Isla’s at school and my coffee is half finished already. I want to say there’s a balmy breeze outside. But it’s just a breeze. Or fresh. Or a great big wind.
You’d be forgiven for thinking it’s October. And I can’t believe it’s May.
Today, I’m writing these words on the giant desk-top I like to call Truman Bubbles.
Last week, Isla had a party invite that was supposed to be on the fridge. It wasn’t on the fridge. Of course.
In the team effort it took to locate the invite, some non-coffee drink landed on Frank the laptop.
I was no where near the table at the time, and Frank was so disgruntled he stopped working.
We put Frank in a giant Ziploc with some rice and left him to dry out overnight. Still, nothing doing.
I prayed to the Laptop Gods, but ended up bargaining with the Insurance Gods.
And I promise I don’t plan these things, but we have to road trip to the Apple store this weekend.
I love Truman, but all my passwords are on Frank. I hate changing passwords.
Neil was in Edinburgh last week and I fucking hate changing passwords. Yes, those two things are indeed related. Allow me my moment of rage.
In human news, Isla and I spent last week flitting between here and Dad and Anne’s house. A house they now share with a bunch of cats.
I tried to enjoy the change of scene (maybe) and tried not to feel like a piece of luggage lugged from A to B.
I sometimes forgot that my wheelchair is not choice. It’s a choice that I would still make, but it isn’t really a choice.
I feel my most disabled in other people’s homes. Even if that other people is my father.
Other people have to help me guide my butt to the toilet, and caring for my own child is actually out of my hands.
I also forget about the CP sometimes, it’s such a part of me that IDGAF.
Except when I’m in other people’s houses, and I need extra help, and I can’t do my bit for Isla.
I have to accept all of those times.
I usually do. But then there’s cats.
I like cats. OK, maybe one or two cats. Separately.
I have an um, exaggerated fright reflex.
And the only thing that brings it out, the only thing that shows off the Spastic in my Spastic CP, is cats.
Cats hissing, cats growling, my daughter picking up cats, cats being fucking cats. It’s not you, it’s me.
It takes me a while to come off of a spasm brought on by a loud noise, or general heightened tension, or cats.
No amount of meditation is going to help. And if you tell me to relax, I’ll kind of do the opposite and then get really pissed at you. Like a cat, maybe. Shut up.
So even if I love the humans who live in a house, if there’s more than one cat lurking around, even if they’re not looking shifty, I will always choose to stay in a cat-free environment. Like my house.
Even if Neil’s away. Even if Isla’s sleeping. Even if it’s three am, and I’m aware of every noise.
At least there are no cats hissing.
Join the Gin & Lemonade newsletter!
Subscribe to get a roundup of posts, a writing prompt, and other groovy stuff every week!