There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.
For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow. For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day.
Priorities, I suppose.
Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too. He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant… on his own. We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut. I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.
Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth –he is a consummate drooler– and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks. He is a chuckler, too– just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies. He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.
Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline. She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces– but I think most females always feel that way. I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.
I find it hard to write these days.
I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper. I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.
And it's not for a lack of things to write, either.
For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache. It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see. She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.
Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman –or any woman, for that matter– forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?
So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women. Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches? It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know. It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.
Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.
Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.