Chicken Dance

About two years ago, I produced a show called “Shortening the Distance.”  It was about an hour and a half long, an dit consisted of a heaping handful of one-act plays I’d written.  The exact number is either nine or twelve, depending on whether you wanted to view one of the pieces as one play presented in parts, or several very short pieces to connect the longer plays.

Irrelevant detail.  But I get hung up on it every time I talk about the show.  Some part of me thinks numbers are important.  Unfortunately, it isn’t the same part of me that reaches for my wallet every time I want a Red Bull.

Anyway, one more reason to love my wife is this:  She wants to do another show. She said, “Hey.  I want to put up a show.  Will you write it?”   That, above any other consideration you could think of, is the reason I’m putting up another production, in partnership with Elle.  I said, “Write it?  I’ll help you produce it!”  And she, in turn, will help me write it.  It’s a true collaboration.

I was going to say something about how glad I am to be hitting the stage again, but I stopped myself.  I’m on stage every week, between improv comedy and getting ready for a sketch show we’re doing next month.  but doing ‘legit’ theater feels different somehow.

“Shortening the Distance,” lovingly and inappropriately nicknamed “STD,” was what brought Elle and me back into each other’s worlds.  It’s great that we’re doing this next one together, and hopefully we can pull some more of the old crew back together for the new show.  We might even remount one or two of the old pieces, looking for some new way to make them work, but the show will be all new and crazy good.

Which means, back to the writing table.  This is great.  I’ve had ideas buzzing around, some started and left to “develop on their own,” most just knocking around in my head or reduced to a one-line reminder somewhere:  ‘write scene about subway musician’ or something.

There’s some soul-searching to do, maybe, on why it is that I need a deadline or some specific goal in order to ensure my productivity.  I don’t do a lot of writing just to write, though when I do I like doing it, and find I have things to write about despite my writer’s block. 

Maybe, though, I should just leave my soul alone.  If I need a deadline, or someone to turn my writing in to, in order to produce results… then maybe I’d better just keep creating deadlines and people to write for.  Nothing wrong with that.

Here’s an observation.  Anyone else notice the explosion of “show time” (“What time is it?”  “Show time!”) dancers on the subways?  Seems like I see a crew every trip I take.  Today, there were two crews on the same ride.  Not to mention, how do they DO all that stuff??  Oh, to b ehalf my age and three times as limber.

What’s Brewing

As always happens when I go a while without posting a blog, I have a great many things I can be writing about, and in the face of that I find myself thinking, ironically, “What on earth do I have that I can write about?”  Often when I ask that, I have to look back over my entries to see what I’ve been saying in here, to make sure I don’t repeat myself. 

So today I did that, and my first response was shock that it’s been so long.  Last time I posted was the afternoon of my birthday, before I went to work that night.  Work that night was terrible, by the way, a real spirit-breaker.  But it was the only downside of a good day, and the next day was even better.

So here’s the news in brief:

* Still on grand jury duty, for another three sessions.  We finish next Tuesday, after which I can go back to normal.  No, my grand jury did not hear the Dave Letterman extortion case.  Just as well, probably, since most of the jury would have asked for an autograph, and at least three of us would have asked him for a job.

* Elle’s show opened and has one weekend left.  I got to see the opening performance, and you know what?  It’s actually the first time I’ve seen my wife in an honest-to-chicken play.  Man, have I been missing out.  In my completely unbiased opinion, she stole the show, switching brilliantly between six different characters.  Hoping to work out a schedule conflict so I can see the closing performance too.

* I actually wrote a review of the show and pitched it to papers and blogs, and got it published in at least one place.  No pay, but some exposure and a credit to my name.

* …

…you know what, I really don’t love the News blog posts.  Who, at their core, really cares about the nuts and bolts of what I’m up to, unless it’s completely fascinating?  I mean, I think everyone should make the Jersey trip to see my wife’s production, but beyond that?  That’s pretty much all that’s fit to print.

But here’s a big event:  For my birthday, Elle took us to Per Se – this is a restaurant that you have to reserve for a month or more in advance, and probably start saving for it a month or two before that.  It’s swanky.  We broke the piggy bank to go, and it was totally worth it.

Usually, Per Se does a prix-fixe tasting menu, with seven courses of small food on big plates.  We did that, with the twist that it was Craft Beer Week in New York at the time, and what we went to was a tasting menu with beer pairings, hosted and supplied by Brooklyn Brewery.

Now, anyone who knows Elle or myself will know this is a flippin’ perfect birthday dinner.

I could write for an hour on the menu we had, and the amazing beer we got to taste with it (the highlight:  Manhattan Project, engineered and aged to imitate the taste profile of a bourbon Manhattan cocktail – with staggering success)  (the other highlight:  the smoked bacon tasting beer, no kidding), but I’ll leave it that we had a truly awe-inspiring dinner, sat at the same table as the founder of Craft Beer week and the brewmaster of Brooklyn Brewery, and oohed and ahhed our way through four hours of culinary (and beer-inary) amazement. 

And we don’t remember all the details of how we got home and into bed.  They kept pouring the beer, you see.  We really shouldn’t have started with martinis.  Lesson learned for next time.

I’m pleased to report that at 35 years of age, my hangovers are still blessedly mild.

More grey whiskers, though.  Dang.  Grandpa needs a shave.

Halfway to Old

Today I’m 35.

I’m celebrating it by working tonight, after a rousing morning of grand jury service!

No worries, though – Elle has some big super secret plans for me tomorrow night, and my Facebook has been a Niagra Falls of birthday wishes, which is awesome.  And since I’m working on my birthday, maybe the chef will bring out a round of free desserts for the staff today.  A birthday boy can hope.

I comfort myself that I am not falling apart in my old age, no matter how much I sometimes want to say I am.  Yesterday, in an unprecedentedly long run, I crossed the George Washington Bridge to Jersey and back.  It’s a longer bridge than it looks from the ground, but I made it and today I feel good.

Today’s bloggings, however, bend toward jury duty.  It’s my second time called for it since living in New York.  They say once you serve on a Grand Jury, you’re exempt from service for eight years rather than the four you get for trial jury service.  I’m down with that.

I had no idea Grand Jury service was different than trial jury.  Rather than being selected by lawyers to hear and rule on one case, beyond a reasonable doubt, as a grand juror I listen to about half a dozen cases a day, to rule whether or not the person being charged should get a formal indictment and go to a trial.  It’s reasonable suspicion instead of reasonable doubt.

There’s lots of legalese, because each District Attorney who visits us has to completely explain every facet of the law that’s allegedly been broken.  Everything from property damage to robbery to drug charges.  We haven’t heard any violent crime cases yet, but I figure we’re likely to.  I serve every day till the middle of October.

The good news is we’re done at one in the afternoon, so I can still work nights.  The bad news is I’m there for a month.  Also I get to serve on my birthday.  We lucked out, though, and got turned loose a bit early today.

Jurors can be a surly lot.  There’s some entitlement in the room, in the form of “We’re doing you a favor by being here,” and there’s definitely a stampede for the door as soon as we’re dismissed.  There’s a guy who rolls his eyes and makes impatient noises every time a DA starts defining legal terms.  It’s been suggested I bring him some cookies to ease his gloomy mood.  I’ve taken to simply nicknaming him “Cookies,” which makes me much more forgiving of his crankiness.

Then, there’s people who are taking it very seriously.  They’ve seen a lot of courtroom movies, and have dreams of being the one dissenter whose completely valid and correct opinions will sway the entire jury to hear his arguments and change their votes.  There’s people who want to talk about each case in detail, and can’t because the next case gets brought in before her opinion is fully voiced.

I’m somewhere in the middle.  I’m interested in the process, I don’t resent being there, and I’m learning quite a bit.  I hope to make a difference, preferably a positive one.  I’m not in a hurry to be a Spencer Tracy style hero.  It wouldn’t do me any good anyway, since our proceedings are strictly secret.

If you gotta do jury duty, this is a pretty pain free way to do it.

Wish they’d had cake there, though.

On My Own

This is my first time blogging from the bedroom – Elle is in the …um, the living room/kitchen/den/entertainment room/guest room/non-bedroom, with her castmates, running lines for the play she ’s in that opens at the end of the month.  The castmates were our dinner guests – I got to play house husband today, being entertaining while Elle did the cooking.  We’ve been switching off with cooking-for-company duties, and tonight she took it on since it was her idea.

Being in the bedroom blogging is my idea.  It’s my self-imposed exile, both so I can catch up on some writing and so I don’t ruin the surprise of hearing Elle’s script before opening night.  At first I brought in a chair for myself, but then I realized the bed would be a LOT more comfy, so now I’m mad stylin’ in sublime comfort.

Computer in my lap, wine by my side, foam mattress under my butt – all I need is Elle with me, and I’ve got it made.  Oh, and a really good sandwich.

My schedule has been very different from Elle’s, of late.  It’s kind of a first for our relationship.  We have the same job, the same improv company, the same a-lot-of-stuff.  Our schedules seldom match exactly, but pretty close.

Now, she has a volunteer gig and a show, I’m doing a lot of late-night writing and a lot of stuff at Landmark Education, and suddenly our work schedules are different.  I’ve been off for three days, now, while she’s had stuff to do pretty much from dawn to dusk and beyond, all three days.

I’d almost rather I was the one staying busy, while she was having time off, but she gets stir crazy sooner than I do so maybe it’s for the best that I have the free time.  I’ve been using a lot of it for freelancing, anyway.  Productive.  …That and the DVD player, and Facebook.  But lots of freelancing, honest.

I miss my girl!  Even now, we’re home together but we’re not actually together.  I got my laptop and my iTunes with the earphones in, while she has company and an impromptu rehearsal for the show I’m not in (though I auditioned… sigh… and the guy who beat me out for the role is in the other room with my wife… sigh…)

It’s not a huge deal.  We’ll have tonight after the guests leave, and we’ll have lots of time over the weekend.  It just never seems like enough.  Which, I suppose, is a good sign for our relationship.  Better that, than looking forward to the next time I have a day off to myself.

Day of what?

Weekdays off are such a mixed blessing.  I like having a day free, of course.  I have yet to dress for the day – or rather I’ve dressed for the day, if you count pajama pants and my “Dive Belize” t-shirt.  I’ve watched “There’s Something About Mary” and paid attention to the cat.  I’ve even washed dishes, and done some online work I’ve been putting off. 

I made lunch.  it was a PBJ.  My mother in law makes great J.

Something in me is broken, I think.  No matter how relaxing a day off is, how much fun I have, or how much I need the rest, I almost always suffer guilt for not “doing something” with every minute.  Sometimes a little guilt, sometimes a lot, but there’s a “what did you do with your day” staring back from the mirror at me, just about every time I take a break from the (admittedly self imposed) have-to-do’s.

Even knowing that it’s a beautiful day outside and I have yet to put on outside-pants gives me a twinge of conscience.

All work and no play, and all that, yes of course.  I play.  I watch movies, I toy with Facebook, I have my PlayStation.  Then I stay up till three or four in the morning, sometimes, to do the things I said I was committed to doing that day.

I wonder sometimes if I just take on too much, and then reach  a threshhold of stress where Facebook and a DVD are my only recourse.  I may be doomed to a life of just-a-bit-behind-ness, as I take necessary breaks from the huge commitments I’ve taken on in life.

What am I talking about?  I wait tables.  I write when I make time to.  I keep my house fairly clean and keep two cats fed.  I’m a good husband.  Not that any of these things are meaningless, but I’m not exactly Gandhi or the blue-ribbon king of multitasking.

This is one of those questions whose answer changes day by day.

I’m doing good work today, as long as you don’t describe ‘good work’ solely as Going Outside or Getting a Lot of Writing Done.  Heck – I’m blogging for the first time in better than a week, so what am I so up-on-myself about?

I really can’t even remember.

I’ll feel better after a shower.

I lost my wedding ring.

The other day, a friend of mine told me a story of how he had lost his wedding ring while he was on his honeymoon.  It had been lost for three weeks, and presumed lost, when out of the blue the resort where he had honeymooned mailed his ring back to him.  Mortifying story, no?  Especially since he had spent a LOT of money, and invested a lot of time, finding exactly the right ring to wear for the rest of his life.  I can’t imagine his relief as he opened that package and found his ring inside.

My friend was telling me this story to make me feel better.  Sometime between Sunday night and Monday morning, I lost my wedding ring.

I remember wearing it at work Sunday night.  I was twisting it on my finger while talking to one of my tables.  The next time I was aware of it, I was at home Monday morning and about to take a shower.  I reached to take my ring off my finger, and it wasn’t there to take off.

I have NO idea where it went.  Did I take it off in my sleep, as I’ve done once before?  Did one of the cats batt it under a dresser?  Did I absentmindedly leave it on a table at work while I was doing my paperwork?  (Almost definitely not.)  Did I fall asleep in the subway and fall victim to a very skilled ring snatcher?  Was it tungsten-eating parasites that ate my ring right off my finger?

Today I can joke.  On Monday I was more upset than I remember being in a long, long time.  I felt irresponsible, and completely unable to focus on anything.  I felt lost.  I felt… less married, somehow, without the comfortable weight of my ring on my finger.  I know I’ve had it for less than two months, but I’ve become very attached to it.

The ring’s special for two reasons.  It’s my wedding ring, for one.  It’s also special because Elle and I bought our rings in Prague, when we were there last fall.  So it comemorates not only the big day when we gave ourselves to each other forever, but the really wonderful vacation we took last year.

My friend, the one who lost his ring too, told me there’s nothing lost in the physical universe.  That’s true, but things in the physical universe do get thrown away or stolen or consumed by tungsten-eating parasites.  Knowing my ring is out there somewhere, but I might never see it again, is not more comforting than knowing it is gone forever.  You know?

Anyway, so these were all the thoughts that were going through my head as I tore my apartment apart looking for my lost ring.  I still have those thoughts once in a while, but I’m really clear that they’re just thoughts.

Let me just say, I have the greatest wife in the entire world.  I called her after searching our place, to ask if she’s seen my ring and also to have a total nervous breakdown.  She was a ROCK.  She was sorry the ring was lost, but really offered me peace and perspective, and reassured me that she wasn’t upset.  I could barely believe it.  She promised me we’d look together when she got home, which we did (unsuccessfully), and that if we couldn’t find it we’d have fun shopping for a new one together.

She even went so far as to step into a couple jewelery shops to get their card and preview the selection.  We ended up going to the same place where I found her engagement ring.  They had a great deal on tungsten rings that day, and we found a ring that we both liked even better than the one I’d lost.  It was a bit large for my finger.  They said they’d send off for one in the same style and a smaller size, since I’m NOT wearing a ring that’s too big for my finger again.  We picked it up yesterday.  I’m wearing it now.  It’s comfortingly heavy.

I still miss my first ring, of course.  I really hope we find it when we move out of this apartment, if not sooner.  That said, I love this ring I’ve got on.  After we picked it up, we ate at a restaurant right next to where I gave her her engagement ring.  She put my ring on me.  It was cheesy, and made me grin like a kid.

Cat Fancy

Here is a feline update.

Elle has been in touch with a cat-fostering group called Angellicle Cats.  Though I take issue with the silly name of the group, I’m all for their mission, which seems to be to find cats homes – even temporary ones – to keep them from falling prey to kill-shelters.  Not all homeless cats are feral and disease-carrying flea bags, some of them are actually pretty cool.  For cats.

Elle helped a friend of ours to adopt one of Angellicle’s Cats.  She was a sleek black number with white socks and a milk mustache, named James.  Our friend chose to keep James, but since James ain’t a girl cat’s name, the cat was renamed Poppy.  That proved to be kind of a bad idea too, because we all live in Dominican-centric Washington Heights, where Poppy sounds too close to Papi – which is what you call a guy you’re trying to impress.  Since the cat never leaves home and doesn’t get flirted with very much at home, however, there is very little gender confusion.

So we have our one cat, Apollo, who’s nine years old and has never been alone in all those nine years, since he had Athena to beat him up and lick his head for pretty much his whole life.  Then we put Athena into the ground the other week.  Now Apollo’s all by himself when we’re away at work.  When we get home and unlock the door, his cries from inside the apartment sound very nearly frantic.  So he’s lonely and maybe wigging out a little.  Elle wanted him to have a friend.

After a bit of back and forth with the Angellicle people, we were referred a cat that they thought fit what we were looking for – female, in good health, friendly, and mellow.  We got her yesterday, delivered to our door.

She’s a calico one-year-old named Rose.  Calicos are funny looking, like they lost a paint war or something.  She’s orange and while and black and a few other colors, and at one year she’s bigger than our nine-year-old veteran kitty.  She’s cuter today than she was yesterday, but yesterday she was pretty odd-looking.

It was my hunch that we’d rename her when we got her, like our friend did with Papi Poppy.  I was hoping for “Sweet Sour Pork” or “Moses” or maybe “Pepper Jack” (Elle and I both love cheese).  But she’s staying Rose.  By any other name she would be as sweet, according to Shakespeare, so why bother confusing her with a new name when she’s had a year to get used to this one?

Like cats know what their names are anyway, I argued, but it was a half hearted point.

Rose and Apollo don’t get along yet.  I’m trusting the ‘yet’ part because they’re not fighting with each other either.  they just hiss and walk a wide berth from each other.  She’s pretty territorial, and she likes to be in all his favorite places.  Whether it’s because they’re just good cat places or because she knows he wants to be there, is yet to be seen.

So that’s my post about cats.  Tune in next time for video game reviews and monster truck rallies, or something.

(Come to think of it, I haven’t played my PS2 in a very long time…)

Diversifying

I’ve beeen calling myself a writer for quite some time…

…don’t worry, this is NOT one of those posts where I write about writing.

Here’s the thing.  What I want to be doing is writing as a job.  Not necessarily my only job, or at least not right away.  I’d like to have writing, something I’m passionate for and at least marginally skilled at, as a supplementary source of income for myself and my family.

I’ve been saying this for years.

It could look like a number of things:  Being commissioned and royalty-ized as a playwright, whose works are being produced at theaters nationwide.  Being a published novelist.  Being a magazine journalist or freelance contributor to whatever publications will have me.

As a matter of fact.  Though in doing this I’m stepping out of the “narrator of my life from a literary distance” voice I usually go for in my blogging, I’ll put it out there to you all who are reading this.  You folks know my writing style as well as any, though of course my ‘professional’ writing is a bit more formal.  I’m open to suggestions, referrals, advice, whatever you’ve got.  I’ll be grateful for any help.

Anyway – back on track.

In recent days, I’ve been stepping outside the box and looking for actual work for the first time.  I was stuck in this self-imposed sentiment of “I don’t know where to start.”  Which is, of course, a huge lie and disservice to myself.  I have a whole Internet, a functioning and creative brain, and a wife who is a blue-ribbon net surfer.  How can I not know where to look for writing jobs?

What’s wierd is that I never really considered looking for online writing jobs.  It probably comes from the same part of my mind that caused a recent post, where I was surpised that my wife would look up info on the Web when she could also find it in a book.  I’m a print-media type, and I guess there’s a part of me that looks at online journalism as ‘cheating.’

But no more!  I’ve found a new goal:  Online Freelancer.  If the stuff I’m finding online is to be believed, freelancing for online companies is the new gold mine in what I thought was a rapidly shrinking industry.  Companies need constant content for their websites, and they’re willing to pay well for it.  Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?

So, now I’m finally in action, to a degree I haven’t been before.  Today I submitted for two resources and networks for freelancers.  One I’ve been accepted to, and the other’s under review.  I’ve got other irons too, that while they’re not yet in the fire, they’re poised to be and the fire is stoked.  By this time next week, I should be being published for actual financial compensation.  I know that’s not an actual barometer of success…

…but it will help with the rent.

Imagine a world without money

Here’s a funny experience – I was on my way to work, and I was being all frustrated about money.  Income is down, tips at the restaurant are unpredictable and lately not so reliable, I don’t seem to be working as many shifts as I used to do, and so on and so on.  Generally driving myself nuts with financial concern, and wondering if I’d ever really be able to relax and make a living.

This, as I’m walking though downtown New York, where I can afford to rent an apartment.  Listening to my 80GB iPod with Bose headphones, doing a last minute email check on my Blackberry.  I’m so impoverished I can barely stand to be in the same room as myself.

A friend of mine was sharing how she was in Africa recently, and upset because their wter system was not safe and she had to brush her teeth with bottled water.  She then caught herself, and got herself involved in social programs to help the safe-water-less areas she had been visiting.

Elle and I honeymooned in Belize.  We stayed in an air conditioned tree house, swam in a fresh water pool that was cleaned daily, and ate amazing food three times a day.  Twenty minutes by bike from our treehouse and our pool and our happy hour, there are houses on stilts, bars with dirt floors, and wandering stray dogs.  The divide is staggering, and it’s distressingly easy to take for granted.

Not to mention that I was stress-free in footing the bill for a vacation in Belize, while even many of my own friends and family were in a place of “can’t afford it, gotta stay and work.”  Now I totally didn’t take our honeymoon for granted, but I think there were other people there that sort of were.  We were too busy having a great time to start taking any of it for granted.  It was too cool to ignore how cool it was.  That makes sense, right? 

I remember when I started work at this restaurant, and I was sharing a station with a more veteran server.  We made more on that one shift than I could have made in two or three shifts at my previous job, but my partner was gnashing her teeth about the ‘lousy’ money we had made that night.  Now, almost five years later, if I had made the kind of money we made that night… well, I’m not the teeth-gnashing type, but I know I’d be frustrated and trying not to show it, and I’d be worried about the need to compensate with ‘better’ money on my other shifts that week.

Slow down, Josh, and count yourself grateful that you have this job, and that you can enjoy the living you earn there.  Life is pretty damn good, when you’re not all worrying and making a fuss.

It could be worse, after all – we could be completely without a financial system, reduced to the barter system and thieving from our neighbors to make our ends meet.  So what if a Snickers bar costs a dollar twenty five today, that I bought at eight years old for a quarter?  My grandmother worked for less than five bucks an hour her whole life and still managed to sing her way through every day.

Money’s important, but it ain’t all that.  It can’t buy you love, after all.

My train of thought is making a lot of unscheduled stops.

Cat Shaped Hole

Yesterday, one of our cats died.

I remember when I was in high school, my albino hamster died.  One day we got home and he was …well, he wasn’t dead yet, but he was being very still, and his little pink feet were super cold.  I held him for a while, and put him back in his aquarium, and a few hours later he was dead.  We got a shovel and buried him in the garden alongside the house.

What I remember most about it was that I was dealing with the death of Binkleton Jehosephat Hobbes (I believe in large names for small creatures) by joking about it.  I don’t remember anything specific that I said, but I remember that it upset my parents.  Especially my stepmother – she always had a soft heart for animals, especially her pets, and to her sensibilities, my humor was seen as callous and disrespectful.

I wasn’t taking Binkley’s death lightly.  He was my first pet, and also my first first-hand experience with death, so it was no small deal.  What I was probably doing was coping with my teenage stress and grief in the only way I was wired to – tell jokes and play it off like no big whoop.

There wasn’t any joking about the decline and passing of our cat, though.  Partly, I believe, because a cat has a lot more personality than a hamster, which is pretty much a chittering, cedar-chip-smelling knick knack.  Also, a bit of sensitivity training – Elle is even more of an animal lover than my stepmother is, which is one of the great things about her.  The main reason for no jokes, though, was because no jokes came to mind.  I felt so bad for our poor deteriorating cat, and I was really sad to see her go.

In truth, I didn’t actually see her go.  We were both there for her while she was in declining health.  She went from a fat little cat that looked like a furry football or an extra-cute throw pillow, to a pretty scrawny thing with protruding ribs and over-huge, black-rimmed eyes, in a matter of a month.  She’d start sleeping in the closet, where it’s dark, coming out only to eat (but not much) or get attention (but not for long).  It was pretty heartbreaking.

She had lumps in her abdomen.  Not sure what kind, probably not cancer, but they were getting bigger and (we think) getting in the way of her walking and even breathing properly.  By the time we had her officially Looked At yesterday, she was breathing with her mouth open and unable to lay down comfortably.  She had to be given a break.  We have a friend who’s a holistic vet, who pays house calls.  The cat was laid to rest in a nice place surrounded by plants, near a friend’s house.  Elle showed me the grave this afternoon, just as it was starting to rain.

Like I said, I wasn’t there for her passing.  Time was of the essence, and I couldn’t be there, and Elle made the final (and proper) call.  Though I’ve accepted and dealt with it, it pains me that I couldn’t be there to say goodbye to her, make sure she knew she was loved by me, kiss her fuzzy head as she fell asleep (and then sneeze for several minutes thereafter).  Elle and I had a quiet night last night.  With no kids, these two cats are the closest we have to a family.  The two fur balls came into my life when Elle did, so they’re kind of like my step-pets, but I love ‘em like they were my own.  I’m gonna miss my cat. 

It’s funny how when a cat misbehaves it’s no longer yours.  “Make your cat be quiet,” you may find yourself saying, or “Your cat peed outside the bathroom door.”  …Actually you may find yourself saying things like “your dog” or “your kid” or even “your Subaru,” but what I said a lot was “your cat.”  Like, Elle’s cat.

There’s two cats, actually, and the one that died was not “Elle’s cat,” the one that meows all the time (especially bedtime and mealtime) and pees just about anywhere but the litterbox.  The one that died used to sleep in the crook of your arm while you were watching a movie, and she used to eat immediately after doing anything else.  Pet her and she’d go eat.  Wrestle with her and she’d go eat.  Look at her funny, and it’s off to the food dish.  When her dish was empty was the only time she’d meow, a cute and almost pitiful squeak of a noise that was often grooved with her purr.  She’d rub her head against your chin when you stroked her.  She’d wrestle with herself, and kick herself in the face till she …either won or lost, depending on whether you root for her head or her feet, then she’d go to the food dish for a snack.  Her purr was like a Corvette.

Rest in peace, Athena.  We miss you already.