Jack discovered this digital station that shows old TV shows and commercials without regard to  intrinsic quality or timelessness.  He loves The Incredible Hulk, Mary Tyler Moore, and this one weird spy show that is kind of cool in small doses.   The thing is, he is glued to the set for hours every night, whining that I’m on the computer too much (hilariously illogical!), which is only because he won’t do stuff with me.  Like, this spy show, it’s from 1968 or ’69.  Last night the protagonists went to a party that was like those scenes on Laugh-In– the party scenes.  There was a band, the extras were all dancing, and I wanted to dance, right?  Of course!  But I could not get that man off the couch to dance with me, leaving me to dance “at him,” as Gidget would say.  But who was going to see?  Who would know?  Nobody.  The cats only. 

 

The cats are black and white like most of these shows.

 

One other thought: how many episodes of The Incredible Hulk does a person have to watch to realize that…all of the episodes are the same?  Three, I reckon: two to suspect that this is indeed the case, and a third to confirm.  Jack and I did have a spirited philosophical discussion about the nature of The Hulk- is he really just a metaphor for David Banner’s righteous anger?  We concluded that no, he really does transform into a green beast.  I do continue to watch sometimes, hoping that *this* time Mr. Banner’s pants button will also pop- perhaps The Hulk did extra ab work that week in prep for his scenes.  No.  Never- boot leather tears, pants turn to shreds, the shirt is torn asunder- always, the waist stays intact.

I will never forget that one scene from ER where Dr Green lays dying, his daughter at his bedside, as he gives her his final advice.  “Be generous,” he gasps.  I love that scene.  Sometimes, when I am feeling stingy, Dr Green’s voice replays in my head, admonishing me.

 

It reminds me of a Bible passage we studied in church a few weeks ago.  The passage (Second Corinthians 8:1-6) was thus:

 

1And now, brothers, we want you to know about the grace that God has given the Macedonian churches. 2Out of the most severe trial, their overflowing joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity. 3For I testify that they gave as much as they were able, and even beyond their ability. Entirely on their own, 4they urgently pleaded with us for the privilege of sharing in this service to the saints. 5And they did not do as we expected, but they gave themselves first to the Lord and then to us in keeping with God’s will. 6So we urged Titus, since he had earlier made a beginning, to bring also to completion this act of grace on your part. 7But just as you excel in everything—in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in complete earnestness and in your love for us—see that you also excel in this grace of giving.”

 

It’s a great passage.   “See that you also excel in this grace of giving,” writes the Apostle Paul.  In other words, “be generous.”

My Physical Therapist  gave me a lot of hope today.  She is amazing.  Flying with the dragon is ok.  Time travel is ok after one week of the new (hard!) exercises she gave me today.  They involve a giant rubber band and a giant rubber ball (special belated thanks to Jack for taking care of the dragon whilst I was laid up.  They’re kind of like dogs, in a way, needing to be let out to fly around a couple times a day.  I haven’t really mentioned the dragon before, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her.)

 

My physical therapist has been my mental therapist too-  I feel so much more relaxed and hopeful and pensive and deeply happy after every visit.  Did I mention that I started the other therapy too?  Like, seeing a counselor?  It was ok.  Kind of meh, really.  But I’m getting what I need, which is the ultimate goal.

 

 I wish my PT could be my counselor.  She is really functioning in that capacity right now, whilst making my muscles do things that previously seemed completely out of reach (PUN!)  She also has a philosophical mind and a deep way of thinking about the interrelatedness of everything.  I feel a real connection with her somehow.  Talking with her has given me a new perspective on my own work and some ways I can better help others.  It is funny, how these things all work out.  (PUN!  Get it?  workout?  Because that’s what I got today, along with that amazing thumb massage thing that she does.)  I am sore, but hopeful.

 

Also, my class is going really well.  I’m learning so much useful stuff and using it.  I felt really competent today for the first time in awhile.  I was as non-cranky today as I was cranky the other day.

 

And, I socialized and also sorted out all the stuff I have to give away for the people who will most benefit from each item (a weird glitch in my brain wiring, that leads me to overthink where each thing must go).  So tomorrow the house will (I hope) have a lot less crap in it.

 

The best part: I serendipitously found out toward the end of the day that they were really short at work today, so I went in for a couple hours, and was happy to be able to help.  That seemed like a really good sign to me.

 

That’s about all.  Jack and I took the dragon for a flight at sunset and had just a nice time.  Every day should be exactly like today.

How do  cats know when we need them most?

Somehow they just know.

 

The other day, I was in the bathroom- without my phone, of course- as I had just awoken from a much-needed nap.  I did not know whether or not Jack was home.  My back started to spasm something horrible and I could feel that it just might become the intolerable, devastating pain that I have had in the past.  I hollered for Jack to no avail, since he was indeed not home.  Sheba came running, bless her kitty heart, and started rubbing, rubbing, rubbing on my legs, and somehow, her calming presence and furry massage allowed the muscle spasm to abate enough that I could get back into the bed and get some valium and my cell phone.

 

I was unable to clean the litter boxes for about two weeks.  Sheba and Marilyn seemed to understand.  Marilyn has had some “issues” with thinking outside the box, so to speak, in the past, but she was perfect.  Like I said, somehow they knew.  They looked at me funny when I kind of dumped the catfood into just one dish from waist-high (the best I could manage) at first, like, “Um. Mom, that’s not how you feed us.”  But they got used to it.  They learned to eat out of only one dish- a good lesson for both.

 

Some people say (Jack too) that animals do not “love” us, that they only have some kind of rudimentary enlightened self-interest: that is, they know who fills the dishes with kibble.  But this has not been my experience. 

 

Even my neurotic first cat, M, with whom I never really bonded, knew when I was sad and would comfort me.  One time I was  deeply devastated over a lost love (some loser boy) and cried and cried, inconsolable.  M came to my bed, lay by my pillow, and allowed his fur to absorb each hot salty tear.   (M was a strange one.  He was very jealous of Jack: when we got married and finally moved in together, M showed his displeasure by pooping under my pillow- clever!- and  I could not find it.  I searched everywhere.  I had to sleep like that.  This is a gross story, I know, and I talk about poop way too much, but M had this jealous love.  He did not want to share me.  He loved me.)

 

All of my fur babies have been rescues in some form or another: M came from a co-worker who asked me to cat-sit and then said she didn’t want him back; Sheba came from down south with five kittens in tow, and Marilyn had had so many homes and been in the shelter twice and a foster home as well (she’s only about four years old, give or take).  Maybe that is why they truly do love me, and show it in strange ways.  They know that I, like the Statue of Liberty, welcome the huddled masses of fur yearning to breathe free…

send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me…” 

 

Like I said, somehow, even though I never got that cat translation dictionary, somehow they just know.

I’m honestly asking!

I’m kind of a hoarder and so many things just defy classification. You know…shoes go in the “shoe place”, cans of sardines go in the “cans of sardines place.” Hair doodads have their own (big) bag. But…man. This coconut bra has me stumped. I haven’t been invited to a luau for two years (although it’s a great vowel dump as a Scrabble play, so technically my rack (PUN!) has invited me to several since then. (Ever had a rack full of “U?” “I” follows me around too. I sense a bad Scrabble Club pickup line.)

 

History would seem to indicate that the way to get oneself invited to a luau (or anything else) is to get rid of the perfect outfit for it. That’s the real reason that Russ Feingold didn’t get elected president: because I still have the dress I planned to wear to his inauguration (it is a formal;  deep blue. Perfect.) Honestly, though, that is how it goes: whenever I have gotten rid of any of my hoardings, the opportunity and need for that item has soon arisen (although, I got rid of a box Sharpied “Bible Outfits” and still have yet to get cast as Mary from Jesus Christ Superstar).  So my entire theory  paranoia could be completely off-base.

Hoarding, I must say, has both advantages and disadvantages.  Sartorially, I am prepared for just about anything.  The bigger question is, will I be able to find the item in question?

So, help me out here: whither the coconut bra?

Why does it amuse thoughtful irreligious people when they discover that there are thoughtful religious people?

It’s part of a comment by Jag (whose own blog, The Day that Dawns, can be found here), left on this post at Althouse…worth a look.

It’s always an interesting discussion at the Alt-House.

This post at Cheeky Pink Girl– a wonderfully thoughtful (and smart, and interesting) blog- is about me.

Charlotte- the blog’s author- is the only person that I could have even mentioned these things to. (Jack- bless his heart-has circuit overload when I try to talk about it. He’s wired a bit differently than most, too: don’t judge). Char and I had the most wonderful, loving phone discussion. When I say love, I mean tough love: the kind that she knew I really needed.


Usually I am an optimistic person, but sometimes the dark clouds take over- for instance, severe lasting physical pain brings them on, but also the winter SAD that for some reason was the worst this past winter than ever. I can get into a hole that seems to have no escape route other than exercising my free will to…well…but Char helped me find the some real escape routes: Prayer- of course; even the simplest of prayers; ways to find the right fit of a counselor; and possibly antidepressants just for the winter, and just getting the stupid light box already!!! (I had forgotten to tell her about my horrible EAP experience and our ridiculous stepfamily counseling sessions that hurt more than helped.   So my fear of finding the wrong counselor is not irrational). And then she opened up the discussion to her thoughtful and kind blog readers. People whom I have never met, and likely never will- except online!

What a blessing. What a cloud of believers on the Internet. Think about that- people’s souls- never having met IRL-, touching each other, praying for each other, in the ether, on the way to eternity. It is a beautiful thought.