Mommy? Why do you have 20 blogs?

The answer to the above lies in my many personalities, my dear Dan.  (I assume you were the one asking the question.)  I wanted to create a blog for practical purposes -- little things I have learned and liked to know, or ideas, and the altogether simpler things.  After all, Rico has a blog, so it's only right that my domestic side does too.  And don't tell him he only has one follower.  He'll ride your ass for days trying to get you to explain what that even means, damn cat.

And then there's my good old familiar ranty blog, this one here.  [Aside: Bloggin' about bloggin'. Reminds me of years ago when a friend of mine was so poor he was smoking 'Smoking'-brand cigarettes.]  For a while, my interest dwindled, but like someone's dead grandpappy probably said, "Ain't no blog where ain't no blogger who done din' quit fer 10 hogs' hairs 'n come back gripin' 'bout how he ain't updated no blog no more." I think that's how that saying goes anyway.  It's been so long since someone's grandpappy last said that.

Okay I'm done this rant.  Now can someone tell me if they can see the Commatose favicon (the green icon by the URL in your address bar)?  I mean seriously.  It's there, it was there since the day I started blogging again, but now it doesn't appear on my screen no matter how many times I load, reload, re-upload, re-up, etc.  I LOVE YOU ALL.

Just now as I was about to gather my clothes from the laundry room, I stepped out of my apartment and gasped. "RICO!" I scolded, as the cat bounded back down the hall to greet me. How the hell did he get out of my place? A girl appeared in the hall walking toward me with a smile, and it hit me.

Those familiar white sock paws, that tabby fur and rascally appearance... it wasn't Rico at all. It was the cat across the hall who looks exactly like him come out to accompany his owner while she took down the garbage.

There is no distinguishing feature for that cat from mine, other than the different owner. About a year ago, the twin cats met in the hall and simply looked at each other in amazement. I wonder how many other cats look EXACTLY like mine.

If I could speak in a cat language that Rico would understand, I would say meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow, which would translate, loosely, to "Slow down when you eat! That's why you're throwing up every day."

He gets so riled up before he eats, and I made matters worse tonight by getting him a different kind. This excited the hell out of him, despite how nonchalant I was acting about it to try to have him simply accept the stuff into his routine. Sure enough, as soon as I put down the bowl, he gobbled a bunch up, and minutes later when I went to figure out what was up with the router, I found a giant mound of the new food in a wet pile beside it. Thanks, Cat!

For the least cloudy day we've seen in a while, and for a Sunday off, today was pretty rubbish!

Carp(e) Diem

The other night I dreamed that I stored Rico in a bag full of water with my fish to transport him to another house. When I arrived at that place, Rico was a black cat and he was... not so much alive anymore.

Why is logic always so flawed in dreams?

Last night I think I must've dreamed he was a giant, because when I walked past the living room today, I noticed him lounging on the couch and thought, "Hey, you look different than the last time I saw you..."

American Idol auditions are back, yesssss!

Listen, I don't want to bore you with stories like this... but this is one for the memories. Ignore it if you are anyone other than me reading.

Situation: I'm lying in bed, doing math in my head for some reason. I'm on the threshold of sleep when I hear a sudden frantic scrambling; a clink of my potted plant possibly being knocked down onto my bed; a quick, sharp and terrified meow; then finally a thump on my mattress, where my cat lands in a canopy that's formed near the bottom of my long brown curtains. Rico lies there in that canopy, perfectly still and quiet. So, a tiny bit concerned, as well as freaked out, I pull him out of the curtain-hammock he's fallen into. His response is to stand stiffly on my bed, reflecting upon life for a minute, unmoving. I watch, curiously, awaiting his next move. Then, as if nothing ever happened, he hops off the bed and coughs up a ribbon-wound hairball presumably after I fall asleep, as I find it the next morning and am actually rather impressed by his talent.

I mean, the ribbons were even complementary colours, and the bow was excellently formed around the mound of hair he coughed up. Yep. That's called a day off.

Dramatization! May not have happened!

Really, his life must be so boring. So I don't envy him much. Except for the fact that he doesn't have to pay for anything he does/gets/eats/likes/wants.

Happy Birthday, George

Ah, the stories we have from growing up. A lanky, flat-chested, pimple-faced girl of 12, I would sit on my front porch (the back patio at that point was yet to be built) reading magazines, books, whathaveyou. Always reading. And George, an older boy who I'd known seemingly forever in this neighbourhood, would happen by sometimes and ask what I was reading. Often I was reading things I planned for him to ask me about. He was good looking. Tall, skinny-ish, dark hair... the rare, showered-rock-star type.

While I was comparing the compatibility of star signs one day, George came outside and asked what I was reading. "Astrology..." I mumbled, hoping I appeared more interested in the book than in him. He asked me to guess what he was, and I thought to myself, Be a Leo... be a Leo. I gave up, without even guessing. "I'm a Leo," George said. That's it, we were going to get married. And for some reason, I really thought he said his birthday was the 24th of July. So every year, since I remembered even the birthdays of people I hadn't known since kindergarden, I would think to myself "Happy birthday, George!" on July 24th.

I watched his life fall apart in the coming years. He almost got married to a girl, then he didn't. He drank and drove a few times, lost his license, had to bike to work. Married another girl he met somewhere on one of his bike voyages, had a kid. He was gone for about a year, and then he was back. No wife in sight. He stopped working at all. Drank beers with his dad in the garage at 6 in the morning until dinner and, I imagine, had one or two bottles on the nightstand just in case. He became fatter. His wife came back. Then left him again. Suddenly he was shaving his head bald. I imagine it was because he naturally lost the topmost part of his hair and hoped to disguise it.

I moved out, and came over one night to ensure my sister wasn't throwing the party of the century while my parents were away. Upon completing my stealth assignment, I heard a voice in the shadows asking "Nikki, is that you??" I said it was. "Wow. You're all grown up," said George, from the darkness. He was about 5 feet away from me, but for the duration of our talk, all I could see was a shadow. This had the potential to be the heart-to-heart I'd always wanted to have with him when I was younger, but now I was just interested to find out what was new with him, and bottle in hand, he was willing enough to tell me. We talked for a few minutes before I realized time had sort of ruined him.

"Don't ever get a wife," he warned.
"I... I'm going to try not to," I promised. I realized the date. July 24th. "Oh hey, happy birthday, George."
"Thanks, but my birthday was the 22nd."

I said goodbye and left, feeling sad for him. Goodbye, George. My only solace was that he had always thought he was a Leo when in fact he was a Cancer; it would probably not have worked out for us.

Looking back, everyone on that street had their own peculiarities. Then again, if you spend a lot of time around any given people, you will learn that no one is 'normal'. Or rather that everyone is normal, and the reality of 'normal' is that it is very, very strange.

So whether your birthday is the 22nd, the 24th, the 23rd, or the 18th, happy birthday George.

And happy birthday, really, to my Rico Cat, who turns 4 today. Although he cannot read, I felt it important to make note of.

Sometimes, I am serious.

I know it's hard to believe. But I am not always incredibly pleasant. There are several things you cannot suggest to me tell me to do and expect me to roll with.

1) Declawing my cat.
2) ...

Well, that's all that comes to mind. I have no sense of humour about that and, yes, despite being exceptionally easygoing about just about any other horrible thing you can think of, I cannot even find something remotely cute or funny about turning the mutilation of my cat's toes into some kind of ha-ha fest.

I'm not getting into details, but hey, every once in a while, I'd like my friends to realize (and allow) the fact that I might actually have convictions and there's a line not to cross as far as jokes are concerned. When I tell you someone told me to declaw my cat and you make a joke thereafter, about how much you hate cats [and you're a fucking shitbag anyway, so who cares what you like?], I'm not going to take it lightly.

...Dan, of course I'm looking in your direction. :D

Oh, and I got a new apartment (pending their approval of the third person who will be moving in). Tra-la-la-la.

High school is such a serious thing; these problems matter.

Conflict: Do I buy the new camera I want? Or do I wait until years from now when I can afford a super-fantastic-happy-hour-amazing one?