My Love, My Lolly, Rest In Peace

Thank you for sixteen and a half years of love and lounging.

Lyalka

I cradled Lolly, my almost 17 year-old cat, wrapped in a worn off-white pillow case while my dad drove us to the Animal Clinic. It was my first time at a vet's office. I was surprised how jovial it was. Not at all like a physician's office. Sofa-sized retrievers and chubby bulldogs abound. Smiling owners. A black cat sits on the reception table, hovering over the patient clipboard.

My Lolly, my cat, is sick. She is severely dehydrated. The young doctor told us that the three possibilities are kidney problems, hyperthyroid issues, or cancer. She is also too old to have an operation. We could either leave Lolly in observation to get blood work and hydrated via IV, we could take her home and watch her wither, or we could partake in "humane euthanasia." Every time the doctor and her assistant explain some jargon or procedure to me, I have to explain it in simpler, basic English terms to my father, who is a bit curt with the staff. My mother refused to come. Presumably because it is Shabbat. We are given some time to ponder our options in an adjacent empty room. We put Lolly down on the chrome topped table to roam. I am terrified. Not because of the condition, but because it appears that I, as the native speaker, am responsible for making this decision. I call my mom to tell her the news, but I already know her answer. She is a naturalist. She doesn't even believe in vets and finds it a symptom of our anthropomorphising our cat. Yes, surely treatment is reserved only for humans.

I tremble a bit as I call her and my dad is holding Lyalka (Russian pronunciation). My mom, as expected, votes to leave Lolly be and bring her home, allowing her to live out her time in our apartment. I am scared that I am the child, that this is the cat of my lifetime, nearly my age, and that I am supposed to make this decision alone. That is too much power for me. Too much decision-making. Nothing important can be left for me to deal with. Not when I have parents, even Russian parents.

My dad and I decided to have Lolly go through with testing, hydration, and a two-night hospital stay. I offered to pay. My father scowled.

And now? I have the ratty sheet I carried her in and picturing it makes me cry. I cry as I write this. That thirty or so minutes from my apartment to the car to the vet to the doctor's table, holding her when she was calm and awash in white cloth, were the happiest of our entire relationship. I don't want to think of her in a clinic or in a bed (not sure of clinical conditions for pets). I don't want to think of her as alone or sad. I care for her much more than I've cared for a hell of a lot in the last year. She is my family. She is 6 years younger than me.

I hope she's not in pain and I can't wait to see her lounge by me when I read in bed, for whatever time is left.

Hyper Languid Goes Emo

I dreamt last night that I was staying in a house on the beach as part of a time share with my ex, his new girlfriend, and other faceless dream figures who I appear to have dream dynamics with. In any case, the dream me wakes up in the morning and one of my dream friends alerts me to the fact that there are pancakes left over on the stove. My ex had made them with his girlfriend and these were the remnants. I believe they then went to frolic on the beach. He also left me a rather large and impaired stereo. I think I broke the stereo and threw the pancakes on the floor.

Good to know that time apparently heals no wounds.

In other news, romantic prospects are nilch. I was stood up on Sunday. Wonderful. In a serendipitous turn of karma, I'm setting a work friend up with a real life friend. And that first work friend is setting up a different work friend. All that one needs to know about this equation is that three people that I know now have prospects. I have 0.

Oh, and that apartment I thought was going to work out? That's not working out.

Rain, rain, go away, come and ruin my life another way...

Visual Ode to Imaginary Future Girlfriend

Leisha Hailey, of the L Word, All Over Me, and Uh Huh Her fame, take my hand in imaginary coupledom...

Thoughts/Questions This Week

- Why is it still winter in New York (rhetorical).
- How many packages can I ship in one day? (43).
- I'm staying in because I spent an inordinate amount of money over the weekend (which included a taste of completely out of this world mac and cheese)
- Why, after sending messages to plenty of women on a particular site, do I only get responses from poly men?
- I want to go on a date. With someone I like. You know. A date. I'm tired of only dressing up to go to work.
- How do you know when you like someone, really? Or rather, when you like someone, and it's not pathological?
- Will I actually force myself to confront the big bad world and move out sometime soon?
- I like the idea of buying fun tights and socks and stockings, but I don't really want to pay for them.
- I miss fun.
- What does it say that I miss having lots of backlist Dan Savage podcasts to listen to. I'm lonely without his voice.
- Lastly, why don't I have this...

Caged

I went to the Museum of Modern Art last night with two dear friends and what follows are some images of the exhibit by Tehching Hsieh. I was a bit perplexed at the notion of an exhibit built around photos of a performance piece that was perfomed thirty years ago, but it was intriguing nonetheless...






More than anything, the exhibit made me wonder how he survived the intense loneliness of self-imposed ostracism. Was he commenting on the alienation we all have, but just magnifying it? Did he want us to see that someone could survive being alone for a year? Or is loneliness a performance?

In any case, I'm impressed.

When In Doubt...Look at Fishnets

I just got home from work. I'm hot from wearing a coat two seasons too heavy. I'm frustrated because I got a fight not two minutes in the door with my mom because of her degrading attitude towards prostitution.

I also have no energy to articulate why it is I'm just grrrr this evening (i.e., every evening I have to come home instead of go out after work).

But I can flash the sexy cover of the book I'm currently reading, Diary of an Unlikely Call Girl...



Now all I can say is, growl...