LES REVENANTS

RESCUED FROM OBSCURITY: 

"My mind was a mess before you brought happiness..."

Dredging up this song from the dark recesses of my brain reminded me how much I loved my Pandora stations back in the day. In the mid-aughts (2004 to 2006-ish) when I was still working mind-numbing office jobs in Minneapolis, Pandora saved my sanity. 

"Poodle Rockin'' was one of the suggested songs that frequently came up on my Pandora "Eclectic" station at the time, and I fell in love with the track in all its weirdness. I had no idea until recently that this awesome fucking video existed, and also that the name of the band is Gorky's Zygotic Mynci. Seriously, how do you not love a band with a moniker like that? 

 According to their Wikipedia page: 

Gorky's came from the word "gawky."

Zygotic was "hijacked from GCSE biology."

Mynci is a spelling of the word "monkey" using Welsh spelling rules, rather than a direct Welsh translation (the actual Welsh word is "mwnci") and is pronounced like "monkey."

The band also broke up in 2006, which totally bites.   

Also, did you know about my love of poodles? Although I was, am, and will always be a ride-or-die catwoman, I have a soft spot for certain dogs. Meet my Uncle Mike's standard poodle, Beau. 

Me and Beau, 1981

 

Damn, I loved that dog. When he passed away, my family nearly had to bury me along with him. I was so distraught. 

Don't tell my cats; I've hidden this particular aspect of my past from them.

I'M EVERY WOMAN, IT'S ALL IN ME....

Yes, I tried the AI photo thing. My friend Misty put me up to it, but honestly I didn't need much convincing. This shit is fabulous! 

You have to submit a ton of pictures for the AI thing to really work its magic, which was initially a problem for me. You see, I had rhinoplasty back in April and most of the photos I have of myself are pre-nose job. I remedied this by making sure I uploaded a shot of my new profile, which seemed to work, as the AI program was able to incorporate my brand spankin' new, bought-and-paid-for schnozzle into most of the images. (Don't worry, I won't be writing a post detailing my rhinoplasty journey.* Nobody cares about anyone else's nose; it's only meaningful to the person who has the procedure. Well, and their plastic surgeon, hopefully.)

1940's Me.
John says it looks like a postage stamp.
I think I kinda look like a blonde version
of the Sun-maid Raisins girl. 

Ancient Greek Me.
This one is John's favorite, probably because
I look vaguely like a wood sprite.

Ottoman Bride Me. Random, but I like it.

Cyborg Me. I thought this would be John's favorite, 
since he's a big sci-fi guy.

1950s Chic Me. 
Not gonna lie, this set rules.

1950s Me, the non-chic version. 
They used my old nose here, but whatever.
I still like it. 

WWII Nurse Me. I think the uniform is cool,
but what the hell is going on with my mouth? 
I have never made that face before in my life.

Egyptian Queen Me.
YASSS QUEEN!!!

1970s Me, looking very Gloria Steinem.
I dig it, but where are my eyebrows? 

Okay, I fucking LOVE this one.

1980's Punk Me. My absolute favorite.

 
*Question: has anyone else noticed that everything is a "journey" now? It's all, "my pregnancy journey," "my weight-loss journey," "my colonoscopy journey," "my ingrown toenail journey," et cetera. The fucking Oprah-speak is everywhere these days. I wish George Carlin were still alive, because I'd love to hear his rant about this. He was so good at deconstructing and skewering that sort of bullshit. 

As long as I'm showing off pictures (and since I don't have much else to post at the moment), here are some paintings I did this year.

Stevie was my inspiration, although I didn't attempt to capture her floofiness.

I really enjoy painting fruit. I can see why it's a popular subject for artists.

Watermelon, watermelon.

This one is titled: There's a Moon in the Sky (Called the Moon).

Sabrina is a freelance art critic.

Below is my latest work, painted two nights ago when I randomly woke up at 2:30am completely wide awake and realized I wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon. Inspiration struck, and I had a sudden urge to paint the Colorforms logo. I loved Colorforms. They were one of my favorite toys as a little kid, and they kept my sister and me entertained on many a long car trip back in the day. 

If you're unfamiliar with the creators of Colorforms, read about them here. It's one of the best starving artist success stories ever. The guy who ended up designing the logo itself was also quite interesting, a graphic artist from New York who also did the logos for IBM, ABC (the network), UPS, and tons of others. Brilliant dude. 

Anyhoo, here's my stab at recreating the Colorforms logo. It took me a lot longer than I anticipated; the hardest part was getting the proportions exactly right, which I think I did. It's still not perfect, but fine for a spontaneous, wee-hours-of-the-morning project.

And because lately I've been ending all my posts with videos, here is a random sampling of songs that I listened to a lot in 2022, according to Spotify:

As you can see, I kinda got into Habibi this year. They're rather brilliant. 

     

FUCK, I'M DYING.

Well not literally, and hopefully not for a few more decades. But, Christ, I feel like I am. 

I really thought I could do it. I thought I could be one of the few lucky ones to dodge the COVID bullet, but all my hopes went straight down the crapper when I tested positive after a full day of trying to cough up both my lungs. My first test was negative and I thought, ha! Just a cold after all. People still get colds, right? Of course they do! That's why it's called the common cold---it's common! Then my symptoms got steadily worse; pounding head, fiery throat, muscle aches, my whole body was screaming. So I did another test and then.....BAM. Positive. 

I went to a mini family reunion last weekend in Tulsa, so no big mystery where I caught this crap. Everyone was vaccinated and boosted--there was much discussion about it beforehand, so we know this for sure---but I guess I have what could be called a breakthrough case. Apparently there's an Omicron offshoot called the BA.5 going around and it's the latest thing in viruses, so at least I'm au courant. 

So that's it, that's all, that's the post. If you need me, I'll be quarantining in the upstairs guestroom, trying not to infect the world. At least I have a furry little Siamese nurse to take care of me.    

Little Stevie Nicks. Her sister Sabrina is at the bird watching window.

ALSO, this seems apropos, because when I think back on what COVID was like, 

I'll remember this fucking headache. 

NOTE: This post has been a long time coming, obviously. I started to write it months ago, then had to put it aside because everything was too raw and painful. I was only recently able to come back and revisit it. I still feel like it's rough and unfinished, but such is life. Here's my long overdue tribute to the girls.

ALICE JANE 

Alice came to me in Minneapolis when she was a year old. Her first owner, a friend of mine from work, was moving out of state and couldn't take Alice with her. I was living in a small apartment and still had Shelby and Riley at the time, so I was worried that a third cat might be a bit much. My friend was 21 years old and....not the most responsible pet owner (not judging, just saying). She informed me that if I didn't adopt Alice, she planned to "put her on Craigslist." That sealed the deal for me. I said, "Fuck that. I'm taking her."

Alice was not happy that first night. She'd been plucked from the only home she'd ever known by some random lady who stuck her in a carrier and brought her to a strange new place with two resident cats who were not exactly thrilled with this new addition to the family. After cowering in the bathroom for a few hours, Alice emerged and started hissing and spitting at me, clearly terrified. I grabbed her, scooted her into the second bedroom, and closed the door. Then I tiptoed in with some water, a bowl of food, and an extra litter box and left her in there to decompress by herself.

She lived in that second bedroom for about a week. I went in to visit with her every day after I came home from work, and I was able to get her to play with some toys and snuggle next to me. I read her The Rachel Papers (Martin Amis’s first novel, which I was re-reading for the umpteenth time) and she seemed to enjoy it. We watched some movies I'd rented from my neighborhood video store (streaming services weren't a thing yet, at least not for me), including an indie flick called Half Nelson, which we both liked.

By the time Alice was released from the second bedroom and made her official debut as a permanent member of the household, she was confident, playful, and affectionate. Although Shelby initially did the typical hissy pissy "I don't like you" thing that cats do with new siblings, she calmed down soon enough and began "allowing" Alice to groom her and even occasionally cuddled with her. Riley was pretty old and infirm by the time Alice came along, so he didn't have much of an opinion one way or another about this new cat. Still, he let her sniff him and gave her a brotherly headbutt once in a while.

Chilling on top of the kitchen cabinets in Minneapolis, 2007.

Simon Reid bought me this cat condo during our two month "relationship."

And check out my old iPod! (Minneapolis, 2008.)

Alice and her favorite teddy bear in Reno, 2013. 

Alice once broke Twitter with this photo. 

My favorite comment (from Anna Maltese): 

"I feel like this cat has called me into her office 
to ask why my productivity levels have dropped."

***********************************************************************

Riley passed away in 2008, and Shelby followed in May 2009. I was heartbroken and wanted to wait a little bit before adopting another cat. Alice, however, had different ideas. She'd gotten used to having other cats around and hated being on her own when I wasn't at home. I decided to go ahead and start looking at the Humane Society for a possible feline companion for my girl.

Enter Audrey.

AUDREY JOY 

 

Audrey started life as a stray and was found living on the streets of St. Paul. She ended up being rescued by the Woodbury Humane Society in March 2009, and two months later that's where I found her. I walked into the cat room of the shelter and immediately spotted a gregarious little patchwork tiger tabby reaching through the bars of her cage, beckoning me over. It took me about five minutes of petting and talking to her to realize that I'd found my new baby. The shelter staff told me she was approximately two years old and her name was Darby. I loved everything about her, except for that name. I decided she needed a more fitting moniker, something classic and feminine, but sassy. And so Darby became Audrey, and she came home with me the next day.

The first photo of Audrey in her new home, May 2009.

Alice wasn't exactly over the moon about this interloper. As much as she hated being alone, she was not keen on having to adjust to a new cat. (I think she was somehow hoping to get the old ones back.) It took Alice about two months to relax and embrace Audrey as a sister. When she finally accepted her, I breathed a sigh of relief. The era of "The Tabby Twins," (a.k.a. "The Minnesota Twins,") had officially begun.

Audrey was an amazing cat from the very start; a ray of sunshine in feline form. I could wax poetic about her forever, but mere words can't do her justice. You just had to know her. And everyone who knew her absolutely loved her. I always said she could make a cat lover out of anyone. And one day....she did.

Witness John's conversion:

"Hey human? Stop pretending you don’t like cats. I can see right through you."

That look says, "Yeah, I got him."

“Pfft, whatever. This human was easy.

Give me a real challenge next time.”

Audrey on his shoulder makes him happy.

"Silly human, you know you can't resist me."

And so it went. Over the years we moved our little family from Minnesota to Louisiana to Nevada to Utah to (again) Nevada and then to Texas. Alice and Audrey hated traveling but always settled in fairly quickly once we reached our destinations. 

The Minnesota twins in Utah, 2016

Along the way our quartet became a quintet when we adopted Cassie, a “cow cat” John fell in love with when he spotted her at a Petco in Reno back in 2014.

Cassie "helping" with the laundry in Reno 2018

Alice had her 14^th birthday in August 2020. She’d always been a healthy eater and a rather large lady, but I noticed her appetite had started to flag and she’d lost a little weight. In September I found a lump on one of her mammary glands and took her to the vet to get it checked out. There was talk of surgery, but first I had to get her feeling better and get her weight up, so she was prescribed a cocktail of drugs, special food, and an appetite stimulant. She started to feel better but I had a hard time putting weight on her. We decided to keep her on the meds and keep her comfortable in the short term, realizing that surgery might not be an option given her age and overall health.

I spent a lot of time with Alice those last few months. She was a one-person cat, and her person was me. She also had a PhD in cuddling, so we spent a lot of time in her favorite bed (the one in the guest room with the awesome memory foam mattress) where we snuggled and had deep philosophical conversations and watched DVDs on my laptop—including Donnie Darko, one of her favorites—as I did my best to make her comfortable and help her feel safe and loved and pampered. It occurs to me now that those last months with Alice mirrored the first weeks I had with her back when I brought her home in 2007; the two of us just hanging out, having girl time, bonding and enjoying each other’s company.

We ended up losing Alice two days after Christmas. She had an appointment the following morning for an examination at the vet, where I planned to talk to her doctor about the "quality of life" decision I would be making very soon. But that evening of the 27th she took a turn for the worse, and I knew her time was near. I held her close as her breathing became increasingly shallow....and then she was gone. It was expected, but still devastating.

In the meantime, Audrey had also begun slowing down. Instead of losing weight like Alice, she started gaining weight and getting rounder, which in turn put strain on her joints, which made her move around less, which made her pack on more weight, which put more strain on her joints, which made her even more sedentary, and so on and so on. It was a vicious cycle. I took her to the vet in February, and they ran a bunch of tests but didn’t find much wrong with her aside from a mild ear infection. They gave me drops for her ears (which she hated of course—who wouldn’t?) and sent us home.

On the morning of March 3, 2020 John was working in his office upstairs. I was in the kitchen dishing out breakfast for Audrey and Cassie when John called out, “There’s something wrong with Audrey.” I dropped everything and rushed upstairs to the cats’ bedroom. John was kneeling on the floor next to Audrey, who was lying on her side in one of her beds wheezing and gasping for air. I held up her head as John and I talked to her and struggled to figure out what was happening, trying not to panic.

It happened in less than a minute. Audrey breathed in and out a few times, then sort of faded slowly away. John and I were mute with shock. I sat on the floor for a long time holding my little tiger cat, rocking her back and forth, completely shattered. I called the vet’s office, managed to get her doctor on the phone, and described what happened. The vet said it sounded like Audrey had most likely “thrown a clot,” which is is also referred to as a pulmonary embolism, something that can happen to animals and humans alike. As horrible as it was losing Audrey so suddenly, we were at least somewhat comforted that she went quickly and (hopefully?) with minimal suffering, with John and me right there next to her.

That’s the thing about pets: if all goes well, you outlive them and are there to care for them til the very end. That’s the best case scenario. It’s unbelievably heartbreaking to lose them, but it’s the way things should be, really.

Audrey and Alice were the second “generation” of cats that I’ve owned, and if anything they were even more difficult to part with than the first. Not that I loved Alice and Audrey any more than I did Shelby and Riley; you love your cats the way you love your family, and it’s not a matter of loving any one of them more or less. It’s all the same, but it’s all different, if that makes any sense.

So after a short time as a one-cat family, we decided to add two more. This past spring we went to SPCA Texas and brought home a pair of Siamese sisters we named Stevie Nicks and Sabrina. They’re three years old and still full of that goofy young cat energy, chasing each other up and down the stairs, attacking houseplants, and chattering at the birds outside. They’ve lately become lap cats who purr appreciatively when I sing to them (favorite selections include The Doors’ “Hello, I Love You” and McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs.”) I’ll write a bit more about them sometime, but not now.

This post belongs to our Minnesota twins. Forever loved, forever missed.

Shine on you crazy diamonds.

    

   

 

FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL!

Kill Walter Palmer, that is. With extreme prejudice. And while we're at it, let's rid the planet of Kristen Lindsey* and Kendall Jones because fuck them too.

Earlier this month a sunken-eyed, dried-out corpse purportedly known as Minnesota dentist Walter Palmer killed a lion because he's an evil little pindick who's fond of illegally slaughtering any creature he can get within 100 feet of; a diseased turd of a man with hideous fake choppers and a penchant for sexually harassing his female employees.

Picture this abomination of nature forcing you to engage in "unwanted physical contact" involving your
"breasts, buttocks, and genitalia." Makes you want to scream and run under a shower, right?

I've been hyperventilating about this along with the rest of the world, signing online petitions to have his lily-white Romney-supporting ass extradited to Zimbabwe and joining Facebook groups to talk about what a psychopath he is and how anyone who hunts is a cousin-banging, cross-eyed redneck scumbag, and I have nearly hit outrage-fatigue. So I thought it would be cleansing and cathartic to write a brief post pointing out what a putrid, festering hunk of undead flesh this asshole is, insult his penis size, and call him a murderer. 

And guess what? I do feel kind of better now. 

Oh yeah, there's also this:

And this....

 And I'd be remiss if I didn't include....

AND

Okay, I feel much better now. 

*Speaking of that other vile slab of meat, go here for information on filing a complaint to revoke Lindsey's vet license. (Online petitions are great, but this one needs an extra push with official paperwork.)

Princess Audrey of Pawdry

I love the lighting in this photo of Alice. 

You know I'm gearing up for an epic blog post when I post filler photos of my cats. If you didn't know that...now you do. Stay tuned.