Old Man GrahamĀ 

If you don’t know, we have a cat. His name is Graham. 

Graham is pretty old — 11 or 12 years. I don’t actually know for sure how old he is, because I am old and my memory isn’t great. My ex and I adopted him when he was about 6 months old. I named him that because he was the color of a graham cracker and definitely not after a queer lady movie character. We brought him into a house with two cats who had been together for 9 years. They got along okay, but he was always kind of a loner. 

Then the other cats packed up their U-hauls and moved out, along with my ex, and suddenly Graham went from two mothers and two brothers to just me. 

He was pretty confused for a while, and I still say he has abandonment issues because of it. He followed me around after my breakup, constantly yelling at me (he’s very loud) and snuggling with me on the couch and in bed. He used to wait until I turned over on my left side and then stretch himself along my back, falling asleep. That doesn’t happen anymore because there’s a strict “no cats in the actual bed” rule, so he often curls up at my feet, stretching himself along my legs. 

He receives two pills a day now, the result of a few vet visits and some uneven thyroid levels. Chris and I have noticed that he still seems to be losing weight. He’s not as puffy and chubby as he used to be, and I can feel his bones now through his skin when I pet him. 

I look at him now, curled up on his Poang IKEA chair, sleeping away, oblivious to the TV and his worried mother. 

I’ve never lost a pet — he’s the first one I ever really had that was my own — and I’m not looking forward to it. Chris and I think that time might be sooner rather than later, but maybe we are just paranoid. 

But he’s happy and not in pain and still playful as a kitten when we bust out the Star Wars laser pointer. And he certainly hasn’t lost his appetite. 

Hug your cats extra hard today, friends. And I’ll do the same. 

Wedding Musings

I’m so excited to get married. I am. I think about random things — first dance, vows, fun touches that we’ll add to the reception because we’re giant nerds, how pretty Chris will look — and I tear up.

Heck, I did right then.  Please enjoy this picture of Graham while I compose myself.

One thing hit me today, though, as I was making breakfast.

 This is technically yesterday’s breakfast. I write a blog of lies.

We’ll be surrounded by all of our friends and family — our mothers, our aunts, our siblings, and the friends we have our ridiculous adventures with. (And a few other people that are invited out of obligation, but whatever. Not you, of course. We want you there. Probably.)

But my dad won’t be there.  Allow me to distract you with another photo. Makeup!

Listen, I don’t mean to give anyone the wrong idea. It’s not like my dad and I talked on the phone every day, discussing our thoughts and dreams and hopes for the future. The guy wasn’t a talker. And we were very different. He had a very scientific, analytical mind, and I…do not.   Also, he liked kids, and I feel more like this about them.

He was just always there, you know? Teaching me how to ride a bike, going to my basketball and volleyball games, teaching me how to drive, supporting me when I quit my job. Acting like I just told him I preferred a different kind of music instead of a different gender when I finally came out to him. “No, I didn’t know that, but okay.”

It will be 12 years this summer that he died, so part of me is frustrated with myself. Like, come on, Monica. You knew he wasn’t going to be around anymore. And most days it’s okay. But some days — like today — it hits me. So instead off doing grown-up stuff, I blog. And look for unrelated pictures to post.

 Oh, Graham.

Chris and I will be walking ourselves down the aisle, probably. Which we would have done regardless of who was available to do it. And I guess that’s pretty fitting. He and my mom raised me to be pretty independent, outspoken, and all that business. Besides, if they wanted to give me away, they probably would have done it when I was an awful, awful teenager.

No pictures. Those were in the middle of my awkward years. But I was a BITCH.

The day of his funeral, my aunt saw a lone mourning dove on her deck. It hooted a few times and flew away. It was unusual, she said, to see one by itself, so it must have been him. So now, every time I hear one, I think of him. They’ve been really loud lately, so I hear them whenever I’m outside or have the window open. Chris texted me this week to say that one flew to her windowsill at work, hopped over in front of her, hooted a few times, and flew away. I called my mom to tell her — our second phone call of the morning, reserved for important stuff — and she said, “Well, I guess he likes her.”


Richmond Visit, part 3

Well, Graham didn’t destroy the house.

Where’s my ball, bitch?!

We woke up, packed our stuff, and headed to breakfast. Well, by the time we got there, brunch. Kristin was woken up by her Graham clone early in the morning and did some research on a different place since the one in Petersburg was heartbreakingly closed.

Couldn’t find one of him so here’s another of Graham. Imagine longer hair that’s orange all over. It’s Romeo!

Holy crap, this place was amazing. And one of the owners was a Steeler fan. Karma led us here.

Karma made me an omelet and the best damn biscuits I’ve ever had for breakfast.

Everything was so good, including Chris’ sausage gravy and biscuits she’s been wanting since yesterday. The only bad thing about it was the piece of glass she found in it.

Yep. Glass. In gravy.

After reassuring herself that this wasn’t “southern style,” we asked our waitress for more coffee and mentioned there was a giant chunk of glass in the gravy. She was (understandably) mortified and very worried that someone cut themselves. We reassured her all was well — and that we would continue with our meals after a quick glass check — and she filled our coffees (priorities!) and told the kitchen what happened (within our full view).

“Sorry!” with a hand wave.

Well, hope you checked out the rest of the gravy, but whatever.

Danger inside! Also sausage.

Other than that little misstep, everything was super delicious. And Chris had this fun mug with words of wisdom.

Also from the glass factory.

We went to pay and I struck up a conversation with the German cashier wearing a soccer shirt. “They’re my team!” she told us proudly. She rang us up (minus glassy gravy) and asked, “You are military, right? No? Well, I’ll give you the discount anyway.”


We got home a little bit ago. It took longer than we planned, partially because of an accident in Winchester. But the company and the drive were lovely, and though I was sad to be back to reality and leave my poor friend IN THE SOUTH, I’m happy to be home with this giant cat. Also, she had NFL Sunday Ticket, so she’ll be just fine.

Plus, she and Chris kept ganging up on me and teasing me. Uncool. In their defense, I’m really easy to make fun of because I take it so seriously. But this morning, I had had enough.

I flicked my hand dismissively at Chris’ plate. “Eat your glass.”

Hilarity ensued.

Just a Regular Tuesday

I’m racking my brain and trying to think of something to blog about today. I unexpectedly slept until 9:00 (probably due in part to an allergy pill), got up and made breakfast, then mowed the lawn in lieu of doing the elliptical. Then it was time to get ready for work and then make/eat lunch and make dinner to bring to work. And then…work. A pretty uneventful day.

Day 5 of Whole30 is supposed to include wanting to kill all of the things, but I thought I was feeling pretty well today. Then I shut Graham in the basement (with his food and litter box — it’s not really that cruel) because he wouldn’t leave me alone after I opened a can of tuna. So maybe I’m not doing as well as I thought…


Lunch today was a small salad (the picture above isn’t mine — it’s the one I made for Chris to eat when she gets home) and Whole30-fied chicken soup, which turned out pretty well.

We have gone through almost all of a 3-pound bag of carrots since Sunday, so I guess that’s a good sign.

Anyway, nothing horrible, nothing terrific. So, you know, not so bad.



This is Graham, the best cat known to mankind. He is a giant, screaming ball of dander and fur, and I would be lost without him.

When I adopted him, he was an addition to my then-girlfriend’s two cats who spent the majority of their 8ish years together. He was always sort of mine and they were hers, making separation easy after, well, separation. With two other cats, he was a tiny bit crazy, very standoffish and aloof, and content to occasionally terrorize the type-A cat.

One day, though, he looked around, and they were all gone. No her. No them. Just me. He had no way of knowing the day the cats left was also the day I was supposed to get married, making me especially grateful that Mr. Cool was suddenly Mr. Clingy.

He changed after that day, mostly for the better. He has slept at my feet for at least part of the night ever since then. Every night. Before, he would only cuddle up when he was cold. Now, it’s like he wants to assure himself that I’m still there.

He also plays fetch and gets the excited vibrating tail, habits he picked up from his fur brothers from other mothers. He only jumps up on people he knows well — currently only Chris and me — and runs and hides when there are loud noises. Or a lot of people. Or a few people. Or just one person who happens to be a guy with a deep voice.

Anyway, you’ll be hearing about him a lot because lesbians treat their pets like children, and he’s mine.

Also, sometimes we do this, and he has yet to attack us for it. So, like I said, best cat ever.