Posts Tagged ‘cat’

All The Things

January 25, 2018

I want to do with you.

There’s so many.

The list, my dear, may become quite big.

But I can’t stop thinking about them.

The things I want to do with you.

An unexpected one that came up tonight.

I want to have a cat with you.

OH my God.

A sweet little kitten, I haven’t thought about having a cat in a while.

I miss having them.

There are cat people and there are not cat people.

And you are a cat person.

I knew this, some part of me knew this, but I didn’t know.

The thought of a baby kitten and you, oh holy mother of god, it makes me tremble.

Like what could possibly be better?

Being in bed with you and a tiny furry creature, I might weep with joy at the thought.

Which is so much better than the weeping I have been doing of late.

I am so, so, so tired of the crying.

It comes and goes now, on its own accord, of its own life, taking me when it wants to without my permission.

My employer was playing music today and some song came on that reminded me of you and I literally bent over double and started to cry.

It’s as close to crying in front of my boss as I have gotten.

It’s been a week of this, I have cried plenty at work, oh my god, so much, but usually when no one is around, when I have had private times, when the baby has fallen asleep on me and I’m in a room by myself whilst the rest of the world goes careening on.

The world does not stop despite my heart-broken heart.

I seem to have stopped sometimes, most times, a glazing around me, a soft focus phased out, fuzzed out, sensory turn down where I am muddled and disoriented.

Driving in the rain tonight, coming home, listening to Debussy and thinking of you and the streets slick shined with rain and light reflections, the traffic, and the black inky night, here and there moments of coming to almost, as though I had just driven the last mile without really seeing anything.

It’s probably not a good thing to disassociate while driving.

Some music I can’t listen to right now.

And while the classical can make me feel tremendously sad, oh man, there are some things I can’t listen to at all, just avoiding certain songs and playlists and when I do stumble into them getting out as fast as I can.

But I did not start this blog to be sad.


I wanted to list all the things I want to do with you.

All the things I think about, what would this be like, how would it feel?

And I know.

That’s fantasy.

But I think my poor heart just needs a reprieve, a momentary respite from the sad, so be gentle with me whilst I play out my fantasy.

Falling asleep in a hammock with you.


I just want to be somewhere warm with you, wrapped up around you, holding you, being held by you.

You and the sun, I so want to be out in the world, in the light, basking with you, warm and brown and golden and laughing.

And sleeping.

Sleeping in warm sunny places, sleeping on a boat whiling its way through the Loire Valley, cushioned on your chest, my eyes closing to the rise and fall of your chest, the sky floating by, resting on you.

I feel so adrift right now, unmoored and up anchored.

I just wish to be settled against you again, skin to skin, heart to heart.

I want to go to the movies with you, hold hands in the dark, lean my head on your shoulder.

I want to travel with you.

God damn it.

What a pair we would make, poking fun at incongruously dressed travelers, sitting next to you on a plane, head on your shoulder.

I’ll happily take the middle seat so you can sit on the aisle.

I want to read books to you, leisurely, one chapter at a time, fairy tales, novels, poetry.

I have read you a lot of my poetry, but there is so much out there, so much yet to be read.

I have so much more to write.

Don’t you want to hear my poems?

I want to linger over breakfast and drink coffee with you and make bad jokes and be silly and go right back to bed.

Not to sleep, no, although that may come in time.

I want to write you love notes and stick them in your jacket pocket when you are not looking, so that when you are at work, you find them and smile and think of me.

I want to walk through Paris with you, sit in the cafes, hold your hand, make out at a corner table and not care who goes by, it’s Paris, people make out in cafes.

I want to go to farmer’s markets with you and carrying a basket on my arm.

I want to go clothes shopping with you.

I want to try on dresses for you and I want you to try on clothes too and then I want to be scolded by the sales lady for smuggling you into the dressing room.

I want a life with you that goes places and does things and opens me up to wonder and awe and beauty and surprise.

I suppose these things are not fair to ask or to write about.

I hesitated to even write all these things down, but the words in my head wouldn’t leave me be and though I am now once again in tears, just the moment of thinking about you holding me in a hammock might be just enough to get me through the tears that are once again streaking my face.

Oh my poor tired heart.

Go to bed.

May sleep come, just so I can dream once more of you.

You’re The Carmen Cat

April 7, 2015

He whispered to me and cuddled into a little ball in the corner of his bed.

“Don’t eat my toes!”  He admonished me as I reached to stroke the tender little balls of his feet.

“Not even one nibble?” I asked.

“No!” He giggled and burrowed under his blanket.

I hate waking up a sleeping bunny, but the nap was going really long and I knew I would get what for if I didn’t get him up and out and on the move, but fresh-baked boy is so delicious, especially when he is drowsy and warm and sweet, his deep brown eyes battened with eyelashes blinking slow at me.

He sleeps with his cat–Meow Meow–a little grey thing that is actually white in the original.

He has another stuffed cat, black and with white socks, that he calls, I kid you not, “The Other Meow Meow.”

Today he asked me to juggle for him.

I sing the theme song from the Ringling Brothers Circus and toss balls high into the air.

He sings along with me and moves his hands like he’s juggling.

Most of the time the balls get flung around the room and he laughs hysterically.

“Juggle Carmen!  Juggle!”

I taught myself how to juggle when I was 18, had just dropped out of college was living with my pregnant sister, her boyfriend and her best friend in the trailer of said best friends mom and dad, who were on vacation in Mexico for a month.  The trailer was in Stoughton.

It was cold.

We were broke.

Except when I was writing bad checks at the supermarket to buy food and smokes for the entire household.

My sister’s boyfriend, baby daddy, and general sleazy older guy preying on young stupid women who were blind to being used for having already been raised by their usury parents, had us all convinced that he was in love with each one of us, but betrothed to my sister.

God bless him.

He had it worked out.

He was 29 or 30?

We were, from oldest to youngest, 18, 17, and 16.5 years of age.

We all smoked, did his bidding, fetched him food, bevvies, wrote bad checks, and generally ran amok in the wilds of Madison and the local environs.

He was tall, dark, handsome, had thighs I wanted to just look at all night, they were so long and plied with muscle and a way of looking at you from behind a shank of oily dark hair, that had you smitten into doing his bidding, that you, and only you, were the only thing he was looking at in the world–the only thing that mattered at all, ever.

For whatever reason he had us all believing that we needed a street skill.

Some sort of trick or song and dance or number that each of us could fall back on in case we needed to beg or busk on the streets.

He played guitar.

I don’t know what my sister’s skill was.

Looking pretty, I suppose.

I’m not sure what her friend’s was.

Being annoying, I suspected.

I had no skills.

Aside from allowing myself to be talked into letting a middle age man kiss, really, just slobber over them, ugh, my poor feet, when the “family unit” whatever we were calling ourselves, the self-styled coven of idiots we were, was broke.

At, of course, the suggestion of my sister’s boyfriend.

I have never done porn.

I suspect it would be like what I sat through, the slurping of the toes, it was one of the most humiliating things I have ever done for money, and by far the most ghastly.

I stripped once, that’s another story, in a long line of weirdo things I did to help sustain the family, that might have actually been easier than the foot fetish dude.


Ever watch Shameless?

The American version.


Well, sometimes it hits a little too close to home.

Enough said.

So Damien, that was the name he went by.

Note to self, really?

I fell for someone who went by Damien.

It was either that or Wolf, but I think he was dating my sister’s best friend.

I slept with him, none the less.

Are you wondering yet how I went from cuddling with a little boy and juggling to this line of thought?

I bet you are.

Damien, assumed name, not his real name, decided that we were going to learn how to juggle.

My sister was bored to death with it in five minutes and went back to painting her long nails.

Her friend tried for perhaps ten minutes, then too, joined my sister on the couch (leatherette bands with the high wood curved corners and that stale brown/mustard/black/cream plaid that all couches seemed to be at the time) and began filing her nails.

I, however, was down for the challenge.

It took longer than I thought it should, hours, I think, but in the end, I had mastered the art of three ball juggling and could even do a trick or two.

I never did it for money though.

Until I nannied.

Then, well, it’s like you’re the Pied Piper of nannies, or Mary Fucking Poppins with tattoos, they come running.

“Juggle Meow Meow! Carmen Cat!  Juggle Meow Meow and The Other Meow Meow and Kitty Kitty.”

He rolled over in the bed, “please, oh please.”

I laughed.

Of course, my little kitten, I will juggle for you.

Juggling stuffed cats is easier than juggling live cats, not that I have tried, but it’s still a lot harder than juggling balls.

I tossed the grey cat, the black and white cat and the all black cat up in the air, I sang my little song, he clambered out of bed and tried to catch the cats then threw them all over the room.

“Let’s play Meow Meow Ball,” he said and whipped the stuffed grey cat across the room.

The kid’s got an arm.

He might be throwing more than a cat curve ball one of these days.

“Honey, let’s take Meow Meow downstairs and have a kitty cat snack,” I scooped him up and the stuffed cats and we went down for a cracker with sun butter on it and some milk before heading out into the wild world.

“I didn’t know you juggled,” the mom said laughing, “I thought you meant it metaphorically, like herding cats, you were referring to the boys, juggling them like cats.”

I laughed.

I told her about one winter in Wisconsin, it was cold, school was cancelled and I taught myself how to juggle.

I left out the part about dropping out of school, running away from home, bouncing checks all over Madison and beyond, chain-smoking cigarettes, doing prescription speed out of the medicine cabinets of my sister’s friends parents in their trailer in Stoughton and running amok on State Street with the other gutter punks, playing pinball at Challenges, and older men with dark eyes and salacious agendas.

I mean, my back ground check came back clear.

Why go louse it up?

It did, however, sink home, once again, how far I have come and how grateful I am to be where I am today.

Just another Carmen Cat doing the soft shoe shuffle for another two and a half-year old boy, juggling cats and singing.

This Old Cat, he plays one, he plays knick knack on your thumb, with a knick knack paddy whack, give a cat a ball, this old Cat goes rolling home.

“Meow Meow loves you.”

I love you too.

Sweet boy.

I love you too.


I hope I always get to be.

Your Carmen Cat.

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