It is a little tricky to write the next post after a Dead Cat Post. Nothing looks right touching borders with it. And also, it’s difficult to think of something else to talk about when the Dead Cat is a lot of what’s on my mind. Like, I buried him, and I keep thinking about him being cold and wet AND SO ON LET’S CHANGE THE SUBJECT.

I’d thought I’d be relieved when he died, or at least a large part relieved. I knew I’d be sad too, but I thought I’d feel relieved not to be tensing up every time he had a breathing fit, relieved not to be wondering each day if I’d find him dead—and, if I may be utterly frank, relieved not to be buying/changing the elevated levels of cat litter a cat with kidney disease goes through.

Instead, I find I’m thinking a lot about the details of him dying, and especially about the details of burying him. I have never felt something as floppy and soft as that cat, after he died. It was as if his bones had vanished. And after I dug a hole in the back yard and put him in it, putting in the first shovelful of dirt felt wrong. Twisted and wrong. Packing the dirt down nice and firm felt almost as bad. It feels WEIRD and WRONG and CRAZY to put something that used to be alive into a hole in the dirt, and then put the dirt back in and leave it there.

It doesn’t surprise me that EVERY culture of ALL time has come up with stories to help us cope after we pack the dirt down. Part of the reason it doesn’t surprise me is that I just made that up—I have no idea if every/all have done it. Seems like it, though, doesn’t it? I can’t think of any cultures that don’t have at least one story, and I have a vast cultural knowledge that includes SEVERAL DIFFERENT TOWNS in the United States.

Oh, actually I DO have a subject that isn’t too jarring with thoughts of mortality: my mother-in-law is coming for a visit, and she emailed me last night to say she was coming October second through fourteenth, and could I let her know right away if that wouldn’t work so she could rearrange the whole trip, which has already been arranged.

Well, that’s just under two weeks. Two weeks is too long for houseguests, and that much alcohol won’t be good for my liver. And why is she asking ME and not her SON? She didn’t even cc him on it, so if he gets involved it’s obvious I involved him. No: I have to tell her myself that two weeks is too long, and I have to counteroffer one week.

Actually, there is another possibility, and that is that I will GIVE THE HELL UP. We have SEVERAL TIMES worked up the nerve to say “howaboutoneweekinstead?” and she has NEVERTHELESS COME FOR TWO WEEKS, each time making such a lame non-excuse there is no answering it (example: “I could only get the airline deal if I flew on Tuesdays or Wednesdays”—as if that somehow eliminated the possibility of arriving on Tuesday/Wednesday and departing the following Tuesday/Wednesday, instead of what she DID do which was to arrive on a Tuesday and leave THREE WEDNESDAYS LATER). My point being that then we get the worst of both worlds: we have to work up the courage to tell her, and then she comes for two weeks anyway, so maybe it is time to either have a Big Confrontation (zero chance of occurring) or else stop trying to prevent her from doing whatever she wants since she’s going to do it anyway.

[Edit: Also, she asked ahead of time if we had any plans for October. And we said no, because she’d said that if we DID, she would find a time when we DIDN’T.]

Okay, so here is my question: How should I reply to her email? And if you think of an awesome reply, test it out in your head first: is it something a polite person could seriously say to another person, without causing a rift in the fabric of time and space? I need REALISTIC DIALOGUE here.

My kitty Georgie died this afternoon. I don’t want to make a huge deal about it, because I realize he was a housepet and that he was elderly, but I’m in the mood to talk about him a little and so I will.

I got Georgie from a shelter in 1994 when I was married to my first husband, which means Georgie predates my current husband and all five of my children.

Kitten Georgie drying in the sun after a bath, in 1994 in the apartment I lived in during my first marriage. That’s a sprouted avocado pit acting like a tree nearby. The avocado plant died in a later move, and I haven’t successfully sprouted another pit. When my first husband and I decided to divorce, I was worried he would fight me for the cats. I needn’t have been: he said, “YOU are taking the cats” and I said “Whew.”

In this photo it is 1996, and Paul and I are living together in our first apartment. Georgie is holding a banana bread recipe for me while I bake.

Still in our first apartment, and by now Paul and I are married. Georgie is investigating the stock pot, and evidently I am baking cookies.

Here it’s 1999, and Georgie is giving newborn Robert a careful sniffing the day we brought him home from the hospital.

It’s 2005 and we’ve been living in our house for over 4 years. We have 4 children. Tolerant, patient Georgie allows baby Edward to lean on him and examine his collar.

Here he is sleeping in his usual spot, in his favorite box on the desk next to my computer monitor. I buried him in it this afternoon, so my desk looks weird and empty.

This morning I woke from a dream in which I was tending to an old, fat owl named Charlie, and I must have worked REALLY HARD tending to Charlie because my eyes are crossing with exhaustion. I’m fantasizing about the number 1 combo at Dunkin’ Donuts (which doughnuts would I choose? would I get toasted almond coffee again or would I try another flavor?), but instead I made do with my coffee pot, some flavored creamer, and two muffins. Meh. I’m still cross-eyed.

Meanwhile the children are acting as if they have to keep talking at a certain speed or the bus will explode, and the laundry is smelling as if someone wiped up milk and didn’t rinse the washcloth, and I just spent $35 on THREE TEASPOONS of antibiotic for a cat who got bitten by another cat, and I think it’s the EXACT SAME ANTIBIOTIC the pharmacy sells for less than $10 for a whole bottle even without insurance. And I have a mosquito bite on the inside of my knee. Annnnnnnddddd….I think that’s all I can think of to complain about.

Feel free to add your own complaints and/or doughnut preferences.

Yesterday I took Rob and William to a craft store at their request. I also took Henry, because at home he’s as much work as the other four children combined, but in a store he can be seatbelted into a cart—so if I’m leaving Paul stuck at home, I try to take Henry with me.

I forgot it was Sunday: the craft store wasn’t open yet and wouldn’t be for another half hour. Well, pooh. Okay, fine, we will go to the Dollar Store…..which also doesn’t open for another half hour. Staples? Half-hour.

Rob suggested Dunkin’ Donuts, where I have taken them two or three times in their young lives, and he did it in the perfect tone of voice: hopeful but not expectant. Soooooooooooooo…kay.

And we had a great time. I fretted for awhile about maximizing the value of our order, and finally said screw it and went for convenience ordering: I got the number 1 combo, which is a coffee and two doughnuts, and then I had Rob and William each choose two doughnuts. And we got a super-considerate clerk who paused for an almost imperceptible moment and then without drawing attention to it changed our order to maximize the value, which saved us 60 cents. I suppose 60 cents is no big deal, but it is a very pleasing thing to me, and it also pleases me that it is a pleasing thing to the clerk.

Henry ate almost my entire chocolate butternut doughnut while I ate my Boston Cream, and the older boys ate their doughnuts with bravado, ignoring my suggestion that they might want to eat half of each and save the other halves for later. My coffee was delicious: I’d never ordered a flavor there before because I was too shy to ask if it cost extra money, but this time I thought of an easy way to ask and I was rewarded with toasted almond flavor along with my cream and sugar, and MMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm.

We went to the craft store, and I’d brought with me some 8.5×11 things I’d thought I’d have to have custom-framed ($$$$$$) because of their size, but it turns out there is such a thing as 8.5×11 document frames ($) so I was all set and couldn’t believe I’d put this off for several YEARS.

I wish I could tell you that my children spent their allowances on enriching craft supplies (perhaps something for making an “I Love You” project for their mother?), but instead they both bought Fart Putty, which is like silly putty but also makes realistic gross sounds. On the way home they were both making such sounds, and Rob said cheerfully, “Welcome to Mom Hell!” It was fortunate I was fortified with coffee and doughnuts.

Henry wanted to wear Elizabeth’s shirt yesterday, and we allowed it for a couple of hours. It was surprisingly shocking to see him in it. Partly, I think, because Elizabeth was Late in the Hair Department, so he doesn’t look too different than she did at this age.

Henry in Elizabeth’s shirt

It reminded me of when we did an April Fool’s Day photo of the twins wearing each other’s clothing, and I sent it out to a bunch of friends and family, and pretty much nobody noticed the joke.

It feels weird not to be at BlogHer. It has started to seem like “Bloggers go to BlogHer.” Like, if we’re bloggers, why aren’t we there? What are we missing? Are we making a mistake? Too late now.

I don’t know if this comes through in Teh Writing, but I am a socially fearful person. I’m SCARED to meet you. I would need to DRINK or MEDICATE, and afterward I would fret about every single thing I said or didn’t say, and my face would be burning with embarrassment, and I would be thinking I should never go out in public again. And I do realize that it’s pretty common to declare nervousness and/or awkness about social stuff, and so not particularly interesting. But here we are at BlogHer time, and it’s on my mind.

The fashion element of BlogHer makes me nervous. All the talk of mani/pedis, diets, new clothes, new shoes, worrying about what to wear, getting new highlights, debuting cute new outfits. I’d been thinking I’d wear what I wear every day, which is Lands’ End jeans and an Old Navy t-shirt and, like, sandals, and I’d put my hair back in a clip as usual. But I don’t think that would work, not without making a Big Counter-Culture Deal about it.

I worry because people talk about how cliquey it is, and how “the cool bloggers” don’t spend enough time talking to everyone else, and it sounds like a minefield of misunderstandings and hurt feelings and unintentional snubs and mental rankings and assorted celebrity issues, and I hate the whole “cool kids’ lunch table” concept that gets so overused.

I worry because in person I’m different than I am in writing. In writing, I’m not scared, and I’m social. In person, I hide and cringe. In college I took a one-weekend job where I had to talk to the general public as they entered the store, and I ended up hiding in the bathroom and I am not kidding. Hiding in the bathroom at BlogHer seems like a big waste of money.

And everybody has roommates, right? So I wouldn’t be able to hide in my room, and it would be people people people every minute. And how do people split bills and choose a lights-out time and figure out who gets to use the shower first OMG?

Well. I do want to go. I do. Do you? I do want to meet you. I do want to look cute. I don’t want BlogHer to be different than it is, even though that’s the way I think of it when I’m thinking of why I’m too scared to go. But I’m stuck. I’m too scared to go.

Why aren’t you there?

Well. It looks like we are going to get a dishwasher. We had one in our first apartment together, but not since then—so, not for nearly 10 years. It’s going to be odd changing our whole dish system, which took us…well, nearly 10 years to work out.

What I was wondering is if you’d be willing to offer wise counsel. What have you liked about your dishwasher? What do you wish you could change?

This weekend Paul went to a flea market, and he came home with this basket (hello, ’80s Dusty Rose!) of postcards for me, for my own collection and to fuel my Postcrossing hobby. I’ve been looking through them, and I have NEVER SEEN so many vintage Holiday Inn postcards in my LIFE.

I think Lounge-Chair Girl is going steady with Standing Guy and wondering why he is talking to Leg-Flirting Girl. That’s a pretty dramatic side-part you’ve got going on there, Standing Guy.

Look, the Holiday Inn is fun for THE WHOLE FAMILY!

Many of the postcards are NON-motel-based, and so far the earliest one is postmarked 1903. NINETEEN OH THREE! It traveled through the postal system for 1 cent, and now here I am holding it 106 years later, while the original sender and recipient are probably—well, “no longer collecting postcards,” how’s that for tactful?

I’ve been poring over all the written-on ones, which so far include the early 1900s and also the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s (perhaps it would have been easier to say what I HAVEN’T found yet, which is 1920s and 1930s), and I have learned something important about human beings through the ages: we wrote JUST as boring postcards back then as we do now.

In 1913, Pinky wrote to Margaret on a postcard of a hospital: “Not quite like Burbank — but then you can never tell from the outside.”

In 1948, Sis wrote to Sis on a postcard from Hawaii: “Such a beautiful island wish I might stop over longer. Met Grady’s brother wife and baby who live here. Had a nice visit etc with them. Will write later. Was about all in by the time we landed here last night.”

In 1954, Louise writes to Angie on a postcard from California: “We are having a swell time. This is where we go swimming. The weather has been swell so far.”

In 1966, Elsie wrote to Frank on a postcard from Florida: “We are just beginning to get some good weather, now it is time to go home. But have had a nice time & found plenty to do.”

In 1967, Clara wrote to Mrs. Bruce on a postcard of The Golden Gate Hotel: “Arrived here March 3rd in same building as previous years. Weather is just perfect here. 400 apts in this motel, picture is of the hotel on east side.”

In 1976, Helen and Sam wrote to Nellie on a postcard from El Paso, Texas: “Have had a good trip & nice visits all the way since we left on the 12th. We’ll be leaving here for Phoenix tomorrow and will keep in touch.”

Not exactly the peek into the past I was hoping for.

They’re not entirely without interest. For example, isn’t it weird thinking about Grady’s brother’s child, who was a baby in 1948 when that postcard was written, and is now at least 60 years old? Freaky. And I do wonder how a “visit etc” differs from a regular visit. But in general the postcards might as well say “I need to fill up this little square so I can send this.”

Okay, this one is pretty good. In 1990, Linda & Matt wrote to Mom & Dad on a postcard from Aruba: “Hello. Having a wonderful time. We’re going on a quest. Snorkeling. Cave hunting. Shell hunting. May give the Tattoo Party a shot. Explain later.”

Whimsy’s Blogdrought Remedy for this week is choosing three of YOUR OWN posts for people to read. If you want to participate, leave a comment on Whimsy’s post and she’ll put you in the list.

Okay, so here are mine. I went back to fall of 2006, which is when I first sat at my computer thinking, “Swis…ter? Swis…tmas? Swis…ten? Swis…R Us? Swis…tergate?”

Earned Praise; Also, More Bitching About Dishes is, um, certainly NOT a post I’ve written many, many times with only slight variations to include different chores.

Barely Holding it Together is ALSO not a post I’ve written many, many times, with only slight variations to include different children and clutter.

Smelly is a post from shortly after I found out I was expecting Henry.