Once again, it's dry cereal to the rescue, with my luke-warm coffee,
and job-searching. Job-searching sucks when you're unemployed. It's like you
wanna scream to any potential employer, "Hey, see me?! I can do this, I
can do this, I can do this...is any of this helpful to you??? Anything?"
Sigh! Now my Da has some idea for his own semi-start-up, and is trying to figure out a way to employ me. I've played house-sitter/secretary for he and Mah, when they've been outta town. Where we don't do well with road-trips together, we seem to do well when working with one another. Most of the time, anywoo.
I think cats are probably the only 'Peeping Toms' on Earth that we allow to
peer in on us from outdoors. We know they don’t care about what they’re
looking in on.
I was writing at my desk this morning, and I turned to see a black-and-white cat had appeared at my window. He sat down on my deck at first, then snuggled down on his haunches just to observe me for a while. I looked at him, and he looked in at me. So I turned feline myself, ignoring him in favor of my writing, but seeing him in the corner of my eye as he sunned himself.
If some owner had secretly attached a collar-cam that I failed to notice, he likely would’ve assessed my square cocoon as mildly disoriented; recently used Union Jack suitcases sitting before my bureau, an unmade bed, a Native-American throw rug in dire need of Hoovering, a garage-sale ‘steal’ of an easy-chair, (the man selling it said his “Crazy Ex” took the back-cushion and left the rest) a Mardi Gras-colored golf umbrella waiting for our next rainy Oregon day, a skull-n-crossbones backpack that I’ve used for my last three years of college, and a bookshelf overflowing with the tomes I will never give away.
I can envisage what ‘creepy-cat-camera-peeper’ would think of my collection of coffee-packages, and Felix The Cat salt-n-pepper shakers keeping company with my array of Anne Rices, Stephenie Meyers, J.K. Rowlings, Joan Didions, and Diana Gabaldons. Likely that I’m the ‘Women’s-Lit-Chick’.
I do have some Dominick Dunne, some Sherman Alexie, a John Berendt, some April Henry, Flannery O’Connor, Fannie Flagg, Kathy Reichs…okay, so maybe I have more chick-lit than anything else. I like Stephen King, but not all the time. I like Tom Clancy, too, but not all the time either. I even like Uncle Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns. Just…not…well, you get the point. Sigh!
Well, whatta ya want? I’m a chick. I’m a writer. I’m a Gemini. And I’m in
Oregon. It rains a lot. And snuggling into a garage-sale easy-chair with a
cup of coffee and a book is a Pac-NWer’s favorite pastime.
Nine-sometimes-ten months outta the year.
Anywoo, the coffee’s consumed, and it’s after noon. Time to break into
that bottle of Le Bicyclette my SIL gave me awhile back. Couple that
with some cheese cubes and peach slices, and I’m set for more writing.
The cat’s still sun-napping, and we’re still ‘ignoring’ one another.
Sigh! Now my Da has some idea for his own semi-start-up, and is trying to figure out a way to employ me. I've played house-sitter/secretary for he and Mah, when they've been outta town. Where we don't do well with road-trips together, we seem to do well when working with one another. Most of the time, anywoo.
I was writing at my desk this morning, and I turned to see a black-and-white cat had appeared at my window. He sat down on my deck at first, then snuggled down on his haunches just to observe me for a while. I looked at him, and he looked in at me. So I turned feline myself, ignoring him in favor of my writing, but seeing him in the corner of my eye as he sunned himself.
If some owner had secretly attached a collar-cam that I failed to notice, he likely would’ve assessed my square cocoon as mildly disoriented; recently used Union Jack suitcases sitting before my bureau, an unmade bed, a Native-American throw rug in dire need of Hoovering, a garage-sale ‘steal’ of an easy-chair, (the man selling it said his “Crazy Ex” took the back-cushion and left the rest) a Mardi Gras-colored golf umbrella waiting for our next rainy Oregon day, a skull-n-crossbones backpack that I’ve used for my last three years of college, and a bookshelf overflowing with the tomes I will never give away.
I can envisage what ‘creepy-cat-camera-peeper’ would think of my collection of coffee-packages, and Felix The Cat salt-n-pepper shakers keeping company with my array of Anne Rices, Stephenie Meyers, J.K. Rowlings, Joan Didions, and Diana Gabaldons. Likely that I’m the ‘Women’s-Lit-Chick’.
I do have some Dominick Dunne, some Sherman Alexie, a John Berendt, some April Henry, Flannery O’Connor, Fannie Flagg, Kathy Reichs…okay, so maybe I have more chick-lit than anything else. I like Stephen King, but not all the time. I like Tom Clancy, too, but not all the time either. I even like Uncle Robert ‘Rabbie’ Burns. Just…not…well, you get the point. Sigh!
The cat’s still sun-napping, and we’re still ‘ignoring’ one another.
"Come play with us, Danny. Forever, and ever..."
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