Nose to Nose with a Cat Friday Round-Up

I watched the snow falling at 3:00 a.m. But instead of feeling cozy and snug, I responded to an email from a colleague about a meeting that would start at 9:00 a.m. Then I stewed about it until 6:00 a.m., still watching it snow, and then fell asleep for an hour. I woke up “loaded for bear” which is a term my dad used to use a lot in his various battles with variety stores bigger than ours, and conjuring him up served me well, oddly. I launched into the day ready to beat K-Mart at its own game.

We love our loaner cat an awful lot. Last night, during my fretful hours watching the snow, I yearned for the cat to come sleep on my legs. I wanted to feel his little cat feet kneading the covers while he settled in a grey curl on the white comforter. But no. He left me to my yearning and my wakeful bile. He never comes when he’s called. He comes when he comes.

My husband has taken to dressing like James Carville for his Zoom meetings with clients. James Carville, Bill Clinton’s campaign guru, is often on cable news talking about politics. He is always wearing some kind of Louisiana sportswear, a hoodie and ball cap like he’s on his way to or from the beer tent. My husband’s adopted this look, except his sportswear is all Iditarod and local high schools. This from a man who used to pick out his suit, shirt, and tie the night before – for years. And the tie selection could take a while.

Princess Kate was on the news tonight talking about her recent cancer diagnosis. She looked wan – an old-fashioned word but apt. And so, so thin. She sat on a bench by herself and gave a perfectly composed and beautifully delivered statement about her situation. I wondered why she was sitting by herself. I wanted her husband to be sitting next to her, or her mom. Not that it’s my business, but I felt for her being alone. It didn’t seem right.

I am staring serious old age in the face. I’m within thirty days of turning 76 and I look every inch of it. It’s like – here’s your home, Jan. The carpet is worn, the sofa sags in the middle, the afghan has been tossed over the chair for thirty-five years, and the plant in the window is 52 years old. This is your habitat, friend. It is your Tut’s tomb. All you need is your Kindle and your comfy pajamas. Good night.