So he's not good at making the bed.
The Help Desk Guy was trying to explain to me why some email messages weren't getting through. To me, this was the equivalent of a doctor explaining why poison ivy doesn't make me break out: really, I'm okay with this! I don't need to know the quirks of the pathways (neural or digital) or code (genetic or machine).
HDG: Lalalalala moved you to a new server, lalalala additional domain names, lalalala replication, lalalalala fixed by tomorrow.
Me: Okay.
But then he blamed it on the "asterisk" in my name. I don't have an asterisk in my name. It's an apostrophe, a MUCH more capricious symbol. The asterisk means there's going to be further arcane information coming - sort of like a Help Desk call - while the apostrophe is the symbolic equivalent of a QE2 wave, a quick little fffft. (Try it.)
Anyyway, to head him off, I said, "Hey, Help Desk Guy, are you okay? You don't sound very chipper." He admitted he'd had better days. So I piped up, "Well, just think! You might win World Series tickets!" (It's true. My employer was raffling off World Series tickets, and for some reason I failed to win. *scowls* There will be an inquiry.)
HDG: I hate baseball.
Me (crestfallen): Oh. Well. BUT! You COULD go out and get an orange cat!
HDG (startled, laughing): Yes! I could!
Me: See, whenever I'm having a really bad patch, I tell myself, "I have an orange cat!" and then things are bearable again.
It did the trick; he couldn't hang up quick enough. And I suppose my email is fixed, although I got some undeliverable messages with apostrophes in them. What. Ever.
***
But it's true: my happy mantra is "I have an orange cat!" That cat makes me ridiculously happy. Like any other cat, he thinks whatever the human is eating is what HE should be eating. Unlike any other cat I've lived with, he climbs up on me to get it. If I tell him NO, he tries to see if there's anything in my mouth that he can grab. His whiskers tickle me. I laugh and push him off.
If I'm eating while sitting on the sofa, he climbs up on the back of the sofa and drapes himself across my shoulders, which is a warm, furry feeling on the back of my neck ... until he starts making exploratory forays across my shoulder. He presses his head against my cheek, while a paw sneaks across my collarbone. But he always stops there, flexing his claws in and out, tacitly asking permission. "No, Zissou!" I laugh, and he starts rubbing his face vigorously against my jaw. How can you not laugh at this?
When Myfanwy wants (food, water, attention, outside) she stands in the hall and bitches at me in an insistent, obnoxious whine. When Zissou wants any of those things, he bounds up onto my lap (if I'm upright) or my chest (if I'm lying down) and gives me a sweet, interrogative "Rrrrmm?" while PATTING MY FACE WITH A PAW. This is squee enough to melt your heart. But if I don't take it seriously, he'll gallop across me a couple of times until I'm good and awake. No vocalizations, just a pounding.
He plays fetch with the plastic ring around the milk bottle cap. He chases the flashlight beam and subdues the hall rug. When he's out, he stays out - sometimes for 48 hours at a time - none of this "Yo, bitch, open the door again, I'm done." And when he's in, he's affectionate: cat hugs around the neck, head rubs, burrowing into my lap and flipping over to display tummy. I am helplessly smitten. "Orange cats are the best!" said the vet, and I believe her.
And I have an orange cat!
"I know how to open that door, I just choose not to."
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