. She and I had a sort of friendship...we hung out at school and we both worked at the same store, and would go watch my younger cousin's basketball games back in Brown City. When my mom finally was fed up with me, Erika was the only person I had to turn to. I moved in with her, which was probably one of the worst things I could have done- I would have been better off living under a bridge.
Except for the fact that Erika tried really hard to bond with me for a time. We worked different shifts- I worked midnights and she worked days, and in between we had school, so the rare occasions we were both home, I was usually asleep. Her stealing my clothes and various things didn't really help foster the the sister-friend relationship she wanted. Her last ditch effort was to get a pair of kittens from another co-worker because she knew I liked cats. Really awful reason to get pets (kind of like- our relationship is on the rocks, let's have a baby to save it!), especially considering she'd never had an actual pet before.
Her father was like a lot of other men where we grew up- a total douchenozzle who hunts for fun. Her parent's house is one fucked up house of death, with stuffed 'trophies' everywhere. Bears, deer, pheasants, fish, bobcat...it's creepy. When their barn cat population got 'out of control' he would use the cats as target practice. Erika wasn't a hunter, but she had her father's detachment to the pain of living creatures. She had no idea how to care for cats, and wasn't interested in learning. Why she thought getting kittens would be super fun, I have no idea.
Did I mention the kittens were a surprise? And that they hadn't been socialized at all?
Our co-worker, Melissa, wasn't supposed to have cats because her dad hated them, so her cat was kept in her room at all times. Except that time she escaped while she was in heat. The kittens were kept in secret in her room- under her bed. They never saw anyone but Melissa, and when they were finally big enough to eat solid food, she got rid of them. I DON'T UNDERSTAND PEOPLE AT ALL.
So, these two pathetic black fluffs of fur were brought into our apartment, and hid under the couch for the first few days. They started to come out if I was home alone, but not if Erika was. She was fed up with the litter box existing after a week, and the fact that the kittens wanted nothing to do with her, and demanded I keep them in my room...
Let me explain about my room. Erika was in a one bedroom apartment when I moved in with her...into her boiler room. There was just enough room for a twin bed and a tiny white rack where I kept my clothes, and that was it. The kittens didn't seem to mind, but I felt bad about it and only kept them in there when I was at work.
I don't know how to explain how messed up I was at this time. During the months I lived with Erika I was on Lithium, which took my barely manageable depression and turned it into my own personal hell. I had started cutting the year before and that behavior hadn't lessened at all. I was a walking suicidal zombie. I had to drop out of school (again!) because I had lost all my financial aid when my mom got married, and was stuck working midnights in a grocery store where another employee was stalking me. Everyone thought it was funny. I was terrified. I had a falling out with my father the year before, and now my mom didn't want me around either- the reasoning for both was for something I had no control over. My father said my depression was a sickness that was going to infect his other kids (and then chased my out of the house with a knife and almost ran me off the road with his truck. True pillar of sanity, that one.), and my mom thought depression was something I was making up for attention (which is funny, since I didn't want to be around anyone, let alone draw attention to myself.), and that I was sabotaging her marriage.The only one who understood at all was my grandmother, but I wasn't about to move in with her unless I could be stable.
All I had at that point was those two kittens- Kira and Annabelle. They didn't blame me for anything, they just gave me undivided and devoted attention and love. I was the center of their world, and I truly believe that without them I was probably weeks from committing suicide, if that. The self harming behavior gradually decreased. I started being able to push aside suicidal thoughts because if anything happened to me, I was terrified at what their future would be with Erika. They were completely dependent on me, and I couldn't go dying just because it hurt so hard to be alive.
My life started to get better little by little after that. I managed to make some actual friends that weren't just being pseudo nice to me to try to get back with my sleazy cousin. My mom took pity on the kittens having to live in that crappy apartment, and took them home with her. A few weeks later, she did the same with me. I got off lithium and stopped taking anti-depressants all together- I realize that anti-depressants help thousands of people. I wasn't one of them. (The only time antidepressants did anything positive for me was the first two weeks I was on Zoloft- after I had to sit and watch my apartment building go up in flames with my cats inside. After those two weeks, though, it was useless and I had to come back off it. My brain hates pills.)
After getting a new job and finding a place of my own, I was planning on just taking Kira, as my mom was very insistent on keeping Annabelle. She also told me if I didn't take Boyd, he'd find himself on a farm far far away. (Everyone says they love that cat, but no one likes to live with him.) After my first night away, I received a call to come get Annabelle, too. She had spent the whole night sitting at the door, crying for her sister.
Belle and Kira may be sisters from the same litter, but the most they have in common is their color and their love of Boyd.
 |
| Belle and Boyd |
 |
| Boyd and Kira |
Kira sleeps more than any cat I have, and is the biggest bully, too. The first time she met my mom's bully cat, Mia, she clocked her in the face and walked away- mind, Kira was about 3 months old at that point, and Mia was full grown. She puts up with no shit from anyone, but loooooooovvvveesss baby animals. Loves them. There was a bunny in our apartment for a day and she spent the hole day just cleaning him. A few months after I moved out on my own, my mom came home from a trip to her sister's with two kittens. She kept one and brought the other one over- a little gray blue kitten who I named Taran (because if I was already one cat over the 2 cat limit for my apartment complex, what was one more, right?). All three of my cats took too him, but he was Kira's little baby. There was never an acclimation time like there has been introducing any of my other cats to each other, they all took to him right away. I might write more about him later. After he died (he was a very sickly kitten), Kira herself fell into a deep depression. She wouldn't eat, she wouldn't drink, she just wandered the house looking for Taran and sleeping in his favorite spots. She lost half her body weight and it was a fight to keep her going (especially since the vet said there was nothing wrong with her). She pulled through, but she hasn't taken to any other animal she's been introduced to since.
 |
| Also, she loves water. |
She's never been too impressed with other people, either. She used to sleep on the pillow next to me at night, but since Anton came along she won't get on the bed with him there- he apparently doesn't understand that's her side of the bed. She looks like a dragon, and while she's black, she has this warm chocolaty undercoat of brown fur that's almost red in the sunlight. She also has an obsession with water- the fresher, the better. She won't drink out of the same bowl as everyone else, so she gets her own bowl in the bedroom. Heaven help anyone who thinks they can go to bed without filling it.
 |
| She lay like that for hours. |
A: Out?
J: Not now.
A:....out?
J: Not now. Later.
A:...........now?
J:No, not now. Later.
A:..............................now?
I'm not one of those crazy people who think they hold conversations with their pets, really. I promise. But cats have a wide range of vocalizations and can mimic human speech. Boyd and Annabelle love "out". They'll sit hopefully by the door and parrot it all day if they think there's a chance they'll be let out. Annabelle started with the "now" this summer. My mom's cat Mal will tell you "no." Dogs, in comparison, have about 12 different vocalizations. Dogs are crap.
She's also crazy picky. She can't abide a mess. Just now, she came to sit next to me but the remote and my phone where there. Any of the other four would gladly kick the stuff out of their way as they jumped up, delighted to be inconveniencing me. Annabelle waits until you move it. She won't even step on rumpled covers on the bed- the blankets must be smooth or forget it. She's got several neurosis, and as long as you're prepared for them she's the best cat. If you try to change or fix her, forget it. She'll have none of it and will just make you miserable.
I love my girls. Happy birthday to the best little Halloween cats ever.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Personality Switch
I'll go ahead and say it: I'm ready for winter.
Why, I don't know. I generally hate all things cold and frozen and damp because they are miserable. But this year I keep looking out the window hoping for snow and leave the house bundled up even though it's in the thirties when I leave for work. Cool, yes, cold, not quite.
I really don't have proper winter clothes, so it's not like I'm trying to speed the seasons along to break out my favorite sweaters and boots. I just want to decorate for Christmas and snuggle in blankets with the cats and read and hole up till spring. I want to drink hot beverages and eat warm, hearty meals and day dream about warmer climes.
Anton is going off to Arizona for a week in December to see his parents while they're in the states. I'm staying home to tend the home fires and take care of the kittens. And work, boo. Next month I'm attempting for the, what, 8th? year in a row to participate in NANOWRIMO. I expect little but it's always fun to try. Actually, I think I'll be doing NANOFIMO* but, whatever. Still aiming for the same word count. Anton is signed up, we'll see if he plays along as well.
*National Novel Finishing Month
Why, I don't know. I generally hate all things cold and frozen and damp because they are miserable. But this year I keep looking out the window hoping for snow and leave the house bundled up even though it's in the thirties when I leave for work. Cool, yes, cold, not quite.
I really don't have proper winter clothes, so it's not like I'm trying to speed the seasons along to break out my favorite sweaters and boots. I just want to decorate for Christmas and snuggle in blankets with the cats and read and hole up till spring. I want to drink hot beverages and eat warm, hearty meals and day dream about warmer climes.
Anton is going off to Arizona for a week in December to see his parents while they're in the states. I'm staying home to tend the home fires and take care of the kittens. And work, boo. Next month I'm attempting for the, what, 8th? year in a row to participate in NANOWRIMO. I expect little but it's always fun to try. Actually, I think I'll be doing NANOFIMO* but, whatever. Still aiming for the same word count. Anton is signed up, we'll see if he plays along as well.
*National Novel Finishing Month
Saturday, September 11, 2010
week full of memories
Last weekend marked the 4th year of having this little shit in our lives:
This is long past teal deer, but Anton and I have been musing over our favorite stories from when he first came home with us.
~ I wanted him to be as comfortable in the car as Boyd is, so we would take him on little excursions around town. One trip took us to an ice cream stand, and they gave him a teeny tiny little ice cream cone that he got all over himself. This may or may not be why he's always stealin' my sorbet.
~ For the first couple months, we kept his litter box in the hallway, so we could make sure he was using it. He certainly was little box trained, covering his leavings was one of his favorite games. What we didn't count on was Kira thought having a litter box in the hall way was the BEST.IDEA.EVAR. She would happily use it, and he would angrily chase her off, and growl his little baby growl as he covered up whatever she left. He'd sit next to his box a good twenty minutes each time to discourage anyone else from trying it.
~ Whenever he ate his baby food, we started to keep him separate from everyone else, otherwise he'd stick his paw on the plate and growl as he ate. Angry growls. Growls that would get shelter dogs put down because they were food aggressive.
~I was scared of one of the cats getting too aggressive with him as we slept, so for the first few weeks he slept under a laundry basket (Boyd would sleep on top of the laundry basket. I'm not sure if this was to intimidate or to comfort him.) but eventually, he figured out how to get out, and would get in bed between mine and Anton's pillows and purr. For such a little baby, he had a loud, obnoxious, purr, and wouldn't stop until we let him know we were awake and cuddled him.
~ Now, when he wants me to get up, he doesn't go the obnoxious route that Boyd does (who headbutts and yowls until I get up). No, he cuddles. and snuggles. Then slowly moves closer and closer to my face. Then licks it. Then bites it. Wait. That's not cute.
~ Until he was about 7 months old, he could walk under Boyd. And did. All the time. It killed us each time. We are so easily amused.
I honestly do not know what made Anton think that he was a good idea. We had four cats at the time: Boyd, Annabelle, Kira, and Eowyn. Anton was overwhelmed with them- "animals in the house" he'd always muse. When he was growing up, his dad raised birds, but they never had any of the fluffy, cuddly companion animals that I grew up with. We had just passed the sixth month mark on our marriage, we'd been through a fire destroying our apartment and meeting his family, so I guess we were due for a new challenge.
We were up at my grandmother's helping her with a garage sale, and down the road several of her neighbors were also trying to take advantage of the holiday travelers. One of them had a crate full o' kittens, and Anton was enamored. By the time we actually went down to look at the kittens (because it doesn't hurt to look.) there were two left- a fiesty little tuxedo girl and a pitiful little lump of orange and white. We played with them for a bit and went back to my grandma's. To me, they were clearly too young to be separated from their mother, even though the owners insisted that all the kittens were litter box trained and eating solid food. Anton kept going on about how the little orange and white one was only just the ONLY CAT HE'D EVER WANT EVER. He was orange and white. He had star-burst blue eyes! HOW COULD WE LEAVE HIM.
The day were were set to go home, my Gram wanted to go down to see the other garage sales, so off she and Anton went in the golf cart while I stayed behind to man hers. I should have known better.
Back they came, Gram cuddling that bastard little furball to her chest.
"No. No no no no no. Absolutely not." I said over and over again. "Take him back. Take him back right now." Right up until my grandma shoved him into my arms and the furry little jerk has been with us ever since.
His previous family SUCKED DONKEY DONG. Not only was he covered in fleas (the first thing we did was give him a bath. Way to bond!), he was not eating solid food. On top of that, even at 5-6 weeks, he was underweight and undersize. The first thing we should have been doing was getting his shots, but we had to weight almost two months until he was at a decent size. Even then, the vet wouldn't do bloodwork on him because he was so small.
I can't say that everyone back at home fell in love with him right away. Eowyn kept trying to crush him. 
(omg. how tiny is he? How fat is she?)
Kira warmed up to him once she found out he got kitten milk, her favorite food in the whole world. Annabelle still hasn't warmed to the idea, and Boyd, the one I was most worried about (when we got Boyd, my mom's other male cat, Malachi, went so emo he still hasn't recovered) accepted his mini me without must hesitation.
I agonized over that little brat. I was on instant messenger at work sending Anton an endless barrage of worried questions about Chester's wellbeing while I was gone. More than once, I came home, couldn't find him, and would berate Anton for not watching him better, only to find him like this: 
It's still his coping mechanism. Whenever he's scared, be it from toddlers or noisy construction or sirens or sizzling pans, under the blankets he goes. It's adorable.
The first few weeks he was a snuggly, cuddly, happy little baby. Then he turned into big ol' jerk face. And scratched and clawed his way into my heart. Bastard.
And also he has mono.
Seriously. Cutest. Kitten. Ever.
Oh, Chester Lloyd Finneaus Suckbutt III, I heart you.
This is long past teal deer, but Anton and I have been musing over our favorite stories from when he first came home with us.
~ I wanted him to be as comfortable in the car as Boyd is, so we would take him on little excursions around town. One trip took us to an ice cream stand, and they gave him a teeny tiny little ice cream cone that he got all over himself. This may or may not be why he's always stealin' my sorbet.
~ For the first couple months, we kept his litter box in the hallway, so we could make sure he was using it. He certainly was little box trained, covering his leavings was one of his favorite games. What we didn't count on was Kira thought having a litter box in the hall way was the BEST.IDEA.EVAR. She would happily use it, and he would angrily chase her off, and growl his little baby growl as he covered up whatever she left. He'd sit next to his box a good twenty minutes each time to discourage anyone else from trying it.
~ Whenever he ate his baby food, we started to keep him separate from everyone else, otherwise he'd stick his paw on the plate and growl as he ate. Angry growls. Growls that would get shelter dogs put down because they were food aggressive.
~I was scared of one of the cats getting too aggressive with him as we slept, so for the first few weeks he slept under a laundry basket (Boyd would sleep on top of the laundry basket. I'm not sure if this was to intimidate or to comfort him.) but eventually, he figured out how to get out, and would get in bed between mine and Anton's pillows and purr. For such a little baby, he had a loud, obnoxious, purr, and wouldn't stop until we let him know we were awake and cuddled him.
~ Now, when he wants me to get up, he doesn't go the obnoxious route that Boyd does (who headbutts and yowls until I get up). No, he cuddles. and snuggles. Then slowly moves closer and closer to my face. Then licks it. Then bites it. Wait. That's not cute.
~ Until he was about 7 months old, he could walk under Boyd. And did. All the time. It killed us each time. We are so easily amused.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
I'm going to try something a little different today. I know that you know that I love love love to complain. LOVE IT. Only love it when the news is bad, only happy when it rains, that song may as well be about me. I don't mean to be, but I get a delicious sense of satisfaction when I get to be upset and rant about something. So tasty.
TODAY, however, my faithful minions readers, I'll give a treat- Huzzah!- things that are making my cold heart warm and snuggly.
Numero Uno: The weather is finally acceptable to support human life. The humidity of the past two months has gone, as well as the need for the a/c. My asthma and electric bill are happy.
Secondly: A Very Potter Musical and A Very Potter Sequel. Holy shit, why did no one tell me about this earlier? The video quality is shit- you can't hear about 25% of the dialogue. Even if you aren't a HP fan, it's completely worth it to watch just for Draco. And it's made in Michigan! By people who look vaguely familiar to me! (And some of them are really starting to irritate me. I know I know Brian Rosenthal. I just can't remember from where. I was in the theater program at U of M, too, but 800 thousand years ago and a different campus.nnnnnnnnnn)
Trois: The very thing that lead me to AVPM and AVPS, Mark Reads Harry Potter. It's a chapter by chapter review of the Harry Potter series by a first time HP reader. That site devoured my life when I was trying to get caught up to this weeks reviews, since I only found it...this week.
Vier: My new favorite cookbook, "Incredibly Easy Gluten-Free Recipes". HolyShitILoveThisBook.
I love cooking, I do I do I do. I hate most cookbooks I run across, especially those geared towards my dietary restrictions (For the record, I'm allergic to: Dairy, Egg, Wheat, "sensitive" to corn, and won't eat animal products. And I'm not a big fan of coconut.). I have several "allergy free!" cookbooks whose main agenda is apparently getting you to eat large quantities of meat. (Which, even if I wanted to eat meat, I'd have to avoid beef and chicken, because guess what! The protein I'm allergic to in both dairy and egg is found in the meat of the parent animals! So FU, idiot nutritionist my allergist wanted me to see!)
Ahem. I'm also not the biggest fan of vegetarian cookbooks- vegan, yes, vegetarian, no. Mainly because the main ingredients used in vegetarian foods tends to be cheese and eggs. YUM.
Back to this cookbook to end my need for more cookbooks: yes, there are meat recipes in it, but used in a way that tofu or some other food substance can be easily substituted, and all the recipes are mouthwatering. We've made two in the week we've had it and I'm itching to make more. It even has me excited to try quinoa! And I tend to avoid foods whose names aren't pronounced phonetically!
Vijf: New musics! I think I'm finally starting to accept that there shall be no more Flickerstick albums, and probably no more Great Lakes Myth Society albums, the two bands that make getting up in the morning bearable. I'm not a book snob by any means- I'll give just about anything a shot. I am, however, a music snob of epic proportions. I don't mind this, though it drives my husband nuts when I'm always asking him to turn off whatever vile noise he has coming out of the speakers (of course, he just refers to me as a withered husk of a soul because I don't like angry yelly sexist crap music. Hmph.). In an effort to give myself something else to listen to occasionally, I've allowed the following bands into rotation:
The Black Keys: I first discovered them last year watching "Hung" (which takes place in Michigan! And the exterior scenes really are Michigan! Michigan Michigan Michigan!), and I less then three them even if they are from Ohio.
Band of Skulls: you know, from that car commercial. Filmed in Detroit. Featuring the only non-Chrysler car I would willingly buy. I think I'm noticing a pattern here. Hey people that want me to listen to their music: make it associated with Detroit somehow and I will listen!
It helps that both bands are actually good.
Six: I received a lovely package from my step-grandmother, full of nice smelly things from Backyard Soaps, a company in, you guessed it, Michigan. They're in my adopted hometown of Port Huron and I love their stuff, but any place out here that sells it overcharges like woah, so Carol was nice enough to send us a box of bathbombs and room sprays.
Annnnd that's about all the happy I can handle right now.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
I'm related to who?
I don't even know where to begin. I am feeling a renewed desire to blog, not just for my personal enrichment, but to save any offspring the headache of trying to figure shit out about their family.
Not that everyone has a burning desire to know their family history. I always have, but I think that has to do with only having one parent growing up, so instead of focusing on the half that was missing, I threw myself into finding out as much as I could about my mom's side of the family. Being as close in age with my youngest uncle as I am, and being with my grandparents for a good chunk of my life, I tend to forget I even -have- another biological family.
I sealed my fate as family biographer when I was a preteen- my grandfather gave me a book that belonged to his grandmother, saying I'd be the only one to appreciate it's history. Then my grandmother did the same thing with her sister's books. And then, the pictures.
Oh. My. God. The pictures.
I come from a long line of shutter bugs. Which is awesome- I have a visual history of my family going back to the start of photography.Thousands and thousands and thousands of pictures. Actually seeing different features that we all have, and who had them them first is amazing. The problem? Well, problems? 1- my relatives didn't like to label pictures, so pinning down dates and names is...fun. 2- half of what's labeled is in Flemish, and in a beautiful but hard to read cursive handwriting. The Flemish I know isn't as helpful as I'd like.
This past weekend, my mom and her husband were in town- we spent the first two days in Boston, then he went to NYC, and my mom came back home with us. Sunday afternoon through Wednesday morning saw us either pouring over pictures, trying to sort and label them, or trying to find evidence of my great-grandparents, from their gravesite to the houses they lived in while in Massachusetts.
We were able to label about 3,000 pictures. I have about 8 or 9 thousand to go. On top of figuring out who people are, I've been scanning them and putting them on Facebook for the rest of my family to see and enjoy. As much as I may complain about it, I really love doing it. There's just a real sense of urgency since pretty much the only person who may know who some of the mystery people are is my grandmother, and she's several states away and recovering from back surgery so she isn't online that much at the moment. Mom took the Rosetta Stone of pictures home with her and is going to go visit Gram and see what she can find out. That just leaves the Belgian pictures. I'm not sure that any relatives are still around that may know who these people are (though, there has to be- my great grandfather was the youngest of 23. TWENTY-THREE. And he had a mess of nieces and nephews, so there has to be SOMEONE around who still knows these people. HAS TO.)
All our investigating left us with more questions instead of answering them. For starters- do you know how many of my forebears had children, then got married? Almost all of them. So much for this puritanical nonsense people are always going on about. One of my great-great grandmothers was 13 when she left Belgium for Argentina, and was 14 when she had my great-grandmother. Then moved back to Belgium and got married. Just. What. And I spent so much of my life feeling bad for being a bastard. Apparently we all are.
Not that everyone has a burning desire to know their family history. I always have, but I think that has to do with only having one parent growing up, so instead of focusing on the half that was missing, I threw myself into finding out as much as I could about my mom's side of the family. Being as close in age with my youngest uncle as I am, and being with my grandparents for a good chunk of my life, I tend to forget I even -have- another biological family.
I sealed my fate as family biographer when I was a preteen- my grandfather gave me a book that belonged to his grandmother, saying I'd be the only one to appreciate it's history. Then my grandmother did the same thing with her sister's books. And then, the pictures.
Oh. My. God. The pictures.
I come from a long line of shutter bugs. Which is awesome- I have a visual history of my family going back to the start of photography.Thousands and thousands and thousands of pictures. Actually seeing different features that we all have, and who had them them first is amazing. The problem? Well, problems? 1- my relatives didn't like to label pictures, so pinning down dates and names is...fun. 2- half of what's labeled is in Flemish, and in a beautiful but hard to read cursive handwriting. The Flemish I know isn't as helpful as I'd like.
This past weekend, my mom and her husband were in town- we spent the first two days in Boston, then he went to NYC, and my mom came back home with us. Sunday afternoon through Wednesday morning saw us either pouring over pictures, trying to sort and label them, or trying to find evidence of my great-grandparents, from their gravesite to the houses they lived in while in Massachusetts.
We were able to label about 3,000 pictures. I have about 8 or 9 thousand to go. On top of figuring out who people are, I've been scanning them and putting them on Facebook for the rest of my family to see and enjoy. As much as I may complain about it, I really love doing it. There's just a real sense of urgency since pretty much the only person who may know who some of the mystery people are is my grandmother, and she's several states away and recovering from back surgery so she isn't online that much at the moment. Mom took the Rosetta Stone of pictures home with her and is going to go visit Gram and see what she can find out. That just leaves the Belgian pictures. I'm not sure that any relatives are still around that may know who these people are (though, there has to be- my great grandfather was the youngest of 23. TWENTY-THREE. And he had a mess of nieces and nephews, so there has to be SOMEONE around who still knows these people. HAS TO.)
All our investigating left us with more questions instead of answering them. For starters- do you know how many of my forebears had children, then got married? Almost all of them. So much for this puritanical nonsense people are always going on about. One of my great-great grandmothers was 13 when she left Belgium for Argentina, and was 14 when she had my great-grandmother. Then moved back to Belgium and got married. Just. What. And I spent so much of my life feeling bad for being a bastard. Apparently we all are.
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