The New Adventures of AQF and Super Kitty

Established in SB. Feet sore. Cat can chew through new comforter and break the delicate skin of toes. More to come...

The New Adventures of AQF and Super Kitty

Established in SB. Feet sore. Cat can chew through new comforter and break the delicate skin of toes. More to come...

And You Will Know Her By the Trail of the Bag

We have three cats. Brooks, whom you have all been hearing about recently because she is so crazy and new and has a bi-color face. Osiris you have heard about because he has a terrible diet and an even worse digestive and urinary system.

And then there is my little Isis. She is the quietest of the three, the most unassuming, the most loving in a quiet, unassuming way. It is with some surprise that I learn that she has a seedy and curious night life.

I imagine it was around two in the morning. I didn't look at the clock either upon being wakened, or upon returning to bed in a stupor.

You see, we were sleeping soundly, tired after two Kung Fu formats, SPF's soccer game, and a day of shopping for school. We were out. And I mean out. This is a rare pleasure for both of us seeing as how SPF snores and I kick his shins when he does. So rare a pleasure, apparently, that Isis decided to go snooping in the newly purchased section of the house. One of her favorite games is "Kitty in a Bag." Well, sometimes the cat gets the bag, and sometimes the bag gets the cat.

The noise was for some reason deafening. Definitely loud enough to wake us both into instant "I know Kung Fu and I can kick your ass!" mode. I believe now that the sound was Isis falling off of the desk inside the paper bag that housed my birthday present. What happened next will go down in my memory as one of the most hysterical moments in history.

The sound of the falling, crinkling paper bag was only the beginning. The bag then decided to run up the stairs, and I mean tear up the stairs with all of the terror undoubtedly settled in the mind of the cat whose toy was relentlessly chasing her. From our position in the bedroom we could hear the bag make it around the kitchen and the living room at break-neck speed twice. When that proved to no avail, she headed back down stairs to try and shake her pursuer, tore through both bedrooms before we could get our hands on her to help, flew back up the stairs and back down in a span of several seconds before SPF was able to slam his foot on top of the bag and tear it loose from the still running cat.

She continued to run for about two more minutes, just to be sure. I went to the restroom and had trouble peeing because I was laughing so hard. It was all I could do to collect myself and track her down to be sure that her heart had not exploded with the effort. Seeing as how she is also our lazy, fat, and unmotivated cat.

I honestly have no idea how she managed to get so thoroughly entrenched in the bag that it stayed with her for that long, but I have a feeling that she won't be playing "Kitty in a bag" anytime soon.

Perhaps this is funny only to those who witnessed it, but if you have a cat, just look at her and picture her running for her life from her favorite toy at some ungodly hour of the night. Hysterical.

My Blue Marble

It was a Tuesday. The doors opened at seven, so we got there around six forty five and parked next to the big fence where a group of middle-aged men were playing soccer. They had a tiny goal and feet that were disproportionately fast considering their gut's over hung their athletic shorts. SPF watched in admiration as the goalie shot in front of the goal with a kick that launched the ball across the field.

Nice save, he nodded.

We locked up the truck and headed back to the line that had begun to form outside the venue; a serpentine, eclectic menagerie of fans of the two-member, independent punk band we were there to see. We noted that the venue seemed to have a police station as a store front, though there was no activity behind the glass windows as the sun began to ease towards the horizon.

Once we approached the end of the line, two women holding a sign stating "Free Make-overs" walked by. One of them was wearing ballet slippers that had been blackened by daily use, it seemed. She walked by on her toes. SPF's eyes widened.

Eventually we found our way around to the back of the line and stood between four college-aged guys in full suit and tie and a band of three friends in white-face make-up. At first I was afraid that we didn't fit in and jealousy eyed the black and white striped leggings that a girl was wearing a dozen people behind me in line. But then I realized, this is the type of crowd where everyone fits in who is there to see the band. Everyone is welcome.

We had been standing in line for a few minutes when a girl came around the corner in what I can only describe as a purple French Maid's outfit. She, too, had a white-painted face with red circles on her cheekbones and geisha lips. She stood next to us, arms outstretched, until we noticed her. About her neck hung a sign that said "Will trade hugs for hugs." I, being a hugger, immediately hugged her once I read the sign. She smiled what I can only describe as a genuine smile. She then fished around in a bag around her arm for a Hershey's hug which she handed to me. I felt like I was cheating because I had already received a hug for a hug, but I accepted the offering and she went about her way, stopping also to give SPF a hug, and on down the line.

A little further down, once the doors had opened and the line had started to move, we encountered another silent, white-faced friend. He had a tray carrying an odd assortment of bobbles, papers, and knick knacks. On the tray itself was written something to the effect of "Give something and take something away." Knowing that we would be searched heading into the venue and in all practicality not needing to carry anything around, I was bobbleless and had nothing to donate. It was with some pause that I decided to turn over my newly acquired hug for a blue, foggy, pock-marked marble that was on the tray. I felt bad that I had given up my hug, but I also became enchanted with the marble. I looked at the line in front of me and tried to determine who would have been carrying it around in their pocket and why. What I found most fantastic was that there were several crumpled dollar bills on the tray that no one seemed to be interested in. The mysterious traded items were more exciting and enticing that a simple dollar could ever be.

After that we made it inside where we were dusted off by some more French Maids because we were "Horribly filthy," according to our duster. Inside was an even stranger site. There were drum beats in the middle of the room with a decorated and lively belly dancer swirling around and entertaining the crowd, there was a woman against one of the walls with a sign around her neck that said "paint me" and an assortment of paint brushes and finger paints available for her decoration. There was a face painting station where others were joining the white-faced patrons by having their own customized paint applied. The "free make-over" sign from earlier suddenly made more sense.

The first band was energetic, bizarre, and as eclectic as the audience. The second band was...dramatic. But in truth, we were all waiting for the pianist and the drummer, Amanda and Brian. They are two people who miraculously find a way to move you to your very core. They were brilliant on stage, a hundred times more moving than their albums, though I had already found their albums stunning. The connection that they had between each other was electric. There were countless moments where they would both be playing with an indescribable fervor but also maintaining a mystifying eye contact between each other. They were playful, funny, wise, and magnificent. They were musicians, poets, angry yet enlightening. I had feared that they would be callous and angst-ridden, as their music seems at times so dark and angry, but they could not have been more open and warm. She plays the piano with such emotion. And he was proven to be a brilliant drummer, and not just because he broke about a dozen drum sticks, though the energy he used to play was obviously a contributing factor to the music. At one point he hit his drum so hard, and at an inconvenient angle that he flew backwards off of his chair. The pianist was laughing too hard to continue playing.

The fans, although a few were stupid and annoying, were wonderful. When the music started, they stayed where they were and absorbed it. A standing room only venue without violence, without moshing, without shoving and yelling. I have not experienced that before. People were...in awe. There is no other way to describe it. Some fans would talk to the musicians during the pauses between songs, and they would talk back. Two girls climbed into the rafters for a better view and Amanda looked up at them and smiled while she played.

Four and a half hours later, we left. Our limbs were sore from standing and we both joked that we were getting too old for this, but at the same time we were not. There is no such thing. Not with a band like this.

We drove home listening to their latest album which I had purchased earlier that day, and nodded when certain sentiments resonated with us each in turn. When we finally got home and to bed it was after midnight and SPF was begrudging his early day at work the next morning, but we were both content.

Before I went to bed I put my blue marble on the counter top to remind me to give and receive hugs, to really absorb the things around me, to sing, and to always be myself, because I will always fit in at the places that are worth fitting into.

The Unbearable Being of Nothingness

It is remarkable how much I assumed I would be able to get done once I was unemployed and how little I have actually managed to get done. I was going to "show up to the page" and "show up to the piano" each and every day. Unless you count this as "showing up to the page" I have not accomplished either in my three days of righteous freedom. There is actually not a lot of time in the day. Admittedly, the house is cleaner, the laundry almost done, the litter boxes clean, and the garden has fewer weeds, but that wasn't the goal! The goal was self-improvement. The goal was gearing up for school, gearing up for creativity, gearing up for separation, which I have remarkably been able to thoroughly suppress and deny.

I met SPF for lunch on Wed and that took three hours. Three!! I drove down, we had a nice Persian lunch, and I drove back. I didn't even have the kitchen clean after that. And then there was my therapeutic massage appointment yesterday because my shoulder has been acting up, and that took almost two and a half with traffic. Plus, I was so sore that I didn't go to Kung Fu last night! I am not meeting my own expectations.

I did turn the TV on both days, and I think that is part of the problem. But I usually have the TV on when I fold laundry as a distraction. And there was SO MUCH LAUNDRY!! The last load is in the dryer now and I started on Monday. I just want to be productive, helpful, and, I am noticing more and more, useful. I don't feel like a contributing member of society anymore.

Now don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with being a housewife, but doesn't that normally come along with kids? If I was chasing after two or three little AQ and SPF's, that would be different. I WOULD be contributing, because my DNA would be running around. But I have no kids. No needy dogs, even. Truthfully, I think the cats are starting to be bored having me around. I don't get lap time anymore. I don't get nuzzled. In fact, I usually only have the pleasure of being in the room when they poo. I think it's a hint. I think I should leave.

I do want to get out of the house on a daily basis, though. I knew that before I left the corporate world. I want to at least go to lunch with a good book (which I did yesterday) or go to the beach or go for a walk. That is the only was to stay sane, I think. I will try. I should probably go and get some food pretty soon. Because I am still reading The Da Vinci Code and I still only read during lunch.

Strange what habits stick.

Everything is Illuminated

I was going to blog about a road runner today because I saw one at the park and I couldn't remember seeing one since I lived in New Mexico. He had a beautiful black tail that would elegantly raise and lower as he stopped and started his progression across the hillside from shrub to shrub. I was going to compare him to a gazelle, so elegant and quick were his movements. No one else seemed to notice him.

Including the two women who approached my car about ten minutes before I was going to head back to work after my lunch hour. I was reading and I didn't see them until they were right next to my window. In my hurry to accommodate them, I lost my place, but as I opened the car window I thought it best to keep my elbow wedged into book to keep the cover flat against my stomach.

"We saw that you were reading," the younger of the two started, "and we just wanted to give you something else to read as well." She handed me a wallet-sized, color pamphlet titled "All Suffering Soon To End." I manipulated my elbow to land between the back cover of the book and the blank page that separates the cover from the title page.

"Thank you." I exclaimed, keeping her eye focus while I smiled genuinely and reached out with my unoccupied arm to retrieve the pamphlet.

She went on to explain to me that as the world gets more and more chaotic and sad, God sees us all and will soon choose to end the suffering.

I thanked her again and wished them both a lovely afternoon. They returned the salutation and strolled away together to look at the ducks. I watched them in my mirror before I turned to the pamphlet. It was a compilation of several passages from the bible recounting God's plan for the end of the world of man. The back page had some information about the Jehovah's Witnesses should I require any further literature.

I checked my mirror again before I tried to find the page in the book where I had left off.

I am early in the novel still, but I am pretty sure that there is an amount of irony that I am currently using a Jehovah's Witness pamphlet as a bookmark for "The Da Vinci Code."