It IS all about me.

The San Antonio Rock-n-Roll half marathon was Sunday, and to my joy a friend announced that she was pregnant and dropped from the full to the half marathon. I'm absolutely happy for her and her husband and that lucky baby, but I'm pretty sure the whole thing is about me and my need for a running partner. A week before the race I realized that I didn't know anyone running anything like my pace and imagined myself jogging alone amongst the crowd, lonely tears pouring down my face as I passed the Fat Elvises rocking-and-rolling at the mile markers. I'm pretty sure there's a French silent film about that.

So I got me a buddy and what a buddy she was - when my optimistic estimated pace ended up being a big fat lie she didn't complain, and when I accidentally body checked a girl at the finish line she didn't judge me. That girl STOPPED JUST BEFORE THE FINISH LINE and totally deserved to be slammed by my shoulder - I couldn't get around her in time.

I'm still East Coast enough to laugh a little and know that she deserved it - I'll bet she cost me the :48 in my 2:10:47 time! Who stops before the finish line? Why does that random girl hate me so much? In fact, she should just be thankful I didn't get even and shove her again like a good East Coast girl - I guess Texas has been good for me. And luckily for her I'm not Texan enough to shoot her.

Like gum on my shoe

Last week I saw a bunch of friends I hadn't talked to in a while, and they asked about my cats. And I had to admit that I only have one cat, and the reason I haven't told the end of the Tragic Tale of Oops is that I'm embarrassed. I'm embarrassed that I have a biting, scratching, pain in the butt cat living in my house, and he started attacking people when he saw Oops outside. Like, all four sets of claws and a full white set of teeth, sunk into the leg of the person nearest the door when he saw Oops making friends outside. Gigolo had a bad case of alpha cat jealousy, and I started to realize that maybe when we first brought him inside, all injured and meow-y, it wasn't because he was being bullied. It was because he was being a bully and getting scratched up when other cats defended themselves.

Damn cat.

And Oops was all sweet and cuddly and never scratched or bit a single person, oh, and it gets better, OOPS WAS HURT. She had a bite mark on her tail that wasn't healing. But I couldn't bring her inside because Gigolo would eat her up. About this time my dad, with his engineering and MBA wisdom, pointed out that though I feel invested in Gigolo with all his vet visits and treats and toys, he's a sunk cost. I won't get my money back, and it may be time to cut my losses and get a Good Cat. And oh, I was tempted. At Ed's birthday party Gigolo pulled that teeth and claws move on a guest, who was fortunately wearing jeans, and Gigolo will never know how close he came to being chucked out the back door.

And the reason he wasn't? Because I CAN'T GET RID OF HIM. I'm positive that he'd just walk right back in the house, or sit on the porch and meow and meow, and fight other cats, until we let him back inside. Like he did in January. Like he does if I lock him in the other room after he does something terrible. I realized that I'm completely stuck with this black-and-white menace, and it would be cruel to Oops to bring her into Gigolo's territory.

But don't feel too bad for Oops yet, she's met the kitty equivalent of Santa Claus. I hope this is a smug look on her face:

In case you forgot...

...I live in Texas.

So last Saturday my friend and I were at the old Lone Star Brewery for the Indie Bash, superfun. And at one point the singer told a story. About making a music video. There's a line where the song says "I pulled a gun and shot a man" and the video director said, "so here you'll pull your gun."

And the singer said, "okay, where's the gun?"

"Didn't you bring yours?"

"No, I was flying."

"Oh. We assumed you'd have your gun."

"Sorry, all I have is my electric shaver."

So the singer was telling a funny story about how he "pulled a shaver and shot a man, " but I was caught on the assumption that he'd be packing. How many people were armed at that festival? How close did I come to getting "shaved" by the guy I stole the free beer coozy from?

And most importantly, does my pepper spray count as packing? I want to be Texan too!

Hot blooded

I didn't really notice it wasn't summer anymore until our anniversary came around. Ed and I purposely got married in October so we'd have cool weather and fall foliage. So Tuesday we went out to dinner to celebrate two years, and Wednesday it was 91 degrees. Hot, yes, but nothing special - this past summer San Antonio had more days above 100 degrees than any summer in recorded history. The previous record was 36 days; 2009 had 59. It seemed to me that the average temperature was about 107. I had to run before the sun came up, or literally be sick the entire rest of the day, no matter how much water I carried in my cool new water belt. Yeehaw, bitches.

But fall has officially come, and we shouldn't have any more 90 degree days. And I don't have to get up before the sun. So this morning, when I got out about 7:45am, almost two hours after my summertime deadline for setting out, I was happy. And then I was cold, shivering cold, and ran faster to warm myself up. After a few minutes it wasn't unbearably, brutally cold, but I wished I'd worn long pants. I spent most of my run trying to think where I'd stashed all my winter clothes, since I'd need to change out my wardrobe in the next couple of days. I have a Nike stocking cap somewhere, I'd better find it before the half marathon in November. And my scarf. I'm gonna need that scarf.

To be fair, I got back a couple of hours ago, but according to weather.com it's 65 degrees in San Antonio right now. It's supposed to get up to 77 and sunny. I hope I can find my mittens!

And now for something completely different

An article not about a cat? I'm going to ruin my rep as a crazy cat lady in training, but the other thing I've been training for is the Rock and Roll half marathon, November 15. And because everyone I know who's done a marathon has ended up in physical therapy, and because I have occasional knee pain myself, I decided to pay to join a training program. They meet every Sunday morning and have run coaches and water stops and I figured it'd be a great way to meet new people in San Antonio.

I should say, they meet every Saturday night. Because if you're not there by 5:55am, which to me is still the middle of the night, you get left. That first sneaker hits the curb at 6am sharp, be there or...be Katie.

Because I found that getting up at 5:15 on Sunday mornings is IMPOSSIBLE. I went for a few weeks, then something clicked in my brain that made me completely unable to participate. For example, one Sunday morning I woke up, put on my gear, got in the car, got on the interstate, turned around, came home, took off my gear, and got back in bed. I barely remember doing it. Another time I got up, sat down in the living room to tie my shoes, and went back to sleep on the couch. It's a month until the run, and I've trained with the group probably half a dozen times.

My knee hurts.

Normal names

Ed and I were in the kitchen, watching Oops chowing down on the back porch. I said, "so, we're going to adopt her?" and Ed said, "yes, but her name is not Oops. We need another name."

I shrugged, then had to adjust my sequins; I was dolled up in a cocktail dress and dark lipstick for the opera. Since we were in the kitchen and this was an important conversation, I decided to boost myself up onto the counter, where I usually sit when we're both in the kitchen. Ed watched me jump, realize I was going to wrinkle my lace, abort my jump and throw myself back onto the floor with a graceful THUD SKID "Crap! Stupid shoes!"

He continued, "We need a name that goes with Gigolo. What's the name of the prostitute in La Traviata?" Ed and I went to La Traviata at the Kennedy Center once, which was why he was still in his pajamas half an hour before Madama Butterfly. He's paid his dues to Art.

"She's a courtesan, not a prostitute. Get some culture, dude."

"Same same. What's her name?" He turned to the computer (yes, we have a computer in the kitchen, have you met Ed?) and learned that La Traviata tells the story of the courtesan Violetta Valery, and Violet the cat was christened. Though I still call her Oops.

First things last

Oops, unlike Gigolo when I first started feeding him, doesn't live in our yard. Around dusk most nights she'll show up meowing for food, but during the day, no amount of "here kitty" and shaking her food bowl will make her come. I haven't completely decided whether to bring her in the house, but there are so many unwanted cats in this neighborhood that I'm starting to feel irresponsible for feeding an un-fixed stray. I need to get her fixed before she gets pregnant and there are even more starving kittens.

So tonight when she arrived for her dusk feeding, I put her bowl down. Then I ran to the garage and put together a litter box and a water bowl. Then I took her food bowl away and carried it into the garage. And Oops, poor, trusting Oops, followed me into the garage. I pushed the garage door button. She ran towards the street until I stopped the garage door and coaxed her back. This time when I started the door, I grabbed her and held on. She squirmed and struggled, but didn't bite or claw, and when the door was almost closed I let her go. She ran at that door so hard it started opening again. I pushed her down again and finished shutting the door. I let her go when the door was closed and she took off, somewhere in the bikes and picnic gear and tools in the garage. Goodness knows where she got to, I looked for a while but didn't find her again. I let myself out through the side door.

THEN, in a bit of brilliant timing, I came inside and looked online. The San Antonio free spay and neuter program is closed Mondays. You need an appointment anyways, so I've locked her in the garage for the indefinite future. I'm a terrible person. A cat napper. And in half an hour I'm taking her food away, just in case our vet has an appointment for surgery tomorrow. I've put her in kitty Sing-Sing.