Skipped air-guitar class today... feeling all pent-up silly as a result

It tickles me pink whenever I read a reviewer say something like, "this was the [best/worst/longest/etc.] book to cross my desk all year!" Get it? Little book with legs? Waiting for the light to turn green so he can cross the desk? Dum-dee-dum, don't mind me?

I have decided that I would like to have a job which requires that things regularly cross my desk, and that I say so in the newspaper. I picture sitting smugly at some top-floor office-building bureau, in a wing-tipped chair, stroking a very magisterial lap-cat who condescends to open one eye when my assistants knock shyly at the door. The only thing to "cross my desk" these days is Tycho, who always aborts his crossing right in the middle because he decides that the computer keyboard is a good place to park his sizeable hind quarters and begin a thorough grooming, starting with the butt area. That's not good for anybody to see, least of all the A to L keys on my keyboard, and some of the punctuation keys as well, which get the brunt of the - er - brunt whenever T squashes down on my computer.

OH NO HERE HE COMES!!!

ASSDFHJFGDHLKJH;FGDLHKKL;,.,;K.,JHKJFGLHKJFGLKHJDFLKG,F;'HJ,.GH;'.'..;,L;

Clean butts all around.


!!!1!!!!!!

Because I cannot add numbers together, AND I cannot use the cut/paste Word function properly, I just discovered that I have 30 pages less of my thesis written than I thought I did. You'd think this would prompt me to write BETTER FASTER LONGER, but instead it prompted me to cook a lasagna from scratch. And somehow I feel better.....


BECAUSE IT'S NOT A REAL BLOG IF THERE ISN'T A CAT:
I keep having elaborate dreams about losing Tycho. I blame this news story, which pulverizes my tender little heart like the raw organ that it is and tosses it to hungry wolves. In "real" life (it's all relative) I don't often have to take T outside of the apartment, but when I do, it takes EVERY OUNCE OF WILLPOWER to resist opening his cage door on the metro just to see if my wittle fuzzy-wuzzy kitten-mitten cutie pie is all right in there. If he ever escaped from his cage he would be a little orange dustcloud, like the Tazmanian Devil, leaving a trail of destruction on on his way to freedom. In my dreams I am always somewhere worrisome, like a war zone, or maybe in the shadow of a tsunami wave, or outside of a huge, burning building. Sometimes D is there, being all "you can't go back into that burning building! It's going to collapse any second!", which dream-Megan interprets as "The building's about to collapse! Move faster! Dive under that smoldering pile of lumber and LOOK FOR THE CAT! QUICKLY!!!!" Very stressful nights, these.

Usually I wake up and T is sitting next to my shoulder, staring at me, making those chirpy throat noises because it's 3am and that's feeding time right? And usually when he sees that my eyes are open his pupils swell to paranormal size and he pounces on my face. Logical reaction, apparently, if you're a Tycho. I try to trump my feelings of pain and discomfort at such moments with my feelings of relief that he is not actually about to suffer some terrible dream-fate, but that doesn't always work...which is why I move his bed into the bathroom at night. That's the only door in the apartment that closes firmly enough to contain him.

Buddy!

Other news: to turn completely unselfish motives into a self-PR pitch, listen to this! I AM FRIENDS WITH A SUPERHERO! Doesn't that suit me? She might even wear a cape if I ask her to.

BEDTIME PHOTO (in more ways than one?):

Try as I might, I can't quite explain this picture. Worth 1,000 words, right?

-- Off to tempt fate with a little more lasagna in my belly