Little, You Do Know

I was one of those dreamy kids, the kind that don't really exist anymore, mostly because of the Internet and because moms would totally get crap for letting their children do, well…nothing. Each hour spent looking for four-leaf clovers I swear made room for something new in my head, like the imagination is this giant hole only you can dig for yourself, its adult size determined by how much space you can shovel into place by the time you are, say, 12…

I walked to the library every week and carried home my loot--goopy Nancy Drew, bad dream-making Alfred Hitchcock. I talked to the flowers in the backyard, scared to touch the bleeding hearts, lightly fingering the churchy Queen Anne's lace… I danced to my sister's terrible records (for hours!), drew ladies in ruffly, bustle-y dresses, raided the bathroom cabinet and mixed up concoctions in the sink, explaining to the television audience (the one behind the mirror, of course) exactly how to combine the ingredients.

I remember clearly one Saturday afternoon in late winter, when I took my red, white and blue basketball (cue up the Harlem Globetrotters theme song) and walked up the road and through the field to the basketball court at Most Holy Trinity to practice by myself. We had just formed our first girls' basketball team, and I was the center. I was 11 and there was nothing I couldn't do--keep up with the boys during sprints in gym class, hit triples during our lunchtime baseball games, get 100s on my tests, write, sing and perform my entry in the school song contest (to the tune of "Camptown Races," the only other song besides "Jingle Bells" I could play on the guitar)… So on that March day, I was full with potential, like the forsythia buds that my mom had brought into the house to force-bloom. As I looked up at the net I had this vague feeling that things were going to get complicated in the distant future, but in that moment, at least as far as I could see ahead of me, the world was kind and mine.

I'm pretty sure that's a basic rule to live by if you're a kitten like Ira, and I would do anything to keep his life--and that of his big brothers, Lorenzo and Derrick--that way, always. Dogs and cats have that pureness and sureness I get really fierce about protecting, because it seems like even kids have to let it go sooner and sooner… and somebody has to have it or we're all screwed.

At 13 weeks old, he reminds me that with every day dawns a whole new world, and there he is waiting for the sun. The first time he met Derrick and Lorenzo, he launched himself at them like a rocket, a kitty Odysseus finding his long-lost friends. (They reciprocated…a month later.) When he's hanging out on his cat tree or perched on the foot of the bed and sees me walk by, he gets so excited that the force of his wee-kitteh happiness knocks him off balance, and I am forever making sure he doesn't fall. He can't quite yet contain his meows either--I'll say his name softly, Ira, Ira, Ira, and he does this redonkulous bobble-head thingie, his whiskers start wiggling and only then does the meow come, like it's something he's still figuring out the choreography for… Can you imagine if you got that happy to be recognized, when they called your name at, say, jury duty, or when you're next  in line in the post office?

When Derrick showed his little bro how to play Bathtub (Cat A jumps in bathtub and uses magical kitty powers to make sure Cat B, who may be otherwise engaged in another room, knows the game is about to commence; when Cat B approaches, Cat A leaps out of the bathtub; Cat B chases Cat A), they played this every morning for a week. Then one day Ira tried to initiate the game while there was water in the tub.

Well…nothing much happened. He tumbled into water that went up to his little chocolate-brown cat spats and zoomed right out, galloping through the house in celebration. The next day he was back in the tub, watching the faucet drip.  I was too scared to try out for basketball in high school, and now I think I sing so badly I'm embarrassed to do karaoke (tho I practice it in the bathtub--I could probably do "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," if they even have that one.)

Ira knows, in his tiny cat head, that it's not about how it's done, it's simply that it's done. And if you carry on as though good things will happen (like your big brothers love you even though you steal food and treats out of their bowls and push them off the prime real estate), maybe good things will happen. That people love you more the worse you sing karaoke, that it's the best feeling ever when someone's happy to see you, and that the world is big and you are small but not.








Incidentally, the MHT girls basketball team played just one game. We won, but I wasn't in it because I'd broken my finger the day before.

Cat, Sitting

 As a beginning meditator (yup, it’s been about 5 years since I’ve been consistent with my practice and I’m still just getting my feet wet), I benefit from guidance and instruction from others. Along the way, I’ve learned you can really cheat your way through it if you do it with people who are better at it than you. It’s super powerful meditating with a group, and that includes groups whose members have four legs and a tail. Cats definitely have it together when it comes to meditating, and can help you to: 

(1) Sit the Heck Still 
When you still the body, the mind follows. Tell that to my legs, which for about 2 weeks this winter would start itching fiercely every time I’d sit down to meditate. I tell myself to relax and breathe into it, but the more I attempt to do that, the more intense and burning the itch becomes, and I start thinking of “Disco Inferno” and blow the whole thing. 

If I were a zen monk in training, I’d have the Ino whacking me with a stick every time I moved or otherwise fell out of concentration—this according to my writing teacher/friend who is a zen monk, though I don’t think he actually used the word “whack.” If this is not an option for you, a regular old kitteh can do the trick. To train yourself to remain still, lie down and wait for your cat to crawl on top of you and park himself. If he is like Lorenzo, he will give you a harsh correction every time you try to move. 

This happened the other night as I was simply trying to fall asleep, and not even practicing meditation. Lorenzo had other ideas. He was perched on my back, and when I lifted my head and tried to turn it to the opposite side, I’d feel a paw on the back of my skull, pushing it back into place. I was restless so kept fidgeting, but Every. Single. Time., there was the paw, claws extending and flexing exponentially with each digression. Finally I just gave up and focused on the fact that I didn’t have to do anything except lie there. The moment that happened, he got up and began shoving his cold nose into my face and licking me, which of course necessitated the practice of #2....  

(2) Accept and Allow 
If I’m making meditation sound all rule-y and rigid, it’s because that’s where I am in the practice right now--if this is a journey, I’m still at the 7-Eleven paying for my Slurpee and filling the tank. I do know that the rules help to cultivate the focus you need for when the discipline dissolves and it becomes something else entirely…  kind of like painting a still life before you can Pollock…
 
Beginners like me can be easily sidetracked by outside noises and inner sensations: the aim is to practice accepting and allowing these things. Like, if I sneeze or the phone rings, I may go all Type A and wonder how many seconds that cost me, rather than just let the moment be … That’s where Derrick comes in. 

Every once in a blue moon, my big, sweet flamepoint will park himself next to me when I’m sitting. He’s a big talker with a big vocab for a cat, but during meditation he mostly employs the short, staccato quack. On one recent morning he wanders in and looks up at me, quacks as soon as I make eye contact, and commences purring. I was pretty quiet-minded that day, so when he starts quacking again, I think—not only am I going to accept and allow this furry big mouth at my side, I am going to follow his lead. 

So we take turns sneaking looks at each other, him quacking and purring and blinking and vibrating to the point I think he’s going to levitate. I am smiling so wide that I think it’s shining my skull.  And I think, hey…I’m getting an advanced lesson from him on the higher purpose of meditation, which is to…

(3) Love More 
One of my favorite yoga teachers, Erich Schiffmann, gives homework in his workshops—which always includes practice love more. He suggests starting with something/someone who is easy to love, and that way it’ll get easier when you practice on things/people who aren’t so easy to love. 

So, yeah, there’s Derrick, radiating this incredible joy and love and, HELLO, YUP, I GET IT! I can love him more, no problem. 

I am still smiling as he shoves his butt in my face, the tip of his tail candy-caning in full expression of feline happiness and confidence, walks a few feet and plops down on the rug directly in front of me. When I look at him he spreads the toes on his front paw. It is the luxurious, slow unfolding of a lotus flower, each paw pad a pink petal. And yes, he and I just pass the love back and forth like we’re in some dorky new-age dance-off… 

We both face the light, me wondering out of nowhere, “What is the sound of a candle flame?,” and Derrick just being, eyes closed.


 

Stealing Home

This past winter, Derrick was attacked by a bulldog. It’s not quite accurate to say “attacked,” since I don’t think the bulldog wanted to harm him—it was more like the psycho canine version of Capture the Flag, with the flag being furry and flamepoint. In any case, the timing was terrible—Derrick and I were out in the hallway for his morning walk, and he displayed his nosey-neighbor habit of dashing into any apartment with an open door just as the guy with the youngish, etiquette-challenged bulldog was leaving. They rolled, they tumbled; the owner stumbled as he tried to grab Santino. I pretty much screamed the entire time but somehow managed to open the door so Derrick could get back to our apartment. Which he did…followed by the dog.

When Lorenzo saw them run past, he leaped on top of the air conditioner and went textbook Halloween Cat. Within what was probably just a few seconds, Santino’s owner finally grabbed him and they got outta there. Derrick was left with bloody back paw pads, at least 6 fewer claws and an hour-long case of Big Tail. Lorenzo hid on top of the kitchen cabinets and stayed there for half the day, big round frying-pan eyes like he didn’t know who he was, or we were. We were all in a daze.

D. was way too stressed for a vet visit until the next week, but I did call the animal communicator. Derrick, typically a cat of few words, said even less than usual--he was still trying to process what was going on.  Lorenzo shared what they were both feeling:

“Attacked in our own home! We never thought that could happen.”

That just about killed me. Both of my guys were dumped on the streets by their original owners, and I promised myself, and them, that they’d always be safe and protected. But that day, I screwed up royally. The encounter with Santino was like a feline September 11th.

For the next few weeks, the whole house felt…piloerect. And I began to think a lot about that tired, mired myth of home, sweet home. About things that have happened to past and present friends, people I’ve worked with, strangers whose faces give away their stories… a lot of bad shit happens in places that people call home. From whoppers like physical/mental abuse and addiction to different-sized things like lies and love that gets withheld and not allowing someone to be who they are…  And oh, the stories of children abused in their homes that hurt us all so deeply, instantaneously. Nixzmary Brown, the little 7-year-old from Brooklyn who was tortured, molested and killed by her stepfather… Myls Dobson, 4, found murdered earlier this year, emaciated and covered in bruises and burn marks, while in the care of a babysitter… What did home mean to them?

One night after the bulldog incident I awoke thinking of Lotus, Gaza and Memphis—3 uromastyx lizards I took care of years ago during my work with a herpetological society. They were seized at U.S. Customs, stolen from their home somewhere in the Middle East and shoved in a box with dozens of other lizards, shipped to America to be sold in the exotic pet trade. We were asked to take care of them while a court case was pending; they were weak, stressed and sick, so it was more like hospice care. We tried to be hopeful anyway. 

Apparently they were of a species that was least attractive to pet owners, but I marveled at their soft pebble-gray skin, dinosaur heads, spiky Sex Pistol tails, kind eyes… they spent a lot of time being very, very still, like old, otherworldly Romanesque cathedrals. Despite my best efforts, you can fill in what happened—first little Memphis, then Lotus passed away. Gaza was so, so thin but still hanging on, eating her alfalfa that I sprinkled with Bach remedies (I tried everything)… I asked the animal communicator to check in with her. She’d never spoken with a displaced uromastyx before, but Gaza told her she just wanted to go home. And she just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to.

My heart fell. I knew she could never go back, and I knew deep down that a 75-gallon tank with full-spectrum lighting and a bunch of heat lamps in a New York City apartment was so, so wrong.  There was no home for her now, anywhere.  When she passed, I imagined her dreaming herself back to soft, silken sand near the hottest rocks she could find. A blinding sun shining down lizard love and life.

And so, for Derrick and Lorenzo and Gaza and Nixzmary and Myls and anyone else for whom home hasn’t always been home—I propose a change in definition. Maybe home is not a place, but a series of actions… Moves and moments we can take, no matter where we are, that show and let us know we are safe and supported and surrounded by everything we need.

For Derrick, that means Tiggering through the apartment and spinning out as he takes the corners… that slight uplift of his tail when you say his name… the way his paw pads open and spread like pink petals when I pet him… For Gaza, home is this little shimmy in the sand she’d do while sunbathing, belly-down…

For Lorenzo, aside from this…

…home is a very slight rearing up, a la My Little Pony, at the moment he knows a treat is forthcoming.

For me, home is doing most things for a longer period of time than most people do them for. Home is barefoot, home is blinking through raindrops while soaking wet, home is sitting on the floor, home is Bing perched on my knee or sighing into my side, home is leaping through hallways if there’s enough space…

And when you’re not limited by walls or a map, home may be something you never thought to look for… melting wax, chasing snowflakes, shaking a tambourine…

What’s your dance, homie?

Meezer Monday: I'm OK, You're Sort of OK

Every day last week I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm beginning to think that maybe it's just easier to sleep that way with the apparently ginormous stick that's up my @ss. It hasn't been an easy summer and there are several contributing factors, but it's as if the switch has been flipped from "Angry? Cry and hate yourself!" to "Angry? Take the more mature route and make faces at people on the street." Srsly. It's like there's this ugly, small-hearted crone inside me that shouts out, "What the eff are you looking at?" 

I'm ashamed to say that's no lie. I was running past the garage in my apartment complex the other day when some random attendant inside called out, "Good morning!" He got rewarded with an expletive that burbled out like I was on an audition for the head-spinning scene in whatever that movie is. (Maybe that's a bad example--I didn't know the guy, I wasn't looking in his direction, and I was about 50 feet away from him. Call me a grinch, but I feel that he should MHOB. You think he says "good morning" to the guys running by?)

You see what I mean about that ginormous stick?! Why should I care if some Howdy Doody says "good morning?" I wish people were nicer to each other! He may have been a lug-headed busy body, but at least he didn't slam the door in my face or look past me as if I were invisible, like half the people in New York.

But the worst part of leaking and saying rotten stuff to random strangers?! It makes you feel really bad. And I really believe there's no excuse for being rude to anyone--in any situation. You always have the option of walking away and saying nothing (unless, of course, you have swallowed a small-hearted crone who shouts out "F*ck" like I have). So here I have been feeling like such an amateur human being, and guess who doesn't seem to mind? Who loves me even when I'm a jerk, when I don't wanna love myself?

Lorenzo.

The behaviorists would say it's not love, of course. But I'm not sure they've done much research in this one particular stinky arena, so heck, I'm gonna anthropomorphize. And overshare a little bit, too.

This summer I've been training for a marathon, so my weekends have been taken up with what is known as the long, slow run. But don't let that Robert Frost-y name fool you--on occasion they've been miserable, sweat-filled 4-hour affairs that  revolve around public bathrooms and easy access to Gatorade.

But it never fails. He always does it. When I come staggering in to the apartment, red-faced and dripping with sweat, there's Lorenzo, waking up from his nap and ready to join me for stretching on the rug. I remember the day he started doing it. He was watching me very intently as I used the foam roller, and then HE started rolling, tentatively at first, on his back. It was like, OMG, this cat's a freakin' genius.

As we stretch out, at some point he wanders over and sticks his nose in my underarm, nips me and then hits the floor, rolling on his back like he's been sniffing catnip. He doesn't care I had to take a 5-minute break at Mile 10. He doesn't care that half the city passed me (those freaking dads in running strollers, for gawd's sake!). Not only does he accept me for smelling bad, he revels in it. It's equal parts embarrassing and endearing, but honestly, I can't think of a better example of someone accepting you for who you are, even when you can't accept who you are. And trust me, its not nearly as gross as the story an ad rep once told me about the dog who was obsessed with her underwear drawer.

P.S. The next time you encounter a nasty human being who asks you "What the eff are you looking at?," know it's nothing personal. He or she is probably stressed out and feeling vulnerable.


Not my favorite by these guys, but it sho nuff gets the point across:




The last and only time I listened to this song was during my senior year in college, fall semester. I was in Greece, and they played this every week at a club called Rebound. Pretty sure the patrons thought we were stupid Americans.

Abs of Still

Me and Lorenzo, we've been working on our cores lately. Here he is after his daily mutilating of the rug--his tummy a whorling dervish all zebra'd and cowlicked and chocolate-chipped, sweetly Seussian despite the fact I had to throw the rug out soon after this photo was taken. (Upon removal of the rug, he immediately started using the cat scratcher. Like, immediately, as in "Where ya been all my life?")

Anyway, my point is… his belly. He's not one of those trickster cats who baits-and-switches, displaying the stomach in an attempt to get you to pet it, only to grab your unsuspecting hand and filet it with his front claws… No, he really just likes to hang out like this, spread out like a flounder, and I get the sense when he's doing it he's content and at ease and maybe even…recharging his powerhouse (that's what they call your core in Pilates).

Not that far-fetched, given the theory behind the Crane exercise, which I've been doing for the past week, as prescribed by my kick-ass Pilates teacher. As outlined by Dr. Stephen Chang in The Book of Internal Exercises, it's pretty easy--lie on your back and rub your stomach clockwise from the center, spiraling out "until the upper and lower limits of the stomach and abdomen are being rubbed." Oh, and then counterclockwise, but the most important component is the "visualization of heat and energy filling the lower part of the body." The effects supposedly vary, says Dr. Chang, from reduction of fat and relief from constipation to curing insomnia.

So, y'all know I eat this stuff up--give me something, anything, you can't see to believe in, and I'll believe in it. I mean, wouldn't YOU rather imagine waves of energy shooting off you fingers and lighting a fire in your abdomen to remove extra fecal matter ("Go on, shove off!") than, say, have a bunch of enemas?

Yup, I thought so! In any case, so far I've been enjoying the Crane. (I know, I know, it's like cranes don't even have stomachs, but when they bend their legs and tuck their limbs under themselves they're constantly stimulating their abdomens, hence the name). At first I felt all squirmy about it (do not do this after eating a bag of popcorn), but I'm finding it calming and centering.  It's the kind of thing that's so soothing, in fact, you could  find yourself absentmindedly doing it in public.

As for Lorenzo, well, he clearly has Tummy Pride, and major Butt Pride, too. Just last week he showed up right before the beginning of the big remote monthly meeting with my department, Skyping his entire ass (plus some extras) in front of the video camera on my Mac for all to see. Not that any Pilates teacher would recommend that, even if you're a cat.

LessWords Wednesday: Just Dessert

Yet another reason why a cat should be President (tho our current one aint too shabby), or at least a top advisor: See those peas and carrots? Lorenzo leaves 'em every time. Saving the best for last, or thinking you have to pay your dues before you get some perks, is a concept that would never cross the feline mind. When you go straight for the gravy in Grandma's Chicken Soup, there's no time for convoluted thinking like, "Hmmmm…Since Nabokov is the most incredible writer ever, I better stop reading his books because eventually I'll have read them all and then there will be nothing to look forward to."


No, Lorenzo wouldn't think that. Because when you leave the peas and read every word Nabokov ever wrote, your life becomes just dessert. Yum.

Two MTV gems I missed while busy listening to "Seen Your Video" instead:

Wordless Wednesday: No Bones About It

Given his fear of loud and annoying objects like the vaccuum cleaner, you'd think that Lorenzo would be more frightened of this doofy voice-activated skull that burps and says “Excuse me.” Perhaps he just appreciates good manners.

Meezer Monday: Butt Seriously

You can tell that a cat feels good when he or she displays Butt Pride. If you have a cat, you know exactly what I'm talking about---that happy tail-up trot they do when they're about to get something good or see someone they like, or when they're just in the moment, just naturally "being cat." Or sometimes they'll just shove their furry asses in your face. They have no shame about displaying what's under their pantaloons, ever, and if the tail has a slight bend at the tip, OMG. Total Butt Pride.


Poor Renz. Yesterday he was either startled or miscalculated his usual ascent of the 6-foot-tall bookshelves, and he fell backwards. When he got up it looked like he'd hurt the area around the base of his tail--the seat of all Butt Pride--in the process. He wouldn't/couldn't put his tail up all the way and instead it hung sadly, like a drooping flower. I have a call in to the vet, but I think he will just need some time to heal--he's doing all the other Lorenzo things he always does, like zooming, fighting with Derrick and sprinting after the ball and then looking at it. Today his tail can go up a little higher, so it's like we're slowly raising the flag back up the pole. Please send the little shorty some healing vibes--I'll let you know when he's flying high again.

Meezer Monday: Just The Way You Are

"Don't go changin'…" 

Yup, crank up the corny to 11 and get ready for some sentiment just south of sap. (Seriously, if that song had been performed and heard just once in the entire history of the world, it would so not be cheesy, ya know?) 

Anyway, I want to tell you about Lorenzo's first trip to the vet last week. He's definitely not the most valiant cat, and he's come so far since March. In the middle of one night earlier this month, for example, I awoke to what felt like a little loaf of bread, pumpernickel-dense, cuddled up and very softly purring next to me. He's even ventured out in the hallway, and ran back when he heard the elevator. But yeah, I knew he'd be upset going to the vet, I just hoped he wouldn't be some hissy fear biter.

Aww, that couldn't have been further from the truth. The little dude was so terrified he pooped AND expressed his anal glands in the carrier. When Dr. K took him for a blood test, he was pie-eyed docile and compliant, with an affect sorta like Toonces, the Cat Who Can Drive a Car. I sound like I'm making fun now, but my heart was melting for him, my junior-sized pain-in-the-a** thug who launches himself at Derrick like a cannon ball. It was like seeing a sad Leo--a true crime, like the sun going in on a summer day.

When we returned home and the entire family practically passed out from our shared stress, I realized I really love this little shorty. And that you don't necessarily love people because of what they're great at (that's boring old admiration, not love), but for the sweet shortcomings and stuff they don't quite get right but try anyway. For the stuff you laugh at more than the stuff you look at. Not to say I love him for his anal glands, but, heck, you know what I mean, right?!

P.S. The ironic thing is this photo was taken a few weeks ago, when Derrick had his appointment. He and Lorenzo fought to get into the Kennel Cab, and Renz wouldn't leave until I offered a more-motivating stimulus. (Opening of refrigerator door.) There's something here about getting what you wish for, of course, but I just can't write another nasty, hair shaving-filled post this month.

If you've never heard Barry White's version, it's like listening to the song for the first time! 

Wordless Wednesday: Perchance to Dream

Lately I've caught Derrick and Lorenzo dreaming, and their styles are so different it really got me thinking. There's Derrick, big on the whisker- and toe-wiggling, as he no doubt races to doors that open to the most wondrous places (hallways! elevators! big skies with flies!). And Lorenzo, vigilant ears a staccato yes-or-no, alert even in sleep to the possibility of a can being opened somewhere. Definitely in contrast to little Binglet, whose ears would flutter hummingbirdedly, like he was tuned in to the most harmonious of frequencies and wanted to hear it all at once.

Copy Cats

Lorenzo didn't come loaded with all the apps that most cats do. He sleeps puppet-awkward in the middle of the wood floor, front legs bent birdlike, in lieu of cuddling up in the perfectly good kitty-sized bed nearby. I'm used to Derrick, who arches his back when I put my hand near in order to get the most of the pet; Lorenzo, until recently, would very slightly shrink, like he was trying to fit under a limbo pole or something. Not in a frightened way, but like he didn't know that being touched by a human could be a pretty pleasurable, purr-inducing thing.

Luckily for Lorenzo, tho, with patient Derrick as his teacher, he's mastered some important basics.

Like that being a good friend=licking the inside of your bud's ears, not shoving your nosey face into his dish of Outback Grill, coming when he calls you 'cause he wants to play Bathtub with you and Bathtub is fun…. Renz has learned this all by imitation, and he's a quick study as you can see here.

OK, so the thing is--I'm kind of a Lorenzo, too. I have no idea to put on make-up w/o looking like a hieroglyph (you know,the King Tut eye, 80s-does-60s-style? Or, for those whose unit of measurement for all things is a cat, the wraparound-sunglass markings on tabbies…), and I just recently, in the past 3 or 4 years or so, nailed down shoe lace-tieing. Until then, they'd eventually come undone unless I triple-knotted. Something like that really freaks you out down to the soul--how could you not know how to properly tie a shoe?.

I've learned a lot about copycatting from the 10-year-old dancers in the jazz class I'm the assistant for. No matter how far apart they start when doing a combination across the floor in pairs or as a group in the center, they slowly but surely clump together, winding up trippingly close, happily in each other's way. And the other day at dress rehearsal for their annual performance, they decided as a group to wear their hair in pony tails. But when the first ponytail-wearer sweetly mentioned it would probably work best on hair of her length and texture, the others came up with their own variations, and in the end, no pony tails made it to the stage. It's probably an obvious "being a human" thing that everyone knows, but I was like, wow…being part of a group is an important part of being an individual.

It made me think of my sophomore year in high school, when I finally found a group I could be myself in. True, that group consisted of just me and my friend P. We made up our own dance steps, took aerobics together and wore the same clothes, but she'd get them in purple and I'd get them in pink. I was really happy being part of a unit, until the day P's older friend J. from show choir told her that she needed to stop hanging out with me so much. It wasn't healthy, J. said, to be so close with one friend. Actually, I see mothers saying the same thing to their kids on bad Lifetime movies, and I'm pretty sure it's bullshit. When P. told me what J. said, I remember thinking I must have done something wrong but I couldn't figure out what it was.

These days, I love being a copy cat--it's sort of my whole M.O., to grab inspiration from others and see what I can learn from them. And now that I think of it, that includes Derrick, too. When he rolls around on the floor and purrs when I meditate, I'm reminded that it's not a chore, and I should do it with a light, joyful heart. When I see him turn and walk away when Lorenzo tries to steal the last bite of food in Derrick's dish, I learn patience, tolerance and the importance of picking your battles… His easy good looks inspire my fashion choices, too, like wearing all-white from head to toe with an orange scarf and gold-framed sunglasses.

And if anyone tells Derrick that he's hanging out with me too much, they're gonna have to deal with me first.

Wordless Wednesday: High on His Own Supply

Lorenzo as Tony Montana in the kitty version of the famous coke scene in Scarface.

It's My Potty...

I just found out about the aerosol effect. Every time the toilet is flushed, an unseen mist comprised of microdroplets of fecal particles floats up into the air and can travel as far as 15 feet away, spewing your crap everywhere in what is known as the flush zone. Geesh. I guess that's why they say you should always put the seat down before you flush--another thing I'd never heard about until a few days ago.

I can only imagine what sort of effect was created by the activities captured in this photo, but at this rate, what's the use of worrying about the unseen mist? As it is it's like I'm living in a kitty locker room. I'd dragged the litter box into the hall in order to clean the bathroom floor, which was clearly, for Lorenzo and Derrick at least, the equivalent of the Super Bowl (ahem) being staged in your hometown. Derrick jumped in, and Lorenzo took a front-row seat, so enthralled with what went down he had to hang on to the railing. All this, and they still both smell like nag champa and don't have dirty feet from walking about barefoot like I do. How the heck does that work?




Pretentious and over-the-top, but it sounded pretty good after so long:

Wordless Wednesday: Nel Blu Dipinto di Blu

Oh, Lorenzo. A cat by any other name wouldn't make me think of every 70s-80s sitcom hero to ever wear a wife beater and eat linguine. (70s and 80s only, please. Those tools from The Jersey Shore have nothing on the Big Ragu.)