Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

If someone tells me, then I will know: Why is it that silk sweaters sometimes smell like fish? WHY?????

Silk sweaters are not MADE of fish. They ARE made of the bodily products of silk worms…

“Of fish” – that’s funny. “Don’t say ‘of fish.’”

I need a bigger and wider putty knife!

A while ago, when I acquired a second kitten, a friend of mine sent me a link to this item from Archie McPhee:

Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure

I thought it was funny; I’m an Archie McPhee fan and it’s a very clever send-up. Then he sent me a link to “CATPRIN, a tailor for cats.” I thought this was VERY funny. I especially like the introductory text and the instructions:

CATPRIN, a tailor for cats. Ever imagined dressing up your lovely cat into a fabulous beauty? You don’t have to dress her everyday, in fact she might not feel comfortable with a dress on for days. Just dress her up only on special occasions like her birthday, takes a photo and that should leave you lots of memories and fantasies.

Dress me up! Please! Meow…..
Have fun with CatPrin

• 1. Dress her up. Cheer or yell, do whatever you like to enjoy the moment with your family.
• 2. After you are enough with your joy, take a photo! Take some poses and leave her some cute photos!
• 3. Remove her clothes and give her a hub, say “Thank you!”

Don’t forget to “hub” her! Otherwise, how will she know you “are enough with your joy?” Here is one of my favorite CatPrin outfits (with description):

Leopard’s Hat and Shawl, 5,300 Yen

Wow! Kind of scary! Am I?

Cute cat becomes gorgeous and wild leopard! A single shawl acts as a foppish muffler as well. The back of both the hat and the shawl are textures of tartan check, velcrod, and can be attached or detached easily.

I need to look into this revolutionary new fastener – “velcrod.” Japanese technology is always so far ahead of the rest of the World.

Here’s one more choice ensemble and description:

Anne’s Housekeeper Package, 3,800 Yen

A Cat with long red hair!? Here comes the Star of the masterpiece “Anne of Green Gables”!

Let her play the leading role in the masterpiece “Anne of Green Gables”! Isn’t her coquettish red hair cute? Let’s give her a broom and this lady with little red hood , is likely to start cleaning up your room. 🙂 The country-tone blouse are made of the same material as the hood, presenting a consistency in the appearance. The yellow flower in the center of the collar is impressive as well! All ornaments are velcrod and can be attached or detached easily.

Ha ha! What fun! But, at some point, the insecurity begins creeping in. Am I turning into a “Crazy Cat Lady?” Yes, I talk to my cats. Yes, I cuddle and hug my cats and kiss them on their little heads. Yes, I made each of my cats her own little hand-crocheted afghan. Yes, they own about five hundred toys. Yes, I do bathe them occasionally. Yes, indeed, I do call them my “kitten children.”

Nevertheless, I’ve given it considerable thought, and I’ve decided that, though I’m clearly a “crazy lady,” I am NOT a “Crazy Cat Lady.” These are the reasons I protest a designation as “Crazy Cat Lady:”

• I only have two cats. As you can clearly see, according to the action figure, you must have at LEAST six cats to be a “Crazy Cat Lady.”
• Neither of my cats is a feral cat. “Crazy Cat Ladies” rescue feral cats. In fact, they usually assimilate enough of these felines that they probably couldn’t tell you exactly how many cats they actually HAD. On Animal Cops or Animal Precinct they’d call a “Crazy Cat Lady” a “collector.”
• A “Crazy Cat Lady” would also have difficulty telling you how many cats she “owned” because she won’t have managed to spay or neuter all her felines, so her household cat population will regularly increase exponentially. You see this all the time with “collectors” on Animal Cops or Animal Precinct. BeBe and Fiona have both been spayed.
• Neither of my cats are outdoor cats or even indoor/outdoor cats. They have beds and such and oodles of playthings and stay inside.
• I am not blond. The official “Crazy Cat Lady” action figure is clearly blond.
• I do NOT wear my bathrobe all the time. I plead the Fifth on the issue of the pajamas.
• A “Crazy Cat Lady” would not name her cats “Beatrice Alessandra Gatto” and “Fiona Maura MacArthur.” Her cats would be named “Sparky” and “Oreo” and at least one of them would be missing an eye, a leg, a tail, or two or more of the aforementioned body parts.

And now, the ultimate tool has been provided by Archie McPhee. I took the “ARE YOU A CRAZY CAT PERSON?” quiz thoughtfully provided with their item description of the “Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure.” Here are my results:

See? I am NOT a “Crazy Cat Lady!”

Can you get more scientific than that? Not only has this test definitively confirmed that I am NOT a “Crazy Cat Lady,” apparently, I am not crazy at all! What a relief!

Sheesh – all the money I’ve wasted on therapy! Then again, perhaps counseling has prevented the possibility of my “someday” qualifying…

I had always intended this blog to be utterly and wholly ridiculous and I vowed that it would contain nothing profound, nothing too personal and certainly nothing of great importance. I’ve already broken that promise more than once, though I’m not sorry about every infraction (see I Have Learned What It Means to “Wear Yellow”). However, I think I do regret the previous entry a little. But I’m going to leave it, anyway. Everyone who knows me is already aware that I’m a crazy lady (or a crazier lady) and those who don’t know me probably don’t and shouldn’t care too much. I’ll just say this: If you don’t want to read an entry that may cause you to cringe and shudder and cry, “Too much information! Too much information,” you may want to skip the entry below.

Then again, you might want to read The Cookie Incident. It’s a little funny. And the Down The Stairs episode is somewhat amusing, too.

And here’s something that could make ANYONE feel better. Here is my youngest nephew, Anders. This picture was taken almost two months ago when he still looked a little like Winston Churchill:

Anders Christian Brondum
Born December 23, 2004

The Right Honourable Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill
November 30, 1874 – January 24, 1965

See?

I used to want to be extremely mysterious; I wanted to be able to hide what I was feeling and keep people guessing. I’m not sure why I wanted this. As it was, I was EXTREMELY shy as a child. The Down The Stairs episode is a good example. When I began to compensate for my timidity (by being an impenitent smartass), any capacity to deeply hide my feelings went straight out the window. For most of my adult life it’s been painfully obvious how I was feeling (at least in a generalized way). Mind you, I think my body decided that it was more healthy NOT to be pent up; in spite of myself, if I would get too frustrated or too stressed, I would usually end up crying whether I wanted to or not. I gained a catharsis reflex, I guess.

Things have changed, however, through a serious of unfortunate events (not to be confused with A Series of Unfortunate Events, the fine Lemony Snicket books – they are excellent fun, incidentally). I have been, always, I believe, dysthymic, which is a constant form of a low-level depression sometimes contributing to major depressive episodes, but always returning to a rather “blue” normal mood. My dysthymia could have been the cause of my shyness, actually, and could also have contributed to on and off sleep irregularities in my life. Dysthymics can be extremely functional; I think I was – did well in school, held down jobs and so forth. I think it may have led to some “drama queen” behavior (perhaps a combination of my personality and the disorder) and changes in mood such as the The Cookie Incident when I was a toddler.

As an adult, I was encouraged by a number of people to “up the ante,” so to speak – to raise the baseline of my mood. I was wary (hypocritically – would have told anyone else to do it). Partly, I think, because of my reliance on asthma maintenance medication I wasn’t sure I wanted to make what might be a life-long commitment to mood-altering substances and I was concerned about the side effects. I finally tried a tiny, tiny dose of an antidepressant that is well-known for its lack of side effects. I became increasingly irritable, but as this is a recognizable human emotion, I didn’t think too much of it. Then I increased my dosage the next week, as per instruction. I became, let’s just say, seriously irritable.

At some point I finally had an epiphany about what was causing the problem. Unfortunately, the bad reaction to the medication had an increasingly negative effect, even after I stopped taking it. I started to have horrible panic and anxiety attacks, generalized anxiety and depression unlike anything I’d ever known, for me the only way to cope with this problems have been the use of products from this CBD company. These diseases run in my family (on both sides) and perhaps the disruption in my body chemistry caused underlying genetic predispositions to express themselves. Some have argued that they may have spontaneously done so, but I tend to think that since I was already in my thirties when my chemistry went all to hell, that is not the case. It doesn’t make any difference, I suppose, because what’s done is done.

Since that original adverse drug reaction I have been on a cavalcade of doctor-supervised medication experimentation, to find the best depression treatment. It seems that if I am going to react poorly to a medication I will do so at a very tiny dose (a second bad reaction eventually confirmed this) and that on medications that don’t do harm but don’t necessarily help I can take ridiculously high doses without much relief. Some have wondered why I don’t just stop taking everything and “go back to the way I was.” I can’t tell you how much I would love this. But I know what happens, for instance, when I go off the anti-anxiety meds, for instance. It isn’t a good thing. My chemistry, for whatever reason, has changed irrevocably. I’m stuck with the medication circus. And I haven’t really felt like myself for about three years.

So why do I bring all of this up in terms of having wanted to be “mysterious” and unreadable? I have finally found the thing that I can successfully understate. It is the wretched state of my mental health. I can’t hide it altogether; I break down eventually. But as far as the extent of my feelings of depression and hopelessness and panic – I have shocked and surprised any number of people (including a psychiatrist and a DSW). I seem to maintain some modicum of what I call “socially-appropriate” energy. For brief periods of time I can joke and act “normal.” I don’t think of it as deceptive behavior; I think of it as some little well of my former “socially-appropriate” self that I can access on a limited basis. And even if I am upset and anxious and horribly sad, I can and will joke. I have ingrained the “smartass” compensation part of my personality totally, I guess. I saw a psychiatrist, a young guy from the South (you only would notice his origins when he would say, “I fancy that this course of medication will make a big difference” – nobody “fancies” anymore who’s not from the South), who, more than once, partway into a medication consultation, would look at me in utter surprise when I started crying and say, “I had no idea you were so sad.” I think it was partly because he didn’t expect anyone on the brink of despair (not trying to be ultra-dramatic – I do feel that way sometimes) to make little jokes. It could also be because at the visits you reported your mood on a scale from one to ten; this was so inane and subjective to me that I rarely could remember which end was utter despair and which was delirious happiness – couldn’t tell you right now, in fact. The times I didn’t ask him to remind me which end was which I probably reported everything upside down. Oh well.

I also did a number on my newest therapist. I took a 300+ question personality inventory (no doubt some version of the MMPI). It has those great questions that you aren’t supposed to over-analyze like, “Do you like mechanics magazines?” “Do you want to be a florist?” “Do you want to be a singer?” Then there are the questions that (unless, I guess, you ARE hearing voices) you can see right through: “Do you hear voices?” “Do voices tell you to harm others?” “Do you hallucinate?” You name it. When my therapist scored my test, she was “extremely concerned.” It wasn’t that she’d found any new maladies, however, according to the test, I was extremely depressed and extremely anxious (I also had a moderately big “paranoia” peak, but she attributed that to things that had actually happened to me. Ha ha). I almost said, “I told you that the first day I was here.” But she went on to explain that she knew I was anxious and depressed but thought that my medications were “controlling it better.” Yikes.

So I’ve found my “mysterious” facet. I am apparently just well-groomed enough, just well-spoken enough and just humorous enough that even the pros haven’t understood that for the bulk of the past three years it has taken a gargantuan effort just to get out of bed in the morning; that often I’ve just moved about like a zombie and most of the time someone could ask me and I couldn’t tell them any compelling reasons to live. And that isn’t a cry for help – I’m too much of a guilt-monger to not “live” (even during the times it seems like it would be an enormous relief to somehow disappear). I am beginning to understand that my last therapist (the head of the in-patient psych ward at a major hospital) probably did NOT get it. That’s not to say that she didn’t understand that something was wrong with me and that she didn’t have good behavioral modification suggestions or whatnot; she’s a very good counselor. I was already of that opinion and had it strengthened when I found she’d actually admit when she didn’t know what to do for me. But I believe now that she had NO IDEA how depressed I was. I started using cbd buds and dab pens to manage my depression and anxiety levels, CBD vape pens are a striking way to alleviate anxiety and provide relaxation since you can microdose. You can purchase one and enjoy insane benefits. So now I can inadvertently fool the people who I desperately need to help me, which is SOOO useful. And many others around me think I need to just “buck up” and “get over it.” Even those individuals you’d think would understand (because of their own experiences) do not get it.

Beware what you ask for. You may receive it and it may bite you in the ass.

All Nick Park fans and avid turophiles will be delighted to know that The Wallace & Gromit Movie: Curse of the Wererabbit, the first feature-length Wallace & Gromit movie, will be released this fall.

Here’s the IMDB plot outline:

Wallace and his loyal dog, Gromit, set out to discover the mystery behind the garden sabotage that plagues their village and threatens the annual giant vegetable growing contest.

Speaking of giant vegetables, here is the winner of the Guinness Book of World Record‘s award for largest cabbage.

John Evan’s 45.25-Pound Red Cabbage

I got stuck under the bed tonight – most of me, that is (my legs stayed outside – they danced a jig and spitefully mocked the rest of my body – I’ve always hated my legs). Please don’t ask how this occurred, exactly; I’m not sure I understand it myself. I just have one thing to say about teenagers these days (how freakin’ old does THAT make me sound): they are DEAF. My fourteen-year-old nephew was in the room directly above me. I yelled (with appropriate diaphragmatic support, of course) and banged out “SOS” with a metal bed support on the metal bed frame for at a good half an hour (which was LOUD – I had to plug an ear most of the time I pounded). He didn’t hear a thing. I did manage to wriggle out, obviously, but I made HIM squeeze back under the bed to fix the contraption that I was trying to fix when I unscrewed the middle support and then I couldn’t get out easily without repairing it but all I could reach was a pair of socks and let’s just say that a pair of socks (even if they’re woolen) doesn’t work as well as a wrench when you need to remove a wing nut and a plastic thing-a-ma-bob to fix the thingy (trust me, that is the technical term).
Thank god a grand piano or something didn’t fall on me; I would have out of luck.

Oprah Winfrey had Lance Armstrong on her show last week. If I didn’t like her so much – and yes, call me a cheese-ball (the ultimate turophile compliment, anyway) – I like Oprah, but if I didn’t like her so much I would probably presume that she derived her great powers and influence from sources of ultimate evil. However, I don’t believe this is the case, since she uses her mighty powers for good (and fun, too – why not). In fact, because she encouraged Oprah viewers to break the previous record for LiveStrong® Bracelets purchased in one day (and this is, certainly, Oprah’s cup-o-tea), Oprah viewers nearly tripled the previous one-day sales record of wristband by purchasing more than 900,000 LiveStrong® bracelets in one day.

Huzzah for Oprah and LiveStrong®!

Here are some updated facts from the Lance Armstrong Foundation site published in accordance with his Oprah appearance.

Here, also, is the LAF Manifesto (which I somehow missed before):

The Manifesto of the Lance Armstrong Foundation

We believe in life.
Your life.
And that you must not let cancer take control of it.
We believe in your right to live without pain and, if it comes to it, your right to die with dignity.
We believe in energy: channeled and fierce.
We believe in focus: getting smart and living strong.
Because we’re passionate about helping you live every minute of your life with every ounce of your being.
We know you don’t need pity.
You need information. Fast.
We kick in the moment you get the news that changes your life.
With the hard, the practical, the pragmatic.
Information is power.
Knowledge is strength.
This is the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
We’re about the hard stuff.
Like knowing the first doctor you talk to is not God.
Like finding the nerve and getting the number to get a second opinion.
And a third or even a fourth, if that’s what it takes.
It’s about finding out about clinical trials.
It’s your life.
You will have it your way.
We’re about practical stuff.
Like planning for surviving.
Banking a man’s sperm. Preserving a woman’s fertility.
Fighting depression. Accepting tears and acknowledging rage.
It’s talking openly about the big “C”. With husbands, wives, and partners; kids, friends, and neighbors; the people you live with, work with, cry and laugh with.
It’s organizing your finances.
It’s dealing with hospitals, specialists and insurance companies.
It’s knowing your rights when you talk to your employer.
It’s your life.
Take no prisoners.
We’re also about the practical issues of life after treatment.
Cancer may leave your body, but it never leaves your life.
We’re your champion on Capitol Hill. Your advocate in the back halls of the healthcare system and your sponsor in the research labs.
When you’re cancer-free, the fight has only just begun.
This is the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
Founded and inspired by one of the toughest survivors on the planet.
Live Strong.

Several days ago I turned eight or twenty-fifteen or the square root of 1,225. Use whatever system floats your boat – it’s not that complicated. If I wanted to be truly obtuse I would insist that you calculate my “mass” by giving you my weight from the third moon of Jupiter, which, incidentally, is Ganymede – though I prefer my weight on Pluto – oooooh, or in “stones.” It’s so equalizing; I swear that everyone weighs exactly sixteen stones (or something like that). Perhaps I digress. Anyhoo, of the lovely surprises I received on that occasion (which, according to my not-so-subtle hints, everyone tried to euphemize into “your day” and “the day we like you for no apparent reason” or “your natal day – but don’t freak out about it”), two gifts REALLY stand out.

The first is valuable for so many reasons. To begin with, it was chosen especially for ME by this incredibly handsome young man.

My Nephew, Leif

Sheesh – he has such itty-bitty teeth. But I unquestionably digress. Soooooo, apparently it took him quite a while to choose just the thing; my Mom and my sister followed him all over the entire store. But he finally set eyes on the perfect item – the pièce de résistance. Then, he gift-wrapped it all by himself (with only slight assistance in that his mother pulled off pieces of tape for him); it was stunning. And what did this three-and-a-half-year-old prodigy select? The Thomas & Friends® eighteen-piece “Thomas Water & Coal Station Set: Motorized Road & Rail System” by TOMY®. And in case you think he selfishly chose it for himself, I must correct you now. He selected a motorized racing car set for my Dad’s Christmas present, and he understands completely that it belongs to Grandpa and that it lives at Grandpa’s house. Still, he’s no dummy; he gets to play with it every time he visits (though, as much as Leif likes playing with it I suspect my Dad enjoys it more).

However, not until tonight did I know what a genius my nephew is. When I tried to borrow (okay – steal) a picture of my train set from the internet, I could NOT find one. There is (and I understate it) a plethora of Thomas the Tank items on the World Wide Web. It might be more accurate to say a glut. You can see Bulgy, Boco, Mavis and Salty. You can find the “Thomas at the Timber Yard Set” – even “Cranky at the Dock.” But no one in the wide world (except the Super Walmart in Tooele) carries the Thomas & Friends® eighteen-piece “Thomas Water & Coal Station Set: Motorized Road & Rail System” by TOMY®. Even the TOMY® website didn’t have it (thus I won’t link to them – SO THERE). I did find a picture of the particular trains included in my set, but the reader must simply imagine the “realistic working water spout and coal dispenser.”

Thomas, Annie & Clarabel

What conclusion must one draw from this conundrum? Naturally, my nephew is a retail mastermind who knows a rare and valuable object at sight. Moreover, he entrusted this priceless object to a loved one who’s SLIGHTLY older, no doubt knowing I’d bequeath it to him. Following my death he can sell it and become a multimillionaire. Completely brilliant.

The second item, chosen by one of my sisters (Leif’s mother) is really… something. It’s the 1962 (some sources say 1959) cinema classic, The Brain That Wouldn’t Die.

I think I may need NEVER purchase another DVD; I should simply view this masterpiece over and over and over again. At least I imagine that’s the case; I haven’t seen it yet. It MUST be viewed at the perfect time in the appropriate setting with all the necessary accoutrements (and I haven’t ascertained what those are yet). I’m led to understand that it’s much better than Cats – that people laugh and cry – that they want to see it again and again.

The DVD Cover

Ironically, the dearth of information about the Thomas & Friends® eighteen-piece “Thomas Water & Coal Station Set: Motorized Road & Rail System” by TOMY® was contrasted with a veritable treasure trove of facts concerning The Brain That Wouldn’t Die. Here, for instance, is the movie poster:

Yup, From Art.com

And of the innumerable websites that mention the film, I insist that every self-respecting cinema aficionado visit a “The Horror Section” of ““Disobey.com.” It’s replete with sound bytes and movie images; I found it a joy. It facilitated my decision to categorize this entry as I did. Listen to this quote and you’ll understand.

Feelin’…..purple. Definitely violet, lilac and a smidgen periwinkle to boot.