Saying the wrong thing

I'm really very distracted today.  Two people that I love very much are having serious life challenges.  It's hard to know what to say when we talk.  With one, we have been so close for so many years that I try to just listen, offer a little advice and just be present.  With the other, I feel that absolutely every single word out of my mouth makes it worse.  I am not as good a listener as I should be, always tempted to share a story or say something that I hope will help put things in perspective so as not to seem so desperately sad or stressful.  I have failed miserably.  It's pretty much impossible for me to watch someone so close to me struggling and not want desperately to help fix it.  But I can't fix it.  If just listening helped, I think I'd be better at just listening, but this is the kind of stuff that doesn't get better by just listening.  How hard it is to accept that I can't fix it!  I have advised that if I start blabbing and making it worse, to just tell me that I'm making it worse and I'll just shut up.  That will be hard.  I don't shut up well.  I should, but I don't.  Something to work on.

It's hard to heave a big sigh on a blog.  Read this as one big, long, loud and sad sigh.

Life then death then life goes on while we're lucky

My husband has zipped off to Arizona for the funeral of an old friend of ours.  Ed worked for him as the Chief of Campus Safety at Whittier College many years ago.  He was our friend and a wonderful guy.  He was too young - only 65 - and just two years older than my mother when she passed away.  I was thinking about Ed this week, recalling the times he lived nearby and would come to our home for dinner, laden with nasty, stanky (and I do mean STANG-ky, not stinky - stanky is much worse) cigars for the "boys" to smoke down by the pool.  I pointed out to them the remarkable NON-coincidence that each and every time they lit up one of those wet-bags-of-garbage-on-fire-sticks that our friendly neighborhood skunk would "le pew."  Does one need a less subtle sign that the stink sticks are just that?  Stink sticks!  Good grief, they were foul!!

When our daughter was in elementary school (I believe it was 4th grade), all of the students in her year were given the same writing assignment, to write a report about whatever native American Indian tribe they selected.  In his youth, Ed's parents divorced and, while living with his mother in Colorado, he was befriended by a gentleman in their apartment building that was a native of this country and assumed the role of father figure for Ed.  This gentleman took Ed under his wing and brought him up in his tribe's tradition.  Learning of Erica's school project, Ed volunteered to make a presentation to all of the 4th graders, followed by a special presentation in her class alone.  It was at this event that Ed adorned me with a necklace, inviting the children to guess the material of which the necklace was crafted.  Much to my disgust and the utter delight of the kids, Ed announced that the necklace was comprised of horse teeth.  He was now the hero of all of the 4th graders.  Gross!!!!!!!!  The kids loved it.

So today we appreciate life.  We are reminded that it is ever so short and we should enjoy the dopey little things like picking out all of the orange jelly beans from the bag of assorted Jelly Belly jelly beans, or cranking up the iTunes SOOOO loud and trying to dance with our teenage son until he runs laughing outside.  Today we rejoice in Ed's life and the wonderful (though sometimes STANKY) memories of times we shared.  We remind ourselves that "life is short!" and "stop and smell the roses" aren't just cliches, but good things to remember.

Sniff those roses!  Crank up the music, do a silly dance and wear hot shoes that give you blisters just because they're hot and make us look FAAAAAbulous.  OK, just for a few minutes.

OK, Just One More Kitty Tale (no tissue alert!)

After having to put kitty Fred down last week, we have been comforted by one of our two remaining cats, Sox.  He's the one that thinks he's a dog.  He wags his tail, brings a ball and drops it to initiate a game of fetch...everything but bark.

Then there's Charlotte.  She is just a bizarre and often horribly unpleasant cat.  Charlotte started off delicate in temperament, a lovely little ball of fluff adopted with Sox at the age of eight weeks old.  After a few months, she appeared to have developed a crush on Fred and thus determined that she could not love two boy kitties, so she would HATE Sox.  She skulks, growls, hisses and hides until we go to bed, at which time she appears for limited petting and spontaneous shedding, the fur somehow aimed with remarkable accuracy at my eyes.

Recently, we noticed a sort of stinkerooni when Charlotte was present.  Her fur wasn't looking so fabulous, and I figured she was just getting lazy about grooming.  I could feel a few knots building up in the coat on her back during rare sessions of being permitted by Her Royal Viciousness to give a pet.  Then she started to act bizarre around food, growling, snatching bits of canned food and running off with it, then letting out a wicked yowl and running in circles with her belly to the floor.  Clearly, there was an issue and I suspected she had something wrong and painful in her mouth.  I managed to get her to the vet.  Barely.  Thank heavens for vast amounts of catnip.  It appears that in addition to wicked matting in her fur, she also has some major gum yuckiness going on.  Now I was charged with having to give her oral antibiotics and oral painkiller until her return visit after the weekend.  I pleaded with the vet to give her whatever shots he could because I don't OWN a shark suit or Kevlar gloves.  I couldn't imagine surviving the experience of attempting to give Charlotte meds.  Oh my.

So Charlotte was sent home with meds, at which time I immediately opened a bottle of wine.  We could both have used some, but...there are rules I suppose.  Why oh why didn't the vet give me kitty Valium or blow darts?  It took two adults, a large beach towel and a lot of trickery to get that lunatic cat on the counter.  We got in one medication and she shot out of the towel and across the room like a bullet, leaving bleeding limbs in her wake.  Oh well.  At least we got the antibiotic in her.  The ramifications of this have come in the form of an exploding cat.  She stands in the litter box, but insists on hanging her caboose over the edge, doing a remarkable amount of damage to the floor.  Thank heavens I have a teenage son who has been charged with responsibility for the cleanup.  I knew revenge for his behavior could be sweet, but this is the BEST! ;-)  The howling from the kitty's bathroom is hysterical.  I hear him yelling, "HOW HARD IS IT TO KEEP YOUR BUTT OVER THE LITTER?"  I laugh.  He doesn't.  I laugh more.

Charlotte was to return to the vet yesterday morning for a semi-anesthetized grooming, aka a good shave of all of the hair knots, followed by a dental cleaning under anesthesia.  I got out the nearly-antique cat carrier that has contained many a fine large cat.  Apparently, it was not designed to withstand the likes of Charlotte.  I put a catnip toy in the box, let her get a good nose hit from the container of catnip and scooped her up.  While putting on my shoes and grabbing the car keys, I heard a terrific scuffle and a bang, then saw the grey ball of fur shoot past like a rocket.  She had quite literally rammed a Charlotte-shaped hole out the end of the carrier, leaving the rim covered with bits of fur, and disappeared.  Sigh.

I rescheduled her procedures for this morning.  I found the 2nd old carrier, smaller and providing less room to build up the momentum to charge.  I wrapped the ends with duct tape, inside and out.  I had left the damaged carrier within eye shot to trick her.  It worked.  I calmly walked past her, turned, snatched and slam dunked that beast into the carrier.  I'm no dummy!  I raced her to the van, slipped the seat belt through the handle, and shoved a seriously thick hardcover novel against one end, pressing the other against the seat.  We zipped off to the vet, where I warned them that I was not about to let go of the ends to sign in and have Cujo the Cat blast out the end of the carrier.  I apologized to everyone in advance for any harm she may cause, once again telling them this is likely to be the one and only chance to get it all done.  Clearly they heard me.  There are a number of glaring, "CAUTION" stickers all over her paperwork and they indicated they would have her until about 4 p.m.

All this for about seven pounds of fluff.  Good grief.

Living La Vida Loca...I Wish

I have a very close friend going through some major life drama.  Right now, I am living vicariously through her and wishing I had some drama of my own.  My life is feeling terribly drab and predictable.  Is this what it means to be about to turn 50?  I don't like it all that much.  It's not that I feel 50.  OK, I do some days.  Many days.  I don't think I look 50 yet.  I creak and hurt in places that should neither creak nor hurt without having been whacked or bumped to cause such discomfort.  I forget words mid-thought and find myself going through the alphabet to fill in the blank.  What a goober!  I feel bruised and achy, though young at heart and sometimes downright resentful of being so darned drama-free.

I'd really like a little drama.   Just a little.

Starting over

Last week, my son had a project for school that he, unfortunately, put off until the last minute because he "forgot" about it.  Argh!  It was the final step related to a paper and presentation he'd made, requiring an artsy final project.  I introduced him to a few of my art supplies, showed him how to use the stuff, and let him work.  The "stuff" was a fine BLACK embossing powder, and he was using it to finish the edges of faux trading cards of mythological beasties.  Alas, the beastie was the boy with the black embossing powder that ended up all over my studio desk.  Worse, it ended up sprinkled all through the unbaked polymer clay of a sculpture I was working on and failed to cover completely (I'm not used to sharing studio space and was a dork not to think of this).

Tonight I tried to scrape a thin layer of clay off of what looked like a head with a five o'clock shadow from brow to chin and all the way around.  Imagine what it would look like baked!  OMG. 

I have just pulled all of the clay off of the foil base and thrown it in the garbage.  I saved the glass eyes I'm trying for the first time. 

The beast himself just delivered a fabulous jalapeno margarita crafted by my husband.  All is right with the world.  I'll just make a new head tomorrow.  Maybe it will be better than the one I had to chuck today.  I'm sure of it.  That will be my mantra throughout dinner.

Cheers!

Dancing Queen

My husband has been traveling for most of the last three weeks.  While I have enjoyed sleeping on the lump in the middle of the bed (as opposed to the dents that are usually occupied by our fannies) and watching television into the wee hours (insomnia blows), I am happy he's coming home tonight.  Yesterday I was able to join him at the closing dinner dance for his conference at the Disneyland Hotel.  What a party!

We have not danced like that together since our first date in 1977 and had a blast.  I had to laugh when another conference attendee (and good friend of my husband) teased that he was happy to dance with me, chuckling at Harold's 30+ year old version of the "old man funky chicken" or whatever that was.  I think dance lessons are in order for someone.  I won't name names.  :-)  We laughed and danced, then danced more until the band was finished.  What a fun reminder to get out of the slump that happens when one has been married for a zillion years.  I had hoped to get photographic evidence of his shenanigans, but he was a wild man and I couldn't get the shot in the crowd.

So I've got a lot of work to do to make the house look like I kept up all week.  Perhaps I'll pull that stunt of throwing some flour on my face and shirt and spray everything with Windex to make it look like and smell as if I've been slaving away.  I guess I'd better turn down the music too. ;-)

Today is a very, very good day.

Homage to Fred

When my son was young, I found it more convenient and less smelly to take him to the local pet store as opposed to driving to the zoo in Los Angeles.  We had fun looking at all of the lizards, snakes, frogs and fish and playing with puppies after which we did not have to scoop any you-know-what.  On one occasion about 11 years ago, the pet store had on display a large cage filled with a litter of kittens that had been abandoned at their doorstep over night.  They appeared to be about six weeks old.  Two of them (identical!) were soundly beating the tar out of all of the other kitties, purring loud enough to be heard across the store while they cheerfully administered their whooping.  Kevin and I sat on the floor and played with the kitties through the bars for a good 45 minutes.

They were all available for adoption.  I had promised my husband that I would never, ever bring home an animal that we hadn't agreed would be adopted.  He was under an enormous amount of stress at work and I didn't want to make it worse, but I just couldn't see NOT adopting this one adorable orange ball of fluff.  We had two kitties at home, one of which was two years old (Ricky) and always wanted to play; the other (Lucy) clearly never wanted to play and let Ricky know with a sound boxing of his ears daily.  We thought this kitty would make a nice playmate.  I called my husband and provide lengthy details about the divine qualities of this kitty.  He sighed and told me that if I just couldn't leave without the kitty, he understood and that was OK.  That was the day we adopted Fred.  If you already have a Lucy and a Ricky, you MUST name the new boy in the house Fred!

Fred has been a wonderful member of the family.  He was an amazing hunter, able to catch a hummingbird with a tall leap and a clap.  He routinely saved the yard from gophers and saved me from attacking June bugs (all I had to do was call, "Fred! Come get the kitty crouton!" and he'd come running, taking his job as crouton-catcher very seriously).  He was a big, furry bundle of purr and a talker.  He didn't meow as much as chirp and talk.

Last summer we noticed that Fred was rapidly losing weight.  He's a Maine Coon and at his peak, weighed 16.5 lbs.  While dropping weight like mad (and still eating), we found an open sore on a paw that just wouldn't heal after a few rounds of hefty antibiotics.  We finally got the diagnosis of cancer.  Over the last couple of months we watched him lose the vision in one eye and very recently found another of these tumor-like booboos on another paw.  We have cried for a week, knowing our days with him were numbered.  We sprawled on the lawn in the sun together this week while Fred chirped about the birds and lizards and the wild winds.

I was with Fred when they gave him the shot to help him relax, and then the 2nd to help him fall into that deep, deep sleep of no more pain and suffering.  I knelt down and put my nose to his and we looked eye to eye as he dozed off, stroking his fur and asking him to tell Lucy and Ricky to play nice with him up there in kitty heaven.  I'm so sad.  The whole family is so sad.  While I teased early in my blogging days about not writing about my pets, this is about love and loss and compassion of a fuzzy family member, not a cat.  We hope Fred is romping in a field of heavenly catnip with loads of sunshine in which to roll around.  This morning and every morning from now on, I will raise my coffee mug to my lovely Fred and thank him for giving us eleven years of kitty-parenting bliss.