I received a phone call tonight from an unidentified number.  Andrew's calls come from unidentified numbers, so I picked up.  Disappointingly, this was not him, but a woman with the exciting news that I had been selected to possibly qualify for an exciting exciting paid exciting destination vacation. It was so exciting.

First some questions. Married or single?

Not married.

Ooh, not married. Okay, then. Gainfully employed or successfully retired? I asked if those were the only options, because, you see, I'm a student. I'm not retired. But I'm certainly not gainfully employed, either. She then--with concern--asked me if I was twenty-five years of age, in such a way that I assume year twenty-five is a requirement for qualification. More than that, I assured her.

She let me down gently. I did not qualify if I was neither retired nor gainfully employed.

"But hopefully," and her tone expressed her sincere desire that this would be the case, "the next time we call, you will, you know, have a job."

The picture-taker within me has broken free of its chains.  More importantly, the picture-editor and high-contrast-putter has also broken free.  Discover them in their glorious liberty at http://picasaweb.google.com/e.marieness.

The good news is that Mischa has returned, minus ten razor-sharp claws, the ability to reproduce, and hormones that would otherwise soon have him marking his territory (aka, my couch), trying to escape to kick other cats' butts, and using his ninja powers on the hair lying across my forehead.  His walk is a little ginger at the moment, and occasionally fails to jump on things because he can't grip them, and all of that is a little sad (but sort of funny, too).  An added bonus is that, thanks to the sedative-containing pain medication he's on, his personality has been muted just a bit, and he's presently much more inclined to curl up sweetly in my lap than to try to bite off my big toe. 

Yes, he does use post-operative kitty litter.  Less likely to get caught in his claw-wounds and cause an infection.  Also less likely to absorb the acrid smell of kitty-poo.

At the moment he's at home and I'm sitting in a local tea house named MadHatters.  I've been working on a paper, and Andrew is sitting across from me, poring over a book Sixth-Book-Of-Harry-Potter-thick about the Revolutionary War.  He's been patient with a certain futility of my student life today, as I've been taking us all over  town to places where I thought I could get this paper written, and then found I couldn't.  We tried Barnes and Nobles, but there were no outlets and no tables.  We tried the library (he was really excited about hanging out there for a few hours...and that's what sarcasm sounds like), and then found they closed early today.  Now we're at a place where you can buy a sliver of pecan pie for five dollars.  The options are limited in this town, I'm afraid. 

Now we're going to Tito's across the street for dinner.  And this has been my Saturday.  Not bad.