Home Again, Home Again

The Missus arrived home late Monday afternoon from Blogher. Since I’m such a gentleman, I’m giving her an opportunity to decompress before I debrief her about the conference. Here I am welcoming her home properly. In case you can’t tell, her shirt is covered in cat hair. More later!

Hmmm. How Did We Get Here?

Being the family pet is like watching a sitcom. You get to lay in your comfy bed and watch the plot unfold before your eyes with like an omnipotent furry god. It’s no accident cats are regarded as smug creatures. It’s easy to be self-satisfied when you can be entertained by someone else’s blunders without being forced to participate.

The Mister’s work schedule has been taped to the fridge since July began. The Missus penciled a few notes on it. Blogher dates, dentist appointment, Taste of Chicago, and MILs doctor appointment. Both the Mister and Missus have inspected the schedule a few times, though neither fully absorbed the dates. At least not until last week. The Missus knew her trip to Chicago overlapped the Mister’s trip by eight hours, but she never considered they would be separated for nine days.

Both are used to four and five day separation. They’ve made a six day separation work, but nine days will challenge both. But really, what is nine days when you compare it to the tours our nation’s finest are serving in the dessert.

I suspect the Mister has and will continue to fair well on the first six days, he has plenty of work responsibilities to fill his time, and a bitchin’ paperback to read. He’ll be a little lonely, but it won’t impact him the same as coming home to empty house, without the Missus standing barefoot in the driveway.

The Missus has been filling her days with inconsequential business, so she doesn’t dwell on his absence. I suppose she is better trained for separation, having always been the one left behind. You learn to pass time constructively without the preoccupation of pining. Her mind drifts toward his absence in the evening, when she’d rather be sharing her bed with a six foot-two warm body instead of reading Thoreau.

Thursday, will bring a change of scenery. Missus Chica will drive to the airport and embrace a new distraction. Mister Hombre will return from the airport and bid his distraction farewell. I predict I will continue to receive invitations to the marital bed to keep the humans from feeling too lonely.

By the time Monday rolls around, the folks will be more sympathetic about my displeasure of being left home alone, when they travel.

This is MY bed. Missus Chica wove the fabric on a homemade loom, just for me. Dirty Girl is not allowed to lay in MY bed.

Hookin’ Up Dawg

The summer heat was weighing me down like a full length mink coat on a hairless lapdog. It was beginning to penetrate my skin and make my heart heavy. I don’t understand the burden of emotional weight. My life is simple. I wake up. If the Missus doesn’t follow, then I yell at the edge of the bed. If that isn’t effective, I do the bed dance, until she yells, “Encore”. Ok, not really. I do the bed dance, but she yells,“!!@#$&*%%, you little $?!!@#$%%!!”. Sometimes I sit in the window, sometimes the chair, sometimes my bed…I chase Dirty Girl up the stairs. I eat copious amounts of cat food, and sometimes I lick my own ass, because I can. My life isn’t terrible complicated, why all this baggage?

I concluded I was suffering from loneliness. WTF? Cats lonely, I don’t understand. Well, neither did I, but there I was alone while the Missus was on a date with the Mister. Sometimes it sucks being the back door man. I needed to expand my circle of friends. Dirty Girl is nice and comforting, but she isn’t a scintillating conversationalist, fine for discussing the merits of filtered water versus tap, but she spends far too much time ragging on Ann Coulter. Now, I can rag on Ann with the best of them, but after fifteen minutes I find the woman to be quite a bore (boar? I guess both are correct).

I considered signing up for eHarmony. You know they offer you a free profile. But I thought about their track record of rejecting potential clients based on prejudices like sexual orientation and age, so I presumed they wouldn’t be especially interested in a ball-less male cat seeking extra companionship beyond his species. What’s a lonely cat to do?

Why the same thing any self-respecting male would do, I made a pass at a yoga goddess I met online. I wanted to woo her with my intellect and boyish playfulness, so I suggested we meet at the children’s museum. Nothing like four hundred dead butterflies and animated dinosaurs to put you in the mood for a good old fashioned ear scratch (Hey it was only our first encounter. It might be to forward of me to call it a date…Hell, I hit on her later, so we’ll revise that to first date.). I was too busy chatting it up with Liv to pay much attention to the the exhibits, but I did spot a nice Viola Frey sculpture at the entrance.

I know, screw the art, what kind of person is Liv? Well, Liv is vivacious, compassionate, and nurturing. Oh yes, and limber. Did I forget to mention limber? Liv is in the unfortunate circumstance of discovering relationships can take as much time to dismantle as they do to build. Shame really. Kind people should be exempt from learning such painful lessons, but life is inequitable.

After a fresh lunch of yuppie salad, we had shared wonderful conversation, and things were going so well, I feared my masculinity would be called into question, If didn’t make at least one pass at her. So I did it. I rubbed against her bare calve with my tail curled slightly in that suggestive, don’t you want to scratch more than just my ears, posture?”. She looked into my eyes, then she looked at a stray cat hair on her t-shirt. A cat hair that did not belong to me, I was still trying to bunt my way to first base for goodness sakes. She knelt down, thoughtfully patted my head and replied,”I’m sorry, Patches, but I’m in a monogamous relationship with Billy Bob. We can still be friends, though.”

Friends it is

Poetry Friday: Hail

Mona, our regular fearless leader for Poetry Friday, is taking a much deserved rest. Hope you feel like people soon, Mona. In her absence, the lovely Maggie from Mind Moss, has offered to pinch hit for the next two weeks. Maggie is no slouch at choosing topics, and today’s word is hail. Hope everyone has a hail of a nice weekend….yeah, that’s pretty bad. Bad kitty, no more Steve Martin for you…

Tie One On

I feel I should apologize for all the drivel I’ve been posting lately, but I’m postponing my plea until tomorrow, because I have more piece drivel to post today.

I try to avoid political discussions here, because I am not knowledgeable enough about the all encompassing world of politics to argue passionately and intelligently. I am mostly cognizant of our country being represented by hundreds of men and women dressed in expensive suits, taking turns wedging their heads in their rectums for a better view of the world need.

Technically this isn’t so much a political issue as a humanitarian one. Acting on behalf of common decency, is often the responsibility of the private sector. Grass roots efforts aren’t launched by insurance companies.

If your life has been affected by cancer, whether it be your own, a friend, or a family member, this is worth a quick read. Statistically 1 out of 8 women are diagnosed with breast cancer, so if you don’t know someone today, there’s a chance you will know someone will tomorrow.

This is an excerpt from an email I received:

From a nurse:

I’ll never forget the look in my patients eyes when I had to tell them they had to go home with the drains, new exercises and no breast.  I remember begging the Doctors to keep these women in the hospital longer, only to hear that they would, but their hands were tied by the insurance companies.  So there I sat with my patient giving them the instructions they needed to take care of themselves, knowing full well they didn’t grasp half of what I was saying, because the glazed, hopeless, frightened look spoke louder than the quiet ‘Thank you’ they muttered.

A mastectomy is when a woman’s  breast is removed in order to remove cancerous breast cells/tissue. If  you know anyone who has had a mastectomy, you may know that there is a lot of  discomfort and pain afterwards. Insurance companies are trying to make mastectomies an outpatient procedure. Let’s give women the chance to recover properly in the hospital for 2 days after surgery.

There’s a bill called the Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act, which will require insurance companies to cover a 48 hour hospital stay for patients undergoing a mastectomy. If you’re interested in signing a petition to show support for the bill, you can sign here. Name, zip code, and email are required.

You might be asking yourself why a ball~less house cat concerns himself with issues relating to breast cancer. Well, even a cat with a subdued libido needs a soft place to lay his head.