One of the first weeks we lived here, Y was already in the midst of nonstop studying and I had no job and no friends. I was having an ongoing pity party for myself -- here I was, alone in our new house, the only one home on my entire street except for the 16 neighborhood cats. I was acutely aware of the fact that I was not contributing to society while my husband was off with his 120 new friends learning how to do Super Important Things.
One day I was doing the dishes on a creepy, rainy day. It was eerily quiet in my house (we didn't have Ike yet) and, like I said, I was mid-pity party. I was scrubbing a dish, gazing mindlessly out the window, when -- out of nowhere - a cat flew through the air and landed, stomach first, on our window directly in front of me.
If you recall, I have a dire and tragic condition called Jumping Frenchmen of Maine Syndrome. I'm also not a fan of cats. I screamed, fell to the dated tile kitchen floor, and burst into tears. How had I ended up in a place with ugly tile and flying cats, my two worst nightmares?
But then I got a job, found a guard dog and gained the cats' respect, and eventually, made some friends. And suddenly, my house was my favorite place in the world. The perfect place for a game night, a royal wedding tea party (side note: can you believe it's been a year?), or watching the first three seasons of 30 Rock in bed while eating Mickey Mouse shaped pasta. (best. day. ever.)
I'll miss you... archive: