I'm Back (and Grumpier Than Ever.)

It has become clear that I am incapable of maintaining my blog through a semester of teaching.  Between the hectic schedule (we're temporarily a one-car family, which is INSANE), the teaching, the grading, the parenting, the regular life stuff, and ever-present health issues, my good intentions fell down, paving whatever road I was on (we know which one), and I haven't written ANYTHING since January.  I mean no writing.  No fiction, no editing, no blogging, just reading for class and reading freshman papers. (No comment.) It's not been great for my state of mind, but I try to keep my head down and plug away.  The good news is that I posted final grades this morning, and I am a free woman till August.  Actually, I have almost a month until Kiddo is out of school, so I have three-and-a-half weeks of uninterrupted writing time, and dammit, I'm going to make the most of it.  So on this, my first day of freedom, I hauled my lazy, depressed ass to Barnes & Noble, laptop in hand (or in bag, as the case may be), loaded up on sugary goodness (London Fog and a GF marshmallow treat) and got to work.

Why, yes, I do have a filter addiction.  But it's so pretty.

I glanced through my notes and opened up a blank document on my Mac and freaked the *%#@ out. White space is infinitely scarier, more intimidating, when you've been neglecting your craft for months.  I feel like such a slacker.  So I decided to compromise by starting with a little blog entry (instead of ending with it as a reward as I'd earlier planned.)  For some reason, a blank blog screen is so much less frightening.  I think maybe it's the whole give-yourself-permission-to-write-badly thing.  I'm usually much less focused on perfection when I'm tapping out a quick note to my blog buddies.  (Sorry, nothing personal.)  But, it is writing and totally counts, especially on this first day back in the old writing saddle.  My computer is out, and I am practicing ass-in-seat with every ounce of self-control I have left.  (I probably have some to spare today since I didn't use any when ordering in the cafe.)

So what has been going on since January, you ask?  (It's okay if you didn't.  This is just about my continuing to type, remember?)  Well, Kiddo turned six, our cat has morphed into the literal spawn of Satan, I survived another semester (with a brand-new subject), I skipped another Valentine's Day, we killed another vehicle, I read (though not as many books as I'd like), I discovered the skinny London Fog at Starbucks, and I bought a new handbag (not something I do very often.)  Oh wait, I forgot the most important thing: I became completely obsessed with Hamilton.  My six year old now has a preternatural knowledge of Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr, and the Revolutionary War in general.  (I read Sarah Vowell's Lafayette and the Somewhat United States during that time as well, which only deepened the whole 18th century America obsession.)  I've also gotten really skilled at muting out the worst of the four-letter words in the musical's soundtrack whenever Kiddo is in the car.  We don't need her going to school and singing about the "Mother@#%*ing Democratic Republicans," now do we?

"Work" indeed.

Health-wise, I've remained in a bit of holding pattern.  Lately, I've been dealing with a med change that hasn't gone exactly as planned (mood swings and electrical-feeling brain zaps, anyone?)  Good times, but I haven't been hospitalized or had a major illness since February, so we're definitely calling that a win.  I still get frustrated by the way in which my health issues limit my lifestyle (and that of my family), but I don't suppose that is going anywhere any time soon.

So, while some things may have changed over the last few months, one very important thing remains the same:  I'm still a grumpy, cranky, get-off-my-lawn old lady who really wants a t-shirt that says, "He's a Komondor.  Yes, his hair is supposed to look like that.  Yes, he can see.  Go ahead and take your picture if it means you'll leave me alone.  No, I can't eat that.  No, I won't ever be joining you at a church event, as every single one is centered on food and people don't take no for an answer.  No, I don't want to talk about my Celiac, and I'm so happy that you once met somebody with a tummy ache which you're certain is the same thing and can be cured by juicing.  And stop thinking it's funny/cute when you (a grown man) tell my child she's going to marry you when she grows up."  

I know.  I'm a freaking ray of sunshine.

I hope this won't be a lone post .  No, I know this won't be a lone post.  I'm committed.  I have plenty to say; I just have to plan so that every post isn't an angry, cranky rant.  For now, though, I've put off that white space long enough.  My fingers and brain are warmed up, and the caffeine from my London Fog is circulating.  Time to get writing.

Snowpocalypse? Not so much.

When I got up this morning, there was a lovely blanket of white covering everything, making our ugly backyard beautiful, covering up the rusty wheelbarrow and the old charcoal grill that needs to go to the dump.  Even those stupid wild onions that pop up in our front yard every winter are hidden by the snow.  Unfortunately, that picturesque moment has been pretty much obliterated by a steady fall of freezing rain ever since.  The snow is still under there somewhere, but I don't think any cute kids will be asking if they can sled down our hill this afternoon.

View from the porch (as far our as I intend to venture.)

And while we're on the topic of plans and visions going awry...the weather has also put a stop to my work/reading bonanza of a weekend.  My husband and Kiddo were planning to go to visit grandparents sans mommy this weekend, leaving me to be productive and bask in the quiet solitude of an empty house.  Don't get me wrong--I'm glad they're home safe, but there is a small part of me that is mourning my lost weekend.

On the upside, you haven't lived until you've heard a six year old waking up to snow outside the window. Excited doesn't begin to cover it.  She's been asking to go outside every five minutes since her feet hit the floor.  The child has no understanding of sleet and freezing rain.  Looks like we may have to let her find out the hard way.  At least my husband is off from work and can take her out in the mess whilst I stay warm and cozy in front of my heater.

The furry members of our family have opinions about the weather too.  The Big Dog LOVES cold weather, and snow is even more magical for him than Kiddo, I believe.  You're trying to walk him, and all he wants do is FROLIC.  He has no appreciation of our distaste for icicles on our eyebrows.  Kitten Murderface, however, is just happy that all the blinds are open, the better to wreak havoc on all the cords and slats, all while being highly suspicious of the tink, tink of ice on the windows.

The best part of this most un-Snowmaggedon of days, however, is that we can't/won't go ANYWHERE.  Never one for flitting here and there, I've progressed to nearly hermit levels as I've gotten older, and leaving the house is one of my least favorite things.  So today there was no hauling Kiddo to school before the sun is fully up, or waiting in car line for nearly an hour.  I don't even have to put on pants! (I did, though.  Can I collect my prize now?)

So, while my productivity may be slightly less (especially following a work/teaching related hiccup discovered this morning) and my peace and quiet significantly reduced, at least all my clothes are cotton and have elastic.  My socks are fuzzy.  My tea is hot.  And Kiddo wears fleece footie pajamas at night that make her look like a cuddly stuffed animal.  Snow Day FTW!

An Open Letter to Our Cat

Dear Margot,

First, allow me to welcome you to the family.  I know it's been two and a half months since you've joined us, but we've been pretty busy, so you'll forgive my lateness.  We're a pretty fun group -- if your definition of fun is staying home, living a sedentary life of reading and watching tv and eating, with only brief bursts of energy that propel us off our posteriors and into equally brief moments of sociability -- but you're a cat, so that seems like a good fit.  The smallest member of the family (yourself excluded) has more frequent (and intense) bursts of activity (and sociability), but we figure she'll outgrow that.

We may have gotten off on the wrong foot in terms of your understanding of the contract of expected behavior, so this seems like a good time to break down the rules and expectations for living in this house.

1.  You have a litter box.  Use it.  Great news!  You've already got this one down.  No problems here.  Keep it that way if you know what's good for you, er, I mean, GOOD JOB!

2.  Chew nothing but your kibble and cat toys.  We've had a little run-in on this one already, haven't we?  My fault for not explaining the terms of your contract, sooner, I suppose.  So let me break it down for you.  You are adorable.  You are soft and fluffy and have big eyes and ears that you use to your advantage.  Nevertheless, there are not enough cute head butts and purrs in your repertoire to make up for destroying my MacBook charger.  Silky ears and twitchy tails do not keep my laptop running.  Keep those pointy little fangs to yourself, and we'll get along just fine.  And on a related note...

3.  DON'T BITE.  Not me.  Not anybody.  But especially not me.  Perhaps this one requires a little history.  You probably don't remember this far back (nearly three months ago), but you were rescued from certain death by a dear friend.  Together, she and I took one look at your tiny, flea-covered body and suited up for battle.  We knew we couldn't use any chemicals on such a young kitten, and so we spent the better part of a day picking hundreds of fleas off your squirmy, little self.  Did you catch that?  We picked them off by hand.  I'm not asking for much in return.  Just a little gratitude.  Ever heard that chestnut, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you?"  Didn't think so.  Well, it also applies to the hand that feeds and picks fleas off you by hand so as not to poison your baby body with chemicals.  You're welcome.

4.  Don't destroy my furniture/curtains/child's toys/etc.  Remember that story about how I picked fleas off you by hand?  How I provided you with a home full of food and warmth and a dog covered in cords/kitten toys?  Yeah, keep that in mind every time you get the urge to scratch the sofa or cling to the footboard of my bed using only your rear claws and killer balance.  Though I will say I appreciate your self-control in waiting at least two days before removing every one of the claw caps I so carefully applied.  It shows you have some self-control.  Or a sense of humor.

5.  Keep doing that thing where you sit on my chest and purr so loudly it can be heard across the room.  That's really working for me.  Especially when you combine it with the half-shut eyes and occasional chin or nose lick.  Keep up the good work.

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. 

Making Peace

I don't think of myself as a peaceful person.  A happy person?  A content person?  I try.  A kind person? I probably miss the mark on that more often than I care to admit.  But mostly, I am a seething mass of anxieties and frustrations, guilt and sometimes anger.  Maybe I'm not any more fraught with negative emotions than anybody else.  Nearly all of us put on a smooth, still mask in public to cover the roiling emotions within.  And yet, these days I keep feeling a call to peace.

I am an anxious person by nature.  I worry.  I analyze.  I replay humiliations on a loop in my head, hoping that repeated viewings will reduce the sting.  Not surprisingly, that doesn't work.  An orderly life filled with calm routine is my ideal, but these days it's unlikely to be my reality.  More often than not, my days are that's-not-the-right-foot-get-that-out-of-your-mouth-why-aren't-you-eating-a-few-more-papers-to-grade-just-let-me-read-one-more-book with no reasonable expectation of sanity.  So really, is a desire for peace so surprising?

In our house, peace has come to equal "quiet" and "alone."  Kiddo has learned that to allow Mommy to do something "in peace" means she makes herself scarce while I do something exciting like use the bathroom and scoop the litter box.  Peace is what the cat wants when he flees to the one room in the house where our giant dog can't hassle him.

Yes, please.

But peace is more than the absence of a thing.  No sound, no hurry, no distractions.  Peace isn't always something that waits for you in the quiet spaces.  Those little pockets of solitude in our days can be stressful and anxiety-inducing as we recite lists and obligations, mark down schedules and plan meals.  A few minutes of mindless television can turn into the least peaceful part of the day as a parade of horrors plays on the news, or a program or movie slips into familiar territories of violence, bigotry, and misogyny.

Sometimes we have to actively make peace.

I'm talking about more than turning off the TV and setting aside the to-do lists.  For me, so much about making peace in my life is about intentionally setting aside anger and remembering to what I am called.  My life is to be modeled after Jesus' life, and he was the ultimate peacemaker.  If Jesus had a car, his rear window and bumper wouldn't be crowded with stickers endorsing divisive partisan politics.  There wouldn't be a pithy endorsement of gun rights with a warning about what sort of weapon is protecting the vehicle.  He wouldn't be on social media rejoicing in the violent deaths of anyone, regardless of their histories or crimes. I believe he would weep just as much over the US, with its delusions of exceptionality, as he would over any conflict-riddled place on earth.  He would mourn the brokenness of this world, but he would still love the people in it.  And that love would cross lines of race, politics, sexual orientation, and religion.

Peace has been shadowing me for weeks.  Sunday's sermon? Peace.  Two beautiful books I recently read?  So much about peace.  This is about so much more than my nightly escape to a solitary bath and some one-on-one time with my Netflix subscription.  This is about that unconditional, unwavering love that makes everything else insignificant and small.  This is about living a lifestyle of peace.  Yes, even for that guy in the Mazda who couldn't wait in line like everybody else and cut me off at the exit to 385.  I've got to wish him peace as well.  And the people who post articles to social media that make my blood boil.  There is righteous anger, and there is just wanting to be right.  In scripture, Jesus' anger is laser-targeted and brief.  It's one short episode in a story full of love and peace.  He experienced righteous anger, but Jesus wasn't angry.  But I am.  A lot.

Such is the paradox of peace.  We live in a flawed and flailing world full of injustices that we must not blindly accept as "just the way things are."  And yet, in the midst of our shouting down evil, we must maintain our central message of love.  We are to be a peaceful people, uncorrupted by the violence and vitriol of the world.  It's a balancing act, one that doesn't always lend itself to peaceful feelings.  Even so, from the center of my hectic, messy life to yours, I wish you peace.

Back from the Dead (Mostly)

So I dropped of the face of the earth for a week.  I have an excuse: I was dying.  Or at least, I was wishing I could.  Worst virus ever.  On the good news side, I did have a fuzzy, warm body nearby to keep me toasty through fever and chills.

We call this "pike" position.  Very Greg Louganis of you, Oscar.

I seem to be returning to the land of the living, however, courtesy of a really spectacular shot from my friendly urgent care doctor, and I am once again parenting, teaching, writing, and digging my way out from under the mountain of laundry that accumulated during my convalescence.  We all have clean underwear at least, so I'm calling that a domestic win.  

Don't have time for a long and juicy post today, so I'll just update you on what I'm reading.  Still plowing through 1Q84.  Okay, maybe plowing is a poor word choice.  It's really good; it's just really, really long.  A couple of my library reserves came in, and they are only 14-day checkouts, so Murakami had to go on hold for a few days.  The two books are Find Me, by Laura van den Berg, and 10:04, by Ben Lerner.  

I'm reading the Laura van den Berg first.  I met her once, and she was really wonderful, so I was excited to read her first novel (I already own one of her short story collections.)  So far, it does not disappoint.  I just picked it up yesterday afternoon, and I'm already half-way through.  In fact, I would go so far as to say that it leaves Station Eleven (a book with similar subject matter that got raves last year) in the dust.  Can't wait to finish it tonight.  

For now, it's time to go pick up Kiddo from preschool, grade some papers, and do some more laundry.  I'd make some snarky comment about the exciting nature of my life, but I'm just happy so not to be throwing up that I can't find it in myself to complain.

New Cat on the Block

There's a new cat in town, and his name is Oscar.

Sorry it's a little blurry, but he's still in that always-on-the-move stage.

After a month and a half of living cat-free for the first time in nearly twenty years, I decided I couldn't take it any longer.  Yesterday, Kiddo and I went over to Greenville County Animal Shelter to see if we could find a new feline family member.  This was my first visit to GCAS, and I was really impressed (understatement.)  The facility was spotless and modern.  And most importantly, the staff was wonderful.  I have never been to a pet rescue facility where the staff was so invested in the well-being of the animals.

My fuzzy red blanket has magical cat-attracting properties.

So, back to yesterday.  We arrived at the shelter and headed into the cat building and followed the little blue paw prints to the adoptable cats.  I'm not sure if they had any kittens because we were looking at adult cats only.  Adults are much more difficult to re-home, but they make wonderful family members.  If you're thinking about getting a cat, please consider adopting an adult kitty.  (End of commercial.  And no Sarah McLachlan songs.  You're welcome.)  Every few minutes somebody was offering to help us as we met so many beautiful cats.  I finally called my husband (who works very nearby) to come and help with the search.  It wasn't until he arrived that we found Oscar.  Search over.

Is the coast clear? (Translation: Where's the dog?)

Oscar had been at the shelter since December, so long in fact, that some kind person had paid his adoption fee in hopes of increasing his chances for finding his forever home.  Everyone in the cat building was so visibly excited about the prospect of Oscar finding his forever home, that they nearly threw us a parade.  Seriously, as we walked out with him in the carrier, people were peeking in and asking, "Is that Oscar?" and then cheering.  It was so touching.  Also, for the record, we paid it forward with Oscar's adoption fees so that some other cat in need will benefit.  I didn't know this was something you could do, and I may have to go again soon and sponsor another cat's adoption fees because what a great thing to do for a homeless kitty!

He always dresses for dinner.

The original plan was to give Oscar a new name, but after hours of discussion and debate, nothing felt right.  We decided that we were overthinking it, and the reason we were having so much trouble was that he was just an Oscar.  So his name stands.  We're still learning about our new housemate, but here's what we know so far:  He's an adult male cat of unknown age, though if I had to guess, I'd say three or four.  He's very cautious but not fearful.  He's crazy curious.  And most importantly, he seems to be able to hold his own against the Big Dog.  (Not that Sam would do anything more than sniff him, but Oscar made it very clear to Sam that he was not okay with that.)

So what has Oscar been up to since his arrival yesterday afternoon?  Well, aside from biding his time under our bed, he's done significant exploring, including a middle-of-the-night excursion across our pillows, pausing for a quick pat and scratch.  I also caught him unrolling the toilet paper in our bathroom.  When I called him on it, he poked his head around the door as if to say, "Who me?"  He thoroughly investigated Kiddo's room and bed and has now claimed the landing at the top of the stairs as his own personal perch.  Oh, and did I mention how much he loves my fuzzy, red blanket?

There was some kneading going on shortly after/before this photo was taken.

Just now, Oscar is enjoying a little peace and quiet before my husband and Kiddo return with groceries and lots of new cat toys and treats.  Perhaps I should warn him.  Or maybe he already knows and is conserving his energy for the catnip-laced toy orgy that is about to ensue.  I'm battening down the hatches.

[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)