There, there's that finished and I'm still here. Nyah-nyah.
Heartache and grief didn't kill me.
This Covid19 thingy is out there, so time will tell; 'til then, still ticking.
Elusive employers & a lack of interviews hasn't kept me from breathing.
Driving alongside absolute idiots in cars on I-75 daily - still here.
Last May's heart episode - and subsequent double concussion - HA!
Shed pounds; found more; lost others; holding my own.
Survived the horror of a would-be Quality Engineer. Buh-bye.
The morning is evaporating quickly, so I must get up and move on with this day. Even though I will still be here when it is finished, the time will be lost.
4.25.2020
Moving on - sort of
I've been wanting to write lately ("lately" equating to from around December 2019 to about now), but ran into a couple of technical issues that kept me from the blog. As you can tell, things are right again (for the time being), so here we are, and here we go.
It's a bright, beautiful Saturday afternoon. The boys are cuddled up and napping, and since Odin currently is hunkered in 'the tent', I feel obliged to remain in bed, too. Yes! It's after 7:45AM and I am still in bed, so calm your jets. Do I have a lot of things to get to...things I should already have accomplished after all of these weeks of flying solo? That would be an emphatic "YES" (- doesn't everyone?), but I seem to have skillfully managed to fritter away so many weekends finishing very little after starting so much. [grimacing]
Let's blame it on:
- the doldrums, or
- the blues, or
- rewarding myself with weekend laziness for having made it through another week, or
- Covid19. Goodness knows this pandemic is the root of all unhappiness at present.
Oh, and in case you've lost track, my lovely girls are all gone now. Old age and health issues have taken sweet, outgoing, robust Cleo, her glorious-but-skittish litter sister (and Blue Cream Maine Coon) Flop, and lastly our mouthy mama bean Hobbes.
After Clee and Flop departed we found Hobbes was depressed and lonely in the kitty partner category, so we adopted/rescued an older sweet street waif - a gentleman through and through - we named "Jake." He was in worse than rough condition, and diagnosed with extremely advanced FIV (feline AIDS), but none of that could tarnish the desire to add him to our brood. Jake was priceless and one of a kind, but besides all of that, he deserved a home and an easier future (for whatever remained of it) - even though it only ended up lasting 5.5 months.
November found us looking for another companion for 'Beana', and she was quickly joined by a totally different sort of brute in the form of an immense Red Maine Coon we dubbed "Booker." Book was a thin-ish juvenile (judged to be around three years of age by the rescue vet), rambunctious and rag-tag in his furriness. He needed some love and care, and a place where he could learn to feel safe once again. He hated my crying over Jake from time to time, and had no issue hissing at me to express his dissatisfaction. I have to admit to being somewhat terrified at his full-faced hisses, and lack of desire to be held, so it's little wonder there was good cause for confusion and trepidation about this new addition.
While he and Beana were excellent company from the start, we humans were held at bay in the get-to-know-you arena. I should say that was true more for me than Karl. Book took to Karl at the beginning more than to myself, and I had a hard time adjusting to the whole thing in general. Don't get me wrong, I loved Booker - I wanted to show him this - but we did not hit it off at the first, and I am not an inwardly patient person. Outwardly, people see me very differently...but this is of little consequence to the story at hand.
A few months later we came to the end of Hobbes' earthly reign, and it was time to search for a companion for Booker. This was not going to be easy or straight forward...and perhaps Book would have been alright as a solo house cat but, truth-be-told, I needed to have another kitty. After all, this had been a three kitty household (and family) for the better part of twenty years!
Once again our purveyor of rescue cats, Dottie (the bringer of Booker and Jake), stepped up to ferry a new rescue into our lives in the form of Odin (formerly dubbed "Possum"). His hard luck story has been told here before, so I won't bore you with it again. If you need to review, you can find it by clicking the label "Odin," and all entries pertaining to our little rapscallion will be at your beck and call.
It took very little time to get the boys integrated - granted, it took more time than other introductions had in our shifting feline dynamics - but less than it could have with these two strong male personalities. Before long, they were comfortable and silly with one another, and we had a working, co-habitating family once more. If you haven't seen it, I put together a very short photo display of the two boys ("the Twins" as we called them), and I will try to locate it and include it in the blog. It shows Booker and Odin, in napping form - and always, ALWAYS with Odin inching closer to Book, until one day...boo yaka shah! [thanks for that, Faraaz]
After less than three years in our arms and beds, and everywhere in between, Booker's time on earth came to an abrupt end. It took the rest of August and all of September for Karl to allow even the possibility of finding a new addition to our family. Odin was in tremendous need, and I was, too, but Karl was torn apart and unable to permit himself the thought of another addition. So, one day while he was out and I ran errands, I came across a roadside rescue event...and the rest is history.
Moving on is not always easy, but it isn't always difficult either, it's just a process. Sometimes the process is messy or protracted. Sometimes the process requires additional steps to be added to the flow chart. Sometimes you don't have anything more to the process other than simply getting up each and every day and surviving until the sun sets and you crawl back into bed. This is where I have been lately, stuck in the get-up-go-do-make-it-through-and-get-back-to-safety routine. I am trying to put distance between myself and my miserable recent past. Depression, the doctor said, and here's a pill for it.
Well, I said "no thanks" - maybe it was a wrong decision, I know it cheesed off one friend - and I am still finding my way around the fuzzy corners and through dark mental hallways. It looks (in my emotional-mentals) like a long dark space (not unlike a wide corridor), and every so often I come upon what I swear would be a doorway. There's a narrow beam of light piercing the gloom, as if from under a closed door, but when I get to the wall where the 'door' should be to feel for a doorknob or handle, there's nothing. I get down on my belly to look under the door, but have the distinct feeling of fear that I am far too close to the edge of being on that floor and falling over instead of seeing something tangible in the space where the light is existing.
Sorry, that's the best way of describing how it feels. It makes taking chances seem futile and overwhelmingly frightening, and so it is safer to keep to myself. Don't reach out; leave your hands at your sides and be careful. See, it feels if I reach out - instead of receiving help - I might actually accidentally push people (family, friends) away...over the edge and out of my life. If I do nothing, if I keep my hands to myself, I won't be doing any unintended harm. Does that makes sense? Don't pull people down and don't push them.
Maybe I am doing it all wrong, but I am also not moving forward (good) or backward (not so good). However, I'm also not moving on.
[sigh]
It's a bright, beautiful Saturday afternoon. The boys are cuddled up and napping, and since Odin currently is hunkered in 'the tent', I feel obliged to remain in bed, too. Yes! It's after 7:45AM and I am still in bed, so calm your jets. Do I have a lot of things to get to...things I should already have accomplished after all of these weeks of flying solo? That would be an emphatic "YES" (- doesn't everyone?), but I seem to have skillfully managed to fritter away so many weekends finishing very little after starting so much. [grimacing]
Let's blame it on:
- the doldrums, or
- the blues, or
- rewarding myself with weekend laziness for having made it through another week, or
- Covid19. Goodness knows this pandemic is the root of all unhappiness at present.
Oh, and in case you've lost track, my lovely girls are all gone now. Old age and health issues have taken sweet, outgoing, robust Cleo, her glorious-but-skittish litter sister (and Blue Cream Maine Coon) Flop, and lastly our mouthy mama bean Hobbes.
After Clee and Flop departed we found Hobbes was depressed and lonely in the kitty partner category, so we adopted/rescued an older sweet street waif - a gentleman through and through - we named "Jake." He was in worse than rough condition, and diagnosed with extremely advanced FIV (feline AIDS), but none of that could tarnish the desire to add him to our brood. Jake was priceless and one of a kind, but besides all of that, he deserved a home and an easier future (for whatever remained of it) - even though it only ended up lasting 5.5 months.
November found us looking for another companion for 'Beana', and she was quickly joined by a totally different sort of brute in the form of an immense Red Maine Coon we dubbed "Booker." Book was a thin-ish juvenile (judged to be around three years of age by the rescue vet), rambunctious and rag-tag in his furriness. He needed some love and care, and a place where he could learn to feel safe once again. He hated my crying over Jake from time to time, and had no issue hissing at me to express his dissatisfaction. I have to admit to being somewhat terrified at his full-faced hisses, and lack of desire to be held, so it's little wonder there was good cause for confusion and trepidation about this new addition.
While he and Beana were excellent company from the start, we humans were held at bay in the get-to-know-you arena. I should say that was true more for me than Karl. Book took to Karl at the beginning more than to myself, and I had a hard time adjusting to the whole thing in general. Don't get me wrong, I loved Booker - I wanted to show him this - but we did not hit it off at the first, and I am not an inwardly patient person. Outwardly, people see me very differently...but this is of little consequence to the story at hand.
A few months later we came to the end of Hobbes' earthly reign, and it was time to search for a companion for Booker. This was not going to be easy or straight forward...and perhaps Book would have been alright as a solo house cat but, truth-be-told, I needed to have another kitty. After all, this had been a three kitty household (and family) for the better part of twenty years!
Once again our purveyor of rescue cats, Dottie (the bringer of Booker and Jake), stepped up to ferry a new rescue into our lives in the form of Odin (formerly dubbed "Possum"). His hard luck story has been told here before, so I won't bore you with it again. If you need to review, you can find it by clicking the label "Odin," and all entries pertaining to our little rapscallion will be at your beck and call.
It took very little time to get the boys integrated - granted, it took more time than other introductions had in our shifting feline dynamics - but less than it could have with these two strong male personalities. Before long, they were comfortable and silly with one another, and we had a working, co-habitating family once more. If you haven't seen it, I put together a very short photo display of the two boys ("the Twins" as we called them), and I will try to locate it and include it in the blog. It shows Booker and Odin, in napping form - and always, ALWAYS with Odin inching closer to Book, until one day...boo yaka shah! [thanks for that, Faraaz]
After less than three years in our arms and beds, and everywhere in between, Booker's time on earth came to an abrupt end. It took the rest of August and all of September for Karl to allow even the possibility of finding a new addition to our family. Odin was in tremendous need, and I was, too, but Karl was torn apart and unable to permit himself the thought of another addition. So, one day while he was out and I ran errands, I came across a roadside rescue event...and the rest is history.
Moving on is not always easy, but it isn't always difficult either, it's just a process. Sometimes the process is messy or protracted. Sometimes the process requires additional steps to be added to the flow chart. Sometimes you don't have anything more to the process other than simply getting up each and every day and surviving until the sun sets and you crawl back into bed. This is where I have been lately, stuck in the get-up-go-do-make-it-through-and-get-back-to-safety routine. I am trying to put distance between myself and my miserable recent past. Depression, the doctor said, and here's a pill for it.
Well, I said "no thanks" - maybe it was a wrong decision, I know it cheesed off one friend - and I am still finding my way around the fuzzy corners and through dark mental hallways. It looks (in my emotional-mentals) like a long dark space (not unlike a wide corridor), and every so often I come upon what I swear would be a doorway. There's a narrow beam of light piercing the gloom, as if from under a closed door, but when I get to the wall where the 'door' should be to feel for a doorknob or handle, there's nothing. I get down on my belly to look under the door, but have the distinct feeling of fear that I am far too close to the edge of being on that floor and falling over instead of seeing something tangible in the space where the light is existing.
Sorry, that's the best way of describing how it feels. It makes taking chances seem futile and overwhelmingly frightening, and so it is safer to keep to myself. Don't reach out; leave your hands at your sides and be careful. See, it feels if I reach out - instead of receiving help - I might actually accidentally push people (family, friends) away...over the edge and out of my life. If I do nothing, if I keep my hands to myself, I won't be doing any unintended harm. Does that makes sense? Don't pull people down and don't push them.
Maybe I am doing it all wrong, but I am also not moving forward (good) or backward (not so good). However, I'm also not moving on.
[sigh]
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