Sorta good idea: Sharing with the Internet my tittering flirtation with depression. Turns out, a lot of you have pranced (or moped, rather) through some odd places of your own. Lowly spots are a bit more cheery when there’s company, no?
Sorta not a good idea: Sharing with the Internet my tittering flirtation with depression. Turns out, my mom reads my blog and for a while she and her friends were convinced I was about to knife myself. The first time she called after reading my ramblings, she asked, “How are you?” her voice filled with trepidation, like I was a guy on a ledge about to jump into the streets of Chicago or something (I don’t know why I said that – I’ve never been to Chicago). The next time she called, she said, “You know my best friend from elementary school, Cathy? Well she read your blog and she’s sure worried about you.”
Here’s the good news though – I’m feeling much better! (I promise, Cathy.) The three-step plan really did the trick (even though I only stuck to it for nine days). That, plus I prayed like a maniac. Plus I cooked for a week straight for a bunch of people and it kinda bounced me back to normal. Plus, Benson landed a last-minute business trip to San Diego in which yours truly got to accompany.
I still need to get my act together though. Case in point: in the San Diego airport I was stopped by security so that they could pat down my hair. Turns out, twenty-six bobby pins tend to set off the metal detectors. So the lady with the badge had to kind of pet my hair like you would a cocker spaniel. Then, my purse had to be searched because the banana bread I’d purchased at a cat café earlier that day (yep) looked suspicious in the monitors. Rest assured, I made it though with my bird’s nest hair and baked goods intact. While we waited for the plane, I sat licking banana off my fingers and explaining to Benson how I’m at least thirty percent less weird than the other people I’d spied at the cat café. He nodded along, brushing crumbs out of my curls.
Now then, I promise I’ll let you know if I begin sliding back into the deep, but for now, I’ve got a pickle to claw my way out of.
Last night Benson and I officially began our search for the newest member of our household. We scrolled through the thumbnails of available shelter cats needing adopting and both stopped abruptly on a grand red tabby. Four years old. Chunky feet. Thick coat. Big nose. I cried.
“Let’s fill out the application!” Benson shouted. I threw my phone on the kitchen counter and raced to retrieve the laptop. I beamed. “This is how I felt when I saw Chief’s picture online! Like I knew he was mine!”
We filled out the application together, nodding vigorously as we checked “I agree to pay the adoption fee” and even more vigorously with “I will give a cat a loving home.”
Submit! We’re coming for you, Big Red Tabby!
We discussed names (I like Jason). We texted pictures to our friends. We fell asleep smiling.
Then I woke up at 1:22 (this is a common thing) and couldn’t go back to sleep. Since I had five hours in the bed to kill, I did a little online researching. Maybe Big Red Tabby has an online presence? I looked his name up on Facebook along with the name of the shelter. There he was! All regal and poofy. I scratched the screen. Poor guy has been living at the shelter for almost a year. A year! But why? All the comments from the shelter volunteers talked about what a good boy he was. I even found a video of him giving another inmate a bath. His description clearly stated he has cat AIDS, but that doesn’t deter us. Harold had AIDS too. We can do AIDS. So what was the deal?
Then I decided to do a little YouTubing. By now it was 3 AM. Look! A video of Big Red Tabby! A promotional video of some sort where he’s touted as the cat of the day on some news program! I clicked, giddy.
“And here’s a Big Red Tabby over at the shelter. He’s a good boy. Look how calm.” The feline lounged on the volunteer’s lap.
What gives? Why is nobody adopting my cat?
Then it happened. The shelter volunteer stuck this big apparatus to my cat’s face and said, “Now he does have asthma, but he takes his inhaler like a champ!”
So yeah . . . about that cat. Um. I’ll keep you posted.
Ima comment later tonight
Sorry to hear about your black dog (Churchill’s name for it, though Led Zep has a song by that name too). Not much wisdom to share here, assuming you’ve been checked out by a doctor, except this: it’s hard to be depressed if you are doing strenuous cardio. Studies have proven this. But you already do lots of cardio, right?