Going with the Flow

Since, daylight saving time came to end, I have been developing a new found respect for those living in the northern latitudes. I’ve been one to take sunlight for granted, a dangerous assumption in a household in which the corkscrew is automatically programed to function in concert with the setting sun. According to the weather bureau, the sun descends three minutes earlier than our previous home, but the perception is greatly altered by the neighboring mountains, extinguishing the warm rays, before I am ready to complete my afternoon bask, and driving Missus Chica prematurely from the hiking trails as she uses her cell phone display to navigate her way home.

The two legged occupants are adjusting to the restrictions of light and warmth. They aren’t as active as they have been in the past, but I suspect that will change once the novelty of television wears off for the Mister, and the Missus finishes slogging through War and Peace. It’s easier to set lofty goals, than to actually follow though with them, hence the muddy path to the front door flanked by three pallets of concrete pavers. Technically one of the occupants her learned her lesson, which explains why she can’t be bothered to give a shit as the other occupant whines about her being right about a certain procrastination disease.

Anywho, the air is crisper, the days are shorter, and there is adapting, even if it is of an irregular nature. Hopefully, impromptu walks through the neighborhood will develop into habits, once the last leaf has fallen. There’s a fine line between routine and obsession. A routine provides structure and gives you something to anticipate, unfortunately it is easily derailed by the slightest deviation. An obsession, makes you inflexible, and gives your family yet another reason to talk about you behind your back, as if they really need one.

Just ‘cuz

Poetry Friday: Best Christmas Evah

Today’s challenge, courtesy of our beloved sugarplum fairy, Mona is the best Christmas Evah. Uncharacteristically, Mona has imposed rulz on this week’s topic:

Now I don’t mean those wonderful lofty things like “I finally achieved peace with my father”, or “my child who was born before Christmas after 3 days of labor” (yeah, that would be me), or “I decided to give up smoking/sniffing glue/drinking grain alcohol” things.

I mean GIFTS. Real hard items, bought or made, something that you can feel or touch or eat or rub yer nekked self up against.

Okay, fine, be that way about it. The irony is when I look back, I have trouble recalling the specific gifts I thought would cause the world to fall off its axis if they didn’t appear underneath the Christmas Tree. The in-substantialness of memory says much about the inconsequential nature of want versus need.

Anywho, I cheated. I spent the morning sorting through Christmas photos to stimulate my memory, and I discovered in interesting phenomenon. It seems the box is more interesting than the items it contains.

Occasionally the same can be said for the wrapping paper.

Hi-jinx aside, a few years ago, Dirty Girl and I received and excellent selection of cat toys from Missus Chica’s mom. It had all sorts of goodies. Catnip mouses, balls with bells, and toys on springy elastic cords. But the best, the absolute bomb in the bag was the feather. The feather on a string was the quintessential cat toy by which all future cat toys would be judged. Other cat toys dream of being in the same league as the feather.

We still have the feather, and it is still my amusement of choice. It’s ratty around the edges, and it doesn’t have as many feathers in the cluster as it once did, but it will always be the feather. Missus Chica tried to introduce a backup feather on a stick a few years ago, but I wouldn’t have any part of it. It just wasn’t the same. It didn’t stimulate me to jump as high or run as far. New isn’t always better.

For those who are curious about my littermate, Dirty Girl is just a woman at heart. She prefers gifts that smell nice, and maybe, just maybe a little illicit, but she never drives stoned.

Magic Dust

Monday, I awoke to the most fascinating weather phenomenon, I have witnessed in my ten years on this planet. I looked out the window and discovered our neighborhood covered in a thin layer of white powder. I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought perhaps we had been pranked, and the neighborhood teenagers had sprinkled several tons of table salt on our yard, cars, deck.

Not to be restrained indoors, I insisted on investigating. It’s my household duty to check out potentially hazardous situations and protect my humans from the dangers of high blood pressure. I was shocked at the willingness of my humans to allow me outdoors. Usually, when you do something for the good of others, they fight and argue every step of the way.

Imagine my surprise when I walked onto the deck and discovered it wasn’t salt at all. It didn’t stick to the bottom of my feet the way salt or even powdered sugar does. And the taste? it was kind of bland, not at all what I expected.

I wasn’t the only one perplexed by this mysterious white powder. Later in the evening, we had an anonymous visitor surveying the situation. The visitor seemed interested in more than just snow, being the footsteps led to the door.

After a thorough investigation, I deduced the white powder might be snow. It was highly reactive to changes in temperature and direct sunlight. I had heard if snow before, though I had never experienced personally. In our old neighborhood, it was the subject of local legends, people frequently spoke of it when the temperature dipped below freezing, but few had witnessed more than a flurry in the last decade.

I was beginning to think snow in the south was nothing more than local legend designed to entice young children into falling asleep in hopes school would canceled the following morning for a snow day. Maybe snow is like Santa; it’s real if you believe. Though I suspect if it were that simple, Maggie and Nancy would cease believing in any form of frozen precipitation.