Why does the cat continue to gaze longingly at the bag of awesome Japanese crunchy snacks from which I am eating even after I offer her a tiny crumb of it and she acts like I have just given her a bit of poison? Cats must live in a magical world, where things are very mutable. It was poison, but maybe now it is tuna. Can I have some?

Can lasagna containing three different kinds of cheese (totaling approximately a pound and a half altogether) really be bad for you if it also has spinach and mushrooms in it?

(I thought not.)

Why on earth do I spend up to half an hour a day clicking around Facebook? If pressed, I could not possibly explain what I am even doing there. Yet it must bring me pleasure, since I continue to do so despite, at any moment (if at loose ends) having the option of going and getting myself a warm lapful of kitty. This has eliminated virtually all other forms of useless Internet fuckery, yet Facebook remains enthralling. Mysterious.

Will the lemony lentil soup we have taken to making every week still be as good even if we don’t use chicken stock, but just salted water, as The Minimalist claims?

Do giraffes try to find mates matching in height because otherwise their necks would really start to cramp up when they kissed?

Is this week going to go the way I want it to?

Will the lime tree ever flower?

When will I be free?

I have made the food I love most to eat:

I am complete. I have a cat, and I have a means of cheesecake production. I need nothing further.

Well, as you’ve probably already noticed if you hang out on my Flickr stream, Matt was right. The cat is staying. She is going to be expensive, the floor will never again be free of bits of litter for more than 10 minutes at a time, and our lives will be more complicated than they used to be, but she smells like powdery comfort and her belly is really warm, you guys.

And now I have to go wake her up so that she sleeps tonight. Oddly, saying that makes me feel both ridiculous and extremely adult.

This week I ran after an armful of threads I’d thrown out into the world last week. Trying to pull my way along each one to its far flung destination has left me feeling a little divided. Happy, but divided. And therefore, largely in lieu of a proper post, here is one of the many birds that has come into my life of late.

There you go.

My dad is in my thoughts tonight: he’s been dizzy ever since he contracted a virus last week, and he had to have an MRI a few days ago to rule out anything major (all was well; his brain is apparently clear as a bell). Although he sounded healthy and cheerful on the phone and I know he does not want me to worry, who is he kidding? So here I am, thinking of my dad. Over the years I have probably mentioned to one or another of you how phenomenal a memory my father has, and bemoaned my own leaky sieve—here, friends, is just how memorious he is. Having been slid into the MRI machine on Friday morning, says my dad, he—supine and sedated—suddenly recalled a particular newspaper article about Michael Jackson that he read 16 years ago.

The story was printed during a visit everyone’s favorite illustrious lunatic was making to our fair island (for a concert that I totally attended and shouted myself quite hoarse at; don’t even try to make me feel embarrassed, because I won’t). My dad remembered it because, he explained, it was about how good old MJ was rushed to a local hospital not once, but twice that day so many years ago, in order to undergo two emergency MRIs that showed absolutely nothing was wrong with his brain (riiiight). Why all the fuss? Mr. Jackson had a headache. Ever the socialist, my father recalls wondering—as he turned the inky page over his morning tea—how on earth the great man’s insurance was willing to pay for such a thing.

Birds; brains; I’m beat. See y’all soon.

In case anyone is interested, I stuffed a starling yesterday. I feel I should clarify that I did not stuff it well. I didn’t put enough cotton inside it, I tied its wings too far apart, I pulled the skin down its legs too far, and I dumped so much sawdust and water on the poor thing while I was working that its shiny plumage looked very much the worse for wear by the time I was done. But to cut a long story short (I took notes while I was watching more expert hands and counted more than three dozen distinct steps), I started out with an ordinary* dead bird in my hands, and ended up with a somewhat mauled and bedraggled-looking stuffed skin. Getting through this process with a series of tiny birds like warblers and tanagers (much fiddlier and more tricky) took the two other volunteers, both of whom have spent a day or two a week for the past two and a half years doing this and are very meticulous and practiced, about 45 minutes per bird.

It took me a full three and a half hours, with some assistance. I was a little sweaty and faint by the end, to tell you the truth, not from the gore (it is a little gory) but the concentration and exertion. Even though it didn’t turn out very well, I’m glad I tried preparing my own skin on my first day. Working on it was one of those things that lies very much outside my natural set of talents, and resulted in a kind of focus I very rarely experience. If you’d like to know more, ask me next time you talk to me. I figure some of you might not want to hear about this in much more detail than that.

Anyway, besides that, I’m currently preoccupied by the fact that we’ve started fostering, because we decided we weren’t ready to commit to owning a cat right now. Our first foster is a rescued street kitty who turned out to be the sweetest creature on the face of the earth. See?

(Email me if you live in the Chicago area and are interested in adopting an awesome, healthy, friendly cat.)

*I shouldn’t say ordinary; it was a very beautiful starling. Much more beautiful before I got my hands on it, but oh well. I’ll improve.

Ross has been very focused on his work these past two evenings, making it somewhat difficult for me to successfully distract him with funny noises and exclaimings over things I have found on the Internet or inside the pages of the amazing amazing amazing cookbook-slash-travelogue Jenn just sent me for my birthday. Tonight he is still working hard in his study, somehow productive even after having agreed to join me for a very strong, fresh-as-a-breeze-tasting glass of after-dinner gin and ginger ale with a twist of lime. It is all rather disheartening, since I am still entirely caught in the weekend and am mostly interested in investigating leftover cake options and watching another episode of the first season of the West Wing (I am finally trying it, Erica!).

So anyway, while Ross is working I thought I’d tell you that I went and got myself his official 2009 birthday present to me this afternoon.

Question: Why did I have to go and get my official 2009 birthday present on my own?

Answer: Because it was a tattoo! Or rather, two tattoos. They are on my very-buff-from-the-gym shoulders and they are rather marvelous, I think. Ross helped me design them (although the tattoo guy did the final sketch, and a very fine job he did, too). I’m keeping them under wraps until they heal properly, so be patient before you ask for photographic evidence.

Addendum: Hello, parents. Dear, sweet parents. Hey, remember when I got my first tattoo when I was 18 years old and one of you was very concerned and upset because you thought it was an early sign that I was going to go down a road signposted by petty crime and motorcycles and copious amounts of illegal substances? Please do not worry. I am far beyond those youthful pursuits. I just wanted to show off my shoulders, because I am not entirely beyond vanity.

Um, also? This might be a good time to confess that my first tattoo was not my last tattoo (before these). Ask Rani. She can explain.

Internet, I’m going to go now. If you don’t hear from me for a couple of days, I’ll just be over here comforting my poor mother (to whom I make the following sincere promise: I will wear long-sleeved shirts when making any future Singapore-based appearances at which you do not wish me to be viewed as a delinquent).

P.S. They really are quite marvelous. And just think: Asher is going to be really, really impressed with me.