The thing with having two cats is that two cats is not four cats. I had four cats for eleven years, I am a person with four cats. Two years ago, Milo died and I had to try to remember to say that I had three cats instead of four, but I never did. I always say that I had four until recently, and now I have three.

But now there are two. And I am going to have to accept that fact and not say that there were four and then one died and then another one died, and now I only have two but really I am a four cat kind of person, because when somebody asks how many cats you have they are not interested in your cat resume, they are just being polite.

So yesterday I finally saw Omar for the first time in a week and a day, which felt like a year and a day. We were supposed to go out Sunday but he changed his mind. I hate it when it's his idea about doing something and I get it set in my head that that is what we are doing and then he decides to do something else and without me. Which is generally just stay at home, so it's not as though he wants to see anyone but me, it's more as though he doesn't want to see anyone at all. He reminds me a lot how much he needs to be alone, so it's not as though I don't get it, but it still bugs the shit out of me.

Because he didn't check his email for days and days, he missed my suggestion that he come over on his way back from Lancaster and have dinner with me and the Callahans, but at least he expressed regrets about missing that.

And frankly, it ended up being good that we didn't go to the movies so that I was home when Elvis died. Even if he had come over for dinner, he might have stayed long enough that I probably would have been upstairs when he was dying, so it ended up being good that we didn't get together.

This does not, however, get him off the hook for canceling three dates with me in five days.

Anyway, he picked me up at work and we went to see The Pianist. I was running late and very tense, but we were meeting early enough that we didn't really have a problem getting to the theatre on time. When I came downstairs and saw him in the lobby, I threw myself into his arms--I wanted to crawl inside of him. I don't like not seeing him for a week, it feels really wrong.

I was talking a mile a minute and fluttering my hands like I'm autistic, I was so worried about being late for the film, but he was being very calm and grounded. I said to him, "You know what's great about us? We take turns being crazy. Nobody has the burden of being the sane one all the time, and generally we are both not crazy at once, because innocent lives would be at risk."

It's true, too, as he was crazy on Wednesday when he called me and I talked him down from a great height; last night was my turn.

The movie was incredible, by the way. Cynthia saw it and ran downstairs to tell me that I had to go right away, my Mom saw it and it was almost impossible to stop her from blabbing about it and ruining it for me. Everyone was shoving us both towards the theatre screaming "Watch it!!" And everyone was right.

The funny thing is that we were both expecting to weep like sponges, since we cry at commercials, but mostly we were dry-eyed, this movie takes you to a place beyond tears. It's so unsentimental, so unpushy, so simple and beautiful. And with such a subtle performance by Adrian Brody as to make the angels weep.

It's about how strong is your will to live.

My only complaint is about a problem that I have not had in over a decade--if the armrest in between you doesn't flip up, then it digs into your side and your arm falls asleep. Particularly if the person on whose shoulder you are resting your head is a little shorter than you are and you have to scrootch down.

We walked back downtown, and I found out something appalling about Omar, the first thing about him that I am not certain that I can handle.

We were talking about what we were going to see next, which will be The Quiet American, then I suggested The Life of David Gale. "O no, I'm not going to see that." "Why not?" "I can't stand that guy." "Kevin Spacey? You don't like Kevin Spacey?" "God, no!" "I'm not sure I can accept this..."

He hates Kevin Spacey. My Kevin Spacey, my best beloved. Hates him. I'm not entirely certain that we can get past this. We may need to go into counseling.

On the other hand, I got an email from Nicky saying, "I'd like to leave you with one consoling thought: it's tough that Omar doesn't like Kevin Spacey, but at least this means you won't have to share."

Today's horoscope:
Impulse and whim are no match for a rational mind. Allies who wavered are now coming on strong. Fair-weather friends can stick around if they work off their debt.

One year ago today:
And my God, Jozef Sebobchec skating with fireworks coming out of his heels (in some shots it looked like it was coming out of his ass), and then everyone singing "Happy Trails", it was like one of my more complicatedly bizarre dreams.

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