Shhhh Kitty Kitty Kitty….

Let me start off by saying – I love cats. I love MY cats. They are solace when I am sad, they are loving when I feel empty.

Now.

My cats also drive me up the proverbial wall.

They do the usual “cat” things…they lay on my laptop when I’m typing, sleep by my head when I’m trying to sleep. But they also make more noise than the Park Street Band. Especially Tom.

Tom is my grey and white tuxedo. He is the friendliest, coolest cat I’ve ever owned. He holds his own against my chocolate lab, along with the two other labs that practically live at my house. He allows my grandson to carry him all  around the house, feet dangling near the floor, as his body as long as my grandson is tall. He loves to lay on your lap – anyone’s lap – especially if you are under a blanket.

What’s the problem, then, you ask?

It’s multifold, actually.

First off, his meow is loud and demanding. Not just when he’s hungry, but when he wants a snack. When he wants a bite. When the other cat eats more than her share of breakfast and dinner. He’s not a fat cat – he’s just a slow eater. A bite, a nibble, a nap, another bite. So his eating/lifestyle often leaves his bowl empty, and his meow obnoxious. Relentless. Over the top.

I think Tom must be a vocal kind of cat. For his pestering snacking “meow” doesn’t hold a candle to his…cleaning ritual.

I have never heard a cat be so loud in cleaning himself. Not just a licky here, chewy there. This is a full-blown, groaning, squeaking, icky-sticky ritual. Grunts and groans that would make a sound effects master blush. And he seems to pick the quietest times to take a bath. 2 a.m. 4 a.m. When I just go to bed. An hour before I wake up.  If he can’t lick himself, he licks the dog’s head. Unless I close the bedroom door at night, he is there like clockwork. Cuddling, snuggling, licking and yacking and hacking. If I close him out, he and the other cat play tag from one end of the house to the other. I’m doomed no matter which way I turn.

You say maybe he’s got a mineral deficiency. Or needs more water. Or a bath.  I am of the belief that he is just one big, happy cat, and when he kicks back and relaxes, he thinks, “Hey!  I’m relaxed! Laid back! Let’s get clean!”

My other cat Mysty is the fat cat. I feel bad – I have never overfed either one. It’s just that once she got her plumbing “fixed”, she put on a pound or six. As the joke goes, she never met a meal she didn’t like. Rattle the cat food container and she is all over me like white on rice. So to speak. And once she’s full, she loves to lay and snuggle … on my chest. Ten pounds of kitty makes breathing a little labored. Not that I let her lay around my neck – it’s just that she hasn’t forgotten she used to do that when she was a baby. Three years and ten pounds ago.

Pets are a wonderful thing. Cats and dogs are wonderful companions. They give of themselves 100 percent of the time, wanting nothing more than to be loved in return.

I just wish they’d be a bit more quiet about it.

You Make Me Dizzy Miss Lizzy

dizzyingNot so long ago I wrote a blog entitled, “I Make Myself Crazy.” You know ― it’s the on-sweater, off-sweater, hot/cold thing.  http://www.humoringthegoddess.com/2012/04/07/i-get-on-my-nerves/  Nervous ticks aside, I now try to slow down and think before I flutter.

I was reminded of this “crazy” thing today as I ran around the house doing  … everything. It was a beautiful ― and I mean beautiful ― Sunday outside. My first Sunday home in a long time. Husband was at a football game, son was sleeping (or at a friend’s watching the game ― I never know)…a perfect day do to nothing. As some of my confidantes know, I’ve been pretty run down lately, and have finally quit my second job in an effort to get my sanity and energy (what’s left of it) back.

Well, if today was any indication, I have a long way to go before I am able to get my mojo back.  Last night I was full of mental energy. Not having been around home much these past few weeks, there were dust bunnies doing the waltz across my floors, I could write my name in the dust on my dresser, and the pile of dirty laundry in the laundry basket had morphed into a snake-like creature that has started curling towards the bed. I told myself I would not allow myself to get lost in my art until I could sit without fighting the dog/cat hair bunnies for a spot on the sofa.  Good intentions. And, for the most part, I accomplished some of the above. But I made myself goofy doing it. Or, rather, I knew I would make anyone watching me goofy.

Most people start with a list, the most important (or most obvious) tasks on top. You do the task, you finish the task, cross the task off the list, take a break if need be, and move onto the task. That way task number one is done and finished and buried.

Not me.

I woke up, slipped over to my computer, did a little blog page work, got a plate of spaghetti for breakfast, threw some laundry into the washer, went outside to the back porch, thought I needed a couple of plastic chairs on either side of the table,  went to the barn and brought them back, cleaned off said table, put a tablecloth on it, came back in, took everything  off one of my dressers, went out and turned on the football game, threw towels in the dryer, went back in to dust the dresser, went downstairs to find a container for all the odd things ON the dresser, walked out to the kitchen and unloaded half the dishwasher, went back to the computer and found the story I was working on and corrected a page or two, went back into the bedroom and started folding laundry, looked at the stuff on the dresser and wiped some pieces off, putting them back where they belonged, hung up some clothes,  came out and had another bowl of spaghetti for lunch,  switched the laundry, made brownies, watched the football game, nodded off for a little bit, got up and put a solar lamp on the table on the back porch, put a couple of things I took off the dresser into the library to sit and collect dust until I get to work in there, went to the front porch and picked up the chairs that were blown over, went back to the bedroom and cleaned off the second dresser, stopped and rolled a few towels, came back out to watch the game, got on the computer and did some more proofreading, got up and finished emptying the dishwasher, let the dogs out, then sat back on the sofa and starting writing a blog.

What is wrong with me?

Why do I have such a hard time walking a straight line? These past few days, all I could think about was sleeping in late, taking naps, eating healthy, going for walks to get my blood pumping, and resting. Sure, I knew that not all of that good stuff was going to happen, but the intent was there. Along with the promise to myself that I wouldn’t write until the fat lady cleaned. Never happened.

When I’m at work I’m focused. It’s hard work; it’s computers, it’s accuracy, it’s a logical process. But it’s like the minute I walk out of that building I’m bombarded with a thousand things to think about and do.  And I don’t even have kids running around to mess things up (except a college student whom, like I said before, isn’t here half the time anyway). There are TV series I’ve recorded that I want to watch, things I want to research, books I want to read, along with wanting clean clothes hanging in the closet (not to mention just being able to walk into said closet), fish to feed, meals to create, dust bunnies to vacuum, grandbabies to play with, kids to talk to ― how can I possibly get all that done in a day or week ― not to mention a lifetime?

I can’t believe I get so disjointed spending a Sunday home alone.  So…befuddled. So…disorganized. If good intentions get me to heaven (or at least to some unicorn fields on the other side), I suppose I will be able to flood the gates open.

On the other hand, if organization is the cornerstone of the afterlife, I’m going to have to take a lot of pens and notebooks with me. Not only will I have to take precise notes, but I just might have to write a blog on the way.