I'm running out of excuses, really.  While I'm not exactly allowed to link to it yet, I can tell you that I got Jeff's site designed, finished, and ready to roll yesterday.  All it lacks is content.  My famed, never-ending Sites To Do list is now down to one:  the redesign of Kat's site.

It really must be difficult to be a cat, you know. Every little thing that the humans do just upsets your perfect little feline world. Case in point: Edmund. This cat wakes up in an entirely new world every ten minutes or so, yet the silly feline has a royal conniption when I change something that he cares about.

It was a rather late hour, later than I cared to admit, when I tiptoed in from the guest bedroom to our bedroom. Jeff was mostly awake, but not quite, as I slipped in under the covers and snuggled up next to him.

"I had bad dreams last night," I said, leaving it at that. Jeff has shared the same bed with me long enough to know that when I have bad dreams, I tend to awaken out of them only to go right back in them. The end result: a long night, filled with multiple awakenings, with little useful sleep actually acquired. When nights like this happen, I end up moving to the guest bedroom so that Jeff, at least, will get a quiet night of sleep.

Morning was almost over, but the sluggish darkness from around the mini-blinds spoke of storm clouds, making it appear much earlier in the morning. Behind my head, the rain slashed against the windowpane. Perfect. He yawned, I yawned, and pulled the covers up to my neck.

This one's pretty simple, actually; much simpler than most restaurants would like you to think that it is. The key element for this recipe is, yes, time. Plenty of it. From my point of view, there's simply no way around it. This recipe won't thicken properly if the beans haven't had time to cook down and release starch molecules in the water, and cooking down beans just takes time.

Ever have so much to say that you don't know where to start? I've been like that for the past couple of days; too much to say, too many people to say it to, and the end result is that I close down my email application and go do something else for a little while. The letters and thank-yous stay unwritten, but the lack of writing seems to do nothing but keep them in the forefront of my mind.

I've been moved, often to tears, by the words of others. Words, sometimes, from the most unexpected of places: Andrew's brother, out in North Carolina, whom I haven't seen in a few years. From my cousins. From those random people out in the world who have found this site.

One, though, brought home the reality of what I've been facing. Today's mail held a card, postmarked Chicago. I only know one person in Chicago, and the handwriting on the envelope matched his particular scrawl—Matthew.

While we were at the hospital, Mom asked me why I volunteered to turn my days and nights around so that I could stay up with Dad during the night. It was hard to explain why, exactly, but it had something to do with contrary nature and my need for solitude. When I tried to explain this to Mom, I think it all came out wrong, but I eventually managed to maneuver my words into the direction they needed to go: "It's not that I don't want to see the friends and family that come to see Dad during the day. It's that I just do better when it's just Dad and me."

Her "I don't understand but I'll take that weird answer and run with it" shrug told me all I needed to know. I've never claimed to be anything but the oddball of the family. Not a black sheep, but perhaps a grey sheep. Or a paisley sheep. Not rebellious; just different.