On top of everything, my personal website was on the fritz. I noticed this before I went to New York; all the host gave was an announcement of a migration. When I came back I found nothing at all. (Nothing wrong with my e-mail, which comes from the same host; just webspace.) Then followed long conversations with the kind of tech reps you expect: their names are Anglo, but their accents say they're from India. I was told that migration had been delayed, but I could be escalated, and I'd get an e-mail in a couple days when it was up. First I got the e-mail but the website wasn't up. Then, several days later, I didn't get another e-mail but the website was up.
Well, most of it. My reviews listing, which would be rather helpful vita material if I were looking for a job, wasn't there. And I needed to update it today anyway, with this review of the Peninsula Symphony. Then I found the FTP [file transfer protocol] isn't working, so I can't update the file. And the host's team that deals with that is closed on weekends. So, let's wait.
I also should try to figure out how to get the web site to reappear on a Google search for my name, from which it's entirely vanished.
Meantime, there's much cat activity at home. Tybalt is a bold little boy, and will jump up on the kitchen counter to lick spills off the stove or dirty dishes in the sink. Now Maia is doing that too. She never used to. But apparently she figures if it's OK for him to do it, she can do it too. The problem is that no, it's not OK for either of them to do it, and they know that, because they jump off guiltily when they see us coming. But there's a reason that the word is "copycat".
However, Tybalt is quite the little charmer at playtime. He makes tiny inquisitive mews (yes, with a rising inflection) when he wants to play, and squiggles around. He carries his plush toys (plus the strings and poles they dangle from) around the house to stashes in different rooms, and I have to hope one of the stashes is around when he wants to play. Sometimes he plays on top of the bed, and will dash right off the edge, or even fall off while squiggling.
Occasionally he is the self-playing cat. Watching him skillfully bat around a small plastic ball on the kitchen floor yesterday, with the finesse of a good soccer player, I thought about making this inquiry of the soccer association: although human players are in most play situations not allowed to touch the ball with their arms, if you're a four-legged player, do your front legs count as legs?