Open Letter to the Cat

And I shall sail my good ship across the world. Or at least to the other side of the living room.

Dear Smallest Cat;

It is a good thing you are generally delightful, because this morning’s antics would have otherwise been grounds for dismissal.

I have pardoned your 3am-is-for-fun-kitty-play-teims business before because none of it involved either destruction or pain. The occasional nose-boop or paw in my mouth during the wee hours of the morning, while a break in my natural sleep patterns, is sort of sweet. I like to believe that you are checking to make sure that I’m still alive, or just investigating the funny smell of night breath, as you are inexperienced in such things, being small and new. And so no big deal.

But this morning was a terrible thing to behold. Tho’ I am glad that you were able to put your cavorting off until 7am instead the usual of 3am, please note that this is Sunday, and I was up until almost two in the morning. Which is to say, 7am is a rather dreadful time to begin by knocking things over and breaking glassware beside the bed.

Small Victories and Laying Low

I managed to make it all the way to day 21 before I hurt myself. Which, I think, is a victory, yes?

Friend or foe?

My back is messy again, which happens periodically. I can’t blame it on the yoga – I mean, I could, but it would be a work in fantasy. Sometimes my back goes wonky from some really dumb things – for example, sneezing really hard. Or napping in the papasan chair*. There will be a sudden wet popping noise, and it hurts to walk for a week. Then, after I rest it a while, the pain just goes away. I’m pretty sure it was a sneeze again, this time.

So I’m resting it. Which is really boring. But if I don’t rest it, I’ll be eating Advil like M&Ms and complaining that my tummy hurts too. That cycle? Is for the birds.

Forty and Twelve

It has been quite the week! There is a crisis of bounty on my kitchen counter to mark that we have had Occasions this week: two angelfood (stuffed) cupcakes, half a pie, half a chocolate cake,  and a round tin of pink cookies. Also there are two slices of ice cream cake in the freezer.

You know that the pink treats are always the best treats, don’t you? It’s true. Will test drove the theory a few months ago on some cupcakes, and found it verifiable. I’m test driving it on the cookies this morning, and I believe it may be a global truth.

So I have turned forty. The only down side to turning forty I have found is the jokers. That whole over-the-hill thing? Totally for the birds. Thankfully, there’s only been one icky card to that effect, and it was from my brother, so it’s (mostly) forgivable. He makes it his business to be mildly inappropriate whenever he can get away with it; I’ve come to expect cards from him that make me wince. And in truth, I’m not so concerned about turning over a new decade. I didn’t much freak out about thirty either.

What I am concerned about, tho’,  is twelve. Our man cub turned twelve over the weekend, and that’s kind of a big deal. He’s in middle school now – seventh grade – and I suppose this is where things get hinky.

Blargh

Threw my back out, God only knows how, and now everything hurts and I’m walking funny – sciatica down my left leg, my hips are sore like the devil lives there, and  everything above them is bunched up in sympathy. I can’t sleep without waking up from stiffness every time I want to roll over. Even the gentlest of gently yoga (I mean to say, rolling around on the floor yoga) is a washout, and I’m running through Advil like candy. This is nuts. I know I need to move around to make the pain go away, but it hurts to move around. Anyone have a suggestion?