Call me disgusting, but the Cigarette Smoking Man is probably one of the best, most evil villains on television. (I hate having a thing for older men.)

...remember to bring your eye bleach before sitting down and reading this little gem.

Teaser: Women who believe that they have married Severus Snape in the Astral Plane. This is too batshit insane for me to have made it up...just go...see this shit for yourself.

So my husband and I have been throwing around the idea of packing Obento on a daily basis to combat hunger and increasingly wonky schedules. Although both of us have been hunting for nice looking Obento on j-List and other places, nothing really catches our eyes. This morning, it hit me:

Gladware.

There's a rectangular gladware container that is wide enough to accept a layer of rice on one side, and then food and cups on the other. (Maybe wax-paper or silicone cupcake cups.) So I could make short grain to pack on one side, then make gyoza, cut fruit, matchstick carrot, and other stuff on the other side. On top of that, it's a clear container, which is not very stylish, but it gives interesting hints about the ghetto-y obento-y goodness within.

I've been craving Onigiri, and it's been ages since I've had some with the beef-ginger-red pepper filling that I like so much...so today I will clean the kitchen from my last misadventure, and set to making the filling for these things. I also need to get some Pho noodles soaking in one of the big bowls, since I suggested that I'd make Pho with shrimp and fishcake for lunch. (Come to think of it, that shrimp needs to be thawing.)

Damit, I shouldn't write when I'm hungry.

I woke up at three-thirty, thirsty and shifty in bed, unable to nudge myself back to sleep. Dazed, I'm settled on the couch in my darkened living room. From here, the only sound is the air conditioner's ever-present hum, and Killit occasionally stirring up on the cat tree. When I close my eyes, reducing the room to charcoal and soot, the monitor is a darker blur, the negative image of the bright screen following my pattern of eye movement.

"Brrr?" Inu asks, staring out the window. "Miiiiurrrr?" She's high pitched and sitting on the sill, cooing at the translucent geckos that hunt and feed, perched on the balcony walls near the light fixture, their S shaped bodies seeming sandy and pale against the green paint. I know Inu does this because it happens every night around this time. Now her high pitched little cry is behind the couch, and I can hear her going to my closed bedroom door, rolling on the floor, claws flirting with the bottom edge. She hates closed doors, even if there is nothing on the other side - when the potential to go into a room is taken away from her, Inu is aware of it, and complains.

She has always been a small cat, but I am hoping that within the next year she'll have one of her due growth spurts and become bigger. One in the second-to-third year, then one in the fifth, and then Inu will be finished growing for good.

Oh, she's woken up her Papa. Time to go back to bed.

It's been a long, hot day. Lack of sleep has made me bleary-eyed and stumbling, but the need to actually function has demanded that I stay on my feet, wandering around like a brain-hungry creature. naelpe and I drove through the business park where I will begin working at the end of the month to try and find her a position somewhere close by. The idea of visiting one another on our respective breaks, or just keeping each other company on the drive there and back was mutually appealing.

So I'm wired and excited about the call I got earlier, and so I decided I'd spend my hopped up hours in the kitchen instead of rolling around in bed trying (and failing) to sleep. The grocery store in the middle of the night is such a fucking luxury...no babies crying, no self-important earth mothers shoving their cart past me as though to run me down, no old ladies dawdling in the middle of the isle. The air in a grocery store during the day smells like spoiled vegetables, unwashed skin, and cheap body spray - each woman walking by, with a few rare exceptions, bears their own 'signature' scent that is often enough to make my stomach flip flop.

At night...it's pristine, well-lit, quiet, clean, and smells like fresh veggies. The isles are cluttered with stacks of incongruent boxes, and stockers so involved in their work and wrapped up in their headphones and music that they are barely aware of my passing.

Ground Lean Turkey
Egg Roll Wrappers
Mung Bean Sprouts
Spring Onions
Julienned Carrots
Savoy Cabbage
Ginger Root
Clove of Garlic

Since I was working from the hip, I didn't consider that a thicker thing than gyoza (which will cook through during the frying and steaming) wouldn't be completely done before the dough wrapper was. The first egg roll ended up being nearly burnt on the outside, and raw on the inside. After several attempts at skillit-frying then steaming them, as I do with gyoza, I discovered that the heat couldn't penetrate enough to cook everything well.

So, I dug around in the pantry and found what was left of the peanut oil that we use in the woks. Dumping some of that into the skillet, I tried frying the rolls instead of skillit-cooking them, but the result was the same...burnt outside, raw inside...so after the problem was made absolutely obvious, I did the...well...obvious thing.

I cooked the filling. Granted, the veggies were already mixed in, so the texture is weird, but hey, a mediocre egg roll is more than I expected with this experiment - so it was already a success. After stir frying the ingredients and draining/pressing them, the new rolls were soggier to make, but definitely done on the inside, and the frying process only takes about two minutes total, before the wrapper is crisp and textured.

Voila! The first egg rolls are a success! Now I just have to get the flavor right.

The phone call I've been waiting for just came.
My day just became so much better than it was.

-does the crab dance-

I went to my apartment complex office a few days ago.
Mentioned that I needed to update my pet information.
Explained that my oldest, Blue, had passed away.

I get a call yesterday saying that they pulled my file.
That I owe $800.00 to the apartment complex.
In 'pet fees' that I never paid when we moved in.
Now, I remember paying $400.00 and being told:
This is for your pets, 300.00 for the first one.
Then an additional 100.00 for the second one.
I'm looking up bank records and our lease...
...because I don't buy this shit for a second.

Granted - if I did overlook it and I owe a debt.
That's my fault...and I'll shut up and pay it.
But I don't buy it...and I don't like that it's being
dumped on me right after Blue died...
...AND I paid his leftover medical bills...
...AND I just had to pay my overpriced rent...
...AND because this was started by me trying to do something nice.

BUT (-squee-) THE CALL I WAS WAITING FOR
FINALLY CAME...so for now, I don't give a fuck about the debt.

Citalopram for Manic Depression, Thyroid for Hypothyroidism, Yaz for Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, B-Complex for the B Vitamin deficiency caused by the Yaz, Fish Oil for the Omega 3 Fatty Acids, and a Multi-Vitamin because I eat so damned badly (when I actually remember to in the first place.) Soymilk to wash it all down, leaving sediment on my tongue.

I turn 27 today and I'm taking a small meal of pills. That said, I feel really good when I wake up in the morning. I want to get up, bathe, get dressed, and get on with my day, like a real person, to sit at my desk and write, like a healthy person - instead of the straggly, bathrobe-clad writer in the sheets all day and only emerges long enough to look for a diet soda in the empty fridge before procrastinating everything possible and curling back up in her nest of bedsheets and unfolded clothes. It's good to look forward to life instead of hide from it. This year is going to be a good one.

Maybe I'll have a rice cake too...
No midnight snack is complete without something crunchy.

To keep myself occupied, I've spent the last few days mothering my hermit crabs more than usual. There is nothing quite like playing the Evil Overlord of the Entire World and All It's Tiny Inhabitants - or at least, when I reach into the tank, I feel that way because every little beastie cowers in terror and hides in their shell. (Except for Cloverfield, who waves his huge claw at me and makes a noise like a rusty bed spring. Hard to tell if he's defending the tribe, or being my supreme Prophet among the savages.)

In goes a fresh smelt, it's silver sides seeming greenish in the fluorescent light. Everyone waits in silence, as still as possible, as I change the food and water, and then disappear again into the Outside. All eyes, all antennae, all antennule - turn toward the new object in the tank. The Professor gingerly drops from the grapewood perch and walks over to it, tasting it, immediately realizing that it's food...good food, food that everyone in the tribe likes.

Naturally, he's not the only one. Fidel Castro saunters over, reaching with his feeder claw, tearing a chunk free and bringing it to his mouth parts. After chewing thoughtfully for a second, he turns and flicks his antennae at Professor, a warning gesture, which sends the smaller crab fleeing back up the grapewood to his favorite perch, staring down dismally at what is about to begin.

The game has already started, Castro eating alone, his medium sized shell marking him as the wrong place on the totem pole for eating first. Stalin, the big bully of the tank, drags over and gives the smelt a tug. Castro creaks at him and grabs the smelt, then literally -RUNS- to the other side of the tank, dragging the fish the whole way, pushing it into his tunnel and eating as quickly as he can. Stalin is not far behind him, crawling over Castro's polished green shell, rolling him out of the way, and taking the fish, hauling claws to the other side of the tank, and pulling the smelt behind the cork bark.

This has attracted the attention of Trotsky and Lenin, both of whom descend the cork bark and begin to shove Stalin around, stealing his lunch money (err, fish), and getting a few big bites from it before it is torn in half, leaving Stalin to try and steal one of their pieces while they abandon one and carry the other back up to their spot. Fidel Castro has taken this intermission to come to Stalin's preferred side and snatch the smaller piece, running through both water bowls, over Cloverfield (who is perfectly happy chowing down on shaved coconut), around Crowley, Boudreaux, and Thibodeaux, (no, I'm not from the South, why do you ask?) and crashing into one of the corners, the sound of clinking shells audible even with my headphones on.

Up on the grapewood, the Professor creaks his irritation, and turns toward Cousteau and Beastie, who have joined him on the perch and are looking down on the melee with great interest, their antennae waving wildly. Castro and Stalin settle down in the corner and eat as much of the smelt as they can stand, then leave the rest for the smaller crabs to destroy after dark.

Castro 1
Stalin 0

Timing is everything, and with Blue still on my mind, I'm not sure how well the job interview went. I'm familiar with one of the other people applying, and so the competition is going to be pretty stiff, but even if I don't take the position - I'll be okay with it. I should be spending my time writing instead of working at a gaming store, however I need to get outside, even a few times a week, and I'd rather be there than just about anywhere else in town.

We'll see how it goes.

Guilt is killing me. The thought of, 'what if I'd seen it sooner?' or 'was this really the right choice?'. Rationally speaking, I know that it was the right thing to do - but convincing my emotions of the same thing is a challenge. If we had caught his condition sooner, his food could have been changed, and he might have lived longer - but despite new food, he would have felt unwell, and his health still would have declined. Our fault lies in not noticing it and doing something about it sooner.

Lesson fucking learned.

The little things are what get to me. I still catch myself referring to 'the boys', and when feeding time comes, I still wait for him to come to the kitchen. Going in and out, all three of us reach to shut the door quickly, still anticipating one of Blue's frantic escape attempts. (He was quite the door-ninja.) Dozing on the couch between loads of laundry, half-asleep I kept expecting him to come cuddle on the denim of my long skirt. He always loved dark colors, charcoal, black, deep blue, green, whatever aesthetic sense Blue had was pleased by those shades.

The others are adjusting. Killit seemed to understand when we let him see Blue's body. Killy walked in, sniffed at him, examined what he could see, licked his fur a few times, and then turned away toward the closed door, asking to leave. He immediately went and found Inu, who was playing in one of the windowsills, and sat with her for a while. That night he grieved visibly for a while, laying on the couch in silence, not wanting to be touched, just watching television next to me - then eventually when I laid over, he stood up and got closer, and cuddled up in my arms, the tiny rumble of a purr escaping him as if to say, 'it's okay momma, you still have me.'

Inu skipped a few meals and lay in the cat tree, facing Mr. Saturday's altar on the wall. She watched the lit candles for a while, eyes-half open and gazing - she didn't get up for a while, and although I don't think she understands that Blue is dead, (it's so hard to write that), she does understand that her playmate is not coming back. Killit has been sticking pretty close to her, breaking away to go walk across his Papa's keyboard, or be cuddled by either of us. Though it doesn't feel like the right time, everyone has been trying to play with Killit and Inu as much as possible, and they seem to enjoy the attention.

I'd sleep, but I dream about him. Sometimes it's memories, but more often it's about a mistake at the vet's office, or burying him alive. I wake up and think to myself hazily, 'thank god it was just a dream', and a second later, 'oh fuck...my boy is dead.'

Do all parents go through this?

I've had Blue as long as I've known my husband. When we found him, he was a scrawny, long-tailed little thing with huge olive eyes. There was never a kitten so animated, so bright, so curious and full of energy. I loved him from the moment I saw him...convinced my mother that I would take care of him, despite already having two others, Meanis and Mischief. He had an abscess in his belly that had to be treated almost immediately after taking him in...he would have died if we hadn't taken him to the vet, but despite the fever, he was fine.

We blamed the fever for his change in temperament, but I don't think anything really changed...he just got older. That curiosity was still there, he still loved new things and new people, still brightened any time something new was brought into the environment...and though he was moody, he was always my little boy...and he always came back to me when he thought no-one was looking.

Blue loved bathrooms. When he was a kitten, he had to be kept in a bathroom while his abscess drained. I spent several hours a day in there with him, sitting on the floor, giving him his medicine, petting him, playing with him. He loved the smell of moisture in a bathroom, and from then on, any time I took a shower, he was waiting for me to get out, rubbing and purring in ways he never did outside of that time in that place. There were a lot of times when Fortuna and I moved in together that I would be late for work because I was petting Blue - but I didn't mind.

When Killit came, he was a tiny little orange ball that occasionally hissed and spat. He was terrified of Blue, hissed at him through the door of the pet crate, but Blue wouldn't be deterred. As soon as he had a chance, he climbed into the little box, cornering the kitten, ignoring the paws batting at his face, and began to groom him...Killit eventually stopped fighting, and Blue became 'Momma', keeping an eye on him, sleeping with him, helping him find his way around, not letting him be alone. They've been good friends ever since, and the two of them have weathered a lot together, although in the last few years, Blue slowed down a lot.

One of his favorite toys was a crushed up ball of paper...it would figure that a writer's cat would play with her discarded ideas. Just last week I made a toy from a rod, some string, and a paper ball, and he and I ran back and forth across our apartment, him chasing it, chewing on it, trying to keep it still, then chattering when it leaped off the floor and bounced along the carpet, his thick tail swiping back and forth, Blue the mighty hunter. He had fun, I'm glad he had a chance to play one last time before his health began to fail...I like to think that he played so long, and so hard, despite being tired, because he wanted to say goodbye.

He'd been sick all weekend, a stomach bug we thought. Sometimes he would eat too quickly and be sick, and so it was overlooked at first...but when the vomiting became dry heaving, when he was too weak to clean his paws, when he became lethargic and moved at barely a walk, we knew something wasn't right. This morning, when I woke up and found him facing a corner, barely turning his head to acknowledge me, I knew something wasn't right, but I wasn't sure what. I suppose I was hoping that he was just dehydrated, and so we packed him up and took him to the only vet clinic that was open.

I started to worry when the vet turned on that hard-faced cheerfulness...it felt false. When the blood work came back, she explained that Blue had kidney failure, that it was chronic and that he had less than 25% of one functioning organ - that they could try to save him over the weekend, but even if he came out of it, he still wouldn't have long to live, and that his quality of life would be poor at best. She didn't have to say it, but we both realized that putting him to sleep was really the only humane option. I have never cried so hard in my life. All I could think about was that I wasn't ready, that HE wasn't ready for this - but I guess the world doesn't slow down for anyone. Blue has always been terrified of Vet offices, and so they gave him a sedative so that we could visit with him calmly, so that he wouldn't be afraid. Fortuna and I petted him, talked to him, cried over him, tried to make sure he understood that he was loved, that we needed him, and although he might not understand what was happening, it was for the best.

She slipped the syringe into the catheter, and within a few seconds (it was so terrible and fast), he had gone limp, the little purr he'd managed was silenced, and he took a few deep breaths, settling into a drugged sleep, his aching belly finally, after two days, giving him some peace. Feeling him go limp was hearthbreaking...I couldn't look at him at first, and while the doctor waited, I swallowed down what followed and petted him, begging Mr. Saturday to take him where he needed to go. The second syringe came, and the doctor waited with a stethoscope against his ribs, listening to his last heartbeat while Fortuna and I looked on, both of us crying, waiting.

"He's gone," she said.

We took him back to Pleasanton, where he'd been born, where I'd found him, where Fortuna's parents lived. We buried him in their backyard, near the fence where the cows roam just past the barbed wire. He loved beef in life, from the little bites we fed him as a stray, to the ground meat I'd drop 'accidentally' in the kitchen while he chirped and begged...so he has whole cows now, and grass, and bugs to chase, and we think it was a good place to lay him. Fortuna gave him a paper ball, and I took a claw and some whiskers to remember him by before putting him into the ground.

I will always love him. I will never give birth, but HE was my oldest son.
Blue was born in the summer of 1998. He died today, May 2008.



More pictures of my boy can be found here.

Student at Wise University writes a story with 'dark' subject matter, and is subsequently reported by the professor on the grounds of being 'mentally ill.'

Nice quote from the article: "I want to be at Wise, so I would write about butterflies and rainbows."

From this angle, all I see moving back and forth are the wrapped leaf-balls of tall hedges, occasionally the edge of a straw hat. They work in pairs, talking to each other as they wander the same path on the sidewalk, looking up at the cats crowding the window, staring down at them. Between bouts of watching the groundskeepers and trying like hell to convince them that he's a hostage, Blue is having his usual talk with the blue jays, a high pitched little chatter, accompanied with an overabundance of drool.

I've been reading 'Plague Zone' by David Wellington, a novel released freely online. Although his writing style is distracting, I love his premise for how zombies exist - that the condition is caused by a type of cranial meningitis. Not once in the book does he call them the z-word, instead using the term 'droolers' for the ropey black spit that always pours from their mouths. Admittedly, I spent more time reading than I should have, and so I'm behind on my word quota, yet again. I'm not demanding