Nattering

If Christopher and I were to write a book about the grieving process, at least as we practice it, it would be called Gwenda and Christopher’s Old School Guide to Wallowing and its five sections would be:

WATCHING TOO MUCH TELEVISION
SLEEPING TOO MUCH
EATING TOO MUCH
DRINKING TOO MUCH
EXPENDING VAST AMOUNTS OF KLEENEX

Practiced simultaneously, more or less. This approach yields to the dysphoric disconnectedness that threatens to overtake you anyway. Healthy, productive approaches are to be distrusted. Thank god for Top Chef mini-marathons. &tc.

All by way of saying, we are now digging out of the rubble, slowly, and giant mountains of Stuff That Must Be Done have mountained around us. Deadlines abound. If I owe you email, or anything else, it’ll come soonish. Posting may be sparse for the next couple of days (or it may not be). Again, thanks to everyone for your kind thoughts and indulgence. The only way to go on is to go on.

Or the closest thing to it: my mom’s buttermilk pie. I am like to die from it.

Got the taxes done, and we’re actually getting a decent refund this year, which news couldn’t be coming at a better time.

Mr. Rowe’s busily converting all our music to electronic goodness on his new Mac and we’re selling off (most of) the CDs afterward; this is as close as I’ll ever get to willingly giving up my earthly possessions. It’s kind of fun. (And will likely leave room for another bookshelf!) We’ve been listening to lots of music as a result and some of you can expect mix CDs to show up very soon.

Anyway, real posts planned for this week despite a deluge of reading to be done, a (new!) book to be written and the usual.

So, clearly Hemingway the Self-Narrating Cat with the Fists of Fury deserved his own entry. But it was a good weekend, relaxing, out at my folks’ place. Highlights included:

– Watching five teenagers half-heartedly sign along to a song at my nephews’ church ("Upward"?) basketball game. One of the boys had greasy hair and was just precise enough with his gestures. I sort of loved him for about a minute. (Yes, you read that right — apparently learning sign language for song lyrics is now de rigeur… or something.)

– Realizing how many people were actually keeping score of the scoreless basketball game. (Also, my nephew was the MVP, if they had officially been keeping score anyway.) Also, it’s utterly ridiculous to tape the knee of an eight-year-old! (As the opposing team did.)

– Getting my ass kicked at Texas Holdem (please do not come out of the spamwork) by my eight-year-old nephew. Though I managed to hang in there and make a comeback. Bonus: Christopher going "all in" with his chips against said eight-year-old.

– Eating cornbread and other junk.

– Seeing the horses that live with the school bus. (I must take the camera next time.)

– Approving MySpace friends(!), my grandmother’s one-liners, and other things I’m forgetting.

I also got some reading done, more Fountain Award stories and finished a book or two. I may as well commit a 75 books update. Thumbnails, just as the other day.

7. Mothers and Other Monsters by Maureen McHugh. This was actually a reread (of course), for an interview with Maureen I’m working on. I finished the last story the same day this bad news came (though I have no doubt it will all come out okay in the wash, as my grandmother would say). Suffice to say that this collection is wonderful and beautiful and all of the other good things anyone has ever said about it. You should really check it out if you haven’t; if you have, check it out again. It rewards revisiting.

8. The Best People in the World by Justin Tussing. The first section of this novel is the best, as pretty much everyone seems to agree, but I enjoyed the whole thing. It’s an easy novel, in that the secrets are right out in the open for anyone who keeps reading, but the writing is quite beautiful and somehow it all adds up in the end. I actually loved the miracle hunters best, and wish they had a novel of their very own instead of just a few bits in this one. (Truly hideous cover design, btw; I believe it’s meant to invoke another wunderkind’s covers, but it doesn’t — nor does the book, actually.)

9. I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak. Man, did I love this novel. If I told you what it was actually about, you might get the wrong idea and assume it’s hopelessly sappy. So I won’t. On the safer what it’s about, non-italicized version, it’s the story of 19-year-old Ed Kennedy receiving a series of mysterious Aces, each with instructions of a sort to figure out a message for the indicated party and deliver it. These messages directly impacted people’s lives; the stakes are high. Ed’s voice is hilarious and true. It seems to me there isn’t a false step anywhere in this book. Highly recommended. I wish I had time to do a whole post on this one. (Note: You can buy it at Amazon paired up with the fabulous Black Glass, assuming for some reason that escapes me you don’t already have a copy.)

Our household has taken in a new citizen, Hemingway Bond&Rowe the Cat, Polydactyl, LLC, aka Fists of Fury, aka Bigfoot. (Who joins, of course, George Rowe the Dog, Poster Boy for American Values, My Attorney.) I found him online at Petfinder, where these pictures come from and you can see more about him. I should say right now that the Scott County Humane Society does an awesome job (holla, Julia!) at describing the cats’ personalities and taking pictures that capture some of their spirit. (Unlike many of these poor cats, seemingly posed for that Hang In There poster; good organization, but nobody deserves to be snapped at such an unflattering angle.) Hemingway’s had a storied life so far, in just a year and a few months, and we’re his fourth home.

He’s really quite amazing and odd so far, just as his foster family told us he was. He’s apparently been hard to place, due to bad luck and freaky, evil people having adopted him previously (one of his adopters PUT LOTION ON HIS FUR TO MAKE IT SOFTER, then brought him back and said he was "mean"). He’s a total sweetie so far, if a little shy. Purrs, purrs, purrs; plays with toys; wants to be petted. He decided to come out from his various hiding places and explore about 2 a.m. last night, and I gamely got up and petted him. Now I am the awake-coma.

The thing about Hemingway is that he’s a true polydactyl. He has very prominent extra toes and he uses his paws like hands. He was opening cupboards and doors and such all night, checking out the joint. A cat with opposable thumbs (more or less): this could mean the end of civilization as we know it. (Definitely the end of any kitchen mousecapades, I’m betting.) Anyway, I’m left happily asking myself how I ended up in a house with three boys.

I’d never heard of Hemingway cats before, but they take their name from Papa, who had a pride of polydactyls and other cats. (This little article talks all about that and the 60 or so cats that still live in the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home.) It’s a genetic trait, and apparently only a polydact can pass it on.

The impact of all this for you, dear readers, is that Shaken & Stirred will now bow to the grand tradition of Friday Cat Blogging.

*Sorry, Gavin! You were the only thing in the "con" column on the whole getting-a-cat front! And I saw a mouse! And plus, look at that face! How could we say no?

Being a short anecdote to remind everyone why Christopher’s the cook and I amn’t.

Today, I decided I wanted to boil an egg so I could have an Omega-3 boiled egg, cheese and tomato sandwich (toasted) for lunch. The boiled egg used to be a staple of my single cooking repertoire. A long time ago, a friend taught me how to make perfect, just the right amount of soft boiled eggs with toast soldiers. I’d stick the egg in my egg cup, crack it and saw off the top with a knife — a very satisfying culinary achievement — then dip the toast in and be extremely happy. I hardly ever have soft-boiled eggs anymore, because I don’t think C. really believes in them. Anyway, what I’m saying is: at one time, I knew how boiling eggs worked; I could look at my little red egg timer and choose the perfect moment of lunar eclipse at which to remove the eggs and eat them.

So sure was I that I knew how to boil the eggs that I asked for no help. I let C. stay in his office while I was making them. I brought the water to a boil. I turned it off. I put in the egg timer and the eggs. You there yet?

I managed to salvage one of them by nuking it in the microwave for thirty seconds after spreading it on the toast. I managed to wait several hours before I revealed my process to C.

Ahem.

Greetings from Finally Getting Better Land. After three rounds of antibiotics, a seemingly endless supply of Kleenex, and four hellishly busy weeks.

I hit the misery wall so hard one morning driving into work while listening to The Diane Rehm Show (I love DR, but this in and of itself was a cry for help — I usually listen to music in the car) featuring guest Stephen Pratt that I immediately vowed to only eat SuperFoods from then on. (And um, we’re actually sort of sticking with that one. Sorta.)

Dr. Frye stepped in over the weekend and recommended some herbal goodness (Usnea and Goldenseal). Her voodoo cures seem to be working at least as well as the ones from my M.D., if not better. Christopher bought me tulips and made me my favorite childhood dinner. I slept for three hours after a four block bike ride on Saturday.

But then yesterday, I actually made it through a half-hour at the gym (not pressing it). And today I feel at least somewhat like the brainsucking fog has lifted.

Anyway. I am tentatively declaring that I’m better. Perhaps a little nutty with my tinctures and my SuperFoods, but better. Posting should reflect this.

So, JT Leroy is a construct, an actor, a half-sibling, so what? Readers of #1HS have known this since FOREVER. Though it can still be amusemoi to read the profiles and such. (I’m sorry, but I don’t really see the appealing personality here — I kind of just see st*rs getting starf*cked.) But then, I’m suspicious of anyone who gives such free reign for use of the words "lot lizard." And, what’s more, I resent Ms. Knoops’ non-comment: "I don’t need this in my life right now."  She’s had YEARS to rehearse a more graceful and entertaining reaction and that‘s what we get?

Wonder if Frey’s publisher will stick by him?

Can’t say as I really care about that either. Much. People actually believe the crap in memoirs? Seriously? Does it make it in any way less or more meaningful whether or not it really happened? Maybe it does to some, but a story’s a story in my book. Some of the greatest memoirs in history are full of lies and exaggerations. Do Americans have some sudden yearning for The Truth of which I’m not aware?

From the NYT this week, I much prefer this story about hiccups. You know, my mom had the hiccups once when she was a kid … FOR FIVE DAYS. And on the fifth day came Halloween, and my grandmother brought a bunch of trick-or-treaters in to see her without reminding her what day it was. And those brats in masks scared the hiccups right out of her.

Now, that’s a true story.

So maybe you don’t care that I now have a new pair of favorite shoes, these great cowboy boots with genie toes that I picked up today. But I’m putting up a picture here anyway, because they make me happy. I had a hard week and I’m still sick and so, retail therapy. It may not be pretty — actually, the one thing it is is pretty, so — make that cheap, it may not be cheap, but does it work? Yeah.

I also now have massively strong antibiotics, which let us hope together will conquer the Martian invaders that have taken over my body. I plan to spend the rest of the evening curled up on the couch with my second book of 2006, courtesy of the fabulous Ms. Jenny D, Manstealing for Fat Girls. I plan to do little else. Get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow I’ll feel better. I’m sure of it.

This seems an inauspicious post to make as the first of a new year, but ha! I’ve decided that TODAY is our New Year’s Eve, since I felt entirely too crappy yesterday to celebrate. So that means it’s technically not the first post of aught-six, now doesn’t it?

Yes, I finally gave in and went to the doctor — not girl or boy, fish or fowl, martian death cold or the beginnings of bird flu but SINUS INFECTION, it turns out. At least I got antibiotics and loopy-making pills that seem to be helping. Of course, on the not so pleasant side effect tip is that Christopher’s picking up the original cold that started all this. It’s a vicious, as they say, cyclotron. But. We’re getting dressed up in our pajamas for a New Year’s party here in a bit (where we will be the only hangover-free people, likely, natch — this postponement celebration thing has many benefits), where we will eat, drink and be merry.

And my head WILL clear enough to get some writing done, because it has to. There’s always tomorrow. Which will be the first official day of the new year according to the Shaken & Stirred calendar. Got it?

In like a lion.

• Watching Ghostbusters when sick. Also, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (this was made to be a sickbed movie) with kleenex handy for the last half-hour. Oh, and Ball of Fire was on TCM too.
• Grocery shopping while starving and headachey. Now we have tons of food.
• Going back to the gym. Free weights at last. (At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)
• Carol Emshwiller’s Mister Boots. (More on that anon.)
• Having too much good stuff to read, so that each next book is an agony to choose.
• Opening the long-neglected Roanoke file and realizing I’m already 54 pages into it.