See the Tree How Big It's Grown

Thirteen. Where did the years go?


I know where 26 weeks of each of the last 4 have gone...to Lars with his "only limited contact allowed" mentality. Please let HIS last birthday be his actual last birthday.

My son has grown up in so many ways, and yet I still see the face of the little boy who very earnestly responded to the Kindergarten teacher's inquiry during Fire Safety week that "the fire alarm goes off when my Mom is making dinner."

This is a big birthday. I want to make it memorable. But not electronic!

He's mentioned Major League Baseball tickets. And I take that to mean "with all the concessions money can buy, while we're there." I can start there and build a weekend of fun around it.

I go online for tickets to our local team. To my dismay I find that the entire summer there are about 4 days that the team plays at home and the stars align so that the kids are with me and not being held hostage by Lars. Super. I painstakingly search for tickets in any section for any game on those nights. There is one possibility. We can stand for the duration of the game on that deck in the outfield.

Why not just watch from across the street in a bar?

I decide to get creative. Neighboring cities...there are at least 3 that would only require an overnight weekend trip. Maybe our team will be playing in one of those cities on a weekend that they are with me. They are on the road for most of them. A little sight seeing, a little baseball, a little shopping...perfect.

No such luck. It is beginning to look like a conspiracy.

Maybe football? Sure if I want a pre-season game. Ho-hum. I can hear the cheerleaders now. "Apathy! Apathy! A-P-A-T, ah who cares!"

I expand my horizons. Any neighboring team playing any team in any sport on any weekend that I have my kids before Patrick's next birthday.

Bingo. Orioles. Box seats. Inner Harbor. Add to my shopping cart...cha-ching.

And now the fun can begin. Scott and I will book a hotel between the harbor attractions and the stadium so we can walk or take a short cab ride to everything. Maximize the visit. Maybe take a ghost tour so Hil can get her fix. Perfect!

And to add to the theme...I go on line.

MLB Baseball Bloopers DVD. He's mentioned it before. Who doesn't love the face plants, the bobbles, the dives into the stands that go awry?

Unbeatable Baseball Numbers. A DVD about all the greats and their incredible statistics. The Hank Aarons. The Nolan Ryans. How cool is that when you are 13?

And, just to show I am not fundamentally opposed to all things video game, I also throw in the Playstation 2 MLB game. Points for Mom for not being entirely nerdy.

Bring on the cake and candles.

Hippo, Birdie, Two Ewes

I have just celebrated my birthday.

It was wonderful. Finally. A wonderful birthday. Being a year older notwithstanding.

No drama from J. No crap to contend with. Last year I returned his gifts for cash to reimburse myself for something he'd welshed on. Couldn't even look at them knowing what he'd done. Enough said.

This year, Scott had the whole thing covered. Thoughtfully, lovingly covered.

Lovely card. Handwritten sentiment. Gotta love a guy who will pick up a pen once in a while instead of letting Hallmark do all the heavy lifting.

Gift card to my spa - pamper myself any way I want while he waits to take my fabulous new self out for drinks. Beautification and cocktails. A winning hand.

Cool gear for my car - something no one but me would want, but something I'd mentioned I'd wanted to get to make my cool car even cooler. Right up Scott's alley for sure.

And then, on the evening of my birthday, we could go anywhere I want for dinner. Any. Where.

But first we'd return to a little artisan jewelry shop nearby where I'd admired so many things that day we'd walked around in the rain and sipped coffee and lingered in shops while my car got inspected and the Toyota guy tried to sell me a set of $13 spark plugs for $450 claiming "there is a lot of complicated labor involved." Really? Am I driving the Space Shuttle?

Scott wanted me to pick something that I love for him to buy for me.

How fun!

I tried on tons of things. Rings and cuffs, and bangles and necklaces. I looked at case after case of interesting designs and one-of-a-kind pieces. I would have thought I was driving the shopkeeper to distraction but she so loved the artists I gravitated toward that she was happy to explain each artist's heart when she showed each piece.

In the end, I chose, with Scott's help, a lovely silver cable and fresh water pearl tandem necklace with a beautifully designed enhancer made of silver. It had an additional embellishment not unlike Lagos' caviar at the bottom, from which dangles a lovely, larger freshwater pearl. Unique. Perfect. It is as lovely as my memories of the day. I will wear it "til the wheels fall off.

And though I'd thought for a long time that then I'd drag Scott off to some swanky new restaurant featured in the magazine Kate sells ads for, and that she has raved about, I was suddenly more interested in the familiar.

I asked if he'd be too disappointed if we pointed the car toward home and simply stopped in to our local pub for a couple of pints and our favorite sandwiches while the vocalist croons and Major League Baseball plays on all the TVs on mute.

He had been hoping I'd say just that. Yay me.

And now, I am wishing that the next birthday on the list, Patrick's, were going to be so easy.

We have already established that the surprise pet was nearly a boondoggle, so I am nervous about surprises. He's hinted at a few things, but what he really wants I won't get. I simply can't bring myself to get him yet another gaming system to complement the 4 he already has (1 at my house, 3 at Lars's)

So here he is - about to turn 13 - which as you might recall is a pretty big hairy deal when you are the one becoming a teenager, and I have no idea what to do to make it special.

I have less than a week to figure this out and my creativity is "on the fritz" (to quote my very quotable mother).

I am smoothing my Mother of the Year apron and getting down to business.

Stray Cat Strut

I have to admit I was a little unnerved by my fussbudget cat. She ignored us all, hid in the basement, ate nothing and was wasting away before our eyes. And refused perfectly good food!

I poured Scott and I a beer after the kids went to bed and told him my worries while I set about packing the kids lunches for the next day. He’s the pet veteran. I am just a rookie. What was I doing wrong? Did I assume too much? She was becoming such a mystery.

Scott listened patiently while I wrote initials on brown paper bags and folded napkins that would never get used. I packed a handful of strawberries for Hil, and a shiny Washington apple for Patrick. Each got a fudge brownie with sprinkles. He wanted peanut butter and raspberry jelly on white. She would have honey roasted turkey on white with no cheese and no mayo or mustard. Ack!

As I went to place a slice of turkey on the bread for Hil’s sandwich, out of nowhere flew Trinket, landing briefly on the counter where she batted the turkey from my hand and pounced on it where it landed on the floor. Much purring ensued.

And since then, there have been other things. Things frankly, that tell me that Miss Kitty must have been cared for by someone.

We know she was a stray. If not from her pathetic little 7-pound body weight, from her disinterest in toys in favor of live things, from her survivalist behaviors, from her distaste for cat food, from her ability and willingness to take food rather than wait for it.

But I envision her being a stray that lived in a wooded area by a strip mall…a strip mall with maybe a Chinese restaurant. Maybe she hung around the dumpster by the back door to the kitchen where the smells called to her.

And maybe some nice restaurant staff person was kind to her. Gave her things like pork chops and turkey. And water.

Trinket ignores her water bowl. No matter what size, shape or color I place by the food bowls. What she will drink from is a cup. Only a cup. Preferably one made of clear glass, please.

Every time I brushed my teeth she’d appear in the bathroom and jump up on the counter. She’d stare at the water and I could tell she was thinking – thinking of ways to get some water from the spigot into her mouth.

And one day I took a little Dixie cup and filled it to the very brim and placed it on the floor. She drank it to the very bottom, nearly getting it stuck on her tiny face.

So now I have formed some bad habits. Habits I would regret if not for the changes they’ve brought about in the cat.

I have two mugs of water in the bathroom filled to the brim every morning and night. That is her preferred watering hole. It’s that or the toilet. I keep the lid down and fill the mugs. I still fill the water bowl in the kitchen but I may as well piss up a rope for the good it will do me.

If I have a glass of water at my bedside it is understood that she will drink it in the night. Thankfully I can hear the little charm clink against the glass when she does so I don’t forget and take a swig myself later in the night. Eeewww.

Trinket will not relent until she has climbed from “her chair” at the dining room table onto the table surface and has been allowed to inspect what is on our plates - for future interest only, of course. Unless, one leaves the table, like Pat did on Thursday, and Trinket sees fit to spin your place mat with her paw until the plate is within easy reach so she can steal a piece of penne alfredo before anyone notices. This is a habit that may require a water pistol to break.

But the change in her is remarkable. With the Friskies she can count on, and an occasional nibble of home cooking, she is a fully acclimated House Cat. Happy to see you, thankful and hungry for lots of love and vittles, happy to purr and sleep on your bed all night.

She has found herself some People and we have found ourselves something to love.

She recently discovered the Catnip mouse, much to our delight and entertainment, and has not been to the basement rafters in over a week.

Welcome to our home, Trinket.

Let Them Eat Cake

Over the next few days, Trinket dines regularly on pork chops scraps. But I really can not envision cooking pork chops for this little kitty every day. But Her Royal Fussiness has clearly turned up her tiny pink nose at the $32, 20 lb bag of highly nutritious cat food I’d gotten.

The mondo bag of chow is going to Scott’s where his unfussy cat Snickers will surely eat it. I keep a gallon pitcher of the chow for Trinket, in the event that I am negligent in getting to the store some day and it is a choice between the chow and starvation. I am hoping Miss Meowypants will choose wisely.

Never one to give up altogether, I continue to try to tempt her with the canned food. I even take the advice of some online pet expert and heat it up a little so it smells stronger (really???) but she is sooooo not having any of that.

I offer her a can of MY tuna. No go.

I cook her a scrambled egg like my mother would have. No thanks.

We’ll have to try something entirely new. So Scott and I make a trip to the grocery store.

The pet aisle at Superfresh is daunting. And completely unfamiliar territory. I do eventually figure out that cat stuff is on the left and dog stuff in on the right. Good distinction to make.

I am looking for what my Dad used to give our cat, day in and day out, without variation. It was called Tender Vittles, and it came in a box filled with little foil lined pouches that contained what I’d describe as semi-dry morsels of very smelly food stuffs that would appeal only to cats (or maybe the otherwise starving person confined to his house for a long period of time that exceeds the shelf life of any people food that may remain there)

There is no such thing.

I am tempted again by the high-priced nutritionally engineered varieties.

Scott has better plans.

He grabs one box each of three flavors of Friskies with names like “Surf and Turf-full” and “Seafood Sensation.” Do cats read now?

Since I am convinced that Trinket has preferences for table food, as witnessed by the reaction to pork chops, I am sure I should not leave it at just Friskies.

I reach for a variety pack of envelopes filled with different meats of known kitty- appeal and described as having their own “gravy.” I am imagining how putrid the smell.

We go home and I am anxious to see Trinket’s reaction.

I pour some Friskies into a freshly washed bowl.

Nothing.

I open a pouch of Tuna-something with gravy. I swoon from the smell but squeeze the contents onto a little china dish, and of course get some on my hand.

Trinket wants to see about my hand before committing to the dish. She takes a quick lick or two. Stares at me. I (gasp!) pick up a chunk of the mush and hold out my hand like I had with the chops.

She licks at it and meows. But it is not a happy meow. She is hungry but not at all interested in this stuff either.

I am beginning to think that she’d actually choose starvation.

Get Back, Honky Cat

The next few days are a little dicey.

Trinket has all the hallmarks of a stray. Most remarkable to me is her posture when she sleeps. She is crouched and resting, but on her feet, ready to run at any second should danger come near. It is hardly relaxed.

She is not friendly. She hides in the basement often. Sometimes in the rafters and recesses of the walls, sometimes in things like an Easter basket, six-pack sized cooler or a pile of winter coats. She will not make a sound and instead will let you look all over the damn place, which I believe I’ve described as Sanford and Son East, presumably chuckling her little kitty chuckle while you make little kissy noises and try to lure her out by shaking the box of Friskies. (Don’t laugh! It worked for my cat as a kid!)

She eats nothing. And I mean nothing. But she does get enormously curious about what goes on at the dining room table.

On Tuesday, Scott joins us for dinner. I have made pork chops that I’ve braised and then poached in barbecue sauce, apple sauce and a little brown sugar. I’ve also made baked beans and salad. Hil has set the table with martini glasses and candles, ever the romantic.

Scott is concerned about Trinket too. (Animal lover, through and through) After dinner, he takes a few scraps of meat from the fatty edges he’s carved from his chops and places them on the floor.

Trinket is transformed! She bounds over to the scraps and scarfs them down. I have one remaining chop and some scraps left by the kids (not a crumb left on my plate, natch) and begin to chop them up in to manageable pieces.

Trinket is purring and rubbing up against my legs as I stand at the counter. She is stretched up on her hind legs with one paw against the door of the dishwasher (the stainless steel is going to take a beating with this cat) and has one paw free and poised to swat at anything the gets loose.

When I stoop to place the meat on her plate, she places on paw on my wrist and digs in ever so slightly with her claws. She is holding my hand in place so she can take the food from my fingers!

It is a sight to behold. She eats until she is full. It didn’t take long, her poor little tummy is so shrunken with starvation.

She is purring and affectionate and becomes all snoozy with the fullness of her little belly.

Maybe Trinket is realizing that now she has People. And maybe, these people will love her enough to figure out what it is that she likes and what it is that she needs, and get them for her.

She climbs onto a pillow, curls up with her paw and tail across her tiny little face and sleeps. Finally, she sleeps in a position of true relaxation. I think she’s realized she is Home.

The Year of the Cat

At last we are home. I feel a little guilty about leaving Trinket so soon. The kids have no idea what to expect from a cat. I am not sure I do. I have an hour to figure it out.

I put down food and water for her. I have arranged all of her bowls on a decorative place mat. She ignores the food. Same routine as at Scott's. She is skeletal; I try not to dwell.

I carry her to the litter box, so she knows where to find it: artfully placed on its coordinating mat to the left of the foot of the short flight of steps to my basement. It is an unfinished basement. I wonder why I bothered with all the coordinating. It’s the Mom in me, I suppose.

I introduce Trinket to all of her toys. Since none of them resembles a live, panicked bird, she is disinterested. She scampers back to the basement to the base of the fireplace chute where we once detected a mouse.

She is frozen there. Staring.

Oh good. A mouser. Let the games begin.

But I must go to the orthodontist at once, and first must tell the children three simple things:

1 - Don’t let Trinket outside for any reason, even by accident.

2 - If she does anything weird, call Scott.

3 - If she poops, pees or barfs on anything, just leave it for me. I can dole out KP duty details once we’ve all gotten used to each other.

I go to the orthodontist. Uneventful thank God.

I return to my car to find 4 missed messages from my home and my children’s cell phones, and Scott is calling me.

I answer in a panic.

He tells me that the kids have been calling him. Trinket seems to want to retreat to the basement. I tell him about my mousing suspicions.

He tells me that she is climbing into the cool, dark, albeit filthy spaces between the top of the foundation and the floors of the house. He thinks maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s going in there to die.

I had a cat that did that when I was growing up. He was 18. After he went through his cranky old age stage of peeing on one’s pillow out of spite, he climbed into the dark, cool recesses of the linen closet by the water pipes to die. My brother had to climb in to pull him out, presumably to die a more humiliating public death.

I race home. This can not be how this story ends. Poor kitty. Poor kids. And perhaps worst of all, Lars will make this a laughable story that proves without question that I am the crappiest mother on the planet.

What's New Pussycat?

But in my heart and soul I have to give this a heartfelt investment. If I anticipate trouble, surely there will be some. I have to assume Patrick is not allergic, that the episode at his friend’s house was more about the mangey cats themselves and the general lack of housekeeping than allergies, and that if necessary, Patrick can resist the urge to bury his adorable face in her fur and wash his hands regularly.

We are off to Scott’s early on Saturday.

We talk about the cat all the way there – every inch of 90 miles is about what to do, what not to do, what the cat might be feeling, what the girls and Scott might be feeling. I am sure I am sucking the joy right out of this whole affair.

We arrive and are greeted first by the dogs.
And the girls.
And Scott.

And then we are introduced to Trinket.

She is more aloof than I recall. She does none of the nosing around for my hand that she did in the pound. Fickle little thing. She has grown quite fond of the girls and will come to them if they call. Other than that she could not care less that we’ve arrived. I am a little concerned that I’ve made a mistake. In her mind, she’s already been adopted. But by the Bowersox family, not mine. In her mind, her mission is accomplished.

Her mind? Her mind is the approximate size of a chickpea. I relax and tell myself that we just have to get her home – home to my house of many climbable surfaces and lots of valuable artifacts to knock from mantles and book shelves. What cat wouldn’t love it?

My kids have had no idea what to expect except, don’t expect her to greet you like a dog does. They are not bothered by the aloofness.

Snoopy and Charlie are still the crowd favorites, and the kids are easily distracted by the trampoline and the X-Box and the rides on Scott’s boat.

But Sunday comes soon enough and by mid-morning, in time for me to get back to my Invisalign appointment, we have packed the enormous crate and the kitty with it into my car and are headed for home.

Being serenaded all the while by Miss Meowypants who may just miss her other family.

Cool for Cats

On Friday, I pick up the kids immediately after school to head to the local pet supply supermarket. I have made a mental checklist:

Litter box
Kitty litter
Cat food
Cutesy bowls for food and water
A toy – one for each kid to play with with her.

A membership card enrollment, an engraved collar charm, a full cart, and $86 later, I leave the store with:

A stylish and not-too-deep kitty litter box and coordinating mats for underneath in case of accidents or overzealous attempts to cover one’s own poo.

20 pounds of super deluxe kitty litter that does all but bio-degrade the aforementioned poo.

A 20 pound bag of the most nutritious cat chow money can buy. And three cans of cat food with “gravy” and some nifty looking treats guaranteed to make her purr.

Matching, specially designed for cats, decorative food and water bowls that coordinate with the décor of my kitchen where Kitty will also be dining.

A ball designed to make a cat insane, a feathery toy on a flexible pole, a second feathery thing mounted to a flexible post with something resembling a small human head that can be bopped by the cat for fun (?), a scratching board with a toy mouse affixed to attract a cat’s attention (natch), a planter of “cat grass” already in the growing process, a “grow your own” cat grass kit that my green-thumbed Girl Scout can care for, and a catnip mouse in a jazzy leopard faux fur fabric.

A breakaway, adjustable pink collar with black dots and a pink metallic bell from which the engraved heart-shaped collar charm will dangle.

A wire brush for grooming. What every stray is missing in their lives.
I envision keeping all of this in the car until we ascertain that Patrick will not blow up like a float at the Macy’s parade upon entering the same room as the cat.

And the Silver Spoon

Scott brings Trinket home to the houseful of dogs. Buddy is feeling better and everyone is smothering Trinket with the kind of attention she’s never had.

Since she is just a wee little thing, and there are 3 big dogs around (OK, two. Charlie is sort of pint-sized but still outweighs Miss Trinket by 10 pounds), Scott assembles a large dog crate for her to live in while all the people are out of the house.

She has a bed, food and water dishes, a litter box and a toy or two. (This is a very large crate…)

She hates it.

So the girls let her out to play as often as possible. She’s a chatty kitty. Meowing at everything. Scott calls her Miss Meowypants. She loves all the attention. She follows them around. She climbs the giant climby thing Snickers ignores. She sits in the window (when the dogs aren’t howling at it) longing to run after the smorgasbord of birds and squirrels and bunnies.

What she doesn’t do is eat. She is as skinny as skinny can be.

In the mean time, I make a surprise announcement to my children that we are getting a pet. Hillary is thrilled beyond the point of no return. Patrick not so much. He would prefer a dog. Or a snake or a lizard or a turtle or a potty belly pig. Anything but a cat.

Uh-oh. And I can’t exactly return her to the pound. I hope Scott was serious about taking her to Green Acres. It would be a hard sell to keep a cat that one person is allergic to and doesn’t want in the first place.

And Patrick is quite perturbed about the surprise. Wishes he’d been consulted. Has never even thought about a cat much less wanted one. He thinks he’s allergic. It seemed like I was disregarding him on several levels. Putting him in a position to be the one to hurt Hillary when we can’t keep the cat. Not concerned if he is stuffy-nosed and runny-eyed all the live-long day. Not caring if his preference were really for some other animal altogether. Is it really his pet at all?

Thank God I have good command of the English language. It took quite a bit of conversation to convince my son that this was an act of inclusion, of family, of bringing us together to care for something cute and special and completely dependent and ours to love. And frankly a matter of lifestyle. We are simply not home enough for a more active or more dependent animal. It is really a cat for us or nothing at all.

By the end of the night we are all looking forward to our new friend and are planning to go to Scott’s to get her on the weekend. Incessant meowing and all.

And the Cat's in the Cradle

I am truly touched by this teeny weeny cat's big gesture.

I don't know what to do.

I would love a cat. I have a cat lifestyle. They don't require loads of attention, use a toilet, are fastidiously neat, don't eat everything in sight in one sitting, can be left alone for days, and generally don't devour your clothes, shoes, furniture and the mailman just for fun.

But we think Patrick might be allergic to cats. He's okay around Snickers and Charlotte's adopted kitty, Ziggy, but got blown up and gooey one night at a sleepover where the kid had two cats (but I have no idea what kind of housekeeping rituals the mother kept...so who knows?)

When the girls are out of earshot, I think out loud to Scott. I really don't know what to do. I think I’d like having a cat. I’ve thought of it before. Seriously thought of it before.

Mostly since Lars is highly, anaphylactically, allergic, and it would be fun to send the kids back to him smothered in dander. And because it would feel nice to do one more thing I was not allowed to do in my marriage. And I really like the idea of a cat.

He is a big fan of pet ownership, obviously. He thinks it would be great for me. I am alone a lot. A cat could be great company. Something tiny to love might be good for me.

But I am unsure. What if I don’t love having a pet? What if the cat isn’t fond of living in my house and pees all over it? What if Patrick blows up like a puffer fish? Hil would be crushed if we couldn’t keep her and would probably murder Patrick in his sleep.

Scott has a plan. Think about it for a day or so. He’ll call and ask them to put a hold on Boo Boo. And if it is meant to be, she’ll be there. If Patrick turns out to be gravely allergic, he'll take her to his house. Our cat, his house.

I agree, and begin to mentally gear up for another tenant in my home.

But it isn’t that easy.

Scott calls and they won’t “hold” her.

They have very limited hours and he can’t get there.

There is one day that they are open late each week but it has already passed. Boo Boo will be gone by the next one.

He’d send his daughter with the cash to get her after school but she is only 17 and you have to be 18 to adopt.

It is looking like it is not meant to be.

But then a miracle happens.

Scott works outside – and some of the work he does is only done when the weather permits. And the very next day, it did not permit.

So shortly after their doors opened, Scott appeared at the shelter and adopted Boo Boo, and told her on the way home that her new mommy had renamed her Trinket.

Cat Scratch Fever

The cat room is much quieter. But somewhat creepy. The dogs at least jumped up and down to get your attention. The cats were aloof. Hard to believe they wanted to be adopted. Maybe they didn't. A place to sleep and some pretty decent food. Why not stay?

There are cages on top of cages holding some of the biggest domestic cats I've ever seen. Twelve pounders. One with two pads and 6 toes on each foot that I swear could swim. A dead ringer for Snickers (Has she been missing? I'd never noticed!)

And then at the end, by the window, a cage full of kittens not old enough to adopt yet. All in a pile. Each a different color. Cute as can be. I am looking at them trying to decide which is the very cutest when I feel a warm little head pushing up against the palm of my hand.

I look down to find a tiny gray and white kitten there. And it is trying its darndest to get my attention.

"Hello, lovey," I say to him or her.

An earthy, crunchy shelter worker is right on me.

"This is Boo Boo. A new stray. She's about 4 years old."

"And she's really skinny and malnourished," I say to myself. Poor thing.

"She's had her shots, and has been fixed, and she's been micro-chipped."

"How very X-files," I think to myself.

She is rubbing up against every part of me that she can reach while she walks around on the thing that cats climb on for fun. She has chosen the level that sits by an open window which leads to a fenced in play area by the parking lot with some fun kitty toys. She'll turn and walk away but keeps coming back to get me to touch her.

Scott says, "Liza's getting a kitty...."

But I refuse to pick her up. I know me best of all. If I hold her, I am sold. And I am not sure I want to be sold.

I stiffen my back, say goodbye to Boo Boo and tell Scott we should leave.

We go through the maze of halls and the multiple doors and out to the parking lot. As we walk to the car I realize we are walking past the fenced in kitty play area.

And just who do you think has ventured out to the edge of the area to see me as I walk by?

Hang On Sloopy, Sloopy Hang On!

Buddy seems so feeble. Scott carries him to the car and places him on a beach towel across the back seat of the truck. We drive grimly to the vet's office in silence.

The vet is very nice and very concerned. His assistant is so sweet to Buddy. But no one can say for sure whether Bud will be swimming with us in the channel next week or in a big hole in the back yard. They can tell us:

1 - He's old. (No shit.)
2 - He has Lyme Disease. (We know. He has for years. You diagnosed it here...)
3 - He's big and therefore will have some physical problems little dogs avoid.
4 - There are about $200 worth of prescriptions we can buy to help him feel more comfortable
5 - We can do an elder-care plan for caring for Buddy into his twilight years. (Let's call him Buddy Ebsen)

Yes to the scripts, No to the geriatric veterinary care, $295 in cash and Buddy is running to the car with his leash in his mouth to ride home with his head out the window. Go figure.

Scott's girls are relieved but panicked about what might have been.

They want to know if we can go to the pound to look at dogs in case we lose him.

I thought Green Acres was downsizing at some point. I guess not.

We pile into the car and ride to the animal shelter. We pass the desk and the multiple doors designed to prevent escapes. We mosey into the dog area.

Pit Bull. No thank you.
Rotty with half an ear. Umm. No.
Aging Boxer with a lousy disposition. Next!
Mixed breed that appears to be ill. When did they stop calling them mutts?
Nasty barky Big Dog I didn't stand in front of long enough to catch the breed (or get my face gnawed off).

Let's try the cat room.

Man's Best Friend

A few days later, Scott and I are enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning of scrapple, coffee and errands before heading to his house to perhaps take his boat out for its maiden voyage of the season. We have a few essential things to accomplish and then some extra "nice to have dones" like the purchase of a fragrant plant to make the boat bathroom smell less like a boat bathroom.

We are half way through the list when his younger daughter calls. Buddy has had a seizure. She thinks he's dead. Or maybe not completely dead, but close. Definitely dying. Or at least headed in that general direction, for sure. Not good, at a minimum.

Wow. That's a surefire way to derail a weekend. Suddenly such enormous decisions like "Rosemary plant or Eucalyptus wreath?" are immaterial, and decisions like whether to grill or dine out are as pathetic as they should be.

Scott is a wreck. He calls his vet. We can get an appointment that afternoon. We scramble to finish what must get done at my house so we can head to his house. God only knows what awaits us.

Scott and I travel in separate cars - for logistical reasons born of the distance between our homes and the locations of the jobs we'll travel to on Monday morning. It is awful not to hold his hand in the car as his thoughts race, but we talk for the duration of the trip thanks to the magic of cell phones and bluetooth technology.

Scott is hopeful that we'll get to his house and find Buddy frolicking with Snoopy and Charlie - having rebounded from his episode to his prior form. Restored to youth. Howling as usual. How we re greeted will tell us everything. The dogs typically hear us or smell us coming and are leaping and barking at the big picture window at the front of the house.

Scott parks. I park. We get out of our cars. No dogs.

OMG they are gathered around the carcass mourning the loss of their fallen comrade!

No, there must have been a box of Krimpets within leaping distance to distract them. As we walk up the drive, they appear, all three of them, bouncing in front of the window, howling with delight.

Scott is visibly relieved. We go inside and greet the pups. When they've settled down, we begin to talk about what we should do. Keep the appointment? Skip it and call with an update. Eat lunch and talk it over?

As we talk, Scott refreshes water bowls and fills up food containers. The dogs come running...or at least two of them do. Scott looks across the living room for Buddy and gasps. The poor old guy is struggling to push himself up onto his back legs and is whimpering in pain.

We get a blanket and his leash. We are off to see the vet.

The Name Game

She’s speechless. I should write down the date and time and play the lottery with the numbers. That almost never happens.

“YOU HAVE??????”

She is as curious as any cat. I am tempted to toy with her for a bit. But I don’t. It is Mothers Day. Time to play nice.

“Actually Mom, I didn’t exactly meet him.”

“You didn’t?” Her voice suggests confusion. I guess that she is thinking I have gone to the Dark Side and have begun to partake in Internet Dating. As if dating weren’t dicey enough a proposition. Now we have to go and throw in the evil of the internet. Surely Hell awaits us all.

“I wouldn’t say we ‘met’ so much as we reconnected,” I tease. I am going to drag this out until Tuesday.

"Who is it????!!!" She can barely contain herself.

"You won't even believe it Mom. Are you sitting down?"

"Cut it out! WHO??!!"

"Scott Bowersox."

She hesitates. It is a long pause. I could swear she's smoking.

"You're kidding me!" And she starts to gush. "Oh Liza, that's great! That's that cute guy from the band, right? The one you always liked? Remember my friend Joanne thought he was so good looking that day at the beach when he came to sit with us I thought you were going to have to beat her away with a stick like she's anything to look at good grief oh my God that's great tell me is he still as adorable as he was then?"


You really need a seatbelt when you talk to Mom.

"Oh Mom, he's even more adorable if you can believe it."


"Tell me does he treat you real nice? Why did I think he was married? What is he up to these days? Does he still live at the shore? I remember his family had that neat blue house. Are his parents still alive? Why do I remember that his Mom isn't living? She died, didn't she? And she was young! Right! Now I remember! How awful. How about his Dad? He looks like his Dad, doesn't he? So what does he do for a living? When was the last time you'd seen him and when did THIS all happen? Wow. Scott Bowersox. Who would have thought? So he's still real cute. How about that...."

And so on and so on with no end in sight. Mom was clearly firing up the brainwaves and her synpases were smoking through all the tidbits and recollections she could muster.

Me, I was happy to have the distraction of a positive topic, but secretly dreading that something unexpected would trigger a negative thought and we'd be at odds again.

Then suddenly she took an unexpected breath and said, "Well, Liza, I must run to the bathroom. He probably won't remember me, but please tell Scott I say hello."

"Oh Mom. He remembers you."

"He does?"

Really? Does she think she's that simple to forget???

"Oh sure, Mom. From that time you came to school to bring me my flag in your bathrobe and needed to get someone's attention. And hung your head out the window and yelled "Yooo Hooo!"

She began to laugh.

"Yep, Mom. The guy who came over to get the flag from you? That was Scott."

"Oh geez. How about that. Well, tell him hello from me. I really have to run!"

And with that, the phone call had ended without incident. And I was ready for another nap.

Go On, Go On, Leave Me Breathless

I am in a panic. What could she possibly want me to tell her??

How any child of hers could have grown into such an unrelenting stubborn beyotch?

Have I gone to confession yet to wail to Father Whomever about my sins and crimes and beg forgiveness and mercy from the fire and brimstone of Hell?

Have I suffered any unusual and unexplained crippling stabbing pains in any of my extremities that might be attributed to another person's use of a voodoo doll?

How I could possibly be managing the rigors of my topsy-turvy life without the constant love and support and advice of a parent who lives 5 states away?

I take deep breaths. She must have anticipated this call. She's been out of the loop for a while and has clearly kept a file for topics to discuss.

What she wants to know is...have I met anyone?

Wow! Kudos to Charlotte for having kept her mouth shut all this time. That is quite a feat of confidentiality. Holy cow.

Without giving me a chance to answer (natch!) Mom goes on to say how she knew how much I'd loved J. (and I am pleased to hear her use the past tense) and how heart broken I'd been to learn what a creep he turned out to be (glad you're on board with that, Estelle) and how sorry she was that I'd had to find out so late in the game (Me too, Mom. Me too.)

But she's been praying every night and every day (this I have to see) that I'd find someone wonderful to share my life with, and hopes every day that maybe some doctor at work will catch my eye, and (of course) that I would catch his (she has no lingering doubts about that) and that we'll all live happily ever after, because part B of the hope and dream scenario is that he will not have any crazy former wives, no pain in the ass children to distract from my own, that the nutty parents would be deceased or at least in a foreign country and of no consequence, or at least if they aren't both dead, at least the mother would be....and so on and so on, burning up the minutes of her pre-paid phone card with her hopes and aspirations for my love life.

When she at last pauses (her attention momentarily distracted by a bird or a frog or a flower that needs dead-heading), I chime in.

"Well actually, Mom, I have met someone."

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

I have sent a card – A funny one to avoid any gooey sentiments that are only marginally genuine.

I have sent a gift. Nothing bright and shiny and permanent like a pendant or earrings. A basket of scrumptious breakfast goodies that will be gone and forgotten in weeks if that is the gate we choose to swing on.

And now I am calling. Rules are rules. However complicated.

I am one ring into the call and looking frantically around the house for a paper bag to breathe into. All I have is plastic, which may actually have an appeal once the call gets underway.

Two ringy dingy.

I am wishing I had *67-ed the call so as to have my caller ID scrambled. Dammit.

One more ring and she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Happy Mothers Day, Ma,” I say.

“Liza!” she says.

And then, as if to proactively avoid any space in which an “I’m sorry” might be muttered, or more importantly, not offered, she launches into a typical speech beginning with “You know what I wanted to tell you?” and followed by run on sentences strung end to end to weave a convoluted one-sided conversation covering 11 different topics and ending with “How are YOU?”

And when I reply however meekly that I am sitting on the sofa with my daughter Hilary, before I can tell her what we are doing, she asks to talk to her.

And from several sofa cushions away I can hear every word of the voluminous grandmotherly advice being offered that has clearly been saved up and ruminated about for months while Mom and Grandmom were feuding.

The voice is exuberant and grating.

Hil is looking at me as though she is plotting my imminent torture and eventual death. By knitting needle or something similarly wretched.

As soon as Grandmom has taken a long awaited and long anticipated breath, my child wedges in a quick and artful “Happy Mothers Day I have to go to the bathroom” and in throwing the heated phone receiver in my general direction hisses, “How come Patrick doesn’t have to talk to her? And shoots me the hairy eyeball of doom.

I am back on the phone, and alone in the room. Nowhere to hide.

“So Liza, tell me….”

I am willing myself to die.

Coffee Tea and Dread

Mothers Day morning and we are off to the races.

The kids would like to continue the tradition of having brunch at a local restaurant which is better known as a pub. They do have a grand spread for brunch on certain occasions and this is what the kids have come to associate with Mothers Day. A sumptuous buffet replete with fatty breakfast meats, greasy fried potatoes, rubbery pancakes, ordinary tasting pastry and made to order omelets. Let's not forget the Eggs Benedict with the Hollandaise that rarely convinces me that it is fit for human consumption.

I fill Scott in on the plan. He is game. God love him. He has no clue what he's in store for.

My son drops the first round of bacon on the floor and we tell him to pick it up. What he hears is not "pick it up so no one slips on it" but "pick it up and eat it." I am cringing already and repeating "Five second rule...five second rule..." over and over again to try to push the thoughts of the beer muck and shoe crud from my head.

My daughter orders an omelet and her plate is perilously close to giving way to an avalanche by the time she's surrounded it with pastry, mini muffins, pound cake, potatoes and sausage links.

Scott is still a sport as he swoafs down what items he can stomach from vast selection of artery clogging treats.

We guzzle coffee and I am given lovely gifts and cards. I am beaming. It is a lovely day. We take a long walk at a state park that I have been jonesing to show Scott.

And then Scott must go. His girls are with their mother and he has to get them.

And what I'd most like to do once he's left is pretend I have no laundry to do or dust bunnies to sweep and just take a nice nap with the windows open and the May breeze coming in.

So that is what I do - while my children play video games and plot and scheme the perfect dinner for me to prepare us.

But I awaken with a sense of dread. The day is wearing on...and I have to face the music.

I look at my phone for a long time and then finally dial.

The Hand That Feeds You

Mothers Day should be the most uncomplicated holiday.

Everyone has or has had one, or a reasonable facsimile. What to do to honor that person depends on a couple of simple, nearly black and white rules.

Is she alive?

If no, visit the grave, or make some gesture in her memory. A lovely post on FB, a donation to her favorite charity in her name, participation in one of her favorite past times. Something that remembers her.

If yes, good for you, proceed to the next fork in the road.

Is she reasonably nearby?

If no, let your wallet be your guide. By all means find a way to call her. And depending on whether you typically have money at the end of the month or month left over at the end of the money, send her something. A card, some flowers, a gift of some kind. If you have lots of money left at the end of the month, go big.

If yes, move to the next juncture.

What can you plan to do to spend time with her? Maybe there are competing obligations - lots of generations of mothers to tend to. Your mother may be churning out the hype with her mother, or her husband's mother! Your wife may be your kids' mother, or your kids' mother may be your ex-wife. In most cases, there is some juggling to do. So get to it - talk with sibs and spouses and parents about when they are available and plan something. Make reservations, get tickets to do something. Show up with a gift and spend time letting her look into your face to recall how you looked as a young child and what a joy you were to raise now that all the memories of sibling rivalry and throw up in the car, and chicken pox, and insolence and calls to be picked up at the local police precinct have faded sufficiently.

The wild card is, no matter how you answer those questions, if you are currently not on speaking terms with your mother, what to do to celebrate is not so black and white.

I am not sure how the day snuck up on me.

Yes, I am.

I am divorced and my kids are young. What we do to celebrate - and lets face it, they want and need and deserve to celebrate - depends on what I plan for them to do with me.

And this year, what Scott plans to help them do with me.

I would be happy with a corsage to wear to church which would designate me as one of the adored mothers in the parish. But that is no fun at all for the kids. I'd be standing there in church all smiley with two sour pusses.

So while I am not about to make suggestions about what Scott does for me, I kind of have to figure out what the kids expect a celebration to look like, and clue him in. What fun.

This is a thankless life.

So with all of those plates in the air, it is no wonder that the big day had come and it had not occurred to me that as a daughter, it would be up to me to reach out to my mother.

Potential to get my hand bitten and all.

Pepe La Pew

Too late. Jane can really get moving on those tanning-bed tanned legs and a pair of Keds. I can hear the jewelry jingle-jangle-jingling abov ethe din of her chaffing thighs as she hot-foots it down the street.

She rounds the corner and finds an unsuspecting Scott cleaning up the flower beds around the new bushes he's planted. I have not sent up a flare in time. Drat.

She jumps up to kiss him and harass him about not calling. Indignant. Whining. Wild-eyed. Slaps him on the arm. She's right down the street! Why wouldn't he call?

I don't know, Jane. Maybe because this little encounter has turned out to be so much fun?

I am still unwashed and disheveled from camp, and dying to take a shower and beautify, but I am not leaving this situation to percolate without a witness. But I did live up to the promise of beer, and offer Jane one knowing she can't exactly present in the ER with her ailing mother smelling like a brewery wench.

But as I near Scott to hand him his beer and kiss him as promised, I can smell her.

On him.

And then I can't get it off me. It's clinging to my Chapstik. She smells like a French whorehouse. (Not that I've been...maybe I should say she smells like I would imagine a French whorehouse smells. Ok, and it's not good.)

It's a pungent, choking, evening, dressed to the nines, seductive perfume. But it's 2 pm and she's is wearing shorts and a skin-tight sassyT-shirt a dozen bangles on her arms, rings on every finger and a variety of earrings. All gold, all jangly. And she's going to the hospital.

Was she on the way to her second job as an exotic dancer when her mother called in distress? I am secretly singing that Tony Orlando song..."Hey has anybody seen my Sweet Gypsy Rose?"

And I am wondering what Boyfriend with the rotting teeth is thinking as he's prying Mrs. Bosworth's 80 year old ass out of the tub while his girlfriend is down the street flirting with "her oldest and dearest friend" who is the clear winner of the Most Eligible Bachelor competition.

And what is Mrs. Bosworth thinking besides "Kill me now?"

But Jane is oblivious that Scott is not really listening to her prattle on and on endlessly about the really sweet guy he knows that she has just separated from a second time. And that I am completely bored as I suck down the beer and try to figure out how she managed to get her hair to look like that.

She is going down the pity party path - woe is me - my divorce, my money problems, my ailing mother, my derelict brother. She can't believe I've lived here this long and we haven't known each other was there, we could have been buds (let's not get carried away now...)

I know where this is going - it is heading down the rabbit hole of no return that is the "I need a friend" plea girls love to work Scott over with.

I decide it is time for Jane to go deal with Mommy Dearest before Boyfriend decides to stop down and accuse Scott of trying to steal his prize pig. Or before I completely lose my patience and call her a dry-cleaned sow before I brain her with the shovel to get her lips to stop moving.

"Scott," I say. "Have you had any lunch?"

He looks relieved. "No, and I'm starving."

"Come inside, I'll make you something. The yard can wait."

Jane reluctantly departs the premises but not without smearing another dose of insect repelling perfume on Scott's face.

I commence lunch making while Scott takes a shower to wash the Jane off.

He gets a text from her not long after, informing him, woe-is-me style, of her mother's condition, and adding, "in case you're interested."

We're not. Delete.

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane

Eventually, I manage to drag my daughter from the percieved safety of the car through the maelstrom of death that is the hedge with a bee.

She is filthy and smells like bug spray. All is right with the world.

I ask her if she'd like to attend camp Hari Kari next summer for a week or maybe two. She said she loved it but she'd miss me. (As if.) I joke with her. "Go on the week you are supposed to be with Daddy!" Not so funny. She'd miss him too.

And this is where I am again wracked with guilt. The last thing I want for my vibrant little toe-head is to begin to decline invitations and forfeit opportunities because of my whacky custody arrangement. It is no way to live.

Within minutes my girl has moved to other more cheery thoughts though and is interested to get to Lars's house to see the dog. She would have been at Lars's house this weekend if not for camping, and she's a little off kilter. Not even a grilled cheese and lemonade with a DoubleStuff Cakester can make it right.

I inspect the hedge for lingering predators and she runs on her spindly mosquito-bitten legs to the car. And we are off - our mother-daughter adventure having come to an end all too soon.

I return to find Scott looking handsome and rugged in my front yard. He's already planting the bushes and is quite a sight for my sore sleepless eyes. I pull up in front of the house to say hello before going around the block to park. I tell him I'll return shortly with a kiss and a cold beer for him.

Spoke too soon.

As I come around the corner, I am forced to slam on my brakes because something resembling a Rose Bowl float has ambled out infront of my car, waving its arms in every direction.

I stop and squint. It squints back.

OK, I know I am not the picture of beauty and elegance at the moment. I have just spent the last 3 days in the woods with a dozen prepubescent girls and all the bugs and wild life a girl can stand. And limited ability to perform routine acts of hygiene.

I squint a little harder. It is not a Rose Bowl float. It is not a Mummer. It is not even a peacock.

It is Jane Bosworth, one of Scott's more assertive Facebook stalking "friends!"

Since I have slammed on my brakes to avoid creaming her in the street, I am stuck idling there while she lifts her bedazzled sunglasses from the bridge of her nose and recognition settles in every synaptic junction of her atrophied brain.

Big gasp, and few expletives, and an OMG later she is at my driver's side window.

She is not even remotely curious about me...she has observed a nice car with out of state plates in front of my house (I knew she'd be stalking!) and wants to know if it is Scott's.

No, it is the Publishers Clearing House people.

She rambles on and on almost unintelligibly about Scott for a minute and a sleazy looking guy in a truck pulls up to the curb right behind me. It's her new boyfriend. Her mother needs to go to the emergency room and he is there to help...because Mom is in the tub, dontchaknow.

Whew! There is a God. Too bad you can't stay, Jane...

But no.

She sends the boyfriend in to extract the mother from the tub, and she is going to trot on down to my house to give Scott a piece of her mind for not calling when he knew he'd be in town.

She runs off in the direction of my house in her Daisy Dukes and overly fitted T-shirt with some snarky motto on it while I frantically try to dial Scott's cell to warn him to hop the fence and take cover.

On The Road Again

I say out loud, but only really to myself or maybe me and Betty, " What kind of Girl Scout throws out the directions? Isn't the motto 'Be prepared?'"

But my daughter has heard me . She gives me a skeptical one-eyebrow look and lisps, "Theriothly."

She is a little skeptical too, about Betty. Doesn't really trust that she is not leading us on a wild goose chase from her satellite miles above the Earth's crust. She has the written directions and is turned around in her seat. She is trying to see if the billboards facing the opposing traffic are the ones we passed on the way to camp. Now THAT is a Girl Scout.

Before we know it, Bettty has guided us home. We drop the other tired and filthy girls and their gear at their respective homes and my girl and I head to ours. Lars is expecting her at his house, and Scott is on his way to plant some shrubs he's gotten me to replace the dead ones he was kind enough to put out of our collective misery and has given a proper burial. But I won't feel right unless I make my girl a grilled cheese sandwich and a cold glass of lemonade.

I fire up the burner and plop an unreasonable glop of butter in the pan to melt.

I make a trip to the car to retrieve suitcases filled with grimy laundry.

I place the bread in the sizzling butter and lay the cheese on each half to melt.

I head to the car to get our pillows so I can determine whether to fumigate or incinerate.

I pour lemonade over cracked ice in a tall glass and place a bendy straw in it.

To the car once more for the sleeping bags and the leaves collected on them.

I check the bread for doneness and plop the halves together. Call my daughter.

No answer.

I shout that her sandwich is getting cold.

Still no answer.

I decide to delay the next shout until I've retrieved the MadLibs and trash from the car.

My daughter is still in the car.

Looking miserable.

She motions to me to come closer and yells through the unopened window.

I can't hear anything.

She begins wildly gesticulating.

I am like Annie Sullivan with Helen Keller.

She points toward the bushes and makes an indignant impatient face.

Oh. I get it.

My daughter - the very one who has just spent the weekend camping in the woods among the bears, and birds, and bugs - not to mention their droppings - the one who has tread in a scum-laden pond and touched frogs, and salamanders and dead things of various kinds - the one who has used a latrine, shared a bedroom with a wasp nest, and has marvelled at the wolves howling so near by- will not exit the vehicle because there is a bumble bee on the hedge.

You can take the girl out of the suburbs....

Homeward Bound

The next morning we are up with the sun. Again.

And in moments we are off to the Mess Hall to sing grace and eat a quick breakfast before heading out.

But first there would be an audience participation ceremony of some kind. There are no churches or chapels or other places of worship here at Camp Hari Kari - but the Girl Scouts will not miss the spirituality boat. Our friends have prepared a little gathering around our nation's flag and we've been warned that this ceremony is expected to be solemn and reverent.

Not exactly our troop's strength.

In fact about half of us have already broken ranks and are at the pond hoping to find my daughter's fossil (she'd left it when she'd abruptly departed on that ill-fated trip to the latrine). Another glimpse of Fabio would be icing on the cake.

We are ready to start processing to the flag pole in silence and much of our troop is MIA. We gestrue that it is okay to start without them, but oh no. The leaders will wait for our girls to return.

What? Can't we just write a haiku?

Nope. They'll wait. We'll all wait.

And like that Debbie and I are running with coffee across the sacred blue flowers and down the hill to the scummy little pond where our girls are about to roll up their pant legs.

We skulk back to get in a line full of impatient and evidently more serious campers.

Aside from having absolutely no idea how to sing half the songs, I find a way to actually enjoy the ceremony. Particularly since it provides closure. We join hands in a circle at last, tell everyone what we enjoyed best, pose for a picture and head to our cars.

I am following Carmella again. It is a gorgeous mountain morning, made especially beautiful by the fact that we are headed DOWN the mountain.

But things look different. I don't think we came this way.

I get a call from Deb. They think we've missed a turn and are turning around. What does Betty say?

Betty's been bound and gagged since Friday so Betty's not saying much. I look at the paper with the overly long verbally incontinent directions.

"Yes, we went north on this route to get here," I say. "So I'd guess we'd go south to return. Just follow the directions in reverse."

Silence.

They threw away the directions.

What?

I am frantically plugging in Betty and my daughter is typing in our address while Betty searches the planet for our coordinates. I am wondering where I can pull over and hand off my copy of the directions.

They say they think they can wing it, but ask that I call them if I see them going where Betty would not advise.

But before I could answer and suggest that Betty and I take the lead, they are off like a shot. And I am hoping that we are all truly homeward bound, for the sake of the children slumbering in my backseat trusting that all is safe in my hands.

There is a reason Lars called me Wrongway. I am doomed.