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Folks, meet Dany and Smokey. They’re two strays that The Husband feeds regularly, and they’re adorable.

Dany (short for Daenerys, naturally) is a rather small female. What she lacks in size, however, she more than makes up for in volume because man, can she meow! She’s also the most affectionate little thing. She’s actually more interested in cuddles than food, most of the time. She’s delightful. Even Lord Cornelius, snooty cat that he is, tolerates her sometimes.

Smokey, we think, is one of Dany’s babies. He’s teeny (just about the size of The Husband’s hand), but rather precocious. Lord Cornelius, ever the wimp, is terrified of him. Never mind that he’s only about a quarter of Cornelius’s size.

We want to adopt these two so badly, except that we have plans for a big move all the way across the world sometime soon, and there’s no way we’re leaving any member of our little family behind. The process of taking the little lordling alone is already daunting enough; how much more for three cats in pet crates? That’s one gigantic logistical problem, if I ever saw any.

So here we are, trying not to get too attached. It is, of course, a losing battle.

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While most people take their spending habits or career goals or even clothing choices into perspective, I think about how much my travel preferences have evolved from, say, five years ago.

When I was younger, I was always about the beach. I couldn’t be parted from the water too long. I was all snorkeling and tan lines and a perpetually sandy bottom.

These days, however, I don’t hanker for the beach so much anymore. In fact, I hardly ever miss it. These days, I’m all about cities. I now find walking around strange streets a lot more pleasurable than swimming with fishes. And of course, there’s history. These days, nothing makes me happier than stumbling upon a place with a history I know by heart. Like Rome. Rome, to me, was sheer ecstasy. Not even the euphoria of swimming with whale sharks for the first time came close to that.

Rome_1173

In my, umm, youth (uh huh), I fancied myself a budget traveler. I was no stranger to dingy hostels and miserable little hovels whose owners tried to pass off as ‘guesthouses’.

Now that I’m older and more solvent, however, I find myself more willing to spend on a bit of comfort. Although I still balk at the thought of expensive hotels, I don’t go straight to the cheapest ones anymore, either. I’m at a place in my life where a nice bed and a decent bathroom are non-negotiable, and I like it.

There are still more differences to my travel style that I wrote about, like how I now prefer wheelie bags to north face backpacks and how I’m now more inclined to spend on good food, etc., etc.. You can read about those HERE because I’m trying to keep posts on this ‘ere blog short and sweet. Just because.

This cold fish.

I went to Europe in the dead of winter – one of the worst winters in recent years, as a matter of fact. People thought I was crazy, considering that I’ve never been anywhere truly cold before. But you know what? I was pretty damned sure that I was going to love it. And I did.

On my second day in Amsterdam, it snowed. And it wasn’t just the little sprinkling as was originally predicted, too. It came down in flurries and torrents while Kitty and I were walking around the central part of the city. I walked around, trying to catch snowflakes in my tongue and giggling madly at every turn. People within earshot cheered for me when they heard it was my first time to see the white stuff. To me, the world was at its most beautiful at that very moment. I found myself believing in magic again, and in beauty, and in grace. I have never felt so blessed.

Of course, the snow eventually stopped falling and all that was left was the cold. But long after the snow turned to ugly grey slush, I still found myself in love with it all. Sure, there were times when my fingers and toes hurt so much that I was pretty sure I’ve killed them, and I was often so sure that my nose would run off without me. But funnily enough, I never blamed the cold. Never could I bring myself to hate it, nor could I stop myself from loving it. It was then that I knew that I was made for this. I was made for the cold.

As I write this, I am sprawled under the air-conditioning with its coolant pump working overtime. I am hot and sweaty and very much pissed off at the world and this infernal summer. It dawned on me that I’ve been feeling pretty much the same way almost my entire life. I hate the heat, I’ve always hated the heat, and I suspect I always will. And now that I have felt what it was like to be deliciously cold on the other side of the world, I now know with all my heart that I don’t belong here anymore. And it just makes me so goddamned angry that I am still here, boiling and simmering in my own sweat and a myriad of lost dreams.

I don’t want to be here anymore. I shouldn’t even have to be here anymore. As I write this, it’s a lovely 10°C in rainy Paris. And I know exactly where I’d rather be.

Welcome to my exciting life.

I want to blog, I really do. But if all I’m going to end up with are sniveling drafts bemoaning the lack of excitement in my life, I figured I’d better keep those to myself. It’s not like nothing is happening in these ‘ere parts. It’s mostly that they’re not exactly the things that I want to happen.

If you want to know how bad it is, hear this: the most exciting thing that has happened to me in the past week or so is The Avengers. Because I was able to ogle my next husband Tom Hiddleston (Loki) in all his glory not once, but twice in 4 days. In fact, it’s so exciting that I’m going to go see it again tomorrow. Whoop-dee-doo.

If this guy tells me to ‘kneel’, I’m down there in, like, 2 seconds. I don’t see what the rest of the human race is complaining about.

Other events that are of equal import include my almost-daily run-in with the screaming neighborhood kids (in which I yell my head of, threatening circumcision whenever they get too close to my bedroom window) and poking fun at another neighbor’s talentless son as he and the guitar-from-hell butcher everything from The Eagles to Nicki Fuckin’ Minaj.

Christ, I miss being a nomad. I’m starting to think that I’m never going to be truly happy unless I’m living out of a suitcase. Or maybe I just need to move. Or volunteer as Loki’s all-around bitch. Where do I sign up?

I’m on Instagram!

So today, I’ve making an effort to blog again. Do I miss blogging? I’m not entirely sure. It’s not like I’ve taken my life offline entirely. If anything, I’m even more active online now than I was, say, a year ago.

I blame social media. In fact, I’m taking inventory of my arsenal of social media accounts right now, and I’m ashamed to say that I have reached alarming hipster levels. You name it, I probably have it.

They’re just making it so easy. On average, I can tweet in about 30 seconds flat. On Instagram, I can take pseudo-artsy photos of everything from my cat to, I don’t know, medical carts; add a quippy line or two; et voila! People know what I’m thinking. Now, compare that to blogging. I’m a ridiculously slow writer (these days), and it’ll probably take me an hour or so to craft a semi-decent blogpost. And with me constantly drowning in work, I hardly ever have the luxury of time to hunker down and blog.

I don’t want to stop blogging, though. Or more accurately, I don’t want to stop writing. So I’ll keep trying to, whenever I do have enough moments to spare, such as now.

And in between those moments, there’s always Instagram. So follow me (username: irisgodd3ss) for a shitload of cat photos (and a few cakes, if you’re lucky).

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