The Cats and Kay

This is a promising development with respect to managing the cats when Kay is here. Although she and Pop are in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, Pop was able to let Coco and then Sammy inside. I had started Thursday to lead them in and out with her in the kitchen, and it now seems that they have overcome that level of shyness that previously prevented them from dealing this closely with her. I am not optimistic about extending this with other guests, but she is the main one.

Pop

Kay is not out of the house for more than ten minutes before I am hit with another Arthudo storm of Home Improvement. At least these storms usually don't demand my direct participation, as I just have to suffer the intrusion along with the toxic smells of his cleansing sprays and washes. This time, however, he casts two shots over my bow, my little ship of life.

First, he comes charging into the big room talking about how the room smells of cats and the need to open up the second window. He is not exactly saying this in hostility and anger. It's not another bout of drunken machismo. He is simply expressing a distasteful fact of life that he wants to fix, as he oddly sees it. I tell him, quite honestly, that the only time I notice that the room smells bad is when I take it over after he and Kay have spent the evening here watching television, and that this is because he shuts all the windows, so that no fresh air circulates, leaving the room stuffy and fetid, as of unwashed humanity and old age.

Before he opens the second window, I reminded him that he was the one who insisted that we never open it in the first place, after it became slightly misaligned, so that it cannot readily be shut all the way and locked. He cannot remember this incident at all, but he soon learns that I am not just making things up and trying to gaslight him. Now he cannot shut the window. It is not so bad that we have to worry about losing heated or cooled air. It's not really gappy. It just cannot be locked, as if it is misaligned by just four or five hairs-breadth. So, in the end, this actually works for me, because I have often resented not having the freedom to open this window (though, admittedly, not so much in the winter), and now I am free again!, to a certain extent.

Then there is the second shot. Not many minutes later, when I am in the kitchen cooking my steak lunch, Pop is bothering me about another grand idea for home improvement that he thinks is nifty. He wants to move that white cabinet of canned goods and snacks, a very heavy cabinet, a flimsy cabinet that we put together back in the days when mother was here. I appreciate the problem that he wants to address: the trash can is squeezed into a tightly narrow space. It is a pain when cleaning up after a big meal. You have to throw away a lot of stuff, and you always have to pull out the trash can to make the job convenient, less of a pain in the ass. He is right, I suppose, that moving the cabinet just a few inches would help, but that goal makes me think of the title of that classic Burt Reynolds film "The Longest Yard". Pop speaks of using sliders, the disks you can place under heavy furniture, but even if we could manage it, I think it likely that the cabinet with its shelves would crumble.

I am reminded of a time, years ago, when he got it in his head to move the refrigerators to give the floor back there a cleaning. We ended up breaking a refrigerator and having to get a new one, but such is his child-like Arthudo mentality that he still denies a connection between our moving the damn thing and its breaking down. He is too perfect for that. I remember that it used to drive mother batty, that he could never admit to fucking up. It's hard to be humble when you are perfect in every way - which is all the more astounding in one who was born to eat humble pie all his life. Well, one probably wouldn't have delusions if they were not truly needed. I think I actually managed to talk him out of this business with the cabinet, but he can doubtlessly talk himself back into it.

I wonder what is behind these bursts for home-improvement that come upon him when Kay leaves. You would think that he would be tired enough that he would need a couple of days to recover, that he would want to simply take life easy for a while. I am not just talking about the sex. It is a very busy time for him. He puts in a lot of work cooking those big meals for her and himself. They often go out shopping as well. It is also usually our Grocery Day, which by itself is enough to exhaust me for a couple of days, and I am not seventy-four-fucking years old. I dearly want him to continue to be healthy and vital, if only so we can carry on with our lives, but I do wish that he would begin to favor naps over home-improvement and such projects.

Saturday News

* Anthony Hopkins says that "Silence of the Lambs" is okay, was a good film, but it was a mistake to reprise the Hannibal role in "Hannibal" and "Red Dragon". (ONTD)

* The Playboy mansion is up for sale, but at an inflated price in 'tear down' condition, and Hugh Hefner (age 89) wants to continue living in it until he dies. (ONTD)

* Donald Trump is trailing Ted Cruz for the first Iowa caucus, and he is pushing the 'birther' issue hard, Cruz being born in Canada. (CNN TV)

Maureen Dowd

Maureen Dowd is back. I was beginning to think that she left the Times. But, no, it was just a very long holiday break. I think this actually might be her routine. Maybe she is really big on Christmas and New Year's. She usually needs time to regain her swing, and she was sort of flailing about in her first column back. She picked up a likely topic: Trump's hit on Bill Clinton's controversial sexual past, with the angle that Hillary paints herself as a super-feminist but is an enabler - the dreaded cry of hypocrisy (as if this were not a job requirement for politicians and religious leaders). The problem is that this is already well-worn material, and she did not really add anything.

Like I said, she usually needs time to warm-up. However, given how late in the day it is for her, at 63 years of age, one cannot help wondering if maybe she no longer has that edge that made her delightfully sassy and compelling. I am still addicted to Dowd, but I can appreciate that the Times could use some fresh talent. I do not mean that Dowd should be replaced but that a lesser light should go, in favor of someone who can be a must-read kind of person, such as Dowd used to be, as she discreetly falls back among the lesser lights herself. If I had to pay for a subscription to read the paper today, although I would miss Krugman, I think I would be able to take a pass on the Times now. I might suffer some withdrawal symptoms at first, but I'd live.