HAIRBALL FORMULA, MY ASS

I would like to briefly touch upon the topic of Cat Puke. Because it is all very well and fine to go out and purchase the special hairball formula of what-is-already-grossly-overpriced cat food for the cats, in the hopes that one might be rewarded with getting to spend less time handling and disposing of what is inevitably bound to be either (1) a warm and squishy suspicious-looking tube-like thingy (provided that the hairball has been horked up in your presence and is still quite fresh); or (2) a cold and squishy suspicious-looking tube-like thingy (horked up for you to stumble upon -- sometimes literally, and always when your shoes are off -- after coming home from a long day at work). Regardless of temperature, the Found Object that is the Cat Hairball is, at best, mildly off-putting. The hairball formula cat food seemed like a splendid solution. Particularly since most standard hairball remedies all require wrestling down a usually unavailable and pissed-off cat, then squirting the hairball remedy into said cat's clenched-shut mouth with a medicine dropper, much in the same way that you would have to administer an antibiotic regime . . . not to mention the fact that all the hairball remedies seem to come in bizarre and inappropriate flavors such Carob. Or Bubble Gum. I mean, please. It defies all logic. It's like the human equivalent of Liver-Flavored Kaopectate or Tuna-Juice Ice Cream. Some things are just Plain Wrong.

Here's the thing, though. The cats seem to love the hairball formula cat food. In fact, they love it so much that they Hoover it right down with much noisy grunting and crunching. In fact, they love it so much and Hoover it down so quickly that they inevitably end up throwing up because they ate too fast. Exactly what, I would like to know, is the point of getting hairball formula cat food if the cats end up blowing chunks all hither and yon in a matter of minutes after having eaten it? The hairballs, at least, are somewhat self-contained, unlike outright puke, which goes everywhere all willy-nilly in sheer anarchy. And I don't know . . . the vegetable fiber that's supposed to miraculously prevent the hairballs also seems to miraculously lube up the cat innards, thus rendering a sort of a rocket-launched, projectile style of barfing.

And since we're on the topic, have you ever noticed that each cat has its own distinct style of regurgitation? There's the Wide Radius Dribbler, for example -- wherein a little bit of preliminary spit-up is deposited here, some more preliminary spit-up a few feet to the left, then maybe a teaspoon of puke here, and another teaspoon over there, etc. Or then there's the Aerial Drop -- involving perching on the edge of a counter or table (but most preferably a mantel, if available) and matter-of-factly dropping a load of vomit on the floor from a height. (The vomit hits the floor in a cacophonous splatter, and the cat can admire its handiwork from above.) The absolute worst, though, is the Hot Lunch Program -- which hinges on the philosophy that one cat's puke is another cat's Tasty Soft Food Treat. (And by all indications, it's apparently best to get it while it's still fresh off the griddle . . . hence the name Hot Lunch Program).

POCK-MARKED GIRL BABY

I had a feeling today would be the day, and sure enough, the envelope was waiting there in my mailbox when I came home from the office. It felt sort of thick and solid, which seemed like a promising sign. "Ding" letters usually only entail one sheet of paper, but really . . . one can never tell for sure with these sorts of things.

I pinched the envelope for a bit to contemplate its relative heft and to wonder what it was going to say inside, then put it on the kitchen table, took off my coat, and went to the bathroom. My heart was pounding and I really felt as if I wanted to throw up.

I thought about how I didn't want to open the envelope, because even though I'd deliberately tried not to get my hopes up, it had been hard not to fantasize about the possibility. I decided to assume that it was a "ding" letter and to remind myself how good I've had it lately, and how I've been luckier than any person has a right to be. I reminded myself that I already won a prize this year (which is so lucky -- like winning-the-lottery lucky) and that as a result my second book's coming out, for which I signed the contract just today. I reminded myself how happy I was to be teaching, especially after having spent three years in an inner ring of hell overlooked by Dante known as Corporate Legal Secretarial Hell. I reminded myself that I have kind, laid-back, occasionally-funny-as-hell colleagues who, in a field which is occasionally guilty of vicious departmental politics and petty back-stabbing, weren't out to get me. I reminded myself of my plans to go up early for promotion to Assistant Professor next year. I reminded myself of all the really terrific students I work with, and how I was looking forward to teaching the graduate poetry writing seminar in the fall. Okay, I said to myself, it's a "ding" letter in here. I'll just say that it's a "ding" letter. And that's okay, because things are basically really good for me right now. I'll open the envelope, get dinged, and then just get on with it. Then I wondered for awhile if the past tense of ding is "dinged" or "dung," and thought that it would be somewhat appropriate if it were "dung" because "ding" letters make you feel like shit. And then I thought about how some species of dung beetles roll up feces into an enormous ball of shit that they then wield in front of them as defensive armor against predators. Not a bad plan at all, I thought.

And then I finally tore open the envelope and it gave birth to a Pock-Marked Girl Baby! Her weight is $44K, her exact time of birth is One Whole Year Off From Teaching/Working To Do Nothing Else But Write, and her name is Bush Artist Fellowship. Un. Fucking. Believable.

It's seven hours later, and my heart is still pounding, and I'm in shock! I periodically get up to do the Happy Dance. The Happy Dance entails kicking up my heels behind me one by one and slapping them vigorously with the palm of my hands, a la Abbott and Costello. (I can't believe I just admitted that I do that.) It pretty much defines me as being the Biggest Gork In The Whole Wide World, and even the cats look on with quizzical expressions as if they're embarrassed for me.

AND BY THE WAY . . .

I only have two words for this.

Well, okay, maybe technically nine words altogether for this, at the risk of being all OCD and shit.

Goddamnit, Yuki!

Are you just Satan's Spawn, or what?!?!

WORST. BLOGGER. EVER.

Really. I am. The lamest and most maladroit of all bloggers. Ever. Unlike classier bloggers, I can't even seem to post up a "Temporarily On Hiatus" note when I go on hiatus. No. It's even worse than you might imagine. Not only can I not post up a "Temporarily On Hiatus" note when I go on hiatus, I exist in a profound state of Hiatus Denial, in which I vigorously and adamantly keep telling myself that I am definitely not on hiatus, and that I'm definitely going to blog the next day. So not only is there Hiatus Denial, but there is also Blogging Procrastination at issue here! Sigh.

Where have I been? I've been Out Of It . . . Out Of It, for me, feels like a zone . . . a land unto itself. I wish that I had been somewhere more captivating, and could regale you all with travelogues and risque misadventures. (I do, however, still have pictures from San Francisco to post!) Mostly, though, I've been completely overwhelmed with work at school. I'm currently sitting on eighteen M.A. thesis, Ph.D. dissertation and undergraduate honors' thesis committees -- eleven of which I'm chairing, and seven of which came up for spring graduation this semester. Add to that academic advising for fall. Add to that keeping up with the class prep and grading for my normal course load. Add to that endless niggling bits of administrivia. Add to that a particularly grotesque bout of flu and concomitant Lung Fungus. Add to that being ass high in the slush pile for the literary journal I help edit. Add to that manuscript delivery and marketing/publicity background information which needed to go to my new publisher ASAP. Then go on to imagine what happens when one runs out of Wellbutrin, only to discover the fucking prescription's expired, and being so overwhelmed and Out Of It that one keeps forgetting to make a doctor's appointment to rectify the situation, or one doesn't have time when one does happen to remember, and this goes on for over an entire month, so that one is all of a sudden shocked to find oneself in the goddamn freaking Bell Jar, and not only that, the OCD stuff is getting kind of funky. (For example (arms extended a la zombie): Must. Stay. Up. All. Night. To. Put. Together. 1000. Piece. Puzzle. Can't. Stop. Or: Buy. More. Moonstones. On. eBay. Can't. Stop. And that's just the stuff I feel even remotely willing to disclose.)

Plus, there's this thing that I'd really like to get for which I am currently a finalist, but I don't want to say what it is because I don't want to jinx it, but I really, really want it and am even now thinking that perhaps saying this much might inadvertently be a bit jinxy in and of itself, but the upshot is that I've been waiting for about two months now to find out if I'm going to get this thing that I desperately want, and the time is drawing near for the final decisions to be made, so there's all this awful waiting, and a strange period of psychological limbo in the interim. (Now that I've even mentioned it though, however obliquely, I've got to shout POCK-MARKED GIRL BABY! to minimize any potential jinxage. Long story. Don't ask.)

Hee. Really, though, I've finally sorted out the Wellbutrin debacle (truly . . . I have), plus I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel in terms of finishing out the academic year. I slept for twelve hours straight two days in a row this weekend. I did a cathartic and major round of housecleaning. I have moonstones. Many, many moonstones. Which is not a bad thing at all. And while the literary submissions slush pile is still ass high, I've decided that I'll get to it when I get to it, and anyone who doesn't like it can bite me!

So . . . hello again out there to the blogosphere! I was in Temporary Hiatus Denial. And now I'm back. (With moonstones. Many, many moonstones.)