Catsing Up

Because my allergies and the asthma that accompanies them have transported me to a place strewn with barbed wire, shell casings, and the occasional half-eaten corpse, I'm trying to restrain my impulse to communicate in words. Instead, I'm going to share photos from the past few days in an effort to brighten my mood and yours.

We gave all three cats a bath this weekend. The last time we tried to that with Thing One he flapped his legs so violently that he flew out of the tub without getting wet. Ever since, we've been convinced that he would never have another bath. But I had the brilliant idea of pouring a pitcher of water over him while he was standing on a towel in a dry tub. It worked. Or, rather, it worked for ten seconds, which was long enough for him to get a good soaking. Thing Two presented fewer problems, as we expected. Interestingly, though, it was Smokey who won the prize for best behavior. She must have had several baths prior to moving into our household, because she remained calm throughout the procedure.

Aside from getting them clean, the best thing about giving cats baths is getting to see them slink around the house looking like a lesser species while their fur dries. It's cruel to laugh, but it can't be helped. I will say, though, that all three of our felines returned to a semi-presentable status with remarkable swiftness. Still, their half-dry appearance was odd enough to document. Smokey looked the best, because long, white fur looks better wet than short, dark fur. In this photo, her coat reminds me of the world-weary polar bear at the zoo:

Two's already skinny tail became absurdly rat-like after his bath. So he made the smart aesthetic decision to sequester himself on a windowsill where it disappeared from view. For some reason, I look at this photo and see a parody of one of those Renaissance portraits where the subject's idiosyncratic features are accentuated in the service of an aesthetic for which realism is the only ideal:

Tonight Skylar and Kim clambered up onto our big bed for their new bedtime ritual: reading books with the cats. Two was elsewhere, but Snow Leopard and Cheetah gladly filled in for him. Doesn't that bed look inviting?

Well, now that I've shared this little bit of domestic joy I'm going to go write 1000 times "I promise not to tear my hair out because my entire being itches." It looks like another antihistamine night. Please pray for me and my loved ones: we'll need it.

My Style of PMS

Apparently your prayers did no good, because I managed to act like an idiot despite the fact that I had sworn on my three-volume German edition of Das Kapital that I would tiptoe around any topic likely to incite me or my partner. I knew when she moped out to the kitchen and announced that she was approaching that problematic hormonal stage that the fire danger was extreme. And yet I still presumed to tell her how she "really" feels and then got my own feelings hurt when she responded in the appropriate manner, telling me to remove my fingers from what is rightfully hers. Worse still, my hurt feelings led me to make a series of ill-considered statements that only added marshmallows to the fire. I've apologized for my absurd behavior and am attempting to regain my composure by making this confession. But rest assured that any comment I make about what antihistamines do to my psyche are not exaggerated at all. When I read the description of PCP's effects on people I think, "Hmmm, that's sort of how I feel after a few days alternating different antihistamines." I'm not kidding. Kim used to call me "Monster" with affection. But the "pre-monstral syndrome" I suffer at times like these does not turn me into a monster worthy of any kindness. All I can say is, "Steer clear."