Philosophizing about life, kittens and ice cream

I had been getting my writer’s mojo back.

And then my son broke his leg.

This is Bodhi and Sammy.

And we got a pair of kittens.

I learned a long time ago that things never go back to “normal.”  Normal is broken legs.  And kittens who are so gosh darn cute that you just want to stare at their tiny perfection and listen to their little furry motors all day long.  Deadlines be damned.

Normal is car accidents and insurance claims.  Jury duty.  Spilt milk.

I am 47 years old, and I’ve learned to roll with it as best I can.

We live in a tiny town that has an ice cream parlor.  The ice cream is handmade and is really, really good.

This year, they’ve started a new promotion.  They advertise a “flavor of the week” for $1 a scoop on a sandwich board in the parking lot.  A normal scoop costs about $3.50.  The “flavor of the week” lasts for as long as the ice cream does.  We have been stuck on S’mores for about two weeks now.  Which, surprisingly, is not that great.

Every day I go out, I drive by the ice cream shop to see if there is a new flavor listed on the sign.  This makes me happy.  I like small town life.  I like being in the know.  I like this tiny bit of excitement.

I like that the “flavor of the week” could last for a day or a week.

I text W the flavors while she is at work without any kind of explanation or background.

“Blueberry marshmallow.”

“Raspberry cheesecake.”

“Orange cream.”

She always texts the same thing back: “?”

Because she is in the middle of work, and I am randomly texting “Graham slam.”

I find her standard response comforting. Comfortable.

So, that’s me.  I like simple and same.  I like surprises, too.  But little ones.  Like a scoop of rainbow sherbet for a buck.

Not big ones like, hey, broken leg.

Although kittens are such a joy.

How could you not stare at this tiny face forever?

But whatever life scoops out, even a giant bowl of S’mores, I can handle it.

Pre-holiday update on Murray the kitten and letting go

With the holidays fast approaching, my posts have been infrequent at best.  So, I thought I would offer a brief update on the latest in my flannel-filled world.  C’mon, you know you’re dying to know what’s been going on with Murray the kitten and that letting go thing.

• I called my best friend the other day and told her once again how I wanted to fill all of my holes with cats.  She laughed hysterically.  “That’s quite a picture,” she said.  “When I say holes, I mean heart-wrenching emptiness and aloneness,” I replied.  My friends are assholes.
• I have not found Murray the Christmas kitten.  Yet.  Truth be told, I haven’t been looking very hard.  I’m a big believer in that whole if-it’s-meant-to-be line of thinking.  I know that when the right kitten needs a home, she’ll find us.  I don’t want to just go and pick out the first available kitten that I see.  Oh, yeah, I guess that one will do.  I did that with my first girlfriend and that ended horribly.
• W told me that it would be totally ok if I got a kitten.  Which I appreciate immensely.  I know she would be ok with me getting pretty much anything — like a boa constrictor or a Russian orphan girl — if she thought it would make me happy.
• I’ve been thinking that maybe we should foster kittens instead of just adopting a single cat.  I imagine fostering to be like a constant conveyor belt of cute cuddly kittens.  They’re so fluffy!

Yeah, a conveyor belt of kittens. That’s what I need to make me whole.

• I went to therapy last week and pretty much all my therapist said was “I hear you.”  That’s all that you’ve got?  I hear you?  It was pathetic.  I mean, how screwed up are you when there’s nothing left for a licensed professional to do other than listen?  No advice?  No how could you have handled that differently?  No what’s the story you’re telling yourself?  No how does that make you feel?  It was like having a therapy session with Mr. Potato Head if he was only wearing his ears.

I hear you with my giant pink ears!

• I’ve been working on the whole letting go thing.  I find that some things are much easier to let go of than others.  I feel like I need a letting go mantra.  Yeah, that’s what’s holding me back.  A kick-ass mantra.  Letting go, letting go, letting go … I’m letting go.  That’s what I’ve been using so far.
• A gourmet cupcake shop just opened up down the street from us.  I frequented the shop twice last week to buy cupcakes for two celebrations.  I became agitated (read: obsessed and stalkerish) after I learned that the shop sells a cupcake that takes a shot at my collegiate alma mater.  Turns out cupcake shop owner attended a rival school.  I told W that I want to open up a competing cupcake shop in the empty storefront next door.  I have crafted a diabolical plan of vengeance in which I run the new cupcake store owner out of town  and insult her university using animal eyeballs purchased over the Internet.  W tells me that I’m ruining the new cupcake shop for her.

Patent pending

Murray Christmas!

I have decided to fill all of my emptiness and holes with cats.

At first, I thought about bringing home a brand new kitten on Christmas Eve.  I figured that I would scour all of the local adoption places and pick out the perfect kitty.  I would make plans to pick up the kitten the day before Christmas and then surprise the whole family with a kitten in a box.

Surprise!

A box of kitten.  A box of wine.

It just goes to show that boxes of stuff make awesome gifts.

Maybe I’d dress her up in a little Santa hat or place her in a fur-trimmed stocking.

I can hear the “awwws” as I type.

A few nights ago, I told W that I wanted a new cat and wanted to name her Merry.

“Why would you want to name a cat Mary?” she asked.

“Not, Mary,” I said.  “Merry.”

“Murray?!”

“No, not Murray.  Merry, as in Merry Christmas.  M-e-r-r-y.  But, now that you mention it, Murray Christmas would be an awesome name.”

W thinks that I pronounce certain words like banana and ruin and now, obviously, merry incorrectly.

Anyway, I’m quite smitten with the idea of a female cat or kitten named Murray Christmas, or just Murray for short.

But then I had an even better idea that would ensure a constant, never-ending stream of furry, adorable felines.

“We should foster kittens,” I casually informed W last night.

No!” she replied immediately without even giving the idea any thought.  “I would get too attached, and they would make a giant mess in the house.”

I told her that I was just researching the subject and assured her that I hadn’t signed us up for anything.  Yet.

Then I mentioned that if she wasn’t into fostering cuddly kittens that need to be bottle fed and socialized we could always volunteer to trap feral cats or feed feral cat colonies.

“I’m not sure what those jobs entail, but they were listed on the website,” I said.

Now, fostering a few sweet, soft kittens is looking pretty good to her.

So is Murray Christmas, for that matter.