Cleaning the House with Cats

Cleaning the house is a chore that becomes a lot more enjoyable if you have cats. My seven pound orange fluffball, Physgig, is convinced that the vacuum is a horrible demon that is going to destroy the world. While being terrified of it, she is also convinced that she is the only creature in the world that can destroy it. She watches it, hiding behind objects far smaller than herself (her logic is staggering). When the timing is right, she lunges in and attacks with viciousness and ferocity, immediately followed by a hasty scrambling retreat. I end up with extremely clean rugs because I spent extra time tormenting the cat. Sylvanas, my overweight gray cat, also hates the vacuum, but she has the good sense to grudgingly head upstairs away from it. She does deign to glare at me as if she intended to set me on fire before her departure, which is considerate of her, really. The black cat, Echo, doesn't move unless I actually touch her with the vacuum, in which case, she hits the ceiling. I only do so when I am feeling particularly evil.

The other wonderful part of house cleaning with cats is mopping the floors. Oh, the fun you can have. A little soap and water on the wood and linoleum goes a long way. Physgig has large fluffy feet and slides on the floor at the best of times, especially because she is usually running full-speed under the impression she is on fire (she is just orange an easily confused). Add wet floor, and the moment her foot touches it she freaks out, legs splaying out as she tries desperately to get away from the wet. Echo and Sylvanas find high dry places and glare at me. They have Physgig to warn them when the floor is wet. Despite both being fat and tuna addicts, not even tuna could lure them onto a wet floor. Sylvanas is far too dignified to engage in that nonsense, and Echo is too lazy.

So my house is clean now. All three cats are curled up sleeping in their favorite places. It took me hours to clean today, but because of them, it didn't feel long at all.

Dreams

I'm struggling a bit to write anything at the moment. This week, I found out the job I love and excel at, is ending due to federal budget cuts. I didn't do anything wrong, in fact I have done extremely well. But it doesn't matter. I am a contractor, and there is no money to pay me anymore. So as of next month I am unemployed. And due to the nature of my job, the financial situation that lead to my layoff also means that there are no other jobs in my field to apply to. Unless I want to move to AK, or Idaho, WA, or other far off places. I am a homebody with a large family I live very close to. I have no interest in traipsing around the country chasing jobs when what I want to do is stay home and chase kids. Not that I want to be a stay-at-home-Mom, exactly. But my passion has always been writing, which I can do from home. So I am taking this lay-off as a sign that I need to stop being so passive about my writing and really put energy into getting published. So on that note, I'll try and write something here that doesn't devolve into an angry rant.

They say that if you give someone a fish they will eat for a day, but if you teach someone to fish, they will eat for a lifetime. But what if there aren't any fish? What if you know how to catch one, but there just aren't any to get? Well, I guess if that's the case, then you need to learn how to catch birds. But what if there are no birds? Well, learn to trap rabbits. Eventually you'll end up trying to catch the wind, but that is the nature of dreams. Dreams are tricky things and its hard not to give up on them. And even when you get them, often its not exactly what you expected. Nothing is real in a dream, so trying to bring those desires into reality creates little glitches. My dream is to be a writer, a happy wife, and mother. That's it. I don't need fancy things or a big house or exotic vacations. It sounds like a simple dream, but the reality is so far from simple. The road to getting published is a minefield littered with thousands of rejections that threaten to tare your dream to pieces. Everything I write is a piece of myself that I send out into the world. It isn't easy being so stretched, having so much of myself unprotected. I want to gather myself up, hold it in. It's safer that way. But I can't have my dream if I don't let it get ratted up by reality. It won't be what it started as. Reality will rip it, fill it with holes and wrinkles. But if I really try, maybe my dream will survive the damage and fully become real. It'll be beaten and not so beautiful, but it'll be real. And that's worth fighting for.

Stream of consciousness

I figure I'll just to a stream of consciousness thing today. Streaming in a madness of swirling emotions that are so confused they have lost meaning. Not thinking back. No corrections. Just let it come and pass through you. Words on my fingers, stuck like maple syrup and not coming all the way free. I stick my fingers in my mouth and enjoy the sweetness. Words on the tongue. Words on the keyboard. Words on the screen. All of them me. I stopped for a minute. Distracted by Netflix. It happens. The perpetual soundtrack of my house. Silence is alien. Makes me uncomfortable. I need noise, sound, music, anything. Silence lets me hear the things the cats break, the odd little sounds of the heaters, the settling of the house. It lets me hear my thoughts. They get so loud I can't think. So I set up my distractions and calm my mind, so I can get one thing at a time on my mind. Not sure what more there is today. Guess thats good.