he heard my cry for mercy...

Simon is okay. Thank you, sweet Jesus, my sweet Simon is okay.

He shat out a mass of elastic webbing this morning -- the second one around the second roast. That idiot. He's never gone after meat products in the trash before.

I've never been so excited about feces in my life.

And he's back to his old self again -- sleeping on my best clothes, hurling himself on the floor at my feet to writhe around "in an ecstacy of love" (Green Grass of Wyoming), yowling for another snack of kitty food whenever I get up from the couch, purring whenever I come within three feet of him. His fever is gone, and he seems vastly better. He even patiently suffers my forcing an antibiotic down his throat every morning.

Thank God. I live alone, I'm single, all of my friends are away, I'm tired and lonely and adjusting to a lot. I've really come to rely on the presence of my darling when I come home, waiting at the door and miaowing as he hears me come up the steps.

He's part of home, and I love him, and I need him. I'm so deeply grateful that I get to keep him for awhile longer (hopefully for many more years).

Thanks to all who were praying! I'm extremely, deeply grateful to you as well.

My kitty boy. He's so fricking cute...as soon as Marianne rolls into the Bend, I'll borrow her digital camera to show everyone. (YAY MP IS COMING BACK!!!)

I spent three hours last night at the animal ER. Simon may have a viral infection, or a bacterial, or there may be a second mass of elastic netting from the second roast I made last week, which is unaccounted for. (That Beefe and Olive Daube has turned out to be the most expensive meal of my life.)

They filled him with fluids, and barium, which turns his kitty poo white if his digestive system is working. If he doesn't pass anything by this afternoon, I have to call the hospital again. He may need surgery.

He hasn't vomited since Friday night, but he gets listless in the late mornings, and huddles under the bed, and his nose gets dry and hot.

This waiting sucks. I wish I could do a Mary Poppins snap or something, and make him all better. I hate seeing my dearest companion, whom I've grown to adore absolutely, suffer without my being able to help.

And I can't afford surgery. But I'll find a way to, if I must.

Oh no

Simon is sick. He vomited a lot this week (including a mass of elastic string that was once wrapped around a top round roast and which, I had thought, was safely stashed in the garbage), and I took him to the doctor today, and they did bloodwork on him, and everything was pretty normal; they also gave him fluids to help him use the litterbox.

But he hasn't. And he's just lying on my bed, breathing shallowly and quickly, and his nose is unbearably hot and he growls when I touch any part of him but his head.

Please pray. Most days he's all I have, in the realm of companionship.

I can deal with all the stuff that's happened to me in the last few months -- I can deal with what happened to me at my old job, I can deal with learning a brand-new job in which I have no experience all over again (after doing the same thing only six months ago), I can deal with all of my friends being busy or out of town, I can deal with -- even embrace -- another year of singleness. But I don't think I can deal if something awful happens to Simon.

i'm homeless now.

That's the real reason I don't have internet. I have to use the library anytime I'm not job searching, and I've been busy moving all my stuff into storage, which I can't afford any more than I could afford my rent.

Hahahahaha...JUST KIDDING!!!

I'm not homeless, I have internet back, I don't have a library card, and next month's rent check is potentially already written. (As in it's not. But it will be.)

Things have turned out amazingly, unexpectedly well.

Last Monday, while Leigh Ann and I recovered from the most intensive Buffy/Angel watching yet (we watched the last seven episodes of the seventh season of Buffy and the entire fifth season of Angel in 48 hours -- and I'm so proud and thrilled to say that I watched all twelve seasons comprising both shows in just under exactly one year), I got a phone call. From a law firm in Edwardsburg, Michigan, half an hour from South Bend.

"Would you like to interview for a legal secretary position?" asked Mrs. LaBre.

"Yes!" I said.

So I interviewed on Tuesday, was hired on Thursday, and started on Friday...the EXACT DAY AFTER my employment at the Center officially ended. So I didn't even have to go one day unemployed. And the pay periods mesh perfectly. So, although my new position brought me something of a pay cut, I'll be getting my checks just as regularly as if I were still working at the same place.

But THANK GOD I'M NOT working at the same place. I think I'm going to enjoy my new job so much more. The law firm is quite small, consisting of five employees, and very fast-paced yet down-to-earth, and Mr. & Mrs. LaBre (Mr. LaBre, the attorney, is my boss; I'm something of his personal assistant) are absolutely wonderful people. They're also in-laws-to-be of my friend Stacy.

I've been battling a vague, fatigued depression -- the past few weeks I've had to keep it all together in order to have my wits about me to go on and have hope, and now with even more change (however good), everything's been sort of crashing on me. But at the end of the day, I feel satisfied. This was my second day of work and I drove home tired (there's so much to learn) but largely happy.

And of course there's my precious fuzzy Simon to come home to...he's so darling and adorable it makes my stomach hurt sometimes. He spent all weekend on a catnip high until I took his new toy away from him; he was getting jumpy and irritable. Yay drugs.

Most evenings we spend playing tag. I run around the house and hide around corners and he alternately chases and stalks me. My kitchen, living room and hallway create a kind of circle, and he always doubles back and meets me head on. His clawless ankle attacks from behind the couch are something fearsome.

Anyway, I've been so lethargic and petrified that I haven't done laundry in about ten years, so off I go. Clean clothes are essential in a new job.

stupid internet

I'm sneaking a blog post out quickly while at Meg and Phillip's house.

My internet has been down for the past week because I was very very late in paying my bill. (Oops.) So it's actually my fault.

Anyway, I'll update as soon as I'm back online.

unexpected powers of extraordinary good luck or coincidence, if one believes in such things

This week I got notice from amazon that the newest Sufjan Stevens album, which I preordered, had been shipped to me, and was due by the 17th.

As I was pouring coffee for breakfast at 12:30 p.m., since Leigh Ann and I stayed up all night to finish the last season of Buffy, I said to her, "I want my Sufjan Stevens album. RIGHT NOW."

We carried our breakfasts down the stairs to eat at the patio table on the porch. Perched on my mailbox was the album.

The mail comes at 12:30.


Okay. Now. *cracks knuckles, rubs hands together, blows into them*

I want a job. RIGHT NOW.

the love of my life

"For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry."

Christopher Smart, confined in a madhouse from 1759-1763 for his overecstatic and public prayers which annoyed the entire city of London, wrote a long poetic adoration (Jubilate Agno) over the course of his isolation. He dedicates a portion of this adoration to the contemplation of his cat, his only companion during these years. In it he writes, "For I am possessed of a cat, surpassing in beauty, from whom I take occasion to bless Almighty God."

And I will consider my cat Simon.

This exceedingly gorgeous animal has kept me company since he came to live with me seven months ago. Even when he's grumpy and aloof (and during such times my nickname for him is "Poophead"), he's never mean or vicious.

While I wash dishes he will come to stand next to me, and wrap his long tail around one of my calves, and leave it there for a few minutes. Every time I come home, he's waiting at the door greeting me with yowls and tumbling about my feet in his happiness to see me. He writhes around and stretches to his full three-foot length and bends backwards so that he looks like, as I call him, a noodle kitty. He loves to be kissed, and will tip his head up toward my face to invite it. He likes to sit on one of my bookshelves looking inscrutable, with his black coat and owlish yellow eyes.

He's learned not to wake me up in the morning, but waits patiently for me to open my eyes and roll on my back, signifying that I'm really awake (I'm a stomach-sleeper). Then he jumps up on the bed and climbs all over me and purrs and rubs against any exposed portion of my person. Sometimes he reaches to pat my face with his paw.

He used to sleep on my bed, until my nightmares got bad. I think I thrashed around too much for his taste. But last night I realized where he's been sleeping: under my bed. As Smart writes, "For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins. / For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. / For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin & glaring eyes."

And lately, having nothing to demand my time in the morning, I drag myself out of bed, feed Simon, and crawl back under the covers. When he's finished with breakfast he jumps up on my bed and settles down for a nap. Yesterday morning when I woke up he was lying sphinx-style at my feet with one paw stretched full length in front of him. When I started to scratch his head and talk to him, he curled his paw around my wrist and held it there as I petted him.

We've been known to sit on the couch watching movies with one of his paws settled in the palm of my hand (which makes up for his not being a lap kitty). If I sit at the computer too long and he wants attention, he comes up behind me and stretches up and pats my shoulders. He's doing it right now.

And he's ridiculously funny. He whirls around like a mad dervish in pursuit of his tail. He'll chase me around the house (we love playing hide and seek) or ambush my ankles when I walk past the couch. His favorite toy is the plastic ring you peel off a milk jug. He carries it in his mouth for hours. (When I move out of my apartment, whenever that may be, I will find a graveyard of blue plastic behind all the furniture.) I'll be sitting in any given room and hear something clattering, at which he'll appear looking all innocent and I'll ask his second favorite question (the first being "Would you like your supper?"): "What are you DOING?"

And he's gentle. I had to trim his back claws the other night, which he hates, but even as he tried to get away and miaowed unhappily, he never tried to bite.

I often call him "my one true love." And he is. It's funny, I've always liked him tremendously, and we've gotten on well together, but lately, as I've been reeling from my job uncertainties and loneliness and he's been so deeply content and happy to have me around more and following me everywhere and just being so damn sweet, I've been absolutely falling in love with my little guy.

Laura has a cat too, and we have been calling each other several times a day to report on our cats' various cutenesses. I told her we're turning into new mothers who can't stop talking about their babies and comparing and contrasting and rejoicing together.

He's the best companion ever, "For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire."

sarah beth is scared to death

Well, at least yesterday I was.

Job hunting under the pressure of ten more days of employment really sucks. But I'm forging ahead, girding up my loins, all those lovely idioms and cliches, and looking for work.

I've certainly had more fun. But something will turn up. I'm sending my resumes everywhere, for all sorts of jobs, and waiting to hear back. The waiting is killer. I can hear the clock ticking every second, and there's only so much I can do before it's just a matter of waiting.

It's a cool rainy day in South Bend, and the only human being I've spoken to so far is my mom. I'm searching the internet, the paper, and various collegiate websites while trying not to feel tired and useless.

I haven't been sleeping very well, and the nightmares have been plaguing me every time I close my eyes. Horrible ones, the kind where I'm slapping myself in the face in my dream and shouting, "Wake up!" and clawing my way back to consciousness, just to escape for a few seconds of groggy clarity before I sink back under. (I wasn't always able to wake myself up. At least I can do that now.) So I never rest. I'm tired all day and I feel like my eyesockets are black and hollow and I've taken to napping on the couch, which is really a loveseat and is just uncomfortable enough that I don't fall deeply asleep, but can still catch a few zzs.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Something's gotta give. (But it won't be my sanity. That stays put.)

riding

Yesterday I bought a bike.

I've been wanting one for upwards of two years now. One of my favorite activities in North East was riding my mom's bike all over the backroads, winding up the valley to The Hill (the line of the original Erie lakeshore, in the days before Daniel dozed among the lions) and plunging down to the water. Early summer mornings, smelling of dew on grape leaves and ferns tucked into hollows, were just about as good as coffee.

So coming to South Bend, leaving the hills and the immediacy of the lake, was even more difficult for lack of a bike. The city was flat and monochromatic and I was stuck in one place. But I'm strapped for money, and I haven't felt inclined to by a cheap bike at Wal-Mart that would make me feel like I was wrestling a cantankerous horse every time I took it out.

And lately with the lethargy that's been plaguing me (spoils of depression, impending unemployment, and the frustration of thwarted purpose) I've been wanting to do something active. Something healthier than sleeping all day and eating Pringles.

So yesterday I bought a folding patio table and two cheap patio chairs, so that I can sit comfortably on the porch eating Pringles and watch the day pass like all good laid-back Midwestern summer folk. And that's how I bumped into Jim.

Jim lives downstairs. His living room is directly below mine. We used to have volume wars over the radio, television, and stereo where the dishes would rattle in my cupboards to the bass lines of belted Bette Middler and the Grease soundtrack and I would call his phone which he would never answer and leave polite cheery messages asking him to turn it down. It was a Saturday ritual.

Jim works the night shift. He's offered to get me an application for his data processing company. Starting pay is twelve bucks an hour, and I wouldn't have to work nights. He seems wary of people and keeps almost entirely to himself, and last summer for awhile he grew red chilis in the only sunny spot in the yard, next to the garbage cans. I don't think he ever picked them. Later in the summer he pulled up the stakes and left the chilis in a pile on the lawn. If you look closely, you can still see where they were. They were the only proof I had for awhile, besides the coming and going of his beige Astro van out front, of his presence. But the few times I talked to him, he's been nice.

So I ran into him yesterday as he tinkered with a bicycle in the front yard. I stopped to chat. He said he'd just bought the bike, and did I know of anyone who wanted one, because he was going to sell his old one. It's in fabulous condition and he bought it for a grand, but it's a racing road bike and the angle hurts his wrists, since he's getting older.

I said, "I'm looking for one."

Eagerly he brought it out and showed it to me and let me take it for a spin. It's red, and lightweight, and perfect.

So I got it for a hundred bucks, which includes a helmet, extra pedals, a valve, and (I think) gloves. It was pleasant to see the soft shy joy in his eyes when he wheeled it to my back step and watched me do a happy dance holding onto the seat.

I went for a short ride this morning, up Riverside Drive where the road spoons the river and the air smells in places of mud and putrification, but mostly of undergrowth and trees. It was lovely.

The only potential problem is traffic negotiation -- I live in a place where you have to travel to hit the backroads, and I've never really ridden on busy streets. But, as always, live and learn.

change in plan

No, I still haven't sent out the email explaining my job situation.

I thought that since I haven't heard your lovely voices in so long, I would tell you by telephone instead. I have nearly all of your numbers, so expect to hear from me within the week.

If I don't have your number, and you have my email, zip me a line and I'll give you a call!

the [flat plains of Indiana] are alive

Spent this evening doing laundry, reading the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and listening to a Gillian Welch album that I bought for exactly one stick of butter from my downstairs neighbor.

I've felt the need for new music. It's time for a revival of self, and when I lack all concentration to read, music engages me on an entirely different plane of soul. (Sometimes I think a better one; don't shoot me, fellow literature-lovers.) Literature raises consciousness, often by breaking; music, even while breaking, heals.

I don't know if I entirely believe what I just wrote, but for right now, there it is. I'll have to think about it further. I only know that when I need something to stitch the lips of a spiritual gash together, I turn to music.

So in addition to Utah Phillips, I've ordered some albums by Sufjan Stevens and Bright Eyes. (One of those semi-self-destructive moments of pure rebellion against the possibility of future financial squeakiness. But I kept it to a minimum.)

I wish the mail were faster. I want them now.

i think of you

Toying with the idea of doing laundry today. (I hate doing laundry.) Nothing is particularly clean, but then, I don't really have anywhere pressing to be when tomorrow kicks off the new work week. Except finding a job.

This morning I wasted money on a boxed Utah Phillips set, because it was the only one on which I could find the most painfully sweet love song I've ever heard, on Prairie Home Companion on the way to the beach last Sunday.

clean

I purged my office today. I opted to do it on a Saturday, when no one else was around. A nice quiet exit, no fanfare. Everything I left behind neatly labeled, all of my personal effects (books, French press, calendar) boxed into my car.

I'm sitting at home watching The Mummy on a glorious Saturday afternoon. It's tempting to drive up to Lake Michigan, but I'm not yet to the point of driving an hour to sit on a beach full of strangers by myself. Might get there though; MP is on the plane to Italy for a month and Colette is busy, and I really ought to learn how to do for myself even more completely than I've learned to date.

I've learned it well. This week has been harrowing, somewhat, but I've had a lot of support. My sister even came up to visit me for a couple of days this week. And now that it's behind me I'm feeling kind of clean-slatish. I'm free to put away the anxiety and start over.

Of course I'm not always positive and yay-this-is-great. It's been hard. The dreams are still bad and still exhausting and I still wake up feeling like I didn't sleep. Occasionally I feel vastly lost. And whatever I do, I ultimately have to face it alone.

But that's not entirely true. Friends have been pitching in not just for moral support but to help me find jobs. I don't feel quite safe to believe it sometimes. It's always been simpler to go it alone -- or, at least, I've always done it alone. But I guess that's what learning interdependence is about. Maybe this is part of gaining a hometown? Because this is different from when I first moved here. I know some people now. I'm half-established. People are looking out for me, when I haven't asked them to. (That's the real kicker.)

And I'm hopeful. No matter what the day's been like, every time I pray, I lift my head feeling hopeful.

Now there's just to see what's next.