Thursday comes, my car is packed and I am a wreck. Thank God for completely consuming work.
The meeting is at 6 pm. I can't wait for it to be done, but I'll go and be dutiful. It is a program serving kids with special needs. I can relate. Besides, it is a 6 pm meeting. I am sure they'll be serving sandwiches or finger food of some kind. That is incentive enough.
I get to the meeting and it is galling. The meeting organizer is anything but organized. In her passion for her job, she inadvertently makes some pretty insensitive remarks. She also has failed miserably in the food department. Boring cookies, mini danish, coffee and water.
Umm, hello, this is not a breakfast meeting.
To make matters worse, the meeting of invited advisers was expanded to include a handful of parents whose children had gone "through the system" without much support or success and who could provide valuable input about what would have been helpful and meaningful.
But instead, each one of them, in turn, goes on an individual endless discourse about their heartbreaking experiences, and extreme frustration and offers absolutely nothing that amounts to a suggestion or solution. The meeting disintegrates into a 3 hour grouse-fest. When the agenda reaches the part where we are supposed to mingle and exchange business cards, I take a cheese danish and a coffee for the road and scram.
On the way, I call James again, my moist astute of cat friends. He asks if the new kitty is a boy or a girl. I tell him Scott thinks it may be a boy but isn't sure. And that I think that is funny. My friend tells me that the parts are a little confusing and that a girl's "parts" will look like an upsidedown exclamation point. Now I'm confused.
But one way or another, in about an hour I'd be meeting my new kitty. Hil and Pat have agreed that if it is a boy he'll be Ringo, and if she's a girl, she'll be Gidget. I just have to figure out who exactly is coming home in the gender-neutral green kitten bed.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
What to Expect When You're Expecting
As I drive to PetSmart, I consult my two-cat-owners for advice. I already have to ensure that the cats remain separated, since we have the threat of rabies in the air. I am told they need separate food and separate kitty litters, and separate toys and need to be supervised until Little Kitty is at least 14 weeks old just because of her size. Trinket could inadvertently hurt her. And she is likely to want to hurt her on purpose, too.
My friend James says he put Plexiglas across a doorway and secured it with Velcro to let the cats see and smell each other without any safety concerns. This seems extreme. How bad is it going to be?
One charitable donation and $97.00 later, as I am leaving the store with a cart full of kitten friendly things and a few new distractions for Trinket, I ask the clerk if she knows anything about cats. She looks like a rare book collector, so it comes as no surprise that her self proclaimed specialties are cats and rare birds. Of course they are.
She tells me that I need to supervise their visits very closely. Check every website I can find about cat behavior. Introducing the cats may prove challenging. Cats are solo hunters. Dogs travel in packs so it is easy for Scott to bring home dog after dog. Trinket is going to want to run off the intruder. This is her mousing territory. The little fur ball can go somewhere else to hunt. Or be eaten if she won't go away willingly. he will be jealous of any affection shown to the new kid.
And her jealousy may take the form of peeing all over my house. Can't wait.
I am so not prepared for this.
I decide I need a little time. Thursday night I have a meeting for an organization that has invited me to sit on their advisory board. It is nearer to Scott's house than mine and will last until about 8 pm.
I call Lars. can the children come to his house on Thursday and star their week early with him. I have a late meeting and will miss dinner, and that would not be fair to them. He agrees.
On Thursday after my meeting, I will head to Scott's with my $97.00 worth of kitty crap to meet the kitty and figure out what the hell I need to do.
My friend James says he put Plexiglas across a doorway and secured it with Velcro to let the cats see and smell each other without any safety concerns. This seems extreme. How bad is it going to be?
One charitable donation and $97.00 later, as I am leaving the store with a cart full of kitten friendly things and a few new distractions for Trinket, I ask the clerk if she knows anything about cats. She looks like a rare book collector, so it comes as no surprise that her self proclaimed specialties are cats and rare birds. Of course they are.
She tells me that I need to supervise their visits very closely. Check every website I can find about cat behavior. Introducing the cats may prove challenging. Cats are solo hunters. Dogs travel in packs so it is easy for Scott to bring home dog after dog. Trinket is going to want to run off the intruder. This is her mousing territory. The little fur ball can go somewhere else to hunt. Or be eaten if she won't go away willingly. he will be jealous of any affection shown to the new kid.
And her jealousy may take the form of peeing all over my house. Can't wait.
I am so not prepared for this.
I decide I need a little time. Thursday night I have a meeting for an organization that has invited me to sit on their advisory board. It is nearer to Scott's house than mine and will last until about 8 pm.
I call Lars. can the children come to his house on Thursday and star their week early with him. I have a late meeting and will miss dinner, and that would not be fair to them. He agrees.
On Thursday after my meeting, I will head to Scott's with my $97.00 worth of kitty crap to meet the kitty and figure out what the hell I need to do.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Homecoming for Kitty
Scott knows that the kitten is very popular with the ladies in the office who have been looking after it - and presumably its equally abandoned siblings. They've cared for them and fed them and even have taken them home at night so they would not have to live outside and risk getting eaten by a rabid animal (Maybe a dog for a change of pace).
But he goes into the office the next day and announces that he is serious about taking the cat home to live and if anyone has an objection, whine immediately and we'll work it out (as in, he'll take it anyway. I don't envision a coin toss.)
I call later in the evening and ask him about Little Kitty. He says he does not have her. That one of the ladies in the office asked if she could take it home one more night so her family could say goodbye and blah blah blah. He said she could.
I am thinking the office lady is smarter than he thinks and she just swindled him out of his prize cat with his permission. A modern day Butch Cassidy.
And then I think that just like the stars aligned at the last moment when we adopted Trinket, if it is meant to be, it will be. Maybe this lady really does just want to have one last cuddly evening with Little Kitty. If she has more nefarious intentions, I guess we'll know tomorrow. And Scott will be pouring sugar in her gas tank.
But the next day comes and the office lady reappears with the kitty and Scott is free to take her home. She can stay at his house until I leave at the end of the weekend. I just need to plan to take her home on Sunday and be prepared for the new baby.
And suddenly I am in a panic.
And steering my car toward PetSmart.
I think it would be easier to prepare for an actual human baby to come home.
But he goes into the office the next day and announces that he is serious about taking the cat home to live and if anyone has an objection, whine immediately and we'll work it out (as in, he'll take it anyway. I don't envision a coin toss.)
I call later in the evening and ask him about Little Kitty. He says he does not have her. That one of the ladies in the office asked if she could take it home one more night so her family could say goodbye and blah blah blah. He said she could.
I am thinking the office lady is smarter than he thinks and she just swindled him out of his prize cat with his permission. A modern day Butch Cassidy.
And then I think that just like the stars aligned at the last moment when we adopted Trinket, if it is meant to be, it will be. Maybe this lady really does just want to have one last cuddly evening with Little Kitty. If she has more nefarious intentions, I guess we'll know tomorrow. And Scott will be pouring sugar in her gas tank.
But the next day comes and the office lady reappears with the kitty and Scott is free to take her home. She can stay at his house until I leave at the end of the weekend. I just need to plan to take her home on Sunday and be prepared for the new baby.
And suddenly I am in a panic.
And steering my car toward PetSmart.
I think it would be easier to prepare for an actual human baby to come home.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Pet Therapy
I am not sure why I am crying.
Yes, I am. I am completely overwhelmed. I feel horribly guilty. I adopted Trinket to take care of her and give her a better life than she'd have as a stray. And I haven't. Well except for the fact that I've fattened her up and she doesn't have to scrounge for her meals. But that is the only thing I can check off the list.
I drive home expecting her to be cranky and ill-tempered. She is not. She is one of those pets that looks up at you and makes you think she appreciates the effort. And returns the favor when it is you that is under the weather by curling up along side of you (and not just because you are running a 105 degree fever and feel nice and toasty). My guilt grows in leaps and bounds. I don't deserve such a nice pet. I deserve an aloof picky eater who scratches my furniture, and knocks over priceles heirlooms and uses my antique settee as a toilet.
For the rest of the day, Trinket sits by my side curled up on a pillow as I watch football. She keeps my spot warm when I get up to stir the chili or get a new beer. She is purring and sweet even if she is oozy and sticky in a way that kind of grosses me out. Again, I don't deserve her.
As the week goes on, Trinket progresses. The scratching subsides and so the leprosy starts to go away. But don't ask her to take the damn antihistamine pills. I cut the pill in half. I hold my breath and roll it in the salmon flavored pill pocket that has the texture of Silly Putty and probably tastes as good. Then I get salmon flavored yuck all under my nails as I dig out the pill and roll it in the chicken falvored Silly Putty after she turns her keen little pink nose up at the salmon.
We scrape our paws around the Chicken putty like we are attempting to cover our own feces. It is that appealing.
I crush the pill and sprinkle it in tiny bit of warmed chicken. Actual chicken. Actual chicken that is fit for human consumption! No dice.
I open a can of tuna in oil (a crowd favorite) and grind the second half of the pill into it. Trinket dives in, then after two miniscule bites, smacks her kitty lips and looks at me like I must be kidding.
I will not attempt a flea bath right now. No sir. I've aggravated my finicky little feline enough. Submerging her in water will be the straw that breaks her camel's back for sure.
Or so I think. Actually, the real final straw is yet to come.
Tuesday afternoon while I am at work, Scott texts me.
"Kitten is ready to come home. Are you sure you want him?"
I have my hands full. My cat is on quarrantine. I have a flea infestation problem. Am I insane?
I text him back.
"Yes!" so he doesn't sense my doubt. And then I make a note to return to the pet store for more flea killing chemicals to bomb my house with. Mama's bringing home a new baby.
Yes, I am. I am completely overwhelmed. I feel horribly guilty. I adopted Trinket to take care of her and give her a better life than she'd have as a stray. And I haven't. Well except for the fact that I've fattened her up and she doesn't have to scrounge for her meals. But that is the only thing I can check off the list.
I drive home expecting her to be cranky and ill-tempered. She is not. She is one of those pets that looks up at you and makes you think she appreciates the effort. And returns the favor when it is you that is under the weather by curling up along side of you (and not just because you are running a 105 degree fever and feel nice and toasty). My guilt grows in leaps and bounds. I don't deserve such a nice pet. I deserve an aloof picky eater who scratches my furniture, and knocks over priceles heirlooms and uses my antique settee as a toilet.
For the rest of the day, Trinket sits by my side curled up on a pillow as I watch football. She keeps my spot warm when I get up to stir the chili or get a new beer. She is purring and sweet even if she is oozy and sticky in a way that kind of grosses me out. Again, I don't deserve her.
As the week goes on, Trinket progresses. The scratching subsides and so the leprosy starts to go away. But don't ask her to take the damn antihistamine pills. I cut the pill in half. I hold my breath and roll it in the salmon flavored pill pocket that has the texture of Silly Putty and probably tastes as good. Then I get salmon flavored yuck all under my nails as I dig out the pill and roll it in the chicken falvored Silly Putty after she turns her keen little pink nose up at the salmon.
We scrape our paws around the Chicken putty like we are attempting to cover our own feces. It is that appealing.
I crush the pill and sprinkle it in tiny bit of warmed chicken. Actual chicken. Actual chicken that is fit for human consumption! No dice.
I open a can of tuna in oil (a crowd favorite) and grind the second half of the pill into it. Trinket dives in, then after two miniscule bites, smacks her kitty lips and looks at me like I must be kidding.
I will not attempt a flea bath right now. No sir. I've aggravated my finicky little feline enough. Submerging her in water will be the straw that breaks her camel's back for sure.
Or so I think. Actually, the real final straw is yet to come.
Tuesday afternoon while I am at work, Scott texts me.
"Kitten is ready to come home. Are you sure you want him?"
I have my hands full. My cat is on quarrantine. I have a flea infestation problem. Am I insane?
I text him back.
"Yes!" so he doesn't sense my doubt. And then I make a note to return to the pet store for more flea killing chemicals to bomb my house with. Mama's bringing home a new baby.
Flea Flicker
I am feeling better.
Trinket is not amused.
She gets flea medication. She is not at all happy about goo being dribbled on her neck where she can't wipe it off.
She gets an antihistamine shot. She is evidently allergic to flea saliva. What?
And for the big finale, she gets an antibiotic. Not a liquid. Not a pill. Another shot. And for this one, Dr. H brings out the gear.
First, to prevent any scratching potential from my beast of unknown rabies status, the good
Doctor picks her up in a bath towel. That way even if The Trink decides to treat Dr. H's arm like a scratching post, she is ensnared in a terry wonderland of confinement.
In comes the tech. She is carrying a weird plasticy, leathery-looking thing with strings. It looks like a little cat-sized bustier.
Not so. It is a muzzle. Evidently Trinket will be inspired to bite as well.
The tech straps the bustier on Trinket's face and tightens the laces. She can not open her little toothy feline mouth even a hair.
But she can peer through the little hole at the end of the cone at me. I can see her and she can see me. And her face says it all. "I will kill you the minute I get out of this thing. This is your only warning."
And then in a lilting, sing-spongy voice, Dr. H pulls out a syringe and puts a whammy on my cat. Then with jackrabbit swiftness, the tech scoops her away and jams her into her carrier, deftly removing the bustier as she slams the door shut.
Then I get a little lesson on displaced aggression and avoiding being bitten by my potentially rabid cat.
And I get flea meds, flea saliva oatmeal shampoo, some antihistamine pills, a pill cutter, some salmon pill pockets, some chicken pill pockets, some info on flea infestation, a bill for $186.00 and a business card from Dr. H.
One-hundred-eighty-six dollars? No wonder she's so damn pleasant.
I take my stunned and pissed off cat to the car and get in.
And then I cry.
Trinket is not amused.
She gets flea medication. She is not at all happy about goo being dribbled on her neck where she can't wipe it off.
She gets an antihistamine shot. She is evidently allergic to flea saliva. What?
And for the big finale, she gets an antibiotic. Not a liquid. Not a pill. Another shot. And for this one, Dr. H brings out the gear.
First, to prevent any scratching potential from my beast of unknown rabies status, the good
Doctor picks her up in a bath towel. That way even if The Trink decides to treat Dr. H's arm like a scratching post, she is ensnared in a terry wonderland of confinement.
In comes the tech. She is carrying a weird plasticy, leathery-looking thing with strings. It looks like a little cat-sized bustier.
Not so. It is a muzzle. Evidently Trinket will be inspired to bite as well.
The tech straps the bustier on Trinket's face and tightens the laces. She can not open her little toothy feline mouth even a hair.
But she can peer through the little hole at the end of the cone at me. I can see her and she can see me. And her face says it all. "I will kill you the minute I get out of this thing. This is your only warning."
And then in a lilting, sing-spongy voice, Dr. H pulls out a syringe and puts a whammy on my cat. Then with jackrabbit swiftness, the tech scoops her away and jams her into her carrier, deftly removing the bustier as she slams the door shut.
Then I get a little lesson on displaced aggression and avoiding being bitten by my potentially rabid cat.
And I get flea meds, flea saliva oatmeal shampoo, some antihistamine pills, a pill cutter, some salmon pill pockets, some chicken pill pockets, some info on flea infestation, a bill for $186.00 and a business card from Dr. H.
One-hundred-eighty-six dollars? No wonder she's so damn pleasant.
I take my stunned and pissed off cat to the car and get in.
And then I cry.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Fleas for Two, and Two for Fleas
Dr. Hoffmeir, while ooh-ing and aah-ing over Trinket is also giving her a good once-over, as my mother would say (when she was speaking to me, that is.)
She says something about Trinket's condition, it ends in "-itis" and makes me think of pimples. How pleasant. And she says, that when we see a case like this, we think of two things.
Do we now? I was thinking two things, too. "Bad mother" and "certain death" but I am hoping you were not thinking the same two things.
She continues, despite my thought bubbles filling the room.
"We think of food allergies..."
I interject. "I DID just change her food. She was not eating the other food anymore. I changed it to see if maybe she was just bored - and not losing her appetite because of...you know."
"Ok, now we're getting somewhere. I would change it back."
Check. Food bag is going into the trash.
"And the other things is fleas."
Fleas? Come on! She's an indoor cat!
I tell her that Scott is a veteran pet owner and had said the same thing. But I'd checked her over and had not found any. Not that I'd know what I was looking for. I couldn't pick a flea out of a line up.
While I am defending my position on fleas, she is taking out a fine tooth comb, squirting it with something sterile-looking and tapping it on a cloth. She returns to Trinket and runs it down her sleek, gray back.
Two fleas!!!!!!
OMG I am beginning to itch from head to toe. I am picturing the little critters in every nook and cranny in the house. I have visions of bad Saturday night horror movies from my babysitting years. Like the one about the scientist whose house gets taken over by superdooper bugs who spell out messages on his walls before they come after him.
Dr. Hoffmeir can tell I am freaking out. She remains calm. A battle grizzled veteran of the Flea Wars, I am sure. She sends the tech out for some provisions. I am hoping there is an Irish Coffee somewhere in the order.
The tech returns (no Irish Coffee, natch) and Dr. Hoffmeir talks me through her treatment.
It is almost more for me than for Trinket. The woman is amazing. In a matter of minutes my skin has stopped crawling, and I am feeling in control.
Note to self. No more appointments with Dr. Tyson.
She says something about Trinket's condition, it ends in "-itis" and makes me think of pimples. How pleasant. And she says, that when we see a case like this, we think of two things.
Do we now? I was thinking two things, too. "Bad mother" and "certain death" but I am hoping you were not thinking the same two things.
She continues, despite my thought bubbles filling the room.
"We think of food allergies..."
I interject. "I DID just change her food. She was not eating the other food anymore. I changed it to see if maybe she was just bored - and not losing her appetite because of...you know."
"Ok, now we're getting somewhere. I would change it back."
Check. Food bag is going into the trash.
"And the other things is fleas."
Fleas? Come on! She's an indoor cat!
I tell her that Scott is a veteran pet owner and had said the same thing. But I'd checked her over and had not found any. Not that I'd know what I was looking for. I couldn't pick a flea out of a line up.
While I am defending my position on fleas, she is taking out a fine tooth comb, squirting it with something sterile-looking and tapping it on a cloth. She returns to Trinket and runs it down her sleek, gray back.
Two fleas!!!!!!
OMG I am beginning to itch from head to toe. I am picturing the little critters in every nook and cranny in the house. I have visions of bad Saturday night horror movies from my babysitting years. Like the one about the scientist whose house gets taken over by superdooper bugs who spell out messages on his walls before they come after him.
Dr. Hoffmeir can tell I am freaking out. She remains calm. A battle grizzled veteran of the Flea Wars, I am sure. She sends the tech out for some provisions. I am hoping there is an Irish Coffee somewhere in the order.
The tech returns (no Irish Coffee, natch) and Dr. Hoffmeir talks me through her treatment.
It is almost more for me than for Trinket. The woman is amazing. In a matter of minutes my skin has stopped crawling, and I am feeling in control.
Note to self. No more appointments with Dr. Tyson.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Total Grossarama
I ask Scott what to do.
He says to open the door and let her run out.
Ha ha. Very funny. Why don't I just hold the door for you, smart ass?
I call the Vet. Miraculously, they answer on Saturday night at 9. These are some boring pet lovers. The person who answers seems very nice.
I tell the person on the phone what is happening. Then I back up and tell her the whole story from the point of discovering the bat. I tell her the evil Dr. Tyson took lots and lots of condemning notes if she wants a good read.
She is still very nice even after I've disclosed that I am a nincompoop and an unfit pet owner. I shouldn't even have plants.
She tells me that there is probably not a lot they can do. I could bring her in but unless it is really life threatening, I could avoid a steep Emergency visit and just bring her in tomorrow. She gives me an appointment.
I am sure Trinket could hack off her own head with those claws but I am fairly confident that it won't happen tonight.
Scott and I turn in for the night, taking the oozy, scratching feline with us.
I am overwhelmed with guilt. I did this. If I were a better parent none of this would have happened. Why did I let her vaccinations lapse? I take better care of my car and I don't even care about my car.
I cry quietly and Scott lays there next to me trying to figure out how to console his hysterical girlfriend and still get a little shut-eye.
Morning comes. We have breakfast. Trinket scratches some more. I get dressed and get ready to go. Trink is supposed to still be quarantined so I can't take anyone with me for moral support. My cover would be blown. I can't actually comply with anything.
I get to the vet's office. A nice tech comes out to greet us. She lets Trinket out of the carrier and picks her up in her ungloved hands.
I am freaking out!!!! "Aren't you afraid of rabies?" I shriek. She looks at me like I might have them - and I've got the addles brain to prove it.
"No, I'm vaccinated."
Well goody for you. Your mother must be a very good one.
She puts Trinket down and returns with Dr. Hoffmeir. She is a little, rotund older lady with gray curls. I am certain she is wicked.
I am wrong.
She bops into the room gushing! "Oh just look at this gorgeous cat! Those eyes! What a beauty! And such a pretty coat. What seems to be the trouble, my little darling?"
I am so relieved I could cry.
He says to open the door and let her run out.
Ha ha. Very funny. Why don't I just hold the door for you, smart ass?
I call the Vet. Miraculously, they answer on Saturday night at 9. These are some boring pet lovers. The person who answers seems very nice.
I tell the person on the phone what is happening. Then I back up and tell her the whole story from the point of discovering the bat. I tell her the evil Dr. Tyson took lots and lots of condemning notes if she wants a good read.
She is still very nice even after I've disclosed that I am a nincompoop and an unfit pet owner. I shouldn't even have plants.
She tells me that there is probably not a lot they can do. I could bring her in but unless it is really life threatening, I could avoid a steep Emergency visit and just bring her in tomorrow. She gives me an appointment.
I am sure Trinket could hack off her own head with those claws but I am fairly confident that it won't happen tonight.
Scott and I turn in for the night, taking the oozy, scratching feline with us.
I am overwhelmed with guilt. I did this. If I were a better parent none of this would have happened. Why did I let her vaccinations lapse? I take better care of my car and I don't even care about my car.
I cry quietly and Scott lays there next to me trying to figure out how to console his hysterical girlfriend and still get a little shut-eye.
Morning comes. We have breakfast. Trinket scratches some more. I get dressed and get ready to go. Trink is supposed to still be quarantined so I can't take anyone with me for moral support. My cover would be blown. I can't actually comply with anything.
I get to the vet's office. A nice tech comes out to greet us. She lets Trinket out of the carrier and picks her up in her ungloved hands.
I am freaking out!!!! "Aren't you afraid of rabies?" I shriek. She looks at me like I might have them - and I've got the addles brain to prove it.
"No, I'm vaccinated."
Well goody for you. Your mother must be a very good one.
She puts Trinket down and returns with Dr. Hoffmeir. She is a little, rotund older lady with gray curls. I am certain she is wicked.
I am wrong.
She bops into the room gushing! "Oh just look at this gorgeous cat! Those eyes! What a beauty! And such a pretty coat. What seems to be the trouble, my little darling?"
I am so relieved I could cry.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Bleeding Heart
Trinket is definitely not herself.
She seems distracted. Preoccupied. Even a little squirrelly.
And she has open, oozing, bleeding wounds all over her neck and face.
Before I do anything, I go back to the rabies website to see just what things I can NOT catch rabies from. It doesn't specifically mention open, oozing, bleeding wounds, but it does say other comforting things about what I'd be exposed to if I got near Trinket's open, oozing, bleeding wounds and that I can not catch it from those (very disgusting) things. So I don't have to resort to throwing Trinket out the door and running away myself if she doesn't. Just yet.
I do what any mother would do. I put Neosporin in the the open, oozing, bleeding wounds with a Q-tip. And then I talk to her in as soothing a voice as I can muster under the circumstances (the circumstances being that I am freaking out) and try to pet and scratch her lightly on the parts that have not sprung a leak yet. And I breathe into a paperbag until morning. Scott will be here early. He'll know what to do.
But apparently, Scott, though he's had many animals of many kinds, he's never had one catch a bat, never had a rabies scare, and most definitely has not had an animal appear to have developed leprosy. He's sympathetic but baffled. And he convinces me that the wounds are the same wounds she's had, that they are healing, and like any scab, they itch. And since when we scratched at scratches on healing scraped elbows and knees when we fell off swings and pogo sticks (me) and skateboards, and mopeds and unicycles (Scott) as children, our mothers told us not to scratch, we usually didn't look like lepers. But Trinket, he reminds me, has a brain the size of a ball bearing, and does not know not to scratch herself to shreds.
I am convinced.
Only temporarily.
Later that night, as Trinket sits on the radiator cover for warmth after the keyboard of my laptop where she had been sitting had cooled, she begins to scratch. And there, before my wondering eyes, she scratch-scratch-scratches a new and different spot on her neck, and as I get closer, I can see that she has left a new open, oozing, and freshly bleeding wound the size of a nickel!
She seems distracted. Preoccupied. Even a little squirrelly.
And she has open, oozing, bleeding wounds all over her neck and face.
Before I do anything, I go back to the rabies website to see just what things I can NOT catch rabies from. It doesn't specifically mention open, oozing, bleeding wounds, but it does say other comforting things about what I'd be exposed to if I got near Trinket's open, oozing, bleeding wounds and that I can not catch it from those (very disgusting) things. So I don't have to resort to throwing Trinket out the door and running away myself if she doesn't. Just yet.
I do what any mother would do. I put Neosporin in the the open, oozing, bleeding wounds with a Q-tip. And then I talk to her in as soothing a voice as I can muster under the circumstances (the circumstances being that I am freaking out) and try to pet and scratch her lightly on the parts that have not sprung a leak yet. And I breathe into a paperbag until morning. Scott will be here early. He'll know what to do.
But apparently, Scott, though he's had many animals of many kinds, he's never had one catch a bat, never had a rabies scare, and most definitely has not had an animal appear to have developed leprosy. He's sympathetic but baffled. And he convinces me that the wounds are the same wounds she's had, that they are healing, and like any scab, they itch. And since when we scratched at scratches on healing scraped elbows and knees when we fell off swings and pogo sticks (me) and skateboards, and mopeds and unicycles (Scott) as children, our mothers told us not to scratch, we usually didn't look like lepers. But Trinket, he reminds me, has a brain the size of a ball bearing, and does not know not to scratch herself to shreds.
I am convinced.
Only temporarily.
Later that night, as Trinket sits on the radiator cover for warmth after the keyboard of my laptop where she had been sitting had cooled, she begins to scratch. And there, before my wondering eyes, she scratch-scratch-scratches a new and different spot on her neck, and as I get closer, I can see that she has left a new open, oozing, and freshly bleeding wound the size of a nickel!
Friday, October 19, 2012
Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This
I rally the next morning. I can do this. I feed the cat. I check how much water she's consumed since last night. I fill the glasses she drinks from (don't ask) and check her kitty litter for signs of trouble. All clear.
But on Wednesday morning, I have some bathroom woes of my own that are most unpleasant. And by that evening I have a whopping headache. By Thursday, I have a fever. (Fever, hot flash. It's hard to tell the difference. It all feels like my insides are being microwaved.)
Like all reasonable people, I consult my secretary. She'll know what to do. She tells me not to be a moron and to call my doctor. I wait to see if the fever breaks before I call. And all the while I Google.
If these are rabies symptoms, I'd better update my will. My goose is as good as cooked. My brain will be scrambled with a side of home fries and a steaming cup of Crazy.
If I think I've been exposed to rabies, I can begin the shots prophylactically. And it is not 21 shots to the belly in 21 days . It is four shots over a number of weeks. In the arm. And reportedly painless. (Good to know.)
I can not get rabies from blood, urine, poop or any of the other known bodily fluids except for saliva. So lookout if she's cleaned herself and be careful with the biting, and use gloves to wash the food and water bowls (how about bleach and long handled mop?)
I dial the doc. I ask to leave a message when I am told she's in with a patient. I leave her a few bullet points about my worries (which could go on and on for several dozen bullets but I'll save that for the return phone call.)
I take it as a good sign that she does not call back right away. If I had anything to worry about she'd race up the stairs to drag me to the office by the hair on my infected head, right?
But she does eventually call. I am walking to my car at the time, and in fact in a crowded elevator car. She asks me to tell the story from beginning to end. Recommends a tetanus shot if I think it would make be relaxa about it. I do not.
Over the next few days, I am reasonably convinced that Trinket is just fine. Appetite is good. Water consumption normal. No vomiting. Nothign outlandish in the kitty litter box. Still sweet and affectionate. I am feeling pretty good. And pretty relieved.
The kids arrive from Lars' that afternoon. It is hard for them not to touch Trinket and Hil is very creative about giving her treats without touching her. She'd be a great friend to The Boy in the Bubble. And she feels sorry for Trinket. She is alarmed at the way her scratches look. She hasn't seen her since the bat incident. I've had some time to adjust to her looking like a leper. I tell her not to worry, I am pretty sure she's just fine. But Hil can not stop fretting.
I get home at the usual time and am greeted by the kids but not the cat as is customary. I ask where she is and Hil points to the window sill. Trinket turns to look at me.
Cujo.
But on Wednesday morning, I have some bathroom woes of my own that are most unpleasant. And by that evening I have a whopping headache. By Thursday, I have a fever. (Fever, hot flash. It's hard to tell the difference. It all feels like my insides are being microwaved.)
Like all reasonable people, I consult my secretary. She'll know what to do. She tells me not to be a moron and to call my doctor. I wait to see if the fever breaks before I call. And all the while I Google.
If these are rabies symptoms, I'd better update my will. My goose is as good as cooked. My brain will be scrambled with a side of home fries and a steaming cup of Crazy.
If I think I've been exposed to rabies, I can begin the shots prophylactically. And it is not 21 shots to the belly in 21 days . It is four shots over a number of weeks. In the arm. And reportedly painless. (Good to know.)
I can not get rabies from blood, urine, poop or any of the other known bodily fluids except for saliva. So lookout if she's cleaned herself and be careful with the biting, and use gloves to wash the food and water bowls (how about bleach and long handled mop?)
I dial the doc. I ask to leave a message when I am told she's in with a patient. I leave her a few bullet points about my worries (which could go on and on for several dozen bullets but I'll save that for the return phone call.)
I take it as a good sign that she does not call back right away. If I had anything to worry about she'd race up the stairs to drag me to the office by the hair on my infected head, right?
But she does eventually call. I am walking to my car at the time, and in fact in a crowded elevator car. She asks me to tell the story from beginning to end. Recommends a tetanus shot if I think it would make be relaxa about it. I do not.
Over the next few days, I am reasonably convinced that Trinket is just fine. Appetite is good. Water consumption normal. No vomiting. Nothign outlandish in the kitty litter box. Still sweet and affectionate. I am feeling pretty good. And pretty relieved.
The kids arrive from Lars' that afternoon. It is hard for them not to touch Trinket and Hil is very creative about giving her treats without touching her. She'd be a great friend to The Boy in the Bubble. And she feels sorry for Trinket. She is alarmed at the way her scratches look. She hasn't seen her since the bat incident. I've had some time to adjust to her looking like a leper. I tell her not to worry, I am pretty sure she's just fine. But Hil can not stop fretting.
I get home at the usual time and am greeted by the kids but not the cat as is customary. I ask where she is and Hil points to the window sill. Trinket turns to look at me.
Cujo.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Boo Hoo Liza
I am feeling like crap about all of this.
The bat episode was so damn funny when it was happening. Trinket's possible death sentence certainly has taken the shine off of the story.
I sob to Scott. He's apologetic, but practical. He's had dozens of pets. And dozens have had illnesses, and many have died. It happens. We live longer. It's the commitment we make when we become pet owners. They depend on us and they love us and we accept that someday they will die and leave us sad and mournful. (And then we replace them.)
The thought is unthinkable.
I bring Trinket into the house and give her some treats. I will not sequester her while the kids are at Lars'. She can have the run of the house for a few days until I figure out what to do. It's just me and I've already been exposed if there is anything to be exposed to. I will love her and hold her and spoil her rotten while I can.
I call the kids and tell them the major bullet points of the story. This needs to sink in...way in...before they come home Friday afternoon.
Trinket caught a bat.
The mean old bat flew all over the place and Mom acted like a loon, but some of Auntie Charlotte's nice friends came over and killed it for me.
But the bat may have had a disease that could hurt Trinket.
So Mom took her to the vet. And now we have to wait and see what happens.
And while we wait, no one can touch her but me. Or feed her. Or clean the litter box.
Pat agrees without a single question and gets off the phone. An easy excuse not to scoop cat poop for a few weeks. Awesome.
Hil is not that easily fooled.
"Mom, if Trinket does get sick what happens?"
"Well, Hil, I don't think she will, but if she does, it's very dangerous."
"How dangerous?"
I will not be let off easily. "Very dangerous."
"Will she die, Mom, yes or no?" My child has the same patience for BS that I do.
"Yes, Hil. She would have to be put to sleep so she would not suffer." Why did I make this phone call?
Hysterics. Histrionics. Tears. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth. You'd think Hil was rabid.
I talk her off a ledge by convincing her that Trinket is doing none of the crazy things that cats with rabies do. And while we are still not sure, I need her help. She will need to carefully observe her and tell me if she does anything bizarre. And she must not touch her, no matter how cute and cuddly she is. Can I count on her to be my eyes and ears while I am at work?
I have a partner on Rabies Watch. A sniffly, blubbering, worried-sick partner, but a partner. Let the clock start ticking on three weeks of isolation.
The bat episode was so damn funny when it was happening. Trinket's possible death sentence certainly has taken the shine off of the story.
I sob to Scott. He's apologetic, but practical. He's had dozens of pets. And dozens have had illnesses, and many have died. It happens. We live longer. It's the commitment we make when we become pet owners. They depend on us and they love us and we accept that someday they will die and leave us sad and mournful. (And then we replace them.)
The thought is unthinkable.
I bring Trinket into the house and give her some treats. I will not sequester her while the kids are at Lars'. She can have the run of the house for a few days until I figure out what to do. It's just me and I've already been exposed if there is anything to be exposed to. I will love her and hold her and spoil her rotten while I can.
I call the kids and tell them the major bullet points of the story. This needs to sink in...way in...before they come home Friday afternoon.
Trinket caught a bat.
The mean old bat flew all over the place and Mom acted like a loon, but some of Auntie Charlotte's nice friends came over and killed it for me.
But the bat may have had a disease that could hurt Trinket.
So Mom took her to the vet. And now we have to wait and see what happens.
And while we wait, no one can touch her but me. Or feed her. Or clean the litter box.
Pat agrees without a single question and gets off the phone. An easy excuse not to scoop cat poop for a few weeks. Awesome.
Hil is not that easily fooled.
"Mom, if Trinket does get sick what happens?"
"Well, Hil, I don't think she will, but if she does, it's very dangerous."
"How dangerous?"
I will not be let off easily. "Very dangerous."
"Will she die, Mom, yes or no?" My child has the same patience for BS that I do.
"Yes, Hil. She would have to be put to sleep so she would not suffer." Why did I make this phone call?
Hysterics. Histrionics. Tears. Wailing. Gnashing of teeth. You'd think Hil was rabid.
I talk her off a ledge by convincing her that Trinket is doing none of the crazy things that cats with rabies do. And while we are still not sure, I need her help. She will need to carefully observe her and tell me if she does anything bizarre. And she must not touch her, no matter how cute and cuddly she is. Can I count on her to be my eyes and ears while I am at work?
I have a partner on Rabies Watch. A sniffly, blubbering, worried-sick partner, but a partner. Let the clock start ticking on three weeks of isolation.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Boo Boo Kitty
The next 30 minutes involves a vaccination for Trinket, a tongue lashing for me, a series of follow up boosters for the scheduler, a bunch of twenties flying out of my wallet. And the follow up appointments must be made with Dr. Tyson, not any of the presumably less condescending physicians. Joy.
But before I go, I must hear all about what signs and symptoms to be on the lookout for. And I have to promise to keep my other pets and all other occupants of my home sequestered from Trinket for a minimum of 3 weeks. No one can feed her, touch her or clean her kitty litter but me. (As if there is any competition for those tasks.) If Trinket has rabies, I am already exposed and will have to get the shots to prevent my brain from turning to a brick of scrapple.
What? Let's hope that the people variety of shots have improved since I was a kid. The threat of 21 daily shots in the abdomen was enough to make me run in fear from all the neighborhood domestic pets as a child.
I ask for what signs and symptoms I should look for in Trinket.
My new Favorite Doctor in the World feels he must torture me some more.
"Well the symptoms could take 6 months to appear."
"OK. But what are they?" I ask.
"I've heard of one case that took a year for symptoms to appear," he snarks.
Well, someone has obviously done entirely too much reading on the subject. And enjoys spewing facts and figures about it all. I am sure he's a blast at cocktail parties.
OK BUT WHAT ARE THEY?" I am getting old just waiting for an answer.
"For cats, universally, rabies presents as aggression. There may be other signs but aggression usually tops the list. So if your cat is normally sweet and docile and suddenly she's hissing and growling at you, don't treat her like you would your adolescent with the same change of attitude. Don't go saying, 'Aw, kitty, it's not like you to snarl and gnash your teeth. What is wrong? Come sit on my lap.' And while she is in isolation, you may want to keep her confined to one room. With no furniture. If she starts to go mad and she's under the bed, you really aren't going to have an easy time getting her here. To...you know...euthanize her."
What a ray of sunshine this man is!
I collect my information sheets, my cat of questionable rabies status and the carrier and skulk to the desk to make my appointments with Dr. Tyson. It is going to be a very long three weeks.
But before I go, I must hear all about what signs and symptoms to be on the lookout for. And I have to promise to keep my other pets and all other occupants of my home sequestered from Trinket for a minimum of 3 weeks. No one can feed her, touch her or clean her kitty litter but me. (As if there is any competition for those tasks.) If Trinket has rabies, I am already exposed and will have to get the shots to prevent my brain from turning to a brick of scrapple.
What? Let's hope that the people variety of shots have improved since I was a kid. The threat of 21 daily shots in the abdomen was enough to make me run in fear from all the neighborhood domestic pets as a child.
I ask for what signs and symptoms I should look for in Trinket.
My new Favorite Doctor in the World feels he must torture me some more.
"Well the symptoms could take 6 months to appear."
"OK. But what are they?" I ask.
"I've heard of one case that took a year for symptoms to appear," he snarks.
Well, someone has obviously done entirely too much reading on the subject. And enjoys spewing facts and figures about it all. I am sure he's a blast at cocktail parties.
OK BUT WHAT ARE THEY?" I am getting old just waiting for an answer.
"For cats, universally, rabies presents as aggression. There may be other signs but aggression usually tops the list. So if your cat is normally sweet and docile and suddenly she's hissing and growling at you, don't treat her like you would your adolescent with the same change of attitude. Don't go saying, 'Aw, kitty, it's not like you to snarl and gnash your teeth. What is wrong? Come sit on my lap.' And while she is in isolation, you may want to keep her confined to one room. With no furniture. If she starts to go mad and she's under the bed, you really aren't going to have an easy time getting her here. To...you know...euthanize her."
What a ray of sunshine this man is!
I collect my information sheets, my cat of questionable rabies status and the carrier and skulk to the desk to make my appointments with Dr. Tyson. It is going to be a very long three weeks.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Fear and Loathing at the Vet's Office
The bat flew away. Into the night. Released to the wild.
That's my story and I am sticking to it.
I had not thought to keep it. I never thought we'd want to put it on ice in a freezer bag so it could be surgically decapitated and tested for rabies. Sorry. Call me crazy. I had bigger worries that night. Like who would find my lifeless body if the damn bat managed to get tangled up in my hair and I dropped dead like I know I would have. Keeping the nasty little thing as a souvenir was not high on my hit parade. I am an urban girl. I never had a bat emergency plan. And since I don't have the bat and that isn't going to change by shaming me, I don't see the harm in telling the evil Dr. Tyson that it is off living the life of Riley flying around bucolic Pennsylvania.
"Oh. Well that leaves us in a bit of a predicament."
Does it now? Are we ever going to get to the part where we give the cat a booster shot, empty my wallet and let me out of the interrogation room for the night?
"Well without the bat we aren't sure what we're dealing with."
Yes, because you morons in the veterinary community have spent all you time concocting better dog food instead of figuring out how to reliably detect rabies on a living animal. Seriously. Where are your PETA friends when you need them?
"And...." I say hoping for a conclusion to this uniquely humiliating little exercise.
"Well the bat could have been carrying anything. And if your cat was attacked by a sick bat, we could have any number of problems."
I am practically in tears. I am a bad mother.
"What if it had White Nose Disease."
Clutch the pearls! What if!!!! What the hell is White Nose Disease?
I ask him to explain.
He acts like I have been living under a rock. Haven't I read the headlines? (Hello, it's an election year. I am a little more drawn to articles pertaining to who might be the Man In Charge next year than some obscure bat ailments.)
He's rolling his eyes and gesturing like I missed the news about the AIDS epidemic. "It's killing thousands of bats all over. No one knows why. It's terrible."
Well it didn't kill this bat, and for that I am profoundly sorry. But I am also curious. "How would I know if the bat had White Nose?"
"Well we'll never know, I am sorry to say."
Yes, you've made your point. I am an idiot. Noted. "Would it have looked or acted different?" Let's keep this conversation aimed at solutions and practicality, doc. Enough slapping me around. "It was flying around for quite a while."
"Oh it was flying? It wouldn't have been flying. I didn't know that it was flying."
Yes you did. I mentioned that Trinket snagged it from the air. That would suggest flying was taking place, and if you weren't so consumed with punishing me you'd have picked up on that, asswipe.
"Yes, so I guess that makes White Nose less likely a concern. So tell me...what are we doing for Trinket now that we've established that we only know that she had a run in with a bat of unknown medical history?"
That's my story and I am sticking to it.
I had not thought to keep it. I never thought we'd want to put it on ice in a freezer bag so it could be surgically decapitated and tested for rabies. Sorry. Call me crazy. I had bigger worries that night. Like who would find my lifeless body if the damn bat managed to get tangled up in my hair and I dropped dead like I know I would have. Keeping the nasty little thing as a souvenir was not high on my hit parade. I am an urban girl. I never had a bat emergency plan. And since I don't have the bat and that isn't going to change by shaming me, I don't see the harm in telling the evil Dr. Tyson that it is off living the life of Riley flying around bucolic Pennsylvania.
"Oh. Well that leaves us in a bit of a predicament."
Does it now? Are we ever going to get to the part where we give the cat a booster shot, empty my wallet and let me out of the interrogation room for the night?
"Well without the bat we aren't sure what we're dealing with."
Yes, because you morons in the veterinary community have spent all you time concocting better dog food instead of figuring out how to reliably detect rabies on a living animal. Seriously. Where are your PETA friends when you need them?
"And...." I say hoping for a conclusion to this uniquely humiliating little exercise.
"Well the bat could have been carrying anything. And if your cat was attacked by a sick bat, we could have any number of problems."
I am practically in tears. I am a bad mother.
"What if it had White Nose Disease."
Clutch the pearls! What if!!!! What the hell is White Nose Disease?
I ask him to explain.
He acts like I have been living under a rock. Haven't I read the headlines? (Hello, it's an election year. I am a little more drawn to articles pertaining to who might be the Man In Charge next year than some obscure bat ailments.)
He's rolling his eyes and gesturing like I missed the news about the AIDS epidemic. "It's killing thousands of bats all over. No one knows why. It's terrible."
Well it didn't kill this bat, and for that I am profoundly sorry. But I am also curious. "How would I know if the bat had White Nose?"
"Well we'll never know, I am sorry to say."
Yes, you've made your point. I am an idiot. Noted. "Would it have looked or acted different?" Let's keep this conversation aimed at solutions and practicality, doc. Enough slapping me around. "It was flying around for quite a while."
"Oh it was flying? It wouldn't have been flying. I didn't know that it was flying."
Yes you did. I mentioned that Trinket snagged it from the air. That would suggest flying was taking place, and if you weren't so consumed with punishing me you'd have picked up on that, asswipe.
"Yes, so I guess that makes White Nose less likely a concern. So tell me...what are we doing for Trinket now that we've established that we only know that she had a run in with a bat of unknown medical history?"
Monday, October 15, 2012
A Visit With Dr. Doolittle
Trinket is not at all pleased to be confined to the cat carrier again so soon, but is reasonably subdued with a handful of cat treats.
After a short time in the waiting room, I am led to an exam room where I am greeted at first by a very friendly tech -- and then later by a not so friendly Dr. Tyson.
Dr. Tyson is a trim, starched and pressed, hairless man (not even a hairy knuckle to speak of) with absolutely no discernible sense of humor.
He asks why we, Trinket and I, are here this evening. (And frankly, I am questioning my decision myself.)
I tell him the story of the bat - again omitting the parts about the beer, and the gun, and the trash can and the running all over screaming like a two year old swatting aimlessly at nothing with a broom.
Dr. Tyson is not amused in the slightest, natch. I may as well have just told him about having played in traffic with my children.
He begins to artfully whittle away at my confidence as a pet owner and parent.
"Are we up to date on our vaccinations?"
Well I don't know about you, sir, since we've just met, but I can tell you that I am probably due for a tetanus shot, and plan to get a flu shot and PPD at work, but Trinket is a big question mark where shots are concerned.
I tell him about Googling and the lack of intel from the state where Trinket was vaccinated initially, and how I was under the impression that her shot was good for three years, but really don't know for sure, and soon I am rambling like a teenager that just broke curfew and got caught.
"Well, what you read was wrong. No one has a three year vaccine. That site is rubbish.
Rubbish? Does anyone say that on this side of The Pond?
While I make a mental note to tell Scott that his dogs may be on the fast track to rabies, Dr. Tyson continues with his smack down.
"When did this little episode with the bat take place?"
"Friday night," I say. And then add, "At about 6 pm." As if it matters.
He looks up, staring at nothing. Evidently, counting the days. "That was 4 days ago. Why are you just bringing her now?" He's kind of wincing.
Stammering, I reply that I'd been away, that I wasn't sure that the bat had bitten Trinket, that there was definitely contact since she had picked the darn thing cleanly out of mid-air and had pounced, and there were some wounds on her, but I had I guess assumed they had come from all the under-the-bed-and-throughout-the-house chasing and so on and so on not really making a legitimate excuse.
He continues talking while he feels Trinket's neck. He notes that there are "scabby wounds and a scratch" in a tone that suggests that I am a complete moron for not racing to the vet on Friday night, immediately post bat slaying. And NOW look where we are!
"So let's have a look at the bat."
Game. Set. Match.
After a short time in the waiting room, I am led to an exam room where I am greeted at first by a very friendly tech -- and then later by a not so friendly Dr. Tyson.
Dr. Tyson is a trim, starched and pressed, hairless man (not even a hairy knuckle to speak of) with absolutely no discernible sense of humor.
He asks why we, Trinket and I, are here this evening. (And frankly, I am questioning my decision myself.)
I tell him the story of the bat - again omitting the parts about the beer, and the gun, and the trash can and the running all over screaming like a two year old swatting aimlessly at nothing with a broom.
Dr. Tyson is not amused in the slightest, natch. I may as well have just told him about having played in traffic with my children.
He begins to artfully whittle away at my confidence as a pet owner and parent.
"Are we up to date on our vaccinations?"
Well I don't know about you, sir, since we've just met, but I can tell you that I am probably due for a tetanus shot, and plan to get a flu shot and PPD at work, but Trinket is a big question mark where shots are concerned.
I tell him about Googling and the lack of intel from the state where Trinket was vaccinated initially, and how I was under the impression that her shot was good for three years, but really don't know for sure, and soon I am rambling like a teenager that just broke curfew and got caught.
"Well, what you read was wrong. No one has a three year vaccine. That site is rubbish.
Rubbish? Does anyone say that on this side of The Pond?
While I make a mental note to tell Scott that his dogs may be on the fast track to rabies, Dr. Tyson continues with his smack down.
"When did this little episode with the bat take place?"
"Friday night," I say. And then add, "At about 6 pm." As if it matters.
He looks up, staring at nothing. Evidently, counting the days. "That was 4 days ago. Why are you just bringing her now?" He's kind of wincing.
Stammering, I reply that I'd been away, that I wasn't sure that the bat had bitten Trinket, that there was definitely contact since she had picked the darn thing cleanly out of mid-air and had pounced, and there were some wounds on her, but I had I guess assumed they had come from all the under-the-bed-and-throughout-the-house chasing and so on and so on not really making a legitimate excuse.
He continues talking while he feels Trinket's neck. He notes that there are "scabby wounds and a scratch" in a tone that suggests that I am a complete moron for not racing to the vet on Friday night, immediately post bat slaying. And NOW look where we are!
"So let's have a look at the bat."
Game. Set. Match.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Cat Scratch Fever
A little beach time, a little BBQ and soon all too soon, the holiday weekend is over.
It is a sad time for me. I will not see the kids off to school on their first day back. They will be with Lars. Pat is starting High School. Hil will be top dog in Middle School. I would not be welcome to come to Lars' home to take an embarassing photo or tuck a note and a snack into the backpacks at the last minute. No, Lars would prefer that the kids let the New Liza do that, now that she is squatting there full time. He so wantsher to replace me. How foolish he can be.
So to avoid the melancholia of being nearby and not near enough, and driving through the school zone and hoping to see them when I know I won't, and missing the sweet smell of Hil's new lotions and potions she picked out especially for the return to school, I stay at Scott's until Tuesday morning. Get distracted and absorbed in shore traffic. Pray for the day to end.
I get a call from each child at the end of the school day. The first day back was great for both kids and I am competely relieved.
But I am not at all relaxed.
The cat/bat story was big news around the water cooler at work. The story is incredulous, and the more distance I get from it, the funnier it becomes. But each person I told asked if I'd kept the bat.
For what? The taxidermist?
No, for the veterinarian.
What veterinarian?
The one I will no doubt be calling since there is a very good chance Trinket was bitten by the bat and has been exposed to rabies, natch!
Oh. Hadn't thought about that. And certainly had not thought about carting home the bat carcass in a zip-lock bag.
I am wracked with guilt when I get home. I examine every inch of Trinket's sleek little feline body and notice a few scabs. And a long scratch. Oh no.
I pull out her information from her shelter. She's had lots of shots but I have no idea when they expire.
I take to the web and look up some information. The rabies shot can prevent the disease for 1-3 years, depending upon the state. Of course Trinket was adopted in Scott's state, not mine, and there is no information from his particularly uncooperative neck of the woods. I ask him. He'd know, right? He has five dogs and a cat! He thinks it is good for three years.
He also thinks I am neurotic enough to be a wreck until I find out for sure and that I should call my vet to learn what I need to know in order to sleep at night.
I look up the nice veterinarian that treated Trinket when she injured her tail (I have no idea to this day how that happened.) I tell the story, omitting the funnier parts and the part about the gun. And I lie and say the bat flew away into the night, freed from bondage. No need to convince them that I am a bad pet owner AND a moron in the same phone call.
The person on the phone is very nice. But seems a little more concerned than I'd like.
"Can you be here in twenty minutes?"
Uh-oh.
It is a sad time for me. I will not see the kids off to school on their first day back. They will be with Lars. Pat is starting High School. Hil will be top dog in Middle School. I would not be welcome to come to Lars' home to take an embarassing photo or tuck a note and a snack into the backpacks at the last minute. No, Lars would prefer that the kids let the New Liza do that, now that she is squatting there full time. He so wantsher to replace me. How foolish he can be.
So to avoid the melancholia of being nearby and not near enough, and driving through the school zone and hoping to see them when I know I won't, and missing the sweet smell of Hil's new lotions and potions she picked out especially for the return to school, I stay at Scott's until Tuesday morning. Get distracted and absorbed in shore traffic. Pray for the day to end.
I get a call from each child at the end of the school day. The first day back was great for both kids and I am competely relieved.
But I am not at all relaxed.
The cat/bat story was big news around the water cooler at work. The story is incredulous, and the more distance I get from it, the funnier it becomes. But each person I told asked if I'd kept the bat.
For what? The taxidermist?
No, for the veterinarian.
What veterinarian?
The one I will no doubt be calling since there is a very good chance Trinket was bitten by the bat and has been exposed to rabies, natch!
Oh. Hadn't thought about that. And certainly had not thought about carting home the bat carcass in a zip-lock bag.
I am wracked with guilt when I get home. I examine every inch of Trinket's sleek little feline body and notice a few scabs. And a long scratch. Oh no.
I pull out her information from her shelter. She's had lots of shots but I have no idea when they expire.
I take to the web and look up some information. The rabies shot can prevent the disease for 1-3 years, depending upon the state. Of course Trinket was adopted in Scott's state, not mine, and there is no information from his particularly uncooperative neck of the woods. I ask him. He'd know, right? He has five dogs and a cat! He thinks it is good for three years.
He also thinks I am neurotic enough to be a wreck until I find out for sure and that I should call my vet to learn what I need to know in order to sleep at night.
I look up the nice veterinarian that treated Trinket when she injured her tail (I have no idea to this day how that happened.) I tell the story, omitting the funnier parts and the part about the gun. And I lie and say the bat flew away into the night, freed from bondage. No need to convince them that I am a bad pet owner AND a moron in the same phone call.
The person on the phone is very nice. But seems a little more concerned than I'd like.
"Can you be here in twenty minutes?"
Uh-oh.
Give Me Just a Little More Wine
It is a worrisome road to go down. Charlotte questions my thinking.
Who wouldn't?
But I explain that some of the outrageous behavior could be more easily chalked off as par for the course if observed through the lense of alcoholism.
I tell Charlotte that with what I know now about J., I understand a lot of what baffled me earlier. All of the outrageous things he did. The secretive behavior. The things that did not add up. The peculiar hang ups. The slowness. The lapses. The health problems. The craziness.
Had I known he'd been drinking, all the overreacting would have been just as unpleasant, but I would have taken it far less personally. I would have taken far less of it, too.
Charlotte is having a hard time considering it. I suggest she think about it. Go on an Al-Anon website and get some information. It could be very enlightening. I remember a co-worker who had no idea that she was in an abusive relationship until she was in the doctor's office one day. While sitting on the toilet hoping to eventually pee in the cup, she read a poster on the back of the stall door. It read, "Are You In An Abusive Relationship?" and then listed ten hallmarks of a relationship you should plan escaping.
She was shocked to learn that eight of the characteristics could easily be applied to her marriage. She eventually left her husband. Packed and flew the coop while he was at a Grateful Dead show.
You just never know where your a-ha moment will come from. Charlotte gave me mine. A few years back as I boo-hooed in her kitchen one more time, she put down her spatula and looked me in the eye and said, "Liza, this is the third time this month you have been crying in my kitchen. Your children deserve a happier mother." And within weeks I was on the road to divorce.
Not that we will divorce Mom. (Wouldn't that be handy?) But a little understanding might pave the way to managing better. And if it didn't feel so personal to be harassed and harangued because it could be blamed on something, wouldn't that make a difference?
Charlotte is still skeptical. It is an admittedly bitter pill to have to think about swallowing.
But I look at the clock and tell her what I think. It is 5 pm. We've been on the phone for an hour. (I've driven home and Scott and his kids have removed the groceries from my car. I am still in my seat belt.) So her call with Mom took place sometime between 3 pm and 4 pm. It is Saturday. What are the chances that she hadn't thrown back her first couple of White Zinfandels?
Absolutely none.
I am not sure what Charlotte did with this information. Maybe she filed it away to review when the next battle erupts. I can only say that it makes sense to me, and how we fight our battles with Mom is entirely a personal matter.
Who wouldn't?
But I explain that some of the outrageous behavior could be more easily chalked off as par for the course if observed through the lense of alcoholism.
I tell Charlotte that with what I know now about J., I understand a lot of what baffled me earlier. All of the outrageous things he did. The secretive behavior. The things that did not add up. The peculiar hang ups. The slowness. The lapses. The health problems. The craziness.
Had I known he'd been drinking, all the overreacting would have been just as unpleasant, but I would have taken it far less personally. I would have taken far less of it, too.
Charlotte is having a hard time considering it. I suggest she think about it. Go on an Al-Anon website and get some information. It could be very enlightening. I remember a co-worker who had no idea that she was in an abusive relationship until she was in the doctor's office one day. While sitting on the toilet hoping to eventually pee in the cup, she read a poster on the back of the stall door. It read, "Are You In An Abusive Relationship?" and then listed ten hallmarks of a relationship you should plan escaping.
She was shocked to learn that eight of the characteristics could easily be applied to her marriage. She eventually left her husband. Packed and flew the coop while he was at a Grateful Dead show.
You just never know where your a-ha moment will come from. Charlotte gave me mine. A few years back as I boo-hooed in her kitchen one more time, she put down her spatula and looked me in the eye and said, "Liza, this is the third time this month you have been crying in my kitchen. Your children deserve a happier mother." And within weeks I was on the road to divorce.
Not that we will divorce Mom. (Wouldn't that be handy?) But a little understanding might pave the way to managing better. And if it didn't feel so personal to be harassed and harangued because it could be blamed on something, wouldn't that make a difference?
Charlotte is still skeptical. It is an admittedly bitter pill to have to think about swallowing.
But I look at the clock and tell her what I think. It is 5 pm. We've been on the phone for an hour. (I've driven home and Scott and his kids have removed the groceries from my car. I am still in my seat belt.) So her call with Mom took place sometime between 3 pm and 4 pm. It is Saturday. What are the chances that she hadn't thrown back her first couple of White Zinfandels?
Absolutely none.
I am not sure what Charlotte did with this information. Maybe she filed it away to review when the next battle erupts. I can only say that it makes sense to me, and how we fight our battles with Mom is entirely a personal matter.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
The Booby Prize
But Mom isn't about to go to that dark, reflective, contemplative place in her soul and question how she might be culpable in some way. No, she would prefer to lash out and go on the attack so that you might be frightened off and not push her there, where surely her demons will come out to greet her.
Joe is spared this humiliating little song and dance because he is witless and is running with his tail between his legs before the first jab.
I am spared because it is hard to fight with someone who is not speaking with you and who will return your letters unopened if you dare send one. And if I should be caught flat footed and be tricked into phone conversation, the words "Shut up!" roll easily off my tongue and I reflexively disconnect the phone.
And that leaves Charlotte. She gets all three shares. Undisputed. Uncensored. Both barrels.
And that crap has to stop.
I encourage Charlotte to stop putting herself in harm's way. I've found it liberating. And I don't miss the haranguing.
Charlotte feels badly. She wants to stay in touch with Mom. She won't be around forever. (Yes she will. The wicked ones live forever.) Mom is dealing with a lot of crap, we've learned, and she wants to be there for her. But being there for leaves her feeling like she she's been beaten about the head and torso with a piece of garden hose.
Charlotte says she was just thinking about Mom and picked up the phone to call her. Good intentions. No agenda. Just hello. And look where it got her.
I suggested that when she feels like calling to check in, write her a note. Buy some note cards or stationary and send her a few lines letting her know she's on her mind. Safe. One sided. Delayed. Most importantly, within her control.
Charlotte is crying again. She can't believe how such a simple conversation turned into something so awful. Mom was so vicious and mean.
Time for the truth. I ask Charlotte to consider Mom's behavior in the context of alcoholism.
Joe is spared this humiliating little song and dance because he is witless and is running with his tail between his legs before the first jab.
I am spared because it is hard to fight with someone who is not speaking with you and who will return your letters unopened if you dare send one. And if I should be caught flat footed and be tricked into phone conversation, the words "Shut up!" roll easily off my tongue and I reflexively disconnect the phone.
And that leaves Charlotte. She gets all three shares. Undisputed. Uncensored. Both barrels.
And that crap has to stop.
I encourage Charlotte to stop putting herself in harm's way. I've found it liberating. And I don't miss the haranguing.
Charlotte feels badly. She wants to stay in touch with Mom. She won't be around forever. (Yes she will. The wicked ones live forever.) Mom is dealing with a lot of crap, we've learned, and she wants to be there for her. But being there for leaves her feeling like she she's been beaten about the head and torso with a piece of garden hose.
Charlotte says she was just thinking about Mom and picked up the phone to call her. Good intentions. No agenda. Just hello. And look where it got her.
I suggested that when she feels like calling to check in, write her a note. Buy some note cards or stationary and send her a few lines letting her know she's on her mind. Safe. One sided. Delayed. Most importantly, within her control.
Charlotte is crying again. She can't believe how such a simple conversation turned into something so awful. Mom was so vicious and mean.
Time for the truth. I ask Charlotte to consider Mom's behavior in the context of alcoholism.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves
What happens next is a horrifying combination of shame, blame and unnecessary roughness.
Mom verbally slaps Charlotte around. Slam dunks the the insults. Drop kicks the logic. Commits fouls and generally unsportsmanlike.
Because she has to win. So a little cheating is justified, right?
Mom wails that no one visits her 9 hours away. (Because that is such and appealing vacation plan!)
Charlotte attempts to make a logical argument. Mentions that all of Mom's children are parents. And all eight grandchildren go to school, and have activities and obligations and commitments that tether us to home most of the time and certainly on weekends.
Mom comments that she (ever the saint) makes the trip at Christmas. (OK, we've been over that uniquely painful experience.) Charlotte mentions that Mom is retired...she can visit us any time she cares to. But only comes at Christmas.
Mom makes some kind of half hearted whiny lament that she is out of our lives.
Charlotte will not take the bait. She reminds Mom that she chose to move so far away just as her children were starting their families. All of my children and two of Joe's were born after she left. Charlotte's youngest was only a year old.
Ever the warrior, Mom retorts that she was not the only one to move away. Hint hint hint.
True, Charlotte and Jack did move to Atlanta when they were first married. Jack had gotten a wonderful promotion that would start him on a career path that they'd have been fools to let pass him by. They stayed 3 or 4 years and moved back, just as Charlotte had hoped, when they were expecting their first child.
It's what young people do. They launch. It is what parents hope happens. But not Mom. She has to turn it into something dirty. She has to deflect and draw a similarity between the reasonable thing Charlotte did and the sleazy thing that she did, in the hope that Charlotte won't keep arguing the point. But the truth is this: Mom and Bill moved when they did to escape.
Escape us.
Escape Bill's children.
Escape jobs.
Escape adversarial neighbors.
Escape law suits.
Escape familial burdens.
Escape the past.
Escape the ties that bind.
Escape responsibility - especially those that come from having a family.
They packed up and moved when Mom was in her late 50s for no compelling reason at all. Just walked away claiming it was their dream to move to North Carolina (I'd never once heard that) They moved and then just a few short years later, moved again. To Maryland. Had a house built. And then they decided that the house was all wrong (WTF?) and moved again. To a waterfront town also in Maryland and into an historic house. Stayed 9 months and moved again. This time back to North Carolina. And then very shortly thereafter, bought something in South Carolina that they've never moved into and are trying to sell even now. They are ready to load up the truck and move to Beverly at any moment. When the going gets tough, Bill and Estelle's bags are already packed.
So it wasn't the life long dream of a home in North Carolina that drew them away. They were running. And not one of their children believes otherwise.
Mom verbally slaps Charlotte around. Slam dunks the the insults. Drop kicks the logic. Commits fouls and generally unsportsmanlike.
Because she has to win. So a little cheating is justified, right?
Mom wails that no one visits her 9 hours away. (Because that is such and appealing vacation plan!)
Charlotte attempts to make a logical argument. Mentions that all of Mom's children are parents. And all eight grandchildren go to school, and have activities and obligations and commitments that tether us to home most of the time and certainly on weekends.
Mom comments that she (ever the saint) makes the trip at Christmas. (OK, we've been over that uniquely painful experience.) Charlotte mentions that Mom is retired...she can visit us any time she cares to. But only comes at Christmas.
Mom makes some kind of half hearted whiny lament that she is out of our lives.
Charlotte will not take the bait. She reminds Mom that she chose to move so far away just as her children were starting their families. All of my children and two of Joe's were born after she left. Charlotte's youngest was only a year old.
Ever the warrior, Mom retorts that she was not the only one to move away. Hint hint hint.
True, Charlotte and Jack did move to Atlanta when they were first married. Jack had gotten a wonderful promotion that would start him on a career path that they'd have been fools to let pass him by. They stayed 3 or 4 years and moved back, just as Charlotte had hoped, when they were expecting their first child.
It's what young people do. They launch. It is what parents hope happens. But not Mom. She has to turn it into something dirty. She has to deflect and draw a similarity between the reasonable thing Charlotte did and the sleazy thing that she did, in the hope that Charlotte won't keep arguing the point. But the truth is this: Mom and Bill moved when they did to escape.
Escape us.
Escape Bill's children.
Escape jobs.
Escape adversarial neighbors.
Escape law suits.
Escape familial burdens.
Escape the past.
Escape the ties that bind.
Escape responsibility - especially those that come from having a family.
They packed up and moved when Mom was in her late 50s for no compelling reason at all. Just walked away claiming it was their dream to move to North Carolina (I'd never once heard that) They moved and then just a few short years later, moved again. To Maryland. Had a house built. And then they decided that the house was all wrong (WTF?) and moved again. To a waterfront town also in Maryland and into an historic house. Stayed 9 months and moved again. This time back to North Carolina. And then very shortly thereafter, bought something in South Carolina that they've never moved into and are trying to sell even now. They are ready to load up the truck and move to Beverly at any moment. When the going gets tough, Bill and Estelle's bags are already packed.
So it wasn't the life long dream of a home in North Carolina that drew them away. They were running. And not one of their children believes otherwise.
Monday, October 8, 2012
A Dance With The Devil
Charlotte has too much self respect to mine to the depths of meanness to which our mother will often travel. She won't lash out. She retains a sense of reason. She won't resort to swearing like a sailor. She maintains her decorum. She rigorously holds on to normal, generally accepted conventions of conversation.
Mom does no such thing.
Charlotte listens as Mom turns the argument into a pity party for herself. Claims to have so much to worry about (like this damn election????) that she is losing her hair. (No, Mom. I believe 70 years of home Frost & Tip-ing, and Aqua Net and backcombing and teasing are to blame. Though Lars would probably say it is her evilness oozing out of her head for lack of space...again, he had a way with words) But anyway, Bill has some ailment or ache or pain in his ass or his elbow. This doctor is an idiot and that one won't listen to her. Bill does nothing but clear his throat incessantly and is deaf as a doornail so she has to resort to shouting. (He is conveniently hard of hearing and she would shout anyway.) Her real estate agent is a ninny and no one is maintaining their property in another state properly. The whole country is in chaos because of this President and people are going to take matters into her own hands. Bill is going to vote in both states again this year to do his civic duty in making sure Obama does not get re-elected. (Like it worked last time...)
Charlotte explains some of the moving parts of her balancing act as well, as if to say, "Mom, we are both very busy. It is easy to forget what other people are going through sometimes." Her college senior moving back from his NY internship and then immediately heading off to his apartment at school - for which he is on the lease, and which is filthy. (Enter the White Tornado) Her college freshman moving home from his Animal House shore rental, where he, too, was on the lease, and which is similarly filthy. He also is off to school in a matter of days to a campus too many miles away. A flooded basement, and ongoing renovation, a new business and the usual hoopla generated by house and home and a rising high school senior.
In doing so, she hints that our lives are decidedly separate. We all live 5 states apart from one another. There are going to be some black holes. Some disconnection can be expected.
It is a rational statement to assert. But this is not a rational audience.
Mom does no such thing.
Charlotte listens as Mom turns the argument into a pity party for herself. Claims to have so much to worry about (like this damn election????) that she is losing her hair. (No, Mom. I believe 70 years of home Frost & Tip-ing, and Aqua Net and backcombing and teasing are to blame. Though Lars would probably say it is her evilness oozing out of her head for lack of space...again, he had a way with words) But anyway, Bill has some ailment or ache or pain in his ass or his elbow. This doctor is an idiot and that one won't listen to her. Bill does nothing but clear his throat incessantly and is deaf as a doornail so she has to resort to shouting. (He is conveniently hard of hearing and she would shout anyway.) Her real estate agent is a ninny and no one is maintaining their property in another state properly. The whole country is in chaos because of this President and people are going to take matters into her own hands. Bill is going to vote in both states again this year to do his civic duty in making sure Obama does not get re-elected. (Like it worked last time...)
Charlotte explains some of the moving parts of her balancing act as well, as if to say, "Mom, we are both very busy. It is easy to forget what other people are going through sometimes." Her college senior moving back from his NY internship and then immediately heading off to his apartment at school - for which he is on the lease, and which is filthy. (Enter the White Tornado) Her college freshman moving home from his Animal House shore rental, where he, too, was on the lease, and which is similarly filthy. He also is off to school in a matter of days to a campus too many miles away. A flooded basement, and ongoing renovation, a new business and the usual hoopla generated by house and home and a rising high school senior.
In doing so, she hints that our lives are decidedly separate. We all live 5 states apart from one another. There are going to be some black holes. Some disconnection can be expected.
It is a rational statement to assert. But this is not a rational audience.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Dial H for Hateful
Charlotte tells me about how, in her own defense, she competently and maturely explains to Mom that she does not want to discuss politics with her. They don't agree across the board and Charlotte is still making up her mind and would like to make the decision on her own. She just wants to have a conversation, not a fight. And it always turns into one.
And Mom begins yelling, natch.
Yelling about conspiracy theories.
Yelling about socialism.
Yelling about a czar or a tyrant of an imperial wizard or some such all-powerful fairytale word she's assigned to the President. (Mom must have missed the Checks and Balances./Three branches of government lecture in Civics class.)
And while she is yelling, she also begins insulting.
Charlotte has no idea what she is talking about.
Charlotte is poorly informed.
Charlotte needs some advice.
Charlotte should vote for Romney because he is the candidate that is most like her husband. (I think this is when Charlotte actually reached a rolling boil.)
Now in hindsight, what Charlotte might have said, if her head weren't spinning, would have been something akin to "Mom, we obviously don't agree on everything even though we often vote the same way. I respect your opinion and I'd like you to respect mine, however different from your own. I am going to get off the phone now so you can take whatever pill it is you take to morph back into a rational adult human. I will call you once the election is over."
She tries. Honestly she does. I give her credit for that. In my last few conversations with Mom I have resorted to firing a few parting insults of my own, peppered with colorful swear words, and hanging up. (And then waiting for the letter...)
But Mom can't just step back and recognize Charlotte (or any of her children for that matter) as a fully matured, educated, successful woman with a purposeful life and high moral standards of her own. No, she has to break her opponent. Belittle and insult you until you are feeling puny and worthless and then maybe you will question your convictions and take her word on the election (or whatever other decision of import she feels she needs to intrude upon because Mother Knows Best.)
No, she takes the Ugly Train down the tracks a few more stops. Holds Charlotte up and judges her unfavorably against other people. People who can't even compare with Charlotte. "I have nieces who will discuss politics with me!"
Good, Mom. Call them. Keep calling them until you discover the one departure in philosophy that renders them unworthy and decide to put them through the rigors of this uniquely horrifying little exercise. Then they too will stop picking up the phone.
And she digs. Digs deep. Pulls out bitter reminders of every disagreement and disappointment she feels Charlotte is guilty of since the dawn of mankind.
And the conversation is just getting started.
And Mom begins yelling, natch.
Yelling about conspiracy theories.
Yelling about socialism.
Yelling about a czar or a tyrant of an imperial wizard or some such all-powerful fairytale word she's assigned to the President. (Mom must have missed the Checks and Balances./Three branches of government lecture in Civics class.)
And while she is yelling, she also begins insulting.
Charlotte has no idea what she is talking about.
Charlotte is poorly informed.
Charlotte needs some advice.
Charlotte should vote for Romney because he is the candidate that is most like her husband. (I think this is when Charlotte actually reached a rolling boil.)
Now in hindsight, what Charlotte might have said, if her head weren't spinning, would have been something akin to "Mom, we obviously don't agree on everything even though we often vote the same way. I respect your opinion and I'd like you to respect mine, however different from your own. I am going to get off the phone now so you can take whatever pill it is you take to morph back into a rational adult human. I will call you once the election is over."
She tries. Honestly she does. I give her credit for that. In my last few conversations with Mom I have resorted to firing a few parting insults of my own, peppered with colorful swear words, and hanging up. (And then waiting for the letter...)
But Mom can't just step back and recognize Charlotte (or any of her children for that matter) as a fully matured, educated, successful woman with a purposeful life and high moral standards of her own. No, she has to break her opponent. Belittle and insult you until you are feeling puny and worthless and then maybe you will question your convictions and take her word on the election (or whatever other decision of import she feels she needs to intrude upon because Mother Knows Best.)
No, she takes the Ugly Train down the tracks a few more stops. Holds Charlotte up and judges her unfavorably against other people. People who can't even compare with Charlotte. "I have nieces who will discuss politics with me!"
Good, Mom. Call them. Keep calling them until you discover the one departure in philosophy that renders them unworthy and decide to put them through the rigors of this uniquely horrifying little exercise. Then they too will stop picking up the phone.
And she digs. Digs deep. Pulls out bitter reminders of every disagreement and disappointment she feels Charlotte is guilty of since the dawn of mankind.
And the conversation is just getting started.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Silence is Golden
The call was destined for disaster. Actually, they all are, so this outcome should surprise no one.
But somehow we all gamely and naively pick up the phone and optimistically hope for the best with every Mom encounter.
The best is not to be.
I ask Charlotte questions so she can have a starting point. Conversations with Mom have tornado quality to them. Loud with debris flying in all directions. They are hard to repeat.
"OK - Tel me. What precipitated this call?"
"I called her," Charlotte sniffs. "I felt bad. I hadn't called her in a while."
I haven't called her in a year. Clearly Charlotte and I have different ideas about what constitutes negligence.
"You're going to have to stop doing that," I say.
"I know. But I knew something was happening in her life. I just couldn't remember the details. Cataract surgery? Something with Bill? I don't know. Something."
Really? Flesh-eating virus? Adopted an Indian midget? I'd been blissfully unaware.
"Well, and I've had a lot on my plate, " Charlotte says. "With the boys headed to school and all the nonsense at Gray's house at the shore. I have had a lot of competing priorities."
With all of Mom's transgressions a delayed phone call is going to have you flogging yourself with guilt? I'd let you off the hook with manslaughter.
"So anyway, I called her and she started. She and Bill had just been to see '2016.'"
Oh, good. The documentary putting fear into the hearts and minds of the bigoted and uniformed all across the nation hoping to deter them for voting for Obama in 2012. Why couldn't she just go see The Dark Knight Rises like all the other lunatics?
"So I let her talk. I will not have a political discussion with her, so I just let her go on and on."
"Fair enough," I say. "I usually tell her that I will not have a conversation about "fill in the blank." - Politics, our brother, his shrew wife, real estate, gas prices, reverse parking, the NFL draft, Eli and Peyton Manning, or any other number of dicey topics that I would gladly discuss with almost anyone else."
"Yeah, well, I can't get away with that, " Charlotte laments. "And soon enough, Mom notices (remarkably) that I am not saying anything back. That she is doing all the talking. And she calls me on it."
And that is when things got mean. The venom reserved for our sitting President is at once oozing all over Charlotte.
But somehow we all gamely and naively pick up the phone and optimistically hope for the best with every Mom encounter.
The best is not to be.
I ask Charlotte questions so she can have a starting point. Conversations with Mom have tornado quality to them. Loud with debris flying in all directions. They are hard to repeat.
"OK - Tel me. What precipitated this call?"
"I called her," Charlotte sniffs. "I felt bad. I hadn't called her in a while."
I haven't called her in a year. Clearly Charlotte and I have different ideas about what constitutes negligence.
"You're going to have to stop doing that," I say.
"I know. But I knew something was happening in her life. I just couldn't remember the details. Cataract surgery? Something with Bill? I don't know. Something."
Really? Flesh-eating virus? Adopted an Indian midget? I'd been blissfully unaware.
"Well, and I've had a lot on my plate, " Charlotte says. "With the boys headed to school and all the nonsense at Gray's house at the shore. I have had a lot of competing priorities."
With all of Mom's transgressions a delayed phone call is going to have you flogging yourself with guilt? I'd let you off the hook with manslaughter.
"So anyway, I called her and she started. She and Bill had just been to see '2016.'"
Oh, good. The documentary putting fear into the hearts and minds of the bigoted and uniformed all across the nation hoping to deter them for voting for Obama in 2012. Why couldn't she just go see The Dark Knight Rises like all the other lunatics?
"So I let her talk. I will not have a political discussion with her, so I just let her go on and on."
"Fair enough," I say. "I usually tell her that I will not have a conversation about "fill in the blank." - Politics, our brother, his shrew wife, real estate, gas prices, reverse parking, the NFL draft, Eli and Peyton Manning, or any other number of dicey topics that I would gladly discuss with almost anyone else."
"Yeah, well, I can't get away with that, " Charlotte laments. "And soon enough, Mom notices (remarkably) that I am not saying anything back. That she is doing all the talking. And she calls me on it."
And that is when things got mean. The venom reserved for our sitting President is at once oozing all over Charlotte.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Another Day, Another Location, Another Drama
I get home with Trinket and she is still acting weird. I hesitate to leave her, but maybe a little solitude in her own house with her familiar things will help her shake the willies. I can't blame her for having them. The entire time we were at Charlotte's I kept looking for bats clinging to nooks and crannies in high places.
I feed her and change her kitty litter. I freshen her water and give her some treats. I fill her food bowls and fill her little plush mouse with fresh catnip. She just sits under the dining room table with her legs compactly curled under her and stares at me. Maybe she's waiting for me to leave so she can have her friends over for a party.
I call Scott to tell him I am leaving and will be there soon and to ask about traffic. He tells me the puppy is adorable (aren't they all?) and that she would fit in a coffee cup (a cow would fit in MY coffee cup) and that I should snack on something on the way. There is nary a crumb in the fridge at his house. If I arrive hungry, I'll be in a coma shortly thereafter.
I drive there. There is none of the usual hoopla on the road. People are where they'll be for the weekend and I am alone on the road. I could be driving naked and get away with it.
I make it it Scott's in record time. He's not kidding. The fridge is so empty there is an echo. And all I was looking for was a bottle of water.
"Scott," I say. "What have you got going on this afternoon?"
"Nothing special," he says. "What do you feel like doing? I was going to grout the tile. That will take an hour or so. We can do something afterwards? Is there anything you need to do? Your blog, maybe?"
"How about I shop for you? Get some stuff in your cupboards. School starts this week. You should have something to eat in the house." And frankly, Mama has low blood sugar.
I take to my recipe app on my phone. Pick out some crowd pleasers. I go through cabinets. I make lists. I go through the coupons sitting on the counter. I leave for Acme with my lists and coupons and Scott's debit card.
And hour later, I have shopped to my little heart's desire and gotten all the things Scott needs for a week full of dinners, lunches for himself and for his high schooler, and a few extra goodies for fun. I call him from the parking lot. We are making chili and corn bread for dinner. It's going to be a cool night.
"I spent a lot of money, " I say. "But I saved a fortune and the good news is you are all set for the week. I will plan your menus."
"Awesome. And I don't care about the money. I am really happy you did that for me."
"Well you know it's love if I volunteered to set foot in the grocery store for you. I'd even call it love if I drove on the same block. I get hives just walking across the parking lot."
"I know, I was just thinking that. It's why you get your stuff delivered. I really appreciate the gesture. Really, I do, sweetie."
I know he does, and he knows I love him. It makes the torture of the grocery store and the uniquely horrifying people in it bearable. It is like the Walmartians have come here because Walmart ran out of TV dinners and Count Chocula.
I get in my car and before I can buckle my seat belt my phone begins to ring. I assume it is Scott calling back to catch me before I leave the parking lot because someone needs one more thing. I am thinking puppy chow, to be truthful.
No, it is Charlotte. I answer brightly but as soon as I do I realize she's crying.
"Char, what's wrong?" I am thinking the worst. Or maybe that she's upset that her nest is emptier than ever and she misses her two college boys.
No.
She's just spent an hour on the phone with Mom. Say no more.
I feed her and change her kitty litter. I freshen her water and give her some treats. I fill her food bowls and fill her little plush mouse with fresh catnip. She just sits under the dining room table with her legs compactly curled under her and stares at me. Maybe she's waiting for me to leave so she can have her friends over for a party.
I call Scott to tell him I am leaving and will be there soon and to ask about traffic. He tells me the puppy is adorable (aren't they all?) and that she would fit in a coffee cup (a cow would fit in MY coffee cup) and that I should snack on something on the way. There is nary a crumb in the fridge at his house. If I arrive hungry, I'll be in a coma shortly thereafter.
I drive there. There is none of the usual hoopla on the road. People are where they'll be for the weekend and I am alone on the road. I could be driving naked and get away with it.
I make it it Scott's in record time. He's not kidding. The fridge is so empty there is an echo. And all I was looking for was a bottle of water.
"Scott," I say. "What have you got going on this afternoon?"
"Nothing special," he says. "What do you feel like doing? I was going to grout the tile. That will take an hour or so. We can do something afterwards? Is there anything you need to do? Your blog, maybe?"
"How about I shop for you? Get some stuff in your cupboards. School starts this week. You should have something to eat in the house." And frankly, Mama has low blood sugar.
I take to my recipe app on my phone. Pick out some crowd pleasers. I go through cabinets. I make lists. I go through the coupons sitting on the counter. I leave for Acme with my lists and coupons and Scott's debit card.
And hour later, I have shopped to my little heart's desire and gotten all the things Scott needs for a week full of dinners, lunches for himself and for his high schooler, and a few extra goodies for fun. I call him from the parking lot. We are making chili and corn bread for dinner. It's going to be a cool night.
"I spent a lot of money, " I say. "But I saved a fortune and the good news is you are all set for the week. I will plan your menus."
"Awesome. And I don't care about the money. I am really happy you did that for me."
"Well you know it's love if I volunteered to set foot in the grocery store for you. I'd even call it love if I drove on the same block. I get hives just walking across the parking lot."
"I know, I was just thinking that. It's why you get your stuff delivered. I really appreciate the gesture. Really, I do, sweetie."
I know he does, and he knows I love him. It makes the torture of the grocery store and the uniquely horrifying people in it bearable. It is like the Walmartians have come here because Walmart ran out of TV dinners and Count Chocula.
I get in my car and before I can buckle my seat belt my phone begins to ring. I assume it is Scott calling back to catch me before I leave the parking lot because someone needs one more thing. I am thinking puppy chow, to be truthful.
No, it is Charlotte. I answer brightly but as soon as I do I realize she's crying.
"Char, what's wrong?" I am thinking the worst. Or maybe that she's upset that her nest is emptier than ever and she misses her two college boys.
No.
She's just spent an hour on the phone with Mom. Say no more.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Morning After
The next morning, after having slept the sleep of the dead, I am awakened, thankfully not by a bat, but by a text from Scott.
"Is there coffee?"
I tiptoe from bed hoping not to disturb Kate. She was such a good sport the night before. The least I can do is let her sleep in later than she gets to at home. I creep into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I wash and moisturize my face and make it moderately presentable. I tame the hair with an industrial strength hair tie and some finishing creme, lest I look like Diana Ross from her Eaten Alive photo shoot.
Trinket is hiding under the bed looking like she is still on high alert. This troubles me momentarily, but then I have to take into account that her brain is the size of a chickpea and she can't possibly understand that the beast is dead and rotting in Charlotte's garage trash can which is sealed with a lid in case of any miraculous resurrections from the dead.
I tiptoe downstairs and make coffee. I return to the bedroom to make myself look accidentally fabulous. Like I just rolled out of bed and look fresh as a daisy and neat as a pin and smell wonderful to boot. I am sure Scott knows I am human and get morning breath and pillow creases on my face and have bags under my eyes and bed head, I just don't need to remind him that he'll be waking up next to them every morning for the rest of his life.
I text him to park behind me in the lower drive (Charlotte and Jack have two). The one at the top of the steep drive is occupied by Kate's car...only he won't know that until he's gunned his car up the hill and makes the sharp turn. I go down to my car and back it closer to the garage door to give him room.
And just walking by the garage door knowing that the bat is in there gives me the willies. What if it was just playing dead like it had when Trinket had snared it in mid air? What if, in its little pea brain, it was thinking, "Jesus, these two morons in the goggles are going to keep pelting me with these stingy little things unless I act fast and drop to the ground like they've killed me. And what is with the green light? And who's yelling? Oh hell, let me just pretend to drop dead and get it over with. I'll never find an open door on my own if that cat has anything to say about it. May as well let the two idiots have their victory dance and have them carry me out of here in a tea towel."
I go upstairs and wait for the car to pull up, and drink half the pot of coffee in the meantime.
Scott and the kids arrive. I tell them my tale of woe. Kate elects to stay in bed while we go out for breakfast. Later she joins us for a stroll or two around the neighborhood, falling as in love with it as I have.
And afternoon spent at the gun shop, the Harley dealership, and roaming the hamlet later, we are enjoying dinner and settling in for the night.
The next day Scott will take the kids to buy their new Yorkie puppy and I will pile into the car with Trinket and head for home. Later we'll meet at Scott's house at the shore and a more traditional Labor Day Weekend. To date, there has been nothing traditional about it.
"Is there coffee?"
I tiptoe from bed hoping not to disturb Kate. She was such a good sport the night before. The least I can do is let her sleep in later than she gets to at home. I creep into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I wash and moisturize my face and make it moderately presentable. I tame the hair with an industrial strength hair tie and some finishing creme, lest I look like Diana Ross from her Eaten Alive photo shoot.
Trinket is hiding under the bed looking like she is still on high alert. This troubles me momentarily, but then I have to take into account that her brain is the size of a chickpea and she can't possibly understand that the beast is dead and rotting in Charlotte's garage trash can which is sealed with a lid in case of any miraculous resurrections from the dead.
I tiptoe downstairs and make coffee. I return to the bedroom to make myself look accidentally fabulous. Like I just rolled out of bed and look fresh as a daisy and neat as a pin and smell wonderful to boot. I am sure Scott knows I am human and get morning breath and pillow creases on my face and have bags under my eyes and bed head, I just don't need to remind him that he'll be waking up next to them every morning for the rest of his life.
I text him to park behind me in the lower drive (Charlotte and Jack have two). The one at the top of the steep drive is occupied by Kate's car...only he won't know that until he's gunned his car up the hill and makes the sharp turn. I go down to my car and back it closer to the garage door to give him room.
And just walking by the garage door knowing that the bat is in there gives me the willies. What if it was just playing dead like it had when Trinket had snared it in mid air? What if, in its little pea brain, it was thinking, "Jesus, these two morons in the goggles are going to keep pelting me with these stingy little things unless I act fast and drop to the ground like they've killed me. And what is with the green light? And who's yelling? Oh hell, let me just pretend to drop dead and get it over with. I'll never find an open door on my own if that cat has anything to say about it. May as well let the two idiots have their victory dance and have them carry me out of here in a tea towel."
I go upstairs and wait for the car to pull up, and drink half the pot of coffee in the meantime.
Scott and the kids arrive. I tell them my tale of woe. Kate elects to stay in bed while we go out for breakfast. Later she joins us for a stroll or two around the neighborhood, falling as in love with it as I have.
And afternoon spent at the gun shop, the Harley dealership, and roaming the hamlet later, we are enjoying dinner and settling in for the night.
The next day Scott will take the kids to buy their new Yorkie puppy and I will pile into the car with Trinket and head for home. Later we'll meet at Scott's house at the shore and a more traditional Labor Day Weekend. To date, there has been nothing traditional about it.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Exit, Stage Left
The beer is gone. The hummus is gone. My patience is gone.
I worked all week. I drove 80 miles to get here. I encountered a predatory, dive-bombing bat and had to call in reinforcements. I am pooped. The reinforcements have to go.
Bo is talking about Shakespeare and high-minded, esoteric movies and obscure books. Karl is flirting shamelessly with Kate. He'd started to flirt with me, but I can frost a room full of unwelcome suitors better than most. That lasted a minute and a half. (It's my gift.) Kate is much more easygoing, however married. She's a natural flirt but never forgets her boundaries. It's hilarious to watch. And frankly, she is the only girl I know who can look like a blond bombshell in a ripped Packers t-shirt, shorts and flipflops. J-Lo would have less luck. She is charming and funny and actually making fun of Karl in a way that he doesn't know, but I do.
But my patience is razor thin and my eyelids are heavy and I am having trouble maintaining a remotely hospitable demeanor. It starting waning as the keg sputtered dry, natch.
So as Karl flirts his face off with the unattainable Kate, and Bo prattles on and on passionately about MacBeth, and I think "Out out damn spot and damn bat and damn men and damn lights" I go around locking the doors I'd dashed through running from the bat, and blow out candles, and fold towels from the drier, and turn off the porch lights that seemed so inviting. True, I'd left the light on for them, and now, I've turned it off. I want to scream, "Thanks for your heroism, friends. It's been lovely, but now Mama needs her beauty sleep or her fabulous boyfriend Scott will think she's a hag in the morning, so please see yourselves out, and don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya."
Or as Lars would have said, "Don't let the doorknob get stuck in your asshole." He really had a way with words.
I begin to load the dishwasher. I audibly lock my car door with the remote. I yawn loudly enough that the cat seems startled. I sit at the table and look at my watch. I smile a tight lipped fake smile at Bo, who seems to have picked up on the smoke signal. He makes a yeoman's attempt to pry Karl from his end-stage cling-fest with Kate. Eventually, Karl caves and follows Bo out the door where I am sure they will fall down the steps. I hope they have cell phones. I am not calling 911 and prolonging things for one more minute.
Kate and I pile into our beds. We are laughing still about our adventure. Truly, if I had to have a close encounter with a bat and act like a two year old and have to invite strange men into the house to help me, there is no better friend on the planet to have along for the ride.
I worked all week. I drove 80 miles to get here. I encountered a predatory, dive-bombing bat and had to call in reinforcements. I am pooped. The reinforcements have to go.
Bo is talking about Shakespeare and high-minded, esoteric movies and obscure books. Karl is flirting shamelessly with Kate. He'd started to flirt with me, but I can frost a room full of unwelcome suitors better than most. That lasted a minute and a half. (It's my gift.) Kate is much more easygoing, however married. She's a natural flirt but never forgets her boundaries. It's hilarious to watch. And frankly, she is the only girl I know who can look like a blond bombshell in a ripped Packers t-shirt, shorts and flipflops. J-Lo would have less luck. She is charming and funny and actually making fun of Karl in a way that he doesn't know, but I do.
But my patience is razor thin and my eyelids are heavy and I am having trouble maintaining a remotely hospitable demeanor. It starting waning as the keg sputtered dry, natch.
So as Karl flirts his face off with the unattainable Kate, and Bo prattles on and on passionately about MacBeth, and I think "Out out damn spot and damn bat and damn men and damn lights" I go around locking the doors I'd dashed through running from the bat, and blow out candles, and fold towels from the drier, and turn off the porch lights that seemed so inviting. True, I'd left the light on for them, and now, I've turned it off. I want to scream, "Thanks for your heroism, friends. It's been lovely, but now Mama needs her beauty sleep or her fabulous boyfriend Scott will think she's a hag in the morning, so please see yourselves out, and don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya."
Or as Lars would have said, "Don't let the doorknob get stuck in your asshole." He really had a way with words.
I begin to load the dishwasher. I audibly lock my car door with the remote. I yawn loudly enough that the cat seems startled. I sit at the table and look at my watch. I smile a tight lipped fake smile at Bo, who seems to have picked up on the smoke signal. He makes a yeoman's attempt to pry Karl from his end-stage cling-fest with Kate. Eventually, Karl caves and follows Bo out the door where I am sure they will fall down the steps. I hope they have cell phones. I am not calling 911 and prolonging things for one more minute.
Kate and I pile into our beds. We are laughing still about our adventure. Truly, if I had to have a close encounter with a bat and act like a two year old and have to invite strange men into the house to help me, there is no better friend on the planet to have along for the ride.
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