Home is where the cat is.

Location of Cat: Just waking up.

It's been a quiet few weeks, readers, because I've quite frankly been struggling to find something to write about when my days pass in a summer-lull and the days blend together until the entire week feels like Friday.

But, a few days ago I read that people had camped outside our local bank for the entire weekend to secure themselves an apartment in the new complex they are building. This building is situated in the middle of my town, a town which features newspaper headlines like «Pig on the lose» and I find it about as interesting as a piece of lint.

I must confess that when I read about these enthusiastic first-time buyers who wanted to live in my little home town-I panicked. I couldn't imagine how I would ever mange to leave the nest if people flocked in from the “great” cities because this little corner of the world was the only place they could afford!

My nest-syndrome now plays out in a sudden desire to redecorate my room. When in doubt-make changes. In the past few days I've made some acquisitions, gotten rid of furniture when I bought when I was 14 (!) and dredged up a lot of treasures (or so I hope)!

As many of you I have also experienced living in dorms at University. The first dorm I lived in was a piece of fungi and asbestos infested communist-inspired little den where I shared two toilets, one shower, two hot-plates and one oven with five other girls. Luckily, these were the best room-mates ever, being a lawyer, a priest, a zoologist, a doctor-to-be and a food-geographer. My next flat featured girl-who-only-eats-mac-and-cheese and girl-who's-entire-room-is pink and other less dubious flatmate which I seldom saw. All in all, living like this and moving every year leaves you devoid of a sense of style because the only thing you own are things you can fit into four boxes and a trunk and you've lived in these tiny dorms which doesn't allow for any sense of decoration besides choosing your own posters and the colour of your bed-spreads.

My two posters in University





























So, I do not think I have a sense of style, but I sorta know what I like and what I don't like. Unfortunately living at home means I won't be able to use the plates and cutlery I'd like, the color scheme in our corridor is abysmal and the less said about the kitchen is better. The only upside is the well-stocked fridge and the no-rent.

And of course, the cat.

Every furniture has been pre-approved by the Cat

Childhood dreams and cat-hotels.

Location of cat: in my lap.

In my previous post I made you all the unfortunate victim of my bitter-un-employed-I-want- my-dream-job-rant, and I fear this post will not deviate much from that path. I am in a grove, as it were, or perhaps it is more accurate to describe it as a ditch.

I was always been a pragmatic child and never harbored dreams of becoming a dinosaur (like Calvin), a princess, or joining the Ninja Turtles Team and as a little pig-tailed girl I had many plans for how I would shape my adult-hood.
At first I dearly wanted to be a policewoman, though I imagine this stems from the kindergarten trend where we –all- wanted to be a policeman (or firefighter) and drive a car with a siren. A few years later I was determined to be a concert flutist (despite never having touched a flute in my life), a private detective, and for several years I also nursed a desire to be a vet, because I’ve always had a fondness for animals. (When we got our first cat when I was around seven years old, I felt that all as right in the world).

As I entered Junior High I was determined to be a lawyer, just because it seemed the prestigious thing to be and because I felt it was important to have high aspirations. Sometime shortly after I realized how much paper-work was involved in the legal quern, I declared my intentions of running a cat-hotel in my grandmother’s barn (and this may still be my plan)

To be quite honest, I didn’t really know what I wanted to do from 9-5 for the rest of my life. And as I stew in this ditch of unemploymentness, I still don’t really know what I want to do. I am however, set on the path to becoming a teacher, because I feel it’s important to at least have a path to walk on (and not really knowing which road is less travelled).

As many historians, and probably many in all walks of life, I’ve always had a carried torch of becoming a writer. I have great boots of creativity that usually play out in video-games, and as I visit my old school-essays, I also realized I’ve a great fondness for killing people in my “novels” or essays. I was also keen on fantasy-fiction and can starkly recall an argument with my teacher about the “proper genre” and how he stated that fantasy-fiction was defiantly not one.

I am quite certain there are many who can relate to having their “dreams” quenched by a hooked-nosed teacher, or been told to not pursue a certain career because it would just be “too difficult for you”. And as I sit here, musing about how different things could have been, I wonder if teachers realize the authority they have over shaping a student’s future. The prospect of this authority is rather daunting and I have an inkling it is not covered in the didactic curriculum, but should I find myself unsuitable as the "Jedi-master" least there'll always be the cat-hotel.

Maybe, however, I can combine some dreams?
http://www.pet-detective.com/