Cattywampus

An Epilogue to yesterday -- I am now on my first day of meds, so I officially have a scapegoat for everything that happens between now and the moment I get picked up by the police while in the midst of a three-state spree of aggravated assault, reckless endangerment, identity fraud, and public indecency stemming from exposing myself at various art museums.  One thing you have to admit about living in a culture where people refuse to accept responsibility for anything they do wrong: it's much easier to blame large multinational corporations, inanimate objects, and freeflowing emotions or mental states than our own inadequacies and dumbfuckery. (We've come full circle, boys and girls: the 80's were the "Me" Generation... welcome to the "Not Me!" Generation.)

And if anyone is offended by that last statement, the generic Wellbutrin XL I'm taking was wholly responsible for writing it.  

We now return you to your regularly-scheduled blog.

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So a couple days ago, my lovely fiancee warmly informs me that our pet-to-be can peel wallpaper with the stench of her cutesy-widdle-kitty-cat poo-stink.

Needless to say, I couldn't be more thrilled about bringing our pet-to-be up here so that it can demonstrate its newfound ability to clear a room and stank the new house.   I say "our" pet-to-be because I have-- in what we can either call a grand magnanimous gesture or a minor bout of idiocy-- folded like a wet towel to my wonderful fiancee and her children's wishes to bring along the kitten on their move from Florida to Indiana.  There, it will make itself a new home in our brand-new ridiculous-priced house, where it will no doubt mark its territory with its piss; spend a few formative months shitting on whatever happens to be around-- rugs, furniture, computer chairs-- until it gets its bearings and realizes that the litter box is in the garage; and sharpen its claws on whatever new furniture we happen to buy.  Overall, I foresee it turning the first few months of my new marriage into an exercise in reigning in sarcasm and watching our house depreciate in value.

Also needless to say, I am not a huge fan of cats.  That is completely the opposite of my lovely fiancee, who has yet to see a cat that hasn't made her go "awwwh," and want to bring it into her life.  This might not be so bad if she were, say, blind.  Or if, say, we could own two houses, one for the cats and one for me.  But neither is the case, and much in the same way attractive women in a bar can key on the one guy who's happily in a relationship as 'safe' and taunt him mercilessly with cleavage shots and innuendo (my lovely fiancee will be happy to know I don't go into bars anymore), cats from all over seem to notice that she's a cat-lover and do everything but molest her to get her to notice them.  It's like premeditated sluttery wrapped up in a furry coat.

My lovely fiancee can't help but fall for it, unfortunately.  She likes sites like LOLCats and I Can Has Cheezeburger, which are known for cutesy/humorous/saccharinney pictures of cats in cutesy/humorous/saccharinney situations.  I cannot fault her for this.  I would probably like both those sites if it weren't for A) the broken, butchered and massacred English that masquerades as 'cute' when it is actually what many 5th grade Language Arts tests look like, and B) the cats.

Almost every writer I know is all "How can you not like cats?! They're so independent, and aloof, and mysterious, and spunky, and playful, and insert-adjective-that-I-would-use-to-describe-a-heroine-in-my-novel!" And there is a very simple answer: I tolerate cats, sort of the same way I tolerate ebola viruses: I know they're out there, and generally I hope never to be exposed to them, but I realize if I do, it'll probably be something I have no control over, anyway.  And I can objectively admit that as creatures, they have a sort of regal air to them that's lacking in dogs.  Of course, that just means they're arrogant, aristocratic, and have a sense of entitlement.... so it's a bit like having a rich New England politician for a pet.   

What some people see as independence and aloof... ness, I simply see as a propensity not to give a flying fook what their owners say.  Cats will climb up on anything, no matter whether they've been "trained" otherwise or not (and whether that training has come with a gentle "shooshoo," with a super-soaker, or with my personal preference, a taser).  They'll jump onto furniture after you've shooed them away.  They'll jump on the TV.  They'll climb onto your food prep table.  They'll sit on your stove.  It is honestly a miracle of no small proportions that they even use a litter box.  They will happily follow whoever gives them food.  If an axe-murderer chopped our family up into bite-size pieces, but gave the cat a can of tuna, the cat would be happy and content and probably would follow the axe-murderer to his next few stops before the electric chair.  (And before the calls of "Cat Hater!" start, let me say that if children shat in my inkjet printer, scratched up my copies of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and sprayed in my briefcase, I would hate children, too.)

So people would very likely assume I'm a dog person.  Yes, but not so much, really.  Dogs are too much work.  You have to let them out to go shit in the yard, then you have to clean it up unless you're really keen on stepping into it later.  And while they can dissuade burglars, they require a small metric assload of space, and most of them are dumb as a sack of hammers.  They do love you unconditionally, however, which is a huge step up from cats, who love you only as long as it suits their purposes to do so. But no, I'm not a big dog fan.

Personally, I prefer fish.  They're quiet, unassuming, calming, and excited to see you when you come near them.  They require very little food and no personal contact, and they won't move out of the area in your home that you set aside for them.  When they go to the bathroom, it won't be on anything of yours.  And what's more, when they inevitably kick off, they aren't all that hard to get rid of.

And they don't like cats.  Which makes them pretty damned intelligent in my book.

Medicated

It's a big day for me today.  And that's sort of odd, because it's not as though it's some great anniversary or birthday or anything.  At least, that I'm aware of.  Given the size of our family and my newness at being a true significant other, it is entirely possible that I have forgotten an event of some sort and royally pissed someone off with that last statement.  I tend to do that.   (As an aside, in case you didn't know, our family is big.  At family gatherings, you are a small voice in a cacophony of laughs, stories and contentious points being made.   The chances of you being able to carry on a legitimate conversation at one is somewhere near the chances of you being able to hear a pin drop on a busy airport runway.)

No, it's not a special day just because it's the second day of this blog, either.  (On another tangent, I did not even realize that I started this blog on the anniversary of President Kennedy's assassination.  Some folks that are smarter than me would probably say there's some sort of ironic symmetry about that, I'd imagine.  But they can make those sorts of leaps in eclectic thought-- that's why they get paid to write, while I get paid to never fully understand how a largely-automated job can possibly be so difficult for so many people.)

Nope, today is the day that I take step two in my plan to get myself back to being the creative force I used to be.  And this might be the most difficult one, too.  Today I go see my doctor and I talk to him about Viagra.

Oh, shit.  You mean that doesn't expand your mind, too?  Well, that's  a big "fuck me on stilts".

Actually, I'm going to see him about seeing what sort of medication we can put me on that will keep away this anxious, oppressing gloom of depression without turning me into either A) a completely unproductive drooling vegetable or B) a bubbly flower girl named Rainbow Jubilee.  Cause God knows, A) I am already desperately close to being a drooling vegetable; my weekends are largely filled with watching the wall of my room and wondering if I can change paint colors with my mind rather than doing something constructive like... maybe writing, or maybe art, and B) my lovely fiancee will probably stake me through the heart with a digital tablet stylus if I start singing how the hills are alive with the Sound of Music or some crap like that.  

But, you know, even with my insurance, there's like a $25 co-pay at the doctor's office.  Maybe I should just load up.  You know, how you try to get all the preventative maintenance done when you get your oil changed, or buy all your Christmas gifts in one run to keep your trips down?  Maybe I ought to look at this as an opportunity.  Buy one procedure, get one free.   "Yeah, I'm really happy we can get me set up for Wellbutrin, doctor.  I'm also having a little trouble sleeping, I have muscle spasms at times, and you think it would be too much to ask to slap a couple inches on my pud while I'm here?"

Hell, maybe I could get a rain check on the buy-one-get-one so I can use it later, kinda a just-in-case for when we've finished up with the move.  That way, in case I strain my vertebrae lifting the couch; or find after the fact that I have an allergy to cats, ferrets, or married life; or we decide the vasectomy honestly cannot wait for a few months, I can take advantage of it then rather than waiting for a big sale when I have to buy it with a six pack of Darvocet or Propecia.

Or maybe I'll just deal with one issue at a time.   Someone once told me that dealing with one problem at a time rather than a dozen was a good way to keep the anxieties away.   Course, maybe if I listened to them a lot more, I wouldn't be in the sort of situation where I needed to see a doctor to get my creative mojo back in the first place.