“Cats are nocturnal, doofus” or “I can has sleep cycle?”

Thus far, both human and feline continue to coexist in harmony. That’s not to say there have been a few rough spots, like when Cyrus decides to either attack me or just do something to my arm at 5 a.m. that he is no longer, shall we say, “fully equipped” to do.

I can’t even begin to describe how weird it is to wake up to that, but much to his chagrin, all it does it get him exiled to the bathroom so that I can go back to sleep.

But today, I went to Wal-Mart and made a cat related purchase. A spray bottle. Cyrus has already learned to fear it, and thought twice about attempting to put on the Marvin Gaye and get some alone time with my arm when I was trying to read the mail.

Now, I’m going to digress and make a comment. There are both very intelligent and very stupid people working in all walks of life, from sales at Wal-Mart to working as a doctor in a hospital. However, you run into slightly fewer geniuses at Wal-Mart, and are instead more likely to run into a lady who is completely useless.

Dariush: “Hi, I’m just looking for a laser pointer.”
Wal-Mart Lady: “I don’t think we have those. In fact, I don’t think anyone sells them anymore. They’re illegal now.”
Dariush, laughing nervously and incredulously: “There’s no way that’s true. I mean, people use them all the time for business stuff and for class.
Wal-Mart Lady: “Yeah, they’re illegal in Kentucky, the key-chain type ones. They were real popular and then kids were using them to be a nuisance and shining them in people’s eyes and using them to blind cops.”
Dariush: To self: A cop would just shoot you. Out loud: “Well, okay, thanks.”

So I went across the street to Staples, and sure enough, they had laser pointers.
Dariush: “This lady at Wal-Mart said they’d been made illegal. She also said something about it being because people were using them to blind cops.”
Staples Manager: “A cop could just shoot you and then wouldn’t have to worry.”
Dariush: “That’s what I was thinking!”

So, long story short, I have both a weapon of kitty happiness and a weapon of kitty punishment.

And because 1) I’ve turned into a crazy cat person and B) I know it’s the real reason you’re here, cat pictures are below!

If you haven’t seen the James Bond movie “Goldfinger” then you have not lived.

This is actually what he looks like when I take pictures of him preparing to bite my hands, in typical hunting kitty fashion.

And this is just further proof that he really is smarter than me, having discovered how to now get on top of the cabinets and watch pretty much everything I do.

A few more new pictures are in the entire Flickr set. For now, I bid you adieu and meow.

Which means goodbye, by the way, since speaking cat and speaking Hawaiian are a lot alike.

“Positive thinking” or “No, I don’t have any new cat pictures for you yet”

Before I address the cliffhanger that I started a few days ago, I would like to address a concern raised by Sis. Actually, it was more of a whine, and had it been done in person, I likely would have thrown myself into the river rather than stick around for it. But it was done over IM, so it wasn’t annoying to a life-threatening degree.

Okay, so that’s a teeny-tiny exaggeration. Sorry sis.

Anyway, she said the whole two headline thing is annoying. I retorted with the fact that I’m spinning off the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon series, where every episode would have two titles, both of them usually laden with puns. The twin titles on my posts from here on out are meant to be like that. Explanation finished. On to the good stuff.

A blood sugar level below 100 means you are not a diabetic. A blood sugar level from 100 to 125 means you’re prediabetic, and that if you don’t shape up soon, you will eventually move into full-blown diabetes, and then there’s no going back. A blood sugar level of 126 or higher means that you’re officially a diabetic, and it’s time to start changing your life unless you want to suffer some pretty awful complications.

The blood on the little test strip was probably about 10 or so degrees warmer than the blood running through my hands, the blood I was trying to keep from escaping through the tiny puncture on my pinky by using a piece of tissue paper. My blood felt like ice water running through my veins and then the machine beeped.

The lady testing me held up the machine for me to see, and everyone else in the room wanted to know too.

And the magic number appeared on that tiny little screen.

72.

So I’m not a diabetic. There’s still time to change what’s wrong. Time I intend to use.

Meanwhile, I will give you an update on Cyrus the Kitty.

Things accomplished/learned by the kitty:
– How to reach the 7-foot-high shelf in the closet
– That the bedroom can be crossed in two hops and a jump
– That if you annoy the strange brown man just before the sun comes up, you will be exiled to the bathroom
– The strange brown man also makes a good place to sleep on, if you can ignore the snoring
– Despite what the brown man says, the windowsills are in fact reachable and can be sat in whenever I please
– If I bite the brown man too hard, he will bite back (I’m really not joking on this one)
– The brown man is sad when I am sleeping and will come find me to play with me
– Clothes are not only fun to attack, but they also make a good place to sleep (and shed fur on secretly)
– Don’t get on the fridge and knock the Frosted Flakes off the top. It makes the brown man angry.
– When I misbehave, the brown man threatens to sell me to a place called a “Chinese restaurant”

That’s all for now. Pictures will come soon.

“I could be the next Wilford Brimley” or “Not all the posts I do are funny”

Last year, one of my dad’s three brothers, whom I will call Uncle Realtor, was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

It kind of hit home with me, because he never really struck me as the type who would be diagnosed with this disease. He was a little overweight, but not much. He never OD’d on sugar that I could recall. In fact, the only really unhealthy habit he has is that he smokes, the family vice.

And yet, now he has to test his blood sugar, watch what he eats. If he’s careful, he still has many years ahead of him. If he’s not, he looks forward to complications. Blindness, amputation of the limbs, dialysis, these are all common complications of diabetes, and they’re all a nightmare.

I worry about myself. I’m overweight: Strike one. I’m half-Hispanic: Strike two. I don’t exercise enough: That’s three strikes alone right there. In short, I’m a high risk for diabetes, a disease for which there is no cure. It’s the only non-communicable disease that the UN has given its own day, so it gets grouped in with horrible diseases like tuberculosis, malaria and AIDS.

Right now I’m working on a story about diabetes for the paper’s health page next week, so I was at the health department today talking with diabetes educators and coordinators. And then someone spoke up.

“Do you know what your blood sugar is?”

I didn’t.

Then the next bright idea jumped out.

“Why don’t we test you?”

Out came the machine.

Out came the lance.

They drew some blood from my right pinky, put it on the strip, and I watched feeling very afraid, very helpless as the machine beeped and decided what my fate would be…

“Kitty wrasslin’” or “I can has adopshun?”

Note to self: Don’t let the kitty out of the cage when driving.

Nothing bad happened, and it did get him to stop meowing pitifully. But he also then engaged me in a one-hour grudge match, roaming all over me as I drove. It wasn’t terribly difficult, but at a few points he either 1) tried to explore where I couldn’t keep an eye on him or B) got his butt in my face and obstructed my eyesight. But we clearly survived and now we are home.

And that means I took pictures. And then macroed them.

One I think only one or two people will get, but still funny:

Dr. Mom and Sis should have been expecting this one:

Thus far, he has contented himself to eat kibble, jump on my desk and scratch the cardboard boxes full of books.

Good kitty.

Of course, we’ll see how long that lasts.