My Cat Throw-Up Notebook

When the Snow Flies

Well, and then that happened. That was going to be the title of this article. I was thinking of how the baby, now at least four years old, Daisy Mae, my study cat, threw up a hairball on my notebook. This is a special notebook. It’s a regular 8 ½ by 11-inch notebook. I chose it, especially for its red cover. A sense of urgency was involved. A need to get things done and not only just that, but to know when I did them and how long it took me to do them.

This is in direct conflict with the idea of retirement, where you don’t punch a clock, and there is no need to keep track of anything.

Except, if I don’t keep track, I might float off on the breeze like the floaty bit of a gone-to-seed dandelion.

I’ve noticed something. If I don’t publish something every single day, my reads go to shit. I’ve been experimenting. I decided in July that I was going to write for established publications. They certainly have a wider reach than I do. However, that is also in direct conflict with one of my own “rules” that whatever I write will find the right person regardless of the sort of pre-planned distribution I adopt. And then, you can ask me, “And, how’s that working for you?” Ayup. Not that great.

So, anyway, the Virgo in me wants to examine each and every nuance of my sweet, loving, neurotic kitty. She won’t leave the study. She’s lived with us for years, and my study is her little kingdom. If she decides that Mommy is getting tense or she just wants some cuddling, she will walk gingerly over the keyboard. It doesn’t matter that I am writing. It is time for a break. So, I put the keyboard up on the desk, and she settles in. Generally, I will switch to a tense game of Mahjong or watch some YouTube videos — something where I don’t need a keyboard as much and can rely on some mouse action in between cuddles.

So, I asked myself, of all the places she could have thrown up, why did she choose my notebook? It has occupied the same place on my desk for the last several years, and she has never thrown up on it at all. Normally, if she is going to throw up, she will position herself on the most walked-upon spot on the floor so I can find it as I squish through it. That’s how she’s done it for the last many years. I hop gingerly with the edge of the splot on my foot until I can grab some Kleenex to wipe away the contents of her stomach.

There is a reason most of my rugs in the house are brown. Also, I can’t see very well anymore either. Even now, as I write, I’ve got a bad case of eye strain going on. If I squint my eyes, things on the screen settle in. I got used to it. I can get used to pretty much anything.

I was so adaptable that I was able to use two kinds of calculators at work. If the total key was on the right side or if it was on the left side, I could use either calculator. I still don’t know why people can’t go back and forth between them. Granted, it would take me a couple of minutes to get into the swing of things, but it is doable. I used to hate when I was training somebody, and they squawked about the calculator. Especially when they insisted on using their telephone to add something up, I would say to them, “Where is your proof? You have to add up that column of numbers twice and produce two tapes with the same total before you can move on to the next set of numbers.” They would go, “Why?” I hated the whining. Finally, I said, “Because I said so. If you’ve got a problem with it, you can leave now. I’ll certainly let the boss know that you can’t handle the one rule, the one fucking set-in-cement rule we’ve had in this office for the last 30 years.” Cry babies. No, I wouldn’t talk like that, but I sure felt like it. People. It was worse in my last job, the one where I got fired. That woman had me training so many people. None of them would last. Give them three days, and they were not invited back. Of course, she eventually fired me. It was a good thing, though. She didn’t believe me when I said I was a writer. We had a fight about it. I remember saying, “If I say I am a writer, then I am a writer.”

I haven’t taken my mood stabilizer pill yet. Perhaps, that is what is wrong with me. It’s certainly not hormones. Been there and done that. Nope, not hormones. Whiny people.

I’m going to see if the notebook is drying out. I’ve got the thrown-up page in question hanging off the kitchen counter to dry. Then, I’m figuring I’ll rip out a good ten blank pages or so that got soaked and just continue on. Thanks, Daisy.

Anyway, I hadn’t written anything in the notebook since July, when I was working on getting a bunch of notebooks/journals made to sell on Amazon. I like them. Nobody else does, but that’s okay. If I want a journal, I’ll make a new one. If you want to look at them, here’s the link. My latest one is a planner/calendar for 2023 to 2024. It starts with September 2023 and is 16 months long. Perhaps I’ll use it instead of the cat throw up notebook. I make about $1 in royalties for each sale. Sort of like how I get paid at Medium. Not much. Not even enough for groceries.

On the bright side? I’m learning how to make covers for my self-published at KDP.com books I intend on finishing before the snow flies. Actually, the only place the snow flies in California is up in the mountains, and I live in the flatlands in Oakland. It’s just a saying, “When the snow flies”.

People with cats know throw-up happens. You mop it up and move on.

Thanks for reading.