Help! Does our cat have her... period?!?

Ummmmmmmmm... Okay. I don't quite know where to start with this, so why don't I just jump in! Tootle-pip.

Tabby the (black) cat just followed me in to the ensuite and jumped into our now disused bath*, sniffed out the plug hole, squatted over it despite my loud protests and flapping in front of her face .... and proceeded to take a pee.

I was so aghast that I left her to her business (forgetting to ask if she wanted me to reach over and get her a square of loo paper, how uncouth of me) and called out to Steve to "come take a look, this is SO weird!"

By the time we got back in the room, Tabby had finished and trotted off to have her dinner like the elegant Lady she is. We peered over the side of the bath and (forgive me for saying, but) fuck me, there was red. As in, blood red. In the urine that hadn't quite made it down the hole - she was a bloody good aim, by the way.

Am I right to be alarmed or perturbed by this? The only reason I had any idea that animals have their period was because Charlotte's Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Elizabeth Taylor, got hers during the dog show. I guess it's a trip to the vet for her, either way, for we can't have an un-sterilised cat. She already looks to have had at least one litter, judging by the tell-tale untoned flab she is carrying that flaps uselessly to and fro when she runs (don't we all...).

But she is also micro-chipped. I was under the impression she couldn't be micro-chipped (or is it registered with the council??) if she wasn't spayed.

So, ummmmm... Help? HOW bizarre! Though, totally, it's just that I'm new to it, having never had any animal at all that isn't sterilised as a young'un - she, apparently, has been visited by Aunt Flo for, oh, about 5-6 years now so no biggie for her, I'd gather.

Either that, or she is not very well at all and needs prompt veterinary attention. Anyone got experience with this?




* the new bathroom in the extension has been finished for some weeks now and is divine, we no longer use the bath in the ensuite and are planning to remove it (it's very old) to make it into a super-deluxe water-tank filled fish pond soon.

A little Star Wars 'umour to start the day

I give the exact same response to the question asked about 0:58 seconds in (being adenoidally challenged as I am)......

Here I am today

Mid-rewrites, up since 6.30am (ah! a sleep-in of sorts....), watching the sun come up over the misty bush on the hills and revealing yet another gloriously clear, crisp sky.

I've settled on a merger of the five-part final third to the book. It will now be two parts, so the book will have three "Acts", if you will.

These were the notes that jumped out at me today, over the past 2.5 hours of work:

Letting go is not giving up (or in).

“At the end of your life, you will realise that nothing you have done matters – only who you have been while you have done it.” - Neale Donald Walsch, “Conversations With God”

I no longer looked for reasons as to why she died. And I don’t believe her death was delivered as any sort of lesson. Instead, I realised when I turned around years later and looked back on the path I had been on, that all these things had been laid out for me as a result of her leaving. So, “she died because I needed to learn/do/know….” became more a case of “If Ella had not lived, I would never have met/experienced/found…” That is why death, to me, is such a tremendous gift. In a multitude of ways, it shows us how to truly, deeply, genuinely live.

Now for somewhere to include them...

Universal Traveller

In honour of one my most all-time favourite ever songs - Universal Traveller (or, when I hear it sometimes, I hear "You need a soul traveller", especially when I am writing the book alongside Ellanor and listening to this album) - here is the music. I don't think they ever made a video clip for it?

I am universally travelling, peeps. Please excuse the slack posts lately. With sickies in the house, a business to maintain (my Lord, where did all the work suddenly come from!), a creative writing e-course to 'fill in my spare time' that's helping me keep my book-writing boundaries, and the last stage of our building/reno starting - the garage and office wall is up! - well, I am just one big blur of late.

Add to this a sudden flurry of productivity around the manuscript (heading into that elusive ruddy final 1/3 of the story, I've been waiting oh so long to put it down on 'paper') and I am spent. My creative quota is largely being slurped up by that, especially now I have my characters all worked out.

Normal programming should resume shortly. If not, can someone please make me a tall drink? Preferably with some vodka in it? Ever so much obliged.

Cat Cuisine

A quick one today - in pictures - as I have not one, but two sickies sharing a blanket at either end of the couch. Steve woke with razorblades in his throat (his description, not mine) and poor wee Lol has had us up since 4.30am crying with an ear ache. I plied her with Panadol and she slept with us and between her thrashing and Steve snoring on the other side of the bed, I didn't go back to sleep but instead lay there in that maternal, on-duty state and happy to be on call despite only having finished reading my book at 1am. Why do I always choose to read for hours on nights when I'll be up with a poorly poppet? I have some sort of sixth sense for it.

Anyway. To the pictorial. It's evident from these that not only has our black cat, Tabby, settled in quite nicely, she's making use of her time here by learning how to whip up quick dishes.

Every night now, she comes and sits up at the kitchen bench on one of the stools, watching what I'm doing. Just watching, from my hands to my face. Sometimes, to amuse myself, I start talking to her like Nigella or Jamie. Oh how we laugh, the cat and I. Okay, so just I. She cracks me up, the way she watches me, silently, almost critically, sometimes stopping intently gazing at what my hands are doing in order to study my face. Or stare into the middle distance of the kitchen for no apparent reason, as if she's suddenly tired of my explanation on why I prefer to grate onions instead of finely chop them (the reason for that is, of course, a toddler who "don't like crunchy onions".... ah, I know how to disguise them!)

But it is quite cute, she's like my very own little sisterhood. It reminds me of days past when my grandma would hang about in the kitchen, anyone's kitchen, whomever's home we were in. If we were all gathered someplace as a family, you could always find grandma holding up a conversation with the cook/s, imparting cooking tips and questioning the culinary methods she was seeing in front of her, and a permanently topped-up glass of sherry in hand. Hence the name of that bear of hers, of course, who is now in Lolly's charge.

So, here's my new kitchen-talk buddy / student chef. Sans the sherry.

Diligently watching...


...taste testing...


...getting distracted from her studies...

...playing...

...spellbound by my amaaaazing cooking techniques...

And voilé!

Titanic Sunday

I'm about to head off to the museum to visit the Titanic Exhibition. And I am full of anticipation and, I admit, a bit nervous because I know I am going to get really emotional.

I cannot quite express how obsessed I have been all my life with the Titanic - I mean, just deeply, respectfully, humbly interested and concerned, not rooms-full-of-crazy with replicas of the ship or third class passengers or life boats or anything creepy like that.

Would you believe, I actually sourced this image from a website that recommended it as a "Fun idea" for a gift. Ho-ho-ho....

I will never see the 'umour to be had in making light of human (or any living thing) tragedy and suffering. Never ever ever. Mind you, my one exception is the now seemingly endless/timeless "I'm the Kinga tha Werrrrld" ridiculing of 'Titanic' Director, do I even have to tell you his name James Cameron.

Nor would I ever be seen at any tribute stage shows ("Titanic - The Musical" is not on my bucket list).

Steve keeps singing to me this morning, "Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip..." and I have to admit, I have been chuckling at that, despite myself. Not that the Titanic even fits the description of a "tiny ship" leaving from a tropic port for a three hour tour.

Some may say I'm caught up in the romanticism of it (neh, I don't think so), or the rubbernecking "value" (ummm.... maybe a little, but it's not the driving force of my interest in the disaster). I've thought about it from time to time over the years and certainly in the past 48 hours since discovering the exhibition is on from this month until October and I reckon what it is, is purely a deep connection to the human element. Imagining myself in a life boat watching that enormous stern rise up out of the water. Then also imagining myself surrounded by other doomed, screaming or silent souls as we plunge into the water. Unfathomable, consuming, suffocating grief and tragedy. Not that I am a ghoul about that part of it - shit, I've had enough of my own unfathomable, consuming, suffocating grief and tragedy that I don't go looking for more of it. But there's something almost symmetrical in that same emotion that I think I now recognise and can instantly connect with.

So on the trip to the museum today, I wanted to have as much time to freely browse (and cry, I know I'm gonna need tissues, for I am a sap) and honour the stories I'm going to come across. I made a vow to myself that I would NOT take the LGBB and, if he was not so interested, I was also not going to take my other whiner in galleries - the husband. I was fully prepared to go by myself and thought, there was only one friend in Melbourne I could think of who would take an equally leisurely amount of time to blubber and read, snivel and be surprised and amazed.

Yesterday, those friends came to lunch. And without me even needing to bring it up, she mentioned the same thing: that she was going by herself if she had to, because she knew it didn't (sorry) float her husband's boat.

So we're going together. In about 15 minutes! Sheet, better go get ready. Such a crisp, sunny clear day here in Melbourne. A stark contrast to that dark, below freezing cold night in 1912.

Nude blogging

Made ya look.

Well, if you've been under a blogging rock lately, you'll not know that Jodie from Mummymayhem has started a bit of an anti-makeup for a day revolution in the blogosphere. Hear-hear, I say! Jodie wrote:

Here's what I propose. This Friday 14 May, I am going to proclaim it "Bloggers Without Makeup Day", but open to bloggers and tweeps. I'm going to use the above photo on my Twitter account ALL DAY on Friday. I'm going to put a trending topic attached to it, #BloggersWithoutMakeup, and I'm going to show all of you the real me and, in turn, perhaps practice a bit of what I preach. If you have a blog, you could also post a pic like mine on your blog (if you dare) and tweet it on Friday.

Not that I am hard-pressed to think of a day where I get made up anymore, but I don't have too many photos of me in all my 'nekid' glory. So what better way to show my flaws than in full flash photography, eyebrows-akimbo to boot. All's I can say is.... THANK GOD IT'S NOT A HORMONAL TIME OF MONTH for this particular photo challenge, or else you'd be treated to some mighty blemishes. This was taken by the Lady of the Manor herself, my very own LGBB, over a spot of afternoon tea (which I am in mid-chew with here):



And here's a very worn-looking Mama and Papa taking a naff family portrait in her bedroom:


In all seriousness, though, this exercise has given me pause to stop and consider how my daughter sees me. How I see myself. How she sees society.

I am very zealous when it comes to protecting my young charge from the desensitised nudity, body imagery and general Ick factor of video clips (to name just one media platform). It is very, very rare that she even hears commercial radio and the lyrics of mainstream songs, let alone seeing them in all their glory on screen. Mind you, she has taken a shine to this song - from hearing it a couple of times a week in the car when her Dad invariably switches stations during their swimming jaunts - and I admit to finding it very cute to hearing her sing along to the chorus, word perfect:



The relationship I have with my daughter, while very flowing and organic and as open as I can make it, has not yet extended into discussions about her outer beauty. I think, as any parent would, that she has stunning beauty. In spades. And I gather that, to me and her Dad, she will continue to shine her own brand of pure ethereal beauty which will dull all around her in comparison. That's just the way I think it goes, isn't it? So I haven't yet been thrown into the deep end of any curly situations regarding how she sees herself or needed to deflect any peers' remarks about her appearance.

Mind you, we do have a bit of a fashion-conscious glamour doll on our hands, I think. Despite me not being able to slap together a decent outfit two days in a row to save my good self, our little almost-4-year-old has made a bit of a name for herself (with friends' parents, her kindergarten teachers and the carers at her occasional care centre) as a walking runway model. She likes to match and contrast everything she wears. Blinding fury occurs if I deny her the use of a particular skirt that should go with "THAT TOP, MUMMEEEEEEE! NOOOOOO!" So while there has not been much emphasis yet on how her actual face looks, brave is the parent in this house who denies the child her chosen outfit. Fark. That is just not a war I am willing to have.

The kid gets to wear what she wants, as long as it's weather-appropriate.

I worry. I honestly do worry about what is to come for the LGBB, especially once she begins school. Will I have been remiss in not building up her image-based self esteem? Will I regret not telling her she is beautiful every day? Will she continue to go along the path that she appears to be on - that of, not really caring what people think of her looks - but will her current obsession with her clothes transfer or build into being also about "what her mama gave her"? Ugh. I could go on and on about the ways I am afraid. Instead, I'm going to liberate myself a bit further and go and check out my unsightly bits in the mirror and embrace them (figuratively).

No photos on that subject matter, peeps. No sirree, not even if you paid me. 'Night!