whatever will be, will be

Today, I’ve got this song on my mind, thanks in no small part to Bart’s Comet.  It’s appropriate for a whole lot of reasons today.

Que Sera Sera

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here’s what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here’s what my sweetheart said.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future’s not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

here again

Month month month.  Already?

Part of me wants to ask how that’s possible.  Part of me is relieved, glad it finally feels less raw.  Not less real.  Ordinary.

Baba was always a dream I held in my hand.

She enters the place of the things that were, the things meant something to me, the things that created who I am.

In a place within me, onto the handmade quilts and the hand embroidered linens of my childhood, is the best cat I have ever known.

I’m happy I was hers.  That I am hers.

archivally cute

It takes a stalwart and patient catchen to stand by my side as I become sick and sicker.

Or possibly one that knows little else other than how to be cute. Especially how to be cute whilst napping.

It’s nice to have a reliable non-needy catchen that will sneeze on cue, will drool upon the wool yarn when (not) asked to, and will splay about in the most teeth-itchingly awwwww ways possible.

The best thing though, about the Matisse, is watching him have joy in his life and to know that it truly takes so little for his happiness.

snuggle-choo

It’s very hard to take pictures of happy fluffy writhy purry making-biscuits-into-the-air Meow-choo, especially when we are snuggled together.

But

*psst* evidence of a supercat? See below for further proof…

*hmmm* attempting to hide??? hmmmm…

*gasp* how brave! exposing his neck! he must be a true and brave Snuggle-Choo! even if i spit out a mouthful of fur.

odds and ends

The sweater, it groweth. See:

The Meow-choo, he stare-choo. See:

six weird things about the Rebecca

1.  I actually care that today is Kiefer William Frederick Dempsey George Rufus Sutherland’s birthday.  Happy birthday! Call me!

2. I rub vicks on my right cheek every night.

3. I don’t ever shower if I can help it.  I still resent that Soviet shower in Prague.

4. I am attached to Benkei the sidekick 24/7.  Yes, even in the tub.

5. My roots are dark ash brown.  My hair otherwise is strawberry blonde. Both are natural non-chemically derived occurences.

6. I have four titanium plates in my upper jaw.

Tag yourself! Or not!

Catstaff and commanded: the far side of the bed

The boys are very happy boys, aside from the abuse consisting of the scant amount of wet food, the lack of kittens, and severe lack of yarn in which to mommy.

Terrible.

In catstaff news, the sweater is trucking along.  Not a good picture, but here it is as of this afternoon…

there’s no issues here…

“but, mommy, i really don’t have any issues!! lookie me in my big brother’s bowl!!”

Issues Boy and I are having another wonderful day at home.  He does not have any issues, he’d tell you, but any catchen that uh, takes a skein of yarn and adopts it as his very own?  Has issues.  He’s cute though.

He’s very lucky I’m knitting my top-down raglan sweater with Brown Sheep Lamb’s Pride worsted and thus the yarn was relatively unscathed.  You know, from his attempts to groom it.  As opposed to if it was, say, Cascade 220.  Which would have shredded. And that? Would have meant that Issues Boy was in fact, Fileted Boy.

So.

I want in!

I’m in the nether region between death warmed over and feeling better, where I don’t quite feel like I need a morphine shot, but the codeine isn’t doing jack.  The antibiotic course has run out and I’m wondering when it’ll get worse again, because it didn’t go all the way away, and we’ve played this game together before, haven’t we?  Where tired is my mantra and I’m just really ready to move on to better things.

Like thinking about a baby kitten!  That’s still in the contemplative stage; for now I’m entertained by all the mommy-behavior Picasso is exhibiting.  It is getting more… pronounced, you’d say, every day.  I wonder what that’s about?  It’d definitely be a little tiny girl, the better for Picasso to hover about.  I’m thinking about Cassatt.  Ideas? An artist or an author or a poet, a last name, and female.

I’m grateful Matisse is one of those catchen that has few issues and a happy disposition.  I mean, his four big interests are his bowl, Vogons, when he’s being fed wet food, and staring at me.  Maybe not so exciting for blog fodder, but incredibly sweet and giant and so so so comparatively sane in the universe that surrounds my sofa.

Knitting?  I am still plugging along on the alpaca neckwarmer, which is boring in the omg you’re doing plain garter stitch with slipped stitch edging?!?! What kind of a fancy knitter are you? way.  But it’s wonderful to knit at something like this and just let the colors of the handpainted yarn come through and mottle in their own right. And to knowthat, if nothing else, there’s a project on my sofa that I can’t mess up, even if I tried.  And o have I tried so many times.

Well, not intentionally, but isn’t that always the way?

getthekittengetthekitten!!!!

Picasso needs a kitten. See? Totally.