The girl's still got it

In 1983,  a 20-something homeless dude asked me out.  I was working the checkout desk at the downtown library, and part of that duty involved chatting with random library users.  Of course, it wasn't necessary to date them, but he seemed sweet, a little naive, and pleasant enough.  We had lunch at the Sisters of the Road Cafe:  takeout BBQ and cornbread in a styrofoam container, which he paid for by washing dishes later on.  We spent the lunch hour in the Park Blocks.  It was no more awkward than any first date, but there was no second date.  He just wasn't my type:  too young, too aimless, too confused.  Too homeless.

Some months later, he showed up in sandals and a brown ankle-length burlap tunic, roped at the waist.  His light brown hair swung lankly against his bearded cheeks.  He looked like a medieval mendicant, or a popular portrayal of Christ.  He had spent the summer at Rajneeshpuram in Central Oregon and was back in town.  By now he seemed seasoned:  still homeless, but not confused about it.  While recognizing that the Rajneesh adventure was political maneuvering on their part, he seemed to come out of it with a sense that he was on a spiritual quest.

I've often wondered what happened to him, but I don't even remember his name.

Flash forward 30 years;  once again I am working at a downtown library.  I am working the reference desk in between supervising a system-wide project that is currently based downtown.  I have years of library service under my belt, years of dating, years of being married, years of dealing with social issues and crazy patrons.  I am long past the time when I could be considered the Library Fox:  my hair is dyed red with white roots, my chins are trebled, I wear long skirts and tunic tops.  When I stop at the coffee shop without my ID and ask for the discount, I get it because I "look like a library lady."

I have been scheduled for 2 hours at the desk, and I am busily taking care of the project, e-mailing delivery people and arranging schedules.  A gent comes up to me, handing me a 4x6 piece of scrap paper wherein he has listed 11 government regulatory agencies that he came across in a National Geographic article.  He wants their phone numbers.  He has a hand-written document which he wants to mail to said agencies.  He is concerned about water and food shortages and wants to make sure the agencies do something about it.  Apparently he has the solution.

-That's great, I say, but these agencies have numerous departments, projects, and contact people, and most of the websites are educational in nature.  They don't seem to have the sort of contact information you are asking for, and most of the contact info they do have is by webforms or e-mail.

-Uh, no, I'm computer illiterate, he says.

-Then, perhaps I could give you some mailing addresses?  (I'm trying to spare everyone the phone call:  him, the hapless clerks at the agencies, the various project managers.)

-Uh, no, I need to talk to them, to be sure they are the right people who will know what to do with my information.  (Toss it in the circular file, I'm guessing.)

Half an hour later, he leaves, a sheaf of printouts in his hand. I've also looked up the patent office:  apparently, the document he wants to mail also contains specifications for an invention, but he can't afford a patent lawyer. I declined the offer to read the pertinent pages, but I feel bad.  He has shaken my hand and thanked me several times, but I haven't really helped him.  No one is going to win here.

Ten minutes later, a 20-something dude strides up to the desk, radiating urgency.  "Where are your newspapers?"  I point to the stand behind the desk.  The desk is a circular marble counter, approximately 4 feet high, with a circular inner desk/counter and two entrance gaps into the center where we sit.  My partner is sitting at the gap in the counter where the desk is open to the public, facing towards the front door:  I'm sitting below the high counter, facing towards the public computers.  One of the entrances is to my right, the other is diagonally across from me.

The dude appears at the nearer entrance to my sanctum, crouching in the gap, sitting on his heels.  "Can we have a real talk?" he whispers.  I look at him.  He is dressed in paramilitary garb, has short spiky brown hair, big brown eyes, stud earrings, and lavish arm tatoos.  He is handsome, well muscled, earnest, and anxious.  And young. I say, "I don't know."  He says, "I really need to see today's paper."  He is looking at me beseechingly.  That's when I remember that the current local newspaper is kept behind the desk.  "Oh of course, my apologies, the paper is here, do you have some ID?"  He riffles through his pockets and eventually comes up with a crumpled New Mexico driver's license.  The picture has shorter hair and looks drugged, but I take it and jot down his name and hand him the paper.

Two minutes later, he is back.  "I know this guy," he explains, pointing to a picture in the teaser article on the front page:  Inside:  property crimes and criminals; names, photos, and phone numbers.  9x9 tiny mugshots, with details promised.  "He's not a good person.  I need to call him."  "Are you looking for the phone number?"  "No, I need a phone.  I need to contact him.  Please.  I'll even take you to lunch."  I turn to my partner, "Uh, M, where's the nearest phone booth?"  "Over by the 7-Eleven."

I turn back, but the dude is gone, striding away without looking back.  Is he angry?  Upset?  Did I hurt his feelings?  Was it a rejected date, or a failed bribe?  D prefers to think the latter ("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today"); but I think it's proof that I'm still that Library Fox.

He wants the desk phone

To call an old enemy.

"I'll take you to lunch."

In which we try to avoid talk of pornography

The church has various social groups, one of which is called "SipNSup."  8 people get together at the host home for a potluck.  The idea is to make connections and meet new people, so the people who sign up for the group are rotated around, as are the hosts.  D signed us up, and we attended our first event last night.

Our hosts lived in a gorgeous new home in Placitas, a small town 10 miles north of Albuquerque, 5 miles to the east of Highway 25.  This is an area we have already investigated:  in addition to the original town there are open spaces and several developments in the surrounding hills.  The views of the Jemez and Sandia mountains are stunning, and the homes are, for the most part, xeriscaped and reasonably separated.  They are also square stucco mansions, fairly uniform in design.

Most homes are, of course, out of our price range, and living there would add a 20-minute one-way free-way commute to the daily routine.  But the stars and views and the peace might be worth it.

So, there we were, sitting in a circle around the kiva fireplace, looking out the westward-facing windows at glowing orange-pink sunset clouds, watching hummingbirds darting around the house. The conversation was socially apt:  we shared life histories (DN was from Alabama, had lived in NM 4 times and traveled the world as an engineer, V was from Texas and had volunteered with the Peace Corps in Guatemala, our hosts had lived in Placitas for 2 years, L had done her research on why rural doctors stayed in their small communities, B had unsuccessfully run for Congress and traveled to China to sell airplanes, DY had worked for a non-profit in Flint, Michigan.)  D, DN, and I were the only non-retirees in the group.

Eventually we gathered around the table, a beautiful round wooden antiqued surface with a glass lazy susan and a dried Hawaiian flower centerpiece.  We talked about Unitarianism, Buddhism, atheism, the Democratic convention, books, music, movies, Antarctica, travels, cats....the usual.  Then, B (who is seated to my right) took over.  He had already exhibited signs of social ineptitude, dropping names that few of us recognized, talking obliquely and at random length about his life history: "I am winning my fight over OCD and bi-polarism, I was knocked off the ballot, I have much life experience and was the best qualified person for the job...."

Now he breaks into our general discussion..."I have been talking to Christine (the minister) and she is not answering my calls, but I want to know what you think about our fellow Unitarian who lives just a few miles from this very house and who has a different story to tell than the newspapers tell, I have visited him, he is a good man, a teacher who wants to be a writer and is gathering images, doing research for a Silence of the Lambs sort of book...."  There's a rustle of discomfort and DY mutters, "Oh, the pornographer," while B continues to ramble on.  Our host, L, says, "I have worked with children as a social worker, I cannot discuss this man's situation dispassionately."  B talks on.  I look across at DN:  he is staring down at his plate.  I look at V:  his gnome-like face has lost its smile and he is staring up at the ceiling.  D is uncharacteristically silent, for which I am grateful:  I can see in his face that he is seething.  I say, "I think it's clear that this group would prefer to not discuss this topic.  We are willing to trust in the judicial process, and while we may appreciate that compassion that leads you to reach out to this man, it's an emotional topic and we should not pursue it."  He talks on about OCD, Congress, politics, being bipolar, the discomfort on our faces and V finally loses it:  "What point are you trying to make?"

Somehow, I'm not sure how, we wrench the conversation back to neutral topics.  There's a short pause and B starts in again, not mentioning the pornographer directly, but musing about what this evening is showing about us, and referring again to his political past and life experience.  DN goes to the restroom.  Our host, to my left, leans forward.  His cat has been sitting in his lap through much of the dinner.  Petting his cat calmly he says, "Your experience means nothing to the collective experience around this table, we don't want to hear this."

B gets up and leaves.  I think he's going outside to cool off.  Our host follows him to the door to turn on lights.  The rest of us begin talking about the convention again, and our host returns.  Settling into his chair he says, "Well, we've made history.  We have hosted this event 5 times, and this is the first time someone has abandoned ship."   And we begin discussing what had happened.  Apparently DY and V have attended 4 other SipNSups with him, and he has behaved the same at all of them.  DY had actually called the organizers when she saw his name, and they had offered to move them to another group.  Uh, what about moving him?

But I'm wondering:  was it perhaps good to have someone outrageous in the group for the rest of us to bond over?  And, was his behavior really so innocent?  While I chose to pretend he was sincerely concerned about the pornographer, and that he just couldn't pick up on the social cues, I don't really believe it.  I think he was deliberately introducing discomfort into the gathering to see how we'd respond, and I think he enjoyed the results of his social experiment.

In a way, so did I.

So, the night wound on.  When we left, we could see the Milky Way.

concert at the casino

A desert wind blows
And a gibbous moon shines o'er
blues, funk, rock, and roll.

We had tickets to the Tedeschi-Trucks band, playing at the Sandia Casino resort, a little north of our apartment.  D picked me up at work and we went out to watch the sunset light on the Sandia foothills. The outside amphitheater faced the casino and its fountain, with a further backdrop of the mountains and the big sky.   While the day had been in the 90s, it cooled off rapidly as the sun went down, and the wind picked up.  The crowd was our age, and they were, for the most part, into the music.  If we had been in better synch, it would have been the perfect concert.

Still, as the concert moved along, the sky darkened, and the moon glowed, we found ourselves holding hands, and then dancing.  This band was tight, and the guitar work amazing.

Her hair blows across
Her face as she rips into
Her guitar and screams.

The seats were not that comfortable though, so we went up to the area above the seats (no mosh pit for us), where people were smoking and forming little knots of conversation and dance.  I watched a man walk straight into a smallish woman as he lit his cigarette.  She did not accept his apology.

He walks as he lights

His cigarette and smashes

His smoke in her face.

We stuck around through the first encore, but as they moved into the second richly deserved encore, we began feeling our age:  hard seats and long nights are no longer something we can do.  

So sad.

Loss

Our weekends are falling into a pattern.  On Saturday, D does errands and enjoys the pool and the apartment, while I work my 5th day.  That night we stay up late, together, watching movies or reading or going out for dinner.  Sunday, we have a semi-leisurely breakfast time, go to the 9:30  UU service, and plan our afternoon drive.  Often that drive includes pulling over to check out open houses.  We are nowhere near ready to move, financially or organizationally, but we are looking.

Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix.  It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change.  I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.)  The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office.  Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online.  We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.

He has it rough.

So, I was content.  I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke.  Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child."  A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father.  He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people.  The pilot was an ex-Olympian,  so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.

Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer.  It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future.  D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of?  I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad.  And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow.  We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.

I find myself thinking about loss a lot.  I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets.  I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy.  And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.

How much of this is in my control?  And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?

I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes.  While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.

We have no control over the fact of loss.  It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too.  It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve.  In fact, I want to grieve.  I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.

Which brings me back to the real loss.  The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew.  She misses that woman, and I do too.   I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed.  Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.

A room of one's own

D is on a perpetual high, living in this sunny climate, learning a new place and a new job.  He is joyous.  I am not.  I am still struggling with the exhaustion that hit me in 2010, not to mention the long-established sleep disorder (diagnosed in 2008.)  Three years of intense change (new job, layoff, unemployment, remodel, downsize, rental woes, new job, new home, new state, increased rental woes) have not helped.  While I recognize that my life is full of potential and actual joys, I still find myself curled up in a mental fetal position, exhausted and looking for a cave.

Yesterday I worked a long day, and I am going in late this morning to make up for it.  My plan was to sleep until D left for his work, and then get up and do some yoga in homage to AB and BW, who were my one-time Friday morning yoga group.  I then planned to write my morning pages, take care of some business and write this blog, and maybe read a little.

It doesn't work that way, when living in a 2-bedroom apartment with an ADD husband who is high on life.  D got up at some ungodly hour, as is his wont.  In his version of a tiptoe, he went into the living room, shutting the door with his version of quiet care.  Being a clod-hopping 6'4" boy-man, he does not do quiet, but he does try.

I lay curled around my pillow, turned from the doors and lights, listening to music from the computer in the next room, listening to D come into the bedroom, and go out, come back in to take a shower, and go out, come back in to tell me I'm beautiful, and go out, come back in for no known reason, and go out.  And of course I was listening to my thoughts (Portland rental problems, financial problems, plans for work, plans for an editing job, plans to join an orchestra.) Around 7 am I decided to get up and start my day.

He came in twice during my shower to give me a kiss and tell me he loves me.

I went into the 2nd bedroom to dress and decided to plug in the CD player and do some tai chi chuh. I heard his voice from the living room, calling my name with increasing insistency.  I went out, listened to his news, told him I was going to spend some time on personal stuff, and went back to the meditation practice.  He came in, went out, came back in with some coffee, went out, came back in, went out.  I managed 30 minutes of practice, bowed towards Portland, and said "Namaste" to my absent friends and to the universe.

I sat in the 2nd bedroom, curled up on the day bed reading the paper and consuming my coffee and toast. He came in to accuse me of stealing his paper, and then danced to the music in an elephantine version of John Travolta staying alive.  Then he stood in front of the couch, smiling at me until I told him to join me.

Breakfast finished,  I took advantage of the free computer and started taking care of business.  He needed the laptop.  So I took the iPad and began working on that.  He needed the iPad.  I said, let me finish this message.  "Who are you writing to?"  "The Albuquerque Philharmonic."  "Great, I support that."

And just when does he expect me to find the quiet space and time to practice violin?

A Citizen Scientist wannabe

Many years ago I joined the Cornell Lab of Ornithology as a Citizen Scientist.  What this meant in real terms was that I set up a bird feeder on my deck and counted the visitors for two months one winter.  While I was diligent in recording my observations, I never got good at the identification piece, nor were my findings anything but pedestrian.  To my chagrin, my lovely jungly yard mainly attracted house sparrows and starlings, both invasive species of the most unattractive kind. Juncos were more fun, and I always enjoyed watching them root through the seeds that fell to the deck.  Real sparrows, finches (mainly house finches), also showed up, with the occasional black-capped chickadee (no more than two) and once in a blue moon, the spotted towhee.  And, of course, squirrels.

The cats mainly left the birds alone, which, considering their springtime predations, surprised me. I do remember coming home from a weekend trip to find the deck totally devoid of avian life.  I was inclined to blame the cats, until I looked towards the large cedar overhanging the deck.  There I saw a Cooper's hawk.

I recognized it from previous visits to Chapman School to watch the annual migration of the Vaux Swifts.  For the last few weeks of September, the Audubon Society sets up binoculars for the crowds of picnickers, who settle on the hill above the school, watching the swifts dine on the last of the evening insects before swirling and funneling into the school's tall chimney for their night's rest.  The neighborhood grudgingly tolerates the parking problem, and a nightly show unfolds, ending in a storm of applause as the last swifts whump into the chimney and leftovers take off for the woods in the surrounding hills.  This show regularly includes the presence of a Cooper's Hawk perched on the side of the chimney, biding its time.  Usually it would pick off a swift and make for the nearby trees, but sometimes the swifts would mob it and drive it away.

So, I knew what a Cooper's hawk looked like, and I knew why the birds had deserted my deck. I hated to think of the carnage that took place in my absence, but that too is part of the deal.  These are wild creatures. Predation is the name of the game. While we humans try to mask that part of existence, it's unavoidable.

Still, we do our best to close our eyes to reality.  And in fact, it's difficult to believe that soaring and swooping and chattering is merely part of the birds' hunting and territory-building activities.  It's easier to enjoy the beauty and the variety. So, we set up feeders and baths in our yards and on our decks, we get out our binoculars, we make pilgrimages to migratory stopping places and sanctuaries, we keep journals, we call ourselves Citizen Scientists.  We are thrilled because they are sharing the world with us, but we put them into a mental zoo.

Actually, I cannot truly call myself a Citizen Scientist. I cannot describe birds by the proper terms, I cannot recognize delicate variations in plumage, I mix up their calls, I squint through the binocular lenses but can't find them in the trees.  Hawks, buzzards, kestrels and eagles are all lumped into one category (raptors) and identified by one behavior (soaring.)   Herons are solitary, elegant, sticklike outlines at the water's edge.  Red-wing blackbirds are obvious by their red-wings, and obligingly pose on the barb-wire fences by the roads.

I have accompanied birder friends to coastal marshes and watched the gulls holding their wings out to dry.  A few springs ago,  I joined Holly and M on Audubon's Mt Tabor walks to learn how to identify birdsong, and I kept asking, what's that?  (It was usually a robin.)  I went to an outdoor zoo in Sydney, Australia:  who can help but recognize a parrot?  I have visited Malheur Wildlife Refuge to check out the high desert birds.  My sister and I go to the Mississippi at Keokuk to watch the bald eagles soaring above the dam, my friend Karen and I took an Audubon-sponsored hike on Sauvie Island to do the same. When I first moved to Oregon, I remember hiking up to Nesika with S:  he had a key to the Trails Club lodge in the Gorge, and we would take wild-cat trips.  He soaked his red kerchief in sugar water and hung it from chinks in the log walls of the cabin.  We sat in the adirondack chairs, a short distance away and waited:  sure enough, a hummer arrived to sip on the makeshift feeder, and I took its picture.

It was blurry.

Eventually I owned my own feeder, but I never did manage to lure the hummingbirds to it.  I didn't actually need to.  The deck was surrounded by fruit trees and bushes with large pink horn-shaped flowers.  Clematis flowed up and over the wall, and Oregon grape grew in the jungle-yard.  Hummers became frequent visitors, and it was not unusual for me to be reading in the hammock and hear a buzzing sound.  I would look up and see the hummer, inches away.  I had always thought they could not sit for long without food, and that they didn't like people, but this one was amazingly gregarious.

Now, I'm in New Mexico.  While I'm missing certain parts of Oregon, I don't feel bird-lonely. The apartment complex is home to doves, some small brown birds that I haven't identified, and hummingbirds.  As I walk to the pool, I wade through the aptly-named charm of hummingbirds:  one of the patios has a feeder set out for them.  The doves coo in the morning and perch on the chain link fence by the basketball court.  The little brown birds settle on the grass.  And the hummingbirds hover over the pool, then zip over to the junipers.  They are ubiquitous, and I love it.  (L actually found a newly hatched one, the size of a finger-nail, and nursed it continuously for a few days before it flew off.  Since they need constant nourishment, it was not an easy thing to do.)

Although the New Mexico state bird is the road runner, I think it should be the hummer.  Apparently, New Mexico is home to 17 species of Hummingbirds, summering here before returning to Mexico for the winter.  As even experienced birders find it difficult to identify the various species, I feel off the hook regarding a Citizen Scientist role.  I'm just enjoying them.  A lot.

Schrodinger's cat

I am still avoiding my phone.  Mostly, it doesn't matter if I wait a day or so to hear the (usually) bad news and respond to it.  So, I wait.  I wait until I'm not exhausted, not knitting, not watching Judge Judy, not reading, not doing dishes.....in a word, I wait until I feel strong enough to handle the person or problem behind the ring.

I'm not happy about this.  I used to pride myself on my self-discipline and reliability.  I Took Care Of Business.  Now, I take care of myself.  While this is not a bad thing in principle, it is not good in practise.  By avoiding my responsibilities, as represented by my phone,  I take care of myself at the expense of my self-respect and other people's trust.

And, it turns out, at the expense of my cat.

It all started with a call to my voice mail last Friday.  I hadn't looked checked it for two days, hadn't picked up my phone for three.  Wednesday I was charging the phone, and Thursday I was just worn out.  I heard the phone ring around 6:30, and I thought, I don't want to talk to anyone and thus they shouldn't want to talk to me.  (Who wants to talk to a grump with little news and less to say?)  However, on Friday I realized I needed to check back in.  While I'm sure D or people at work will keep me posted regarding the next natural disaster or the beginning of World War III, the more personal things will only be covered by my personal connections.

So, as I left work, I pulled out my phone.  It was 6 p.m., New Mexico time, 5 p.m., Portland time.  Since the New Mexico police are militant about catching drivers with cellphones, I sat in the truck, A/C running, radio muted, and started taking notes.  Oh, I missed sister E's call on Wednesday.  She wants to Skype, and so do I.  Darn.  Someone else called and hung up.  Now it's the Thursday call.....the Woodstock vet?!  Huh? The words are slightly garbled, but it sounds like they have my cat.  How could that be?

Yikes, it's after 5 pm on a Friday.  Most businesses will be closed, but probably not a vet.  I offer up a prayer that the Woodstock Vet is of this enlightened crew and make the call.

The receptionist is confused by my call, which should have been my first warning.  Finally she realizes that they called me first, and I am merely returning the favor.  I have no idea what I am calling about, and I hope she will.

She does.  Ah, yes, your cat Simon (ummm, it's Simone), was brought in Thursday and we found your phone number through her chip.  She is very proud of the fact that the chip is doing it's job.  I'm even more confused:  that chip is 7 years old, and I have not paid the upkeep since the first year.  From all I've read about the chip, you have to maintain the service.  Also, there is no reason Simone should be brought in as a stray.  While she has no collar, she is clearly a pampered kitty with a good home.  (Yes, she has managed to wear me out and I no longer try to replace the collars she ditches within 2 hours of receipt.  It's not the expense, it's the annoyance.)

Besides, I just heard from H this last week.  She sent pix of Simone impersonating a cute internet kitty.  Clearly, E and H are taking proper care of her.

So, what happened?  The receptionist does not know, but she is expecting me to come in to retrieve my cat.  I explain that is not going to happen:  I am in New Mexico.  I ask if she can contact the current caretakers, who I believe should be on file with them.  Louie, their pet of 17 years, was a regular visitor.

Hmmm, that does ring a bell, and she'll make a note that they have permission to pick up Simone, but she is not going to call them.  Nor is she going to call the person who kidnapped my cat and brought her in.  She verifies that the cat they have is a tuxedo kitty, and that's all she can do for me, but she informs me cheerfully that they'll be open until 6 and again on Saturday, 8-4.

So, I panic, trying to reach E and H and spare my poor abused kitty another night in prison.  I can't find their number in my phone, because it's D's old phone.  (I had replaced my laundered phone with his phone, and while they changed the phone number, they did not replace the contacts info.  He has a lot of contacts, but I can't find E and H under any permutations of names and nicknames.  Later I discover that the phone converted Hollybeth into Beth, Holly.  Stupid elecrtonics.)

I call D.  He is en route, having picked up sopapillas and green chili stew for our dinner.  I beg him to call E and H, and when I get home I call their home phone.  Neither of us can reach them, and, as a last ditch effort, I leave an e-mail.

H calls me, but again I miss the phone call.  So, she e-mails me at 12:14 am, and I get that message when I wake up.
So E says there was one day this week when she remembers wondering where Simone got to. (Usually if the weather's nice she's in and out, every couple hours.) And right before Simone came to stay with us, E had to persuade a neighbor across the street that Fela the neighbor cat is a local and not lost. So I guess the vet let neighbor lady take Simone away again and quietly release her back here?
That kitty has her secrets, doesn't she. :)
I reply:
I guess the vet released her, if Simone was back in your hands last night. I talked with the vet at 5 pm yesterday, and Simone was still there, so I frantically was trying to reach you. Apparently she had been imprisoned since Thursday, when the first call came (I seem to be ignoring my phone and my email lately.)
I'm confused.
but as long as she's safe, that's all that matters. Thanks!

H adds to my confusion:
No, she was definitely here every morning when I got up; she's very prompt because I give her wet food for breakfast. And there hasn't been an entire evening when I never saw her, either. I am confused too.
What will be really interesting is if you get another call from the vet saying she's still there.
Simone had a nice day rolling in the dirt in the backyard (why, cat, why?) and playing with Elizabeth's sunglasses.

I had plans to call the vet back and ferret out what happened, but my usual inertia kicked in and I dropped the matter.  However, last night E found me on gmail and we had the following chat:
E: Went down to Woodstock Vet today to see if I could sort out what was going on.  The receptionist was as confused as I was. But we all agree that they don't have Simone.
10:52 PM (Although they apparently did at one point?)
10:53 PM In any case, Simone is having a lovely time in the litterbox as we speak. :-/
***********
11:01 PM me: thank for checking up on that. Weird.
11:02 PM E: Yeah!  For a while, we were all, "Do we have a faux!Simone?"
11:05 PM me:...a faux Simone? not possible, she is unique!
E: I was quite nervous that I'd go down to the vet.....and they'd have a petite and graceful tuxedo kitty...who was quite social and liked to sit on shoulders.
11:06 PM At which point, I'd be all, "So who the fuck did we kidnap from refgoddess' house two months ago??"
me: :)
E: H was all, "If they do have another Simone there, you have to call me RIGHT AWAY."
11:07 PM In case, you know, there were alternate reality implications.  Wouldn't want to catastrophically collapse one reality into another by bringing the two Simones into close proximity.
THAT MIGHT END THE WORLD.
11:11 PM me:  So, did the receptionist actually call me? Did I talk with her? I was under the distinct impression that she had S right there: I asked for a verification and everything. but maybe she was just looking at the report.
11:13 PM E: I never talked to the receptionist that talked to you.  The receptionist I talked to was looking at her notes....and her notes seemed to indicate that Simone was there, even though she wasn't. And the receptionist I talked to didn't understand how Simone could have been there, and then just somehow ended up back in our neighborhood again.
So. Dunno.

And that's where we decide to leave the mystery.  It's late, and I need my sleep.  But the next day I look up the "Schrodinger's cat" thought experiment and I try to explain it to D.  He is not interested, but I think quantum physics might have the answer.  Much as I like alternate reality theories, I don't think they are going to explain how Simone was in two places at once, nor how she teleported herself home.  I am convinced it has something to do with the Copenhagen interpretation.