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Post-Modern Drunk: Stressful Times, Little Babies
It's been a very stressful time here, these days. Helluva week, at least. Giff and I are not having a baby, unlike a certain other robot couple, but that's about the only thing that hasn't happened so far in the last seven days.
A week ago, I came home drunk from a coworker's birthday party, met Giff to run some errands, and somehow wound up adopting a second stray kitten off the side of the road. This is why I try to only drink at home–I'm liable to do stupid shit like that if I'm let out (at home, I'm just liable to pay off credit card debt or someshit).
So we spent five days trying to get our two cats, one we've had for a year and one we've had for a week, not to try to kill each other each time they're in the same room.
This is slightly easier now, because the other thing we did this week is move. From a one bedroom apartment to a three bedroom apartment with a giant open room. Thus far, it's a labyrinth of book boxes and stacks of records and furniture. The cats wander through it, hunting each other, and then occasionally finding each other and staring, waiting for each other to move. All that's missing is tumbleweeds crossing between them, and the whistle of the 11:55 train in the background.
All this would be stress enough–there's also work issues, with the potential that I might lose my job or lose my shit and then lose my job–but those are hardly important. Giff's ex-, who was taking care of their old two cats, just reported to her that one of their cats, her favorite, died of a heart attack at the time that we were moving. He's worried that the stress of living in his new situation may be contributing to their health, so we'll be adopting the other cat.
Now, this is rough in all sorts of ways. Cats aren't like children, so as the adoptive "father," i'm not more likely to abuse the cat or treat her bad, but she is much less likely to like me, and much more likely to try to smother me in my sleep. This is a cat that never liked me much to begin with. And, I must say, I'm a little defensive of becoming a crazy cat person. I tend to think that it's unavoidable now. At times, I've tried to define "crazy cat person" as people who have more cats than rooms in their house, and by that rubric, we're still doing fine (just barely). But having more cats than people does seem a more likely definition of "crazy cat person."
Also, one of the tips that I might be a crazy cat person is that I've talked more about the cat issues than I have about the fact I spent all my time moving in the last couple of days.
I don't know how I would have managed this week if I cared about baseball at all. Too bad for the Rockies, though. It's always nice to win a World Series in your first couple of decades as a baseball team.
