Yep, The Shmoo, who was due for a check-up, anyway, has suddenly started licking her lower belly bald. There's still a short covering of fur there, but where there once was a prodigious sea-urchin puff, there is naught but a peachy-fuzzed pink protrusion. Oh, the shame of it all!
Naturally, Her Shmoopiness threatened to gnaw my face off if I tried to get a photo of it, so you'll have to trust me on this one - at least until I catch her asleep, exposed and defenseless. The Buddha belly is fetching in its own way, but a little troubling. I suspect a plastic bag I found her sitting on last night is the culprit, and this is akin to an abdominal version of The Dreaded Chacne, as we call it (AKA feline chin acne caused by a reaction to plastic). If this is so, then removing any plastic bags she has managed to arrange on the floor for her lolling and licking pleasure should remedy the problem.
Of course, this sounds more simple than it is, as her plastic addiction leads her to expend much of her formidable wiliness and force of will on acquiring the forbidden material. It also may be noted that we are not the most vigilant nor neat of kitty caretakers. But, we will have to try, for her health and comfort - to say nothing of the fact that the Betty Ford clinic is way too expensive for our budget.
Today's Cat Blog is dedicated to the one, the only, Maya the Shmoo. She may be getting older and wider, but she is also getting plusher and more snuggly as time goes on. Maya is the kitty with serious attitude - the one who gets what she wants when she wants it, or you will fear her wrath. Her tones are far from dulcet, as she is both deaf and cantankerous, but she lets out the cutest little snorfling purrs when she licks our ears at night before we go to sleep. She is the cat who sleeps between us, and the one that we most pine for when we go away. In short, Mrs. Nator and I are both deeply in love with Ms. Maya, in all her bizarre, cranky, chacne-infested glory.
Thank God she's not a person, however. The world would tremble!
So, now that I’ve got a new camera I’ve gone a bit crazy. So far, Maurice and Quan Yin have been mostly uncooperative with my photographic endeavours (QY is actually terrified of the lens, for some reason) but I did get this shot of the MoMeister:
And, since Maya is such a curious attention-hound, I actually got this riveting video footage of her:
I know, it’s like a gift from God. (Try freezing it in the middle of one of her meows – too cute!)
Please ignore the sty-like state of the bedroom, BTW.
Finally, I’ve got my Cape Cod photos up on my Flickr page, if anyone’s interested. I’m working on organizing some other shit and transferring my old stuff over from my Yahoo account. Most of it is your run-on-the-mill snapshots, but I’m trying to get more arty about it. I may even take a class, soon. In the meantime, feel free to critique.
It’s weird being back. I’m still half-deaf, I miss the ocean, and the hairy gay men all over the place, and I saw a meeting on my boss’ schedule with the head of marketing and the topic of the meeting was… me. So… I don’t really know what that’s about. Having decided a while ago that I’m not really all that invested in this job, I’m not terribly worried, but it is a little… curious, to say the least.
Meanwhile, yet another section of the middle east is on fire. I’m so glad my friends are planning on going to World Pride in Jerusalem! Oy. Mrs. Nator & I actually discovered that we were having the same daydream the other day, of removing all the people from the entire “holy” region and making it somehow wholly uninhabitable, so no one could fight over it anymore. At first I thought of making the whole place radioactive, but I could just see the radical fundamentalists of all stripes donning holy hazmat suits, or claiming that God’s particular love for them would counter the radiation. It would have to be razed completely, or covered by a force-field of some kind. And everyone could move elsewhere. Canada has a lot of room – and Australia. Even Greenland. The thing is, I’m sure they’d find something to kill each other over, anyway, whether it be whose fault it was the holy land was taken away or... anything, really. Some strange amalgam of Shiite/Canadien-nationalists vs. the Zionist-Laplander Front, or some such. And even then? Everybody could still get together and hate the gays!
Also, while I was away, there were tornados in Westchester and now it’s so hot that the pavement and train rails are literally melting. Is it the End Days? No wonder Maya shrieked at me when I turned down the AC before leaving today. (In Catspeak, apparently, “MAAAOOOOW!” translates as “Bitch, I know you ain’t turnin’ that coolbox on “power saver” – less you want a whole buttload of new peircings in your sleep, that is.”)
Aaaanyway, here’s some random things that are flitting through my mind as I re-acclimate to life in the big city:
Superman Makes Me Sad
We finally saw the new Superman movie on vacation and… it was… meh. Part of the reason is that I just can’t stop thinking of poor Christopher Reeve becoming completely paralyzed and dying – I mean, how can you not, especially when the new guy is doing his best to play Christopher Reeve playing Superman?
I had more thoughts, but I’ll let you read Bunche’s review and my rejoinders in his comments, if you’re interested. I just can’t work up the energy to write a whole review… especially since I’m still working the sleep-tingles out of my limbs from sitting in the theatre for, like, 12 hours.
Margaret Cho Makes Me Sad
Because she’s just not funny anymore. I’ve thought this for awhile, while Mrs. Nator has hopefully speculated that the lack of funny was some temporary side-effect of the comedian suddenly becoming frighteningly skinny after years of making jokes and speeches about how being fat was OK. This analysis coming from a woman who lost about 100 pounds over the past year or two, so she may have a point, although Mrs. Nator is still occasionally funny, herself (but, come one, we all know I’m the funny one, right?).
Anyway, Mrs. N had not given up on La Cho, yet, so we ponied up for her show at The Vixen (shudder!) in Ptown, and the place was absolutely, let’s-hope-she-hasn’t-added-any-pyro-to-her-show packed. We were warmed up by a not-terribly-funny “gay, white rap” act (tired) from L.A (natch), and then Ms. Cho entered to great adulation. Alas, her show turned out to consist of long periods of preaching to the choir about how gays should have equal rights (I’m sure that’s going to be really controversial in Provincetown, darling), going on some depressing tangent about how she’s in a really bad place because her ex-agent is suing her, and really old routines from years ago that actually appeared on her television specials. The whole thing made me feel a little cheap, like since we’re gay we’re supposed to love everything she does and not expect our money’s worth, and a little sad for her, like – is she so depressed that she can’t be bothered, anymore? It was, in truth, a bit troubling.
However, she is not scary-scary skinny, anymore. She is normal and healthy looking. So, that’s good.
No New Episodes Of Janice Dickinson On My TiVo Makes Me Sad
Because: obviously.
The World Is A Crazy Place, Part I
And you don’t need this blarticle on Florrie Fisher (inspiration for Strangers With Candy’s Jerri Blank) to tell you so, but it doesn’t hurt.
The World Is A Crazy Place, Part II
When I was a wee lesbian, back in the early 90s, and living with my first lesbian girlfriend, we went to see a short animation festival. We, especially I, were completely taken with a cartoon called The Big Snit. In fact, it became one of those inside jokes, wherein we constantly compared our relationship to the couple in the short, and I started drawing Snit characters on post-it notes during my mind-numbing data-entry job and slapping them up all over the apartment, much to the confusion of our snotty roommate. Ah, youth! But anyway, I hadn’t been able to find the film anywhere for years, and thus pretty much forgot everything about it, until I learned today that it was on YouTube, and here it is.
…
Leading me to conclude:
1. That is some seriously weird shit.
2. Surely that says something about how fucked up our relationship was, long before our torrid break-up.
&
3. It’s still funny.
Since I'm going to be away from the critters (and this blog) for my week-long vacation, and I have a new camera, I thought I'd pick up on this tradition.
I give you Maya, AKA The Shmoo, in her natural habitat - the laundry pile.
Maya is the Queen Bitch of the family. Completely deaf, she still knows when you're talking about her - she's that good. She is who she is and does what she wants when she wants to do it, and if you try to stop her, she'll knock over your fragile goods in the middle of the night. Fortunately, what she's wanted to do most for the past several months is snuggle with us in the bed, which we love. Usually she squeezes between Mrs. Nator & I or on the other side of me up by my head, resulting in everyone waking up with hairballs and me looking like I've gone prematurely grey. If we're very good, she will give us ear baths while purring.
Maya is generally somewhat aloof with strangers in person but had her own popular advice column when I was doing professional Animal Communication (she still gets emails and gifts from admirers). She loves to travel, so she tends to pull the "I've-gone-feral-thanks-to-your-abandoning-me" routine and hide under the bed when we're away, leading the petsitter to first feel rejected, then wonder how she's going to explain to us that our cat must have escaped. Of course, it may just be that Maya runs under there and rolls in the dust when she feels the vibrations of us coming up the stairs, then emerges, play-acting all dazed and traumatized for about a half an hour so we feel guilty. She is a strange and manipulative beast, and we'd put nothing past her.
All hail Queen Maya! I'm gonna miss the little fucker.
We've now got four cats and two turtles in the house. One of the cats is merely on loan, as we're caring for him as his human works out some housing woes, but he counts in this scenario. See, although I feel privileged to care for these fine creatures and receive their trust and affection in return (well, at least in the case of the cats - the turtles are cute but skeptical of our motives), I've always thought it would be nice to get something more... tangibly rewarding out of the deal, just to make up for all the kibble, litter, electricity and various filter parts they consume. Is that so wrong?
Nobody's up for acting or modeling, so that's right out. Maya, our queen bitch cat, did have her own advice column for a while, but that was non-profit and is on hiatus. I've come up with a few ideas here or there, but making them wear Swiffer skirts seems too labour-intensive and possibly death-defying to bother (not to mention they don't ever cover the same range as a Roomba - we'd have narrow dust-free tracks between the beds, litter trays and food bowls), and a lot of people seemed grossed out by my proposal for cat-fur clothing (which - don't most of us cat caretakers end up in veritable sweaters of it, anyway?). Besides, 1.) where do you buy a spinning wheel nowadays? And 2.) I got beat to the punch.
Well, I think I might have the answer. It turns out that San Francisco, that shining hippie haven, is actually planning an experiment to harvest local pet poo in order to generate electricity.
It's actually not a bad idea: many farms use methane digesters to process manure into energy and compost, and think how much unrefined shit gets dropped on city streets or into landfills via pooper-scooper laws and cat litter cleaning each day. If they can find a cost-effective, environmentally friendly way to use this natural resource to help power the grid, I'm all for it. But, most importantly, and I think what all of us are wondering here, is, what's in it for Da Nator?
Well, I'll tell you. If someone can just devise a methane digester the size of, say, your average ottoman, I could transform our daily scooping chores into pure power. Maybe not an amount sufficient to sell back to ConEd, or anything, but I bet I could get at least enough juice out of these animals to recharge our iPods once in awhile. I even have a name for the product: Felectricity™. Now, if only I knew something about basic science, construction and patents, I'd be all set.
Somebody needs to buy me a new digital camera, dammit! I wish I were out in the snow today, sleddin' and takin' pictures, but here I am at work... typing this. Folks from out of town keep asking me what it looks like here after the big blizzard. Snowy. Oh all right, Dope on the Slope has some nice photos of what my neighbourhood looks like here.
Since our old digital camera kicked the bucket I only took a few photos on film, and who knows how long it will take for me to get my ass in gear and develop 'em. I think some may be cute, though. We took our queen bitch cat, Maya, out to see the conditions. She's always trying to sneak out of the house, so we thought we'd show her what she's missing. She looks kind of like a polar bear, anyway, so why not? Wrapped her in a leopard-print throw and took her out. At first she was fascinated, and looked adorable snuggled up in the bright green arms of M's puffy coat (made the colour of her eyes pop nicely, too). Then - smack! - a big wad of wind-driven snow flew off the tree above us and straight into her face. Not so fascinated anymore. Never saw her hightail it up the stairs faster. Poor gal.
Other than torturing not-so-defenseless beasts, the day was dull. We both felt crappy and slept a lot. But the scenery was priceless. More snow, please!
... go on when I close my eyes. I'm not talking about the Wilson sisters (although M did get a Heart Greatest Hits album recently). I'm talking about one way I know animal communication is what I really want to be doing with my life. I've been having these dreams lately. In each one, I have to save Maya, our cantankerous and deaf cat, from some impending doom. This has ranged from a fire drill to an actual fire, from being forced to move out of our place due to some financial ruin to rescuing her from a building next to one that has been blown up by terrorists. Maya is pretty good as I cradle her in my arms and run for safety amidst the confusion, at first. But I know the minutes are numbered before she starts to struggle, and I may lose her completely in the chaos as she becomes irritable or scared by the situation and wriggles free. I feel mounting alarm as I worry that I will lose her and may not know if she is safe. I will both miss her terribly and feel as though I have failed.
Once again, my subconcious? With the subtlety? Not so much. Clearly not only have I been feeling guilty that I've been behind on Ms. Maya's columns since I got sick (I swear she has been put out at me lately, and looking somewhat unhealthy), but I am worried about all my animal and human clients who I have been powerless to assist while lost in vertigo-induced la-la land. Every day I get a couple more messages from clients anxious about a lost cat, a dog with cancer, or an animal friend who has recently died. I want to help them so much! But then I look at the backlog of clients I am still trying to catch up on, and it overwhelms me. I know being sick for a month is no 9/11 terrorist attack, but my subconcious is obviously using some exaggerated metaphors to let me know that I am waaay anxious about this. And did I mention I am still in the middle of re-organizing my files and doing my taxes?
I know I will catch up, somehow, and I know I still need to take time for myself to relax, meditate and continue to get better, or I'll be no good to anyone. But I tend to spiral into these fear-of-impotency panics... "all the animals in the world are going to suffer if I don't help them right now, and it's my fault!"... even though, realistically, I know that my clients always have the option to take up my offer for a referral and I am Just. One. Person.
The good news is that I have other reasons for believing this really is my calling - the top of the list being just how damn delightful I find a good chat with most animals and their people, and how incredibly good I feel when I get something I never would have imagined exactly right, or actually help to facilitate an understanding between beings that haven't been getting along, or even help an animal or person feel or behave better. But, being the person that I am, I suppose the freaky dreams and bouts of anxiety are bound to go along with the territory when I feel all that goodness in my life is somehow threatened. That and the fact that I'm no longer passed out on Trazadone every night. Ever try to kick a sleeping aid?
Got a black magic kitty...
After this photo, Quan Yin caught up on her reading.
"What do you mean you can't find the remote?"
Maya says "I have no idea what you're talking about - or why the TiVo is set to record all bird shows all the time."
Last night we discovered that Queen Maya, the High and Mighty, must have found and ingested some rubber bands. How did we know this? Because she suddenly came skip-hopping through the room yowling and twisting with a turd attached to her rear end in a fashion much like this:
After we'd recovered from the explosive laughter and the comical chase and removal bit, M asked me to have a talk with Maya sometime. I'm not sure warning her she could choke will be effective, but we are willing to compromise. She will be allowed to lick plastic and give herself that ugly chacne as much as she likes without us taking if from her if she agrees not to ingest any further foreign objects or wake us with the crinkling. I am arranging a space at Camp David for us to begin our negotiations.
Somebody has to go to the V-E-T.
"Mom? Is that you sneaking up on my jungle-cat perch?"
C'mere! I've got somethin' to show ya!
"Look - the sun is setting, and the leaves are turning."
ZZZzzzzpurrrzzz...
If they can find a cost-effective, environmentally friendly way to use this natural resource to help power the grid, I'm all for it. But, most importantly, and I think what all of us are wondering here, is, what's in it for Da Nator?
In each one, I have to save Maya, our cantankerous and deaf cat, from some impending doom. This has ranged from a fire drill to an actual fire, from being forced to move out of our place due to some financial ruin to rescuing her from a building next to one that has been blown up by terrorists. Maya is pretty good as I cradle her in my arms and run for safety amidst the confusion, at first. But I know the minutes are numbered before she starts to struggle, and I may lose her completely in the chaos as she becomes irritable or scared by the situation and wriggles free. I feel mounting alarm as I worry that I will lose her and may not know if she is safe. I will both miss her terribly and feel as though I have failed.
