The Term "Crazy Cat Lady" Doesn't Do Me Justice

I noticed recently that my cat had some rough, scabby patches under his chin, and when they didn't go away after about a week, I decided to try to inspect them more closely.

So, naturally, I thought I should put on my headlamp.

The thing about headlamps is that they're kind of like giant rubber bands with a rock attached to one side. So if you aren't careful when placing them on your head, the strap can snap and either fly off your head or injure you. As I was pulling on my headlamp to inspect my cat's chin (who types a sentence like that, ever?) this exact snap scenario occurred and the little hard plastic lightbulb-and-battery pack smacked me right in the bridge of the nose.

I now have a small raised bruise on my nose because my headlamp hurt me when I was trying to inspect my cat's chin. 

After cursing and rubbing my face, I reattached the headlamp and turned it on so that I could examine my patient. Then, I did what everyone does when they discover anything wrong anywhere in the world. I went on Google. And searched for "cat with scabby chin."

You'll never guess what came up. Feline acne.

Almost every description of my cat's symptoms was concluded with a diagnosis of feline acne. I had no idea cats could get pimples. And he's not even going through puberty...

So now, not only am I a girl who dons a headlamp to inspect her cat's crusty chin—I am a girl whose cat has feline acne.

People, I cannot make this sh*t up.

My sister does have a cat with asthma, so maybe there's some sort of strange karmic curse on our family when it comes to cats. But still...

Mr. W and I were Skyping last night and I asked him what he would have thought if I'd told him this story when we were dating. I'm thinking that engagement ring would have never found its way to my finger.

This is my life. Glamorous citizen of Hollywood. Lord only knows what will happen when we live in Santa Ynez...

Now excuse me while I go swab my cat with peroxide and ice the bridge of my nose.

Blowing the Doors Off

I'm going to try to keep this brief. Between work, life coaching, traveling to Canada and Santa Ynez, trying to participate in the occasional social activity, and managing the upkeep of multiple properties, this girl hasn't had a whole lot of time to blog. However, she has had time to paint and organize stuff at the future wine country abode.

Before Mr. W left for Vancouver, we decided to take the doors off this closet in the new house's hallway and paint it the same soft grey we chose for the walls. I couldn't be happier with the choice. It looked like this before we moved in:

Now it's filled with books and games and pictures and DVDs:

I think it'll add a little interest for visitors when they venture from the dinner table to the bathroom...

I also decided to remove two of the bedrooms' closet doors last weekend. My parents were visiting—celebrating their 49th wedding anniversary. Don't you want to applaud that? It is seriously impressive that people can stay together that long. I look forward to celebrating five decades with Mr. W someday. Anyway, with their helpful hands at the ready, I was able to remove and repaint 8 doors. And laugh hysterically as my dad flapped around like a wild man when he walked into a cobweb inside one of the closets...

 

Now instead of the old garish yellow doors, I have nice clean white ones.

Bye bye buttercup.

In the spirit of door removal, I also decided to take apart some of the kitchen cupboards. Here's the before (before we moved in, that is):

And here's how it looks now:

It's kind of amazing how much more this one little change opens up the whole kitchen. I can't wait until we gut the whole thing and have some other open shelving for our ridiculous mass of cookbooks. (The picture above represents about 1/4 of the collection...)

I'm sure I'll have the house just the way I want it by the time we're ready to start remodeling. I guess that'll allow Mr. W to have more of a say in how things go and not feel so much like I'm designing the whole house without him. And I'm sure that'll move us a step or two closer to that five-decades-of-marriage goal...

Airport Affection

Call me crazy, but I kind of love waiting for flights at the airport.

It may be the fact that I can sit totally uninterrupted and catch up on my never-ending supply of magazines. Or that I often purchase smutty magazines and snacks I wouldn't normally buy. Or maybe it's because the terminals feel a bit like mini cities—with their enticing storefronts and crowded restaurants. It could be the simplicity of having all my necessary belongings consolidated into one or two neat little bags. Or the fact that I know I'm headed out on an adventure of some sort.

Maybe it's a magical combination of all of the above.

Whatever it is, it makes me happy every time. It's almost like going to the airport triggers the same synapses in my brain that a trip to the spa does. The promise of free time and relaxation.

(I can almost hear Mr. W's eyes rolling right now as he formulates an argument that airports are filled with crying babies and overly loud phone-talkers.)

The first time Mr. W and I took at trip to Europe together, I quickly learned that our travel styles weren't exactly...twinsies. He has no problem running through train stations or getting to the airport just in time to make it through security and board the flight. That mode of operating deprives me of my beloved terminal quiet time. It's definitely not my favorite.

But with him gone—and needing to be visited regularly—I'm on my own for the next five months' worth of travels. And in addition to fully enjoying my airport time, I'm going to soak up the beauty of Canada as well. I really can't complain about the view here!