The Little Things

I hate to keep talking about the cats, but it's hard not to when I think about them so much I even dream about them. Two nights ago I dreamt we were in a chocolate shop and there was a huge litter of kittens just roaming around among the truffles and nougats. (Hello, dream dream venue!) When I say "huge" I mean that in this one litter there were eleven orange kittens (I counted and couldn't stop telling everyone--"Eleven! Can you believe it? Eleven!"), as well as a handful of black ones, and a few brown tabbies. Before I realized there were so many of them, I was trying to collect them all in my gathering basket, but then when I realized what I was up against I just let them roam at will, stepping lightly among the soft-centers and cherry cordials.

That was the same night Simon dreamt that Linus had birthed some kittens of his own--triplets about half his size and a runt as small as a mouse. And then last night he dreamt he was in the refrigerator section of a market and when he looked in the cases he found them full of orange cats the size of yearling cougars and in various stages of death and cannibalicious dismemberment. Some of them were frozen dead and a few of ones still alive were snacking on the haunches of the others, both dead and alive. Ick. You know how sometimes the fire alarm in your dream turns out to be your alarm clock in real life? I wonder if Linus was snacking on Simon just before he woke up...

Last night while we were watching what we thought was going to be a cute, light romantic comedy (note: The Break-Up is not ha-ha funny), Linus was sleeping in my arms, on his back like a proper baby, and he began to dream. He was flapping his forearms, kicking his legs, and chomping on his ittle pink tongue (nom nom nom). His eyes were open but half glazed over by his third eyelid ("nictitating membrane," Simon corrected me) and he looked like he might be just a few twitches away from having a seizure. (Put your wallet in his mouth!) I wondered if I should wake him up just to make sure he was okay. "What if there was some sort of Freddy Kreuger guy trying to kill Linus in his sleep? Should I wake him up to save his life?" "No, Freddy Kreuger only goes after people." "Says who?" "That's just the way it is." "But based on what?" "Based on that's the only way it happens." "But it could happen to a cat. Just because it hasn't yet doesn't mean it won't." "It won't." "Why?" "Because, that's just the way it is." I hate conversations that end with "Because," don't you?

By this time you're probably looking for the point in all this. Stop. Save your energy. Ttoday I'm just feeling this need to document absolutely everything I am doing, thinking, or thinking about doing. (Kind of like Twitter, without the twittage.) Why am I doing this? Because posterity might some day wonder which week it was when the elevator stopped working in my office building and I almost fell victim to a double murder-suicide when the construction workers (who I'm sure broke the elevator with their incessant yo-yoing) asked what floor I was on and then snickered when I told them it was the very top one? (Note to Posterity: The elevator has been broken this week. The whole week. Now. The week we are in. Any maybe next week too.)

Oh, let's see, what else? Well, on Tuesday we were scheduled to have dinner with the pregnant woman and her husband, and so we gussied ourselves, drove over to their condo, and then, while they were upstairs making grilled chicken and asparagus and acorn squash and cupcakes, I could be found standing just outside their lobby doors watching Simon dry heave into a nearby shrubbery. He was overcome with a mysterious stomach ailment that knocked him out for a night, thus foiling our dinner plans just as we were within nosing distance of the appetizers (portabello pastries). This was also the night I was invited to an informal blogger meetup in honor of Schnozz's SF visit, and the night we were offered two free last-minute tickets to a whiskey tasting gala in the city. That call came while Simon was pacing up and down the sidewalk outside the condo fanning himself and trying not to hurl on the landscaping. Suffice it to say, it really sucked to spend the night at home bringing Simon glasses of ice water while he watched videos on his iPod in bed (poor baby!) when we could have been out partying at any one of three superb events.

When it rains it pours, though, don't it? In two weeks we'll be out of town for my grandparents' 65th wedding anniversary party, and it's just my luck that the party is the same day as (1) my photo group's outing (to Napa) and (2) a cheese and wine party (also in Napa). While I will no doubt have plenty of opportunity to take photos at the anniversary party, I can say without a doubt that the only cheese there will be thin-sliced and individually wrapped and the only wine consumed will be that sneaked (snuck?) from a hip flask. Ah, Utah.

I hope to be back next week (or maybe as soon as tomorrow?) with some real things to say. Something tells me this temporary love fling with minutiae is like my temporary love fling with miniatures back in my golden-hued youth. When I was eight or so I was in a bit of a miniature-collecting phase--tiny (of course) shelves lined with all those teeny-tiny replicas that didn't really do anything besides...be small. Itsy ceramic teapots that don't hold tea, bitsy porcelain cats that couldn't purr, weensy little irons that didn't heat up and only weighed as much as a dime. Sometimes the things that bring us the most joy are utterly useless, oui?

wrote Leah at 6:38 AM | Comments (15)