Prisoner in my own home.

Friends are scratching their heads back east; everyone who's seen me leave book club early because the hostess has a cat or two is wondering what's magically changed, or if the truth is that I just didn't like book club and was making excuses by saying I was allergic.

For the record, I loved my book club.

I guess I thought that since Gigolo is such a good, sweet cat who desperately needed a home before he was fricasseed and eaten by whatever jerk of a cat was mutilating him at night, nature would give me a pass. To be on the safe side, I made an appointment yesterday with an allergist, who gave me the first available appointment: March 6. But it was okay, and I spent all day yesterday with Gigolo on my lap purring.

And this morning woke up with my eyes stuck shut, sneezing and having an asthma attack.

We've already been keeping the bedroom door closed, but Gigolo otherwise has the run of the house, and I don't feel good at this point about confining him to one room, especially since I like the litter box and food where they are, hidden in a hallway. We can't exactly lock him in that hallway, so instead I've locked myself away and let him keep running. It's a good thing I don't have kids or they'd be spoiled terrors.

When we moved in this house, Ed and I decided to make the guest room a reading room for me, sort of a partner to the office space he's claimed. I hadn't bothered to do much with the room, but it does have doors that close in Gigolo's face and keep him out, so I've made myself a nest. Forget the neutral walls and the tone of the rest of the house, this girl likes COLORS. I don't care if they don't match the grey/green trim.

Though I am sad that I can't get at my Sex and the City DVDs from this room. Stupid cat. What's the good of being home if I can't watch TV all day?