I'm sitting on the sofa buried in cats, preparing to unearth myself so I can go make a cat chart for our cat/house sitters. Do you see a pattern here?

While exploring this tantalizing site, I learned that the Netherlands' current, conservative government apparently wants to make it illegal for the coffeeshops to sell cannabis to foreigners. There's a stereotype of the typical pot tourist: they're usually young males from the UK or another European country; they come for the weekend, stay in a cheap hostel, get wasted on beer and cannabis, maybe have sex with a prostitute, and go home without having spent significant amounts of money (though it must add up). I wonder. Surely there are others like me and Chris, older travelers who appreciate the wonderful weed but also love other things about the city, who spend money on restaurants, museums, and shopping as well as high-end (pun intended) cannabis, who know how to behave ourselves reasonably well, who don't fall in the canals or get arrested or have to have ambulances called for us because the weed was too strong. If you're such a traveler, this might be a good time to plan a trip to Amsterdam. Maybe we can make a showing. Codgers On Cannabis (COC), dammit!

On a lighter note, I was amused on that same site to see people (at least facetiously) betting on who could smoke the most weed. Uh, that would be me, and if there really is serious betting anywhere, I might have a new career on my hands. I have been occasionally matched but never surpassed.

Yesterday I went to afternoon Mass at Our Lady of Prompt Censure. That isn't its real name, but I don't want to hurt the feelings of any parishioners who may be reading; there are some good people in the congregation, but it is far too conservative for me. We listened to a homily called "Jesus Is Not Politically Correct," all about how if you've been divorced you are an adulterer and if you've had an abortion, well, you're just fucked. Then we sang a hymn that sounded like "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" (which, to be fair, is a great song ... but the associations are unfortunate). Now I know by my Catholic calendar that this is "Respect for Life Weekend," and the weekly Scriptural readings are about marriage and family. I don't criticize the priest for discussing the topic assigned to him, but Father Pat at OLGC would have found a way to talk about them without trying to make his flock feel sinful and small.

In other OLGC news, members of our and St. Henry's parish councils are meeting with the new sheriff in town, Archbishop Gregory Aymond, later this week. Regardless of the outcome -- and I don't kid myself that he's going to put anything back the way it was -- there seems to be a relief in much of Catholic New Orleans, and certainly in my heart, that Hughes the company man/pedophile enabler is gone and a native New Orleanian who seems like a kind and reasonably humble man is in the office. (Office? Is that what you call it? Not sure of all my Catholic terminology.)

I have an Oriental Shorthair eating the screen portion of my laptop, so must close.

(GEAUX SAINTS!!! 4-0!!!!!)

This anniversary of the federal levee failure is hitting me harder than either of the previous two. Last year I was hunkering down for Gustav, and I guess kind of in shock that it was coming. In '07 I was lying sick in bed from the pills I was addicted to. And of course the first anniversary, '06, was beautiful, then horrible: we went out to the dedication of the St. Bernard Parish memorial in Shell Beach that morning, and that afternoon one of our most beloved cats, Nathan, suddenly collapsed from undiagnosed/asymptomatic diabetes and died early the next morning.

The truth is that I will never like this time of year. There was never much to like about it, especially for someone who has always lived in the hot, humid south and hated school since the seventh grade. A confession: Chris and I had to change our anniversary, because neither of us was sure, but we thought it might be August 29. (Like many queer couples I've known, lacking a formal marriage date, we date our anniversary to the first time we had sex.) On the one hand, it was the best thing that ever happened to me; on the other, I was being unfaithful to another man, confused about what to do, and on the brink of the scary decision to move out on my own and fully support myself for the first time. (I say "fully," but during some of those lean times, it sure helped having a boyfriend who was a chef and would feed me.) So it wasn't an entirely happy time then, either. We moved our anniversary to November 5 because it would be a good time to travel and I've always been fond of Guy Fawkes' Day.

Anyway, I have no idea what I'm doing to observe today. I thought we might go to the N.O. Museum of Art events -- there will be a reading of the names of New Orleans' flood dead, and a showing of When The Levees Broke -- or some memorial Mass, but Chris doesn't want to get up early and I can't blame him, as he had to deal with restaurant drama (a cook/waiter quitting) until 4am last night. Maybe I will find some fucking sack and read my signed copy of Josh Neufield's A.D.

This is the actual me coming to you on my actual computer in my actual office -- no PZBot, no iPhone, no LJ App. I'd almost forgotten that one of the pitfalls to posting in this environment is the forest of long white legs I must peer through as Frankie walks back and forth on my keyboard. Whaddaya say, Frankie?

cxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxdxc

I find that a bit excessive.

In the Dangerous Plants Dept.: Received from txtriffidranch via marrus, one Nepethes pitcher plant in a lovely pot and one baby Medusa's Head euphorbia. Thank you! According to my web search, the pitcher plant needs "bright shade" (a seeming oxymoron that I think I've finally figured out) and moist soil, while the Medusa's Head should be treated much like the pencil cacti I'm already growing. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

That's all for now. I've got to do something about this office. It could be the prettiest room in the house, yet I fear and loathe it. I'd love to get rid of the horrible, rusty old filing cabinets, just do away with them and keep my paperwork in nice, clean, rust-proof plastic boxes. Maybe I just will.

I go through periodic spells of several days to a couple of weeks where the idea of getting online just revolts me for some reason, and I'm in one of those spells now. (I apologize if I've ignored any important communiques, and offer my earnest intent to get to them the next day it rains soon.) I did want to quickly jump on to give two updates.

First the bad news: Catcentric readers may recall that our Siegfried had to undergo extensive dental work a couple of weeks ago. The doctor thought the soft tissue he removed from Sig's mouth didn't look right and sent it to be biopsied. Unfortunately, the tests revealed that Sig has squamous-cell carcinoma on both sides of his upper jaw. The treatment would involve surgery with at least a month's painful recovery time, then reconstructive surgery to repair his jaw, as well as radiation. Sig is 10, but I can't see putting even a young cat through all that. As well, with our large and aging population, we will be called upon to make some difficult decisions over the next few years: if there is scant hope no matter what treatments we opt for, and if the treatments are expensive (the above would run a minimum of $3000), mightn't it ultimately be better to save for later illnesses that may have more chance of success? When Marcel was so sick with hemobartonella in the winter of '05, his bills ran to $4K, but we've never regretted spending the money because he made a spectacular recovery and has been thoroughly enjoying himself ever since (though he did earn the nickname "Four Large").


Siegfried (bad camera-phone shot)

Next the good news: The Green Goddess is open for business! (Visit chefcdb for more details.) They're serving lunch 11am - 4pm Wednesday - Sunday, dinner 5pm - midnight Thursday - Sunday. Paul Artigues is the lunch chef, Chris the dinner chef. He's ecstatic to finally be cooking instead of dealing with bureaucracy. The Green Goddess is located at 307 Exchange Alley in the French Quarter. Please note that while they do serve several wonderful vegetarian dishes including an entire vegetarian tasting menu, they are not a vegetarian restaurant, nor will they become one if enough puling PETA members whine about foie gras (which isn't currently on the menu, but soon will be). There seems to be a certain amount of misconception about this, and the pulers really need to bite Chris' sweaty crank after a long and busy dinner shift; that will teach them to love meat. Oh dear, I've done it again, haven't I? This was supposed to be a promo, and one doesn't generally mention the chef's sweaty crank during a promo. Oh, well ... er ... COME ONE, COME ALL!

I observed a strange pair of creatures in my house today. I call them Watering-Can-Headed Things One and Two. They appeared to represent two different coat/color morphs, but both had heads that strongly resembled old-fashioned galvanized watering cans.





Though they were as large as good-sized house cats, they did not appear equipped to bite or sting, and were curiously uninterested in me.

Yes, I can haz new computer! In fact, I'm posting this on it. It's nice working on something that isn't an antique. And to the friend on my list who recently complained about otherwise intelligent people using the Internet's version of baby talk, I can only say I've heard that parents raising toddlers often get so used to speaking in baby talk that they sometimes find themselves doing it even when the baby is not present. Likewise, if you live with 19 cats, it is inevitable that you will lapse into LOLcat once in a while.


My current favorite

In other news, Siegfried the Big Sweet Dummy passed an uncomfortable weekend, but is now at the vet's office having his teeth fixed; the cucumber plants are so big that I am getting scared of them; I have seen The Green Goddess with its new decor and it is going to be absolutely gorgeous; I have downloaded a couple of stupid little game apps onto my iPhone and I'm sorry to say that I can see, for the first time ever, why people get so hooked on computer games. Also, since we're too poor and I tire too easily these days for Jazzfest, this past weekend Chris and I went out to the Our Lady of Prompt Succor Tomato Festival in Chalmette, where we passed a good time and rode the Tilt-A-Whirl and ate ourselves half-sick. I shot cups with a cork gun to win two penguins and a giant pink plush rose, and Chris said I shot like a cop. "What do you expect?" I said. "I learned how to shoot from a cop!"

Lying flat on my back on a heating pad posting this on my iPhone.

Sig is home, but can't have the extractions until Monday. In the meantime, I must give him antibiotics and painkillers ... if I can find him.

Waiting to hear from the vet. Siegfried had a tooth emergency this morning; he came to me as we were having coffee, foaming at the mouth with one of his poor fangs all crooked. Sig has never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I am frankly surprised (and relieved) that he had the sense to come and get me instead of cowering under the bed or something.

When you transplant your catnip from a small hanging basket into a larger one, be sure to bring the old, intensely catnip-scented basket into the house and absent-mindedly place it on a shelf behind a bunch of loud bangy objects that can be easily knocked down. This will provide great entertainment and exercise for both you and your cats. (Your exercise comes from first dashing to see what the huge clatter was, then bending over to pick up all the bangy things.)

In case you don't know about Temple Grandin, she is a very high-functioning woman with autism who overcame tremendous childhood problems to earn a Ph.D. in animal science, write several brave and groundbreaking books, and revolutionize humane slaughter techniques in the meat industry. I've long had a particular admiration for her because my mother worked at a program for autistic children and young adults when I was growing up, and though she was an administrator and didn't work directly with the autistic people, I did get to meet many of them and see firsthand what huge challenges they faced as well as what amazing work they were sometimes capable of (incredibly detailed and painstakingly accurate artwork, mostly, since the program did a lot of art therapy).

I am reading Grandin's new book, Animals Make Us Human. In her chapter on cats, she discusses evidence gained through lab and shelter studies showing that cats who live in large colonies may have significantly fewer emotional/behavior problems than cats who live alone with their human, and fewer catfights than cats who live with their human and just one or two other cats, especially if the two or three cats weren't raised together. Apparently they not only have the ability to adapt well to colony life; many of them appear to thrive on it. She reports much curling up together, mutual grooming, particular friendships that develop and often last until one of the friends dies -- in short, all the behavior Chris and I have been observing in our cats since 1996 or so, which was when our population really started to rise. I guess this shouldn't come as a big surprise to me since I live with a large, peaceful colony of cats, but -- maybe because of the way society looks at "cat people" -- I'd always assumed our living situation was somewhat crazy and extreme. Of course it is crazy and extreme in terms of the expense and amount of work involved with a big group of cats, but it is good to have some outside, expert corroboration that the cats themselves are perfectly comfortable with it.

Re: my comments on N.C. State yesterday, I was also pleased to read in Grandin's book that in nature there is no such thing as a "wolf pack"; this is apparently a longtime misconception based on observation of zoo and shelter wolves forced into unnatural proximity, which caused them to fight, eventually establish an "alpha" wolf, and form a pack. In the wild, they live in small family units.

tl;dr - Anybody who has ever called us "collectors" or intimated that our cats don't get enough attention can bite my crank, because Temple Grandin is awesome and knows more about animals than almost anybody. Also, State still sucks.

Ans seriously, thank you again for all the kind comments and e-mails about Boo. There is a big hole in the fabric of our family right now, and your words are a comfort.

Boo took a turn for the worse this afternoon and we had to take him back to the vet. He died peacefully in our arms about 6:00 this evening. Thank you all for the kind words and well-wishes.


Photo by marquisdd
Boris "Boo" Boudreaux Brite-DeBarr, 1994-2009
We love you, Boo.

Talk about clicking on the wrong link ... somehow, some way, I just ended up on a N.C. State basketball fan forum, and observed that their derogatory nickname for UNC is "Carowhina." Jeez, that's the best you could do ... Cowfuckers? A better nickname might be "Caro-why-do-they-always-beat-our-shitkicker-asses-na," but I thought that might be a little long for State fans to remember, so I refrained from suggesting it. (See title, and give yourself 500 Whoopie Shit points if you get the Carolina reference.)

(This is all in fun. I do not like State's or Duke's basketball teams, yea, verily much do I not like them, but I had good friends who went to both schools, and of course Duke is an excellent university. So is State, I suppose, as long as you want to study agriculture, agriculture, or agriculture.)

We just brought our 15-year-old cat Boris (a.k.a. Boo) home from the vet, where he'd been getting IV fluids and tests since Friday. He had done that thing elderly cats sometimes do where they go from seeming fairly old to seeming absolutely ancient almost overnight, so we took him in and they had to keep him for a few days. Unfortunately, in this case, sending him home just means that they didn't feel they could do anything else for him and wanted him to spend his remaining time with us. It's likely that he has some kind of cancer, but mainly he's just old. Boo's life had a difficult beginning -- ( possible TMI for cat lovers ) -- but, despite not particularly liking other cats, he has had a good run with us. Now he seems comfortable and sleeps most of the time. I'll be keeping a careful eye on his condition, and have vowed not to wait too long just because we don't want to let him go.

So, the week after paying off Shaq's dental bill, we are back in hock to the vet. I've got some blank books that just need the finishing touches, and will try to put them on eBay tomorrow (today will probably be too overcast to get good pictures of them).

I just wrote a long, funny (to me, anyway) entry about having a lovely day and not doing anything I didn't want to do and then suddenly having it interrupted by a plague of slugs, but Frankie walked across the keyboard and somehow managed to erase the whole thing before I could post it. Screw it; I'm going to go eat some more of the vast Greek salad I fixed for dinner tonight.

I've known cats who liked tomato juice before, but until Terrell, I never had one who would chase me down and demand his share every time I opened a can.



(I let him drink from the can so I could get a picture, but I worry about him cutting his tongue, so I usually pour a little into the palm of my hand and let him lap it up. Spoiled? Our cats? I can't imagine why anyone would think such a thing.)

Cymbalta works by restoring the balance of certain natural substances in the brain (serotonin and norepinephrine), which helps to improve certain mood problems. -- drugs.com

I've been taking Cymbalta for maybe eighteen months. It definitely helped, but I feel I'm at a point where my brain should be able to handle a little more of its own balance. I'm not on sick-making painkilling drugs; I'm not in crippling pain (most of the time)*; I'm doing creative work; I'm active in the world. While I am still subject to anxiety attacks on occasion, I am no longer a whipped and whimpering ball of PTSD. There is no generic Cymbalta yet, and the drug is ridiculously expensive. More important, I don't like taking antidepressants, I only agreed to try this one during a period of crisis, and I don't want to be dependent on it anymore. So I'm tapering off, slowly and (at least according to medical advice) safely.

Now I just need my brain to back me up on this.

Assuming that my brain-chemical imbalance was caused by extreme stress and depression (and I think that's a fairly safe assumption, given that I was not a particularly broken person before the levees failed), it should be able to rebalance itself now that I am no longer living in those conditions. What I am worried about is the period -- if there is one -- between when the Extra Bonus Serotonin fades out and the Natural PZB Serotonin kicks back in. I'm sure that is a gross oversimplification of how the process actually works, but I do know from past experience that there will probably be a period of danger during which I am likely to become bad-tempered, cry for no reason, make dire predictions, and eventually convince myself that I really am just crazy and will have to be on this drug forever. There is something very negative in me, something that wants me to hate everything and myself most of all. I've gotten pretty good at shoving this thing back down into the depths where it belongs, but as the Cymbalta wears off, it will doubtlessly show its ugly head more often.

One thing that helps me is the St. Francis prayer. I often say it in its entirety, but I don't have it memorized, so when I realize I'm acting like an asshole to someone else or myself, I just repeat in my head like a mantra: Make me an instrument of your peace. Make me an instrument of your peace. Make me an instrument of your peace. It does help. Sometimes. Even when it doesn't, it serves to remind me that I don't want my life to suck. You wouldn't think a person would need reminding of that, but over the past three years, there have been times when I genuinely believed that having a non-sucky life would be some kind of betrayal of all we have lost. Teh mental illness, it is fun.

Anyway. Not asking for advice (though I wouldn't mind hearing from others who've stopped taking Cymbalta how it affected them), donations, or affirmations of any kind. Just wish me luck, if you don't mind.

Two new blank books are up on eBay. One has a Royal & Divine Birds theme; the other has to do with Lost Souls? at the Sacred Yew. (Oddly, I feel perfectly comfortable revisiting characters and settings in this medium that I'd never consider writing about again.) If you bid on them, I promise to spend the money on something more fun than Cymbalta ... like maybe Shaq's teeth-cleaning and dental work next week.



See that fang poking out so cutely? That means his body is rejecting it, so the fang and probably a few other teeth will need to be extracted.

*OK, so a more accurate choice of phrasing might be, "There are frequent times when I'm not in crippling pain." I was trying to look on the bright side, but if I paint too rosy a picture, people will start wanting me to do signings and conventions and stuff again, and I just don't feel my health is predictable enough for that.

Frankie opened my curio cabinet (which is in an isolated corner of my office not accessible to normal cats) and took out the cat skull I keep in there. I removed him and secured the cabinet, but he has jumped onto the bookcase nearby and is mauwing piteously at it.

As greygirlbeast is my witness, I know I bought the skull at Maxilla & Mandible in New York ... but what must he think of me now?

Such a dignified breed, the Oriental Shorthair.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

[WARNING: The link in this post contains material and images that may be upsetting to cat lovers, though the cats in question are now OK.]

I'm all in favor of piercings. I have four of them myself (two ears, two tits). With the exception of certain chicks who look cute in nose studs, I'm not a huge fan of facial piercings, but to each his own.

So naturally, I think the people who came up with this brilliant idea should be rewarded with free piercings for life. Forcible ones. Several per day. I recommend starting with the eyelids and moving on to the more easily accessible mucous membranes before beginning to experiment with the more esoteric interior piercings. Hey, these folks want to be "edgy," right? Internal organs are on the bleeding edge, man. Literally. Anyway, my plan calls for finishing these geniuses off with a series of 8-gauge intestinal barbells that send fecal bacteria pouring merrily into the abdominal cavity, resulting in a lingering and painful death from peritonitis.

I wish I had time to read my friends list, but since there's no wireless at the church and when I'm at home I'm gardening every minute that my body can take it, I've lost touch with you guys lately. I hope you are well, and I'll try to catch up soon.

Winston has fit into the house like a swirl of cream in coffee, harmonious but distinct. Like the Himalayans I used to know, he does everything seriously, even playing. Since Chris is in Portland, or will be in a couple of hours, I must try to spend more time at home and inside with the cats.

In the Sunday paper, someone said the novel that best characterizes post-flood New Orleans might be V.S. Naipaul's A Bend in the River. It's one of his essential novels and I can't think how I never read it, but I am now. I see what the person meant, but I felt my own Central City experiences more sharply in Hilary Mantel's A Change of Climate, where the English couple went to apartheid-torn South Africa and tried to run this crappy little mission and the despair they would feel in their hearts at the end of a long day when they'd come home in the car and see people sitting on their front stoop, waiting with unsolvable problems.