It's kind of amazing to me how much less lonely you can feel when you've got a warm little purring ball of fur snuggled up next to you. After a long day in the car and then getting chased around my parents' house by Teddy, the Newfie, she's climbed as far up towards my neck as possible and is trying like hell to have me absorb her into my body. The poor thing. This break-up/relocation/being homeless thing is just no good for her.
Traveling with Baby Kitty is going to prove a little more daunting than I had originally thought. Her crying makes me want to get all stabby with my eardrums. It breaks my heart to know she's scared and it's my fault and I can't do anything about it. We've got some car rides coming up that I know neither of us are going to enjoy, and I'm kicking myself for not getting a sedative for her beforehand. Losing your baby sister and having to go on the road with your crazy mother is a situation that I personally believe deserves medication.
BK and I are currently holed up in my old bedroom, for the one night my mom is letting me stay here. The day-and-night walls have been painted over with flat white and every single one of the trillion glow-in-the-dark stars has been meticulously scraped from the ceiling. This room that was once so bright with color that my mother asked me how I could sleep...
They painted it less than two weeks after I moved out 7 years ago, but I've never come back here for anything more than a visit, so it never really hit home. But this... bland, sterile room is just not the place where I slept and breathed and cried and laughed and ached through 13+ years of my childhood. This is not the comfort I was seeking.
It's so weird to know that I'm not going back to Victoria Street. I had a pretty hard time leaving all the memories behind, two years of good and bad, incredible and absolutely devastating. That was one of the few places that I'll always consider to be my 'home'. I stood on the sidewalk and blew a kiss to the windows that I sneakily peered out of, the steps I smoked on, the walls that absorbed my sobs and gasps, laughter and shouting.
I invested a lot in that apartment. I let Kenz convince me to paint and by the time we were done, I was convinced that my arms would never work right again. But it made me immediately attached to that space, and it's never let up. I may have shared it with lovers and roommates over the past few years, but I put my mark on every single corner and surface there. If I prepared even one meal a day (and we all know it was more than that), then I've made over 700 meals in that kitchen. That was MY space.
A lot of things have changed and are changing. I'm not going to get into a lot of it, because it's just for me, for now. But that apartment, that was a place that I entertained, that I loved in and fought in. Most of all, it was the place that offered me comfort and protection during the past year when I was afraid to be anywhere but there. I have shared that space with people, but right now I am mourning the loss of what's mine, the spaces and the moments where I felt that I had succeeded in creating a Home for myself. In that sense above all others, I am truly homeless.
The first night of Operation: Find Your Way Home has been rocky, but Cricket soothed me with stories and banter until the birds chirped her bedtime song. Now that I can see the sky lightening through the pine branches, I'm pretty sure it's time for me to try to sleep too.
I have begun to feel like a prison warden lately. A prison warden with wet pants, because my watergun has a leak in it. I’m writing this letter to you, my furbabies, in the hopes that we can come to an agreement that will result in less water fights in the house. I’m not particularly domestically motivated as it is.
I took you in knowing that you had some problems. Your foster Mom told me about the electrocution thing, but you’ve been pretty good about cords since you got here. You shit on my head the night before a funeral (you had worms, but that’s no excuse!) and I still let you live in my house. Most people would say that’s pretty generous.
I can’t have any kind of living plants in the house because you EAT THEM. Not broccoli or carrots or asparagus, but roses and tulips and carnations are just tasty! You eat tampon wrappers, cigarette package cellophane, raw chicken if I turn my back for more than 3 seconds, bugs, stickers, peanut M&Ms and dust balls. Oh, and entire rolls of toilet paper. And then you make a show out of vomiting just when I’ve climbed into bed. You, my little ninja, learned to push my buttons early on.
Also, I totally busted you on top of the fridge the other night eating Meow Mix through the hole you scratched in the bag. Now all extra food has to go into the storage space because there’s no other kitteh-proof space for it. I need all my cabinet room, bitch.
You consistently shovel the sugar out of the sugar bowl and all over the kitchen floor - the counter is not your sandbox! You spend so much time digging around in your litter-igloo in the middle of the night that every time I clean the pan, I am convinced that a tunnel to China will be under there. Why, then, must you tamper with the most precious of my morning rituals - the making of the first cup of coffee? You know you don’t eat until after I’ve gone in the fridge for the half-and-half, why delay me by making me SWEEP first thing in the morning?
This isn’t college, I shouldn’t have to wear flip-flops in my own house to avoid stepping in something nasty or having a sugary-coating on my soles every morning.
You know you are my uncontested favorite, but Princess, we need to talk.
You do not own the bathroom. I’ve never been very shy, I can strip, sneeze and pee in front of almost anyone, but the owl-eyed examination you give me from your chaise sink makes me a tad uncomfortable. Also
I’d also like to remind you that I am allowed to close the door while attending to my toiletries. You must choose to be either inside or outside of the bathroom before I get into the shower. There is no changing your mind halfway through, so spend some time shedding on the towels and please stop ramming the door with your HEAD when it’s locked. I can’t afford a vet bill because you gave yourself a concussion when you heard the toilet flush and realized you weren’t there to witness it, and I’m also not getting out of the shower to open the door because the steam has offended your delicate sensibilities.
I know you’re beautiful, you know you’re beautiful, everyone knows you’re the prettiest pussy around, but hairballs of the kind which you leave for me are not cool. On the floor on my side of the bed in the early morning hours? Not cool. In the bathroom in front of the toilet - not cool. Here’s a compromise - you eat your anti-hairball goo and I’ll clean up any hairballs not in major apartment thru-ways.
Also, please learn to tell time. Dinner is served after it is dark outside. If I go into the kitchen at noon to make a sandwich, it does not mean that it is gooshy food time. If I go into the kitchen at 1:30 to get a drink, it is still not gooshy food time. If you need a clock, just follow your sister onto the counter whle she’s doing the sugar bowl thing and you should be able to see it just fine.
But if I could give you one bit of motherly advice, it would be something that I’ve been told many, many times over the years - whining is not attractive, so knock it off.
A quick note to both of you - PACE YOURSELVES! The dry food is ALWAYS out, fat kids. The gooshy food is served at 8am and 7pm. Just because you remember that the dry food is there, doesn’t mean that it’s gone when you go on your next spaced-out trip hunting imaginary bugs. No need to gorge yourself, honestly. We’re not a concentration camp, nor are you Somalian orphans. Also, only dogs eat puke. C’mon now, you’re better than that.
To your credit, you’re both wonderful snugglers and your sweetness warms my heart in the fleeting moments that I get to experience it. You have full run of the house, more food than you could eat in a lifetime and enough fuzzy-jingly-dangly-feathery toys to stock a Petco, so lets all try to get along. I’m fine with you walking on my face at 2am on your shortcut across the bed. I’ve resigned myself to a life covered in cat hair and filled with meering. You have personal perches I made to let you watch the neighborhood goings-on, and as much as I’ve wanted to, I’ve never put you in a sweater. I restrict my pettins to cheeks-and-chin only and am fluent in twitchy-tail. I like to think I’m a pretty good mom.
In consideration of the aforementioned complaints, it is expected that you will amend your behavior and act like ladies from this point forward. I’d really like to stop carrying a gun and I bet you’d enjoy walking through the house without having to shake your paws off.
Last week, my mother had an ultrasound to check on some fibroid tumors. Nothing big, just a routine check. Needless to say, they saw a mass on her ovary and scheduled her for another ultrasound, this time at Brigham & Women's in Boston. That's today, and she's asked me to go with her. *deep breath* I can do it, though. If I can do this for anyone, it's my Mom.This
was my morning greeting, except with both cats. Cats are so weird. JoJo is sitting next to me right now, watching the cursor and the typing on the screen and purring like mad.
Now, it's time for me to get ready for my big day.
I forgot how numb Cepacol makes my mouth. I just looked down at my chest and realized I was drooling.
I am teh sexay!
I read this
and immediately thought "thanny
's going to be SO upset."
Also, the strep-like sickness is back, complete with swollen cervical lymph nodes and pus on my tonsils. Maybe it's tonsilitis. I could live on ice cream. Either way, this has got to stop. Eating, drinking and enjoying all of my vices is seriously impeded and I can't sho my face at my doctor's office until I make a decision one way or the other about the Celexa she prescribed me over a month ago. Bah.
Not included in my accounting of the saga of last week:
The Evil One pooped on my head while I was sleeping Wednesday night. Thursday morning was the funeral and we came home and immediately took her to Arlington Animal Clinic. Even though I harbor a small hatred of them for after they almost killed Kenz's ferret Zipper, they are nevertheless the closest veterinary clinic. The verdict? Worms. So now every night, I put on my bathrobe (neck-to-ankle coverage from claws) and we force-feed worm meds to the ninja kitty with the extra claws. I'm still wearing flip-flops everywhere I go, just in case. Dribbly kitty bums are just no fun.
Also, last weekend during a random conversation at my parents house, my mother says the following: "I know that's probably selfish of me, but I learned from the best", after which she gestured to me. It was offhand, and probably not meant maliciously, but it stung. Please, don't get me started on the bad habits I've acquired from YOU.
I really should try to nap so that I'm not dangerous to anyone.
|» There's a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you...|
Melis' grandpa passed away this afternooon. And while everyone knew it was an eventuality, it was still so much more sudden than anyone was prepared for. I take a small bit of comfort from the fact that he wasn't in any pain in the end and that he passed in his sleep, knowing he was loved and adored. |
This makes things crazy and complicated, in so many ways. This family has lost their patriarch and Melis has lost the Man in her life. In two words: This Sucks.
Excerpt from an article that I read once in the Boston Globe and kept.
"...Sara was faced with the full brunt of grief upon grief, and I was faced with the fact that there was nothing I could do about it.
Grief attaches itself to every other emotion, and I was amazed at how often everyday events that were cause for minor confusion or frustration morphed into full-blown mourning for Sara. Even moments of joy and celebration transitioned to tears without warning. My endeavors to make things easier never worked. Attempts to lift her mood simply left me feeling useless. And on the occasions when I let my own grieving show, Sara was simply hurting too much to connect....
So when Sara and I sat in the theater, and the two leads sang a song that always reminds Sara of her mother, I waited for the tears to come. With Sara weeping in the seat next to me, I finally understood my role. In a crowded, dark theater, I couldn't speak to her or hold her or even help her get out of that place. All I could do was hold her hand and have Kleenex at the ready, letting her know that I'd still be there when the music ended and the lights finally came back on."
~ Shawn Peters
|» In sickness and in health.|
I currently have one of those friend situations that makes me want to rip my hair out. |
My best friend Danielle has been my best friend since we were 16-years-old. We've had our ups and downs and I understand that life is profoundly different when you have two children, but it's getting to the point where I only get a phone call or a short, terse e-mail when she needs something from me.
At Christmastime, Melis and I went to Carver twice (the first time we got all the way down there and she told us she was too sick to see us) so that we could see her and the kids and give them all the persents we bought them. My birthday was two weeks later and I never heard from her. Mikey's birthday was a week after that, and I had to find out after-the-fact that there was a party, but we weren't invited.
Fast forward to last weekend, when I get a MySpace message (not even a personal e-mail!) telling me that she's selling Mary Kay on the side and asking if I can come down to Carver and help her throw a Mary Kay party THIS SUNDAY (3/9). ???!?!?!?!!!!!!?!?!?!?!!!!!!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!
Oh, but here's the kicker - she also asks me to take her and the baby to Children's Hospital in Boston next Monday because Joey is scheduled to have tubes put in.
I mean, I'm torn. Joey is my godson. I'm tempted to tell her to go to hell with her damn MK party, and then offer to meet her at Children's on Monday and keep her company for a while, just so I can see my baby boy and make sure he's okay. But then there's the part of me that knows that once I get on the phone and agree to any part of it, she'll launch into her sob story of how tough her life has been for the past few months and I'll end up feeling badly and just agree to everything, and I don't want to do that.
I'm sorry, but I just don't have the energy or the desire to fix other people's problems right now. I can barely take care of myself.
The worst part is that being trapped in the house for months has made me desperate for companionship and for the familiarity of comfortable friendship. Other than occasional visits by smithgrrlie or givemean_a I'm alone or with Melis. So, I want to see Dee, I would love to have my best friend back, but I don't know if I have it in me to try to put myself out there for her again. I mean, I'm missing out on so much of Joey's growing up. I missed over a year of Mikey's babyhood because she was being a brat.
There's just something so tempting about a person that you don't have to explain yourself to. 11 years of friendship makes it easy to hear what someone isn't saying and to give them what they didn't even realize they needed. I guess I just have to figure out if it's worth it or not. And I honestly just don't know.
Hopefully my strep test will come back positive and I'll just have to tell her that I'm really sorry, but I don't want to get anyone sick. This might be the first time I've ever wished to be infected with something.
*insert whining & dramatic flailing here* I'm SO sick.|
Last night I started feeling a little off. The glands on the side of my neck were slightly swollen and a little sore and I commented on it, but quickly forgot and fell asleep. This morning I wake up and I can't turn my head, I'm so swollen and sore. No sore throat, no coughing, but I still feel like I'm dying.
Everyone has the sicknesses that they hate and the sicknesses that they can just barely tolerate. It sounds ridiculous, but you know what I mean. I've had a stomach bug off-and-on since Thanksgiving, and I can handle puking. At least you feel better afterwards. But this? This is one of those things where I just want to lie around and moan and complain about how sick I feel.
The fact that Baby Kitty is in heat is really not helping things. She sounds like a dying infant and she's practically burrowing under my bathrobe to get attention. She got shut out of the bedroom (which never happens) at 6am this morning because she was voicing her sexual frustration while standing on my pillow.
If the vet hadn't raped us for the vaccinations, we wouldn't be having this problem. $250 per kitten was NOT the $115 the receptionist quoted me. It sounds petty, especially from the point of view of "Don't get animals if you can't pay for them" but it's more to the fact that we CAN pay for them, when medical professionals tell us what to reasonably expect our costs to be BEFORE they examine our pets. As soon as we have the money saved up, we're taking both of them to Angell (the local animal hospital that the vet talked me out of going to in the first place) and getting the whole situation taken care of. Two furbabies, minus the girly bits. So, to soothe myself in the meantime, I talk to the little hornball about how cute she's going to look when they shave her belly and stick a lampshade on her neck. About how we'll have to uncover all the catboxes so she can fit. About how she won't be able to lick her own butt for WEEKS.
Melis says I'm mean, but I say that it's the only thing that's keeping me from a "shaken kitten" episode right about now.
Surprisingly, either the Evil One hasn't hit puberty yet, or she's suffering silently, like the ninja she is. Either way, it's one point for the Evil Kitten, because one thing she never does is mess with my beauty sleep.
My plans for the day have been scrapped and the plan is now to watch Season 2 of Numb3rs on my laptop, get as stoned as my swollen glands allow me to and hopefully catch a nap before my 3:30 therapy appointment. And I'm only dragging myself to that because I don't want to pay her hourly rate out-of-pocket because I canceled within 24 hours. Blah blah blah.
Off to go die on the couch.
|» Random cuteness|
So, I swiped this Flickr pool from one of thanny's recent posts and I had to put it here for everyone's enjoyment. I've even discussed getting a harness for the girls, since JoJo spends all of her time trying to get out and get the birds, anyway. Plus, with the way she acts with a collar on, I'm just DYING to get a picture of her trying to get the harness off. |
I know someone who has a sweater for their cat, but every time they put it on her, she falls over. Just tips right over onto her side, like those fainting goats I saw on Dirty Jobs. A small part of me hopes that a harness and/or a cutesy-wootsy cat sweater will be the Evil One's kryptonite, but for now we'll just have to wait and see.
Enjoying the birds and taunting the neighbor's dogs.