A Cat’s entitled to expect, These evidences of respect

England has Maggie Smith. We had Daisy.

Rescued from the Chicago Humane Society in July of 1998, after Chloe had begged endlessly for a cat, she became part of our family and moved with us from Illinois to Georgia in 2003. 

Even so, she never lost her Chicago accent.

She endured the addition of a baby in 1999 and a parade of interloper cats, but she never lost her sense of feline entitlement, her, pardon my French, top-doggedness. 

She was the Gateway Cat, after all.

As President for Life of the Pussies for Peace, Daisy led the charge against the war in Iraq before dissing that war was cool. She always said she didn’t want people to die for a lie, even though she didn’t hold silly humans in high regard.

Writing under the pseudonym Maureen Dowd, she offered her unique take on current events and occasionally provided the catlike voice overs for several cartoons. Uncredited, of course. Because she was all about the art. 

Sophie, that brave, strong girl, was home alone with her when Daisy took her last breath. She called each of us to let us know that the Q was gone.

I thought it fitting that Daisy died on Edward Gorey‘s birthday because I can’t think of his art without thinking of cats.

To Daisy, we raise a glass, or dip our paws in it.

To Daisy – 

Who liked the children best when they were sleeping, and….

Who never let us forget who was in charge.

Daisy Q. 1998 – 2013

Rest in peace, Daisy. We were better having known you, at least according to you.

(Title is a line from T.S. Eliot’s The Ad-dressing of Cats)

Bound

And so it has come to this.

Dear Colleagues,

It is with great sadness that I inform you about the loss of one of our faithful work fellows.

In my rush to do a job quickly instead of safely and efficiently, I jammed the binding machine. Joe tried his best to revive it, but the patient  never recovered. Dr. C. says we have no choice but to pull the plug on the Combbinder 6000.

The machine, which has provided years of dutiful binding service, leaves behind several orphaned spines and covers. Reports are that Combbinder went out with a burst of confetti that won’t be easily forgotten by the IT staff. Or their vacuum.

A private service is being planned. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Retired Binding and Folding Machines Foundation.

Murder and/or technocide by willful negligence charges against yours truly are pending.

P.S. Monique – can you order a new machine? Thank you.

Best regards,
Lisa

The bossfriend contacted the Purchasing Department to ask them to order a new Combbinder 6000 and was inundated with photos of possibilities, none of them an exact match to the Combbinder 6000.

Is that the right model number? We were having lunch in the staff kitchen.

I looked at her wide-eyed. Oh no.

Good thing she has a great sense of humor. 

Roberts Rules of Order: An instrument of torture

We reported for work at 7:30 a.m. It is now 6:20 p.m. and this meeting is still going on.

And on.

And ON.

Thank bob for overtime.

Taking Minutes

This week I’ll be in meetings which means I’ll be doing a lot of this…

And if experience is a guide, there will be some of this…

Only for some of us, it will be more like —

It’s not all fun and games, of course. We’re here to get work done. We’re very —

We work smart, taking plenty of breaks to stretch our legs, check our messages and use the facilities.

Careful not to be standing outside the doors when a break is called because —

Watch your fingers, too, because —SNACKS!

Round about 4:30 p.m., you can sense a whole lot of this —

Which is why we end up with some of this —

and

Eventually, it’s time to retire. Unfortunately, I never sleep well the first night in a hotel so I’ll be  —

But that’s okay because

Growth

My husband stopped sugarcoating his thoughts as they transformed into words. The problem is, he forget to tell me.

Last week, I drove along performing a soliloquy about how I didn’t feel like writing because I don’t write the way I once did. The honesty for which I was once praised, has gone from my writing. It’s a common problem among people who draw material from their lives.

I hold back, worried about my job, our family. My relatives on Facebook. The cats. If I wrote the way I once did, who or what could be hurt? I’m hesitant to write about the kids because now that they’re getting older, telling their stories seems like more of a violation of their privacy.

MathMan messed with his phone while I erected my tower of excuses and then, with a single sentence,  brought that tower of bullshit down.

So what you’re telling me is that you’ve grown a conscience.

Ouch. Wow.

I processed that for a moment. (Process isn’t a word I use all that much because I’m more react than reflect.) It felt like a blow. A physical blow.

And before I could stop them, tears fell.

That may be the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.

A bit of perspective – if you stack that statement up next to all the mean things I’ve said to MathMan over the last twenty-five years, it’s nothing. If you were to create a pie chart of ugly comments exchanged between the two of us, his statement wouldn’t even make a big enough sliver to require a fork.

But when you stack it up against all the mean things he’s ever actually said aloud to me? It doesn’t leave much room in the pie for anything else.

He apologized. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant —–

Don’t apologize. It’s true. We both know it’s true.

Sniff!

This marked the first time he’d ever mentioned that he thought my writing about the family and our relationship was out of line. I chewed over that revelation for the rest of the drive.

What? You didn’t think I was going to quit the GIFs so soon, did you?

Far be for me to let go an opportunity to milk a good line. This martyr is all over it. A week later and I still haven’t let it go.

Damn it, some cat puked on my conscience.

One sec, let me set my conscience aside so I can help you.

Do these earrings go with this conscience?

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to grow a conscience?

I don’t know if I can go. I have to wash my conscience that night.

Does this conscience make my butt look bigger?

You’re standing on my conscience!

Now where did I leave my conscience?

Step aside! Lady with a conscience!

So what do you suppose is the standard gestational period for a conscience?

I may have been late to the conscience party, but don’t let me slow you down.

A few more days of this and I’ll reel it in. There’s no point to taking that joke too far.

Of one thing you can be certain. If he doesn’t kill me for being such an unconscionable bore and I do decide to write again, I won’t be telling MathMan my pen name.