Enjoy this serendipitous break from an Excessively Somber Period of Blogging!
I don't have much money. I'm poor, in fact. Not entitlement poor, more like, receiving 60% of my 2000 salary with no adjustment for cost-of-living or any inflationary trickeroos poor -- and using that money to support a household, pay a caretaker, fork out over $15,000 on health care (with insurance, even the blessed PCIP), and all the usual -- maintaining the sexiness of Ruby the Honda CRV, and keeping her legal, paying the mortgage, and having every animal in our care up to date in shots and vet exams. Hell, the year of Little Boy (Uncle Kitty Big Balls), because of Fred's deep love for him, we payed close to $5,000 trying to save the dear soul's life. I have to say, though, that had the vet involved been a better vet. a more honest vet, we might have stopped torturing him several thousand dollars earlier.
Lest you scoff at my "I'm poor" by pointing your pointy finger at my list of financial accomplishments, I should add that I never eat out, haven't been to a movie theatre, much less La Scala, in over a decade, and some claim that "generic" is my middle name.
Also, I make my money grow by playing the market.
That's right. The socialist owns GOOG [but the rest of her portfolio is so deep in risk that she ain't revealing anything more, lest your mere scoffery turn to disgust].
Anyway, this is my way of explaining that I bought a new video camera. It was a deal, a steal, and a good choice according to Fred's Bible, Consumer Reports, Tête de Hergé edition. There was much ado about how easy it is to use, though I admit there was not a specific warranty of ease of use when the photog has one good hand, and a fumbling one, at that.
So far it is defeating me. I don't get the zillions of icons offered on the LED screen. Just tap! It's easy! Without proof that one of those symbols won't launch an ICBM, I cannot willy-nilly start choosing picto-signifiers. I have a conscience.
But this morning, which came too early, I thought I would at least try to take some still photos. And then show them, describe them, say things, any things, to help destroy the iron bars behind which I pretend this writer is penned, blocked.
So... like many of my kind, after I inject myself with a few drugs, take 7 pills, go pee,and climb into the wheelchair, my first act of the day is to make coffee. As you ought to know, we harbor three cats in our wing of Marlinspike Hall -- Captain Haddock issued orders that they no longer are free-ranging throughout the Manor, what with the claw-sharpening activity in the Tapestry Alcoves and all: Marmy Fluffy Butt, Dobby (her son, the runt), and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten (no one told us he was a Maine Coon).
These three insert themselves boldly, and sometimes rudely, into the coffee-making plan by performing intricate death-defying patterns around the wheels of this power chair. "Feed us, feed us, feed us," they chant.
At which point the absurdity begins. I manage to get three bowls filled with fresh and tasty kibble and on the floor, in the required layout. Marmy will only eat out of the red plastic bowl; Dobby and Buddy prefer the metal bowls, but then purposefully set out to eat from each receptacle. The two water bowls must frame the three food bowls like parentheses. Change that and one of them will make the subtle point of their dissatisfaction by, for example, eating with one paw in one water bowl, and filling the other water bowl with half-chewed bits of kibble.
But, finally, coffee.
Oh, here is a picture of my new kettle. I broke my café press a few weeks ago. Might have been the same day I killed the video camera. So I dug out one of our many Melitta drip cones and went back to that most honest form of coffee-making. In the process, I noticed that my Paul Revere kettle was leaking. As in, the solder was breaking down, the seams were separating. So I went online to my new favorite pastime -- FAB -- the rule in force being "no purchases allowed, because you are poor, no matter how well GOOG is doing."
But they had this kettle, and it was cute, and it was on sale, and it is now on my stove (in our private kitchenette, as it is hardly appropriate for the more demanding heat requirements of, say, the Medieval Kitchens).
|New red kettle from FAB|
Okay, so... it's heavy, the kettle. I have already poured boiling water onto my lap, neatly missing the Melitta cone, because I couldn't hold the lovely shiny red thing up high enough to pour the water in over something not made of my flesh, like the counter. But I will figure it out. This morning, I put my coffee-making stuff in the sink, reducing the height requirement of the kettle heft. [You will either understand that last sentence or you won't. I can't help you.]
The video camera, when plugged into the limping-along computer, has lovely edit functions for my visual artistry. Unfortunately, the red of the kettle was lost in the necessity to tone down the severely dominating whiteness of the stove top's enamel, even the whitey glare of the pitcher and old cookie jar that hold my cooking utensils.
The red, the red, it is not right.
Okay, so the cats are fed. The coffee is made and, if necessary, burn balm applied to my upper thighs.
I turn the wheelchair in the direction of early morning television news, the computer, and a bed into which I can dive when pain spikes.
Dobby always disappears about five minutes before I make my slow journey to the bedroom -- slow because I'll be damned if any more coffee is leaving the mug, unless headed for my caffeine-starved self.
The photo at the top of this post? That's what I find waiting for me on the bed -- without fail, and thankfully so, for it makes me smile like no body's business. Dobby, laid out, and ready for his requisite ten minutes of loving.
He wants, first, a fierce belly rub, then a sensual ear massage, easy on the right one. He then finds the comb and brush dedicated to his use, and his use alone, and knocks them on the floor. Why we have to go through this particular part of the ritual, I dunno, but I don't change things because he's cute when he tries to get tough.
The grooming begins in earnest, and lasts as long as my right arm can wield the brush and comb.
After ten minutes, usually, of attention, Dobby is faced with three options:
- He can play with Buddy, who has taken his place at the foot of the bed, and is vocalizing like a loon.
- He can curl up and take his first nap of the day.
- He can grab the comb, freshly cleaned of his fine gray hairs, growl, shake it, and run off with it looking like a 19th century train robber who scored gold.
|Marmy Fluffy Butt, giving me the Evil Eye, and badly in need of grooming|
|Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten|
© 2015 L. Ryan