Yesterday was Jordi’s 7th birthday. We got him about six weeks after he was born, and the picture shows what he looked like then. Just a tiny, cute little thing. Now he’s about 16 pounds, and a bit bigger than in picture in the blog header (where he’s obsuring most of my face, which is for the better).

Jordi got to spend a lot of time outside yesterday–clear outside, in the grass, where all of his senses come alive (and hapless mice meet the afterlife). He ate some of the special treats he considers so delicious. He took a ride when we went to get our Sunday night pizza (he loves jumping into the back window on the way to the pizza place, and then nestling into Pam’s arms in the front seat on the way home). He got plenty of attention, and didn’t have a clue why.

Jordi is named after Geordi, on Star Trek. Jordi Picard Dennie–that’s his full name. We got him from a family in Kendalville who had a litter of kittens to give away. They told us Jordi was a long-haired female, which is what we said we wanted. Turns out he’s a short-haired male. But we never considered returning him.

Pam and I are severely afflicted with the Couples with Cats And No Kids Dimentia.

Pam, my wife, read 175 books last year. She’s had a goal, since the mid-1980s, of reading at least 52 books a year. Lately, she’s been doubling that goal. I think she was somewhere around 120 last year. But 175? Geeesh! That’s almost a book every two days. And she doesn’t skim. I skim, to an extent. Pam reads every word.

So far, she has read five books in 2006. I’ve read two, one of which I actually started in 2005. I’m a competitive person. But in this matter, there is absolutely no competition. I flat-out concede to my wife’s superiority.

We planned to spend Thanksgiving at my parents’ place just south of South Bend, about two hours away from Fort Wayne. That’s where we go every Thanksgiving. But the weather forcast was pretty bad this year, with up to a foot of snow predicted, much of it coming on Thanksgiving day itself. I called Mom on Wednesday night and warned her that we might just stay home, which is what she suggested before I even got out my warning. Then I called again on Thanksgiving morning. The wind was blowing real strong. There was some minor snow action, but not much. However, the forcasts continued being ominous. Mom said, “If I were you, I would hunker down with a blanket and stay warm.” So that’s what we did.

Now I’m sitting beside the patio door, watching Jordi as he stalks mice out on the hill in back of our property. I don’t see a bit of snow. Thanksgiving turned out to be a blustery day, but with practically no snow accumulation. Same Friday, yesterday, which turned out to be a very nice day with the absence of Thursday’s high wind.

So we missed Mom’s noodles this year. The first in many years. She used to do a turkey until a few years ago, but our main interest has been her homemade noodles, and I think that’s all she was fixing this year (as far as main course). I mourn missing the noodles. And her homemade rolls. And the fellowship with my parents, who could be around for many years yet…or not. Like the weather, you can’t predict some things.

I used the days wisely, making enormous headway on a major writing project. It was great fun, very satisfying. I’ll finish it up today, and then print everything out for Pam to read. She’ll like it. I know.

Jordi is being good, staying right out on the boundary line. Two lines, in fact, since he’s perched at the southwest corner of our lot, like there’s a big star there. Of course, he’s looking across the boundary, wanting what is on the other side, and he’ll eventually meander over. He’s got a big yard to enjoy, but instead, he sits on the edge, gazing over, wanting what is forbidden. He’s a guy, after all. Curses upon us!

Okay, Pam’s getting up now. My battery is down to 27%, and anytime now, I’ll need to go fetch Jordi as he wanders into the next yard. I’ve said nothing here that would be of particular interest to visiting readers, and for that, I apologize. On the other hand, you probably have leftover turkey to snack on, while Pam and I have nothing but the usual frozen stuff to get us through the day. So while I’ve given you nothing worth nibbling on, you’ll be fine.

My Dodge Dakota was almost on empty yesterday, so I filled up. Came to $46. To which I say:

*&^%$#@!!#$$%^&$@#@%^&*!!!!

Or something like that.

My parents’ generation always notices gas prices, and they talk about gas prices like I might talk about, say, the price of coffee at Starbucks. “Did you notice that the price of gas went up a penny?” I’ve never been one to notice. Those signs out in front of gas stations might as well not exist for me. I have gas stations I go to regularly (BP, Shell, or Meiers), and whatever the price is, that’s what I pay. And I always pay at the pump with a credit card.

But Pam, my wife, is beginning to talk about the price of gas. She’s noticing those signs. And she’s younger than me, barely on the edge of being a baby boomer. Of course, she’s a CPA, so you might expect her to notice money-related information.

On the other hand, when I’m filling up with gas, I pay strict attention to the number showing when the pump clicks off. I don’t mean the outrageousness of the final price. I mean the really important figure: whether or not it ends on a number ending in zero. You see, the pump didn’t click off at $46 even. No, it was $45.76. I then nudged it on up to $46. If I miscalculated and it ended in $46.01, I would need to nurse it on up to $46.10, or $46.20. This is very important to me. It may strike you as a bit banal, without the b, but I guess “this is the way God made me.”

Now, Pam can end on any number. When the pump clicks off, she removes the pump handle and she’s done. Uneven numbers don’t faze her. She can deal with it. But I guess I lack her maturity in that area. I must, absolutely must, try to at least get to the next round dollar amount. If not an even dollar amount, then I’ll settle for any other number ending in zero. But never $45.76. Never ever.

I am proud of the fact that I’m able to obsess over the things in life that truly matter.