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I saw a rainbow

I was driving to P.'s house this morning, feeling particularly put out since it would be my third straight day there, well nothing is straight there, but anyway, and her gf V. would also be there supervising my duties, when I looked up to the sky.  It itself was beautiful with both storm clouds and fluffy clouds, all shades of grey and white and blue, but also there was the trail of a rainbow.  When I drove through a clearing I saw that the rainbow extended across the entire sky in one giant arc. 

I needed a rainbow. 

I wake up and think that my life is over.  If it is a P. day it is just a variation on other unpleasant chores.  If it is not, I can't seem to find any satisfying relationships outside of those with my cats.  Human beings are like a foreign species to me.  Almost like an animal I run and dart for cover when one gets too near.  I know too much about their treacherous nature.  I know too much about how they dissemble their weapons.  I know too much about their predilictiion for killing, wounding, maiming, or just thoughtlessly trampeling as they pursue other bigger prey.

weary

Dreams are the most satisfying part of my life right now.  I wake up to reality and shudder.  Is it a P-day?  It is.  I have to pull myself from the bed and put one foot in front of another.

In my dreams I have moments of peace.  Last night I was looking up at the wind blowing through the trees, my disordered sister had her arm around me and we had found each other again, and there was a sense of the goodness of life restored.

Interestingly, my other sister, the one with Down Syndrome, is often petulant and manipulating in my dreams.  I suppose she was in real life too as we grew up together.  Her condition made it easier for her to obtain what she wanted -- although nothing was easily obtained in that family -- than for me.

Yesterday I was so tired... of the list, of the Cat Fancy, of traveling, and in my bones, that I could only sit and stare most of the day.  I have no interest in speking even to Shirley.  I could well have sat in bed all day.  And yet, if I become like P. my muscles are bound to atrophy more, and doing anything will require a supreme effort.  Keeping on seems the better choice.

The Cat Show

Part of the cast of characters in my life this past year and a half have been people in the Cat Fancy Association.  I've been raising pedigreed cats, and attending shows, and generally visiting places where I never see anything except the inside of a War Memorial Stadium or a National Guard Armory. 

The cats are fine but the people are, well, a little deranged. 

My favorite opening to the blood bath that is a cat show was one clerk who announced: "And remember, folks, it's only a cat show."  To which there was lots of nervous laughter.

I'm used to being pushed around at these shows.  After all there are important people in the cat world there, on important business, and stepping in their way can result in being run over.  My cats and I try to find a few nice people each show, but it's getting harder and harder as we are known as satellites of The Evil Empire.  The Evil Empire rules my breeds of cats and makes sure none of the satellite catteries steps out of line, with full blown threats of lawsuits and penalties, not to mention constant negative spin and the the ultimate threat: shutting down the offending cattery.

This weekend wasn't much different than any other.  I got run over a few times, even by a fellow satellite whose cat is on a quest to win at any cost.  Any cost can mean anything from sleeping with the judges, to wining and dining them, to flattering their already inflated egos until the showhall is in danger of becoming a blimp tugging at its moorings.

When my cats or kittens do not perform well, I am told all the personal failures that have caused this.  So I do admit my heartbeat starts to race when they are pulled out of the cage.  Being a "newbie" and with little or nothing to offer in the way of sexual favors for either sex, it leaves me exposed to a lot of derogatory looks from the exhibitors. 

I try to put on my shit sheild but really, how much can one take for the sake of cats, even pedigreed, adorable, loving cats?

ODE to a CAT SHOW

Ow!  My toe.
My ribs.  My nose.
Your elbow.
Bone on bone.

Hustling to fluff a chin
What should I do
He's not winning
Is it me or him?

My breasts are out in full view
When I bend and tend to him
Posturing before the judge
My rear end inviting

So few are straight
If I loose some weight
Feed him like a Samarai
Will I, win just like you?

Sh****?

Soooooooooooooooooo

It's a non-P day and I'm recovering, I think.

The strange thing to me about MCS is that from the research I've done, it is a disease of middle aged, middle class, white women, for the most part.  P.'s alleged illness (I've never seen any sign of sickness) reminds me of what another age called "the vapors".  She supposedly can fall on the floor in a faint, and need to be rescued (preferably by a mannish looking, strong, lesbian). 

A lot of literature suggests that psychotherapy would be more appropriate than all the alternative medicine and quackery used to treat the disease.  Now, I do believe that it is a disease the same way someone with extreme anxiety disorder has a disease.  But it is a disease that seems to want to make others suffer.  Punish the bad people in the world for poisoning you.  Make them behave in certain ways that don't disturb you.  Be waited on hand and foot.  Have all the time in the world to write and build a new house and well, hire better looking PCAs.

Gosh I need to get a new job.  This one is definitely bringing me down. 

The Puppeteer

I work for a women who has MCS (multiple chemical sensitivities). 

The thing is: she rides around in a power wheelchair, but she can jump out of it and scare the hell out of anyone nearby at any time she feels like it.

Mostly she sleeps while I do the chores most of us have to do ourselves every day: dishes, cooking, cleaning, gardening, painting, taking autos in for repair, carpentry, searching fora new home, dusting, laundry, did I mention painting, making phone calls... well most of us get the picture.

I noticed that every day I would get notes about what I did wrong the previous day., although I tried to do the best job possible, well at first.  Once I realized it didn't matter, I just went into mediocre mode.

Notes that went into incredible detail on how things were supposed to be done.  Since she has "cognitive difficulties" I didn't understand how she could write such detailed notes, for example, how to fill the pepper grinder with peppercorns.  I could have done it myself with less effort, but that's me.

Not to mention that I was directed to digest a 200 page "Personal Care Attendant" manual she  had written -- time alloted: one a day (four hours).  It had no index.  Each time that I do something wrong it was noted that directions are in The Bible.

But I'm not alone in my misery.  There is another PCA who also makes horrible mistakes every day she works too.

It's gotten to the point where I check each morning on awakening on whether it is a P-day or non-P-day and adjust my attitude accordingly.

While I work I go into a Zen-like mode where I just say: "I'm washing dishes now", "I'm digging up potatos now" (although the garden soil is pitiful and I find pebble sized growths), "I'm sweeping now".  After all, after enlightenment comes the laundry, to quote a once local buddhist.

Well, inevitably one gets to know every corner of the house as the dusting, sweeping, cobweb hunting, etc. proceed.  So I noticed that enshrined on a top shelf is a diary entry from perhaps a third grader.  It is titled "After the Divorce".  P. writes that she is having trouble falling asleep and she can hear her mother and mother's friend laughing in a nearby room.  She says that her mother no longer seems to care about her or pay attention to her.

And of course I know now that her mother and father have bought her this chemically clean house and that they have agreed to build her whatever kind of house she wants in the area.   They send her 2k a month.  She is busy drawing pictures of this new house and sending the other PCA out to videotape possible building sites.

P. is a published author.  She rarely speaks to ordinary humans like myself.  It tires her out. 

I'm sure that for as long as I am there, which may not be long as she is actively seeking another PCA while not keeping it much of a secret, I will have things to write about.

But just for today, one of my jobs was to pull the equivalent of ten carrots that are two to three inches long, wash them, peel them and slice them, then put them in the refrigerator. 

One of them had an uncanny resemblance to a female body.  Actually it was two carrots that had conjoined.

Did I mention that P. writes lesbian erotica?

So I carved them a little and left them on the counter.  No explanation. 

Did I mention I am a lesbian too and "out"? 

It wasn't an expression of interest.  It was a joke.

I've never seen P. laugh.

She doesn't like it when the other PCA -- M.-- and I laugh.  We "make too much noise" according to her courtier -- V.

I think P. would prefer dead PCAs.  They'd be so much more convenient.  Nothing to write about after their shift.  Just return to the tomb.






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