I have exactly 34 days until the first day of school. In that time, I have to:

a) get new clothes. I’ve gained a bit of weight this spring/summer, and never had enough pants to start with, so a trip to the shops is first on the list. I also need new shoes.

b) get my textbooks, bus pass and other school supplies.

c) purge my closets of clothes that don’t fit, books I’m not going to read during the school year, and the general detritus I tend to collect wherever I live.

d) get WUFS up and ready to roll.

Well, all this leisure had to end sometime.

Some celebrities I am sick of hearing about:

Robert Pattinson, he of Twilight fame. Okay, so he’s very good looking, he mastered an American accent for the film, and he’s got that whole broody thing going on, but ENOUGH, okay?! I don’t care about who he’s dating, or his favourite food or where he’s living. Most of the pictures of him that I’ve seen over the last year have given me the impression he’s not bathing or brushing his teeth in an effort to get rid of the heartthrob image that has been thrust upon him. He also doesn’t look like he’s sleeping much. I think the girlies need to give the man some space, and so do the paparazzi. Leave him alone, and let the rest of us get back to watching people who actually WANT our attention.

At the opposite end of the “wanting our attention” spectrum, Ryan O’Neal. The guy is now most famous for his relationship with the late Farrah Fawcett. He hasn’t been in a decent film or TV show in years, so what the hell is his relevance to our current culture, I’d like to know. No, on second thought, I wouldn’t. Whenever you see his name in print (or on the internet), it’s always in connection with one of three things: a) Farrah, b) his fucked up relationship with one of his fucked up kids, or c) his drug issues (past and/or present). This is a guy who has failed to be on good terms with any of his children, all of whom have had serious addiction problems, allegedly stemming from their observation of HIS drug use. I’m not saying he wasn’t a great actor in his day, but ENOUGH about his private life, okay? And let me know if he actually lands a role worth watching.

Jon and Kate Gosselin. Fuck. Until 7 months ago, I had absolutely no idea these people even existed, and in some ways I was better off. Their sad history churns up a lot of bad thoughts in my head, and judgments that are not mine to make. Did privacy mean nothing to these people in the first place? No wonder they’re all over the tabloids and magazines. I’m sick of seeing their faces, and I’m especially saddened by the fact that the media AND both parents seem bent on dragging these poor kids through this mess so publicly. It’s not the first acrimonious divorce of celebrities with kids, and it won’t be the last, however, it is all the more tragic because they are primarily famous for HAVING those kids in the first place, and putting them on display. ENOUGH.

/rant

I may not be beautiful, or lissome, or even average in height, but I make up for my average looks with what I am going to call CHARACTER.

I have spent my life constantly being short-changed and underestimated—by myself as well as others. And yet, when something is important to me, I don’t give up easily. Eventually, I will do everything I say I am going to do. I will go the distance, even if it’s often a two-step forward, one-step back progress.

I think this is because I just can’t let things lie. I’ve never been able to, and when I was a kid, it got me in trouble more often than I’d care to remember. Even as a kid, I knew I was being given strong values, which would usually bend me to the more ethical and compassionate end of situations. I *knew* in the end that my goal was the correct one, and that all those who were standing in my way, pressing on me to abandon my goal so they could have their self-interested, quick fix solutions, were unable to go the distance on anything of importance.

Having said that, I do let obstacles, real and imagined, get in my way from time to time. I’m not really a bull in a china shop. However, I believe in hard work, in hard-won battles which can take ages to resolve. I do not think I have ever been given anything easily or with little effort, except maybe Esso’s love (but of course, that has been tested and tested again over the past 18 1/2 years).

I work effing hard, folks, and eventually, I reap what I sow, for good or ill.

It would be better for all of us if you would work WITH me, rather than against me, because I believe I am going to do something of significance at some point in my life. I’d like you to be there when I do.

I’m feeling much better today. So much better, in fact, that I am making a roast beef.

The truth is, there’s a lot of love in this house. From us to the two remaining cats, from those two to us, and from us to each other. Mo is not really gone if we remember her, and I’m sure, where ever she is, she’s purring and happy, just like she was when she was here.

God, I miss her purr.

Anyway, the thing is, we were lucky to have her, and all my boys are lucky to have me, because I AM A COOKING GODDESS! (LOL). Got a right proper menu lined up, and I’m enjoying the process. I just wish this kitchen was bigger. (no, I don’t give the cats scraps, it’s not good for them, and anyway, they’re not moochy).

Today, I watched the Michael Jackson Memorial on-line (streaming technology has come a long way), and cried. I wasn’t exactly crying for MJ, though. I was crying for Mowgli.

Mo’s ashes were given to us this afternoon. The urn is so small. I know Mo wasn’t a big cat, but this container wouldn’t hold a child’s cup of applesauce. Not since she was a teeny kitten could I hold her in one hand. I can barely speak.

I’m not doing well today, is what I’m saying.

I miss Mowgli so much today. I have been here, in the Atom Mill town, since Monday, and the first night was just awful. The second day was kinda melancholy, and the past couple of days were okay. Today, however, I am aware that Mo is not at the vet, or in another part of the house, but gone. I’ll never get to hold her, or rub her fur. She’ll never purr in my ear again.

Freddy seems to have “claimed” me. He seeks out my attention, sits on my lap, lies next to me on the bed, and loves it when I rub the base of his tail. I’ve never seen a cat’s butt go so far up in the air. He is lovely and soft, affectionate and sweet.

But he’s not Mo, nor would I wish him to be.

Esso used to say, “home is where the cats are.” No. Home is where the Mowgli is, and Mowgli isn’t here anymore.

Last night, while I was working for the Fringe, Esso had to make the decision to let Mowgli go to her rest. The bladder infection she got had really taken a toll on her little body. She had rapidly lost more weight, and was losing muscle mass. Her kidneys were bascially done, and her system was shutting down.

The best way to remember someone is to talk about them, and so, in no particular order, here are some of the things I remember about my Mo.

Mowgli had a middle name, which I gave her: Arthur. I know, I know, it’s a male name, but it has a certain majesty to it (Dudley Moore notwithstanding), and it suited her.

She was my baby, and I love her more than I can possibly say.

Mo was the biggest pest in the West, I swear! She got into everything, and even after Floyd died, she still had to check out what we brought home when we came in with bags—especially groceries. Boxes never sat empty for long, and on more than one occasion, breaking down a box for recycling meant extracting a Mo first.

When she was a tiny kitten, she loved to climb up until she was sitting on someone’s shoulder. Our friend, BW, is 6′ 6″, and he was her favourite to climb, because his height meant she got to see further afield.

One time, I found her sitting in the refrigerator. BW (who was our roomie) had gotten himself something to drink, and Mo jumped in to investigate. By accident, he had shut her in. About 20 minutes or so later, I opened the fridge to get supper started, and there she was. She just hopped out, mewed a bit and went to the food bowl as if nothing had happened.

She was a sloppy, sloppy eater. When we gave her wet food, she licked it towards the opposite side of the saucer, until it fell on the floor. I’m not going to miss cleaning up after that.

Mo was a master at geometry. Within seconds of entering a room, she could always determine the best place to sit so that everyone could see her. If it was up a bit high, so much the better. She liked to be seen, because that usually meant she would get skritches, rubs and pats.

She had the loudest purr, and when she purred, it was like her whole body was rumbling. Best yet, she purred most of the time, even when annoyed. Too numerous to recount are the times when I fell asleep to the sound of her purr.

She was untrusting of children. Early on, we had taken in “Fiona” and her husband and child, and the child would grab Mo and pull her into the playpen. Children, for all their wonderful enthusiasm and interest in cats, are not typically gentle, and so Mo learned early that kids can hurt her. My niece, Mini-Me has an affinity for animals, and was very hurt that Mowgli automatically didn’t like her. She and her brother tried several times to make friends with Mo, only to be scratched and hissed at. I tried to explain that Mo was far more afraid of them than they were of her, and she was trying to defend herself. After they got a cat of their own, they began to understand.

Mo loved adult humans, though, and was a keen attention slut. She would roll over at the slightest indication that she would get petted, and she absolutely LOVED belly rubs. She would often lie on her back in the middle of the room (as in the picture above). I’m not sure if it was just for the pats she got. She always looked really comfortable.

She was an inveterate MOOCH of the highest order. From the beginning, she wanted to know what we were eating, and we made the mistake of sharing nibbles with her early on. Dinner time meant shooing Mo away from plates, and never, never leaving food alone if she was in the vicinity—even if she wasn’t in the vicinity, come to think of it. She liked nearly everything (except oranges and mint). Some things she tried once and then couldn’t be bothered with, but she had favourites. She adored every kind of thing you can do with a potato: mashed, roasted, french fries, raw, covered in sauce, with butter, alone, all of it. I won’t be able to look at a potato the same way ever again. Even in her old age, leaving a glass of milk unattended was a bad idea.

Every cat is special in its own way, but I think Mowgli was THE MOST SPECIAL.

Today was the Trouper Appreciation Breakfast, and it was a smash hit, because the organizers included the performers. It was a casual atmosphere, and I had the chance to talk to several of the performers and my fellow volunteers. The food was AWESOME! Lots of pancakes, fresh fruit, sausages (both regular and veggie), coffee, iced tea, water and juice. I’m so full, and so happy!

Last night, I was asked to work The Arts Project, which is not my favourite venue to manage. I always end up having an issue, and I am starting to wonder if it’s me. Though, frankly, I behave and interact the same at every other venue, and rarely have problems elsewhere. I had a new volunteer, a guy who says he wants to get more involved with the Fringe, and to be honest, the man baffled me. I got to the point where I just basically let him do whatever he wanted, because trying to get him to fulfill his role as Box Office person wasn’t worth the argument. I did draw the line, however, at letting him sell buttons for the festival out on the street.

Tonight, I’m going to be working at what some of the troupers are calling the “nightmare” venue. It’s in the Club Fringe, which is in the dive bar I spoke about earlier. The thing is, the Venue Manager (that’s me) doesn’t go into the show, but instead, has to sit out in the dive bar with the cash box—near the bottom-rung clientele that look like they have been ridden hard and put away wet many, many times. Oh, joy.

Still, I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else right now.

This morning my head hurts, probably as much as my feet did Thursday night.

People never believe me when I tell them I have never had a hangover. I now have concrete proof that the way I feel “the morning after,” is mostly due to not getting enough sleep. Last night, I got home from the Fringe at about 1:15 a.m. after hemming and hawing about going to the late night Fringe talk show. I had no alcohol, and left with a piece of excellent cheese and a bottle of water in my hands. Much to my chagrin, I woke up this morning at 7:15. That’s 6 hours of sleep, and that ain’t quite enough.

I am functional, but in pain.

Opening night of the Fringe shows was interesting. This year, we are opening the Box Office for each show 15 minutes earlier than in past years, and while it makes sense for the audience (you never heard such complaining when people were early!), it certainly makes my job as Venue Manager a little more difficult. I think we are going to have an upswing in people who buy their tickets early, then go have a smoke or grab a snack and come back after the doors have shut. There are no latecomers allowed, and NO REFUNDS. It’s a total headache for a VM, whose only real recourse is to send them to HQ, where they apologize, explain the rules, and give the disgruntled patron a free pass for a future show.

I did manage to go see a show, the wonderful Weaverville Waltz, by Randy Rutherford, who has been to our Fringe as many times as I have volunteered. His shows are always poignant, funny, sweet, and somehow, always, a little bit sad. I had also meant to go see An Evening with Nick Wallace, a magic show, but at the last minute, decided to hang out at HQ instead. I regretted this decision when I saw Nick perform a little teaser at The No Show, and am now trying to figure out where and how I can fit in one of his shows into my schedule.

Ugh. My head still hurts.

My feet hurt.

I wasn’t smart enough to wear good shoes tonight, and as usual, I ended up standing throughout the performer showcase. Eventually, I had to leave Wally’s side (more about Wally in a bit), and find a seat, because my heels felt like someone had tenderized them with a jagged block of concrete.

This year’s shows are going to be very good. The out-of-town performers really seem excited to be here, and there are a whole whack of new local companies, some of whom are hilarious, all of them compelling in different ways.

Unfortunately, Club Fringe is, yet again, being held in a dive bar, which usually has bottom-rung clientele who are loyal because they sell bottles of Blue for $2.50. My friend from the TV station calls them “Whitesnakes,” because it’s a good bet the last time they were sober was when Whitesnake ruled the airwaves. Here I Go Again (On My Own). Frankly, I hate this place. The food is virtually inedible, and so I think I will probably smuggle my snacks in. I didn’t think it was possible to screw up a hamburger, but…

I think the crazy woman I used to be sort of friendly with (until she forced herself on me and my friends in March) has finally gotten the hint. She has submitted some of her art to the Visual Fringe, and when I complimented her on it, she didn’t get all weird and gushy on me. And she basically ignored me tonight. Her ex-boyfriend remembered me, though, and stood chatting with me for several minutes. I was secretly pleased when it looked like his attentions to me were bothering her.

Wally is a true gem in our city. He’s in his 90s, and he still has energy and true vitality. He has volunteered every year since the Fringe’s inception, and he is one of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met. When I first volunteered, Wally was often my House Manager, helping me out, answering my questions and sharing funny stories with me about shows he had or was going to see. When you stand next to Wally, you meet everyone, because he’s the sort of man people flock to. And Wally gives me hugs. I dread the day when I hear he has passed, although I know, at over 90, the time left to him is not on the long side. But for now, I can enjoy Wally’s company, his conversation, his wit and his calming, loving presence.