Sarahjwalk

Hump Day - Literally

My neighbors were having sex this morning. I thought it was an inappropriately early use of a pneumatic drill, what with the regimental rhythm and pounding and all. But I’m pretty sure they were doing it.

Look, it’s great they’re still doing it. Clearly they like to, as they already have two kids, but I don’t need the sounds of a construction site ruining my calm in the morning.

R.I.P. Rowan (2002?-2009)

Though she may have lived at my parents’ house for the last three years, my cat Rowan still had a place in my heart as though she were still living with me, her body tucked underneath the crook of my arm. I had seen her last a couple weeks ago, and like always, she was sitting outside my parents’ kitchen window. Every time one passed the window, you can see her mouth form a plaintive meow.

For a couple weeks now, she had fluid around her heart and was diagnosed a serious, fatal “itis” of some sort (peritonitis?). My parents assured me she was comfortable, and after myriad tests and antibiotics, there was nothing that could be done. Sunday night she disappeared and despite my parents’ best efforts, they have been unable to find her.

I took her home with me six years ago. She had been dropped off at a historic house museum where I worked, along with cans of cat food and a tiny bowl of water. She had spent days circling the porch, greeting visitors who fed her cookies and crackers. Everyone loved the cat on the porch, since her meow was nothing if not distinctive. She was getting skinnier and skinnier and my boss was calling animal control when I decided to take her. I had two cats already, and that was enough in a small one-bedroom, but Rowan was the type of cat you didn’t ignore. She had a personality.

I brought her home with me where she was instantly disliked by my other two cats. Thanks to her persistence, I began letting her out into the courtyard of my apartment building. Gradually, I began letting the other two cats out while I was at home, leaving my door open for sudden bursts of cat re-entry. This wasn’t ideal, but Rowan demanded it. In a rather long drawn-out meow that she repeated over and over again, she reminded me how she could get her way. Some people would find this annoying, and I did, but she had been abandoned once and I couldn’t do it to her ever again.

When I moved back “home” after grad school, I brought her with me. While looking for a job, she stayed at my parents, where she would climb the cherry tree and peer at us in the upstairs bathroom. When I got a job, she moved with me. However, she was used to being outside all the time and after a year I just couldn’t deal with her schedule anymore. She was at the door ready to bolt every day when I came home from work, and didn’t return until I coaxed her in at 6:30 in the morning. Usually, I found her hiding under some bushes, locating her only by her long bobcat-like meows in response to my calling her.

She wasn’t happy being an indoor cat, so she went back to live with my parents. For years after that, she greeted us all from a limb on the cherry tree, like a Cheshire cat. One didn’t always see Rowan, but one could always hear her.

I always thought I’d one day own a house where I could have Rowan to myself, so I didn’t think I’d lose her so soon at 7 or 8. She was a tiny tabby, with a thick raccoon-like tail, and beautiful green eyes. She was a unique cat. I will always love the memory of her snuggled up against me in our old apartment, her tiny body warm and loud with her contented purring.

Good old Rowan- hopefully, she is somewhere where there is a giant cherry tree that’s always in blossom.

Hellz to the No, Car!

I forgot to mention that on Tuesday, I was crossing the street (at a crosswalk) when a car nearly side-swiped me. Damn my instincts, because I leapt almost vertically like a mountain goat to avoid getting hit and yelled out “Hey, Lady!” like a fishmonger’s wife. See, the car was driving pretty slow and I surely would have been OK. But would it be so much to ask for me to get a little scratch here and there? Enough for a day off?

I was hoping for a dramatic moment, too, like me jumping off the hood and rolling. Stopping traffic. It’s not like I was wearing a skirt or in danger of my SPANX riding up like how it went down for my friend K. I’ve fallen off bleachers, horses, boats, even my high-ass bed. The transition from a single-story to a two-story house as a child was difficult, but it just made me better, stronger.

Like I said, I would have been OK, and the trifecta would have been complete. You see, I have extensive experience with pedestrians and cars. Trust.

“No, no, really I’m OK. It could happen to anyone,” would be my response to the driver. I’m sympathetic. She’d feel horrible, that TP bleeding liberal. And I could be, at this very moment, watching “The View” and eating sorbet.

Hello, Fall

I love fall. Unapologetic is my love for the cooler weather, what seems to be clearer blue skies, and the wind that whips the leaves about.

I am in my apartment listening to the wind knock the walnuts down from the trees; when I first heard them knocking about on the stoop and against the windows, I was reminded of a pleasant memory from years ago.  In my first apartment, I had a neighbor with whom I spent time. Our friendship was weird and challenging, but I remember he used to throw acorns at my window to get my attention.

At that point, I’d either let him in or not, and we’d watch television and argue for hours. But I always caught my breath when I heard the bounce of the acorn off my window.

Like I said, it was a pleasant memory.

Welcome Back to Me!

I still wonder what the point of my blog is, as if it were the proverbial tree falling in the forest.  But does it really matter? Doesn’t everyone feel entitled to the free (anonymous) press for themselves and their thoughts, even if it’s contrived to the point of derision?

I’ve been banned from excessive internet usage at work, and since out of habit I don’t get on the internet at night a lot, I haven’t been reading my normal favorite blogs. I find myself having to say “I hadn’t heard that” or neglecting to watch a clip on Youtube that’s already past its prime. Is that a good thing? It’s not like I’ve been doing anything in the meantime - mostly putzing about preoccupied for no good reason, so I’ve ignored my natural inclination to remember and comment.

Like, a couple weeks ago I saw a bald guy with a pubic hair stuck on his head. And it’s not like that was a particularly good thing, just that it made me smile one morning as I sat behind him on the bus. I was embarrassed for him but also certain that it was bound to happen at some point to some bald guy who probably washes his junk with soap and then realizes he ought not to forget his dome, which he keeps waxed at a very respectable sheen.  But, oops, he has unknowingly transported a pubic hair. It’s a good thing I remembered that or else I couldn’t write it here.

Uh, ok, so that’s not really a good example.

It’s just that I forgot to think and notice for a while - I was stuck in an whimsical psuedo-reality where it’s necessary to ignore the world for a while in order to try to create a  relationship, chaste or otherwise, out of dysfunction. Is that what “stuck in the moment” is? You forget to notice.