Fat Biscuit

Cat . . . Maybe?

We're so close to getting a new cat. We visited a local shelter on Sunday and left having put one cat "on hold." The shelter now needs to call our former veterinarian and make sure we are decent pet-owners. Hopefully, by Thursday we will get a call saying we can pick up Reese. Reese is the cat, obviously. We had originally planned on getting a couple of young siblings (2 yrs.) that we spotted on the shelter's Web site. However, when we saw those two in person, they seemed terribly scared. Reese (4 yrs.), on the other hand, came up to us several times and seemed much more laid back (just like her future owners, cough). Isn't it sad that when you're discussing cats, a mere "came up to us" feels really playful and extroverted? 

Owen can't wait to get Reese. I can't wait to buy a lime green cat collar for her. 

While Tending My Shelves

Today I am reminded again how nice it is to work at home: PMS and a happy day at the office cannot coexist. 

Yesterday I was not yet afflicted with the womanly curse and so enjoyed my volunteering at the library, followed by a few hours of editing. Schools should mention to all MLS candidates that a few physical maladies are sure to follow them in their future careers as librarians. First, you will have terribly dry hands. Second, you will feel as if you are covered in dust at all times. Third, your hair will be a frizzy mess. All this because of the library climate. 

I've also wondered if librarians are ever the victims of violent outbursts or acts of terrorism; it seems plausible because libraries are open to everyone and often form a haven for homeless and mentally disabled (see last paragraph). Could this be a paranoid thought? Perhaps I'm the one whose mentally disabled.

I perused several books of interest while ostensibly tending my shelves. I described the creepy Lincoln's Assassins: Their Trial and Execution to Taylor last night in bed (because what sleep preceded by talk of executions isn't sound?). Of course, he already knew everything I described to him and had even seen the haunting photographs by Alexander Gardner of the four conspirators (including Mary Surratt) being hanged, side by side on a long platform. In one image, the dangling bodies are blurry, as the victims struggle before dying. 

The most egregiously misfiled book:  The Colossal Book of Mathematics, which had somehow made its way to the 970s from the 500s. 

The least appealing book based on title: I Want to Juggle.

The most striking title:  Big Enough to Be Inconsistent.

Most annoying patron: The twenty-something leather-clad guy, who not only had to ask a neighbour how to slide open the outlet cover, but then spent his time listening to music on his laptop. He wore headphones, but made such a display of air-drumming, with arms flapping and feet tapping, that the headphones became moot not mute. I wanted to punish this guy for being socially awkward. 

Pancakes and Scarves and Boy Briefs in Pink

It's trying to snow outside, but it's not going to amount to much. I go out and buy a summer scarf, and the spring weather steps back and a series of chilly, drizzly days follow. Regardless, Taylor and I are making the switch to a spring-like dinner menu: most dinners are composed mainly of a large salad. Last night, though, we whooped it up and had a pancake dinner (with blueberries thrown in to make it "healthier," like that's possible). 

Yesterday, I bought a floor cushion from the Orla Kiely for Target line, placed it on the floor in front of the kitchen sink, and then promptly tossed the old red rug in the washing machine. (I'll probably donate the rug, but either way it needed a clean.) I didn't check the washing instructions, but this rug was hand-wash only, which I realized as soon as I opened the washing machine. 

Now Owen has a couple pink pieces to add to his spring wardrobe: a pair of boys' briefs in a subtle rose wash and a hooded skateboard tee, with the hood in a lovely strawberry hue. He'll kill me. He loves that skateboard shirt. I might just hide it and hope he forgets it ever existed. 

I visited a friend a couple days ago, and when it was time for me to drive home, I gave her a hug goodbye. And that got me thinking, How many "hug friends" do I have?  I suppose for some people, every friend is a "hug friend." Not me, though I've gotten more huggy in my old age. How many "hug friends" do you have?

Roll Over, Roll Over

Last weekend we were in Richmond, babysitting Ben while K and A were in the hospital having their new baby boy. Owen was genuinely helpful the entire time. He's decided that he wants to be Ben's big brother, or rather, his "pretend big brother." It's strange for Owen to feel this much affection for another kid, let alone a 2-year old, and I've considered the reasons for this particular bond. I think Ben not having an older brother makes Owen more fascinating: everything Owen does is cool. On Owen's part, he relishes this attention and enjoys protecting and taking care of Ben. Those two have also had a lot of one-on-one time; maybe they can just tell that their daddies are best friends so they had damn well better get along!

At bedtime, Owen insisted on sleeping with Ben, so we three piled into K and A's bed (sorry, guys) to read our book and fall asleep. Then I sang "Show Me The Way to Go Home" until they both drifted off. Shortly after that, I heard a loud bang, like a gun shot. Blue flashing lights appeared in the bedroom window, so I got up to peek out. Two cars had collided in front of K and A's house, and a couple cop cars were there to sort it out. I imagine at least one of the driver's was drunk. It took forever to get the accident cleared away, and at some point I fell asleep. 

Early the next morning, A arrived to say hello and to take us to the hospital to visit K and the new baby. Pretty perfect weekend, actually.