Grrrr. I do not find the time to write for weeks, then I finally manage to eke out an entry about the world’s weirdest florist delivery experience, and then when I go to post it my stupid internet connection crashes and I lose it. I am now getting tired and do not have the energy to rewrite it, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that it would have been entertaining. You do not have to take my word for it that the flowers themselves are beautiful, because I have the photographic proof, complete with slightly satanic-looking cats:

I should perhaps be sure to mention up front that I did not receive Mother’s Day flowers because I have any intention of having children anytime soon, but rather because my parents are very sweet and very nutty. My mother considers my cats to be her grandchildren, and my stepfather is not quite that nutty but will take any excuse to buy flowers or jewelry. Which is why, between the two of them, I wind up with Mother’s Day flowers ostensibly sent from my cats. Which, come to think of it, may explain the bizarre delivery experience - perhaps the florist just assumed I am a complete nutcase who sends herself flowers purporting to be from her cats, and thought he would give me a suitably peculiar experience.

At any rate, I am, alas, not on break from the journal because I am busy doing exciting house things. Instead, I am working nonstop every day, every night, and every weekend to get a big new work project ready. It’s going to be really cool when it’s ready, but in the meanwhile it is driving me insane. And then just for added fun, Schroedinger decided to develop a third chronic illness on top of the two he already had. Until we get his poor screwed-up system under control with the right meds and diet, he has to be segregated from the other cats so I can observe his eating, drinking, and litterbox habits. So he has been shut up in my bedroom for days and he is utterly miserable. I am trying to spend a lot of time in there with him, but then I don’t get to hang out with Len, so quality time in this house lately is down to brief “Hi-honey-how-was-your-day-and-did-the-cat-pee-yet?” discussions. Ahh, romance.

Hopefully things will settle down soon and I can write again. But for now silence is probably for the best. Otherwise this would turn into the Job-Related Bitching and Cat Urination Tracking journal, and I don’t think anyone needs that.

I have packed so many boxes of books and there are so many left to pack. And this is after selling off fifty or so and setting aside another fifty-ish to be donated somewhere. One of the best things my mother ever did for me was to give me a love of books, but I think perhaps she went overboard. Maybe she could have taught me to just like books a lot.

Last week banker’s boxes were on sale at Office Depot - buy 20, get another 10 free - and Len asked me somewhat doubtfully whether I really thought we could use up 30 boxes. Now I’m thinking I could have used up 30 on my own, before we ever started packing his stuff. Oops.

Last night Len was taping up a box of his stuff and I jokingly said he should check inside first and make sure there weren’t any cats inside. Sure enough, it turned out he was just about to seal Antigone in with a box of winter clothing. I suspect by the time we figured it out, she would have shredded every piece of clothing in the box out of spite. From now on I am double-checking every box I seal, and doing frequent cat nose-counts.

Packing is exhausting. Living out of two houses is exhausting. My job is exhausting. Sick cats are exhausting. I would really like to go somewhere very isolated and very quiet, all by myself, and spend a week doing nothing but sleeping, eating, and reading.