I have been writing about the cats far too often for my comfort these days, so I am giving myself a break from the catblogging. I was beginning to sound like one of those prematurely elderly, virginal-at-forty types with doilies on their fusty sofa who claim that their cats are their children, and that's the way they like it.


As it so happens, I do not behave like I've got one foot in the grave, I am far from virginal, I only have one piece of doily-like knotwork which is actually tatting and was made by my ninety-eight-year-old great aunt, and my cats are not my babies.

I know, I know. I have the cutie wootie snookums baby new kitty to talk about, but you know what, he can wait, because I am now covered in cat fur 100% of the time and inhale entire fistfuls of it while I sleep. Our two cats shed the fur of six. Me, I get enough cat these days for several people.

No, what I want to talk out in particular today is ovulation. Over the last few months, it's not my period that makes me feel like a seething, she-demon bent on crushing your life's dearest treasures under my slow, twisting heel. It's ovulation that is the bellows to my normally dormant homicidal lust.

It would be a simple thing to deal with if that were all, but no, it also has to be coupled with a nearly crippling paranoia that I am no longer loved. The feeling of having a love withdrawn that once sustained you is devastating when it's 9:00 am and there is nothing stimulating enough at your desk to drag your brain away from imagining how utterly tragic it would be to lose everyone you loved and live in a studio apartment alone with you cats, bereft of all you once held near.

So, at 9:00 am, I started a campaign of repeatedly dialling the Fiery One at his office. I was sure that his lack of responsiveness that morning before work was due to a growing lack of affection for me and not the fact that he was asleep. After he didn't answer my first call, I hung up without leaving a message, chewed on my cuticles, and thought He must be in a meeting and I am being ridiculous.

I was being ridiculous, because the Fiery One is my husband for fuck's sake, and not only that, but we still like hanging out together and get all sacharine about each other's eyes and whatnot. My ovaries had taken over the ship yesterday, though, so no matter what evidence I had to the contrary, I was certain that his heart had gone cold due to my complete lack of worthiness.

I dialled his work number again, and then a third time. After the fourth try within half an hour, I left my desk to do some deep breathing in the bathroom and stare myself down in the mirror. Fluorescent lights always manage to make you look more desperate and ill-fed, so this activity did not move me to seek higher ground. Instead, I saw my apparently wretched state and understood more fully that my lot in life was not good.

I dialled his work a fifth time. He answered. I decided to take a chance and lay my cards on the table and said something like um, I've been having these crazy thoughts today, and I just need to know that you don't hate me. When he chuckled, one of those cartoon lightbulbs dinged over my head with the accompanying popped spring sound, and I rifled through my desk calendar. Just as I suspected, yesterday lay precisely halfway between one period and the next.

Once I knew that I was not the least loved of all humanity, it became clear to me that everyone else was least loved by me. I spent the rest of the day mentally punching people in the face. Here is a short list of those who presented themselves as entirely punchworthy:

  • The woman who was wearing an outfit comprised of no less than three shades of bargain-bin pink, because that look is less eclectic and more on the side of impersonating clumps of gum on the underside of a restaurant table.
  • The four hundred people who stopped to ask me how long the line was or to tell me how long they had been in line, because if I have been approached that many times to have that conversation, the instigators are starting it that many times, and who the fuck wants to talk about about the line-up while in line with every single person in the line-up? Once is enough for me, thank you. I think the people who walk up and down a line chatting up the liner-uppers about the line-up are the same people who will go on for half-an-hour about the trials of finding shoes in just the right shade of yellow. They have nothing to talk about, are dull in ways that hurt my brain, and should be rounded up and given all the menial tasks this world has to offer until they die.
  • The person who made my garden veggie wrap, because what she actually made was ranch dressing soup in a sodden pita.
  • The new kitty who lunched on Oskar's leftover vomit, because that's just revolting, despite the fact that it saved the bedspread.
  • The intoxicated man who weaved along in front of us on the sidewalk so that we could not pass but had to wander slowly behind him, witnessing him blowing snot out first one nostril and then the other, spitting, and neglecting to pull up his pants, because I would prefer to imagine that my neighbourhood is gracefully aged rather than pickled in household intoxicants.
  • You will no doubt be impressed with my personal willpower when I tell you that not one person was punched or otherwise injured during yesterday's ovaries-induced hate-a-thon. The woman in pink will go on to wear yet more pink, and the puke-eating cat will go on to eat more of other animals' vomit.

    Sanity returned with a large amount of sushi and gyoza and an obsessive stretch of weblog template fiddling last night. I am now mostly returned to my gentler, less paranoid self. God bless wasabi and the end of another round of ovulation.

    Now there are only 27 days and counting until I stalk my husband at work again and think loudly PUNCH IN THE FACE! every time someone so much as walks in my direction.

    New Cat Comes Home