Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Twist and Shout! Squirm and Yowl!

I apologize if my blog has become a subspecies of MSNBC, a sad-sack simulacrum of policy wonkiness, a frizzy and frazzled, very fuzzy firewall of feminism, a wailing wall of brother worship, and a kibble-driven, scratch-behind-the-ears yowling orgy of feline fascination.

I'm so sorry if my blog showcases personal fixations on heroic bald scarred kids -- though I draw the line at any mention of "angel wings" -- and on Fred, himself heroic and scarred, but defiant of baldness.

Do I weep with regret for forcing you to read abject descriptions of even the most minute cattle prods of CRPS spasticity?  Do I sniff and snuffle for stuffing my pain into your brain?  Am I embarrassed by the profusion of photography of purple feet?  O!  I do, I do, and I am.

Apology, regret, and red-faced shame:  Check, check, and check.

Who says I don't get through my daily To-Do Lists in an efficient manner?  It's the Etch-A-Sketch version of blogging.  Or is it more akin to a good Catholic confession?  Shake it up baby now... Hail, Mary!

Uploaded by  on Mar 31, 2008

There.  Ah, the bearable lightness of the unburdened soul.

Now that the evangelical, conservative wing of My Dearest Readers has been appeased, can I get on with it?  Because things are just going to shit around Marlinspike Hall and if I cannot vent with wild abandonment, my head will explode -- and how many times can that happen before it leaves me somewhat neurologically impaired?

Okay, so I retired my CRPS quilt.  It was a lovely hand-stitched thang, washed twice a week for ten years of so, and therefore softer than any damn baby's butt.  However, the loose threads and disintegrating batting became an obsession for my little OCD feline, Dobby the Runt.  I've swooped down upon his nibbling little head and extracted a good 10 inches of thread from his tiny esophagus.

You'd think that defeating this dangerous compulsion would be a good thing, pure and simple. I found online, and on sale, a twin-sized quilt of all cotton, made in India (where they know what to do with cotton), pretty (but not in an obnoxious quilty way -- it recalls a forest floor more than a hunter's cabin), and soft as all get out, even before it's welcome home dip in the washer.  What I really wanted, but could not afford? A quilt made of recycled saris. But I know my place among the 47%... and buying a quilt made of recycled saris might upset some numbnut's understanding of poverty.

I know, also, that cats are creatures of habit.  I get Dr. Jon's newsletters.  I read the best vet columns.  We have a boatload of pheromone sprays that purport to "calm your cat" in times of change and stress.  You know, like when you retire a ratty quilt and replace it with one that doesn't put your animal in danger of intestinal obstruction.

Her troop being on sabbatical from crazed touring, and having moved from our supply of fine merlot toCaptain Haddock's collection of heavy, square, green bottles of rum, Bianca Castafiore has taken to burrowing her ample derrière into my favorite arm chair, snug in one of the few corners in our round bedroom here in the West Wing private apartments of The Manor.  She's fascinated with animal behavior.  She also hums and mumbles that damned signature aria of hers, incessantly, loudly --

[Comment n'être pas coquette?        
Comment n'être pas coquette?]     

Ah! je ris de me voir  
 si belle en ce miroir,   
Ah! je ris de me voir  
si belle en ce miroir...

which doesn't help a whole lot.  The Castafiore somehow encourages the current rampant insanity that reigns among the Feline Triumvirate regarding this new quilt.

I try to drown Bianca out with combinations of television, radio, and my preferred musical choices, none of which come close to Gounod's Faust.  My head aches from the noise.

But worse than the brain pain are the aches, scratches, and bruises I am sustaining from the well-planned blitzkrieg attacks on the new quilt, under which is curled, unfurled, and nuggled -- mine own body.  Dobby started it, of course.  

He jumped, all lighthearted and Dobby-ish, as only a Dobby can be, onto the bed and then, as if in a Romney elevator, ascended a good 3 feet in the air.  The cat was growling like a dog when he landed back on the bed, glaring at the quilt and giving me the stink eye.  Stiff-legged and goose-stepping, he approached the quilt... and sank his needle-like little teeth into a section that happened to be covering my right calf.  Then off he ran, to organize the troops.  I decided to let the blood and accumulated lymph drain freely, because otherwise I'd have to deal with the half-cackling, half-singing Drunk Diva, and my ability to resist coldcocking her was poor, at best.

Anyway, as I've been stuck in bed, due to a perfect storm of Stuff, neither my quilt nor I look terribly appealing.  Bloody, bruised, wrinkled, subjected to round after round of coordinated feline terrorism and operatic bullying, dehydrated, and febrile...

So, Dear Readers, you may tire of my Obama-gushing, my knee-jerk liberalism, and how very much of a sucker I am for all things whimsical, but you must grant me this one outlet for the expression of the unbelievable pain and abuse lurking just beneath the sparkling, reflective surface of the moat encircling Marlinspike Hall.

Truth to Power!  Truth to Power!

I have a new quilt:::I am the Voice of the Oppressed.  Someone please call Tante Louise (and tell her to have the SWAT team bring coffee).*

*Where is Fred, you ask?  Have you ever heard of the hyperfocus aspect of ADHD?  Last I heard, he is transcribing Wagner's Ring Cycle for ukulele and guitar.  Unless the Valkyries evoke some vague memory of me -- as they did, once upon a time -- Fred will be unavailable for several days.  Help!

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