Involving neither work nor imminent death

Another definition of depression: how you feel when you know that those fantasies* that you've been building in your head** to occupy your time*** while on the bus-- or keep yourself from slamming your head on your desk-- will never come true.****

* Like the one about accidentally running into the drummer of your favorite band (who's cute but seems to live in the continual shadow of the lead singer who you are sure is a dillweed) and you give him directions to Powell's, which he appreciates so he invites you to coffee and between sips of vanilla latte laughs at all your jokes so you exchange cell phone numbers and emails and you start up an endless thread of text messages that binds you closer together than any one night stand would ever do.

** You know, the one with a place in the back, near some unused corner of your Occipital lobe, where you keep your plans for the bookstore or bar that you're going open up in a sleepy part of that European city you like so much where you can play your cool playlists that make all the famous comedians who come in regularly bob their heads in time to while asking you how you came up with such cool names for the cats you let wander unfettered through the bookshelves or bar stools.

*** Time that normally is spent composing the comment that you're going to leave in that blog that's both widely-read and beloved by all; the comment that forces the blogger to cede the point in defeat and generates hundreds of reponses declaring that your comment alone has "won the thread".

**** Not even the one where you don't say something unimaginably stupid to that one cute barista. Not even that one.

No witty title today

Almost 18 years ago, I was on my way into the health food store where I worked. I was going into my junior year at UCSB and had just moved into a bungalow in downtown Santa Barbara with my boyfriend and a coworker who later became "my crazy ex-roommate". As I headed up to the office to start keeping the books as usual, my future crazy ex-roommate stopped me.

"I can't believe you're not coming in here with the kitten."

Kitten? I saw no kitten. "What kitten," I asked predictibly.

The one in the box at the front doors, the one the guy was trying to give away. She hadn't finished her sentence and I was already back outside. I'm not sure she realized that by mentioning the kitten was a tacit approval to bring it home.

He was a little black scrap of a cat-- probably a few days too young to be away from his mother, but he was mine before I even picked him up. He was the last in the box, so I got to keep the box as well. I raced up the stairs to the office, enlisting a coworker on his break to keep an eye on my new buddy while I ran to Trader Joes next door for some basic kitten supplies.

He sat unnamed on my lap all day, purring the whole time. When it was time to leave I hid him in my backpack and smuggled him onto the bus. He was a perfect little gentleman and didn't make a peep. I honestly don't remember the boyfriend's reaction, but this kitten was so adorable he couldn't have put up much of a fight. I remember us laying on the bed, throwing out names with this little purring ball in front of us:

"Jeremy! "
"Hillary! "
"Boob! "
"Phd! "

That was it: Phd (pronouced "fdd"). It was perfect.

We already had 3 other cats, but it didn't take the others too long to stop hissing at him and start letting him snuggle up (even Tisha, who was a year older and even that young wasn't really into other cats). He purred constantly. Seriously, he was always purring. I'd never met such a sociable cat. He adored our other black cat, Neighbor, and was heartbroken when she was killed by a car. He grew up quickly and his enthusiasm for food soon turned him into a really thick, really long dude (that's what she said?).

I have had him for nearly 18 years, minus the year he was living with the now ex-boyfriend. Everyone who meets his immediately loves him. It is impossible not to love Dr. Phlyd, of the Rangoon* clinic for the terminally pantless.

All our cats are seniors now (Tisha's a year older than Phlyd-- she will outlive us all). But Phlyd (whose name gained an L and a vowel, courtesy of a roommate, a New Orleans Saints fan with a penchant for yelling out the cats' names like a European sports announcer celebrating a goal unit at the local sports arena).

Like me, he's always had some health problems. When he was 10 he got an overactive thyroid that had to be zapped by radiation, and he's always been a bit of a puker. About 2 years ago he developed a distressing cough, caused by an enlarged heart, which we have been treating with twice daily pills and liquid medicine. He is always a trooper, letting me clip his nails and swallowing his pills without a peep.

He has become a favorite at the vets-- every time I bring him in the receptionists, techs and vets alike yell out his name, much like the roommate who christened him. The doctors have a hard time listening to his heart, as he purrs too loudly for them to use their stethiscopes. He is beloved by all who meet him, as well he should be.

And now he is not doing so well. His weight has dropped from 10.1 to 8.8 in a month and a half. He spends most of his time underneath the table in the upstairs game room. He is still enthusiastic about food, but he doesn't eat much of it. He is a shadow of his former self, but he still purrs everytime he sees someone.

My heart is breaking. The vet is hopeful, but you can tell when she calls that she's putting a more positive spin on his condition. But his bloodwork shows his kidneys are failing. I can't tell if he's in pain (if he is, he's hiding it well), but he's so skinny I can't look at him without getting depressed. I can't even think about him without tearing up.

What am I going to do when he gets worse? Every time I drive him to the vet, I worry that I won't be bringing him back, even though the vets have not given any indication that he is near terminal. Whenever they take him to the back room to draw blood or just take him on the rounds to all the employees, I have to fight hard not to cry.

But right now I'm alone in this hotel room down at the end of the hallway, so I don't have to find a place to hide before I start sobbing.

*He is part Burmese and does, in fact, not wear pants.

We is bloggist

These past few weeks have been pretty tiring, what with all the anger. I've spent so much times obsessing about how stupid the work situation is that I've neglected to bore you with all the other stuff that's happening. Or not happening.

I am currently in Seattle for a week of training secretaries and attorneys to do things they'll never do. That's OK - I like being out of the office right now. I may get myself in trouble, though, since a few office Seattleans have been asking me about the recent hires and fires and I haven't exactly been toe-ing the upbeat line.

Like I ever do anyway.

But I have been doing other things in the past couple weeks. We went to see We Are Scientists about two weeks ago, and they were great. I wish I had done more research on them (besides listening to them), since the place we saw them was small and they were very approachable. And yet, I did not approach. Had I watched their videos or read their hilarious site I would have said something.

Or not. I tend to get giggly and stupid when I'm talking to a famous person*, so maybe it's for the best. They're not really big here, but they are huge in Europe (well, big enough to open for REM there). That'd be enough to turn me into a swooning teeny-bopper. It's for the best, then.

I bought a t-shirt at the gig, the one pictured above. I paid for it twice, because during the purchase the t-shirt lady was insisting I should get a small shirt when I assured her that no, due to my hulking shoulders and poor posture I really should get a medium. Not only did she win that argument (I was confused by something shiny, I think) but she insisted I hadn't paid-- when I totally had-- but I couldn't prove it. Harrumph.

Oh well, I guess it makes up for the fact that I downloaded their most recent album from what I am assured is a legal download site (I mean, it's right there in the name: these sounds are legal. They are legal sounds! Srsly!)

Well, that shirt has already paid for itself, if the currency we are talking about is cool points and attention from strangers. I had four people comment on my shirt, two of which were clerks at the local Borders Books. They each approached me, one asking "Can you please explain your shirt?"

I wish I had a better answer than "It's a band". If anyone has any better ideas to explain "I are scientists" I am totally listening (reading--whatever).

I overheard a couple people say "'I are scientists'. I don't get it." I would be interested to hear what they thought it might mean. Maybe this is a hipster Rorschach test; maybe it means all things to all people. What does it mean to me?

More attention. Yay!

===============

* I once had Garry Shandling come through my line when I was working as a cashier at a health food store in Santa Barbara. Here was my greeting:

"What brings you to Santa Barbara?" He replied, "The circus?"

Bleah.

How do you spell that shuddering groan the Simpsons do?

I am now about to share the number-one all time most embarrassing thing that's happened to me in my 38 years and 7 months. The one thing that even now reduces me to whimpers and rending of garments. This is the story that, when I tell it, elicits not raucous laughter but groans of sympathy.

It's not some mispronounced word or inappropriate phrase yelled at a stranger. It's not poorly-timed sickness in front of coworkers. It didn't happen in public, and it's not a funny vignette from my life. No one even witnessed this, it was just us two.

Even still, I don't feel an uncomfortable embarrassment, I feel shame. Shame because of who was involved; a deep shame of a personal nature that should never, ever have involved that other person. It is lasting and it is so sad that I still wince (to this day, even, were inclined to use that phrase, and I am not) when it pops into my head for no reason, like a champagne cork to the head from the table next to you at that expensive tapas place that puts too much mint in their drinks.

It is this:

I was once invited to a birthday swim party in high school. I was on my period, and I had never used a tampon before. The only woman around to assist me in understanding the mechanics of tampons was that woman.

Let that sink in. Roll it around your head like you're tasting it at a fancy wine bar: let the tastebuds of your mind pop as that bitter slab of my dignity withers and dies. Just try to pry the kernels of popcorn sticking painfully between your tooth and gum when you realize you know how that must have made her feel: pride that I "trusted" her to ask such an intimate question, the rush I'm sure she felt when she realized that she knew something that I did not.

Ok, that's maybe too much metaphor. Sorry. I'm trying to heal with words and sometimes tortured prose is the only way to make it work. I turn real emotions into imagined things that I can crush and stomp and hit and hopefully try to get out of my head.

But then I remember the story she once told of one of her husband's stays in the hospital. I have a lot of history with that lady that is painful to think about, but at least I wasn't married to her and I didn't nearly die having been kicked in the balls by a homeless guy.