Moving so soon?

Yes, my “ink on the side” blog has a new home. Already.

I decided it was better to move before I got too comfortable. Otherwise, you’re stuck digging through all those old, forgotten treasures you didn’t think you could live without, so you decided to shove them to the back of a closet.

Come with me, won’t you? I’m over at http://marlainkontheside.wordpress.com

I won’t even ask you to help me unload boxes.

Cats and Dogs of a Feather

Michael can sleep through anything. Not me.

So when a tiny muffled meow came from somewhere in the house one night, I was UP.

Lou the cat is not a big meower. She’s more of a snacker, relaxer and hider. But she does like to go “on patrol,” as we call it, in the middle of the night. As soon as the lights are all turned out and things are quiet, we’ll hear the little click-click-click of her claws on the hardwood floors, climbing the stairs, finding out what she may have missed during the day.

But meowing? Never.

So even though it was 3 am, I was instantly up, trying to clear out the sleep in my head and figure out what was going on. I went to her usual hangouts – the guest bedroom, the upstairs den – no sign of Lou, but I could still hear the constant meowing. By this point, even Michael was awake and beginning to become alarmed.

all you need is love, but some talent would be helpful

“You play the guitar!”

On his first visit to my house, my boyfriend (now husband), Michael, immediately locked his eyes on the black case propped up in the corner of the guest bedroom.

“You play the guitar!” He actually seemed to be glowing, he was so thrilled with this discovery.

Michael had attended the Atlanta Institute of Music. He had five guitars (“Seven, if you count the ones still at my parents’ house”) of various pedigrees, genres and styles. He had spent a year of his life practicing guitar eight hours a day while collecting unemployment and pissing off his at-the-time girlfriend. They were that couple who had conversations like:

Her: “You care about that guitar more than you care about me.”

Him: [Doesn’t hear her because he’s too busy concentrating on his chord progressions.]

So it’s no surprise his gaze would instantly fall on the guitar case in my house. Apparently, though, he didn’t notice the two-inch layer of dust covering the case. Or the fact that it was wedged behind piles of books and files and cat hair tumbleweeds.

“I uh…well, I own a guitar. ‘Play’ might be a bit of a stretch.”

On his second visit to my house, Michael proudly presented me with a laminated chord chart. All I needed to do, he assured me, was practice a few chords every day. I’d be playing in no time.

Oh, Michael. Poor, well-meaning, misguided Michael.