Here's the scene. Ron is in the kitchen, cooking.
"What are you making?" I ask.
"Balsamic rice," he says.
"You know," he says, "that Indian rice."
Of course, he means basmati rice. I suggest this, and he gives me a look.
Later, Stephen Colbert interviews the playwrite David Mamet.
"That's the guy who wrote Glengarry Glen Close," Ron says.
"Glen Close the actress?" I ask. Again, he gives me a look.
"That's a good one," I say.
My census job is, as they say here in the islands, pau. I am relieved. The funniest story to come out of it is one relayed by a co-worker on our last day. It happened just after we'd finished training, her first day in the field. She'd gone to a house, pulled in the driveway and found the occupant home. He turned out to be a very nice man who gave her a complete interview. She thanked him, then returned to the car to complete the form.
"He stared at me through the window for the longest time," she said. Finally he came out
and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Oh, I'm just finishing up some paperwork," she said.
"Yes well, you're sitting in my car." She looked around her and, sure enough, she had gotten into his SUV instead of her own. To be fair, they were the same make, model and color.
We recently lost one of our kitties, and while I hold out hope that he will return, the prospect of that seems slimmer with each passing day. Alvin disappeared without a trace three weeks ago. We searched every cupboard, twice, every cranny and nook. We combed the neighborhood, scanned the roadside brush, asked neighbors. I've posted signs, put in a notice at the humane society, put an ad in the paper. Nothing. There's no sign of him. He's the only one, of all our kitties, who ever ventured down the driveway except for Mr. Sox, who has been trolling this 'hood since long before we arrived. Even he doesn't go far these days, now that we're here to rub his belly every night. I miss my Alvin.
Hopps has been diagnosed with Cushing's Disease. She'll undergo an ultrasound within the next few days to determine the type of Cushings, then we'll decide on treatment. Poor baby. She's got cortisol coursing through her system, causing her to pant, pace, drink buckets of water and, worst of all, have seizures. We've got the latter under control with phenobarbital, which also helps her sleep better at night. With luck, we'll get her on a course of medicine to help manage her symptoms and keep her happy and comfortable.
It's always something in our house.
A hui hou. Aloha!