On Monday night, my cat headed outside right after dinner, as usual.

On a normal night, he would have come home and found himself in my room, pulled by his desire to suck on my ear, sleep on my face, and wrap himself in my hair.

But then he didn’t come home.

For days.

While my son was out looking for him on Halloween, he got a call from someone just under two miles away. And then Thoth was home.

We don’t know everything about his journey, though we’re sure he said hi to as many people along the way as he could. His friendliness was probably mistaken for confidence–confidence in his ability to get himself back home after wandering too far astray.

Here’s what we do know.

He was sighted in a close neighbor’s yard, inspecting her chickens.

He was so loving at a house a mile away that they wrote down all the information on his collar in case he came back looking lost.

The kids at the last house, 8 and 9, have a dog. But now, after spending time with Thoth, they want a cat.

One neighbor took a picture of him, peering over her fence. It’s a look we recognize.

We’ve ordered a tracker, since he really misses being outside. And since a bunch of close neighbors will ask after him if he spends too much time inside.

So maybe the next trip won’t be so mysterious.

A few days ago, someone really hurt my feelings, my physical self-confidence.

Only a few days before, I’d decided I was going to try to not let that happen.

When I was leaving East Lansing, I was the only passenger going through security. When I went to retrieve my bag from the examination belt, the TSA agent stopped me.

“Wait a minute, ma’am.”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to say that you’re absolutely beautiful.”

I managed to stammer out a thank you, which was hard–I wanted to deflect and/or contradict her.

I thought about that moment a lot that day, about how I’d like to remember that, to have that pop into my mind when I was feeling unattractive, instead of all the negative things that people have said. That I say to myself several times a day.

But as soon as something hurt me Thursday, Sunday’s great moment was knocked from my mind.

Until now.

I’m writing this down in an attempt to make it stronger. To manifest it when I need it most.

Our interview on The Best Darn Diddly Podcast went on so long that they divided it into two!

You can listen to both parts here.

We had a great time, so we want to share it with you, dear reader.

I’m going to get on the first of three planes to get to a conference in Michigan early tomorrow morning.

I am thinking about my last long travel day, which had me traveling without sleep for over 26 hours.

Those following me on social media know that the Munich airport made me cry, but not why, since I was too exhausted to explain.

I left my hotel at 3 a.m. It was too early eat in the Vienna airport, since things were closed, but I figured I could get something during my 3 hour layover in Munich.

For some reason, I wasn’t able to get the second boarding pass in Vienna, so I headed to my gate to get one as soon as I landed. Getting to the gate took about 45 minutes. For some reason, even though the gate was in my terminal, I had to leave my terminal and go all the way around, going through passport control.

Then I asked about getting a VAT refund for something I bought in Prague. They said that would only take 20 minutes. I followed the directions and found myself outside of security, because that’s where they keep the people with the stamps. I got my stamps and then had to get in the security line. I had my cane, so a guy pulled me out of the main line into a much shorter line. Then that line didn’t move. At all. I counted 43 people get through the regular security line before any of the 6 of us in the shorter line got through. Then I had to go through passport control again.

By the time I returned to my gate, my 3 hours was up. I remembered seeing a cafe by my gate and thought I could grab something while the first class people were boarding.

But the cafe was out of food. Out. of. food. Not a single bag of chips.

I couldn’t sleep on the plane to the States, and the food was awful, so I didn’t eat much. After going through immigration in the Dallas Ft. Worth airport, I found a southern/cajun restaurant, Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen, by my gate. I was exhausted. I’d been up for about 24 hours, and I didn’t know if my body was awake enough to eat, and I was seriously hurting from the travel b.s., but the restaurant had catfish, which I love. Craving this is one of the few things that marks me as a Southern-raised girl.

So I ordered it.

My waitress, who had already proven herself to be cheerful and conscientious, asked me if I was okay when I was just sort of staring at the wall.

I wasn’t.

And I couldn’t eat, even though the catfish was perfect.

I asked for the bill, but the waitress got the manager, who refused to charge me.

I tipped my wonderful waitress and got on the plane to Sacramento, on which a toddler kicked my seat again and again. (His mom at least kept telling him to stop.)

And I went to bed without dinner, because I just needed to sleep.

Tomorrow, I have a 2 hour layover in Dallas Ft. Worth.

Friends, appeal to the travel gods for me. I need to get that catfish and to eat it this time!!!

On this National Coming Out Day, I think of my great-aunt Arlene and the day I realized she had probably been gay.

She lived up north, so I only met her twice, but when I did, she was smart and funny.

I don’t remember what prompted me thinking about it, but when I told my mom what I was guessing about her sexuality, mom said, “oh, we’ve all thought that for a long time.”

Yet Arlene was the only relative who came to visit who wasn’t asked about her dating/married life.

I don’t know anything–she might have been out, but my Florida family didn’t mention it. It’s more likely she was closeted, at least to them. Her brother, my (grand)daddy, was a conservative military vet, after all.

My mom’s assertion that it was an open secret infuriated me. How could my grandfather–and how could my mother–consistently vote against someone they loved having equal rights?

To all my friends who have come out, thank you for your courage.

To any of my friends who haven’t yet, I’m sure there’s a reason.

And I apologize for my family backburnering your human rights because of their focus on other bigotries and their anti-socialist hysteria.

Many years ago, I was in a writing group, but I felt strange saying so.

I was having a hard time calling myself a writer.

Imposter syndrome is very well documented. In this case, it was pretty absurd.

I had several publications, and I wrote in all kinds of genres. I’d even had a play produced at a festival, before I went to college.

But saying “I’m a writer” felt wrong.

I don’t know what I was waiting for, exactly. It certainly couldn’t be to make my living just from writing–being able to do so is incredibly rare.

Talking about my fear of presumption, though, with the other writers, made that fear go away.

“Writer” has been on my business card now for quite a few years.

Now, there’s another term I’m uncertain about.

This week, I’ll be asked to fill out demographic information for UCD.

Do I check “disabled”?

Last night, I performed at the anniversary Invisible Disabilities show.

I have an hour long one-woman show on being a chronic pain patient.

I relied on my cane for more days than not during my last two trips. And I’m relying more and more on pain medicine to walk and to sleep, especially now that another disc has herniated. I average four body appointments a week; I’m never not in physical therapy for some body part or another.

Many aspects of my life are compromised.

But the word seems strange.

Is it because my disabilities are usually invisible?

Is it because I know I’m luckier than most disabled people?

I’m very scared about my future a lot of the time, but for now, I can usually get through the day.

When I figured out I had fibromyalgia when I was in my twenties, my best friend (a med student) told me not to take on the label, that doctors would refuse to take me seriously.

The word still isn’t in my chart. I asked my pain doctor about it two years ago. “Well, obviously you have it,” he said. “But I don’t want to put it in your chart.”

“Why?”

“Too many of my patients use that diagnosis, that word, to just quit. They decide they can’t work, that they can’t get better.”

That’s not me. My goal has always been to be functional. My workaholism won’t let me do anything else.

But I needed “fibromyalgia” to understand what was happening, even before we really knew what it was. That word meant I wasn’t crazy, despite what some doctors might have thought.

(And now that we know it’s about having more pain receptors than normal people, it explains so much.)

Maybe I’m afraid of this word because I’m afraid of being seen as a fake. I went back to work only six days after my first major back surgery (five weeks and a day before I was supposed to). I had a temporary disabled placard, since it hurt so badly to walk far.

The first day I used it, there was a cop waiting for me when I returned to my vehicle. Someone had called to report a perfectly healthy woman who was obviously lying.

I showed the officer all the paperwork; I even offered to show him my still-bright-red scar.

But I didn’t use the placard again.

It’s 20 years later.

It’s time to reconsider–not getting the placard (I don’t need it yet). It’s time to reconsider my relationship to this word.

I am disabled, if often invisibly so.

If I do let myself use it, I want it to work for me. I want it to be a weapon I can use against my workaholism, against the voice in my head that says I’m worthless when I’m not working.

I want to take myself and my pain seriously, and to cut myself a lot more slack. My workaholism makes my pain, my disability, worse every day.

I need to find a way to rest more.

I was hoping to be in Vienna for a day and a half last week, but that didn’t work out, so I had just four hours (awake) there.

I didn’t get to any museums, galleries, or cathedrals.

I did have fresh pistachio ice cream.

I did not go to CATS.

I got myself off the main tourist lane, discovering a great city just a few blocks away.

I did not buy souvenirs.

I did wander into an independent jewelry store and bought a ring from the very woman who made it.

I didn’t know whether a waiter was teasing me when I asked him for cutlery and a napkin to eat my snack; he sounded surprised by my request. Do the Viennese eat sausages with their hands? (The confusion is because he winked every single time he spoke to me.)

I did have a lovely pasta caprese in a small Italian restaurant a block from my hotel. The husband cooked for me; the wife served me.

I did not feel lonely when I was the only person in the restaurant when they opened; I was eating ridiculously early since I had to be up at 3 a.m. to head to the airport.

I did make time to take a bubble bath in the luxurious tub in my hotel room and a glass of mini bar wine.

I did not have enough time there.

We’re still not sure how Graymalkin got out–we’re guessing it was when Dante took out the recycling Monday night.

So he was gone almost 48 hours.

Last night, we got a call from a guy a block and a half away. He had opened his door; Graymalkin was on his doorstep. He said they hung out for about twenty minutes because Gray was so friendly. Then he went to check his mail–and that’s when he saw our flier and called.

Knowing that Gray was friendly makes me feel a lot better.

He is traditionally skittish around strangers. He was absolutely terrified for three hours about a month ago when AT&T was installing a new cable line. Visitors have to hang out for a long time before he’ll decide they’re not a threat.

So we assumed that he would stay cowering somewhere, afraid to make contact with anyone.

I’m incredibly relieved that he overcame that–that he knew he needed to trust the kindness of strangers in a desperate time.

He got home a few minutes before book group started. Usually, when the nephews are here, he hides. Two year olds and blind kittens aren’t a good mix.

Last night, he lay down between the boys, in the center of the living room, and he didn’t freak out when he was roughly petted or when his tail got stepped on.

He was home, so he was safe.

I haven’t touched up my gray hair in three weeks, and I can tell. I was sitting here, after working on syllabi all day, trying to figure out when I was going to be able to do so before I head out of the country for a conference on Friday.

Tomorrow, I give my car to the mechanic, give my mind to teach a class, and then give my body to the pain doctor for a procedure to put anti-inflammatory stuff into the herniated disc (and hopefully not my spinal column).

This procedure to relieve pain is, ironically, very painful, so tomorrow’s out. And then in the three days remaining, I have to teach some more, prepare for the three additional classes that start the second I get back, have four other body appointments and a few other meetings, pack, do all the misc stuff like letters of rec and bills, book group, and book group night out to see Atwood’s fathom event. I’m also fielding some Atwood-related interviews.

And I haven’t even celebrated my Simpsons’ book being out yet!!!

So a little voice just said, “why not skip dyeing your hair for a while?”

It’s been many years since I wrote this blog about why I have been dyeing; maybe it’s time to change my mind.