The other night, S climbed into bed and apparently wasn’t as high up toward the headboard as usual, so his feet were hanging off the bottom of the bed. Totally sincerely, he asked, “Am I getting longer?”
So remember how S and I tried sleeping at the wrong end of the bed Tuesday night? Clearly, it was a strange night for us. This is also evidenced by the fact that we had the following conversation:
Me: How do they make styrofoam?
S: From the sea.
Me: Shut up.
S: No really. Look it up. It comes from the sea.
Me: Sea foam?
S: Exactly. There are villagers who collect it and take it to a factory. The temperature is really high inside the factory and the sea foam starts to ionize.
Me: I bet they poke holes in it like they do with cheese to control the curing process.
S: Indeed they do. It cures for about 10 days initially (but only if that falls on a Monday or Wednesday) and then workers come and poke the holes in it. But because it’s so hot in there, the workers’ sweat falls into the holes –
Me: Which starts the oxidization process! I bet the length of the additional time it cures dictates what kind of foam it becomes.
S: Yes, at 10 days, it becomes memory foam. At 14 1/4 days, it turns into styrofoam.
Me: Yes, but it’s a tricky process. Because at 14 3/4 days, it liquifies and turns into lather. Then they have to take it back out to sea to be washed and cleansed and recollected. (pause) You’re weird.
S: I’m serious! That’s where it comes from! Foam comes from the sea. I’m telling you, look it up.
Me: Why is it you can only snap with your fingers? Why not your elbows or your knees or your toes?
We said goodbye to the best cat that ever was last Tuesday morning. By Wednesday, I couldn’t take not having a snuggly wuggly buddy and we went out to the local shelters in search of a new kitty. Don’t get me wrong, Dizzy is a very sweet little boy, but he does NOT understand the concept of curling up next to you and purring contentedly. And let me tell you, both my lap and my sofa are zoned by the city for snuggling. Especially over the last three months following Dad’s death, I’ve needed that cuddle time. And now grieving for Satch, I need it even more. So we found a couple kitties we were interested on Wednesday and went home to talk over our choices. There were two in particular who immediately climbed up onto us when we sat down, and who told everyone else wandering past for a tickle that we were theirs, thank you very much. Both were girl kitties, so S and I started trying to come up with girl kitty names. Here are the ones my husband rejected:
No idea why he didn’t like any of those. He’s weird. I fought very hard to not let him name the black kitty we were considering “Spooky.” Did I forget to mention that S is really a 7 year old? Anyway, since we’ve named all of our past kitties with jazz musician/vocalist names, we settled on Keely, after Keely Smith who was the female vocalist in Louis Prima’s band. The next day, we went back down to the shelter and adopted the one we’d settled on, a sweet little black kitty that they were calling Hillary but who they insisted wasn’t into politics. I think she’d be excellent at politics because she is quickly establishing that she is the alpha kitty, even though she’s about half the size of Dizzy. Her diplomacy skills need some work, however. Every time he gets anywhere near him, she bats at him. They are slowly working out a peace treaty, but I suspect she’s secretly still plotting to murder him in his sleep.
The people at the shelter said that black cats are harder to adopt out because people are superstitious. Man, it ain’t easy being black in America. You can see where she might have a few issues…
More to come as her personality emerges, but for now, here’s a pic of our new little Keely girl:
This weekend, my mom came down to visit. Now that she doesn’t have to take care of my dad, she can travel more, so we’ll be taking turns visiting each other instead of me always driving up there. On Sunday, we got together with family for lunch. As we were sitting down to eat. S found two lucky pennies on his chair. No one knew where they’d come from, but for me, it made it feel like my dad was there with us. After lunch, a couple of the adults went out to hide Easter eggs for my cousin’s toddler. To distract said toddler while they were doing it, I taught him how to hide heads-up pennies and say, “This is going to make someone verrrrry happy!” And so the tradition continues.
Also this weekend: I sold TWO realist paintings. The first was the Saxophone painting. It went to a friend, which makes me really happy. It’s hard saying goodbye to pieces that are meaningful to you, and with my dad being a sax player and with my mom and I having used the painting as the front of our thank you cards to everyone following the memorial celebration, this piece means a lot to me. Knowing that it’ll be with someone I know and like who plays music, too, made it easier to let go. The other piece was the Violin head painting. That one went to a stranger, which gives me a little thrill. It’s exciting when your work goes to someone who doesn’t even know you, because you know it’s really about the piece itself, so it’s validation of your work.
So, all in all, a good weekend. And on my walk today, I found 4 lucky pennies and a 4-leaf clover. It must be my lucky day. Yay pennies! Yay art!
At the grocery store last night, the female cashier was singing along with the music they were playing in the store: Alicia Keys’ “This girl is on fire.” When S got to the register he said, “Preparation H should help that. Just rub a little on and it won’t burn so much.” My husband, ladies and gentlemen. Thank god the cashier had a sense of humor.
Unlike most people (i.e., my husband), I tend to actually read the instructions when I get a new power tool, or install a new light fixture, or buy furniture that needs assembling, or get an electronic toothbrush. Generally, they’re dull and mostly unhelpful and full of scream-warnings about how you’re going to go straight to hell if you turn the fan on to check that the motor is working before installing the blades. However, the instructions for the nail gun were phenomenal. They included all sorts of helpful pictures like this:
I have no idea what this means, but I’ll do my best not to do whatever Fig. U is telling me not to do. My other favorite picture was quite clear, but I love that it’s included, just in case:
I don’t know why, but to me the men look kind of like burglars, since they’re dressed all in black. I’m confused about why they’re not wearing shoes, but who am I to judge? Regardless, the next time you and your buddy are burgling a house and you come across a nail gun, do not – no matter how tempted you are – chase him and try to nail gun him in the ass. An injured partner will not make your getaway go more smoothly. Just sayin’.
Also, I just noticed the figure above that appears to be telling me not to stack pennies in front of the nail gun. I guess the nail gun doesn’t want to be verrrrrrry happy!
Today is my husband’s birthday, so I’m pretending all day that my world isn’t ending and that I am not the center of the entire universe. To my wonderfully weird husband, happy birthday. I promise that your cake this year will look better than last year’s attempt at fancy cake making:
On our trip down to and back from Florida, we kept smelling these really horrible smells, and I think, secretly, we each suspected the other person of being the culprit (though it was probably water and waste treatment facilities causing our faces to crinkle in odor-induced pain). We have strict no farting in front of each other rule, because S is convinced that girls don’t do that, and if I’m not allowed, he’s not allowed. He did make an exception for me one time about 12 years ago when he was driving me home after a colonoscopy.
Anyway, on the way back, there was one stretch that was particularly malodorous, and I told S to roll down the windows when it seemed like we should have been past the point where it smelled and would hopefully be able to get what was lingering in the car out. Nope. Rolled down the window and almost gagged. Who the hell has to live with that smell all the time?! We decided it was tribe of indigenous people who had lived with it so long they no longer noticed it. And we decided the tribe leader was named Speaking Colon, and he had won the right to be the tribe leader because he was the gassiest tribesman. And when they gather for tribal meetings, instead of blowing on a horn or passing a pipe, they passed gas. I think that’s the most likely scenario. Yup.