cat sh*t crazy

I was on my way downstairs to my office to post something lovely about spring, with pretty pictures of the flowers in my garden, but I got sidetracked. By a big, runny pile of poo on the carpet outside the bathroom where we have not one, but two litterboxes. For our two cats. But only one of them has become my nemisis. Her name is Lulu. And I look forward to the day she moves on to her great reward. I don't feel a bit guilty when I say it can't happen soon enough for me.

Which is not to say we don't love her. We do. We MUST. Because I don't think she would have lasted this long anywhere else. I tried to find her a good home last year before the move, because a) I didn't think she'd make the trip, and b) I believe she needs a home where she can be the only cat, a home with no children, a home with someone who does nothing but pet her endlessly and feed her and snuggle her. But really, how do you market a cat like Lulu. "Free to loving home. Wheezing old cat who digs her claws into every piece of furniture, has constant runny poo and uses entire home for a litter box." I did my best with the ad. I tried humor and love and all I got in return was scorn and condemnation from rabid animal lovers. Someone actually told me I was a flake and soon I'd be trying to give my son away. I took the ad off within an hour. So yes, she made the trip, but not without spraying cat poop all over our car within the first twenty minutes of a twenty hour drive. (My darling husband was driving that car - we followed three weeks later. He still has flashbacks. And the car still smells.)

Believe me when I say we've tried everything. Ev.Ry.Thing. New food. New litter. Separate litter boxes. Giving her more love and attention than someone who shits on your carpet every day twice a day for six years has any right to get. We take her to the vet about every six months, convinced that she's on her last legs, and they never find anything wrong. They do a battery of tests, and then say, "I think it's behavioral. Try this." It might be more cost effective to just use that two hundred dollars to wipe up the mess off the floor. THEN flush it down the toilet. At least something would be accomplished. The last time I took her, he did some tests and gave me some antibiotic for her wheezing, but asked if I wanted to wait a couple days before getting it, just in case the blood tests came back with dire predictions. I told him that I'd just get it now, because even if he said she was on her way out, she'd live another three years just to spite me. She's just a crabby, crappy, scrappy old lady.

The first time she did it was when Joe-Henry was four weeks old. She did it right in front of his changing table. Convinced she was really sick, we got some meds from the vet. Mind you, we had a four week old baby, and were as scruffy and sleep deprived as we could be. But we tried. Charley held her wrapped in a towel, and I tried to administer the dropper full of pink goo. She crapped down the front of my sweet husband, and the medicine wound up in my hair. We left it at that. She once managed to dig a pair of $600 compression stockings OUT OF THE HAMPER to do her business on them. Say what you will, she's a great communicator. And the thing is: Joe-Henry ADORES her. He pets her gently, talks to her sweetly and softly and reminds us not to scold her too loudly. He is perhaps the only reason she's not gone.

We have another cat too. A good cat. He's been with us since we first got married and he's a grand old man. He's got diabetes, which we treat and he tolerates, and he's dignified and loving. If it weren't for him, I'd definitely not be a cat person anymore.

I dream of life after Lulu. Clean carpet. (New carpet.) No more cat hair (she sheds like crazy). No more loud wheezing waking me in the night.

I know, I know. I'll probably miss her.

But I'd really like to find out.

PS: The best stain remover for pet stuff in carpet is Folex.

Goodbye, Mr. Imus

I saw this quote in the paper this morning: In comparing Don Imus to nasty mouthed shock jock Michael Savage, KXL radio station boss Tim McNamara said this: " I don't agree with what Michael Savage says either, but that's not the point. Ratings or advertisers will dictate what happens. And right now, he's got tremendous ratings."

It's all about the bottom line. People have to listen. And people do. Leonard Pitts says exactly what I wanted to say, only far more eloquently.

"There's only one rule that I know of, babies,...

...you've got to be kind." These words were written by Kurt Vonnegut, who died yesterday at 84. I am not a Vonnegut scholar, but I have read a few of his works, and when I read these words today in his obituary, it was like a cool hand on my hot head. It helped me to make some sense of something I've really been struggling with. There have been a few stories in the news the last few days that I haven't been able to shake. One of them is just stuck like a pebble in my shoe, annoying the crap out of me, and when I think I've shaken it out, I find it's only settled in a different place. Which means that somehow, that story is related to the others that I find more deeply troubling.

The first story is truly unsettling to me. Have you read about that six year old girl in Florida that got arrested for disrupting her class? This little girl was clearly troubled, and out of control. But are there not better ways to handle these things? Um... how's this? Call her mother? Bring in the school counselor? The school nurse? They managed to isolate her in another room, how about letting her kick and scream until she wears herself out? But call the cops? It took them twenty minutes, but they wrangled her out from under the table like animal control, handcuffed her and took her to central booking to be printed and held until her mother arrived to bail her out. She was charged with "battery on a school official, which is a felony, and two misdemeanors: disruption of a school function and resisting a law enforcement officer." In case you missed it: she was SIX.

The second story was in the paper here in Oregon. A local school kid was arrested for shooting out the windows of his highschool. He was aiming for two teachers, one of whom had called his mother to say he wasn't doing well in school. He was also angry with his mother for not allowing him to live with his biological father. So he took his stepdad's Winchester
.270 rifle with a scope, lay down in the grass and fired two shots. No one was killed, but a few students were injured by flying glass and metal. No one suspected, except of course the kids he showed the bullets to before hand. The principal at this school has been through this before, with more tragic results. He was the principal of the highschool where a kid named Kip Kinkel killed two classmates, as well as his loving, doting parents.

When I read these stories, I wonder what we are to make of them. When I say "we" I don't just mean parents and teachers, and authority figures, but all of us. As a society. How can we raise such angry children? How do we nurture this anger, for surely we must, and when it boils over, how do we deal with it? Look at the words we use, the words we tolerate, the names we call each other, the rules that we make that allow a six year old to be arrested for throwing a tantrum. Look at the people we celebrate and idolize - those who lead the dance in our national tabloid feverdreams - the rude, thuggish, thoughtless people we cheer on day after day - what does it say about us? Which leads me to the third story, the pebble in my soul that, when I think about it, screams "THIS IS WHY".

Don Imus made the news the other day for calling the Rutgers Women's Basketball team a horrible, racist, mysoginistic name. He made a public apology, got taken off the air for a couple weeks and is meeting with the women on the team to give them a personal apology. I'm sure he'll be headed to rehab in no time. Believe me when I say I am a firm believer in free speech, and I think that Don Imus, and Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter have the right to say whatever idiotic thing they want to say. But there's a difference between tolerating bullies and celebrating them. Not all bullies get paid millions to spread their ignorance, but he's a stupid, hateful man with sponsors. He's been taken off the airwaves "temporarily", but he'll be back, and the same people who've taken away his money will be giving it back to him, because SOMEONE OUT THERE LISTENS TO HIM. It's not me, and I'm pretty sure it's not you, but there is an audience. Just as there is an audience for rap music, which much of the time is just as despicable. Have you ever read the comments to a news story on Yahoo? Find the first obituary you can, then read the comments. It will turn your stomach. There are so many people who feel empowered to use this beautiful technology to spew hate. Because they can. Because we live in a country that lets us say whatever we think, even if it's ugly. And that's where it stands, forever and ever amen.

Our only hope is within us. Each of us. That sounds so simplistic, but it's the only thing we can control. For all our achievements, as a society we are still so uncivilized. Because personal responsibllity is just not that in fashion any more. My mama taught me that "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me". Unless I let them. The women on the Rutgers basketball team have said that Don Imus took away their glory and grace and their moment. No, he didn't. Unless they let him. They are all beautiful, accomplished women with bright futures ahead of them. He is a crazy old man with a microphone. I don't think, with the way this whole free speech thing is set up, it's going to get better or easier. Doesn't that just suck? And yet, what's the alternative? To try to dictate what people can say, or think?

The original title of this rant was "The Centre Cannot Hold", from the W.B. Yeats poem. But when I read the quote in Vonnegut's obituary, I realized it held not only the answer, but the only hope.

We can't control the way people think or act or what they say. But we can choose to listen to something else, to think differently, to be kinder to one another. We can turn off the tv. We can raise our children right, teach them to be nice, to listen and speak up when they need to, to share and take care of others and to have pride in themselves so that they'll have some kind of armor to ward off the stupid, insensitive, hateful things that escape from the mouths of lunatic bullies. We can counter words of hate with generosity and kindness. We can be mindful of our own words. We can use our common sense, and when something happens to a six year old in Florida that seems so egregiously out of whack, we can use it as a wake up call, do a gut check and say "Stop it. Stop it right now. This isn't right."

Thank you, Mr. Vonnegut, for being there when I needed you.

tell the truth

"Mom, do you love my animals as much as you love me?" The first time he asked me that question, a few months ago, I told him the truth. I said that I liked them very much, but that I didn't love anything or anyone as much as I love him.

This was the wrong answer.

There were many tears, and it hurt his animals feelings and he really didn't understand why I couldn't just love them the way I love him.

He asks me every night at bedtime, or anytime he has one of his dearly beloved creatures nearby. Today he asked while we were snuggled on the sofabed downstairs, curled up under the covers with a fire going in the fireplace, watching "IceAge: The Meltdown" on the portable DVD player. Panda and Linky were under the covers with us, and he asked "Mom, do you love my animals as much as you love me?" And I said "Yes. I do. I'm so glad they're members of our family."

Here's what I didn't say:
I love them because they are yours. Because you give them your heart, and your heart is precious to me. I love them because they know your six year old secrets, and do their cuddly best to allay your worst fears. I love them because when they talk, they talk just like you. I love them because you've named them, each and every last one, and I remember ALL their names. I love them because they smell like you. I know this because when I pick them up off the living room couch, where you bring them to eat your cheerios in the morning, I give them a good long, deep sniff before putting them on your bed. They are your talismans, your charms and your snugglebuddies. They are as real to me as they are to you.

And I love them.

But not as much as I love you.

I'm trying, though. I really am.

celebration

Today there were, as my dad used to say, "Big Doin's" around here. My niece is officially a newlywed, as is her groom, and it all came off splendidly, thanks in no small part to the best ring bearer ever. On our way to the estate where they held the wedding, I was sitting in the back seat with my sweet fella, and I told him how handsome he looked. He said "I have to look handsome. This is very serious business." Indeed. And he took all his instructions to behave to heart, and was every inch a gentleman until he hit the dance floor, then he cut loose with some serious moves. One of the wedding guests said to my husband "what a shame he's so painfully shy!"

My little family unit looked splendid. Joe-Henry, decked out in his white tux, which he kept on until bedtime, giving us one of the most amazing concerts ever. It's lost in the ether because we were all too mesmerized to make a move for the camera. Suffice to say - he brought the house down. My hubband, in his clan kilt, looking so handsome, and sparking everyone's interest as to what he might be wearing under that kilt (nothing but the cool evening breeze and his wife's good graces), and I managed to clean up alright. Although the weather wrought havoc with my hair, turning it into kind of a frizzy halo, but I gave up worrying about it when I saw my niece.

She was a beautiful, no, gorgeous bride, and her groom was dangerously handsome. They have been soooo calm this past week, and I think they were able to enjoy every minute of their wedding. My niece is one of those poised young women who never really went through an awkward phase. She always seems to be so grounded, and is one of the wisest people I know. Her new husband has such a great sense of humor and you can tell by looking at them, the way they are together, that it's just meant to be. They will have a grand adventure of a marriage.

My older brother, the father of the bride, gave the toast to end all toasts. It was heartfelt, emotional, sweet, funny, tender and joyful. He was so nervous before hand, but he held it together and brought tears to everyone's eyes. Even Joe-Henry, who as you know, is a total shrinking violet, knew better than to try to follow Uncle Jim's class act!

I love weddings. Not just the day itself, but the days before and after, when you get to see family and friends you haven't seen in forever, and everyone is caught up in the joy of the event. Even when it's awkward (and when you have family, there's bound to be awkwardness), it's wonderful. They bring out the best, and sometimes the worst in people, but they remind us of all the good things in this life: family, love, laughter and friendship. The things that sustain us in our worst moments, and give us cause to celebrate all the little joys we take for granted every day.

I have a houseful of sleeping fellas: my brother Dale, who I haven't seen in way too long; the love of my life, sawing logs in the next room; and Joe-Henry, who just did a little drum solo in his sleep. I'm sleepy myself, and need to get some rest - the Easter Bunny comes tomorrow, early, and I'd like to catch him, if I can.

But oh, it was a beautiful day, and it's nice to sit here in the peace of the evening, letting it wash over me again.

the stuff dreams are made of?

Is it Lexapro and Chinese Chicken Salad? I don't know.....maybe the lexapro is working it's magic during the day, but it's like falling asleep with a Fellini movie playing. My dreams have been wierder and wierder. I wake up either tired from all the activity, or just plain perplexed.
I've never been one to place a lot of literal meaning to my dreams, but I do think it's where our brains get to try to work things out for us without us getting in the way. But if that's so, what do you make of these dreams?

Dream One: Our anniversary is approaching, so I've decided to get Charley what he's always wanted. I've pierced my INNER THIGHS. It hurts like a mofo, but if it makes him happy...
Huh?
When I woke up from that one, I had to check to see if my thighs were okay.

Dream Two: Charley's Aunt Fran, who in real life is the nicest person in the world, completely approachable, warm, friendly and incredibly crafty, has decided to become a televangelist. I see her on tv and she's saying "The SIN is in inSINuation!" The only thing that this dream has in common with my waking life is that in my dream I am just as stumped by the whole situation.

Dream Three: Last night, I dreamt that we got pregnant. I wasn't excited at first, but then I was. I was with my friends Anne and Anita because Charley was out of town for a while. A&A just had another baby, a beautiful boy, but in the dream, Anne was still pregnant. I reached down and could feel the head of my baby - it was tiny, slightly larger than a golf ball. When I looked down at my belly, I could see its face clearly, pressing up against my belly, like a mask. It was waving at the outside world. I got so excited, and couldn't wait to tell Charley. Then the baby slipped out of my side, like my belly had a kangaroo pouch, only on the side. I tried to get the baby back inside me, but as it lay in my hands, it turned into tiny bones and blew away. My friends wanted to see if there was still a heartbeat, so they held a stethascope up to HER belly for me to listen, then mine, and said, not unkindly, "see the difference?" When Charley got there, I tearfully told him the sad news, and he asked me when dinner would be ready. I was furious, and moved around the house trying to find what it was he wanted me to make (scalloped potatoes), our house had turned into a cross between a board game and a pinball machine, and I got lost. So I told him to fix them himself. He was perplexed.

This one is LOADED, isn't it?! Let me just say, right up front, my husband would never ask for scalloped potatoes.

Alright, all you dream analysts out there... help me out. Or just amuse yourselves.

sunday morning concert

Took these this morning. The light was amazing, streaming in through our little window, and the song he was singing was "Who Will Be The Love Again?" It was a masterpiece, and I made him promise to remember it so he could play it again when the recorder is charged. I promise to post it when I do. It was a very sad, serious song, and after the last few days, I'm forever grateful that he has an outlet. I'm even more grateful that he'll sing to me.