I’ve noted that I’ve been having trouble sleeping. At first it was due to lack of noises and such, and so I switched from wearing ear plugs at night (hear your own breathing) to turning on a fan. The last few nights, however, my mind will not let me go to sleep. I keep running the scenario of “what if meth heads break into the apartment” over and over in my mind. I have a loaded .357 magnum pistol next to where I sleep, I’ve had it for years, but recently I’ve had the urge to sleep “with” it, to feel it next to me while I drift off. All of this has me asking myself, is this residual from my experience in Iraq? I can recall walking down a street shortly after arriving in America and the odd sensation of not having a loaded rifle and having to scan for enemy as I walked. And I wont even go into the feelings I felt as traffic zoomed up behind me on the highway (I wanted to swerve into them and yell at my gunner to fire a warning shot).
Yesterday I printed out some color copies of my bartending resume that has a picture of me juggling a bottle of alcohol, ala Tom Cruise in “Cocktail”. I then started hitting every restaurant around and on my third one, a very nice place called “Gustav’s” I had an interview. The service manager told me that she would hire me on the spot, but that I had to also see the GM. I have an appointment with him today. I am reading headlines of news, drinking coffee, and getting ready to go hit a quick cardio workout before the interview. I hope I get it.
I have a cat named Pandora. She is precious to me. She is a black, American Short Haired Persian, that I found wandering the parking lot in Houston. I found out that a family had moved to the west coast and the wife didn’t like cats, so she conveniently left the cat there when they left. The little cat was hungry and skittish and I took her in. She immediately latched onto me and became my “little girl”. Over the next couple of years she’s been with me, I’ve greatly enjoyed her company. While looking for an apartment in Eugene that allowed cats, and not being able to afford the ones the did, I was going to camp on the river instead of give her up. But in the end I found an apartment and she is still with me. I’ve never yelled at her or anything. I am very gentle with her and I spoil her. She will lay on the ground and roll her belly up at me in order to get a petting.
Eliza has a cat, she got him while I was in Iraq, that is a Siamese mix (has another breed in it’s blood). He is a juvenile male and is quite goofy. He runs down the hallway with all the grace of a drunken Shetland Pony. He loves to chase bugs, specks of dust on a breeze, or his reflection in the patio door. I play around with him all the time and I refer to him as shit head.
I was wondering, this morning while caffeine fills in the synaptic clefts of my brain, if I treated the cats different because of their personality, or by the fact that one is a goofy boy and the other a sweet girl. It made me give pause to consider how I might act to kids of my own were they to be a boy and a girl. Could I allow the boy to be quiet and reflective and the girl to be a tomboy? I hope so. I hope that I would give all that I could so that their personalities and character would be as deep and broad as possible, that their character and personality would be much of their own choosing.
Just some thoughts.
Now I must go hit the cardio workout. I’ve dropped 10 pounds since coming home, and I’ve got another 9 to go on my goal. After hitting that goal I’ll create another one. Eat the elephant by the spoonful!