I received a comment today, asking if I had a mental problem. This person was doing research for an essay and had stumbled across my blog.
I briefly considered defending my point of view, but then I thought ... neih, it’s not worth it. If I say something, he/she is going to say something back, and then I’ll say something back and before you know it a simple comment has turned into a heated argument. So, I left it alone and moved on.
The comment got me thinking though ... do I have a mental problem? If I do, there’s a perfectly good explanation for it.
There was a time that I occupied myself with cleaning, cooking and gardening. In my spare time I wrote a weekly letter home, did some knitting, crocheting, embroidery and beading.
The house was always spotless, something was simmering on the stove and my family and I had plenty of sweaters, scarfs and hats. Even in the bathroom there was evidence of my creativity ... the spare toilet roll was kitted out in an original jacket.
With the arrival of the computer – and especially the Internet – everything changed. Suddenly there was a fine layer of dust on the furniture and the windows had lost a bit of their sparkle. Occasionally we would have take-out and bought sweaters replaced hand knitted ones.
I don’t even know how or when it happened, but suddenly I spend my days writing. If I don’t write articles, I research articles. If I don’t surf from website to website, I write emails or answer emails. In between, I post this, that and the other on Facebook and leave comments on other people’s posts. Via Facebook I visit blogs and leave comments there too. Write, write, write, that’s all I do.
Okay, I play a fair amount of games on Facebook too, but that’s beside the point.
When I finally retire and go to bed, I have to share my space with two or three cats. They curl up or stretch out and I have to adjust my sleeping position accordingly.
It wouldn’t be so bad if they were quiet sleepers, but they’re not. Mickey snores, Charlotte sighs and Gabriel makes funny little meow noises.
In addition, Mickey has a tendency of kicking me when I don’t give him room to stretch, Gabriel swats his fury tail in my face, while Charlotte walks all over me. She tramples over my chest, pushes her cold wet nose in my ear and says “krrrrrr, krrrrr, krrrrr!” You try sleeping with that lot.
(Meantime, Dieter sleep with Chanel, a perfectly good and quite kitty cat ... even she too has a tendency to snore.)
Finally we all go to sleep, but only until dawn. As soon as the sun rises Gabriel awakens and his theory is ... if I’m awake, so should everybody else. So, he starts meowing. Not softly mind you, but loud and insistent, and increasing in volume. In fact, his meowing is like singing an aria from Aida. Verdi would be proud of him.
After they had their breakfast, the kitty cats go back to sleep and so do I. Not for long though, their internal clock is finely tuned and sooner or later they decide that it’s time to get up. So I get up.
If you think I can shower and brush my teeth in peace and quiet, think again. It doesn’t take long before there’s scratching on the door. I open the door and Mickey walks in. He takes a look around and wants to go out. I open door. He hears the water being turned on and he wants to come back in. I open the door. The bathroom is too hot for him and he wants to go back out. I open the door.
There’s more scratching at the door. I open the door. Charlotte walks in. She wants a drink at the sink. She too decides that the bathroom is too hot and wants to go out. I open the door. Jeez Louise, these cats need a concierge.
For the remainder of the day I have peace and quiet. The evening though brings a flurry of activity. While I try to concentrate on writing, the cats play games. Games that increase in roughness as time goes by. Occasionally I have to yell “Guys! Calm down!”
For a few minutes they behave themselves until the madness starts all over again. They’re favorite game being racing, NASCAR style. They sprint from room to room, jump on chairs, fly over tables, only to go sprinting from room to room again.
I yell again for them to calm down when there’s a loud crash ... that was my favorite lamp. (I can’t tell you how many pieces have bitten the dust at the hands/paws of my fury kids.
Writing and cats ... not a good combination. Is it any wonder that I have a mental problem?