Margot the Magnificent!

I can't believe it's been seven months since we lost our sweet Abby Tabby.  I can't believe I went so long without a cat in the house.  It was unnatural.  I may not have grown up with cats (Mom and I were both terribly allergic.  I grew out of it; she didn't.), but I have had at least one (and up to 3 -- insanity) feline(s) in my home since 1997.  First there was Sophie (or more appropriately, Satan).  Then there was Murray (my love), then Abby, then precious Hobson (or Hobbes depending on who you ask).  When Abby died, I was torn between grieving a pet of sixteen years and longing to fill that empty cat-shaped spot in the house.  We attempted to remedy the catless situation back in February when we adopted Oscar.  Sadly, poor Oscar was too troubled (and vicious) for a home with a small child.  It was a heartbreaking decision, but Oscar had to go.

But enough with all the sad stuff.  Because we have a new family member, and this little stinker is here to stay.  Meet Margot!

This little ball of fluff and teeth and purrs is around nine weeks old and was approximately six weeks when we brought her home.  I had been reconsidering my ban on adopting a kitten (usually preferring to rescue an adult cat) because of the size of our beast/dog, Sam.  My hope was that if the kitten grew up with a giant dog, she wouldn't know any different and they could be friends, but more on that in a minute.  A friend had recently rescued a tiny 4 to 5 week old kitten abandoned in a parking lot and had put the call out on Facebook.  The pictures were too cute/pitiful to ignore, and I decided to meet the little orphan.  She was tinier than I expected and had more fleas than any living creature should have to endure, but I was hooked.

The next step was to de-flea the poor baby, and my friend and I rallied for the seven hour ordeal.  (Incidentally, excellent friend-bonding time, elbow deep in flea-filled water, holding a struggling kitten together.  Seriously, it was like months of actual friend time compressed into a day!)  I'll save you the gory details of picking off hundreds of fleas and instead give you this:

And this:

Sweet little Margot (named after a character, Margot Tenenbaum, from my all-time favorite movie, The Royal Tenenbaums) was a real trooper through all the de-fleaing torture, and a few days later she came home to a very excited five year old and an extremely sniffy dog.  She has since adjusted quite nicely to this slightly askew family, and has morphed into a hilarious, fluffy little dictator/clown who runs the house between cuddles.  The dog does little more than annoy her, except for when she's stalking/attacking his cords, which she loves, and her favorite pastime is listening to Kiddo read.  There is no in-between for Margot Kitten, and she is either the Queen of Cuddles, purring and stretching and squeezing her eyes shut tight, or she is Kitten Murderface, wielder of razor claws and microscopically pointy teeth that she clamps down with abandon.  There is much running and hiding and stalking and booty shaking and attacking and flipping and chasing and back arching and purring and head butting and nibbling and swatting and hissing and sniffing and every other kitten good thing there is.

And through it all, Sam remains impassive:

Just a slight size disparity.  Nothing insurmountable. 

Things That Are Making Me Happy

In lieu of another rant on what's making me grumpy today (and there's plenty), here are some of the things that are making me happy (in between the grumpiness):

My little workspace

Yes, that's my dog.  Yes, he looks like a rug.  Ha, ha.  Never heard that before.

While I do sometimes pine for my bigger desk upstairs (if you could see my other desk, you'd get that pun), I am so grateful for my sweet, little workspace that's been squeezed into the guest room.  I can be near Kiddo while still being tucked away.  And that makes me happy.

Weird Stories

This book opens with a story about a woman who dresses us as Bigfoot so people can "hunt" her.  And that kind of weirdness makes me happy.  Also, I met Ms. van den Berg when she came to Converse a few years ago (okay, more than a few years ago), and she was talented and gracious. Somehow this book sat on my shelf, untouched until now.  (Blame grad school.)  Anyway, I read her latest, Find Me, earlier this year and COULD NOT put it down.  Really enjoying her short stories as well.

Perler Beads

Kiddo has discovered the magic of placing tiny little beads on a tiny little pegboard and then melting them to smithereens with an iron (I do that part, obvs.)  While all those itty-bitty holes do make my scalp crawl just a bit (that's a thing, actually, called trypophobia.  Don't Google it.  The images are terrifying), I'm loving the free work time I get while she carefully makes two-dimensional cats and turtles.  

Book Riot Podcasts and YouTube Videos

Okay, I'm pretty sure I mentioned this in an earlier post, but I am just so obsessed with my new bookish "friends."  I've also found at least one other bookish YouTuber that I'm enjoying called, "climbthestacks."  Check them all out!

Gluten-Free Truffles

L to R: Lemon Heaven, Triple Mocha, Hazelnut Gianduia, and Chai Something-I-Can't-Remember

The days of Godiva boxes for Valentine's Day may have ended with my Celiac diagnosis, but the chocolate goodness is back (and actually MUCH better) at The Chocolate Fetish in downtown Asheville.  Such a beautiful shop, with helpful staff, and a really lovely selection of GF truffles!  Yum!

And last, but not LEAST...

My Tiny Empty Picture Frame

No, I haven't lost my mind.  Well, maybe I have, but this isn't evidence of it.

I believe I mentioned in a previous post that I am reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird.  If you've read this amazing book on the writing craft, you'll know why I now have an itty-bitty picture frame on my desk.  If not, drop everything and go read it.  I'm not doing the work for you!

Guilty as Charged

I like to believe that I went into this whole parenting thing about as open-eyed as an introverted only child can be.  It wasn't something we rushed into.  We dated for two years before we got married and then waited seven more years before having a child.  In that span of time, we settled into marriage, built a house, switched jobs, lost jobs, left jobs, finished a bachelor's degree and started an MFA.  We worked out kinks in communication and developed a comfortable daily shorthand that required little talking.  I was prepared for (or at least knew to expect) sleep loss, chaotic and sporadic housekeeping, new schedules, tantrums, extra laundry.  But there was one thing that nobody prepares you for; nobody even mentions it.  Guilt.  So.  Much.  Guilt.

It starts almost immediately.  Yes, I was the lunatic who decided to get pregnant while completing my MFA.  This meant hours of writing and reading and apart from my (mostly sleeping) newborn.  My husband took a shift in the night feedings so that I could be alert enough to work after the six am feeding.  I was letting my sweet baby down.  I was letting my hard-working husband down.  I was writing really awful stuff.  Talk about jack-of-all trades, master of none.  I was doing exactly nothing well.  But all I had to do was get through the program, and then I would be free to be mother of the year.  Or at least, a guilt-free mom.  Ha.

Then I graduate.  I had a master's of fine arts degree and an online journal to birth and a writing camp to plan.  And while my Little Bit was sleeping through the night, there was still that push/pull of guilt if I'm not writing/working and guilt if I am.  Enter preschool.  After two years, I had finally had enough.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd written, and I felt like I was quickly losing touch with my sense of self or even the ability to have a coherent, cohesive thought.  I told myself that preschool was vital for her social skills (and it was), but there was still that underlying guilt about the relief I felt when I dropped off Kiddo twice a week.

Still I limp along.  Writing and working one week, buried in housework or sickness or appointments the next.  4K meant four mornings a week were my own, which seemed an embarrassment of riches at the beginning of the school year, and nowhere near enough by the end.  My work was sporadic at best and non-existent most days.  Teaching comp at my alma mater is a welcome break from the mommy identity, but mostly it just serves as a reminder of what I'm not doing.

Preschool ends.  There is an adorable program and celebration and new bike with training wheels and a flashy helmet.  A week into summer break, and I'm already losing my mind.  So many words, and none of them on my MacBook.  My five year old does not believe in unexpressed thoughts.  I can barely manage to wade through the deep torrent of words that obliterate even the memory of quiet.  Week Two is just as bad.  I want/need to escape.  Trapped doesn't begin to explain my feelings.  I know I need do something or I'm going to lose my mind.  And making all of this worse?  The deep-seated guilt that washes over me every time I look longingly at the clock or calendar and wish for school to start or at least a weekend.

In case, you didn't already know, I like writer, Sarah Bessey.  A lot.  She has so many wise and beautiful things to say about God and family and life.  This post in particular has stuck with me lately, reminding me of the importance of doing good work, of allowing our children to see us doing said work.  Sure, I am Kiddo's mom, but I am also a writer, a teacher, a reader, and a whole lot of other things outside of Chief Maid, Cook, and Entertainer.  As I clack away on my laptop today (and have been doing nearly daily for the past two weeks), I am nowhere near guilt-free.  Kiddo still comes in my office and pleads for me to play with her every few minutes, and when that doesn't work, she gets crazy-inventive with excuses to poke her funny face in my door.  I tell myself that this time every morning won't kill her, might even be good for her.  I remind myself of the resentment I feel when I'm not able to work and counter-productive feelings of frustration and guilt that follow.  And I keep typing.  Or try to.

I finished another draft (#5) of my most recent story today.  Even as I typed the final words, part of me was feeling guilty that it took so long to get it done.  See?  The guilt is everywhere.  Even the dog likes to lay it on thick when I'm chained to my desk.

Sad dog looks sad.

Unfortunately, guilt isn't limited to the self-inflicted kind either.  Every day as I scroll through my Facebook feed, I am awash in articles reminding me (and all parents) that time is short, kids grow alarmingly quickly, and everything must be homemade, amazing, and entirely kid-focused.  (And organic.)  Because we can't feel bad about our parenting skills all on our own.  Needless to say, I skip right over those internet gems now.

And that was Kiddo Hug Attempt #543.  That's her lowest blow, I think.  I'm just interrupting you for the thousandth time because I wanted to give you a hug.  Who am I kidding?  While no one may have warned me about parental guilt, Kiddo definitely got the memo.  I am so screwed.

[Get Out of My] Cabin Fever

I officially have "Get Out of My Cabin" Fever.  This particular illness differs from the more traditional, Cabin Fever, in that it requires every else in the house to leave and enjoy the outside world, whilst I remain home in my cozy nest, alone.  Except for the dog.  He can stay.

He's the strong, silent type.

We've been hit hard the past two weeks.  First there was the scourge of mothers everywhere....head lice.  There was treating and combing and laundry.  Lots of laundry.  And then there was more treating and more combing and more laundry.  If you see a kid at preschool running around in a swimming cap, that's going to be my kid.  We are NOT risking this madness again.  Also, I had to go three days without washing my hair or using any kind of hair product.  Yeah, there won't be any pictures of that.  Or maybe that's not really a photo of Sam above.  Needless to say, there has been quite a bit of homebound time during the Lice Debacle of 2015.

Everything but the Xanax

And then, just when I thought we couldn't have any more togetherness, there was the ice storm.  And no, it was nothing like the movie.  Here in the South, the world shuts down whenever any sort of frozen precipitation falls from the heavens, so we've been home now for three days with no preschool (Presidents' Day was thrown in just for fun.)  I have taken to hiding in the back of the house as soon as my husband gets home and takes over as Chief Question Answerer/Admirer/Edifier/Entertainer.  We say things like, "Mommy is taking a bath," which is code for, "Don't bother Mommy while she watches Star Trek:Voyager in peace."

Lest I sound like the biggest villain since whoever cancelled Arrested Development, allow to me clarify that we did celebrate Valentine's Day as best we could as a family, and I made pancakes with Kiddo this morning just because.  I also allowed my husband to join me in the back of the house to watch the mid-season premiere of The Walking Dead (yes, we're an episode behind.)  So I have my moments of soft-heartedness.  Only moments though.

Back to zombies, however.  What is the deal with the second halves of seasons on this show?  Last year we had to wade through at least six episodes of the separated group whining, I mean, wandering through the woods and a whole lot of not much else.  The first half of the current season was action-packed and ended with a BANG (literally.)  And now, here we are again in the Slough of Despair, directionless, whiny, and killing off one of the only currently interesting characters.  I am so sick of Conflicted Rick with his Furrowed Brow, and now it seems (at least as far as the mid-season premiere went) that he has passed this disease on to the perpetually hopeful Glenn.  Anyway, fingers crossed that the second episode is better tonight.  Also, on a side note, there is a special place reserved in hell for people who post spoilers on Facebook.  Ever heard of a DVR?  Or a ROKU?  Official Facebook pages for shows, this goes for you too!  (You'll notice that I was VERY careful to word my complaints about the show in very non-specific language above.)

While I'm in such a sunny mood, I'll also post a mini-review of Lena Dunham's Not That Kind of Girl, which finally came in on my reserve at the library.  (There were something like thirty people ahead of me.  This is not hyperbole.)  I added my name to the list, pretty much as soon as it came out -- you know, somewhere between the release announcement and the shitstorm of accusations that followed.  I've seen Dunham called all kinds of unrepeatable things -- not the least of which were that she was a child predator -- online and in print by a whole herd of angry people.  So when the title finally came in to my little library with my name on it, my excitement was tinged with curiosity from reading so much negative press.  I read the book in two days, so obviously, it was entertaining.  Reading this book convinced me of two things: #1 - Lena Dunham is awesomeamazingsupercoolsmartfunnycleverkindredspirit.  #2 - All those KneeJerks (as I am henceforth dubbing them) didn't actually read the book.  Now there's a shock.  

So what is their (the KneeJerks) problem with Lena Dunham?  Is it really that she was curious about what the human body looked like when she was very little?  Is it the fact that she talks about what she actually thought and felt as a young person in a completely honest, open, and straightforward way?  Or is that she is a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, at ease with own thoughts, and unapologetic about her personality and temperament? Perhaps if she showed some sort of shame about her not-so-Hollywood body they could forgive her being smart, funny, and a woman.  I am so over the dismissal of powerful women as bitches or perverts, as if being a woman in charge is somehow unnatural. 

Ok, I'm getting riled up, and this isn't the day to risk that.  So we'll move on.  Before we do, though, on a semi-related note, here's a link to a great Salon article on the power of female nudity. Do yourself a favor and read it with an open mind.

Well, Kiddo has had all the alone time she can muster, and there is a little face at my door every couple of minutes now with some manufactured reason why I need to be interrupted.  And I just used the words "unless you're on fire or dying" in a sentence to her, so yeah, I'd better go.  Plus, there are still papers to grade (only five, so that's not too bad.)  Tomorrow it's back to school.  FOR EVERYONE!

[Un]Happy New Year

There is something inherently risky about being a pet in our house during the new year.  Murray, my funny and possessive gray and white kitty?  January 2007.  Hobbes (aka Hobson), my precious and gentle tortoiseshell Persian? December 30, 2009.  And now the latest: Our sweet Abby Tabby, who would have been sixteen years old in March died on Wednesday.  Despite her advanced age, she still seemed and looked much younger than she was, and age may mitigate but never erases our devastation.  She was quirky and loving and vocal.  She was a voracious eater, indulging in the dog's food daily, despite our best attempts to deter her.  Even Sam, our Komondor, looks for her and seems a little sad and lost.  I say "even" because Abby hated Sam with the special kind of venom one usually reserves for Pauly Shore movies.

So, not such a happy new year here.  And you want to know what really sucks?  I can't read.  I can't write.  There's no getting lost in a book to forget about sadness for awhile.  My brain just won't focus.  Honestly, I'm having difficulty putting this blog entry together, but I'm determined to write my way through this paralysis.  So, here I sit, tapping away and trying to create a sentence that is neither maudlin nor flip.  And failing miserably.

Maybe you're reading this and thinking, "Being dramatic much?"  I'm guessing then that you've never lost a pet.  I see her and hear her everywhere, and sitting with an animal while they die isn't something you can just shake off and instantly move on from. (See? Now I'm ending sentences in prepositions.  It's the grief writing, and apparently, grief has terrible grammar.)

No wise or witty words today.  No lists or rants.  Just a sad person trying not to think so much about big green eyes or stripey tails and then writing about them anyway.

Abby (1999 - 2015)