all you wanna do is something good

I often wish I was more creative/talented/dedicated to working on the creative talents I do have. So periodically I will see something that really stirs that up in me.
Recently it has been Lucy Kinsley that link is to her LJ/comic journal which makes me 1. wish I blogged more often. 2. had more to blog about. 3. could blog using comics which are expressive in a different way and 4. make me wish i could draw at all.
She also writes about her cat and it makes me laugh. Here are two of my favorites.

Also, who hasn't felt like all they are capable of doing is this:

That is basically all I have felt capable of doing since we got back from Hawaii on Friday (awesome, as predicted. not a lot to say about it, it was great all around). I am not sure if it's jet lag or just general malaise at being back or the gloomy NYC weather or my stupid job. Who knows. But mostly I just want to lay on the floor and snuff the cats.

there's a mouse about the house; or, you're a real dude's dude

I woke up in the middle of the night on Wednesday to the squeaking of a terrified mouse that was cornered by Linus "Killer" and Lucy "The Sundance Kid" McFurry-VonMeowerton behind the tv in my room. I really hate that this always seems to happen in the middle of the night, because while I would generally be content to fall asleep and deal with a mouse corpse in the morning, I am afraid that I will in fact wake up to my cats' Thanksgiving feast on my pillow. Several restless hours later I did wake up to clean up the dead mouse in the living room. Fortunately the carnage is limited because once the mouse is dead it no longer holds their interest.

In the morning I mentioned to Frank that the cats had killed a mouse and we talked about it for awhile. Not long after that conversation, Lucy is nosing around in the corner of the living room and sure enough brings a little still alive mouse and drops it at Frank's feet.
Turns out Frank is terrified of mice. And this was a little guy, probably about the same size as the mousie pictured. Frank was crawling up the back of the couch away from this tiny mouserson. I got a dustpan and the little guy just marched up onto it and I set the dustpan on the coffee table.
"Don't leave it there!!" Frank squealed as he went to get the garbage can, into which I dumped the still live mouse. I actually felt really bad about this, but I can't be the one to kill it directly. I learned that what it takes for Frank to actually take out the garbage is a live rodent inside of it. Note to self.
So then today Frank asks me if I have some measuring tape. He explains that he is measuring newspaper. "Oh, are you framing a sports win?" I joked. He looked at me blankly. "Yes. The Giants won the Superbowl" Obviously.
"It's funny," I said, "that I don't really know you very well, but that I guessed that"
"Oh...yeah" Frank said dismissively, "Typical dude stuff."

Yeah, Frank, until you get a baby mouse in front of you, you're a real dude's dude.

America and Caitlin love cultural diversity

This post is basically just a series of my thoughts from the last 12 hours. I swear it's all connected.

I got the cats this litter that I don't like recently. It seriously sucks...doesn't clump, really emphasizes the ammonia odor quality of feline urine...no good. I like arm and hammer super scoop. So today I went to go get some arm and hammer super scoop. I went to the Pioneer, which is remodeling and obnoxious to go into. No super scoop. C-Town. No super scoop. The weird store next to C-Town that smells weird. No super scoop. The bodega on the corner. No super scoop. Family Dollar. No super scoop. So as I was wandering around to every store within two blocks of my apartment, I was thinking, goddammit this is what I hate about New York. I can't get my fucking cat litter. In other normal cities where they have huge grocery stores within 5 minutes of anywhere, I would be able to get all the different varieties of super scoop - multi-cat AND odor control. I ended up getting Cat's Pride...which is ok, but it's no super scoop.

Anyway, then I was leaving the gym this evening and I said goodnight to the security guard because I am polite and I was putting on my sweatshirt and he motioned me over. He was pointing at the tattoo on my ankle, which I got my senior year in college, of an Om. Pictured above. Mine is red. It's kind of awesome. I am actually always a little wary when an Indian or Hindu person notices my tattoo because I feel like I can't speak articulately about why I have it. It's really more representative of my made up snake and salamander religion, which I also can't speak very articulately about....but, like, I'm not Christian and I would never have a tattoo of a cross. Anyways, the security guard had an om tattooed on his arm. Fortunately, he didn't call me out on being a Hindu fraud and instead talked about how a lot of white people are into Hinduism and he thinks it's just great. Here are some other things I learned about him:
He is from Surinam by way of Holland
Holland is nice
Surinam is nice. There aren't a lot of people.
There aren't a lot of people from Surinam in New York.
He came here in 2002.
His daughter lives in Holland.
Holland takes care of its people better than America.
English is hard to learn.
His nephew may or may not speak good english.

Then I was thinking how much I love new york and the different kinds of people. Sometimes. Sometimes I miss homogeneity. So THEN I was all filled with naive pride for America and opportunities and black men as president. And then I was remembering election night and how it was kind of awesome to be in my neighborhood.
Living in a poor black neighborhood, across the street from the projects, basically guarantees an Obama landslide on my block. And when they called it, the streets were filled with people cheering, honking their horns, shouting, white people hugging black people and general elation. That shit didn't happen in eugene, I imagine....at least not where either my parents or my sister live.
The election also brought me and asperger's together because we watched the returns. I offered her some ice cream. She offered me some beer. And I was reminded of another time when I crossed cultural boundaries. When I worked at the nursing home in Harlem and everyone hated me because I was white, especially this girl I had to share the computer/janitor's closet with. But I noticed that she always read People. And then Anna Nicole Smith died. So I asked her if she had heard anything about why she died. And she offered me a twizzler.
Anna Nicole Smith and Barack Obama aren't so far apart as you might think. They both have united a country. Or, at least me with people who don't especially like me.
Yesterday Asperger's and I watched a documentary about these autistic savant twins. Which 1. was awesome. and 2. was very meta.

Also, I was reading a thing about racist jokes that people had heard since the election, and one of them was that the white house was going to replace the rose garden with a watermelon patch. And my first thought was that they were going to do that for purely gardening purposes. Because I just listened to this episode of Fresh Air with the guy who wrote In Defense of Food, and he wrote an open letter to McCain and Obama encouraging whoever would be in the white house next to replace the lawn with like a vegetable garden. Anyway. I am kind of pleased that that was my first assumption.

Why my cats are like the democratic primaries

As the primaries for my state draw near, I find myself in the predicament facing many Americans: I am an undecided voter. I have two equally promising candidates, who have vastly different personalities. What I love about Hillary Clinton is quite a bit different from what I love about Barack Obama. But, who will ultimately win out in the caucus of my affections? Like many voters, I turn to my cats, Lucy and Linus, as I struggle through this year’s oh-so-important political decision.

Lucy, oh Lucy, my feline Hillary Clinton. Smart, doughy Lucy who I have had since I graduated college. Lucy whom I have loved since the beginning. But, sometimes, I am not so sure that Lucy loves me back. Sometimes, she seems to prefer my roommate, even though it is not my roommate who feeds her. Why is that Lucy? Your fleshy, spotted belly points to cat chow as one of your hot-button issues. Yet, night after night I see you curled up on Abby’s lap. Cat chow is to Lucy what health care is to Hillary Clinton. Hillary, your priorities would seem to be in one area, but your actions don’t always agree. Will I always see you curled up, fat and happy, in the lap of others who have not treated you as well as me? I woke up in the middle of the night, as I often do, to find Lucy curled up next to me in bed. At the end of the night, Lucy is always there. Ms. Clinton, when I wake up in 4 years, will you be curled up, shedding all over my pillow?

And then there is Linus, my furry Obama. Linus is slender, sleek and black, striking in a way it’s hard to put your finger on. But Linus is annoying. Why? Why are you always there with the kisses, getting in my way, throwing yourself prostrate on the floor, paws waving? But, Linus, when you stand on my dresser, hind legs poised to leap to a seemingly-unattainable balcony, I cannot help but think to myself: “oh, yes, The Audacity of Hope.” Barack, your dreams are big and inspiring, but are they attainable? Linus makes it to the balcony every time, will you?

Linus is the younger of the two, the one who probably has more life left in him. But there is something to be said for the indifference that can only come with age that Lucy has acquired. In reality, how much can and should be done with the problems in other countries. Isn't there something to be said for sitting on the arm of the couch, watching sunbeams drift across the living room, rousing only to demand more food? But, Linus' persistence is admirable. As the Obama posters and slogans assault me as I walk through my neighborhood, so is Linus' little nose literally in my face every morning, approximately 2 hours before I would like to wake up. He gets the job done though and I get up to give him food every time.

I sit here, looking at my cats and I am torn. I could not possibly say which of them I love more. But, if the future of my country depended on it would Lucy’s aloofness trump Linus’ figure eights that I trip over every morning. I can’t possibly say. And maybe the real decision lies in what my cats would think of the candidates. And ultimately it will probably come down to: Who will clean the litter box.