Easy A

So Stella went to the vet (I know, again, right?) this week. She lost a whole pound, so she's the Biggest Loser in our semifunctional little home. Finn, on the other hand, is gaining weight. I seem to be "maintaining," as they say. That's such a shite term.

Anyway, the vet gave her an A+. No shit. See Exhibit A.

Really, the excitement in our home is the fact that the weight loss means Miss Stella can wash her own ass. Yep, you read that correctly.

Before, the poor girl just couldn't reach--I didn't know this was possible; I've seen some big kitties get in there good and take care of bidness. But as I watched Stella more closely, I realized that was indeed the issue. She would put one back paw up, stage a front one on the floor, and start to clean. Except she would really just end up spinning herself around on the floor and coming out with a clean knee. These were dark days in clean-cat-ass history.

This is obviously not my cat; it's not spinning.

And there's nothing worse than being woken up by a loving furry friend who kinda smells like bad cheese. I had a boss like that once, back in college. She smelled like bad cheese. She was also a big girl. I'm not sure that she spun herself around on the floor when trying to wipe, per se, but there were definitely some reaching issues.

I haven't had Stella for quite a year yet, and I initially thought her dirty bum was some holdover issue from all the abandonment she dealt with. You know how trying foster kids can be--you've seen this past season of Parenthood, right? But soon enough, you call them Lil Slugger. And they look up at you and call you Mom. Everyone ends up at the town hall, signing papers while laughing and crying about how good life is.

That is kind of how I feel about Stella's clean ass. I want to laugh and cry, all at the same time.

...they said

It's been a pretty typical winter for me. Everyone complains about the cold--and I don't like scraping my windshield every time I go outside either--but I like hibernating in the winter. I like long lounging jammy weekends, reading and sipping hot chocolate, cooking soup and stitching. While some others itch with cabin fever, I'm happily working on this:

It's so tiny, and I love it. I don't particularly like the stitching part (it's a real poke-through-and-pull method, rather than making x's across the row) or the need for glaring light to see the holes in the cloth, but I love the way the images start to emerge. And that it's just so dang dainty. Like me.

Of course, with winter comes sickness. And those of us here at Chez Mill Girl are not immune. It started with the kiddos. I've never seen a cat with a cold before. And how does a house cat get a cold anyway?

When they're not beating the shit out of each other, Finn and Stella are very cute.

However it works, they got it. And in this cold weather, I have to say that being a single mom is a bitch. Two cat carriers; two sniffly, sneezy cats; two sets of sad Mumma-don't-do-thisssss cries. Enter one slightly wacky cat doc who talks in rhetorical questions ("So do I know what is wrong with them? No, I don't. Do I think this is just a cold? Maybe it is." Sigh).

Both cats are overweight, they said. So now all of us are on diets and pissy. And then they gave me three kinds of meds to administer. This tube? Just roll out a quarter inch, they said. Rub it in each eye, they said. Well the cats said "fuck that," and that's all there was to it. We got through the rest of the meds with minimal scratches and most of our dignity.

Then I got sick. No need to post pictures of that. And it wasn't the flu, or that horrible stomach bug going around. On more than one occasion, I was approached by sick people at work. "I don't feel well," they said. Go home. "Seriously, it's weird. My stomach hurts, and I feel tired, and..." Go home! Now! Ack! Get out!

And I thought I was getting away with it--with not getting sick. Look at me, all healthy and stuff, sailing into February. Then I went to the Portsmouth Music Hall to hear John Irving speak. Very. Slowly. And. Deliberately. About. How. Fucking. Fantastic. He. Is. But hell, he's John Irving. And he is pretty fantastic. Incidentally, I heard some of it replayed on NHPR a week later, and they did some mad editing, yo, on the dead space. Between. Each. Word.

The Writers on a New England Stage series is excellent. Check out the podcasts on nhpr.org

After the reading and interview, I ran into some colleagues who had also attended. One felt her throat. "I don't feel very well," she said. And I had to admit that during the performance, I had started to feel crummy too. And just like that, I joined the ranks of the sniffily, gross people all around me.

And that's when the big news came: It's going to snow, they said. It's going to be a "crippling" storm. It's going to rival the Blizzard of '78. It's going to blow your fucking mind! Hunker down and get ready to see some magic. And it's called Nemo. *wrinkles brow*

Go to the store, they said. Get batteries and water, they said. We're all gonna die, they said. And I went to the store to buy ingredients for a soup to live off of for three days and some kitty litter. When I saw the unimaginably full parking lot, I grinned at the challenge. How bad can it be, wondered the cynical girl who had no food in her fridge or litter for the cats to poop in. Well, it was pretty fucking bad. The line wrapped from here to Calcutta, and the I-live-alone-and-am-buying-a-can-of-soup-so-I'll-check-myself-out-thanks lines were closed down. Bastards!! I had to stand in line with my dinky little basket while people stood around me with full-on carriages packed with dozens of bottles of water, 24 rolls of toilet paper, real Armageddon-type supplies. Hell, I got home and realized I was on my last box of tissues and cursed bitterly while pulling a fresh roll of toilet paper from the bathroom to take to bed with me.

And it snowed. And it was a pretty good storm. Not as bad as I thought it would be, though a couple times I heard the building shift in the wind. And it's a mill. So that was uncomfortable. But all in all, it was just a good storm.

And now I present the obligatory Blizzard of '13 ("Nemo") pictures. Roll the tape, Addy.

Upon waking.

Yes, cars were buried.

It pretty much snowed sideways for 38 hours.

 

Finn was not sure what to make of it.

 And here's where it gets awkward.

I put 4,368 layers on and went out midday Saturday, while it was still doing its thang, to do a first clearing off of the car. When I got to the lot, this is what I saw.

Um, there's absolutely no snow on my car.

But when I turned around, these were the cars directly behind me.

I shit you not. Left: 17' of snow. Right: nada

This is my shovel. And the moment when I ask myself why I'm single.

So I wandered around in the quiet afternoon, watching people start to dig out.

Yes. I took a picture of a woman taking a picture. Because I have no shame.

Newmarket was awesomely quiet.

 

In the evening, the restaurant downstairs wrote on the facebook that it would be open for dinner. With glee, I got semi-presentable and went downstairs for some fine dining and bar chat with pig farmers who supply the restaurant. Not a bad way to end a snow storm.