The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Like Schroedinger's Cat. Only older, and more solid. I'm journaling (it's a verb now) in between cleaning the bathrooms and vacuuming the rug, as well as overusing the dangling -ing. The title is either a reference to my birthday, or to my cat, Bast, who is 77 in cat years and needs twenty-four hours of sleep a day, sometimes a few more, and who currently also needs her remaining kitty teeth brushed. Anyone want to tackle that?

I share a birthday with my father, may his memory be for a curse. This leads, every year, to my birthday being a day I'd rather edit off the calendar, but besides that, it always makes me think about where I came from, and how far I am from that place now. If I was a poet, I'd write poetry about it, or something. I always fudge the date of the occasion when entering the data somewhere that does not involve the Federal government, but....
Well. My remaining family celebrates my birthday the day after, if at all. My maternal grandparents sent my birthday-money in a Purim card; my mother gave me a DVD ('Chicago') two weeks ago; my birthday gift to myself is a day off work, viciously fought for (two other people are on vacation, including Simon, and he had wanted the Mouth of Simon to be there every day he wasn't.) ...on the day after, the 26th. 
But for what it's worth, Chana Mirim bat Reuven was born the 25th March 1981, spelling mistake and all,  and I even think I remember her, sometimes.

Sonya gave me a challenge, writing-wise; and it is a hard one, but I'm going to sit down to it -- even though the book I'm reading is stellar -- as soon as I put away the Clorox Wipes and the Scrubby Bubbles and the Bowl Duck.