my name is luka

Yesterday I had the pleasure of covering a friend's seal shift. It ended up being a 14 hour day so, of course, I was nothing short of delighted. The highlight was Luka, my second harbor seal rescue of the season.

Harbor seal rescues are, by definition, heart wrenching. Because harbor pups are routinely left on the beach while mom forages, we tend to avoid abducting them until we're absolutely certain they're abandoned. Even so, when you leave the seal overnight, you wonder if mom really is coming back or if you've just left the pup at the mercy of the rising tide. When you pick them up, you feel like a kidnapper, ruthlessly tearing a pup away from his mom. The harbor pup vocalization ("ma, ma") only amplifies any feelings of guilt.

Luka's rescue was another story. She was lucky enough to be born at Pirate's Cove, our nudist beach, probably just about 10 days ago (which we know because her umbilicus has only recently fallen off). The naked people there are quite familiar with the harbor seal routine and so they waited to report Luka until she'd already been on the beach a couple days.

The first rescue team checked on her Wednesday. She was skinny and dry, but vocal and still energetic enough to return to the water on her own. Thinking they'd get to see her reunite with mom, they stuck around to observe. Instead, to their horror, they watched as the adult harbor seals rebuffed poor Luka, slapping her, biting her, and keeping her off the rocks. Still, once a seal is in the water, she's no longer stranded, so all they could do was go home.

I went trolling for her the next morning, which I guess is not technically trolling since she was officially on watch and it is policy to go check the next day. It just felt like trolling because I so very much wanted to pick her up. As expected, I found our little pariah pup, all outcast and alone on shore while the other moms and pups played in the shallows nearby. One of the not-yet-naked regulars confirmed that she was the same seal they'd been watching for days so I felt even more confident in my decision to abduct her.

I tried to wait and share my rescue with my helpful Thursday crew. Luka, however, had other plans and decided she was more afraid of me than the mean adult seals in the water. So I had to prevent her escape and carry her off the beach in my arms. When I needed help at the base of the steep trail I had to wait for the second person to come along. The first not-yet-naked guy to arrive did not approve of my agenda. He felt I should let nature take its course, even if that meant watching this pup slowly starve to death...

Luka ended up weighing only 6.7 kg (1.3 kg less than the much younger Melissa) - further evidence she was a good pick up. And unlike Melissa, her midnight feed went flawlessly. Just a mild case of the hiccups and a modest, runny stool sample. Such a relief.

Anyway, today (my real seal day) was relatively quiet but equally charmed. I checked on an otter we don't want to pick up and left signs to warn people to stay away. Of course signs always tend to draw attention to the animals on watch, but whatever... After that I snuck in a trip to the grocery store and a stop at Subway. There I had a chance to chat up the owner (who apparently wants to become a volunteer) and he refused to let me pay for my lunch. After that I got to see a green elephant sea, covered in algae and barnacles and ready to molt. I'm still kicking myself for not bringing my camera. On the way home, I bought groovy new blue boots for my impending trip to work with the seals in Sausalito. Best of all, I found a piece of yellow sea glass during my sunset walk. In my ten years of glass hunting, I have never found a speck of yellow. Even kitty dinner time passed with little drama, which is great as I am still bitter over this gigantic bruise the black one gave me a couple days ago. I know it was just a lucky shot too close to a vein. It doesn't even hurt, though it did when it happened. Still, it just seems wrong. Cats should not stab the arm that feeds them, you know?

the boo boo cream debacle

I promised an update about my taste of motherhood, so here's an excerpt from a letter I penned to my beloved during my visit:

Two words: SLUMBER PARTY!

Got Savannah and Maddie in bed (for the third time) just before midnight. Promised I'd check back at 12:01. Lost track of time tiring Gracie so found the two Thomas girls snoozing at 12:12. GG was another story. We tried Milky (Pediasure - she drank/ate three today), dancing (to old 30's & 40's tunes like "There's Nobody Here But Us Chickens"), reading (five books - we all got one ((Savannah, Maddie, Grace, Me, and Uncle Kevin)) plus Grace snuck one on the side since she's a baby). We determined story order by drawing straws / smiley faced papers. Savannah cheated (as she does in all games) and swapped her sad face with G who'd gotten the bored face. Madisyn drew first place (the smiliest of faces) and carefully picked her book (it took her 10 minutes).

Maddie finally settled on Dora at the Beach. Savannah picked Miss Spider's Tea Party - a counting book that was hard to find even though I knew it was on the shelves. For Grace - Hop on Pop. Uncle Kevin - Go, Dog, Go. (Which Savannah ended up reading for us - smart girl.) For me - Skippyjon Jones - about a siamese cat who thinks he is a chihuahua Zorro and talks about things that end in "ito".

After storytime (aka "bedtime") we were only 15 minutes behind schedule. We wanted to be in bed at 9:30, attempting sleep at 10:30. Only then does Savannah tell me that 8:30 is their normal bedtime. Oh well. So Kevin and I leave them chatting while we enjoy a cocktail and a breath of the fresh, night air.

Next thing you know, Maddie reemerges with Savannah as her mouthpiece to announce that younger sis can't sleep cuz of a bum leg. We'd checked it earlier for scratches or contusions - it was the right leg at the time. Now she wasn't certain of the origin - right leg? left leg? knee? shin? But whatever it was, she couldn't sleep.

We applied kisses. (On G and Savannah, too. Grace's right cheek, Savannah's leg.) And then I found Grace's "Boo Boo Cream." Maddie was a true doubting Thomas. She quizzed me about the Boo Boo Cream as if it were Snake Oil. I showed her the label - clearly marked "Boo Boo Cream" with pictures of various species (fish, cat, dog?) being healed. Still, she scowled and doubted me.

So I lied. I insisted it was real. I swore to its efficacy and was insulted by her skepticism. Savannah, of course, being five and almost six, and being covered in an incredible array of glittery tattoos (one on each foot, each cheek, each boob, each butt cheek, one on her belly, her thigh, and her forehead, another on her future cleavage, on on her lower back, the "tramp stamp"), went along with it, whispering in my ear, "it isn't real, is it?" which I answered with the shake of my head.

So all was well. It was Bedtime 2.0. Then, suddenly, Maddie and I were all alone with our Boo Boo Cream. Savannah and Grace had slipped off, called away by the siren's song of Uncle Kevin's iPod full of old time tunes. As I campaigned the finer points of falling asleep first (best pillow, deepest sleep, choice bed position), Maddie asked one more time about the Boo Boo Cream. Since she had already professed to feeling its effects, I considered telling her the truth. Suddenly, I couldn't stop the words as they fell out of my mouth like so many poops in the potty.

"No," I said, "I was kidding."

She wailed, as she's apt to do, and swore she'd NEVER trust me again.

"You LIED. You LIED. My boo boos will NEVER feel better."

I tried to explain about placebos, how they're real, they work, and you can play them in Scrabble. My protests were drowned out by Maddie's despair.

This is when big sis and little G returned. Thick in her fit, Maddie announced to the returning Grace, "Guess what? The Boo Boo Cream's not real. Anti Jenni LIED."

I said, "What? Are you going to tell her about Santa, too?" which no one caught and I immediately regretted so I tried to distract her by asking her about her ear piercing.

The Boo Boo Cream by now was not at its designated spot by the toy toaster. It was lost under Dora or Nemo or whichever character was on the blanket of the girl who'd last used it. As Savannah looked for it, I suggested it had disappeared because Maddie stopped believing in it. When Savannah found it (under her butt, of course, where most things are when you are looking for them) she said, "Look, I believed and the Boo Boo Cream came back."

Immediately Maddie was converted. She began to sing high praises to the Boo Boo Cream and never let it leave her sight. She even brought it with her as we left to join the others in their late night dancing. It was obvious as we came down the hallway to find Savannah, Grace, and Kevin boogieing their hearts out, that bedtime number two was over.

The dance session finally ended with an apple juice break and some negotiation for which toy we could take to bed. Maddie got a doll and three dresses (four pieces), so Savannah tried for four people, a horse, and a carriage. She finally ended up with the horse, a person, and a smuggled in husky dog. I picked Tinkerbell and Fairy Minnie Mouse for Grace.

For bedtime number three I tried to settle the Thomas girls with the Sleepy Song. (A song Erik made up which works incredibly well on me. It involves much sighing and yawning and is sung very, very slowly, "Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy.... Oh, so sleepy... So tired... Eyelids... so... heavy... Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy...." It's so effective, he is forbidden to sing it while I drive.) Maddie mocked me, but I could tell it was working on Savannah. I let them have books too (but drew the line at the light up/singing Nemo book) and decided to put Grace down separately.

I left to find Grace and Uncle Kevin doctoring a stuffed Dalmation (G checking the pulse with the stethoscope) and we continued dancing. Ring Around the Rosey was a favorite. Then we started flipping Grace. First it was one on one, as she just climbed me. Then we did it tag team - each of us taking an arm and turning her by her feet.

After getting her hooked on flipping, we'd only do it to reward her demonstration of the sign language we'd been teaching her. Please, Thank You, I Love You, Dog, Cat, Fox, Owl - Bat, Bear, and Bunny got her a triple - Play, Apple, Candy, Juice, Horse, Donkey, No - she knew more but she soon tired. She went willingly off to bed where we found her cousins still sleeping.

We stole G's pillow out from under Savannah's head (I warned her not to use it) and bedtime number three was complete.

I wish that had been the end of the story. I was simply too tired to later report that Maddie had woken up crying a couple hours later. Apparently the Boo Boo Cream was powerless against growing pains. Had I known she was prone to them (and had I had any Children's Tylenol), I might have been able to help her out with something more than a placebo. Fortunately, snuggles seemed to do her some good and she was able to sleep in my arms on the couch. We only got about four good hours before the dogs started their morning routine (whining which becomes whistling which blossoms into impatient barking...) but everyone knows that the best slumber parties involve very little sleeping.

feeling doughie

Ah, finally my first elephant seal pup rescue of the season. Here's roly poly Doughie, whose energetic rolling almost makes me question why I picked him up. Then I recall he was only 37.2 kg (which I guessed nearly dead on), well within advisable limits and below birth weight. And, of course, he was dehydrated, lethargic, and covered with flies.

Little did I know my first ellie might well be my last. Being gone for two weeks, I missed the height of elephant seal activity. As the hospital nears capacity, we get a bit choosier, leaving borderline seals on the beach for observation. So far everyone I've put on watch has been gone the next day so I guess that's a good thing. Still, I may have to go work a shift up in Sausalito to get my fix of these stinky, cackling sea monkeys.

Until then, it seems I am prone to a bit of lethargy myself. As you can see, I have been slow to update my blog. Doughie came in on Wednesday - a full four days ago - and even he couldn't get me writing. Much of my writer's block, however, I think stems more from self restraint than sloth. I am overflowing with juicy stories of my family's quirky insanity - all of which are not necessarily appropriate for public posting.

Then, of course, breaking my sugar fast has put me right back on that beloved nutrition roller coaster - sweet sugary high followed by delightful food coma nap. Even though I recognize the deleterious effects of sugar on my life, I regularly return to the shrine to worship its greatness.

And so I am feeling decidedly doughie. But I'm not particularly down. I love lethargy. I remember learning once that the Koala Bear sleeps nearly 19 hours a day. The other five hours he spends eating Eucalyptus, which is somewhat intoxicating. Ever since then, I have longed to come back in my next life as a Koala. Of course, wild Koalas are victims of predation and habitat loss so I think I'd like to specify that I'd like to be a captive Koala. Probably at the San Diego Zoo. It's the only zoo I've been to that doesn't leave me feeling sad. I learned, ever since my Price is Right experience, that it is best to be quite specific when communicating your dreams.

In any event, I think I have also been reluctant to write as I would have to update you on the two Melissas. Harbor seal Melissa, to everyone's surprise and delight, is totally thriving. She's already graduated from a private condo to the big pool. In fact, when a second seal was introduced to her pool she swam right up to him and slapped him repeatedly. So glad to hear she's a bossy little tank. And yet another reason to head northward and work a couple seal shifts.

Meanwhile, as many have already heard, the real life Melissa has passed on. I learned of the end of her struggle while visiting my folks and I was fortunate to find this picture of Melissa as a baby (hanging out with her older sister, Amanda, her grandmother, my Aunt Fran, her great grandmother, my grandmother Margaret, and her mom, my cousin Ka Ka). Though I know that each of these women is strong enough to survive such an unspeakable loss, I am heart broken for their suffering.

nearly belated birthday wishes

I'm fond of celebrating birthdays of all sorts. While I seldom ever send a card or, even less frequently, a present, I like to think I am at least good for a phone call. To be honest, though, I tend to honor the birth of those I care for with little more than a warm and fuzzy thought. But, of course, I'll use any excuse to enjoy cake and cocktails.

Today, with a sickly sweet strawberry margarita and a decadent treat from Little Debbie, I wished a private Happy Birthday to a woman I admire, Mary. (Yes, dear readers, my sugar fast was short-lived, an agonizing two weeks... I may try again, perhaps in moderation, but not until after the Easter candy goes on sale. I mean, seriously, this year they have green peeps...)

I mostly only know Mary through her amazing daughter, Wendy, a friend of mine since fourth grade. But you can learn a lot about a person through their offspring (sorry, Mom and Dad) and so I have long been in awe of my Mary. Wendy is, after all, one of the most dynamic women I know - intelligent, honest, entertaining, easy-going, athletic, attractive, accepting, and fearless, all with an underlying tinge of delightfully dorky. What is not to love? Ever since the day I walked into their home to find them dancing together, the country western tune, "I Wanna Bop With You Baby," playing loudly enough to drown out my knocking on the door, I knew that these are two women I wanted in my life forever.

That day was nearly twenty years ago and since I am the first to admit I'm not the greatest of pen pals, I have occasionally fallen out of touch with my oldest friend and her super cool mom. Now I enjoy my "long lost" status, as my life seems so much more interesting on fast forward, summed up in sound bites and amusing snippets. During our most recent re-reconnection, Wendy and Mary inspired me to start this oft-neglected blog. Though I'm only a bit better of a blogger than I am a pen pal, I have so enjoyed this public outlet for my private thoughts. I'm constantly amazed (and sometimes self-censored) when I realize just how many people are keeping tabs on me through this site.

Now I have the pleasure of having a window into Mary's world through her blog, Random Thoughts. Already I have been humbled by reading her homage to her sister, and her thoughts on complaining. As if to underscore the lessons life is offering me, Wendy recently echoed the niceness of her mother by noting that my blog entry on Naomi Largo was a tad mean spirited. She also expressed dismay in my love for blood sports, particularly the Ultimate Fighting. Unable to contain my inner evil, I then felt compelled to admit I had once egged two testosterone-laden friends into a more-than-mock battle at a drunken gathering. It wasn't my proudest moment (though apparently it makes the highlights reel), but I knew it would be okay.

Mary now lives in Florida, which means my birthday greetings are officially belated. Perhaps I should have held off on the sugar rush until this entry was complete? In any event, I am eternally grateful that on this day so many years ago such a wonderful thing started.

Happy Birthday, Mary.

the joy of motherhood

I hope you'll forgive the last two weeks of radio silence. As my sister spayed and neutered on the island of Pago Pago, I developed an even deeper respect for moms who blog. I had a three year old for exactly 7 days and, while it was exhilarating, it was exhausting. I barely found time to brush my teeth, let alone record our adventures on the internet.

I'm certain I will give a full report of my trip home soon, but tonight I feel like it is just important to get something posted. To inspire me, my troubled cat, OC woke me from my slumber just a few hours ago. At first I ignored his protests. He's on house arrest for having made only 3 known appearances during my 14 days gone. I'm used to hearing him complain before he needs to use the box. Then an hour or so later, more crying and then some barfing. Gross, but not a big deal. Probably just over full from having unrestricted access to food again. Lord knows how many times I have longed to purge after a bit of a binge. It wasn't until I entered his domain to locate and eliminate the evidence of his bulimia that I saw he was also straining to eliminate out the other end. Yep, the Buttless Wonder was plugged again.

I was surprised and relieved when my sis answered her cell phone at 4 am. She seconded my suggestion that he should go to the ER to address his issue. This is important as she is OC's benefactor. She had to agree to pay for all his butt related medical bills before I, as an unemployed parasite, would agree to take him into my home. I guess it was also surprise and relief I felt when I discovered, after getting dressed, that the ER was no longer quite necessary. OC had succeeded in clearing his colon in no fewer than 3 places on the carpet and one good one on the hardwoods. So I woke my sister again to get her blessing to wait until 9 am and save hundreds of dollars on his treatment.

You will thank me, dear readers, for resisting the urge to photograph and share his efforts. I will say, zen as I sometimes try to be, I nearly cried when I noticed after an hour of cleaning that I had missed a spot (of both vomit and poop) behind the couch.

Rather than end on such a gross note, I will share this one gem from my visit to motherhood. Last year, my inner cheerleader made up a rather infectious cheer for my youngest niece. It goes:

G-R-A-C-E,
Gracie, Gracie, she's for me....
Ggggoooooooo, Gracie!

More recently, I made up cheers for my other young nieces and in return, during my visit, they made up this one for me:

Anti Jenni, Anti Jenni
She likes me, she likes you

Anti Jenni, Anti Jenni
She likes pee, she likes poo

Gggggoooooo, Jenni!

Indeed.

15 things I love about my relationship

Today is the last day I can legitimately call Anniversary Season. Having married on Leap Day 2004, Erik and I still haven't actually had our first official wedding anniversary. However, since our original anniversary was February 26th twelve years before that, we figure we can pretty much celebrate the whole week. We do the same thing with our birthdays which are also three days apart.

In any case, I'll be spending the last day of anniversary season in airports on my way to play super anti. Much as I appreciate the miracle of travel, I dread the actual task of doing it. I generally have horrible experiences in airports. There I have seen the grossest public restroom ever (which, in desperation, I had to use). I have also used, as a kid, the airline supplied barf bag. I hate the smell of peanuts (why peanuts? just about any other nut would be less aromatic and less likely to trigger allergies. and why always honey roasted? I mean, I'm all about the salty and sweet, but something about honey roasted peanuts is just wrong...). I'm haunted by a sound bite an airline official once made on one of those pseudo-educational shows I watch. When explaining the cost-benefit analysis of using stale air over fresh, he commented that, "everyone gets a little fresh air eventually." And just ask Erik about the time I ran the wrong way through the SF terminal...

So rather than focus on the 8 hours I'll be spending breathing stagnant, recycled, germ-ridden air, my skin slowly amassing a film of other people's farts, my neck crumpling under the strain of our collective discomfort, I will spend these moments honoring the most important thing in my world, my relationship.

So here are 15 reasons I love my marriage:

1. We don't fight. Erik says there's no point. If we fight and he wins, he beat a girl. If we fight and he loses, he lost to a girl. And so, though I may try to pick them, we never have a fight. I just win.
   
2. We always stop for kisses at red curbs and red lights.
3. We often see great wildlife together. Most recently we saw 25 of the Hearst Castle zebras on Christmas Eve. We've also seen a sea gull suffer brain freeze while eating ice cream outside a Rite Aid. And then there was the mountain lion at East West Ranch.
   
4. We also encounter and rescue needy wildlife on our walks. We've escorted a mole out of a parking lot and we've moved a fish from a shrinking puddle into a pond. And of course, he's helped on some of my most amazing seal rescues ever including Spelunker (it took us 2 hours to dig 200# of comatose sea lion out from under a rock) and Homer Ray (an entangled yearling that was too close to open ocean for my taste).
   
5. We hold hands a lot. Even while watching TV.
6. We generally have a pretty clear division of labor. He does all the penis work and I do whatever's left. He makes the money, I spend it.
   
7. We negotiate. We often trade away hurt feelings or embarrassing memories. I can't get him to come to the table with the Jen-ran-the-wrong-way-through-the-airport story, however, because he thinks it's so cute.
8. We play games. Not just real games (like Yahtzee) but made up games (like Neck, and Hole) which are generally just ritualized forms of rough housing.
9. We laugh a lot. Many times at each other.
   
10. We're so different that we constantly marvel at how the other one thinks.
11. And yet, in so many ways we're alike.
12. We both come from crazy families. They trade off being craziest. Right now my family is winning. Or would that be losing?
13. We're young at heart. Some would say immature. In any case, I love the little boy in him and he pampers the little girl in me.
    
14. We stop for sunsets. The world would be a better place if more people paused each day to appreciate the earth spinning on its axis.
15. We both think we're the luckier one in relationship.

Happy anniversary, Smoocher.

sweet melissa

Yesterday I had the pleasure of picking up the very first Harbor Seal pup of the season. In fact, it actually isn't even Harbor Seal season yet. Elephant Seal season only officially started yesterday and usually they get a good month or so to themselves. So my Harbor's a preemie, for sure. She's even wearing her beautiful fluffy lanugo coat (which is normally shed in utero). But she's fairly fat and sassy (8 kg and bitey) so my hopes are high. Since they're both looking at a long stay in the hospital, I found it quite fitting to name my seal in my second cousin's honor. And so I give you sweet Melissa.

I get my updates on the bipedal Melissa third hand so I can't say for sure how things are going. It does sound like "brain dead" may have been a premature diagnosis. The doctors are performing tests they wouldn't be doing if the situation was totally bleak. So again I'm allowing myself to hope. I was right about the feeding tube, however, so obviously her condition could be better. I take great comfort in knowing that Melissa's grandmother and great grandmother are about as close to God as you can get without wearing wings. If anyone can manifest a miracle, it's those two.

My own Melissa gave me a humbling scare last night. She started coughing and spitting up after her midnight feed. I was pretty calm until she expelled her electrolytes through her nose. The vet tech that I woke up assured me that I was not an evil, incompetent seal killer. Apparently it was more a burp gone wrong than a problem with my technique. Still, I was unsettled. Then Erik reminded me he once laughed so hard he shot milk out his nose (all over his brother's pizza, no less). Amused, but no less anxious. Only this morning, when I found her sleeping peacefully, did I allow myself to take a breath.

free at last

TV is my friend. I'm not ashamed to admit it.

We all love TV in some way, though some of us only love to hate it. Personally, I embrace the kitsch. I like to think of my time spent in front of the tube as some sort of sociology project. After all, anthropologists from the faraway future would be fascinated with this window into our culture. Would they notice, as I have, that people on sit coms seldom ever close the front door? Would they question why Lucy and Desi couldn't share a bed but Fred and Wilma could? Would they wonder where the Brady kids relieved themselves, since their bathroom lacked a toilet?

TV has shaped me, though not always in the best ways. Physically I'm a little bit softer, mentally I'm a tad shallower, but honestly I think I'd be worse off without it. TV connected me to others in my generation. Strangers in adolescence, we now identify each other with catch phrases and obscure character references. We know that it's never to late if you care enough. We love it when a plan comes together. And we're certain that knowing is half the battle. We wonder where's the beef? And our bologna has a first name, it's O-S-C-A-R... We live for the day we get to ask a guy in a Rolls if he has any Grey Poupon. We feel for the woman who has fallen and can't get up. And we learned it from watching you, Dad, we learned it from watching you. And, I may be alone in this, but I think it's ironic how much more delicious my brain looks on drugs. In any case, you wouldn't like us when we're angry. We might just call on the power of Grayskull...

Like any friend, TV has occasionally disappointed me. Ted Turner still owes me twenty dollars for the time I sat through that horrible action adventure movie that I believe starred Judd Nelson. I kept thinking, "surely this will get better" as it grew increasingly worse. I remember deciding that the Turner Network Television station ought to reimburse me for my suffering. I calculated my damages based upon my hourly wage ($13) and the time spent rooting for Judd (90 minutes). I mean, seriously, whoever decided this movie was worthy of air time should be fired.

And TV has stood me up. How many times have I fallen for a new show only to have it abandon me mid season? Sometimes I see the writing on the wall. Reunion clearly was going nowhere fast. That cancellation was a mercy killing. Other times I'm dumbfounded. Smith was really, really good. I'm still hoping someone will pick it up.

More often, TV has stood by me. I remember the time I told Erik that Oprah was my friend. He immediately began mocking my delusions of grandeur. Mere moments later, in her opening monologue, Oprah vindicated me. She addressed the audience (including those at home) and proclaimed us all her friends. And who has been more loyal to me than my lifelong pal, Bob Barker? What would a sore throat be without the opportunity to bid on fabulous prizes? It just isn't any fun to vomit if you don't get to watch a Showcase Showdown...

Today, TV has freed me. Tonight I spent the last hour ever with my friends from the O.C. I no longer need to hide this guilty pleasure. I no longer need to wonder if people with think I named my pet after a washed up teen drama. I have one less show to juggle on Thursday nights, one less Season Pass to manage on my Tivo. Free at last. Why, you ask, didn't I free myself sooner? After all, even Mischa Barton jumped ship. You know, it's just the kind of friend I am. Loyal to the bitter end. Why did I get hooked in the first place? That's a better question. For this I thank blame my brother. He sucked me in when he lived here, convincing me the show was at least worthwhile as a target for our ridicule. And so it was. But beneath our disdain grew dedication.

As I delight in this feeling of lightness I have, freed of the chains I placed on myself, I must admit I wonder if I watch a wee bit too much TV. I have never calculated my screen time because honestly I don't want to know. I'm sure I'd be appalled. I've thought about cutting back, for sure. Especially after Ozzy didn't win last season's Survivor. I was so miffed, I thought about walking away. And you know how I felt about Lost leaving me hanging for so long. It took me a couple weeks to decide to wade back into that water. Now, of course, I'm as hooked as ever. Go Charlie Cancer, go. In the end, though, I don't see the harm in two old friends spending time together. Surely the damage is already done. I'm desensitized to violence, I have the attention span of a gnat. What good would leaving do me now?

And so I thank you tonight, Television, thank you for being a friend. We've traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant.

damn

Given my historical (lack-of) performance as a pen pal, I am not surprised to find I have many blog entries in draft format and yet have found none of them ready for posting recently. These are the electronic equivalent to the dusty, musty notes I occasionally come across in my collection of crap. They are in my handwriting but they're no longer from me. They're from a girl I used to be, usually about a boy I used to like (or grew to hate), written to a friend I seldom talk to but still adore.

Today in particular I am glad I haven't yet posted about my fairly boring misadventures as of late. A major clean up effort, a few failed seal rescues, a tardy attempt at something romantic for Valentine's day... they all wither in comparison to the significance of the news I received last night.

My second cousin, my cousin's teenage daughter, was in a car accident yesterday. After hitting some ice on the road, she's now, I'm told, brain dead. Her body's still functioning, so she's trapped in a world of feeding tubes and bed pans. She should be going to prom, filling out college applications. She should be worried about teen pregnancy, not bed sores.

So I am humbled. My life is so unreasonably happy and trivial. And I am heartbroken. I've actually never met my second cousin. Though I hold her mom dear in my heart, I'm sure to her I'm still a freckle faced pre-teen with bad hair and no boobs, wearing Izod shirts and Toughskins jeans that do anything but flatter. Our families are so separated (by years and miles), that I wonder if I even deserve to feel the sadness that I do. And yet, we're still connected (by our folks, by the phone) and so I join the McGowans in their grief.

Today I hug my husband a little bit closer as I am reminded how unpredictable life can be. I am grateful for all I have and sorry for all that's lost. My body may be in California, but my heart is in Pennsylvania, holding vigil by the bedside of a cousin.

in a house with a mouse

I would not, could not, in a house. I would not, could not, with a mouse. I do not like to watch things die. I do not like it, I can't lie.

Yet when my kitties found the mouse, running, hiding, in my house, did I take the cats away? Did I tell them not to play? Or did I grab my own flash light, to help them find the mouse at night?

Lucky for him, we were all too slow. The little mouse was on the go. Hiding somewhere amongst my shoes. Singing, quietly, his little mouse blues.

And so I sit here in my house, that I must share with a mouse. I wonder how he'll ever leave. Will he live or will he bleed? If OC finds him, I'll never know, unless he leaves me a bit of toe. If Blackie finds him, he'll soon tire. He doesn't like his toys once they expire.

If only the mouse had been a bird. Then his fear I would have heard. He'd be bigger, slower, and easier to trap. I could have freed him and continued my nap. Alas, the mouse is every bit a rodent. Here in a flash, gone in a moment.

I'm rooting for you, little guy. I'm sure you also wish you could fly. Though we may never meet again, I'd like you to know I am your friend. I understand you'll have to go, but please don't pooh in my Danskos.

63 things i love about my mom

Growing up, I never really thought of my mom as an actual person. She was just my mom. Not a girl with parents of her own. Not a kid with goals and dreams. Not a woman with worries and fears. She would share stories of her childhood, sure, but they seemed to be just that. Stories. Fictional tales of a world that supposedly existed long before I did.

Even now, it seems weird to use this picture on my blog, as it's my family before they were my family. This is my sister's first birthday which means I am just that twinkle you see in my dad's eye.

Sometimes, when I was little, I would catch my mom spacing out at the dinner table. Her eyes glazed over, focused on some faraway point where her children weren't complaining about vegetables and her husband wasn't discussing his work day. In this place, I imagined, there were no dishes to wash and nobody had their elbows on the table. There wasn't clutter on the stairs or laundry to put away. It made me sad to find my mother visiting her happy place, because I always figured I wasn't there.

Now that I'm older, I sometimes catch myself spacing out. I find that my own happy place is pathetically pedestrian. I realize, then, that I may have been wrong about my mother's mysterious destination. I suspect that instead of fantasizing about some hunky guy and a candlelit dinner, that my mom's daydreams may have been much more domestic. In all likelihood her thoughts were still on laundry and clutter. Which makes me even sadder.

My mom was, and in many ways is, the center of my universe. She's that voice in my head that scolds me when I've done something foolish or cruel. I hear her in my laugh and see her in my mirror. She consoles me when I'm sick, cheers me up when I am down. And though she no longer makes my meals or tucks me into bed, she still takes care of me. To me, it seems, she'll always be a mother, though I've come to realize she's so much more.

I simply can't imagine a world without my mother. So today, as she completes her 63rd trip around the sun, I give you 63 reasons I love my mom:

1. She had four children. And no epidurals.
2. She married my dad (even though his sisters warned her not to) and stayed married (even when it wasn't easy to do).
3. She taught me that it is important to air out your crotch sometimes. It was a disturbing thought, imagining my mother going commando to bed, but it was solid advice.
   
4. She gave me my sad hair and my wild eyebrows. I hate them both but I love them because they remind me of her.
   
5. She has a tendency to hide new purchases from my father. Though she makes her own money and he has resigned himself to her shopping, still she feels compelled to spare him the mental strain of calculating how much something is worth and wondering why she had to have it. I find it especially endearing that she particularly employs this trick with furniture, sneaking large pieces into the basement. She brings them into the general population weeks later, after he's grown accustomed to walking past them on his way to fetch the Diet Coke.
   
6. She once had a dog named Peanut who met his untimely demise after all-too-successfully chasing a car. Though my parents only had Peanut for a couple of weeks, she speaks of him often and fondly. Perhaps this is because he wasn't around long enough to develop bad habits like the rest of our dogs?
7. She also loves Ginger (a.k.a. Blackie and Snickers), though nobody else does. That cat has peed on too many surfaces to count but Mom doesn't hold it against her. She doesn't see that cat as one big walking bladder. She loves her for her soft fur and generous purr.
   
8. Though she probably wouldn't do it these days, she's been known to eat peanut butter straight from the jar and brown sugar right out of the box.
9. She now eats quite healthfully. No matter where she's at, she always has the soup and salad and she starts each day with oatmeal and coffee. It's boring, I know, but it means she'll be around to be my mom for a long time.
   
10. She has a tendency to misspeak, though she doesn't always recognize it. I especially enjoyed when she told me, "I don't not dislike you." She also insists it is "gay radar," not "gadar." And I love how she swears that "drugs started in California."
11. She can sew. She used to make quilts and taper our jeans. She even made entire outfits, though I could have done without those matching jumpers with the zippers up the back that my sister and I peed our pants in.
    
12. She doesn't let labor get in the way of her household duties. She was doing laundry when I came along and made breakfast for the family before Kevin's birth.
    
13. With the help of our next door neighbor, she stole the best cat ever, Frisbee, from the pound. He was too new and not yet eligible for adoption. But he fit nicely in Julie's purse.
    
14. As a kid, she threw her rubber band doll out the window honestly thinking she could run down three flights of stairs and catch it. It broke. She also barfed cookie dough up those same stairs. She had to clean it up.
    
15. She used to wet the bed and, in the morning, she'd suffer dire consequences from her rather strict parents. As a result, she was always very understanding with the nocturnal failures of her own offspring.
    
16. She keeps a mental tally of all the times my dad doesn't flush the toilet (you know, if it's yellow, let it mellow...) and uses each one as a justification to buy a new Longaberger basket.
17. She used to drink a lot of cheap wine. One of my favorite memories of early adulthood involves sharing a box of pink wine with my folks in our hot tub.
    
18. She doesn't drink anymore. She also gave up smoking way back when.
    
19. She's a clever shopper. She used to use my brothers as place holders in long bargain basement lines. Once an annoyed woman in line behind us remarked snippishly that "it must be nice to have someone to wait in line for you," which my mother answered with a simple, "yes, it is."
    
20. She's an equally savvy diner. When told by a waiter that he could not serve the salad dressing on the side, she suggested he should, "try."
21. She's got a pretty great garden. She even makes her own compost.
    
22. She was recycling long before it was cool. I was mortified when she would stop at the side of the road and pick up someone else's aluminum can. I knew it was good for the environment and my dad was thrilled (every can was a nickel), but I was a teenager and couldn't get behind it. To this day she has to work harder to recycle than I ever do. She doesn't cash in the nickels anymore, she just does it for the planet, fondly recalling her participation in the very first Earth Day.
    
23. She never had her ears pierced. She said she didn't need any more holes in her head and she had a pretty great collection of clip on earrings. (Do those even exist anymore?) Then one day she came home from a trip with her old college friends and they were pierced.
    
24. She can play piano. She used to play "The Entertainer" and the next door neighbor and I would dance.
    
25. She's very forgiving. We've given her a lot to forgive along the way.
    
26. She once told me snails like salt. While I would have preferred not to be a pawn in her war against garden pests, I'm glad she didn't tell me the truth about my role until I was old enough to handle it.
27. She once told my brother, when sending him for a haircut, to get "the normal," assuming the barber would know exactly what she meant. All she's ever wanted was for her family to be normal.
    
28. She's quick with the comebacks. She was once asked by a friend's son why she had such fat legs. She promptly asked him why he had such a big mouth.
29. She still has a bit of her east coast accent. Her friend Patti recalls thinking, on the day they met, that her name was "Freon." She also still drinks "witer" while everyone else is having water. She has, however, dropped the southern accent she picked up in her Peanut days when she used to urge the women in labor and delivery to "poosh."
    
30. Of all our childhood toys, she kept the Care Bears (because they were "nice") and ditched the more collectible Barbies, Star Wars and Fisher-Price.
    
31. She's a dedicated shopper. She got me a Cabbage Patch doll for Christmas when they were still hot (which, ironically, also had bad hair - she picked it because it was "different") and she made sure Kevin had every He-man ever made, even Prince Adam.
32. She made the best chocolate cake for my birthday once. It was a bundt cake with a tunnel of fluffy chocolate chiffon icing.
    
33. She's always saying "that's enough of that behavior" and she refers to people she doesn't like as "creeps."
    
34. Though I've mentioned it before, I love how she summed up The Crying Game with one sentence: "They must have just been doing blow jobs or something."
35. She's got great siblings. Her brother taught me how to back dive and her sister was particularly supportive during the chaos of my own sister's wedding.
    
36. She found peace in her own life when she realized everyone's family has drama and nobody's normal.
    
37. She always buys me great gifts. They're always heavy or fragile so she has to deliver them in person. I particularly love my walrus sculpture and my glass pig.
    
38. On road trips, she would always second the motion when a bathroom stop was suggested. And, as I mentioned before, she keeps track of all the good restrooms in her vicinity.
    
39. She plays tennis with really old ladies. Often they don't play for long stretches of time because somebody has died and they're looking for a fourth. My dad doesn't play tennis with her much since she scratched his cornea.
    
40. When visiting me in college, she joined me in my very uphill bike ride to campus. I gloated in the glory of significantly besting her speed only to later discover she'd been riding on a flat tire.
    
41. She would always make my brothers "get" her neck (something they're traumatized by to this day) and she would claim the only ottoman as her own, passively defending it with her stubbly leg hairs. I'm not sure why I find these memories so endearing but I do. They are such a slice of our every day life.
    
42. She really didn't mean to make me look like Jenni Africa and once she realized that she had, she began rinsing out the perm solution immediately.
    
43. She helped me sell a lot of Girl Scout cookies. I still have the precious stuffed Kookabura to prove it. In fact, Mom was a Scout herself for 12 whole years.
    
44. Knowing how much I hated that pig dog, she once set my ATM password to RAGS.
45. She gives everything a nickname. Our pets, for example, have no fewer than three names each. She also names buildings (such as the Devil's Whore House and the Penny Pincher's Dream) and vehicles (such as Big Red and his predecessors, Brownie and Greenie). In her honor, we kids have dubbed her gazebo the PSG (Pot Smoking Gazebo).
    
46. She's not afraid to try new things. In addition to the ear piercing, her nursing school buddies have taken her river rafting. Meanwhile, my sister has sent her up in a hot air balloon, and my brother has convinced her to buy her own ipod.
    
47. She cheated to win a scavenger hunt hosted by her Spanish teacher during a field trip to Tijuana. Apparently you really don't need any Spanish to navigate the border city.
    
48. She makes horribly bland Mexican food and she hates beans. For years I thought I hated Mexican food. It turns out I just hate my mom's version. On the other hand, she makes a great Beef Stroganoff, complete with festive orange slices.
    
49. She's always my cheerleader, encouraging me even when I'm laughably unrealistic or just not trying very hard. She never chides me for giving up, for eating poorly or drinking too much, as she assures me it took her more than 50 years to defeat these same demons.
    
50. She would bring me flat Coke and soft boiled eggs when I was sick. And she always let me watch The Price is Right.
    
51. She was always a nurse, even when writing excuse notes for school. I never had a cold. I always had an Upper Respiratory Infection.
52. I love her handwriting. She writes in the kind of cursive that is now almost totally dead and she often underlines things. I find her handwriting in unexpected places, such as the ancient Campbell's cookbook she let me have. Next to Pork Chops a l'Orange? "goo"is immediately replaced by "great".
    
53. Other notes I love include the one about Lucy, who was recently re-evicted from my mother's house because "she barks and pees in her sleep" and the one inside an extra copy of "Get a Financial Life" she apparently never did return, explaining that her, "daughter already knows everything in this book".
    
54. She has been known to swipe a pen or two in her day (a passion of mine). And she often passes the good ones on to me. I love my light up smiley face pen ("with no cap," she explained, "because it's stolen") and the one that looks just like a fish. She also shares goodies acquired legitimately from eager drug reps. She recently gave me the whale shaped Synagis soap dispenser I admired in her bathroom a year ago.
    
55. She rewards bad behavior. Even though she was recently miffed at my then-sick sister, she ultimately brought her dinner (a pineapple pizza) to make peace and spare her an unpleasant drive in the snow. When I negotiated the delivery she wouldn't commit to the good deed. She only said, "we'll see." But I knew I had succeeded because in mom-speak if it isn't a "no" then it's a "yes."
    
56. She's finally given up keeping bunnies as pets. We had one when I was little that was so unruly we sent it to Pet-a-Pet Farm. And later, in San Diego, she tried again but Rags was always busting in to the pen. She had a few more in Washington, but there they were just lonely and cold. I think, like my snails, she was making peace with something from her childhood. Her father raised rabbits and as a family they ate them. She always said that they didn't want to know when they were eating Thumper.
    
57. When my brother Billy used to bite us, she would encourage us to bite him back. If we were crying too hard, she would do it for us.
58. She loves to do the Jumble but she often cheats. She uses her electronic Scrabble word finder to help her unscramble the letters. Of course, she's always bummed when the clue is more than seven letters long, because then the machine can't help.
    
59. She's vastly improved her Scrabble game. In fact, she often wins and almost always beats me. Apparently I suck at Scrabble.
    
60. She always used to threaten, when we were already crying, that she would "give you something to cry about," but she never did hit us with that dreaded wooden spoon.
    
61. Even though it was against the progressive Montessori-type rules, she would take young Kevin his lunch if he forgot to bring it to elementary school. I wonder sometimes if she regrets not teaching him to suffer the consequences of his actions as he seems to be having difficulties leaving the nest.
    
62. She used to insist in my college days that I needed to have a kitchen table. I think it was more of that "normal" business. Normal people have kitchen tables. She even went as far as to buy me a set once. It was a hideous 70's yellow ("in perfect condition," she protested as I spray painted it black...) and I ultimately dumped it during a move. She has finally given up, I believe, as she never complains when forced to dine off my coffee table while sitting on my couch.
    
63. She once put a pussy willow up her nose, a story she told me after I put a button up my own.
    

Happy Birthday, Mom.

i miss him already

He was my oldest and dearest friend. Couldn't be sweeter. Always there for me - in good times and bad. Every birthday, every study session, every broken heart. Of course he was at my wedding. You should see the pictures. We grew up together. From lollipops to mimosas, he was everywhere and everything. And our favorite holidays - Halloween and Easter - I can't think of a single one spent without him.

And yet it's over. At least for now. I guess you could say we're on a break. I need some time to think things over. Do I really love him or is he just a habit? Love is not supposed to hurt, after all, and, really, in many ways he's just dragging me down.

This doesn't have to be forever. I just need some space of my own, a chance to clear my head. I'll admit, it hasn't been easy. The first couple days, I mourned him. I was inconsolable, certain this break up would be a catastrophe. Ready to beg his forgiveness and take him back.

Now, a few days later, I feel stronger. More focused. I can see the insidious way he weaved himself into every aspect of my life. Frankly, I'm appalled. And finally, just possibly, I can imagine a future without him. Or at least without so much of him.

Still, I'm going to miss you, sugar.

32 things i love about my brother

Today my brother Billy turns 32 and my youngest niecelet, baby Grace, is 3. Though Grace's arrival was all too early, I love that her unexpected debut made them birthday buddies. I'm sure mathematically it should be little wonder when people you love share birthdays. Still, I like to think there's more to it than simple chance and probability.

When I first considered crafting this entry, I worried this list would be a tough one. Growing up, my relationship with Billy was more adversarial than affectionate. Even now, I tend to refer to him as my "other brother" simply because my youngest brother (Kevin) is so clearly my other half. Billy's birth made me the middle child - my psychological destiny - where Kevin's birth just made me a little less lonely. Billy's birth was most unsettling not because I was no longer the baby, but because I came to understand that I wasn't a boy. As he grew, I could see just how eagerly my dad had longed for this, his number one son.

Billy, because of his gender it seemed, got away with murder. His every wish was (and in many ways still is) Dad's command. I remember I first realized how much influence he had when Billy got our dad to voluntarily enter a mall (the then-new Plaza Bonita) to purchase whatever it was that Billy so needed (I think it was a baseball). Not a big deal, you might think. But this was our dad, the man once described so eloquently by my uncle as "tighter than a donkey's asshole facing uphill against the wind." And so, in the language of our family, money equals love and, in my young mind, every dollar my dad spent humoring Billy was a dollar less he loved me. Twisted, I know, but no less true.

Although my husband disagrees, I feel I've gotten over much of my first-born-penis envy. I see now that we were all over indulged, ungrateful brats and I no longer begrudge my brother for being more successfully spoiled. In fact, I now appreciate his persistence and the guile behind his tactics. Billy's dedication to his goals, though somewhat demented, was not so much a character flaw as a personal strength. I've also come to realize that my mom was right and Billy, in all his antics, really was just seeking attention and approval. While he could get whatever he wanted from our dad, Billy could never get what he wanted from his sisters. Our exclusion of him was so complete that we once made up our own board game (called "Money," funny enough) and labeled it "for ages 7 and up" (as Billy was still 6). Boys can be violent and dirty, but girls can be downright cruel.

And so imagine my delight when I found it easy to express my admiration for the boy my brother was and the man he has become. Here are 32 reasons I love my brother:

1. He made my nieces, Savannah and Madisyn, and he loves them wholly, even though they aren't boys.
   
2. He had the good fortune to marry a good woman and the good sense to feel nervous about it. I love that they eloped on New Year's 2000, making it nearly impossible to forget their anniversary.
   
3. He's super coordinated. He can ride a unicycle and juggle and, with practice, he can even ride a unicycle while juggling.
   
4. He embraced all the 80's fads, especially break dancing.
5. He once won a trophy for weight lifting. He still has ginormous forearms and I hope someday to convince him to dress as Popeye for Halloween.
   
6. He's not horribly sentimental. He doesn't hold on to relics from past relationships.
   
7. When he was learning to talk he had difficulty expressing himself and I was his sole translator. I still remember him struggling to form the "J" in my name with his incredibly unhelpful tongue. It always came out, "ya.. ya.. ya, yenni."
   
8. He runs his own business. In fact, he's always been an entrepreneur. He used to buy candy in Mexico and resell it in school.
   
9. He dreams big - too big, sometimes. He wants to add a parapet and a multi-story parking structure to his house.
   
10. He's artistic. He wants to weld a sea creature sculpture and place it surreptitiously in the bay by his home.
    
11. He's fearless. He used to dive into our swimming pool from the roof of our house. I shudder to think of the things he would try when he was away from home.
    
12. He's got quick reflexes. What helped him master video games in his youth allowed him to successfully remove his girls from a runaway truck before it crashed into a tree.
    
13. He's always been popular. I have few social graces and I'd like to think this flaw is genetic. Clearly I am wrong.
    
14. He once cut his finger tip nearly off and he waited politely outside while I fetched Mom so that he wouldn't bleed on the hardwoods.
    
15. The last time we fought he was almost 13 and I defeated him after unexpectedly punching him in the face. I love that he remembers it wrong and thinks he won.
16. He slipped off to Tijuana the morning he was supposed to meet with a military recruiter.
    
17. School was never easy for Billy and, after failing English, he found himself one class shy of graduating high school. I love that he took the class over, got a B all by himself, and earned his diploma.
    
18. He was into skateboarding and he forgave me for being upset that he bought the same board (a "hippie stick") as a friend of mine.
    
19. Much as I died of embarrassment when he'd pee in the street in front of my friends, I love that he's teaching his girls it's okay to go outside if you want to.
    
20. He didn't poop the whole time he was at 6th grade camp. That's like a week. I don't know if I'm more impressed our disgusted.
    
21. Once, on one of a million boring road trips we took together as children, he startled two unsuspecting passersby by shooting his cap gun out the crack of the van window.
    
22. He makes cool bird houses out of old license plates.
23. He's pretty honest - he'll tell you anything.
    
24. He's willing to help out. He installed a much needed water heater at Eloise's house.
    
25. He takes his trash to dump himself instead of paying to have it hauled away weekly. I thought this was because he was being cheap, but it's not. If he takes his trash to the curb weekly, you see, he has to think of it 104 times a year. If he takes it to the dump say monthly, he only has to think about it a dozen times each year. Gross, I know. And tellingly eccentric. What I love even more is that my sister also has to make trips to the dump (she uses more cat litter than the law allows). Better still, they both loaded their trucks the day before Thanksgiving only to discover, independently, that the dump was closed for the holiday. I chuckle when I imagine them hauling around household garbage and cat shit for the entire holiday weekend.
    
26. When he was young, my sister and I convinced him he was a boy-girl so he would let us put barrettes in his hair. I distinctly remember explaining, "there's boys and there's girls and then there are boy-girls..."
    
27. He's gullible. Not once, but twice, he has purchased bogus stereo equipment while waiting in line in a drive thru.
28. My sister and I, while babysitting him, once inflicted him with rug burn while dragging him upstairs to wash his mouth out with liquid soap to punish him for cussing. (Why liquid soap? Again, girls can be cruel. Why not bring the soap to him? I guess we were caught up in the moment...) I love that he not only forgives us but he counts this memory, along with the one where we insisted he strip and show us his first alleged pubic hair, among his favorites.
    
29. He once bought movie tickets for the entire family at Christmas time. I'm fairly certain we never used them and I remember my mom scolded him for not buying them through the military where they would have been cheaper. I personally was touched that he had gotten us anything at all. In fact, I'd venture to say that that unused movie ticket was the best Christmas present I've ever gotten.
    
30. He's good at chess. We don't play chess in our family so I have no idea where he even learned it.
    
31. He loves eggs. It's disgusting how many he can eat. Yet he doesn't like cake. Who doesn't like cake?
    
32. He built an entire house (without a permit, on my parents' easement) because he felt like it. For whatever reason, we call it the Devil's Whore House.
    

I still worry about Billy. I'm no longer concerned that I'll find him running around naked and peeing in front of my friends. Instead I worry that his dreams are bigger than reality. I can't imagine, being a princess and a parasite, what it really means to be self-employed and responsible for the health and well-being of three other people. It must be exhausting, overwhelming. I'm confident, though, that Billy's got the drive and the determination to get what he needs, even if he can't have everything he wants.

Happy Birthday, Brother.

two years ago yesterday

Yesterday was my sadiversary. Like my December sadiversary, I found myself unable to blog about it on the actual date. Perhaps this is because I so often choose feeling drunk over feeling sad. While I know all too well how easy it is to drunk dial, I have learned it is a tad trickier to drunk post. In any case, it's now been two years and one day since I killed my cat.

Officially I considered yesterday a celebration of Fabe's life. I toasted his magnificent being, the heft of his body, the length of his tail, the aging of his distinguished whiskers. I heard again his impatient "harrumpfh," saw again his bored acceptance of my affection. I asked him again (always in Spanish) "cuantos besos quieres tu?" and I heard again his answer "zero" and replied (as usual) "cien?" I recounted his adventures and triumphs. I begged his forgiveness for the times I let him down.

I remember after he died I realized he had really had exactly 9 lives. I'm certain they're more meaningful to me than you, but since I am convinced I'm doomed to get Alzheimer's some day, here they are for the record:

• 1. abandoned by owners to be euthanized - presumably for anti-social behavior (1990)
• 2. kept at evil small town pet hospital, used as blood donor until considerably more anti-social - finally stolen/rescued by my sister (1991)
• 3. poisoned by incompetent pet sitter/unauthorized flea bomb, summer of love - hacking cough lingered for years (1992)
• 4. let out onto third story roof by brother - Billy swears it was Fabe's idea (1994)
• 5. bit on the ass by neighbor dog - scar the size of a quarter (1995)
• 6. trapped in neighbor's garage 3 days - Erik went searching door to door after I'd given up (1997)
• 7. threatened with "social consequences" for fecal incontinence (a.k.a. "poopetas") - turns out he didn't have sphincter failure, just an unfortunate reaction to a change in the menu... I'm sure I wouldn't have followed through with it anyway... (1998)***
• 7. dehydrated during do-over move from u-hell - the day I learned never to tow a car in 1st gear (1997)
• 8. developed stomatitis - had to have all his teeth pulled (1999)
• 9. developed squamous cell carcinoma - couldn't open his mouth to eat (2004)

I still feel guilty. Not for killing him, but for not killing him sooner. He couldn't eat. His eyeball had collapsed from the pressure of the abscess that grew behind it. I had him addicted to morphine. But I needed some time to get used to the idea of letting him go. He was okay with it, I think. He continued to worship the sun, he still watched the birds (though without depth perception, I suppose). He came home promptly for his fix. He let me sleep on the floor beside him (though he left in the night when I snored...). He'd sometimes purr. And when it was time, really time, we both knew.

My two new kitties insist it was a good thing that Fabe passed. They are enjoying his house, his furs, his hundred kisses. Today OC even enjoyed the company of a bird. I'm not sure if it is good or bad that he didn't kill it right away. I woke up to the familiar sound of too much fun and intervened. It was ultimately able to fly away, but is it dying somewhere now of an infection?

Anyway, I know that OC and Pequeno are right. And I know that I should be appreciating them as in a dozen years or so I will be toasting to their memory... (maybe even sooner in OC's case as I calculate he's already used at least 3 lives...) And so I'm glad my sadiversary has passed. But I'm also glad I had such a great cat to be sad about in the first place.




***The poopeta story, though deleted, deserves further explanation. I've crossed it out not only because Erik came home and remembered a much more legitimate near death cat experience, but because I really wasn't all that close to killing Fabe in the first place. I was frustrated, yes, and disgusted, for sure. And desperate, even. Definitely desperate. But murderous, not quite. In fact, I was appalled to learn, after consulting my veterinarian sister about the alarming number of pellet sized cat turds I had begun to find in the house, that cats with sphincter problems often suffered "social consequences" for their incurable fecal incontinence. After a few weeks of poopetas, though, I must admit I had begun to have some insight into the phrase "social consequences." Indeed, I would often blurt it out when stumbling across yet another tiny turd as I shuffled through the darkness towards the toilet, half asleep. All too often a poopeta would be left in my lap after a love session, an accidental token of affection. So often that Fabe was exiled from my lap. I lived in fear of the poopeta. I calculated the likelihood that the next poopeta would find a way to touch my now watchful body and the odds were high. Imagine my guilt when I realized the poopetas were all my fault. I had, for whatever no good reason, recently switched cat food brands. This, like towing a car in first gear, is apparently not a good idea. The sad thing was that switching back was equally confusing for his delicate constitution so the solution to the onslaught was slow in coming. In any case, eventually my cat's digestive track was returned to normal and he was spared the social consequences of my actions.

tall, dark, and cursing

My husband doesn't understand why the cats fear him. Sure, he's big even among guys, a full foot taller than me. So he's what? 700% taller than they are? And at least 1250% heavier...

And his height is greatly exaggerated by his recreational hair growth. You see, he hasn't had a haircut since September 2005. At first he claimed he was doing it for me, as I told him I missed his hair. Now it's nothing short of a full blown science experiment. Though he hates dealing with it - all the washing, the detangling, the finding of it in his food - he is determined to see how big he can get his white boy afro. (He actually even combs it with a pick. He was so excited when he discovered this tool. Until then he'd just been breaking all our combs.) Depending on the humidity, I sometimes call him Erik Africa. I took this shot thinking I could mock him, but it actually looks pretty good. This is probly what Lilt meant to do to my third grade hair. But Lilt could have never given me his volume. Only Dad could have done that. But no, he just gave me his exceptionally large forehead and his Rosacea. (Thanks, Dad.) Erik also has naturally long eyelashes that any self respecting girl would kill for. Like his hair, he considers his lashes a nuisance. Apparently they have the audacity to brush up against the lens of most sunglasses. Darn, I hate when that happens. Is it wrong to be jealous of your husband's hair?

But I don't think his size is what the cats fear most. I think it is his volume. The cats, like myself, are both nervous by nature and frequently sleeping, thus they find loud noises disturbing. They especially hate the trash truck or, as we call it, the Kitty Grinder. (Funny aside: I thought I coined the phrase "Kitty Grinder," using it to tease my then-living kitty. Each week Fabe seemed grateful that I hadn't turned him over to the authorities, but I could tell he was angry that I had considered it at all... Then in a totally random pre-Tivo channel surfing session, I saw a Kitty Grinder in a Felix the Cat episode. It was more meat grinder than trash truck, but still, it was actually labeled "Kitty Grinder." I was at once delighted and disappointed. I am never quite as clever as I think I am...)

Tonight, when I woke at 3 am to hear my husband cursing, "F@ck you, you f@cking @sshole!" I too was startled and a little afraid. Of course I knew this meant he had stumbled across a cat, presumably the black one, as he is basically invisible - "blacker than night," I say - and because the orange one is, after 2 weeks of captivity and 2 good stool samples post emergency enema, free once again to roam the neighborhood and slaughter small animals, thus he is seldom home...

Sometimes cats deserve cursing. Sometimes they intentionally trip you or at least foolishly don't not trip you. (Which brings to mind another of my favorite mother quotes - "I don't not dislike you," a miscalculation on her part of the number of double negatives needed to say she loved me...) Tonight, the cat's chief crime was falling asleep in front of the heater (and therefore squarely in the path to the bathroom) and assuming that humans, like cats, can see well in the dark.

I can't expect my cats to understand about rods and cones - though the black one was home today when I watched the Mythbusters Pirate Special... Together we learned that pirates wore eye patches not to cover unsightly gouged out eyes. Instead, the eye patch served to keep the concealed eye prepared for fighting in the dark. The pirate, when moving from a well lit place to a darker one, would move the patch to cover the sun bleached eye and carry on with the necessary plundering and pillaging. Very keen, those pirates... So perhaps he assumed that sleep was like the ultimate eye patch and he expected that Erik should have been able to avoid an obstacle such as himself. I can't say for sure.

In any case, my husband took his hair and went back to bed. My cat went outside but has since returned, unscathed. I made a pot of tea and here I sit, realizing that one unexpected byproduct of my life as princess parasite is that, by sleeping as often as I want, I can't always sleep when I'm supposed to. No big deal. Tomorrow I'll take a nap.

a little tied up

I was tied up yesterday (helping a friend move out of her house and away from her marriage) so I didn't get to see Shawna's entanglement. Even so, just viewing the aftermath - the exaggerated, artificial smile cut into her cheeks, the deep fleshy gash in the back of her neck, the tangle of netting that half filled a kitchen trash bag - made my vagina hurt. You know the feeling. It's the female equivalent of what guys experience when they see another guy get kicked in the balls. It's that twinge triggered by empathy that's followed by an ache born of cellular memory. It's a physical protest to life's many injustices.

It wasn't just the obvious wounds that made my cervix wince. Entanglement affects more than just the surface of a seal. Shawna, though 2.2 kg heavier than Famous, was significantly more emaciated. Famous was scrawny but scrappy. Shawn was the saggy and sorry. And no wonder. In addition to the difficulties of being recently weaned, Shawna was forced to dive while wearing a green plastic afro. Even if she had been fortunate enough to catch a fish, it would have been impossible to swallow as the netting stretched across her mouth like a horse's bit. Dehydrated seal eyes are often described as gummy; Shawna's were downright crusty. She was so depleted she didn't even have the energy to be tube fed last night. Her breakfast, 300 ml of electrolytes, was the first thing to reach her stomach in a long while.

Shawna isn't nearly as cute as Thornberry, Marciel, and Cranny (who are all, by the way, faring quite well in the company of nearly 20 others of their kind), but in many ways her rescue is much more satisfying. Fur seals are warm and fuzzy, but entangled animals we know we owe.

this is how dorky i am

It's cold right now. Not snowing cold, of course, but California cold, which means I've been relatively bundled up. So I was bummed when I couldn't find my gloves before leaving this morning for my follow up visit with Dr. Wonka. (Where, by the way, I stole my first pen of the year... though I'm not even sure it's stealing since the drug reps probly want their pens out there in the world. Even so, I was all sly and used the pen to write a check and then "absent-mindedly" dropped it into my groovy new skurvy purse.)

Instead, after a brief search, I located and wore my back up gloves. (Which are actually much nicer, thus they are my back up. I have a tendency to save everything nice for some never-to-come later time. Usually this strategy backfires. Just ask Erik about the infamous moldy Tastykake. My grandmother had sent a box all the way from Philly. In the beginning I was all happy, on a nostalgic chocolate high - eating, sharing - like a normal person. Everything changed when my supply was reduced to one lonely kake. Erik foolishly contemplated eating it. Of course I wouldn't hear of it. Instead, I saved it for myself, for my future more-deserving self, and, as the title of the tale implies, I rediscovered it, moldy and quite inedible, weeks later...)

I ran a few errands on the way to Dr. Wonka's. One stop was Home Depot where I was exchanging a dimmer switch I had attempted to install. (The Home Depot guy swore it would be easy. "Easy, as in 'even a girl could do it', easy?" I asked. "Yes," he assured me. The hardest part would be picking out which one I wanted, he said. Well, I assumed he meant I would have a style conundrum. I am, in fact, often painfully indecisive. But I live in a rental which means the choice was easy. I picked the cheapest one. Well, as it turns out, there's more to a dimmer than just style. There are two different types of wiring one might encounter when digging around in walls and I had, of course, bought the wrong one. Indeed, the act of turning off the power, unscrewing the wall plate and connecting the wires did not seem overly complicated, but I wish Home Depot man had been a bit more specific with his cryptic warning. I would have totally spent the extra five bucks for the one that could accommodate either type of wiring. I love things that can do both. Both is always the right answer, I say.)

Home Depot, I know from experience, has a decent bathroom. (My mother and I, thanks to our shared genes of thin hair and overactive bladders, keep a mental map of all the best public restrooms within a 200 mile radius of our homes. In fact, on Christmas Eve I added a most delightful loo to my list. While driving through Big Sur, Erik and I stopped at a little roadhouse whose restroom had an actual (optional) potty seat built into the toilet lit. Although I don't have children, I was touched at the thoughtfulness of the management and the cleverness of the person who designed it.)

While washing up afterwards, I happened to glance at myself in the mirror. I noticed my cosy winter hat was more askew than it normally is. I am accustomed to finding it poofed up a bit in the back from my perpetual pony tail, but this lump was strangely peaked and forward. I took off my hat to investigate.

I had found the missing gloves.

of famous & feces

I didn't actually make any New Year's resolutions this year, so I can't say I'm disappointed in myself. I auditioned all the standards - exercise more, eat better, drink less, spend sparingly, and write often. My good intentions are apparently dyslexic, however, because instead I find myself exercising less, eating more, drinking better (only top shelf margaritas for me this year), spending often, and writing sparingly. I'm fairly certain I even blew "be a better vegetarian" when I partook in the broccoli salad at a recent potluck (pretty sure that was bacon I tasted...). Oh well.

It took a seal rescue to bring me back to my blog. This super cute recently weaned California sea lion was brought in yesterday on my grandfather's would-be 91st birthday. In honor of Pop (who passed last year, the day before his 90th) we named him Famous. Famous rejected his breakfast (insisting mama taught him never to eat dead fish), so we soon tube fed him and sent him on his way. Though he was only in my life for a few brief hours, he was just what I need to pull myself out of a growing funk. I'm constantly humbled by how young and small these sea-faring animals are (Famous is just 7 months old and 23 pounds) - put in my place by the majesty of nature.

Intellectually I know I have nothing to complain about. By definition, the plight of a princess parasite is pretty darned enviable. Even my semi-dreaded trip to Anaheim went swimmingly. Seeing Disneyland through the eyes of a three year old was nothing short of splendid. My niece's spanking clean karma brought us all kinds of good luck. Costume clad employees were constantly popping out of nowhere, stopping to greet a bewildered Grace. Donald Duck was noticeably stand-offish - but I guess that's consistent with his character. Minnie Mouse was her absolute favorite and accordingly we met her the most. We literally stalked her at breakfast - for which we were rewarded with a balloon...

And then there were the princesses. All day long Grace looked forward to getting to "Eat Ariel" at dinner. (Would she taste like fish, I wondered?) And yet, once we were seated, all she wanted to do was ride the "alligator" up to the second floor and watch the near by roller coaster go upside down. We barely made it back to the table in time for our photo op and even then she was every minute a fussy toddler. It was the only time my father had to use his border voice (first discovered when overzealous Canadian mounties wanted to search our car...) which effectively prevented her from spilling her dessert.

Other than the border voice, which she took in stride, Grace was only truly traumatized a few times. She now thinks whales are scary (thanks, Pinnochio), bugs get you (in fairness, that show was marked with an exclamation point and came with 3D glasses), and she's none too keen on ladybugs (they spin like tea cups). She concluded that dragons are the scariest, however, as even Grandpa was frightened then. In fact, the next day she wouldn't even go close to the Chinese restaurant that was sporting decorative dragons out front. She has no fear of heights, however. I found Dumbo disturbing, she wanted to ride it twice. This will surely come in handy in her future cheerleading career. The only ride she refused to board was the one with Frog & Toad. After riding it, my mother and I agreed she made a sound decision.

The funniest moment happened when my folks and I attended the other exclamation pointed show - "Honey, I Shrunk the Audience." My mother actually believed that our 3D glasses were
"safety glasses" and she was shocked that they effects were all aimed exclusively at her. Shortly thereafter we found ourselves in the audience at the Silver Horseshoe enjoying a live rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia." Dad took the opportunity before the show to sneak in a nap and we all left feeling strangely refreshed. There's something to be said for the fiddle.

My trip to Disneyland confirmed my hubby's conclusion that "girls have ruined pirates." I am now the proud owner of pirate princess mouse ears, pirate princess pants, and, of course, a pirate princess tiara that actually stays in place even in my pathetically wimpy hair. I have a Paul Frank purse that celebrates "skurvy" (particularly appropriate since Grace was sporting a spot of skurvy on her lip the whole trip) and a fancy skull ring that matches the skull necklace my red headed niecelet, Savannah, bought me with her very own money last year.

The most magical thing that accompanied our trip to the magic kingdom happened while "swimming" in the hot tub of my parents' very expensive hotel ($500 a night - don't tell Dad...). Grace commanded that we should "make the bubbles go down" and instantly the timer ran out. Unfazed, Grace continued swimming. My sister and I were totally creeped out.

The minute my family parted ways, however, the magic ended. My sister's plane was delayed and her car seat misplaced. She got home hours later than anticipated - frustrated, frazzled and famished. I drove away from the hotel and realized one exit later that I had left some luggage behind. The challenge of retracing my steps paled in comparison to the 90 minute detour I'd endure later. I left the air mattress I bought for my parents' pending visit (intended to balance out the very expensive hotel stay) at the register and didn't realize it until I got home.

Wasted time and gasoline was nothing compared to the lost sleep I spent capturing OC (who had elected to run away from home the whole time I was in Anaheim, his longest absence since he was abducted). His return home was accompanied by enough resistance that my vet prescribed Progesterone for my black cat. I was expecting Prozac or Paxil, but Progesterone gave me some pause... The violence has decreased notably since OC's emergency enema, however, so I've held off on the hormone therapy.

Yes, I said enema.

In his previous life, OC was known as Thomas, the Buttless Wonder. He came into my life via my sister who was supposed to euthanize him after he collected a mass of impacted feces the size of a golf ball. Instead, she found a generous donor and a skillful surgeon who spared him from his congenital bilateral perineal hernias. My only instruction as his adoptive mother was to be sure he never got backed up again. Imagine the guilt I felt when, after nine days of captivity, he revealed his constipation to me this past Saturday.

My veterinarian, bless her heart, put the blame on OC. While I assigned his lack of bowel movement to his forced sedentary lifestyle and rodent-free diet, she likened it more to a kid at summer camp, unwilling to use the unfamiliar facilities. Though he was going, it wasn't often enough and as a result he ended up backed up.

Unfortunately, I could identify. I am the reluctant victim of vacation constipation. Normally a very regular pooper, on vacation I often find myself dreading the act of excreting. Not an avid traveler, I can only recall a few mortifying occasions where my output has unfortunately exceeded the capacity of the local plumbing. Most notably, I had trouble while visiting my brother in Portland. It was here that my dear sister agreed to dispose of my problem in exchange for the right to pick the restaurant for dinner. Kevin and I exchanged troubled glances as we shared a bowl of tortilla chips that night. Most recently, I visited my dear sweet Yvette. Yvette has been my friend since fifth grade and so she quickly assigned my inconvenience to her insufficient plumbing and her paper happy son. I knew better, though. I have a history. It was at Yvette's that I realized I had never learned to properly plunge (as I usually have a man around and plunging is most definitely penis work...) - my agony and embarrassment prolonged while I puzzled through a personal science lesson.

Speaking of home science, my how I have been enjoying the static electricity lately. In my previous life as an employed person, I used to follow my mentor/coworker into the dark room on a regular basis hoping to catch a glimpse of the static jumping off a newly opened package of OVM (orange vinyl mask). OVM quickly became a dinosaur in the now digital printing industry so after six long years I retired having never seen the mysterious sparks. I learned, however, that orange cats are equally adept at generating static and I've enjoyed petting OC in the dark ever since. And last night even Pequeno (aka Blackers the Attackers) was reluctantly putting on a light show.

So how is it I've been feeling so funky? I've been sipping top shelf margaritas, reminiscing about magical moments, shocking my unsuspecting cats with static electricity. I have enjoyed the regular movement of my bowels and even the emotionally draining emergency enema was free of charge (my sis had to agree to pay all of OC's butt related vet bills before I would adopt such a medically needy cat...). My husband rearranged all the furniture while I was gone (something which is very sexy - just ask Springfield's Apu who garnered great interest in the bachelor auction after announcing that his hobbies included talking about where to place furniture in a room...) so my computer could have an ocean view and a heater. What could be better?

Okay, so I haven't enjoyed being a slave to the litter box. Seriously, it is not my fault if OC finds the facilities sub par. I scoop that thing so regularly that I have even begun doing it in my dreams. And my hormones haven't exactly been friendly to me, an unfortunate byproduct of my dyslexic good intentions... Nothing extraordinary, though. Just the usual bloatation and crankiness. And then there was that one supremely horrible day that started with 3 am caterwauling followed by vitamin-on-an-empty-stomach vomiting that ended with cracking my head on the bathroom countertop. Now that day I know I had a reason to cry. But over all, I figure maybe I really am just disappointed in myself for not resolving something in the New Year. So, here it is.

I resolve to steal more pens.

My employment free lifestyle has left me sorry little access to office supplies. Gone is the joy I find in swiping a fine writing instrument. You know, one that feels heavy in your hand, or writes in purple or green, or lights up or otherwise celebrates itself. God, I love stealing pens. Buying them is a rush too, don't get me wrong, but a stolen pen is a prize for life. I reconnected with this joy at Dr. Wonka's office when left alone for my torturous scratch test. If you've never had one, a scratch test is a modern day torture device where your back is covered with 73 itchy stimulants that you are not allowed to scratch for 20 minutes. It begins with the control stimulant, histamine, which always itches, to ensure maximum discomfort. After about 15 minutes I bored of my gossip mag and began snooping in drawers. It was then I found the wealth of drug rep pens. I chose a lime green one, obviously well loved as the name of the drug is all but worn off. They owed me that pen. And more...

I'm not sure how I will achieve this pen swiping goal (I seriously seldom interact with the real world), but resolutions are not supposed to be easy. At least this is one I haven't already broken.