I’ve been quiet lately and it’s not just on here. Sometimes there are days (or in this case, weeks) where no matter how much is going on, no matter how many thoughts are in my head, nothing comes out in words. The result is an extremely irritable me, so I’m going to try to talk now. I had an eventful Cinco de Mayo in which I got drunk enough to demand that I be allowed to sleep in my car while I sobered up. I lost a friend and co-worker to as-yet unexplained causes, largely suspected to be either an ischemic bowel or an abdominal aortic aneurysm. I received a drunk-dial from an ex-boyfriend who claims he is lonely and misses companionship. I sawed up a big chunk of the tree that fell on my fence in a windstorm last Friday. I read Yann Martel’s “The Facts About the Helsinki Roccamatios,” which was quite good. I finished four New York Times crosswords.

Well, maybe that’s something. I do like crosswords. E got me started on one a few weeks ago. He’d picked up the abandoned paper off the bar and started filling in blocks while he waited for me, then pushed it in my direction and asked me if I knew a four-letter word for Pindaric verses, starting with “o” (odes). We ended plodding through it for two more beers before we left, taking it with us and obsessing over the remaining blank squares for the rest of the evening.

We never did finish that one in its entirety and I cannot find the paper, but I did pick up a book of New York Times daily crosswords at Barnes and Noble that week. I’m not yet brave enough to tackle the Sundays yet. This particular book contains a selection of crosswords from the Times daily puzzles from 1951 to 2001. I logically decided to start at the beginning with 1951.

Well, holy bejeebus.

If you’ve ever done a Times crossword (or many others, I am sure) you will know how heavily they are based on current events, pop culture, and similar era-based references. 64 across: a 6-letter word for “part of Czechoslovakia” that begins with “MOR”? Is there a place called Moravia? Is there even a place called Czechoslovakia anymore? 3 down: second-generation Japanese-American, 5 letters, starts with “n” and ends with “eo,” although I am not certain about the “o.”

I left 20 blank squares on that one and turned right to page 51, a puzzle from 1992. Whee! I DO know the capital of Latvia (Riga, that was in high school global studies class) and “Henry or Jane of film” (Fonda). Puzzle done. On page 57, I breezed through “1995 Cage/Shue film” (Leaving Las Vegas) and “Mr. T’s family name” (Tero). This was more like it.

There really is no point to this post except to point out that older crosswords are hard and that it is easy to get obsessed with counting little bitty squares.

What’s a five letter word for “western lake,” in which the third letter is “h”?

It has been two months since Lucy the dog came to foster with us and I thought it might be a bit before she and cat were friends. Now they have this passive-aggressive thing going where the dog blocks the door of whatever room I go in and the cat won’t go near her. She perches up high and stares at the dog, watching her every move, like this:

The cat has been eating like crazy but has lost 15% of her body weight (1 pound is a lot when you only weigh 7.5) and is hocking up hairballs and leaving “surprises” for me everywhere. It started a few weeks ago but it’s gotten worse. She is too small for her collar now so I had to buy her a kitten-sized one again. This is not like her at all. She has never been sick. We went to the vet on Saturday and they ran tests. Cat does not have a parasite, she has been diagnosed with the kitty equivalent of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. The vet says it could be from stress related to major changes, like the doggers moving in. Cat has been the only pet for 4 years and she is a spoiled princess. I’m the twentysomething version of the Old Cat Lady.

The vet gave me some pills that cat refuses to take in any form – smooshed in her food, dissolved and administered by syringe, attempted to squeeze down her throat. She actually barfs them back up when I do get them in her mouth.

Has anyone else added a pet to a previously one-pet family, wherein the first pet was terribly spoiled? How did that work for you? I don’t want to give the dog back to the rescue and I don’t want my cat to be sick because of her.

I know this is all icky-sounding. I am just worried for my babies.

So yes, it is a rainy Sunday and I am headache-y, eating donuts, and wondering whether I left my dignity at the bar along with my credit card for the bar tab. It was my belated birthday party with Mr. Jaeger and some new friends.

Curled up in bed with Bill Bryson’s The Lost Continent* this morning, I stumbled across this passage:

I mused for a few moments on the question of which was worse, to lead a life so boring that you are easily enchanted, or a life so full of stimulus that you are easily bored.

This bit caught my attention particularly today because yesterday (see previous) I was so easily made happy by small things. This would seem to indicate that my life is boring. But perhaps I am actually overstimulated and thus easily bored and therefore enchanted by these small pleasures, which in turn get me overstimulated once more.

Huh?

I have to think about this a little more. It seems like a vicious circle of logic to me right now, but in this addled state, most things are going in circles.

What do you think?

* The man’s work is inherently and unendingly quotable. Someday I will index it all so I don’t have to keep going back and saying “Now where did he write that hilarious bit about Rupert Murdoch?” because frankly, things like that sometimes keep me up at night.

Friday, April 18. Early morning. Too early. A conversation:

“What IS that noise?”

“Did you shut the cat in the closet again?”

“The cat is laying right here between our heads. And the house is moving.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

“I think it’s an earthquake.”

“What?”

“An earthquake.”

“I heard you, I just…”

“You know we’re practically right on the New Madrid fault line. Where do you think that river came from?”

“No, I did not know that.”

“I guess this is a good way to check and see if I installed that ceiling fan up there properly.”

Silence.

“Is it done?”

“I think so.”

“How big do you think it was?”

“Do you hear any sirens?”

Pause.

“Nope.”

“Guess it wasn’t too bad.”

“Do you want to check the house out?”

“The dog and cat are still asleep. It’s probably fine.”

“Okay.”

We sleep.

On the way to work, we turn on the radio and punch buttons until we find someone talking about what had happened… about 10 seconds too late to hear the where and how big of it. I have a thought.

“Grab my pager out of there, babe.” I gesture at my work bag.

“Where?”

“The big pocket.”

He rummages through my bag and hands it to me. The message light is blinking merrily.

“It was a 5.4,” I tell him. “The city has sustained no major damage at this time. Disaster protocol has not been initiated. The hospital structure is being thoroughly investigated. Come to work at your scheduled time if you value your job, etc.”

“I wonder where it started.”

“I guess around here. That fault line I told you about.”

We punch radio buttons again and come to the news. It turns out that the quake originated a state away, on the New Salem faultline near Mt. Carmel, Illinois. Chicago felt it and skyscrapers swayed in Indianapolis. Several overpasses nearby are closed for inspection, expect aftershocks all day.

Satisfied, E hits another button to bring up my favorite station.

“And it’s an Aftershock Winners Weekend!” the morning host booms. “Win a pair of front-row Rascal Flatts tickets and a ‘Quake 08′ t-shirt by listening this morning and calling in when-”

I laugh. He switches to the iPod. As we drive and listen to Red Hot Chili Peppers, I tell E about living here in 1990, when it was predicted that a 7.8 would hit the New Madrid Fault on December 3, at 4:56 pm. People were making earthquake kits, stockpiling water jugs, and dusting off generators.

“Were the plates beginning to shift or something? How did they pick a date and a time, even if they were suspecting something would happen?”

“1,2 – twelfth month,” I say. “3rd day, 4:56 pm, 7.8 Richter, 90. 1990.”

“That’s retarded.”

“Some people believed it.”

“What were you doing at 4:56? Hiding under a table?”

“Are you calling me retarded?”

“No.”

“My mom was driving me to choir practice.”

“Were you scared?”

“I forgot to look at the clock.”

We pull up to The Restaurant so I can drop E off for morning prep. As soon as he’s out of the car, I ditch the Red Hot Chili Peppers and punch back to my favorite station so I can find out when to call in and win that ‘Quake 08′ t-shirt.

…would you find it disturbing if you found a SERIES of videos on YouTube that featured your boyfriend during his college years (before you knew him) doing all manner of unsavory things?

Disclaimer: Nothing pornographic, mind you, but disturbing nonetheless.