He was
wonderful
company for
the last few
years.
I’m really going
to miss him…I took this video in May, when Sheikh was still sleeping above my head.

Not very long ago, he was his usual fat and fluffy self, but then became boney and light as air in a few short weeks. He eventually stopped eating altogether. He hid out most of the time, and what kept me awake during that time was not his snoring, but my nerves, while I tried to search him out, hoping not to find him dead under the stairs or the couch.

“He’s old, though,” I thought. “It may soon be time…”

Monday, he stopped drinking water. By 5 am Tuesday morning, he was gone. I wish now that I could say I’d just found him dead, having gone to sleep and stayed that way. The way he did die was hard to watch – he was in pain, a lot of pain, I think, and I have a huge amount of guilt over not getting him to a vet in time to either heal him of whatever caused this, or to save him from a such a hard death.

He was wonderful company for the last few years. I’m really going to miss him…

We took him out to The Dog-Lady’s farm to bury him. On the way there, I told The Evil Hypnotist that no way were we getting another cat. I don’t want to get attached to any more pets. No. Way.

Ky was upset: The Patchouli-Cat has never been alone… she will miss Sheikh, too… she needs another cat for company….

No. Way.

When we got there, I opened my door to step out, and five large dogs piled into the van. I was trying to get them out when they noticed the box with Sheikh in it. It was really odd to watch them. They obviously realized that whatever was in that box was dead, and I would have expected them to try to get into it, but they didn’t. They got very quiet, sniffed at the box, and one by one (by one, by one, by one) they all filed back out the driver’s door.

By the time I got over to Ky, she was sitting in a lawn-chair, cuddling a teeny-tiny black kitten.

Well, shit.

I said, “No. Way.”

She said, “Please…?”

I said, “No. Way.”

She said, “Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase?!”

I looked at The Dog-Lady, and said, “Help me, would you?”

And The Dog-Lady looked back at me and replied, “Hey, you owe me. I took your dog.”

Shetbag.

See Les Becker’s
“Off the Cuff” Gallery!

“Shine On”
Taken November 10, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

My new
lawyer
told me,
“Now, when you
go down
there, and they
ask you for your
work number, for God’s sake don’t give it to them!”It was a wicked week. Ups, downs, and a few upside-downs, to boot.

On the “up” side, the Lily-Dawg has her new home. As I write this, I imagine she is either paddling in the creek or lazing on/tearing through the back field of “her” farm, located down the line toward Teeny-Tiny Town…

It’s possible, too, that she’s slobbering into the wind with her head stuck out the passenger window of her new owner’s car. The new owner, you see, prefers dogs to people, and the older dogs are spoiled right rotten. Lily, at 10, is now the second of what The Dog Lady considers to be her “older kids”. And the “older kids” get the Extra Special Treatment, which includes rides in the car. Every time The Dog Lady gets into the car.

The Dog Lady came to my work to get her. Kyla tearfully brought Lily
over, introduced her to her new Mom, and ran her through her groovy-cool set of “gimme the treat” tricks. The Dog Lady was especially tickled with Lily’s high-five. And then, she promptly renamed the dog “Lillers” and removed the leash, saying, “Now, let’s get rid of this nasty ol’ thing, eh?”, to which Lily Lillers readily agreed, very much approving of the disgust with which The Dog Lady threw the thing into the trunk – most likely never to be retrieved again.

When she went to let her into the car, though, the Other Older Kid told her to piss off. Lily Lillers was unperturbed, however, and simply called shotgun.

It was unbelievably excruciating to watch Ky wipe the tears away as best she could, and turn her back on the dog to walk away. Lily Lillers had a hard time at first, too, trying to scramble over The Dog Lady to get out the window and back to her kid. She settled down quite happily again, though, as soon as Ky disappeared around the building. That somehow made me feel worse.

And Sheikh the cat, who went from avoiding the dog to stalking the dog… to shooing the dog away from her own water dish so he could drink first… to doing this really hilarious “duck-down walk” while following the dog around very closely, making it necessary to continuously bob his head so as not to get hit with her tail… to sleeping beside the dog… is moping around, demanding to know where his dog is…

I kind of miss her myself. All her F-ing hair is still here, however, so I expect I’ll get over that.

Eventually. Meantime, I’ll just keep picturing Lillers The Lily-Dawg slobbering into the wind with her “laughy-face” on….

One of the “downs” of the past week was the mysteriousness going on at the J.O.B…. what with secret meetings, and the near-completion of several construction projects, and confusing replies to the “what’s going on?” questions… which all ended up being boiled down to most of the staff being laid off in a couple of weeks’ time, when a form of automation process kicks in… no more dancing in the parking lot. Sigh…* Those remaining will be trapped (trapped, I say!) behind glass.

No one’s saying yet, who’s staying vs. who’s going, but some have already put their notice in (thankfully for me, because the fewer there are when the axe falls, the better my chances of avoiding it, I think).

I’ve continued to apply for jobs in my New Weird Field as they come up over the last eight months, but generally don’t even get an interview. There are too many people in administration et al, who have been laid off, but at least have actual working experience, applying for the same jobs, I think. When I do land an interview, it invariably goes very well, but again…. I have no “real” experience in any of the fields I have accreditation in.

So, I’ve begun to apply for other “crap pay” jobs. And I’ll be crying on Louie’s shoulder over it all, mooching for more hours, just as soon as…

As soon as…

As soon as…

(Yeah, this is a hard one… the “upside-down” part…)

Just as soon as I go talk to the mortgage holder of the house that’s not supposed to be mine, because my “legal” papers, once translated to plain english only stipulate that The Sire agrees not to try and get money out of me for the place.

Worse, the mortgage holder is a credit union; the only type of banking institution that can legally suck my wages away whether I can afford it or not. Which I can not.

My new lawyer told me, “Now, when you go down there, and they ask you for your work number, for God’s sake don’t give it to them! Hopefully, they won’t find out where you work until you can get the place cleaned up enough to live in. It doesn’t look like you can afford both places…”

When I morosely pointed out that in a couple of weeks, I may not have a work number to not give to them, he jumped on it, very pleased, apparently.

“Good! You won’t be lying when you tell them that you’re looking for employment. With luck, they won’t foreclose before you can get things straightened out.”

I asked him if there was any way at all out of this, other than taking over the house….

“Weeeeellllll….. you could do what The Sire’s doing, and just ignore it altogether – they may not look for you if they can find him…. but when they foreclose, it will affect your credit something awful.”

“So, that’s a ‘no’, then, huh…?”

“You could claim bankruptcy…”

And worse…. if all goes well, and I take over the payments, get caught up on the defaulted payments and overdue taxes and insurance (I have no real certainty that he has defaulted, or is behind in the insurance or taxes, but Mr. Lawyer and I both agree that my imaginary certainty is probably right on the money), and then sink a shitload (more likely two shitloads. Three even.) of money into fixing the place up to sell, I can’t sell it without his signature, or a court-order.

And worser, even…. if I do all of that successfully (read: when pigs fly and other miracles), he can legally walk right back in and take the house out from under me, simply by beginning to make the payments himself, again.

You see, the part in my “legal” papers that states that I give up all rights to the house, its contents, and any or all income or profit from its sale, is already in plain english and means sort of, almost, not-quite-exactly that. The house is “ours”. Or the house is “his”. It ain’t mine, even if I’m stuck paying for it. The only way around that is another court-order.

And, hopefully, that will be the silver lining I’m looking for… followed shortly thereafter by the sale of the F-ing money pit.

Random Song-for-the-Day: “Rock and Roll Song” – Valdy

See Les Becker’s
“Skyscapes” Gallery!

“What Lies Behind…”
Taken October 9, 2007 with Canon PowerShot A550

…it’s like
he
read my
mind. Or
my blog….My boss called me today.

Asked me to come in to work to “have a little talk.”

Scared the shit out of me.

I LOVE my job. I want to keep my job. The only thing I don’t like about my job is my seeming inability to negotiate gracefully between day shifts and night shifts, which I’m beginning to despair of ever getting a handle on.

All I can manage to do is sleep. House is a wreck. The Idiot Child must feed herself or go hungry – not to mention, wash her own laundry (as well as mine), and Sheikh the Cat has begun spending his awake hours sitting next to my head, intermittently placing a paw on my face and sliming kissing me, wondering why my eyes are always closed.

This despair of accommodating the fluctuating schedule got me wishing for a work routine that I’ve only experienced once, Way Back When, remember that? I wasn’t particularly fond of the “job” part of that job, but the schedule was perfect: it was the same. damned. schedule. every. day. With weekends off, to boot.

My house was clean. The cats were happy. The Idiot Child was still a teenager, but I think she preferred the sameness, as well.

I have been wishing I could approach my boss and appeal for a Same-Damned-Shift. Even if it was the night shift. I dreamed of the conversation being short, sweet and successful.

Me: “Hey, how ’bout I work nights? All the time. Just nights. Cuz nobody else seems to like nights.”

Him: “Yeah, great idea! Thanks! I’ll just go ahead and change the schedule right now! How ’bout I give you more shifts with that? You want more shifts? There’s more money in more shifts. How ’bout I give you more shifts, too?”

There are a bzillion reasons why I couldn’t do that. I mean, I could do that, but he would either laugh, thinking I was joking, or take me seriously and still say no. Several reasons for the “no”:

1) I’m still The New Kid on the Dance Floor. Yes, others have come behind me, but I’m still new enough that I can get away with “I’m New Here” to cover a mistake I’ve made. Much longer, I’d have to use “I’m Old” for an excuse. That’s probably more apt.

2) Nobody has a Same-Damned-Shift schedule. Nobody. Why would *I* get that lucky?

3) It’s obvious to all and sundry that I’m having trouble adapting to the shift changes and if they coddled me (cuz I’m old, maybe?), it could possibly cause a revolt.

So, I’ve been schlepping along, loving the job part of the job and hating the schedule part of the job, wishing for the impossible, and for shit’s sake, my boss calls me today for “a little talk”.

I knew I was fired. I wanted to ask if I was fired, but Boss is not the kind of guy that does that over the phone, I’m pretty sure. I settled for asking, oh so casually (yeah, right) “Sure, what’s up? Something wrong?” the whole while repeating the mantra, “don’t-let-it-be-bad…don’t-let-it-be-bad…don’t-let-it-be-bad…don’t-let-it-be-bad”, which, for the record, has never once worked before. In my experience, if it feels like it might be “bad”, it’s generally much, much worse than “bad”.

So, yeah. I knew I was fired, even when he said, “Oh, no. Nothing to worry about. Just wanna go over something with you.”

Uh oh. What horrible thing have I done? Shit, he read about me finding cocaine on the dance floor! No, wait, I told him that story myself and he laughed really hard. Can’t be that.

Or maybe, I didn’t do something that I should have done? It’s not like I forgot to lock up, or anything (once did that while working for Louie, and nobody even noticed, can you believe that?) – I mean, we’re open 24/7. I’m not even sure there is a set of keys for the place.

Not that it would matter what the “little talk” was about, I still had to have it. So, I pulled on my boots and crossed the street.

And my boss said to me – no word of a lie, here, either, I swear – I’m not even exaggerating in the slightest little bit:

“I’m hoping I can change your schedule. Would you be willing to work straight nights, with weekends off? You’d be guaranteed five shifts that way, (employees who have been there longer, of course normally get more hours, unless they book a shift and hand it to me) and if I need you on the weekends, I’ll call – you’ve never turned down a shift, so you’re the first one I call. Would that work for you?

Well, gee, lemme think on that….

I’m dumbfounded. I agreed immediately, though, and he was all thanking me as if I were doing him a favour. Maybe I am and just don’t realize it, but it’s like he read my mind. Or my blog…. Hmmmmmm…..

So, he hands me my newly-minted hours, starting Sunday end, or S/M if you read the little date box on the schedule, and I trotted back home to write this post, and marvel over never having to wonder when I’m working “next week”… and there followed shortly a call requesting me to work an extra tomorrow. Already, I’m booked for overtime. I love my job.

Now, I have to clean a cat-box. Maybe then, Sheikh will quit sliming me in the middle of my version of night.

~ Just got another call from work – this time from the assistant manager: apparently some deer-hunter I was joking around with a week or so ago (told him he should bring me some deer parts, since my dad was gone, and nobody ever brings me deer meat anymore), just dropped off a venison roast for me. Can I please come pick it up, as it’s grossing her out? ~

Well, gee, lemme think on that….

Excuse me while I go pick up Free Dead Wild Animal.

(Did I tell you how much I love my job…?)

Random Song-for-the-Day: “Surf Wax America” – Weezer

See Les Becker’s
“Flora II” Gallery!

Lazin’ Around…
Taken February 25, 2008 with Canon PowerShot A550

For the
full
effect, you
must imagine me,
as well,
with my hair
yanked back and tucked
into a shower-cap. Oh yeah…. and naked.My life is fairly straight-forward and routine-oriented. I really like it that way. If there’s going to be any excitement, I’d like to plan it, trouble-shoot it, and control all aspects of it, thank you very much.

Patchouli, the cute little fur-ball you see above, feels otherwise. She has, in fact, been the cause of many incidents of “excitement” around here, much to my dismay. She revels in causing emergency situations calling for cool heads. I don’t deal well with emergencies, if you must know.

When Patchouli pulled a heavy table-top down on her head a couple of years ago (did you know it’s possible for cat shit to come out both ends of a cat at the same time?), my way of dealing with it was to scream and cry a lot. She survived, obviously, but the credit goes to the thankfully cooler heads that were actively prevailing at the time. You’d never know the cat got bonked, except that she’s a little retarded, now.

Okay, maybe more than a little retarded.

She likes to squish herself through the 2-inch width of open window by my desk, to sit on the 2-inch width of ledge – the only thing keeping her retarded little head from meeting the pavement of John Street before being squashed flat by a truck. She sits on the other side of the glass, smiling at me, waiting for the panic attack.

She also likes to sit beside one of the many candles that burn here every evening, twitching her tail through the flame. Smiling. I keep waiting for the Whooomph! that will signal the beginning of her painful demise…

Yesterday being Wednesday, the kuckiest day of the week, historically speaking, I spent the evening indulging in my weekly habit of tub-soaking in a dim bathroom, radio playing, candles burning, bath oil oiling… and my face painted with one of those “stress-relieving” facial masques that are supposed to suck out all the day’s tensions while erasing 40 years’ worth of wrinkles at the same time.

I’ve never actually seen my face with this goop on – I don’t have the guts to look, truthfully – but it looks yellow coming out of the jar, at least by candlelight, so I can just imagine the vision I must be while wearing it.

For the full effect, you must imagine me, as well, with my hair yanked back and tucked into a shower-cap. Oh yeah…. and naked. That got you laughing, right?

Anyway….

Patchouli likes to keep me company in the bathroom on Wednesday evenings. It’s the candles, of course – the flames fascinate her, and she loves to sit on the vanity and watch the reflection of the candles in the mirror, twitching her tail back and forth…

I got sick of hauling myself up and out of the tub every two minutes to put her down on the floor. Aside from getting car hair all over my wet hands, and then transferring it into the bath water, there was also a good chance I’d catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and scare the bejeezus out of myself. The thought kind of makes the idea of meditating in a hot bath by candlelight to wash Wednesday away a little laughable. As does the idea of the cat suddenly going up in flames, which is why I finally put her out the door.

I had just settled back down, with the water up to my shoulders, and my neck resting on The Turkey’s squishy bath pillow…. Siiiiiiiiiiigggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh……. when I heard a quack.

I did. I heard a quack and it wasn’t a duck.

It was Sheikh, the other cat that owns me. Sheikh quacks. He does. You can hear him here, if you don’t believe me…

I hadn’t noticed him sitting in the sink, but there he was. He’s “poof-ier” than Patchouli. I think that makes him more flammable. I got thinking that a better word might even be “combustible”, that’s how “poofy” he is…

Well, the vision ran away with me, and all I could imagine was that Whooomph! sound, followed by shrieking coming from either me or the cat, or both, and Sheikh flying down the hall, in flames, followed by myself, dripping wet and naked except for my shower cap and my face painted yellow, screaming, “The cat’s on fire! The cat’s on fire!”

And I got laughing. Hysterically. Out loud.

I KNOW!!!

I could just imagine The Guy Across the Hall on the other side of the bathroom wall, wondering what all the laughing and quacking in my bathroom was about…

I haven’t decided how well yellow facial-masques or bath oil or candles work for relieving stress and tension. I do know that laughter works wonders.

P.S. A very special Thank You to David McMahon for awarding me the ever-elusive Post-of-the-Day Award for “Mein Kluben! Mein Kluben!” My dad was tickled pink when he heard the news (my mom wanted to know if there was any money in it…)

Random Song-for-the-Day: “The Animal I’ve Become” – 3 Days Grace

Sheikh-in-a-Tuba.jpg"/>
Fairly self-explanatory, I’d say…

WHY this pic won’t show here is beyond me. But it does show HERE. And is pulled from the same source, too, so explain that oh, God of the Ethernet. Please.

Random Song for the Day: “Surface to Air” – Chemical Brothers

I’d say
“long
story short”
at this point,
but I
guess it’s too
late for that.Do you remember when I blogged about receiving an autographed copy of Natalie D’Arbeloff’s book of cartoons, “The God Interviews”?

A funny thing happened….

My Betchiest of Betches, Cardiogirl, was going through some tough ol’ crap at about that time. I had this idea that reading “The God Interviews” would cheer her up. So, being the groovy-cool broad that I am, I bundled my copy up, all lovey-dovey-like and sent it to her. As a loan, as I was careful to strongly impress upon her in the post-it I stuck to the cover.

The plan was for me to pick it up when we finally meet for coffee. It would also act as somewhat of a guarantee that we would meet for coffee, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would.

I didn’t tell Cardiogirl any of this – I wanted it to be a big surprise in the mailbox.

But –

Shortly after I handed the package to Nice Post Office Lady, well… I sort of kind of already missed my book. It got worse once I got home…

I sat in my comfy chair and turned on the Ugly Lamp. Sheikh, the big, old, fluffy, orange, sneezy cat that owns me, took his cue and crawled up on my lap, snuggling down expectantly.

“Well…?” he asked.

“Well, what?” I asked back.

“Aren’t you going to read the book to me?”

How to tell him? He had sat with me, checking out those wonderful drawings, listening to me perfect my “Natalie voice” (and let me tell you that is one difficult voice to “do” – I’m still working on it), and watching intently as I turned the pages, sniffing at them.

I didn’t know what to say…

“You lost it, didn’t you?” he snorted, disgusted with me.

“I didn’t lose it.”

“Check under the laundry.”

“I didn’t lose it! I… ummm… loaned it.”

He raised his eyebrows at me.

“To who?”

“Whom,” I reprimanded, stalling.

“Don’t give me that crap. Where’s my book, Shet-bag?!” (’Shet-bag’ is Sheikh’s new favourite word.)

So, I told him the whole story…

“Buy another one,” he said.

“Why? I’ll get it back in a couple of months!”

“I can’t wait that long. Buy another one and let Cardiogirl have the first one. I need to smell God.”

I agreed, finally, but only because I’d been thinking of doing so already. It’s not like Sheikh runs me, or anything. I mean… after all…

So, I bought another copy, asking Natalie to send Cardiogirl one of her really wonderful self-designed postcards, letting her know that she could keep the one I’d sent her. And Natalie emailed back….

To let me know that Cardiogirl had read my original “Natalie” post and bought herself her own copy of “The God Interviews.” Behind my back.

I’d say “long story short” at this point, but I guess it’s too late for that.

We now have an extra copy of “The God Interviews”. Autographed, even!! So, with Natalie’s permission we are going to run a “caption contest” here, Where the Walls are Soft, and Over There at Cardiogirl’s place.

See that cool cartoon at the top of this post? That’s one of the panels in Natalie’s book, and she was gracious enough to send us the “uncaptioned” version, for you all to play with. Think up something cool, profound, funny, spiritual, sad…. what goes with that pic?

Leave a caption in the comments (yes, I know my comments can be a little buggery – if you get that nasty “error” page, hit refresh and it will tell you off for trying to post the same thing over again – don’t worry – I’ll get it.) Then click on over to Cardiogirl’s place and write a different one in her comments if you like. Then come back tomorrow and do it all again.

But for certain ( and for certain!) click over to Natalie’s and see what you could win (Autographed, even!!)! We will choose three finalists and the rest of you can vote for the winning caption on March 1st.

Put your Thinking Cap(tions) on!

Random Song for the Day: “Punk Rock Superstar” – Marcy Playground

Dory and Daffy are at odds as to what I should do with the day…

David McMahon has very generously offered his expertise to the Internet at large…

“In view of the fact that all bloggers are writers (but not vice versa!) I was wondering if you could help me with one of my major aims. I recently started a daily post on tips for writers, called `Telling Write From Wrong’. I would like this to become a central point for writers of any description, any nationality, any age and any interest, to get honest advice from an experienced writer. They can leave their questions as comments – and I will answer them.”

I’m excited about this. I have many questions. I also have many things on my to-do list that really should take priority over my writing, at least for the next couple of weeks. This has brought me, as usual, to a stand-still.

I must become employed. At this point, I must become employed at anything that will bring in a regular paycheck. This causes procrastination of a frightening caliber, as my choices are slim, and all of the choices suck. The last time I was in this position I took the first J.O.B. that presented itself, and then languished in retail, getting “broker” by the paycheck for a decade. I don’t want that to happen again. Ever.

Freelance in writing and web development is a more enjoyable and surprisingly possible option, as opportunities are certainly presenting themselves willy-nilly… but it’s not enough, yet, for that “Starvation Prevention” item that’s rather high up on the list.

Dory and Daffy, the only Life Advisers left now, are at odds with each other.

Daffy says, “Get off your ass; take the first paying job you can get, Stupid!”

Dory says, “What a nice day!”

I say, “What about writing?”

Daffy says, “You can write in the off-hours. The fridge is empty. You’re getting stupid. Again.”

Dory says, “Sing with me! Oooooouuuuaaaaaaaaah!”

I say, “I don’t want to sling coffee. I don’t want to sell long-distance packages to screaming people in Florida from a phone-pod in the middle of 500 identical phone-pods…”

Dory says, “Just keep swimming.”

Daffy says, “Get this rock off my foot so I can get a decent swing at the fish.”

Sheikh the Cat says, “Who are you talking to?”

I say, “My advisers. I have to get a paying job.”

Sheikh says, “Are we out of chicken?”

I say, “Not…. yet….”

Sheikh says, “Don’t worry about it. Continue petting. Quack!”

So far, today, Sheikh is winning.

Random Song for the Day: “Sinister Rouge” – Bad Religion

“I hope
she’s
still there,
un-
possessed, in
the morning.”The Good

I slept last night! Oops. I guess I mean the night before last. Friday night, anyway.

I’ve been having sleep concerns since before I quit the Dream Job; it’s a big part of the reason I quit to begin with. Still wide awake, staring at walls, ceilings, clocks, tvs, computer screens, or the insides of my eyelids until sometimes 5:30 am. Nasty. I thought quitting the Dream Job would solve that. Nope. Maybe it’s that I’ve spent the entire school week that just passed listening to Larry, Darryl, and Darryl drop all those cars on my roof, instead of working. I’m a little nervous about my schedule again, now.

Whatever it is, it could be a lot worse. One of my blog buddies has

been going through a bout of “Fall Asleep and then Pop Awake Again Every 20 Minutes Syndrome”, which I’ve experienced on occasion and it’s much worse.

Worse still, is if insomnia turns into a full-blown White Night, which, if you’re familiar with the works of L.M. Montgomery, specifically, the Emily series, you’ll understand why I consider it so. Luckily, I haven’t suffered a white night in a long, long time.

Anyway, I slept! Through the night! (hooray!)

The Bad

I woke up from my wonderful, sound sleep this/yesterday morning staring Kyla’s brown rat, Fatso Ratso in the face, he smiling and nudging my chin, having chewed through the base of the replacement cage that he got as a reward for chewing 18 holes through the base of his old one.

And so, we must part ways. I haven’t figured out how that will happen yet. I like the little (huge) guy, and don’t want to be cruel and set him “free” to be eaten by a bird. He could probably take a bird, if he had any meanness in him, but he’s a friendly, little (huge) goofball, and the only living creatures that are afraid of him are the cats. I imagine that’s because he’s bigger than they are.

But go, he must. He chews everything. Like my modem cables. And Kyla’s underwear, which would probably cure her of leaving it on the floor if she had any left. I’m hoping the pet store will feel sorry for us.

The Creepy

Kyla and I watched a horror movie tonight. We’ve been into the recent “exorcist/possession” kind of movies that have come out over the last couple of years. Most suck, truthfully. She wants me to rent the most recent version of The Exorcist with all the scenes that mankind couldn’t handle in the 70s put back in. I saw the original (pardon me, I heard the original; my head was in a pillow through most of it) and I’m not sure I can manage the “new” one.

Tonight’s movie started out pretty good: decently freaky visuals, definitely terrifying audio… but the best stuff was in the first part of the movie, and the thing kind of turned into a stupid flick to watch if you like horror movies. We said as much to each other as the credits were rolling, when…

The bedroom door creaked. It was a loooooooong drawn-out creak, one instantly recognizable to us both, because we hear it anytime we open the door all the way to get in there, or close it half-way to hang something up on the back of the door. Needless to say, neither one of us did it; we were both sitting on the couch on the other side of the wall. Neither of the cats bother with doors unless one is closed tightly, in which case the Patchouli-Cat sits in front of it and yells at us, because she feels we should not be allowed to close doors. Sheikh just sleeps – doesn’t give a damn what side of the door he’s on.

Kyla looked at me and said, “You are going in there.”

Now, in that split second, I remembered that not ten minutes before, after going up the hall for something or other, I had come back down the hall toward the living room and noticed that the bedroom door was closed tightly. For reasons unknown, Patchouli hadn’t yelled about it, and I opened it so the cats could move back and forth again. We only ever close that door so that Sheikh can have his mushy food in peace, instead of pieces, which is what would happen if Patchouli got in there while he was eating. She would beat him up and take it from him. Patchouli has decent teeth, and Sheikh does not. Sheikh gets mushy food in the evenings. Sheikh is The King.

So I opened the door. And came back into the living room, and we watched the rest of the by now stupid movie.

So somehow, by the sound of it, the door creaked itself to the half-way open position.

I said, “I am not going in there.”

Ky said, “I’m only twelve!”

Yeah? SO?!

Okay, so I didn’t say that. I made her turn the lamp beside her on. The hall light was already on so we could get to the bathroom throughout the movie without running into demons that might leak out of the dvd player, and Ky tried to crane her neck around the living room door while sitting on the couch, five feet away. When that didn’t work, I decided to be brave and actually go into the hall and look. I stood up.

She said, “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I suddenly felt much more brave.

And just then the bedroom door slammed shut.

Slammed.

Shut.

I don’t mind telling the Internet at large that I damn near shat. I’m pretty sure, when I look in the mirror (assuming I have the guts to leave this room to do so), that every hair on my head will have turned white.

And then Ky said, “Don’t say ‘hello’.”

Did you see 28 Days Later?! Did you?! I had absolutely no intention of saying “hello”. I had absolutely no intention of doing anything other then sit back down and put my head in a pillow at that point.

I’m not sure how long it took, but I finally got the guts up to go look. Yes, the door was closed. When I got up the nerve to open it, the bedroom light was on (yes, I suppose I could have left it on.). There was a sleeping cat on each bed. The window was open (very slight breeze), and I said, “It was the wind.” Like I really believe it was the wind.

Kyla felt much better though, laughed it off, and in about ten minutes, was sound asleep in her own bed.

I hope she’s still there, un-possessed, in the morning. It’s 3:26 AM and I’m never leaving this room again.

Good thing Julie taught me how to pee in a coffee cup.

So, it turns out my kid is allergic to the cats. Specifically, the big orange hairy one, but Dr. Who says that will turn into “allergic to all cats”, even the short hair, over time.

Solution? Well, the doctor says to get rid of the cats, buy a vacuum cleaner with a hepa filter, and vacuum every half hour for seven or eight months, and that’ll probably do the trick. Ky told him where to stick his “get rid of the cats”. I pretty much told him where to stick the vacuum cleaner.

He suggested an over-the-counter allergy medication, but the look on his face told me he didn’t think it would work. He says the fact that we don’t have forced air heating or AC works in our favour (not to mention Sheikh and Patchouli’s), but it might be a few weeks before we know if it’s going to work or not. If the allergy is severe enough, I guess we’ll have to come up with something else – Ky insists that if the cats go, she’s going with them.

Well, it’s been a week, and my lovely, princess-like, feminine Girly-Girl has stopped snoring like a chainsaw. Sheikh, on the other hand, still snores, snarfs and gargles all night, and most of the day, too. I wonder if it’s possible for a cat to be allergic to himself?