Zut alors! I missed my own centennial. I guess I still haven't gotten this self-absorption thing mastered, try as I might.
My 100th post on this blog was the lame “Great. Me And The Cat Again Tonight.” I was rereading that little guy today and decided that I pretty much nailed sardonic but somehow forgot the humor part. (And as far as postmodern, I still don't know exactly what that means but it sounds hip.) I was just cranky about facing the holiday alone, I guess. Well, not really alone. My cat Mimi's always there for me, thank God.
Yesterday, the Thanksgiving holiday in the U.S., she and I spent a mostly quiet day. I puttered around the house muttering bizarre things to her (“So, Mimi – if that is your name – what the hell are we going to do now?” “There's an Espia in the House of Love – let's get her!” etc. etc.). After I got tired of puttering and muttering, I played a video game for a while with Mimi helping by laying in my lap and grabbing the controller at particularly intense moments (“Eat leaden death, imperialist dogs!”).
Eventually it was time for dinner. Since I'm nothing if not a traditionalist (the postmodern thing is a lie to get you to read me), we were going to be having turkey. Unfortunately, I had sent Mimi out earlier to get it but she came home instead bearing an anorexic starling with mysterious cat toothmarks in it. If you want something done right.... However, I finally found a recipe that could be modified for starling and prepared the bird. This was something of a challenge, as even my little finger was too big to stuff the sucker so I had to use a number 2 pencil (the eraser end, duh). Fortunately it turned out quite succulent and tender and was enjoyed immensely by one and both. Poppa can cook.
Mimi and I polished off the pert and insouciant red wine with overtones of oak and a hint of tannin and made ready for an evening of sports. (I'm pretty sure she was drinking some, anyway, because we seem to have finished off the box.) The traditional Thanksgiving sport in the Hulles household is not football, as you might imagine; rather it is a game we like to call Humor Dad And Chase The Toy That Used To Be A Mouse Until He Gets Tired Of Making Me Actually Move My Big-Boned Body And I Can Go Back To Napping. She won, of course. She always does.
Before bed I always have to read Mimi a story. I think she finds my nasal monotone soothing. She likes The Stinky Cheese Man, so once again I read it to her and once again she kept looking at me as if to say, “Dad, that's not really how it goes.” “So read it yourself, then, dammit!” I finally shouted. “That is, if you somehow developed prehensile paws when I wasn't looking and can turn the pages!” She presented her backside to me and raised her tail in the cat version of the finger.
Eventually we made up. “Never go to bed mad,” my ex's used to tell me; as a result I went without sleep for most of the first thirty-five years of my life. But Mimi's easy to make up with – she has a very short attention span and most difficulties can be smoothed over with Turkey and Giblets Dinner. It was Thanksgiving, after all.
So from the Hulles Household, which consists of me and Mimi and the various vermin that seem to find their way in no matter what I do, Happy Day After Thanksgiving. Next stop, Christmas. Can't wait.