May 30th

It may be my brother's wedding day, but I know where I'll be later that evening:



I haven't been this excited since Sephora opened in Nashville...

Hit the Road Jack

I've been meaning to blog about this since Saturday, but somewhere between not being able to talk about it without crying and having my car towed twice in the span of 24 hours, I haven't had the energy nor the time to put my thoughts into words.

My little bastard has a new home. That's right, Jack the Cat has been relocated to Hermitage to live with a sweet lady who will give him a nice second-half of his life. He left on Saturday.

In the spring of 1998, while I was a Junior in high school, I begged my parents for another cat. Our current cat, Fluffy, lived outdoors and was nearing the end of his nine lives (or so we thought; he still had about eight years left). The rationale was that we'd get another cat to hunt mice outside, and Fluffy could show him the ropes. As we all know, "the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry," and Jack the Cat never quite made it outside. The mice were elated.

We'd never had an indoor cat before, and it was definitely an interesting experience. That cat got stepped on so many times, that his front left paw is permanently disfigured and flattened (see here). I think that was Mom's fault---her sugar-crushers are to blame.

It took us several weeks to name Jack. I was set on "Jack," and my parents were hoping for "Kramer." Everytime Jack would come running down the stairs into the kitchen, he'd slide about ten feet across the linoleum floor, many times just missing our Golden Retriever, Molly. Seinfeld's Kramer also made a habit of sliding into rooms.

As time passed by, I enrolled in college at Middle Tennessee State University, and left the cat behind at Mom and Dad's. Mom would enlighten me with tales of how the cat woke her up in the morning by banging on the blinds, or jumping seven feet high to reach the top of the armoire, or how Jack would go into attack-mode when Mom would talk to me on the phone. Evidently he wasn't getting enough attention---he still does this, btw.

About two years into my college experience, Mom started having some major respiratory problems. The doctor diagnosed Mom rather quickly with a cat allergy. Reluctantly, Dad decided not to evict the cat. When I graduated from college and then moved into the Aspen Bungalow in March of 2004, Jack cosigned on my lease and became my roommate.

Jack was a good cat, very independent. He loved to cuddle with me, but only on his own terms. During the first month of living at my apartment, I began to call him a "bastard" for two reasons: 1) he didn't have a father, and 2) he had an attitude. I'd have friends come visit me at my apartment and several of them liked to pick him up. He hated this. I would warn Lana every time, but she looooooved to harass my cat. See below.

It sounds silly, but Jack was really good company for me. I live by myself (for 2.5 more days), and it was nice to have another animate object in my apartment. And it worked out well for him---he had his days free to sleep, bird watch (a.k.a. stalk the birds), sleep, nibble on food, and sleep. During his tenure at my apartment he was witness to three hatchings of Purple Martins that lived on my porch and daily visits from doves, cardinals and finches. Jack even made a chirping sound, pretending to be a bird himself. Despite his fun with our feathered friends, Jack didn't get much play in the rodent department until Nat came for a knitting date one evening. Click here for the play-by-play.

Jack isn't your typical cat when it comes to toys or other distractions. He had one fake, furry mouse, named "Mousey," that I gave him when he was a kitten. Several months ago, Stella the Puppa came for a visit and ate Mousey. Jack hasn't paid much attention to other mice since, unless you count his enjoyment of following the mouse around on my laptop. Jack prefers ribbon, string, cardboard boxes and wrapping paper, tissue paper or packing paper. He's a simple kitty, really.

Jack didn't have an advanced palate, prefering dry plant-based food over cat treats. He did, however, love Laughing Cow cheese, especially the Creamy Swiss. Loved it.

Last night, I spent some time packing up my Christmas tree for the move (yes, it was still up), and it reminded me of how much Jack loved to chew on its branches. I heard some boxes settling in the back bedroom, and I caught myself thinking that Jack was getting into something he wasn't supposed to. And every night I've walked in this week, I've glanced at the green chair to see if he's curled up, waiting on me to get home so he can have his nightly stretch and belly rub. The apartment seems empty, but it's only for a couple days longer.

I miss him.

Chuckapalooza

Normally, I don't like to post twice within one day. I like each post to stand on its own, and my previous post for today is definitely worthy of 24 hours at the top spot. However, this little nugget of humor was worth the bump.

My co-worker Matt and I walked upstairs this morning to go get some breakfast in the L-Way Cafe. On the way up, he asks about my plans tonight for Valentine's Day. I tell him that I'm going to Chocopalooza, and it's too bad he's a boy, otherwise I'd invite him to come along.

Matt asks, "what is Chuckapalooza?"

Sarcastically (because we all know how much I adore sarcasm), I reply, "a bunch of my friends and I get together every year on Valentine's Day and we hire a guy named 'Chuck' to come and strip for us."

Playing along, Matt says, "oh, do you all gang bang him after he strips?"

"Yes, of course we do."

Matt pauses and says: "Umm....my name is Chuck."

V-Day

Last week, I got a phone call from my dear friend, Miss Emily Borders, asking if I'd like to join her at "our" restaurant for lunch on Valentine's Day. "Our" restaurant is Marche Artisan Foods, a little French bistro cafe located in the avocado green, art-deco Walnut Exchange in East Nashville. I delightfully exclaimed an emphatic "yes" to her brilliant idea, but then abruptly realized I would'nt be able to go afterall.

I say to Em, "oh gosh, I forgot---I have a gynecologist appointment at 11 on Thursday." Em replies:

"It's literally a Happy V-day for you then!"

We both thought this was hiiiiiiiiilarious. When I made my appointment months and months ago (because Lord knows that if you don't secure one within a six-month window, you ain't ever gettin' in), I didn't realize I'd scheduled it for the National Singles Awareness Day.

Lucky me---I'm going to get some action this V-day afterall...

What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

For the past week, I've had a tummy-ache. I attributed it to all the normal causes, but alas, it wasn't. It was my nerves, my stress, my worries. And we're talking one helluv-an ache.

I played soccer for my high school team and my soccer coach was verbally abusive. Incredibly verbally abusive and just an all-around mean guy. Every morning of my freshman year, on the way to school, I'd get physically ill, to the point of emesis (literally). Every morning. Every single morning, for a very long time.

I think Mom was rather concerned, but eventually, the exorcision of my demons ceased. We now realize it was my nerves about my soccer practice each day. Ask me about that sometime.

My friend at work, Courtney, made a wise statement today: "people don't give stress enough credit."

Oh, so true. So, so true.

Another friend at work, Nathan, asked me today if my tummy was feeling better. I commented that I had a good cry last night, and a glass (or two...) of wine was on the agenda for tonight, so I was already feeling better.

Raise your hand if you can't wait to get moved/find a new home for your cat/transfer all your magazine subscriptions to your new address/buy miscellaneous wedding and baby shower gifts for people you haven't seen in months, on your limited income, and then attend those weddings and baby showers/purchase, clean and slice strawberries for singledom celebration (a.k.a. Chocopalooza) on the annual holiday of loneliness and depression/drop off dry cleaning/go to the gynecologist (stay tuned for that blog on Thursday)/organize and rally my Bible study gals/finally make it to March/remember to buy toilet paper at the store because you've been fresh out for three days (paper towels work just fine)/pluck your unruly brows for a hot quasi-date (defined as a social activity planned with your crush, that you don't quite know whether his flirting is a cause of his like for you or because he's just a tease) you have coming up/...

That'd be, dot-dot-dot. There's more where that came from, folks.

Huked on Fonix Werkt fer me!

As if I needed another reason to loathe those rednecks east of the Cumberland, this was the front page of the UT Athletics website this morning:



Dumb-asses.

The Fabric of My Life

Today is the second birthday and/or the second anniversary and/or the second anniversary of The Queen MAB Manifesto's birthday. The traditional gift for a second anniversary is cotton and the modern gift is china (for your tabletop, not for your Communist). Somehow, neither seem appropriate.

If there is one thing in my life that I'm consistently proud of, it's this blog. It's given me the street cred to say aloud, "I am a writer," partially defining who I am and who I am to become. So, maybe the gift of cotton is appropriate. Cotton is known as a symbol of great prosperity, durability and versatility.

Will you treat me to a comment today, especially if you've never commented before?