The Dobster and Sammy 2/5

Two observations:

• You, gentle reader, still don't know with whom you are exchanging mental fluids. This, of course, is not your fault. The author assumes all fault.

Here on Etterbeek Lane, where I am curled up under a favorite handmade quilt, laptop balanced on one knee, we are five.

There is a man. He is 15 years older than me; He is my way better half. What shall we call him? I tend to call everybody "Fred," much like Barbara Lewis Hare Krishna Beauregard calls everybody "Carl."

So, there is Fred.

There is me, the retired French prof -- and no, I will not apologize for using French in my own damn blog. Get over it. Suck it up! Boeuf bourguignon! Les Deux Magots! Jacques Cousteau and your mama!

Ah, but I am complicated. Worse still, I am in charge. MwaaaaHaaaHaaa!

So on occasion, I commune with Bianca Castafiore, and en revanche, au contraire, à l'inverse (Whoop Whoop Whoop! French alarm! Stop the insanity!) -- and, for her part, Bianca finds within me the wherewithal to sing the [same] sad song, one more time.

The rest is easy. Fred and I have three cats. Pictured above is Dobby (our little idiot) and Sam-I-Am. Dobby's mother, Marmy, is not particularly photogenic. Read: she thinks the camera may well siphon away her soul...

Oh God. I am a Crazy Cat Lady.

• The last thought and observation for today -- because today has been somewhat long -- is an acknowledgement of my verbal chaos.

Sure, I'll 'fess up. My writing is a mess, and my neurological pathways merely torturous. Nonetheless, I choose to be defensive and unyielding at this point in our relationship.

Let me undress in the dark for a while.