I tweeted with the owner of the company that owns the domain being used to fish around my fabulousdisaster.com. He said it was likely a crawler looking for RSS feeds. I let him go with that and a promise to take my domain off of his list, which he said he did last night. So there should be no more weird stuff on the website side of things. And I really don't care if I ever find out what it was about.
LeLu came home today. She is in a small but hefty cedar box with a lock on it and two keys. Doc is going to buy me a sterling necklace to wear the gold plated key on. I don't wear gold unless I have to. I want it to be a choker so it's always visible and never hidden under my shirt. Doc bought a beautiful curved glass frame at the dollar store for me to put a picture of Chloe, Henry and LeLu in. And I need to find another photo of LeLu to go in a presentation board with her paw print, some nice words, a tuft of fur, from her head, so it thoughtfully includes some of her darker fur that she had so little of. There is an empty circle in the matte and I figure its for a photo. And there is a vinyl case that opens like a book to a shadow box full of I don't know what, but LeLu's pawprint is immortalized in it. On the inside of the cover is another place for a photo. The Rainbow Bridge poem is in the space right now, I think I will leave that as is.
The box is in a net bag with a packet of "Rosemary for remembrance", a nice shout out to Shakespeare's Hamlet, after Ophelia snapped and was talking to the king. And something else, but I just can't take it out right now. It's all up and arranged on the shrine. We need to get frames for two things so we can hang them on the wall, because they fall down.
And I finally cried. When Doc handed me the special bag from the vet. And when I unpacked it. And when I just held it all. And when I went into the kitchen and Doc held me and I pleaded with him, "Tell me she's here, I couldn't stand it if she wasn't with us," and he pointed to her corner on the counter and said, "She's right there." And then I went outside and cried.
The I pulled my shit together and did some stuff on the internet I've been meaning to do. Thanks to someone I have never heard of, I met my goal at Go Fund Me. I have to put a final update up there. I got the money I needed. I picked up my meds yesterday, and paid my webhost. Late, but I paid him. I also managed to miss a shrink appointment. Oh well, we wouldn't have had the money for the co-pay anyway. He's booked solid until Feb 10th, and is out of the office from Feb 11th until Feb 23rd. So I have an early morning appointment on the 24th. I'm almost sure I have the meds to get me through. I have refills on everything but the seroquel, but I have 60 more days of that. So yeah, I'm set.
So, my internet has been really iffy. Usually really slow. Just recently. And I thought it was just my impatience and paranoia. I talked to a couple of neighbors, and they are having the same problem and we all have something in common, we all have Cox, and we all have declined to take them up on their new superfast upgrade. So an unofficial neighborhood study is going on and when it's done, some one is calling Cox and "dealing with it". Okay, dude. Relax.
The one weird thing about when it is cloudy here? It holds in the noise from the planes taking off and landing at the airport, which is near here as the crow flies, provided he's sober. There's no real easy way to get there, I know how to circle it endlessly. Getting to it? Not so much. So many signs. It reminds me of driving in Pittsburgh. And there is a tunnel. So, even more like Pittsburgh.
How can I notice things like that and not write poetry? If Bukowski were here, he would throw an empty wine bottle at me. A lot.
I have three or four irons in the fire. All of them involve something I'm going to end up having to promote online. I think I need to take an online course about promotion and marketing. I doubt a lot of it will help, unless I can find marketing and promotions for artists. Because most of the marketing stuff I've read starts with, "pick your target audience and play to them", right, not applicable in any sense with any kind of art I want to make or book I want to write. I want to sell what I've created, not create to sell.
And how much of it is who I know? The couple of people I've approached thought themselves too big to spend time collaborating with me. It's Twitter, dude, not Real Life. Whatever.
I need a smoke in the fresh air.
That led to taking the dog for a walk. I keep passing these two houses that always have big-ass trucks around, and a lot of times, they are working on them. I keep trying to get up my nerve to talk to them.Chances are, we could make friends with them and get the big-ass truck fixed by someone reliable. It's not the cost that is preventing us, it's knowing a good mechanic who won't fuck us over or hassle us about the way S duct taped the thing together. And these guys seem like they could handle it.
We were about halfway home, and I've mentioned Chewy's little limp, every third step when he's trotting, he limps on his left back leg. Well, we're halfway home and I notice he's not using that leg at all. So I pick him up and carry him about half the way we have left, and then put him down, and he slows down to a walk and had no more limping. I need to watch that. When we got home, I gave him a biscuit for "going circles" and a cosequin chew.
Doc told me he was definitely going to work tonight because he knew I needed some time off from him, like two days ago. Last night, his sleeper meds just didn't wear off until 1 in the morning. I went to bed at 11. But it wasn't the same as being alone. It's like I have to hold my crazy in. And the fun parts, too. Because those really wig him out. He can handle depressed. And he can handle rage. But it's the silliness and lack of logic and the total fancy that he can't handle. He's a Vulcan, you know. That's what Kelli and I always call him.
I've seen him lose his shit only a handful of times in 17 years. I mean, literally, can count on two hands. Three times it was at me. I will never do anything in my life again to make that side of him come out. He has years of repressed rage on lock down in there.
As we play "What's That Stain" on my favorite 6XL white t-shirt, I ask, "What color is Cydniey not allowed to wear?" He replies, rather defeated, "Anything but black."
I know my neighbors must think I wear the same thing all the time, it's just that I have 7 or 8 v-neck black t-shirts. And two grey ones that have wandered off of the laundry pile. And my jeans are black. My sweats are black. My other jeans are black. My parachute pants are khaki. I don't wear them often, the cats are turned off by the feel of them. Oh, and I have some black socks that are roaming around my bedroom, too. I think I've corralled most of them into the drawer in the orange thing. I'm afraid to check.
And my room is filled with tiny Tribbles. Mattes that Simon has removed from his sides and spread liberally around my bed and floor and dresser and entertainment center and lower bookshelf. You can tell I don't use my bedroom except to store clothes and meds just to glance into it. I think three cats now have claimed it. Teeny, Simon and Major. Maybe Boomer sometimes. The back of the closet where LeLu used to sleep is prime real estate, so Boomer may have taken that. It's the hidiest place that isn't a cabinet in the house that you won't get locked into inadvertently.
Have I mentioned Boomer's fur? Well, I mentioned that she's a grey base with tans and oranges splotched around (she's a purring Pollack painting). But her fur is, I don't know, maybe shorter than most cats? She feels like a rabbit! Petting her is like petting a rabbit. She is so insanely soft, I've never felt fur so insanely soft on a cat before.
She does this thing when I'm sitting with my feet up and legs crossed, she gets on my lap and rubs her head on my legs, marking me all up. but as I pet her back, her "butt button" goes off and her butt goes straight up, usually into my face. At times, she will get so into this that she will fall out of my lap and off the couch. She'll bounce right back like it was planned, of course. I love this cat so much. She's here as much for LeLu as for Evie.
Once Doc leaves tonight and I'm ready to sit down, I will search out that pic of the three deceased cats together for the frame. Evie gets her own frame. She is buried for a couple of reasons: she grew up in this neighborhood with another family, she belongs here, where she knew. Secondly, we only got a year and a half with her, so again we felt it best to tie her spirit here with her animal friends and previous owners if they were around or even cared than to claim that as our own as we go about our travels.
Henry didn't get cremated because we didn't know it was an option. Had we, he would have been. We keep the t-shirt he slept in his last 6 weeks. That sits, folded on the shrine so you can't see the blood on it.
Yeah, atheist talking about cat spirits. Yeah, well, I'm delusional. I cherry pick. I believe in death absolute for humans, but an eternity of peace and playing for my animals. It makes me feel better. I can square my death. I can't square LeLu's. She should be alive as long as we love her, forever. Makes no good sense.
And I've set myself to go through this 8 more times. What have I done? 9 if you include Chewy, but I can't even imagine him dead, so I'll stay in denial about that for a while. I guess you have to ask yourself, is the love they give worth the grief when you lose it? Yes. It's just really hard to remember that for the first few days after the event itself.
When Kasey died, the first song I heard was U2's "Beautiful Day", and I wanted to fly to Ireland and punch Bono in the throat. When LeLu died, the first song I heard was U2's "Beautiful Day", and I wanted to fly to New York and punch Bono in the eye. After a few hundred playings, though, it's kind of making me feel better.