Landline review & back to school

LandlineLandline by Rainbow Rowell
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Georgie is our protagonist, a television writer and an all-around irresponsible flake. Neal is her husband, steady rock, and stay-at-home dad to their two daughters: Alice and Noomi. Georgie’s job is high-pressure and high-stakes and very important. When the opportunity for Georgie and her writing partner Seth (a real knob in his own right) to write their own show presents itself at Christmastime, Georgie blows off a planned family vacation to Neal’s mother’s home in Omaha. Instead of Neal giving in (again) and staying in LA, he and the girls take the trip anyway, leaving Georgie to her own angst that she torpedoed her relationship for good.
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A smaller “we.”

Still here. Still broken. But the days keep flipping by.

Max, following the sun.

Max, following the sun.

Today’s my last “Summer Friday” from TNP for the year. I love summer so much and it feels like this year it slipped out from under me. I have to blog the Virginia Beach trip. That’ll be a temporary fix.

I had a massage at Hand and Stone today courtesy of my nephew. He’s a savvy baby that way. Then I bought some futility cream at Ulta and an iced chai from Starbucks. Now we are out on the balcony (trying to ignore the cigarette smoke from one balcony down — I am finally wearying of apartment living) but it’s a smaller “we” than I’m used to. Just the dogs and me. We’ll get by.

The vet called this afternoon. I knew what the message was about so I let it go to voicemail. I’ll deal with pickup another day. As much as I joked about Charlie being the Last Cat, there are probably kittens in our future. We have to get our own place first, though. This is the first time I’ve been in compliance with the pet rule since I moved to the Dee-Luxe apartment in the sky. Yes, friends, Charlie was an undocumented cat. Technically, Ollie should have been the secret pet but you just can’t hide Ollie.

On a lighter note, I believe I one of those people with the Margaritaville gene. It’s not officially been mapped yet, but it’s the gene that makes you inexplicably enjoy Jimmy Buffet after you hit 40. I can’t explain it! He used to depress me to death. Now there are fins to the left, fins to the right and ARRGH I can’t help it! I blame the SiriusXM trial that came with the new Jeep. I found Radio Margaritaville. Now it’s one of my presets in the car (along with WM’s 19 country music channels) and I also stream Buffet-like music channels at home. And thus begins the midlife crisis. At least I’m not gambling or playing bingo.

Have a lovely Labor Day weekend!

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I miss this.

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Goodnight, Charlie.

This morning our cat Charlie passed. He was seventeen. He was my baby-meow, my boo-bear, my boos.


Snoozing on a crinkly bag yesterday. This is the last photo I have of him.

We spent Charlie’s last summer lazing on the balcony with him when the sun was out and snuggling on the sofa at night. He spent his last full day sleeping on a crinkly plastic Target bag, which is probably the best day he could have asked for. In retrospect he slept a LOT yesterday and didn’t climb on the sofa with us. I should have noticed.

This morning he was asleep in the bathroom next to his litter box. This was odd behavior. When we woke him up, he climbed into his litter box and his legs gave out. We took him to first vet appointment this morning and he told us that he exhibited a textbook case of pulmonary embolism. (I thought this was the same as a stroke but I’m wrong.)

He was a very good sport.

This picture makes me smile. Charlie was a very good sport.

The heartbeat heard through the stethoscope didn’t match the pulse the doctor felt in Charlie’s femoral artery. There was nothing to be done, and the vet told us he was likely in pain that couldn’t be addressed, so we made the best/worst decision. He was our last cat (for the near future) so we left his carrier behind to be donated.

I was only 24 when I took him home. And he was seventeen! I should be thankful for such a long time with him, right? I should be happy that he had a life well lived, right?

Charlie was seventeen. And we are heartbroken.

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