Internet, this is Boo, our new cat. Boo, this is the internet. “Mew!”

The name Boo started as kind of a joke. Apparently the previous owner’s child was fond of calling the cat “Boo” (à la Monsters, Inc.—you don’t want to know what the cat’s real name was) and, frankly, the name just fit the cat. After all, by our tally, she’s jumped out and scared Kelly at least six times and myself three. This is only our fourth day with the cat.

She’s actually a well-tempered cat. She doesn’t act like evil incarnate like most cats I’ve experienced. All she wants is frequent petting and she has the most pitiful mew you’ve ever heard to indicate that she would very much like it if you could expend the tiniest bit of energy to please, please, PLEASE come over and pet me for just a little bit.

Boo, like all cats, acts very independent, but can’t stand to be by herself. Even when she uses the litter box, she really, really, REALLY wants you to help her into the bathroom and be there so she doesn’t have to go by herself. This morning, she finally learned that it’s okay to poop by yourself, and this was such an accomplishment, that I actually sent Kelly the following e-mail this morning:

How are you doing today?

I saw the cat poop on her own this morning.

This is the oddest e-mail I think I’ve ever sent.

Kelly’s mother insists that this qualifies me for parenthood. I guess we’ll see someday.

And since I’ve finally broken pretty much the last blogging taboo (cat pictures), I’ll also mention that I plan to have some leftover Williams Chicken for lunch today and it will likely be very tasty.

[Scene: We have just finished watching Children of Men and I turn on the TV and the Suns-Spurs Game 6 is already on. She has still not completely adjusted to life with a sports geek and, thus, emphatically groans her disapproval at this choice of television programming.]

KC: OooohhhhHHHH!!!! I don’t waaaaaannnna watch more sports!
RB: But it’s game 6! I have to watch this!
KC: [Like a four-year-old just told that she can't have chocolate cake for breakfast.] Sports makes my teef hurt!

I’m sitting on the grass watching what is probably my favorite band of all time, eating some food from one of my favorite restaurants of all time (and a 20 oz. bottle of Coke, my beverage of choice) with a beautiful woman that I love by my side and I think to myself, “Man, it really doesn’t get any better than this.”

All the bad things just kind of melt away: the financial problems, the struggle to procure an automobile, the very difficult work, our various illnesses and so on. Even though we were surrounded by tens of thousands of people, it was just us in that moment.

And you cannot ask for more than that.

My fiancée is an excellent cook. This is usually the part where (when she reads this), she’ll smile and blush in the way that only I can make her do, averting eye contact and quietly thanking me for the compliment. (I know I’ve hit on something good with her because she rapidly goes from her normal semi-gregarious nature to being very quiet and bashful. Everyone should be so lucky to have that kind of effect on your significant other from time to time.)

But she is a superior cook. And it’s not that she’s perhaps the most skilled or learned chef out there, but she knows exactly what I like (meat, meat, meat) and is able to concoct all sorts of things that she knows I’ll love (and she’s always right).

For example, last night she cooked stromboli and it about knocked my socks off. You know how you get sometimes when you eat something so incredibly delicious and you are completely full, but you really, really, REALLY want to eat some more because it just tasted sooooooo good? Yeah, that was Kelly’s stromboli. I was reminded of this fact when I ate the last one for lunch today. Superb!

So, I don’t really have a point here other than to (hopefully) brighten up my fiancée’s day or implore anyone else who might be reading to go visit her blog occasionally because sometimes she blogs the recipes she comes up with.

I did something maniacally stupid this weekend. *sigh* I agreed to let Kelly have a cat.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I hate cats. Whereas dogs will love you forever as long as you play with them and feed them occasionally, you can pamper a cat and it would still claw out your small intestines and use them as a play toy if it had the opportunity…and not feel the SLIGHTEST…BIT…GUILTY. And yet this is an acceptable behavior pattern in cats.

We had to negotiate a complex agreement in terms of responsibilities and conditions to arrive at this agreement. These terms and conditions are outlined below:

Also, there is one last issue and that is the name. Kelly has also ceded that responsibility to me. I have selected the name “Dis,” the city within the lowest circles of hell (and an alternate name for Lucifer himself), from Dante’s The Divine Comedy.

That seems appropriate to me. Although, I imagine that most of the time I will probably just be calling it “cat,” or, when it is in trouble for doing something stupid, “Kelly’s cat.”

I’m wondering if the Dallas sports franchises are cursed. FrontBurner has a quick rundown of the past year for us local yokels. I hereby dub our local woes as “The Parade Curse.” (Local city officials cursed us by planning an NBA Championship parade when the Mavs were only up 2-0. The Heat proceeded to win the next four games.)

The Rangers seem especially bad, continuing to unimpress at every given opportunity. They’ve lost five straight, 8 of 10, and are caught in a freefall to the bottom of not just the American League, but all of Major League Baseball. The Rangers currently sit third from the bottom in the standings, with only the historically-woeful Kansas City Royals and Washington Nationals preventing us from being last outright. The Baseball Prospectus Hit List power rankings has us slotted even worse–29th out of 30–just a shade above the Nationals (so does ESPN). They might as well call this team “Ian, Sammy and Friends” for all the good anyone else is doing on the team.

But at least they aren’t getting our hopes up by making it to the playoffs only to be bounced in the first round/game like the other franchises in this town. At the current rate, all hope will be dashed long before the All-Star Break.

*sigh*

The Cowboys’ first preseason game is in 96 days. That’s a long way away.

Well, that was fun.

Spring is always a fun time in Texas. You just never know when you’re going to get bowled over by an impudent weather pattern. And you always wonder if maybe this time it will feature a tornado or hailstorm. Usually, everything is fine, but most people who’ve lived here for any stretch of time has a bad weather story to tell, or at least knows somebody who has a story to tell. (Mine is of crouching in the tornado drill position in high school some twelve or thirteen years ago wondering whether or not there was an actual tornado outside that corresponded to the tornado sirens we were hearing. Nothing ever touched down.)

So, anyway, 300,000 without power because of this storm and it’s still out for most of them. Ours went out at around 8:00 last night (midway through The Departed…grrrr…) and finally came back at around 4:30 this morning. I love when that happens. You’ve spent hours trying to get to sleep (after spending hours resigning yourself to not getting power back any time soon) and then the power finally comes on, resurrecting everything that you left on before you went to bed.

Ah well. I hear lots of chainsaw and hammering sounds from my apartment from people working to repair things from last night. More rain predicted today.