This...
...has become this.
I feel like I should be sleeping without blinds. No control, light in my eyes when I wake up on a mattress on the floor. But I still have blinds and I am taking full advantage.
I don't want to leave this room for reasons of sheer aesthetics, but I also just don't want to leave. Leaving the Krankenhaus so I could move to Germany was hard enough, and then I knew I was coming back to some approximation in a year. I'm excited to have this blank, open, framework-less future to fill, but considering I rarely turn in papers when they're due, I probably won't have a real idea about my life until I'm dead. I guess that's what life is about, right? (I don't think I agree with this statement completely.) As an estimable man* once said, "Being lost is sexy," so that's good for me at least.
Maybe I should use my minute of speaking time at the RC Graduation to discuss this and other such valuable quotations. What, no? Whyever not?
Actually, I agree. But what will I talk about?
*I can cause debates—or full-fledged fights—with this characterization.
I Do Remember This Exists
The current soundtrack for finals is Mamma Mia. The light through my somewhat northwest-facing windows has faded as the sun sets, but I finally documented my beloved bedroom. In Emma's wester-facing room, there are still parallelograms of warm light across her floor and Table Cat.
The point I'm trying to make is that I took some magical photos in her room, but I kept doing so until my battery died, so I can't post them right now. So that's something else for you to look forward to when I finish finals. Right up there with posts about the trip to Montreal back in early March.
Two to three days stand between me and the end of my undergraduate career. It all depends on when I finish this last paper, worth only fifty percent of my Literature of the Turks grade. I was at a translation conference here in Ann Arbor this weekend. That is something else that happened. I want to buy silver sequined high heels. Table Cat is a purebred, the vet told us today.
In case you forgot who Table Cat was, here he is sitting on Caitlin's suitcase, symbolizing our current transitional state—on Saturday, none of us live here anymore. It was taken last night, before his pure blood status was determined by the vet. Table Cat has a misplaced heart, a sure sign of a Russian Blue. (But a perfectly healthy heart, don't worry.) And he is apparently the nicest Russian Blue ever. Excuse me, "unusually nice for his breed." Usually, I guess they're pretty resistant to vets, not like our lovable, compliant Table Cat. Who spends half the day moaning and whining and will only succumb to loving in private, on his own terms. I do not want to meet any other Russian Blues if Table Cat is a nice one. (This is not to say that I don't love Table Cat dearly. He's nice to me most of the time.)
A couple weeks ago, Emma and I added a suffix to Table Cat's name: he is now Table Cat Porphyrogenitos, Table Cat Born-in-the-Purple...that is to say, imperial in the Byzantine sense of the word. That's as imperial as it gets. In light of the recent evidence, I guess we were right about his high standing. Also, his Byzantine identity perhaps explains the frequent battles between Table Cat and Haroun, whose namesake is, after all, Harun al-Rashid, caliph in the golden age of Baghdad. A caliphate, like an empire in the Roman/Byzantine sense of the word, is universal. There is only one caliph, as there is or should only be one emperor (tell that to the Fatimids in Egypt and the Ummayads all the way out in al-Andalus, or the Holy Roman Emperor). Anyway, it causes conflicts to have two universal rulers in one moderately-sized house on Packard. To be fair, though, neither of them know about history.
Emma and I have a Byzantine history exam in two short days. If only this sort of essay would get me an A. I would draw parallels to the cats all day if it would get me an A. I also could have written an essay about the melancholy aspects of Table Cat's life for my German test, but even though I could have connected it to Rilke's poem "Der Panther," which is about a panther who no longer sees the outside world through the bars of his cage and has essentially stopped living, I didn't think that would help my grade. Plus I already wrote a short story about a Table Cat-panther combination for that class.
In summary: finals are horrible, Table Cat has better blood but is also probably healthier than you, and I still exist.
The point I'm trying to make is that I took some magical photos in her room, but I kept doing so until my battery died, so I can't post them right now. So that's something else for you to look forward to when I finish finals. Right up there with posts about the trip to Montreal back in early March.
Two to three days stand between me and the end of my undergraduate career. It all depends on when I finish this last paper, worth only fifty percent of my Literature of the Turks grade. I was at a translation conference here in Ann Arbor this weekend. That is something else that happened. I want to buy silver sequined high heels. Table Cat is a purebred, the vet told us today.
In case you forgot who Table Cat was, here he is sitting on Caitlin's suitcase, symbolizing our current transitional state—on Saturday, none of us live here anymore. It was taken last night, before his pure blood status was determined by the vet. Table Cat has a misplaced heart, a sure sign of a Russian Blue. (But a perfectly healthy heart, don't worry.) And he is apparently the nicest Russian Blue ever. Excuse me, "unusually nice for his breed." Usually, I guess they're pretty resistant to vets, not like our lovable, compliant Table Cat. Who spends half the day moaning and whining and will only succumb to loving in private, on his own terms. I do not want to meet any other Russian Blues if Table Cat is a nice one. (This is not to say that I don't love Table Cat dearly. He's nice to me most of the time.)
A couple weeks ago, Emma and I added a suffix to Table Cat's name: he is now Table Cat Porphyrogenitos, Table Cat Born-in-the-Purple...that is to say, imperial in the Byzantine sense of the word. That's as imperial as it gets. In light of the recent evidence, I guess we were right about his high standing. Also, his Byzantine identity perhaps explains the frequent battles between Table Cat and Haroun, whose namesake is, after all, Harun al-Rashid, caliph in the golden age of Baghdad. A caliphate, like an empire in the Roman/Byzantine sense of the word, is universal. There is only one caliph, as there is or should only be one emperor (tell that to the Fatimids in Egypt and the Ummayads all the way out in al-Andalus, or the Holy Roman Emperor). Anyway, it causes conflicts to have two universal rulers in one moderately-sized house on Packard. To be fair, though, neither of them know about history.
Emma and I have a Byzantine history exam in two short days. If only this sort of essay would get me an A. I would draw parallels to the cats all day if it would get me an A. I also could have written an essay about the melancholy aspects of Table Cat's life for my German test, but even though I could have connected it to Rilke's poem "Der Panther," which is about a panther who no longer sees the outside world through the bars of his cage and has essentially stopped living, I didn't think that would help my grade. Plus I already wrote a short story about a Table Cat-panther combination for that class.
In summary: finals are horrible, Table Cat has better blood but is also probably healthier than you, and I still exist.
Dear Professor
Dear Professor,
I'm not quite done with my paper yet, and this is the reason why:
I'll turn it in as soon as I can. Thank you for your understanding.
Best,
Marisa
The truth of the matter is that the cats are probably not completely to blame, and my professor is so old he doesn't even use email. But he is understanding and doesn't seem to care at all. The AIM conversation Haroun was having is recorded on Hunting for Ghosts here.
On an unrelated note—well, I guess it's one reason I'm not done yet—the lolcat Waste Land is hilarious.
I'm not quite done with my paper yet, and this is the reason why:
I'll turn it in as soon as I can. Thank you for your understanding.
Best,
Marisa
The truth of the matter is that the cats are probably not completely to blame, and my professor is so old he doesn't even use email. But he is understanding and doesn't seem to care at all. The AIM conversation Haroun was having is recorded on Hunting for Ghosts here.
On an unrelated note—well, I guess it's one reason I'm not done yet—the lolcat Waste Land is hilarious.
1. IM IN UR WASTELAND BURYING UR DEADI like that they kept the German—Hofgarten, z.B.
april hates u, makes lilacs, u no can has. (1)
april in ur memoriez, making ur desire.
spring rain in ur dull rootzes.
earth in ur winter, covered in snow
can has potato. PO-TA-TO.
INVISIBLE SUMMER! RAININGZES!
im in ur hofgarden, drinking ur coffeez.
Hobbies
This is not what I should be doing right now. I should be reading that book I have in my backpack, the one that I think should be a reasonable introduction to the history of Byzantine Trebizond (a city on the southern Black Sea coast, which means northern Anatolia, it was a big port city) but by the time I look at the table of contents or get to the end of this sentence, I remember that it's a collection of papers and therefore less comprehensive. Or I could be writing a response to Orhan Pamuk's The White Castle. Or translating. Or...the list goes on! April is trying to live up to its position as the cruellest month, but sorry, T.S. Eliot, I stand by my declaration that November is the worst, with February somewhere in the middle. The temperature curve is way better in April.
Anyway, my dear friend Ali had the foresight to graduate a semester early, and so she has found herself with hours of unoccupied time to fill. She may have a job, and not sleep enough at night, and I'll be the first person to tell you that being sleepy all the time is horrible—but I'd love to have time I wanted, but did not have, to fill. Ali recently texted me that she needed a hobby, but couldn't think of one. I couldn't come up with anything not obvious to tell her, besides jump rope, which isn't a hobby for most people and can't really take up that much time. Maybe if you were doing it with the long jump ropes with a person on each end and the patterns of complicated hopping and stuff. That's too hard.
Instead, here's a list of all the things I can't wait to do when my term papers have all crawled into their graves and my MCard has ceased to open doors for me...literally. Maybe later, when I'm done with all my work, I can think constructively for other people.
1. Read.
Most obvious, most important, most exciting. Well, maybe not most exciting, but reading did essentially define my life from age seven to age fifteen. High school was sort of a drain on my time, as was the novel Ali and I spent six months writing. And all that embarrassing poetry I wrote about passing in the hall and shared glances and all that. Writing got in the way of reading, as did geometry, algebra, calculus, biology, chemistry, French, English, not physics because I hated it and read Virginia Woolf and all sorts of things during the wasted "Anyone have any news?" portions of class that took twenty minutes if I was lucky. Anyway. The fact that I developed an appreciation for Virginia Woolf of all people gives away that I did not, in fact, forsake reading entirely. But living in books ceased to be what I wanted, and I had to study. In Germany, I read a couple German novels and devoured Dorothy Dunnett's Niccoló books, especially during breaks. Other than that, though, the intense longing to read had dissipated. Now it's back, and just in time. I'm increasingly aware of how much there is that I haven't read, and there's a complete lack of obligation coming in...three weeks.
2. Knit.
Even if afterwards, I never knit again—which is probably stretching it–I WILL finish the socks I started in May of 2008. I was on the way to finishing them, having received detailed instructions that I understood from Emma when she was in Slovenia with Maraia and me, but the goddamn Irish security at the goddamn Dublin airport took my goddamn metal knitting needles. Even though they've been allowed on planes again for years. On a side note, this exact time last year minus one day, I was probably in the airport or on the plane to Ireland.
3. Learn to throw a pot well.
That might not work. I've been taught twice. I was worse the second time. (Incidentally, the same was true with calc II.) On the plus side, my mom bought my brother a pottery wheel, so I can practice in the comfort of my own home. Or backyard.
4. Go on walks.
Another thing I miss about home and high school is the long walks I would go on with my friends, the dog, or just me. 'Just me' usually included the dog. But he was up for any distance, as long as he couldn't hear gunshots or firecrackers in the distance. Then it was straight home for him. Anyway, I love walking around my neighborhood and critiquing the houses with friends, or singing to myself as darkness falls and no one is around to hear.
5. Bike.
In a similar vein—wait, is that really something people say? it sounds so gross—I am looking forward to bike rides at home. Bike rides for fun and exercise, not because class starts in five minutes and I didn't leave in time and now I have to pedal pedal pedal up that awful little hill and pant pant pant and my gears don't switch anymore and the back brake is broken and please let's walk tomorrow. I have plans to return to the old seven-mile loop, a good portion of which is biking along Lakeshore Drive. I love the lake. I will miss the awful little hill in Ann Arbor, though. Flying down it on the way home is glorious.
6. You know, I can't remember anymore. I'm going to keep taking pictures, and writing blog posts, and watching films in spite of losing my precious access to the Askwith Media Library. I'm going to travel, at least a little. I'm going to look for jobs. I hate looking for jobs. I'm going to organize my house and become my parents' workhorse and manager. I will strip wallpaper. I will wash walls. I will not be allowed to paint because my father is a perfectionist, but although he doesn't know it yet, we are painting those goddamn mint green rooms. And maybe I'll finish inputting the last wave of revisions to Ali's and my novel. It's only, what, five years later? And putting the photos from my entire childhood and before I was born into photo albums. Scanning my parents' slides of Europe, and the renovations of the Victorian house on Alexandrine, and whatever else is in that huge box of slides. Slides. Who does that? We didn't even have a slide projector until my uncle moved to California and got rid of things he owned, and I've never seen these slides.
P.S. This list is very incomplete, but it's 2 a.m., I still have all that work to do and more. And Ali, I'm aware that most of these things cannot be done while you're at work, but I can't think right now.
Anyway, my dear friend Ali had the foresight to graduate a semester early, and so she has found herself with hours of unoccupied time to fill. She may have a job, and not sleep enough at night, and I'll be the first person to tell you that being sleepy all the time is horrible—but I'd love to have time I wanted, but did not have, to fill. Ali recently texted me that she needed a hobby, but couldn't think of one. I couldn't come up with anything not obvious to tell her, besides jump rope, which isn't a hobby for most people and can't really take up that much time. Maybe if you were doing it with the long jump ropes with a person on each end and the patterns of complicated hopping and stuff. That's too hard.
Instead, here's a list of all the things I can't wait to do when my term papers have all crawled into their graves and my MCard has ceased to open doors for me...literally. Maybe later, when I'm done with all my work, I can think constructively for other people.
1. Read.
Most obvious, most important, most exciting. Well, maybe not most exciting, but reading did essentially define my life from age seven to age fifteen. High school was sort of a drain on my time, as was the novel Ali and I spent six months writing. And all that embarrassing poetry I wrote about passing in the hall and shared glances and all that. Writing got in the way of reading, as did geometry, algebra, calculus, biology, chemistry, French, English, not physics because I hated it and read Virginia Woolf and all sorts of things during the wasted "Anyone have any news?" portions of class that took twenty minutes if I was lucky. Anyway. The fact that I developed an appreciation for Virginia Woolf of all people gives away that I did not, in fact, forsake reading entirely. But living in books ceased to be what I wanted, and I had to study. In Germany, I read a couple German novels and devoured Dorothy Dunnett's Niccoló books, especially during breaks. Other than that, though, the intense longing to read had dissipated. Now it's back, and just in time. I'm increasingly aware of how much there is that I haven't read, and there's a complete lack of obligation coming in...three weeks.
2. Knit.
Even if afterwards, I never knit again—which is probably stretching it–I WILL finish the socks I started in May of 2008. I was on the way to finishing them, having received detailed instructions that I understood from Emma when she was in Slovenia with Maraia and me, but the goddamn Irish security at the goddamn Dublin airport took my goddamn metal knitting needles. Even though they've been allowed on planes again for years. On a side note, this exact time last year minus one day, I was probably in the airport or on the plane to Ireland.
3. Learn to throw a pot well.
That might not work. I've been taught twice. I was worse the second time. (Incidentally, the same was true with calc II.) On the plus side, my mom bought my brother a pottery wheel, so I can practice in the comfort of my own home. Or backyard.
4. Go on walks.
Another thing I miss about home and high school is the long walks I would go on with my friends, the dog, or just me. 'Just me' usually included the dog. But he was up for any distance, as long as he couldn't hear gunshots or firecrackers in the distance. Then it was straight home for him. Anyway, I love walking around my neighborhood and critiquing the houses with friends, or singing to myself as darkness falls and no one is around to hear.
5. Bike.
In a similar vein—wait, is that really something people say? it sounds so gross—I am looking forward to bike rides at home. Bike rides for fun and exercise, not because class starts in five minutes and I didn't leave in time and now I have to pedal pedal pedal up that awful little hill and pant pant pant and my gears don't switch anymore and the back brake is broken and please let's walk tomorrow. I have plans to return to the old seven-mile loop, a good portion of which is biking along Lakeshore Drive. I love the lake. I will miss the awful little hill in Ann Arbor, though. Flying down it on the way home is glorious.
6. You know, I can't remember anymore. I'm going to keep taking pictures, and writing blog posts, and watching films in spite of losing my precious access to the Askwith Media Library. I'm going to travel, at least a little. I'm going to look for jobs. I hate looking for jobs. I'm going to organize my house and become my parents' workhorse and manager. I will strip wallpaper. I will wash walls. I will not be allowed to paint because my father is a perfectionist, but although he doesn't know it yet, we are painting those goddamn mint green rooms. And maybe I'll finish inputting the last wave of revisions to Ali's and my novel. It's only, what, five years later? And putting the photos from my entire childhood and before I was born into photo albums. Scanning my parents' slides of Europe, and the renovations of the Victorian house on Alexandrine, and whatever else is in that huge box of slides. Slides. Who does that? We didn't even have a slide projector until my uncle moved to California and got rid of things he owned, and I've never seen these slides.
P.S. This list is very incomplete, but it's 2 a.m., I still have all that work to do and more. And Ali, I'm aware that most of these things cannot be done while you're at work, but I can't think right now.
Fine Days
We read this poem for my Literature of the Turks class a few weeks ago, along with many more by Orhan Veli, who is recognized as a central figure in Turkish modern poetry. It's a complete break from the earlier poetry we read along with it, which, although also modern, looks back to classical Ottoman divan poetry and is infused with a sense of nostalgia and loss. Unlike the other poets we read for that day, Orhan Veli is irreverent, sarcastic, and more laid-back.
Anyway, today was even more beautiful. Between classes, I had a pleasant lunch on the lawn with a friend from high school, then headed to Turkish. Not many people seem to care about the literature of the Turks, as I mentioned before—there are only eight students in the class. Today, four had emailed saying they couldn't make it, so our kind professor treated the three of us who were there (another just failed to show up) to coffee (hot chocolate for me) at Espresso Royale. It definitely beat the basement of the MLB. Today we were discussing the novella To Crush the Serpent by Yaşar Kemal, which is about the pressure placed on a boy by the rural society in which he lives to kill his mother—her lover killed his father, and his father's family demands vengeance on the woman, not just the murderer. So the boy grows up in this horrible environment, with his grandmother telling him he must kill his mother or else his father's ghost will never rest. It's really compelling, and seems to be a good translation from the English side of things. I don't speak Turkish.
But this post is about poetry, and I think Orhan Veli is fun, so I'm going to post a few more poems, all from the same book and also translated by Bernard Lewis.
Nope, wait, not ending there. Some girl just walked by, and we heard her say, "No, don't jump! You have so much to live for!" The cats are on the roof again. It was probably directed at Table Cat.
*I'm pretty sure this translation is found in Kemal Silay's An Anthology of Turkish Literature (Indiana University Press, 1994), which is out of print, but available used on Amazon, although the publication info is different.
Fine DaysThe day we discussed Orhan Veli's poetry was a beautiful, early spring day. One of my fellow students walked into class and brought this poem up immediately. "I know exactly what kind of day he's talking about," he said. "Like today. 'On this kind of day I forgot...' to write my response paper." And we laughed. Then it turned out that he had remembered in time to write it, but then forgot to print it out.
By Orhan Veli (Kanık), translated by Bernard Lewis*
These fine days have been my ruin.
On this kind of day I resigned
My job in "Pious Foundations"
On this kind of day I started to smoke
On this kind of day I fell in love
On this kind of day I forgot
To bring home bread and salt
On this kind of day I had a relapse
Into my versifying disease.
These fine days have been my ruin.
Anyway, today was even more beautiful. Between classes, I had a pleasant lunch on the lawn with a friend from high school, then headed to Turkish. Not many people seem to care about the literature of the Turks, as I mentioned before—there are only eight students in the class. Today, four had emailed saying they couldn't make it, so our kind professor treated the three of us who were there (another just failed to show up) to coffee (hot chocolate for me) at Espresso Royale. It definitely beat the basement of the MLB. Today we were discussing the novella To Crush the Serpent by Yaşar Kemal, which is about the pressure placed on a boy by the rural society in which he lives to kill his mother—her lover killed his father, and his father's family demands vengeance on the woman, not just the murderer. So the boy grows up in this horrible environment, with his grandmother telling him he must kill his mother or else his father's ghost will never rest. It's really compelling, and seems to be a good translation from the English side of things. I don't speak Turkish.
But this post is about poetry, and I think Orhan Veli is fun, so I'm going to post a few more poems, all from the same book and also translated by Bernard Lewis.
For the Fatherland
What have we not done for this our fatherland!Cats can't burn things! They're cats! What! Hilarious. Although John pointed out to me that a cow supposedly burned down Chicago. You know the song. "The cow kicked it over/she picked it up and said/there'll be a hot time in this old town tonight. Fire fire fire!" On that note, I'm going to go sit in what's left of the sun. Oh, and the various parts for the song listed here are pretty funny.
Some of us have died;
Some of us have made speeches.
Tail-Song
We can't come together, our ways are different
You're a butcher's cat, I'm an alley cat
Your food comes in a tin bowl
Mine is in the lion's mouth
You dream of love, I of a bone.
But your way isn't easy either, brother
It's no easy job
To lick the man's hand every damn day.
Reply
—from the butcher's cat to the alley cat—
You speak of hunger
That means you are a communist
That means you burned down all those buildings
The ones in Istanbul
The ones in Ankara.
What a swine you are!
Nope, wait, not ending there. Some girl just walked by, and we heard her say, "No, don't jump! You have so much to live for!" The cats are on the roof again. It was probably directed at Table Cat.
*I'm pretty sure this translation is found in Kemal Silay's An Anthology of Turkish Literature (Indiana University Press, 1994), which is out of print, but available used on Amazon, although the publication info is different.
Spring Living and All Its Perils
How did we end up here? Well, the cats, just like every other person in Ann Arbor and the northern hemisphere, noticed that it was getting warmer out, or at least that there was a lot more going on outside.
Table Cat took to sitting on our microwave platform (IKEA table, but whatever) on the counter, so he could look out the back door's window if a human would be so kind as to open the curtain for him.
And then he started to explore above the cabinets, which I think was disappointing for him, because it didn't take too long for him to head back down.
Last week was immeasurably lovely. The light was so bright, so complete, and you could smell that it was spring.
It's funny how every time spring comes, I feel like it's completely new, even as memories of previous springs well up in my mind. The light step of feet in canvas shoes brought back April walks to the Arb at the end of sophomore year, and the exhilaration of biking down the street with no backpack and no jacket brought back living in the Krankenhaus. Even being stuck in the Fishbowl scanning notes wasn't so bad when I looked up and remembered the natural lighting.
I spent several pleasant afternoons on the front porch, eating my late lunch and reading modern Turkish poetry in the afternoon sun.
Emma, and then Caitlin and I, took to the roof above the porch in the goldy evenings. Well, everyone pretty much took to the roof.
Only Table Cat was allowed to roam free at first, since he has lots of experience with running away and always coming back.
I learned Haroun was allowed loose when both cats came up to the bathroom window on the side of the house and meowed to be let in. Which is only possible from the front, but sometimes they forget how to get back inside. They love exploring the roof and sniffing at the edges, wishing they could experience the real world on the ground. But they happily scamper in the other direction, too.
The worst part was yesterday evening. Haroun was on the couch, Emma and I were watching Say Anything, and we looked over to the front window to see Table Cat watching us. From the porch. Oops. No photo of that, though. Hopefully Haroun won't learn to jump off the roof. He's just a baby.
In other roof-related news, we were sitting on the roof on Friday night talking, when suddenly something slid down down down the shingles to the gutter. It sounded like a phone. It was Emma's phone. Emma was barely too short to reach it when standing on the porch ledge, and no one we knew who was tall was available to get it out. We knew it was supposed to rain-snow that night, and this was the last thing Emma needed to tell her mom. "You know, you just don't want to know what happened to my phone this time," she would have to say. In the end, Caitlin yelled out to a tall guy walking by our house, "Hey, man! Could you help us? Our phone is in the gutter! We have cookies!" Thank goodness Emma had made cookies, and thank goodness we live on a busy street this year. So there's another peril of the roof.
And then he started to explore above the cabinets, which I think was disappointing for him, because it didn't take too long for him to head back down.
Last week was immeasurably lovely. The light was so bright, so complete, and you could smell that it was spring.
It's funny how every time spring comes, I feel like it's completely new, even as memories of previous springs well up in my mind. The light step of feet in canvas shoes brought back April walks to the Arb at the end of sophomore year, and the exhilaration of biking down the street with no backpack and no jacket brought back living in the Krankenhaus. Even being stuck in the Fishbowl scanning notes wasn't so bad when I looked up and remembered the natural lighting.
I spent several pleasant afternoons on the front porch, eating my late lunch and reading modern Turkish poetry in the afternoon sun.
Emma, and then Caitlin and I, took to the roof above the porch in the goldy evenings. Well, everyone pretty much took to the roof.
Only Table Cat was allowed to roam free at first, since he has lots of experience with running away and always coming back.
I learned Haroun was allowed loose when both cats came up to the bathroom window on the side of the house and meowed to be let in. Which is only possible from the front, but sometimes they forget how to get back inside. They love exploring the roof and sniffing at the edges, wishing they could experience the real world on the ground. But they happily scamper in the other direction, too.
The worst part was yesterday evening. Haroun was on the couch, Emma and I were watching Say Anything, and we looked over to the front window to see Table Cat watching us. From the porch. Oops. No photo of that, though. Hopefully Haroun won't learn to jump off the roof. He's just a baby.
In other roof-related news, we were sitting on the roof on Friday night talking, when suddenly something slid down down down the shingles to the gutter. It sounded like a phone. It was Emma's phone. Emma was barely too short to reach it when standing on the porch ledge, and no one we knew who was tall was available to get it out. We knew it was supposed to rain-snow that night, and this was the last thing Emma needed to tell her mom. "You know, you just don't want to know what happened to my phone this time," she would have to say. In the end, Caitlin yelled out to a tall guy walking by our house, "Hey, man! Could you help us? Our phone is in the gutter! We have cookies!" Thank goodness Emma had made cookies, and thank goodness we live on a busy street this year. So there's another peril of the roof.
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