lolotehe

There have been five times she peed outside of the litter-box. Three times on the floor by the outside door (there are boxes there now and she hasn't) and twice on rugs in a box. I tried two different textured rugs and I guess she didn't like either of them but she hasn't peed on the towel I gave her. I'll introduce more nesting material as we get closer.

The tail is dry now and a little scabbed over. It will still need medical attention at some point, but if I take her in now, whatever anesthesia may affect the kitten (like an infection wouldn't!). There would also be the high likelihood of a little kitty abortion and we're not going for that here.

I left some toys outside of the toy-box and have found them in different places when I visit with her, so she is batting them around. Seeing as how she probably misses her colony, it's some stimulus. It also tells me she's comfortable enough to play, if not in front of me.

Dry kitten-kibble for open feeding and TWO packets of Sheba in the evening (she's making kittens, after all). Her appetite is still good, so the kits aren't putting too much pressure on her stomach. We'll switch that to wet kitten-food soon and continue while she's nursing. I have some kitten-formula and will probably give her a half-cup per day as we get closer. I haven't seen any morning sickness, thank God.

There is pinking and then there's this lady. She's started to lose her belly fur (I'm finding it laying around) and those nips are looking pretty pronounced. I'd say she's probably around week seven and it's two or three kittens.

These will be Libra kittens. If there are three and all boys, I'm naming them Danno, Edgar, and Alex. Maybe Peter, Ray, and Egon? If all girls, Urd, Sklud, and Verdandi . Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos? I remember a litter named Bella (black), Mao (white), and Josh (orange tabby). We'll see what happens.

Once the kittens are born and have opened their eyes (ten days), everyone gets to go to DAS for a check-up and check-in. They'll be immunized, chipped, and assigned animal control numbers. I'm a registered foster and can still care for them, so they don't have to stay at the shelter. This will also put them in the adoption pool and help find them a forever home.

That will include Doctor Girlfriend. While the fairy-tale ending is she goes back to her colony, that's also where she lost the end of her tail (and possibly her son). She's a beautiful cat and once the tail is properly cleaned up, she'll look a lot like a little Japanese bob-tail (obvious Siamese in there). If she were feral, it would be a different story and releasing her outside could be justified, but her best outcome is to become an indoor cat. She's shown me she could adapt to a pampered life-style, away from whatever took the end of her tail.

Studies have shown that a noisy environment (around 85 decibels, or the noise level typically found in an airplane cabin) can actually suppress the taste of saltiness or sweetness. After a recent visit, I am sure the kitchen at Perry’s Steakhouse and Grill in Frisco has compensated for this by simply adding more salt.

We had a couple hours to kill before attending a circus and were seated in the bar area (as a wait for the dining room would be considerably longer). After a brief conversation with the table next to us (who had not been allowed into the main dining room due to the pretense of a ball-cap), we had to deduce we had been “pre-sorted” at the door—sent to eat with the riff-raff. Take that as you will, so this may be a review of the coach seating instead of business-class (not that there is any price difference).

Again, the noise-levels in the bar were disturbingly high and conveyed a more “sports bar” atmosphere than that of a fine dining experience. Several large TVs displayed an ESPN feed that was more commercials than game. The only chairs available were tall “bar-stool” style, so if your dinner companion is wheelchair bound or has any mobility issues, the room cannot accommodate them.

Besides the previously noted noise-levels, the addition of the uncomfortable chairs indicate management does not want one to stay for long. An odd decision for a bar. Generally, the lights are lower (that much was true), but more comfortable seating allows patrons to relax and order more drinks.

The alcohol mark-up compensates for lack of comfort or number of drinks ordered. A bottle of the Catena Malbec from Argentina (available at Total Wine for just under $15) will set you back $72. A Jordan Cabernet more than doubles in price (going from $62 to $148). A single glass of Grahm’s “Six Grapes” ruby (not tawny) port—a bottle of which retails for under $25—is priced at $9 and served in an uncomfortably tall and narrow glass, better suited for a sparkling wine. The wine glasses themselves suffer a similar affliction and one has to tilt their head back much further, so you literally have to “knock back” your drink. (While I had tried to order a rusty-nail, the bar was out of Drambuie. My fault for ordering one on a Saturday night.)

At one point, the ball-cap banished table inquired as to why our salted caramel espresso martini was layered, as theirs had arrived mixed. My dinner companion could only shrug in response, but did note the bottom of the drink had a sludge-like consistency and was grateful we still had water at the table.

Water is served in low-ball glasses with no ice. While there is a carafe of chilled water left on the table, it is a smooth design and difficult to handle with one hand. Luckily, the service is very good and an attentive waitstaff prevented any possible mishap.

Now, the food itself: There is an offering of bread and butter before the meal. While not the spongy-sweet brown bread handed out by Outback Steakhouse, it is a flaky attempt at sourdough with delicate interior and tough, outer shell. The butter itself was of the salted variety, perhaps with added salt. At least it spread easily.

The sriracha Brussels sprouts are a tale of love unrequited. While the sprouts were in the same room as a bottle of sriracha—and they may have glanced at each other longingly—the relationship never went further than that. At first, we assumed this was a result of the cherry pepper calamari starter’s surprising heat levels setting our expected levels, but the waitstaff (again, very good) set us straight. They really are that bland.

Sides are only portioned for two and priced separately from the entrees themselves. Soups and salads are a distinct order and will run $14 ($17 if it’s the lobster bisque). Several entrees are accompanied by steamed asparagus, but the Brussels sprouts do not predict a satisfying experience on that front.

The Perry’s surf and turf pasta includes half a lobster-tail (with shell, for presentation. I also discovered the empty shell had been included in my take-home leftovers) and two small fillet mignon sliced in half. The pasta in this case was an angel-hair that had (unfortunately) been cooked the same amount of time as one would spaghetti, resulting somewhat soggy noodles.

My companion had ordered the dinner-cut pork chop, a comically large hunk of flesh that invokes the closing credits of “The Flintstones.” Despite promises by the menu, it was not carved table-side on a hot cast-iron plate, but this may have been due to our bar-seating and the lack of space such a presentation would require. The homemade applesauce came in a small ramikin (akin to a take-out serving of any sauce) and not particularly remarkable. The most that can be said about that was it sparked a conversation about a recent recall of applesauce due to lead contamination.

Near the end of the meal, we kept hearing a high, tinny whine and assumed it was someone’s ring-tone. A side-trip to the restrooms (where some model-types were “powdering” their noses) revealed it was actually the harmonica from a disastrous cover of a popular tune from the 1970s. There had been music playing over the PA system the entire time we had been there. The restroom was the only place quiet enough to hear it.

Final take-away: Perry’s is the kind of place where a football star with multiple head-injuries, a disadvantaged childhood, and too much money goes to feel sophisticated. It’s where you spend someone else’s money and claim it as a business expense. It’s where you take a hooker because she “always” goes there and you want her to let you try some anal stuff. It’s expensive enough that if you take a date there, they’ll think you’re something big. The people who eat there on a regular basis have a country-club membership, a yacht, and the most hotel-looking houses on Zillow. It is a dining experience crafted for folks who use “winter” as a verb. People are bought there. While it’s a no-smoking establishment, a lot of smoke is getting blown up asses. It is unmitigated bullshit. It’s the most Frisco thing you can do.

For the philosopher Byung-Chul Han, writing in Psychopolitics: Neoliberalism and New Technologies of Power (2017), this kind of ‘self-optimisation’, driven by ‘the compulsion always to achieve more and more’, can lead to burnout and exhaustion. This may happen when a person becomes overly focused on the self and learns to measure themselves against the pre-determined benefits of a self-help exercise; or when someone is constantly surveilling themselves, parsing their behaviour and thoughts through the limited vocabulary and logic of dominant mental wellness tools. These tools are meant to heal but, for Han, ‘healing’ now ‘refers to self-optimisa­tion that is supposed to therapeutically eliminate any and all functional weakness or mental obstacle in the name of efficiency and performance’. Self-optimisation, he writes, ‘amounts to total self-exploitation’.

--Negative capability

It iced last week and no one got anything done. Well, I take that back. We did come in Friday but it was specifically to do some moves that fucking Bernard had dictated.

And we moved those folks.

To offices with no network drops. Real rush item there.

Today, I moved myself out of the toner room and into a cube. We will be moving all the printer parts from the 2nd floor stair closet to the toner room. I do not know what is moving into the stair closet, but I assume it's from the tech room, as we're all moving out of there as well.

I want Bernard's house to catch fire. I want him to move.

I've been able to kick tasks to Steven and Adam. This is helping.

We have a printer at CROF (princes of power) that needs to be replaced. We're going to make a big show of it and arrive with one in a box that's been in the basement the last five years. Ooo, ah. It will be be so exciting.

We have a new tier one FTE (Kathy). We fired Michael, but fuck that guy.

I finished writing a thing. It's a love story! It's only 100 pages. It's porny.

Simma is probably going to quit soon and I won't really miss her.

Becca and I had lunch with Kathy today. I made a joke about getting my meal to go and they both fell into hysterics. I can only guess it's how I said it.

Everyone hated today. I blame the rain.

Took me long enough, but watched Matrix: Resurrection last night. For the record, I have not seen the third film.

I saw the second, in theaters. That was the second-to-last movie I saw with my now ex-husband. The last flick we saw was "The Butterfly Effect" and he cried in the car on the way home. "The best thing he could do for her was not be part of her life."

Keep crying, bitch.

Anyway, this just means I missed the thing with Sati or whoever that was and the whole blinding thing. From what I have seen, this is less about Samson and more about Paul in Dune Messiah. Myths are myths.

As for the newest, I have issues.

First of all, there's the whole "White Rabbit" montage as Neo is taking his blue pills. Now, if he's been taking them all along and just asked for a refill, he would not have a big trip like he did in the film. In reality, he would have felt more focused and better able to concentrate on the task at hand. If that's what the pills were supposed to do.

If you've ever taken anti-psychotics, that is what they do. You're going to be more manic than dissociative. They are supposed to ground you. If they aren't doing that, get a new shrink.

I did like the occasional flashes in mirrors or someone else's memory.

Neil Patrick Harris would be perfect for a Max Headroom reboot.

The "bots as bombs" sequence was well done. I got flashes of old Quatermass stories from that and it was genuinely terrifying. There is something about watching people be reduced to raw materials that has always disturbed me, so that worked.

How the hell was this two-and-a-half hours long? It just sucked the life out of me. I watched Oh Her Majesty's Secret Service (It's a Christmas Movie!) and that theme hits harder than Spybreak ever will.

I hope this puts an end to it all.

You'd think I was trying to buy typewriter ribbon.

The flint on my Zippo finally wore down and I realized I only had one left. Then I dropped it.

This led to opening every other lighter in the house to see if I could salvage a flint from there, but it looks like past me already did that once. I found one Ronson flint, but they don't last as long.

But did find the flint I'd dropped, so not all is lost.

CVS, Walgreen's, and 7-Eleven no longer carry flints. I tried three independent smokes shops who sold lighters, but not flints. I knew the GasPipe carried them once, but really did not want to go to a headshop for that.

Did finally find them at a corner store who used to be a "smokes and furniture" shop, but is now a "beer and wine" place. The flints would not scan so he asked me how much they were. I paid cash. He did not want to bother with change so did not charge me tax.

They really do cost a dollar. In case anyone asks.

Mr. Benjamin found a chair and carefully squeezed himself into it. “Congratulations, by the way. I understand Nikolai and Svetlana made valedictorian and salutatorian.”

Dr. Znatok’s nose turned bright pink. “I would have been disappointed had they not. I am sad their father could not be here to see it. He would be very proud of them.”

“My condolences,” he said. “I didn’t know—”

“He will maybe come here next year,” she said.

The kittens in ESL mostly spoke French, but there were two Russian students and one German.
Svetlana and Nikolai always tried to talk to Pavel in Russian and he had no idea why. He wasn’t Russian and he didn’t know any, nor care to learn.
At least Oskar left him alone.

All of the kittens in the ESL class wanted to sign Pavel’s cast, even Oskar, who just wrote BE FIX.
Svetlana wrote никогда не спорьте с гравитацией and Nikolai wrote временным экзоскелетом.
When Pavel asked them what they said, Nikolai told him, “You learn Russian, then read.”

After class, Mme. Anglaise asked to see Pavel’s cast.
“Ils sont tous très gentils,” she said of the messages written on it. “Ah! Deux sont écrits en russe. Une autre langue pour parler.”
“Donc vous parlez russe?” Pavel asked.
“J’ai toujours voulu.” She sighed. “C’est une langue très romantique.”
Maybe he would learn Russian.

In the last book, there's a poem someone tells Ivan:

Monday’s kitten is very calm
Tuesday’s kitten is like a bomb
Wednesday’s kitten has anger inside
Thursday’s kitten has fear to hide
Friday’s kitten wants a happy home
Saturday’s kitten still feels alone
And the kitten born on a Sunday
Is happy and has lots to say

Later, Mr. Benjamin recites it to someone else:

Monday’s kitten stays very calm
Tuesday’s kitten will build a bomb
Wednesday’s kitten burns inside
Thursday’s kitten wants to hide
Friday’s kitten makes a happy home
Saturday’s kitten mourns alone
And the kitten born on a Sunday
Is outspoken in a joyous way

But the fact is, he's reciting it in French:

Le chaton de lundi reste très calme
Le chaton de mardi construira une bombe
Le chaton de mercredi brûle à l'intérieur
Le chaton de jeudi veut se cacher
Le chaton de vendredi fait une maison heureuse
Le chaton de samedi seul pleureuse
Et le chaton né un dimanche
s'exprime de manière joyeuse

And that's some pretty clunky French there. I'm not skilled enough yet to make it sound right.

Yet.