Quinci - I will love you forever

I have the most amazing cat in the world! (Exclamation point definitely necessary!) He has been my baby for ten years. I think everyone who's ever met him has wanted to take him home. 

He often thinks he's a dog. He'll come when I call his name, beg from the table, sit on command, and follow me around (and also makes me follow him around too). He's gentle and fiercely loyal. And he gets jealous if I even pet the dog. 

If he doesn't get his full amount of affection for the day, he'll make sure I know that he's in need of attention. I really don't mind this. I probably made him that way by spoiling him with love and affection. 

Today I took Quinci to the vet. I was there for three hours while he was getting tests, blood-work, and ex-rays. It turns out he is in the late stages of heart disease, with a heart arrhythmia. And his heart is much larger than it should be. The vet gave him a couple months to live. In shock, I asked if there was any way she could be wrong. She just said no, but that he may have, at most, up to a year. She then commented on his spunk - and that he may just be a fighter. I believe he is.

When I got him (as a present for my 14th birthday), I was thrilled. I had ALWAYS wanted a cat. But my dad was a self-proclaimed "cat-hater" who shot cats with a bee-bee gun when he was younger. When he finally gave in and got me a cat, Quinci immediately melted his heart. 

Quinci is perfect for me. He was born the runt. Since none of his siblings let him have any milk, he was hand-fed. And so he's always loved people (and hated cats). 

Personally, I've always liked soft things. And Quinci is incredibly soft. Every time I have taken him to the vet, the veterinarians always comment that he has bunny-like fur. I love his bunny fur. And I love him. 

Just a few minutes ago, he was nudging my typing fingers with his little pink-orange nose. So I stopped typing to pet him. Now he's comfortably sharing my computer chair with me.

Well, I'm not giving up on him. He's a fighter - I just know it!

Does chocolate addiction have an "off" button?!

Sometimes I really wish chocolate addiction came with an "off" button . . . Days like today, yesterday, and the day before yesterday in particular.

I admit: I eat chocolate everyday and often several times a day. For the last three days, I have had so much chocolate that I've paid for it with a tummy ache in the evenings.

I know I am an obsessive chocolate eater. I normally eat chocolate throughout the day in small amounts: A truffle in the morning, a cupcake in the afternoon, and maybe a spoonful of chocolate in the evening.

More recently, it's not only been obsessive, but excessive. For example, yesterday I had chocolate fudge pop-tarts for breakfast, a chocolate frosted brownie after lunch, chocolate raisins for snack, a cinnamon roll with chocolate frosting after dinner, and a handful of chocolate truffles as a late night snack (a snack that I indulged in while already having a stomach ache!)

And this is becoming the norm. Although the cravings are every few hours, I think about chocolate much more than that.

The stomach ache is kind of like a hangover - it's the sign that maybe next time I should consider cutting down. But no, I'm like an alcoholic. I just can't stop. I wonder if there's C.A. (Chocoholics Anonymous) group I could join . . . Not that I actually would . . . 

Making Connections

Making connections that may or may not be there. . .

• Cherphobia: The obsessive dread of laughing to death.
• “If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane.” – Jimmy Buffett

Therefore, those who are afraid of laughing end up going insane.

• “The reason why worry kills more people than work is that more people worry than work.” – Robert Frost.

So I figure that this must mean – The insane people who don’t laugh because they dread laughing themselves to death are ironically more likely to die because of their irrational worry.

Voodoo Doughnuts Anyone?

My friend and I were hanging out last night when she suddenly had the idea of driving up to Portland for Voodoo Doughnuts. Since I’d never been there, I agreed. So we Mapquested it and were on our way. 

She explained some of the strange things they put on their donuts – like bacon on maple bars. Seriously? I thought it sounded more disgusting than delicious. But I like trying new things. And since so many people have raved about how amazing they are I was admittedly getting anxious to try one. 

But the street that Mapquest led us to was just a small alleyway with no Voodoo Doughnuts in sight. So we drove around downtown Portland for about a half an hour (after 11 on a Friday night) trying to find a parking spot. When we finally did, we called Voodoo Doughnuts. They gave us some rather sketchy directions. So we tried again. We found the Paris Theater that it was apparently nearby but still didn’t see it. We tried circling the area, but with all those one-way streets, we ended up getting so far away that we finally gave up and drove home. 

Somewhat disappointed, I comforted myself by insisting that a maple bar with bacon was just a heart attack waiting to happen. 

Have any of you had Voodoo Doughnuts? Or had some and not liked them?

Out to Eat

I love going out to eat. I even love going out to eat by myself. Although, since I still text and talk on the phone, I don’t know if I can still consider it “by myself.” Regardless, going out alone gives me a paramount opportunity to observe. And I don’t mean to simply people-watch. People-watching is often one-sided. You watch, listen, and then leave. But to observe requires much more: Personal thought, deductive reasoning, interpretation, and sometimes making a hypothesis about the surrounding situation.

Sometimes observing can give you great story-starters, antidotes, or ideas for poems or essays. And sometimes observing people can just be funny, random, or ridiculous. 

At Big Town Hero today, I recognized the red-headed man at the register. He took my order last week. I suddenly remembered an interchange I overheard last week between him and another worker . . .

The man I couldn’t see had informed this red-head that he smelled bad. The accusation didn’t seem to perturb him at all. He simply explained that he showered once a week on Friday. As I was ordering and remembering this, I realized what day of the week it is today: Thursday. Eeew. 

Besides me and the workers, Big Town was barren. When the red-head took my order, he asked for my name. I thought this seemed odd. But then again, perhaps he just mechanically asked everyone out of habit. Nope. When he brought my sandwich to the table – the only table with an occupant – he asked: “Jolene?” I was tempted to say “no” but restrained myself.

Bored

Tonight, I was bored and trying to get motivated to do homework. I decided to come on and read our class blogs. Then I decided I should probably get some blogs of my own written for this week. But after writing one, I couldn't think of any other ideas.

So in my unmotivated boredom, I started feeding my fish. I don't mean real fish though. I've never actually owned a fish. But in my blog, you may have noticed the colored fish swimming about. If you put your mouse in the water and right-click, it'll drop food into the water. The fish then all swim over and eat it.

I've been "feeding" my fish for about ten minutes now. So if anyone else is bored, I just thought I'd mention that feeding the fish is a nice, mindless pass-time you might consider taking advantage of to avoid doing homework.

Word Confusion (Part 5)

Apparently, if I use a cliché, people that know me automatically assume that I’m messing it up. Just tonight I said that I was “biding time” when I was informed that the actual saying is: “buying time.” I was so certain that “biding time” was a saying; but then, I’ve also been wrong too many times to count. 

So I looked it up. Sure enough, I was right this time! In fact, they are both sayings. I can buy time – As a way of delaying an event or action to gain an advantage. And I can bide time – To remain, tarry, or wait for further developments.

I feel happy and vindicated. It’s not often that I’m the one to say the cliché correctly. . .