a wolf angel is not a good angel

Now that I’m done with Veronica Mars, I need another show to watch. I like Buffy, Sopranos, House, Dead Like Me. I liked Six Feet Under but watched it only irregularly.

At lunch today:

my sister orders an egg salad sandwich
my mother orders the salmon entree
my grandparents each order bagels with lox
I order pancakes

Eventually, the waiter brings out bagels with cream cheese for my grandparents. They mention they actually wanted lox, too. The bagels go away.
Then the waiter brings out a salad with a scoop of egg salad for my sister and French toast for me. We mention that we actually asked for a sandwich and pancakes. They take away the food.
A different waiter brings out bruschetta for my mother. We all cheer; it would have been very disappointing had she gotten the correct meal. We request salmon instead. They take the bruschetta away.

To apologise, the manager gives us each a glass of orange juice.

When I was little, my grandfather used to carry me on his shoulders and walk out into the ocean.

I’m older now, and he’s older (85, I think, this year. 85!) and he has never carried my little sister like that, he barely even goes into the ocean himself anymore, and not chest deep when he does.

But today we were at the pool together, playing with all the inflatable toys (and pool noodles) that were in there. He flipped me over (on lounges) a few times; we dueled with the noodles; I managed to flip him over once, because he spent most of the time cheating by slipping out of the tube whenever I came near. I don’t know when I last played with him like that — years and years, probably. Oh, we tease, and we see each other regularly, but this was better.

It makes me sad, too, watching time fly, knowing that I do not have much longer with him, that my sisters and cousins did not get the same grandparents as I did. (I am the oldest grandchild.) I think of my greatuncle, now 6 years in hospital, unable to remember anything. Give-me-a-kiss-Mort, he called himself. I don’t know who else remembers that. I wish I had seen him more before he got sick, in the earliest parts of his illness. I think of my greataunt, how we used to have the breaking of the fast at her apartment, that it seems like just a few years ago that we stopped, though it’s been more like 12 years. And it makes me sad thinking what the world will be like when I am their age.

I don’t know how this post suddenly turned so melancholy.

I read a couple of cat rescue blogs, when I can. And you know, I can never decide if I’m someone they’d even want to adopt out to. I mean, I gave my cat away. Sure, I can — do — have excuses. He wasn’t happy here; he was happy at my parents’ house; he likes them better; he refused to leave the closet here. And yes, of course I would have kept him if my parents hadn’t wanted him, and if anything ever happens, I will take him back. But you know, I’m thinking, I want another cat, or cats — but I am picky in what the cat should look like. I like long hair. I don’t want another solid coloured cat, really I’d like a tabby. Because Til is declawed, I want a declawed cat. But I read these blogs, saying that people who’ve ever given pets away shouldn’t have any more pets, or people who have preferences in what their cat looks like don’t really like cats, they should get a stuffed animal instead, and I think, of course I understand that you want to check me out, see that I keep my current cat safe and healthy, be sure I’m not into just discarding animals when I get bored. You are welcome to see that Sammy is safe and healthy, too. But if it’s impossible to ever have a good reason to give a pet away, or ever just have a preference in looks (that, yes, translates into adopting only cats that look right) without being some sort of monster, then — well, I may not be perfect, but I take good care of my animals (better care than I take of myself).

One of the things I never have been able to do is describe people. How can you, in a half dozen adjectives, give the gist of someone? Is it even possible? (Note: it is possible to do this for negatives, at least for me. Super easy for me to describe the negative aspects of people I know.)

But people ask for it, all the time. What’s so and so like? There’s no point in saying funny, everyone is or claims to be funny. What does funny mean? Do you like puns? Black humour? Sarcasm? No, you can’t say funny. What about smart, perhaps as distinct from clever? This doesn’t tell me anything useful about someone. (Plus, no one’s ever going to call their friends sort of stupid, really.) I often run out of adjectives, here, anyhow.

This is problematic, of course. I don’t want to tell seven long stories that I think are a good way to know what someone is like, in a sense. I cannot really write brief descriptions of myself for any of the many places online that ask you to. (Check it out: even my about page was written by someone else. It’s somewhat out of date, so should someone care to update it, or write me a new one, I would be much appreciative.)

I could, I suppose, tell anyone who wants to know about me to read this blog. I have three years of posts — nearly two thousand entries. That is a lot of information about me. But since I think most of the readers here haven’t read through all my archives (nor is there any reason they should, unless they are very curious, in which case, hey, have fun!), I couldn’t expect anyone else to. And that doesn’t help anyhow, the fact that thousands of words could add up to a description, of a sort. Of course they could, they can, but it’s not a useful one, I cannot respond to “tell me something about yourself” with “why don’t you read my blog instead?”

Nor would I want to. I like the separations I have between what I say and what I blog and what I do. It’s the separation between the story of this blog, a story which is trueish , and the story of me. As if there’s just one me, easily describable by a few adjectives.

It is 6:30 in the morning. I have been up for TWO HOURS. I want to fall back asleep so very much but lo! here I am, awake. Not wide awake — please, I got to bed past midnight — but awake. I am trying to consider what I could do to fall back asleep, but my brain is somewhat fuzzy.

Adopt another cat, should I? Matilda really doesn’t like other cats very much (this is why Sammy moved to my parents’ house, where he is so happy). But there are so many sweet, needy cats on petfinder. And she’d get over it. Eventually. Maybe. Maybe I could get two other cats, and they would play with each other and leave Til alone?

I could so happily be a crazy cat lady.

My very very old icq number still works (and I remembered the password). Not that I use icq so much anymore, but hey, it’s a 6-digit number (they’re now at 8 digits). Yes, this is total meaningless snobbery, why?

A family friend’s son had a very small wedding (20 people? 10?), to which my parents were not invited. They sent a gift.
Their daughter had a not-small wedding, to which my parents were also not invited. They did not send a gift.

Appropriate or not?

More facts, which should heavily weight people on the side of totally appropriate to not send a gift:

• the family friends (ie, the parents of the bride) paid for the wedding;
• my parents were initially on the list, the family friends complained when they were removed;
• they were taken off along with a single other couple (4 people), because it was “too many people” otherwise.

Sometimes I am relieved I have no plans to marry, because it would be way too confusing. On the other hand, I think my parents would murder me if I tried any stunt like that.

My grandparents have been unhappy in the facility they moved to. They chose the cheapest place available (note: they have always been thrifty and thus now have lots of money leftover), and they’re in a 1-bedroom, so one of them sleeps in the living room. I’m not totally sure what all their complaints are, really; I found it horribly depressing when I visited, but at that point they were still happy there. They’re debating between two places, and I assume they’re just waiting for a 2-bedroom to show up in one of them.

My aunt, however, doesn’t want them to move. (Why? Possibility 1: one of the two choices is next door to where she lives. Possibility 2: she’ll inherit less if they do.) So she informed them that she looked it up, and the post office won’t deliver to their new address if they move again, they’d need to pick up their mail every day. Apparently, after you’re 80, you can only do one change of address, then no more. My father gently suggested that perhaps this was a load of bunk, but no, they insisted, my aunt looked it up, it’s true.