"You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something. Nowadays everybody's crazy.". ~Charles Manson

The world seems to be going crazy! I know it makes me sound old, when I can't seem to wrap my head around what the hell is going on around me. I'm one fist shake out the window and "You pesky kids got off my lawn!" from being Mrs. Kravits.

But how else can I feel?

Men on the tv telling me that there is a "nice rape" and a "forcible rape". That my body has ninja warrior secretions that can kill "criminal sperm" when it enters my body. (Where the fuck did these idiots go to school and how did they get elected?)What I can and can't do with my girly bits, cuz they say so.

Tell ya what...if they put you in jail for flipping through your fetish mags, sitting behind the locked door of your senate office, in your secretaries underwear, jerkin your gerkin and spilling millions of possible babies all over the floor...then we'll talk.

Why do old, rich, white men think they can tell women what they have a right to do with their own bodies? It makes my head feel like it's going to split open with insanity.

Last night, the wife and I, had just got done OD'ing the Maddow and the likes, and went up to bed. There was our 15 year old cat, Ringo, falling all over the floor. Usually I'm the first one to react, and dive into the throws, to fix the situation. I stood in the hall, flapped my hands by my sides and repeated like maniac, "Oh my god...what do we do....what do we do?"

A trip to the ER vet, many sheets of itemized potions and screenings, and Ringo is STILL there today. True to her nature, confusing those around her by making them think outside the box.

So I sit at work, going a little out of my mind: can't really do anything, can't get any answers from the vet, can't go see her, can't go home.

"We'll call....."

Ok...I'll be here....going a lil nutty in my four walls. I've waited 10 years for my own office and now I feel like a moth inside a Ball preserves jar, batting around, senseless and without cause.

At the height of my self proclaimed crazy session, I turn to the one place that I can escape, that brings me joy, that makes me smile: HALLOWEEN. Life has been so busy, I'm behind on pumpkinrot.com. There, among the wonder and magic that is the 31st of October, 365 days a year, is the William Sanoma holiday link.

I think a frivolous purchase of cauldron mugs, during a time when my vet bills are choking me, would be just insane enough, to make me feel, a touch, less crazy.

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. William Faulkner

Time flies. During the in between. Where my favorite holiday is still too far off to even start dreaming of what fun things to create (not really, but I can't admit it or my wife thinks I'm insane). I try to busy myself with other things.

And busy I have been.

Life is at full speed ahead and all I'm trying to do is strap in and hold on.

My office is moving to a new location, and I'm excited at the thought of 'walls'. I've always been out in the middle of everything. Try and make a doctor's appointment for your girly bits, you'll find it is impossible. A door will be a welcome change.

I'm hoping to also decorate in football noir. I want to finally put my jerseys in cases and find a shelf for my helmet from the glory days on the grid iron. I'll dust them off and bring them up from my treasure trove (re: basement)

The new location is swanky. I'll tell you that! Polished floors, gleaming marble and granite. It's a step up and a distance away. I've been spoiled by my 3 mile drive to work. My Nissan Leaf very happy as well, with a small jog to and from. I'll have to plan accordingly if I need to get somewhere after work or during lunch.

I've insisted on an outlet by my parking space. I mean...come ohn! If you're going to have an employee who is trying to save the world on her own, the least you can do is put a plug in, right?

The wife's job, or 3 of them, keeps her busy and me holding a picture of her in my wallet to remember what she looks like. The animals run the house and destroy it a lil more everyday. (a whole other blog will be coming from that)

And in an effort to keep my sanity, I shall return to blogging. It's an outlet, no doubt. If nothing else, a fine way to count the in between days till the return of my burning grin.

“Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.” ~ Dr. Seuss

When you move in with someone, there is the "mesh". Your stuff and their stuff has to cohabitate.

Understandable.

As time goes on, you BOTH get stuff together. Your taste changes. You evolve and hopefully improve. And then the day comes when that one item, that you have overlooked for years cuz it's just part of the environment, is an eyesore.

My overstuffed, plaid chair had reached that point.

It took up a HUGE space in the office of our house. It was comfy, don't get me wrong. It was one of the new items of furniture I bought when I moved from my folks and went out on my own. It looked fantastic in my cute lil apartment in Culver City, CA. We watched TV together. I ate my breakfast in it, every morning, while watching the Today Show. It's hugeness drew in stacks of party goers, who would cram into it, when I would have the friends over for a BBQ. I took a few naps in that chair as well. It's over-stuffed, wonderfulness, a catcher's mitt of snuggly comfort.

When it traveled the United States and ended up here in NY, it was a main part of our apartment living room. Then we moved to the house. Yes, it still held a spot in the living room. Then we decided our 1930's colonial needed a more sophisticated look. The plaid chair wasn't part of that.

Up to the office it went. And to good use! It was my video game chair. It was the "What chat doin' on the computer?" chair. It was still beloved.

Then.....things started to happen to it. Like a neighborhood that suddenly doesn't seem as nice. Like a bad element that moves in next door and the property value goes down.

The cats took it over!

My, once best friend, was now a cat napping place. Which kept you from just flopping down in it. There was always a cat in it OR enough fur in it to DIY a cat clone.

Then we started hearing it...the late night scratchings. Like the flesh being flogged from the back of a tortured soul. "RIIIIIIIIPPP! TUG TUG RIIIIIIIPPP!"

Morning would find the fabric split and the stuffing popping out like bleeding wounds. The chair injuries would drive me into a rage against the cats. But it never mattered. They didn't care. It would begin again the next night. On occasion...right in front of my very eyes. With a look on the cats face like, "What are you going to do about it?"

They were right...I was helpless to come to the aid of my old friend. Didn't matter what I sprayed on it, or covered in tin foil, or surrounded it with nip infused scratching pads with "as seen on TV" guarantees.

If that wasn't bad enough....the ultimate shame came when the hairballs flew. Nasty lil gifts of brownish hell. The liquid, long soaked into the cushion, leaving the matted stomach substance, high and dry and stuck to the fabric weave. Marks that will never quite come out. Like bruises on the fabric.

Ol' plaid had reached the end. No amount of cleaner, or trying to repair the torn fabric would ever fix it. And in the darkness the cats waited. Waited for me to fix up ol' plaid, so they could, once again, torture it.

So with a heft and a push and a roll down the front yard to the curb, I walked away. Leaving my friend outside, on the sidewalk, leaned up on telephone pole.

17 years together. My longest relationship, to date.

We left for dinner and, upon our return, low and behold, ol' plaid was GONE! A new home? A new family? A new life? Who knows where adventure will take that chair. It was good to know that it would live on, in some form.

Goodbye ol friend. May you find a house, free of cats.

Midnight Mauling

I'm a dog person....let's just put that right out there. But when I moved here, 13 years ago, I moved into a cat house.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Now, you cat folks will relate when I tell you that the kitteh is high maintenance. YOU are the servant. You have to read minds with the feline species. And the part that really got me was "Don't touch me! Unless I allow you."

I've lived with four cats now, in my 13 years. Each, very different from the other. None overly affectionate. Which stinks in my book. I have the hair on my clothes and the scratch scars to prove that I'm a good kitteh mom.

Our youngest addition is a 3 year old tiger who we got when she was but a small handful. Doolin was raised by our dog, Roxy. (I slipped the pooch in between cat ownership after I begged and pleaded for a pet that actually showed love for me....with something other than hairballs in my shoes)


"Doolin & Roxy plan their escape."

Doolin, for the most part, acts like a dog, but once and a while, her kitty tendency come forward. She's not much of a snuggler. In fact she cuddles like Peg Bundy always sleeps with Al - at arms length.

So when she crawled on me at 2 am, a few nights ago, waking me from a dead sleep. I didn't want to push her away. I didn't want her to think she shouldn't climb up and nestle on her momma.

Then she started kneading me. But not just the kneading...she sat on my bladder to knead my stomach. Did I mention it was my full bladder? Do I have to mention that no one wants the fat of the stomach moving that much?

It was over before it began. Then she came back at 5 am. And the next night at 3:30 am....and 5 am again. In fact 4 nights in a row she woke me up to be "affectionate" and I didn't want to reject her. I mean, here she was actually sitting on me and being affectionate. Do I want to make her think that's wrong? I don't think so.

I finally broke down and asked Laura, "Do you think it would hurt Doolin's feelings if I kicked her off my bladder? I mean...I'm getting bruised in places from this "love" stuff."

Without skipping a beat, Laura said, "Boot her! She doesn't care. I use to toss Hobbes right off when he would start in. Of course he would pop his claws....and drool...and it think he thought I was more of a girlfriend then a 'mom', if you know what I mean..."

STOP! TMI!

Not all kitteh experience should be shared in full detail.

Last night I was prepared for her. I was going to gently remove her from my tenderized areas and hope she wouldn't take my name out of the "mother of the year" contest.

Alas....No Doolin.

Now I find myself awake, wondering if she's going to hop up. Once again, I'm just a big, pink puppet in the grand scheme of the all mighty kitteh.