One Day at a Time

I go to training. My friend is teaching the class and he asks me what is wrong. Evidently, I am not a great pretender.

I tell him the details and he is horrified. He's met Scott. He's hoping for the best for us. Maybe this is just a blip. "Don't do anything rash," he says.  I'll hear from him, he's sure.

I fake it through the class and a meeting that follows. I am sure I look like I've just come from a funeral when I return to my department. I am immediately set upon by the ladies I'd spoken to earlier.

I share the details with them while I try to eat my lunch. Eating has not been a priority during my personal crisis and my pants are already starting to look roomy.

They ask a lot of questions. Give a lot of advice. They don't think I'm getting dumped. I'd like to believe them. Of course I would. I am not sure I do, but it is giving me a little strength to go on with my day to believe that there is some hope. 

Their advice is simple. Give him space. He's obviously freaked out about something. Perhaps the storm catalyzed some mid-life crisis waiting in the wings and he's taking stock in his life. It does make sense. Destruction all around him. The shore town he loves has tons of damage. His statements about his life and his job and his house...that all adds up. And he's the right age.

I am to give him time to sort it out. No calls. No texts. Just leave him alone to sort it out. They think he'll call by Wednesday as if nothing has happened.

I am willing to believe. I can not imagine that after two years that THIS is how he'd choose to break up with me. I am dying to talk with him. I have so much to ask, so much to tell him. I just need to be patient. I 'll have my chance.

But Wednesday is a long way off.

A Long Days Journey Into Night

I leave the spa with a bouncy new hair-do and some satisfaction that it was the gift card from Scott that paid for the new look.

Hil and I spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for girly things and trying on new fashions and getting ideas for Christmas.  A Christmas that I am sure I will have fewer people to buy for. It saddens me. I think about what to buy for Scott's girls anyway.

Later that night Hil and I sit down for a movie while Pat studies for his math test. The only watchable movie is "Marley and Me" so we watch it. It turns out to be a bad decision for a me to watch a sad story about a man and his beloved dog while I am trying to push thoughts of my man and his 5 dogs from my head.  The tenderness of the story would make anyone weep. It gets me to the point of sobbing. Luckily, Hil thinks I am just crying about the movie. 

Eventually, I stop the waterworks and compose myself sufficiently to help Pat study. And I make another attempt to call Scott. It is getting to be the time of night where he'd wind down and get ready for the week, and I don't want the weekend to end this way.

Two rings. Voice mail.

I send a text.

"Scott, whatever it is you are going through, if you think it will help to push me away, I won't hold you back. Please take care of yourself."

The silence just about kills me.

Eventually, I get into bed, and attempt to sleep.

I am barely breathing the next morning, the hole in my life seems so huge. The drive to work is quiet. I don't listen to my iPod (I can't bear to hear the songs) and I don't want to listen to snarky morning DJs either. What I want is to talk to Scott like I normally do. But I'd have to call, and I can't deal with the rejection one more time. Besides, what would we talk about while he's riding around with his work partner in his truck?  Football?

I have  full morning and breeze through the office only momentarily before heading out. I am apparently wearing my heart on my sleeve because one of my colleagues remarks as I walk by, "Good morning, don't look so miserable, Liza!"

I stop for a moment to address her and the other colleague she is talking with. "I haven't seen or heard from Scott all weekend and I think he's walked out of my life."

I register a look of horror on their faces before I head out to attend a training class. I am not sure how I am going to put one foot in front of the other without falling. I am truly outside my own skin.

Driven to Distraction

I spend the day waffling back and forth from believing that Scott is dumping me to rationalizing that after two years he'd never do anything like this. And then there is the third thought. Maybe he'll not dump me like this but it really does look like I'm getting dumped, not matter how he eventually does the deed.

Hil is all over my sense of angst. I tell her that I think Scott and I are having some trouble and maybe we are not going to make it after all.

Her little girl heart can't really imagine how people who are talking about getting married suddenly don't work out. Frankly, I am with her. It is baffling under the best of circumstances.

I am thankful that Scott lives 90 miles away and that I have my kids with me. It prevents me from getting in my car and driving to his house to force a conversation.

Hil decides the thing to do is to pamper me. She will come to my hair appointment with me and we'll go buy some pretty things for ourselves...makeup and new clothes and dangly earrings. I am sure there is just as much in it for her as there is for me, but who cares?  We get to spend some girly time together. It will distract me and give me quality time with my budding teenage daughter.

I attempt to rally and quell my stomach pangs. I have to put on a brave face. And maybe a little lipstick. I have to go out in public so I should try to uncurl from the fetal position sometime soon, too.

I sit in the waiting area of the spa waiting for Liz and wishing they'd offer me a glass of wine like they do when I go at night. Mama's nerves are shot. I look through a fashion mag and try to ignore the surfing ones Scott used to read when he accompanied me there. The first time I left him alone in the waiting area he ordered a $500 Merino wool-lined wet suit on his phone. The story seems distant now. Like one I'd tell about a stranger. Someone I used to know.

Eventually I sit in Liz's chair. We make small talk while she shampoos and conditions and when I am in front of the mirror at last, she asks, "So what are we doing today?"

I look up at her reflection and say, "To be honest, Liz, I think I am about to be single again.  So I think I need to think about something different. I don't want short hair, but let's give me a new look. I might just need it."

She nearly plotzes. We decide what to do with my hair and then she wants to know the whole story.

It is nice to confide in your hair dresser. At this point, she is the only adult I can share any of this with. I certainly can't burden my kids with all the details, and I can't start boo hooing to Charlotte and Joy and Kate without knowing something for certain.

And I realize that that is exactly what is so unsettling. I don't know anything for certain.

The Morning After the Nothingness Before

I awake to the familiar chime that announces a new text has arrived. I am relieved.

But only momentarily.

It is from Scott, but not the text I'd hoped for.

"No. Not at all. I am unhappy with myself, and unhappy with my life, and my house and my job.  And the shore is destroyed. Spent a lot of time there yesterday."

So what is he saying?  That he's in a funk and not to worry about the vanishing act, he was consumed, as many are, with the devastation of the storm?  I do worry about the "unhappy with my life" part, though. I am clearly a part of that life. Am I in the happy part or the unhappy part or the not so sure part?  I need to know.

I text back.

"Sweetie, talk to me. If you are upset about things in your life, don't shut me out. If I am in your life I want to be really in your life. Unless that is part of what's bothering you. But in any case, we should talk, sweetie."

I have gone out on a limb, I know. But something about this whole situation as it has developed is nagging at me. Poking at my intuition. Weighing on my heart.

I wait for a reply text. Surely this text deserved and answer. Probably a phone call. A right away phone call either to say, "Please don't make more of this than it is, I am overwhelmed and am trying to keep my head above water. I love you; please don't worry" or "Yes, I am completely overwhelmed and need a break from something. I love you but I need a little breathing room right now."

No text comes.

I call. He ignores the call. It goes to voicemail on 2 rings.

I wait 20 minutes. Maybe he's composing a text. Or in the shower. Or giving the dog a bath.

I call again. He ignores the call. It goes to voicemail on 2 rings.

I text. "Scott, eventually we are going to have to have a conversation."

I lay back in bed. I am certain I am about to be single again.

The Shadow of Doubt

All day long I am thinking of zippy little replies to the text I imagine Scott will eventually send.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Evidently nothing very important or interesting."

"Hi, dear. What's cookin'?"

"You wouldn't have to ask if you'd called earlier."

And I busy myself with all manner of to-dos. I replace the screens from all 4 doors with the storm windows. Use my set of girly tools and tighten everything just like Scott had taught me. I clean them all with vinegar and water and polish them until they sparkle.  I note that the one door knob seems loose and to ask Scott to tighten it like he had done with one of the others last year.

And still no call. Still no text.

I go out into the garage to get the saw and cut some of the dry branches into pieces small enough to fit into the fireplace. I pile it all in the firewood ring, wipe off the saw, and straighten the garage before I stow the saw on the shelf.

And still no call. Still no text.

I begin to wonder if something happened to him. Did he fall off the roof?  Did a tree fall on him?  Did he drive his big manly truck across some washed out road and get washed away himself?  Maybe I've been mad all day and should be worried instead. Would his girls know to call me?  What if the tree fell on them, too?

And then I see that his daughter has posted something completely normal on Facebook.  I can assume no one has been pulverized by a tree.

I help Hil get dressed for her Halloween party (delayed by the storm) and take a cute picture for Facebook. She is a Hipster Nerd and she is adorable, though I don't know what a Hipster Nerd is supposed to be and don't want to ask. I am just shocked that no one goes out as a Hobo anymore. Is that because it would be socially offensive?

And still no call. Still no text.

I take Hil to her party and return to have dinner with Pat. We rent a movie. We finish that and watch another. We confine Trinket to the basement and let Gidget run around the house on her own. Eventually, I fall asleep on the floor, waiting to hear from Hil about a ride home, and well, from Scott, too.

I am awakened at 9:45 pm by a text. I hope that it is Scott, but before I even look, I know it is from Hil.  I put on my coat and shoes to go pick her up and realize that at this hour, Scott has probably gone to bed. And has never contacted me. Not even a quick goodnight text, however lame that would be.

In my sleepiness I begin to wonder if I am somehow to blame. (Sleep has a way of making the irrational seem rational...)

I text him.

"Did I do something?"

To See or Not to See

A few hours go by. Hil and Pat and I have dinner.

Pat goes down he street to visit a friend.  Hil and I do Blindfolded Makeup (where one of us is blindfolded and gives the other a makeover. Hilarious.)

By the time I have been made over like five dollar hooker and have done the same for Hil, it is 8:30.  I decide to call Scott before scrubbing my face.

No answer. He's probably gone to bed. I guess I'll have to wait for his morning text to learn what the weekend will bring. I'd love to be able to offer to join him at the shore to help him at his sister's house, but Hil has a party to attend, and Pat has finals to study for all weekend. Bummer.

Knowing that my groceries are arriving the next morning between 7 am and 9 am, I turn in a little bit early.  I set my alarm so I an shower and dress before the earliest delivery time. I won't need it. Scott will text me when he opens his eyes. He always does.

The next morning I am alarmed (no pun intended) to be awakened, not by my text message notification, but by my clock radio. Odd.

I get up and feed the cats. I jump into the shower. I wrap my hair in a towel and dress just seconds before I hear the familiar ding of my text message notification. Excited, I dash to the phone.

Not Scott. It's the grocery delivery courtesy text. Basically designed to say, "Get off the toilet/out of bed/off the phone because your groceries are arriving next."

I comb through my hair and get myself looking decent.  Scott could actually be on his way as well. It wouldn't surprise me.  I'll finish my makeup when the groceries are away.  I am glad I ordered scrapple. I'll leave it out on the counter and slice it when he gets here. Maybe make some waffles.

I hear the ding again and again dash to the phone. It is the grocery people again. They are pulling up in front of the house. I look up and down the street. For the delivery truck and for Scott. Only one appears.

I think about calling him or texting him, and think better of it. He mentioned having to replace shingles on his roof. Better not to have him fumbling for his phone while he's dangling from the chimney.

I put the groceries away. And then I put the scrapple away, too. I make waffles for Hil and drink a second and third cup of coffee.  I guess I'll get on with my day, Scott or no Scott. Though I am a little miffed he hasn't said what his plans are.

I run my errands and do the routine chores. But all the while there is something nagging at me.

Where is Scott and why hasn't he called me?

After the Storm

I am not at all sure I am ready to talk about this now. But maybe if I put pen to paper, as they say, I'll learn a little something along the way.

So the storm blasted the area with unprecedented devastation. I got lucky. Scott got lucky. His sister with the shore, house, less lucky, but still, the house is standing and the living space unharmed.  Who cares if the first floor storage areas have damage. It is an inconvenience and an expense, but there is nothing that prevents them from living in the house. All in all, a bullet dodged. Thought that can't be said of the shore towns in general. The beach, the boardwalks, the iconic businesses and amusement piers. The damage is unfathomable.

Because of the state of emergency, it is a short work week. But no less haranguing at the office. Things going topsy turvy in the universe have a way of making everyone a little more kooky...to say nothing of the full moon.

On the drive home on Friday, I chat, as I customarily do, with Scott. I am so happy to have survived the storm, and so happy that he has too, that I crave seeing him. Need to see him whole and in the flesh to be convinced he's OK. 

But I am getting a nagging sense that I won't see him. He has shingles to replace on his house, and I am sure he'll want to go to his sister's to see how he can help there. And he'll want to survey the damage to the beach town first hand. It is his home in his heart, and I know he'll want to lend a hand. He's that kind of man.

I don't even want to ask if I'll see him, because really, I almost don't want to know that I won't.  And I don't want to seem like a selfish, petulant, self centered brat by asking (Or stupid for that matter - "Duh - I have to put my house back together, Liza...")

So without having asked or been answered, we end our drive time conversation the way we usually do. He's going to go take a soak while I negotiate traffic, and we'll talk later that night. Then we exchange I Love Yous and Goodbyes until dinner and evening routines have passed. We'll talk again about 8 pm.

Except this time, it never happens.

Our Father

Who art in Heaven, presumably.  Today marks the seventh anniversary of my Dad's death.

What an amazing amount of water over the dam since then. I doubt he'd recognize my life. I wonder what would have been had he never gotten sick, never died.

Not six months after he passed, I had told Lars I wanted to end our marriage. We did not have what other couples had. We could not finish each other's sentences. No one would describe us as a pair of old shoes. There was no easiness between us; we were not each other's best friend.  We were adversaries on most days, and our children deserved happier parents. Hell, we deserved to be happier parents.

I am sure Dad would have found it hard to sit on the sidelines and watch the torture Lars put me through. Threatening to take my money, our children and our house from me. And darn near getting away with it.  I wonder if, in his twisted need to be in my Dad's good graces if Lars would have been a better sport. Or maybe would have feared what lengths my Dad would go to to make sure none of that happened. Perhaps our departure from each other's lives would have been more graceful with an audience like my Dad just a few blocks away.

My children were so young when Dad died.  Just 6 and 7 years old. And he'd been sick since Hil was a new born.  I wonder what he'd think if he saw them now. I wonder what they'd think.  I sometimes feel like they've missed out on some vital childhood experience - all of their grandparents are divorced from one another. Everyone lived plane rides away except for Dad. And the grandmothers both married new grandfathers somewhere along the way.  It has hardly been The Waltons.  They have no idea what it is like to spend Sundays at Grandmom's with a slew of cousins and to learn recipes in their grandmothers' kitchens or go fishing and learn how to bait and cast with their grandfathers.

He'd have made a big difference in Pat's life for sure, with his knowledge of everything manly, his mission to make sure no one had to go through life throwing like a girl, his patience teaching golf, and his love for yard work.

And how he'd adore Hil. Her delicate, pale prettiness. Her athleticism and her girliness. Her kindness and her sense of humor that exactly would match his as it does mine. He'd be so delighted by her company. 

And what changes in my life! I have moved on in so many ways. From the horror that was Lars onto the initial sweetness and tenderness that was J. to the ultimate craziness that was J.  to dodging the bullet that was J.  There too, I wonder if J.'s behavior would have deteriorated so much if my Dad were there to object.  I wonder if I would have listened to Dad that time, for surely he would have asked me to reconsider my choices.  I'd not listened when he was sure that Lars was a mistake. I wonder if he'd be pleased about Scott. He had his reservations when he'd first met him. Of course, he would have raked John Kennedy Jr. over the proverbial coals. I was 15.

He'd marvel at the jobs I've had, the career I've made for myself. He'd be shocked that I've learned to mow the lawn, use the snow blower, cut hedges with power tools, do small repairs myself. Not to mention manage my money, negotiate a contract, close on a mortgage, and figure out what day the trash goes out in my neighborhood. That I can kill a bug or get rid of a dead mouse without having to sell the house.

And my friends. He always had his favorites and he'd no doubt have a few more.  I do have the luxury of some outstanding friendships. Something he modeled for us as children. Even my mother, who was more often at war with him than not would tell you that Dad had the nicest friends and most wonderful friendships. Even she couldn't take that from him.

And the cats. How he'd laugh at them. And torture them with string and other cat madness. Trinket would no doubt snub him, but secretly adore him and wait for him in the window.

And I know, sure as I know my own name, that he has not missed out on these things. We may be missing out on a life with him in it, but he has been as constant a presence as he would have been were he alive. I feel him in every moment of triumph or of joy. At every baseball game and chorus concert. I know he is at my side through every trial and heartbreak, watching over me, cheering for me, tucking me in, holding me tightly when I most need it. When I am feeling most small and lonely, it is his hand that holds mine, his ring that I wear (on my thumb because his hands were enormous!)

Dad, today we mark your passing, but in my heart I am celebrating your life and the many ways you shaped my own.  Forever in my heart, Dad. You were a one of a kind.

It Was a Dark And Stormy Night

By all accounts, my Hurricane Sandy experience was not an experience at all compared to others' experiences. To think what it might have been like to lose power, and then in the waning daylight hours, find the ocean bursting through your windows and doors and turning your pool table into a battering ram that smashes your walls and opens holes in that shouldn't be and ultimately leaves your house in smithereens.

But every experience is personal, and fear is a very personal thing. My night, for me, was harrowing.

I am never in a good place when it is stormy outside and I am in my bed attempting to sleep. I can get myself to a place of relative calm if, for instance, Scott is next to me, but on my own I am a basketcase hiding under the covers. But big, protective Scott, who not only doesn't fear a storm, actually relishes watching a storm's power. He's often disappointed when my neighborhood gets a doozy and his neighborhood gets a drizzle.

And tonight was the Fear Factor on steriods. 

I am sleeping on a makeshift bed in the center hall of my house to reduce any chance of being bludgeoned or impaled by debris that may come flying through my windows at any minute.

I have ancient 4 and 5 story trees surrounding my house that could smoosh it to the ground a la Monty Python's famous graphics.

I am going to lose power any minute and will have to try to get to my neighbor's  generator in the storm, in the dark and in a hurry. Again with a chance of getting bludgeoned or impaled by debris as I do so.

And the cats. Gidget is not at all happy to be in the crate, and Trinket is a crazed huntress who keeps sneaking into my "interior room" on her little cat feet to hiss and growl like a wild animal.  She will even walk on my reclining body to sneak up on the poor little thing.

In short, I am not sleeping.

And by not sleeping, I am forced to listen to the violence of the storm and angst about what heinous things will befall me as soon as sleep finds me. I check the clock on my phone incessantly. I also check Facebook. It has become eerily quiet.

In the wee hours I have a little talk with myself. If I can just get to sleep, I will wake in a few hours and it will all be said and done. The worst will have happened, whatever that is.  I put one finger through the grate on Gidget's crate. I tighten the blankets around me. I close my eyes and will myself to find a peaceful happy place to dream of while I nod off.

And in seconds I feel Trinket again. She is walking across me, pressing her body and the covers against my side on her way to hiss at The Gidge.

I reach down to push her away. She is not there.

I open my eyes to see where she has stalked off to and realize she is not anywhere in the room.

As I lay my head down again to resume my pursuit of peace and calm...I realize what has just happened.

Once again, my Dad has shown himself to me. Tucking me in when I needed his comfort. Just as he had before.

Sleep did eventually find me. I awoke early to find a light rain and heavy cloud cover remained but that the worst of the storm had passed. My night light was still on; I'd never lost power. A quick text to Scott to see that they were okay and I was off to inspect the house and my property. Trees still upright, basement still dry. 

And I know why.  Because my dear father was with me through it all. I was alone, but he would not let me be. And that is why I believe in angels.

Panic Monday

Monday morning comes, and so does the wind. And the rain.

Scott is getting the weather first. I stay in touch by text. I know they have not been asked to evacuate but I really wish they had.  But then good luck finding a hotel with 5 dogs and a cat in tow.  There is always my house...

I watch the Weather Channel obsessively. I check and recheck my emergency supplies. I kvetch with Facebook friends endlessly.  It makes the world feel less lonely and scary.  I eat like a p-i-g pig.

Scott and I send occassional texts. Power is off at his house, but the generator is on. A house not far from his has been washed away.  He's lost some tree limbs. 

I am still powered up and have internet and cable. A far better spot for now but I am waiting for the worst.

I decide to take a shower while it is still light out. I would not shower in the dark and candles are not exactly an option. But I want to keep taking showers. You never know when you won't have a choice. May as well remain daisy fresh as long as possible.

When I step out of the shower I hear the familiar hum of a generator. I look outside to see the neighbors all scrambling to plug in.  My lights are on but I am sure I'm next to go.  I dry my hair for good measure. I get dressed in something that I can run around in and not care that it gets wet. 

My lights flicker.

But that is it.

I can no longer stomach the Weather Channel so I decide to watch something tragic. Atonement wins out over Titanic and kills off a few hours. But again, I check and recheck my emergency supplies. I kvetch with Facebook friends endlessly.  I eat like a p-i-g pig.

And still my lights are on.  I look around the neighorhood. It has burst to life with the sound of generators. I am one of 4 houses with my lights still on. How can that be?

With endless hours ahead of me, I turn to my DVR for more entertainment. I tune into Grey Gardens because there is nothing like a little amusing mother-daughter pathos to get you through the day. And throughout the film, again I check and recheck my emergency supplies. I kvetch with Facebook friends endlessly. I eat like a p-i-g pig.

I return to the Weather Channel hoping for some news that the storm has fizzled and I have nothing to worry about. A call from work that we are not to report due to the emergency confirms that I'll have no such luck.

The suggestion is that we find an interior room and close all the doors. That way there are no windows and no flying debris can whip through your house and impale you.

And interior room?  I am sorry. Do I live in the Bat Cave? 

Also, this interior room should be in the lowest possible floor of the house. So a falling tree will have had its fall broken on its way to squish you. Another lovely thought.

Well, the lowest floor of the house, which indeed has no windows, is also the basement, which will be filling with water. I could drown or get squished. Squishing sounds faster and less torturous.

As I settle in for the night, I make an attempt. I make a bed for myself in the second floor center hall and close the doors. I crate Gidget and attempt to confine Trinket. She will have no such thing.  I decide she can roam the water-filled house and take her chances with the debris.

I plug in a night light so that I will know immediately when the electricity has gone out. 

Trinket is hissing at Gidget. The neighborhood generators are loud. The wind is whipping. Trees are thrashing. I can hear things blowing down the street. 

It is going to be a long night.

Stormy Weather

As I leave the pancake breakfast, all fat and happy, I text Scott. "On my way!"

He texts back, "Be careful. I am getting a little worried about the storm!"

I text, "What is the over under on me finding a generator at a store near you?"

"LOL"

All of the coastal towns are preparing for Frankenstorm, the storm that will combine a hurricane, cold fronts, a blizzard and all manner of other nastiness from Mother Nature. The storm of the century (again). I have a better chance at an audience with the Pope than I do at getting a generator.

The weekend is filled with storm preparations, cooking in advance and generalized anxiety.  We made time for fun, and for watching Gidget playfully romp with the five dogs, but it is hard to keep calm when you think your house might blow away a la The Wizard of Oz. The grocery stores are jammed with people, the shelves are empty. Gas lines are huge. People are waiting in line at supply stores for plywood and anything resembling a generator. Scott is trying to secure his boat. Has moved all of his outdoor stuff into the garage.

By Sunday, I am a wreck. Gidget and I head for home early.  I can feel myself shaking a little in Scott's arms as he kisses me goodbye at my car.  I have no idea what the next few days will bring and I have to go home and get as prepared as I can for what lies ahead:  days on end by myself while the wrath of Mother Nature tries to blow and blow and blow my house down.

I stop at the grocery store. I have to get a few things that I know I can eat without any preparation. I am sure I'll lose electricity and will need to keep my strength while I bail water from my basement all day and night when my sump pump fails.  Given the experience at Scott's grocery store, I am not hopeful.

The grocery store near me is nothing like the one near Scott. The shelves are stocked, people aren't frantic. They are roaming around socializing and drinking coffee, squeezing bread, checking labels. Does no one know a storm is coming?

I buy some staples for my cupboard, some food for the cats, kitty litter and firewood.  If my power goes out, at least I have a small chance of survival.

I go home and take the few remaining lawn items into the garage. No one needs an airborne park bench hurtling through the front window.

I prepare a large basket of things to take with me if I have to dash from the house. Important papers. Kitty supplies. A bag of clothes. Some things Hil asked me to rescue up front.

I make a meatloaf and hard boil all of my eggs. I fill pitchers with fresh water and freeze bags of water to use later either to drink or to keep things cold when my fridge peeters out.

I gather candles, flashlights and rainboots and buckets.

I am a total wreck. 

I walk outside and survey the neighborhood. I'd like to be able to avoid falling trees.  I move my car around to the front of the house to strategically park it so that it is not as likely to get clobbered by a tree...either my own or someone elses.

I run into my neighbor. He is carrying in cases of water. He asks me if I have a generator and I sheepishly admit to having been shortsighted and not getting one when Hurricane Irene came calling.

He tells me that he has a powerful one. When we lose power, I will be able to hear his generator and he says I am welcome to run a line out the basement window to keep the sump pump fired up. 

Yay me!!!!!

I immediately take to the garage and take every power line from every peice of lawn equipment and string them together. I could go around the block!  I take the whole thing to the basement and get it ready so that I can act fast as the water flows around my ankles. I will be able to do all of this by flashlight, I am sure.

I get an email from work. There has been a state of emergency declaration. Non-essential personnel are not to report. I can sleep in. I wish it felt like fun.

And as the sun sets, and the wind picks up, I sit down to watch the weather station and wait for the lights to go out. It is a long, lonely wait, with days of uncertainty stretching out ahead.

The Best Laid Plans Are Still Only Plans

It is my weekend to go to Scott's.  I have to figure out the plan. Ninety miles, though easier and easier to drive, still makes a person do some planning.

I can leave Trinket by herself for a bit.  She's not bothering with her incision and I am sure she'd be just as happy to be left alone to climb the draperies on her own.

But I can't leave Gidget alone for very long. She's a wee little thing that needs to be tended to.  I have to take her with me, which means I will have to drive back home in the opposite direction of Scott's house only to turn around and go back when I've packed and gotten Gidget into her crate. Not convenient, but it's what I've committed to. A temporary change to a pretty happy routine. What's a few more miles on the car?

Scott's daughter is cheering at the high school football game that Friday night. I hate to miss it. I haven't seen her cheer this year at all and she's made the Varsity squad.  And it's a sure thing her mother hasn't placed her fat ass on the bleachers all season. I really do want to see her cheer. But the game is an away game, and by "away" I mean an hour north of Scott's house, making the trip at least 2 and a half hours.  And that is if I take Gidget to the game with me!  I will never make it there to see a single round-off back handspring. Maybe I'll get my chance in two weeks?

I have a decision to make. I'll never get there in time for the game. But I could stay close to home for a bit and arrive at Scott's later in the evening when they'll all be walking in the door after the game. Scott and I could share a drink and bowl of ice cream and pile into bed soon after for a dreamy night's sleep.  Or I could stay at home for the night and zip down the expressway in the early morning, fresh and energized and ready for a full day with the man I love.  I can't decide what is best.

But soon enough the decision is made for me. Pat reminds me that he has his Scout pancake breakfast on Saturday morning. I can't miss that!  I will go at 8 am when the griddle is first fired up and then zoom to Scott's after a full breakfast of coffee, pancakes and sausage. Yummo!

I head out for beers with a girlfriend that Friday. It would be a shame to squander one of the very few local evenings out I can manage without sacrificing what precious little time I have with Scott.  I need to take them where I can get them. I can feed the cats and have my ass in a groove on a bar stool in time for happy hour.

Scott texts me from the game. I text him when I've made it home without a DUI. All in all a good night.

And the pancake breakfast, served by Pat, is that much sweeter with a hangover from the microbrewery beers. There is nothing like sausage and chocolate chip pancakes and really strong coffee when hair o' the dog isn't prudent.

Soon enough, I am on the road with Gidget in tow, and we are bombing down the expressway to Scott's. We have a storm to prepare for and his house is directly in its path.

Rehabbing Kitty

I figure out soon enough that Trinket can not begin to eat normally with the Cone of Shame on her head.

I also learn that feeding her by hand is an exercise in foolishness.

And I learn that when a cat can't eat she is likely to get cranky and belligerent in record time.

So I take off the Cone of Shame and let her eat like a normal cat who hasn't eaten a needle and thread in the past two days.

And when she's done chowing like a Death Row inmate, I try to put the Cone of Shame back on.

Another exercise in foolishness.

I learn that even a cat with freshly stitched 8-inch abdominal incision can still run like a jack rabbit, jump like a flying squirrel, and scramble like a mouse into all manner of tight places.

By the time I wrestle her into the damn thing she is mad as a hornet and I am sweating like a fat man at a nude beach.

It's going to be a long two weeks. Made especially interesting by the fact that she can't get into the hooded kitty litter box with the Cone of Shame on her head. She is totally pissed, no pun intended, that she has to back in and leave her front paws and head outside the box.  Her expression is priceless. I remove the hood from the box. She's not much happier that her privacy is out the window.

The next day, I get up early to run through what will be the new routine of running interference between two cats and blocking and tackling and wrestling Trinket into the Cone of Shame before I leave. By the time I start the car, I am overheated, shaking, and covered in carpet lint.  And ready for a cocktail. It is 7 am.

Truthfully, I put the cats out of my head at work the next day. I have just about reached my limit of cat intervention. It is nice that people ask about Trinket, but I routinely answer that she is "on the mend." 

I return home and find the Cone of Shame sitting on the basement steps.

I air kiss and call her. She comes slinking in looking all proud of herself.

Like a parent with a toddler who just left his Silly Putty smooshed in the carpet, I point to the Cone of Shame.

Trinket flicks her tail in the air and makes a wide circle around it.

I pick it up.

I can see why she avoided it.

Somehow, in the new complicated kitty litter routine, Trinket had managed to stick the front edge of the Cone of Shame in a buried something-or-other.  A blob of it was now clinging to the edge of the cone, thus making it the Cone of Shadooby.  Shadooby that if she didn't pry the cone from her head would have been an inch and a half from her keen little kitty nose all the live long day. I can only imagine how she wrestled herself out of it.

I pitch the cone into the trash. We'll have to take our chances with the recovery. 

An epic storm is coming and Mama has bigger things to worry about.

Double Dose of Guilt

I wring my hands through the day and leave at 5.

I call the vet hospital to speak with the attending. This is all so bizarre.

The attending gives me the highs and lows on Trinket but mentions that she seems nervous and is not eating. I am wracked with guilt. 

I go home and let The Gidge out of confinement to run around and get her little kitten scent all over everything.  She is absolutely adorable and gleeful to be running all around. Again I am wracked with guilt.

The next day I get a call while I am at a Board Meeting (Bored Meeting). Trinket is ready to come home. They will keep her and love her up until I get there, but it is clear that she misses me. Once again, wracked with guilt.

I zoom home early, feed The Gidge, grab the crate and head out to get my little baby.

I wait and wait and wait and wait some more.

I get instructions about a bland diet and pain meds and oatmeal soap and stitches.

I wait and wait and wait and wait some more.


Eventually, Trinket is brought out to me. 

Shaven, stitched, dopey and wearing the Cone of Shame.

A very serious doctor tells me about boiling chicken and keeping her water dish filled and keeping her quiet while the stitches heal and wearing the Cone of Shame.

For two weeks! 

The little thought balloon above my head is screaming in all caps. "I DON'T SEE THIS THING LASTING FOR TWO MINUTES LET ALONE TWO WEEKS!"

The doctor helps me deposit Trinket in the dreaded crate. The Cone of Shame touches both sides of the crate. She can barely get in and can not turn around. We take her out. Back her in. It is quite a process.

I drive home and leave Trinket in the car while I go put Gidget back in solitary. 

I bring Trinket in and spring her from the crate.She darts around the room. She bangs into things. She can't squeeze into places. She misjudges doorways. She jumps up on the radiator only to have the Cone of Shame catch on the edge and force her to land again. She makes a mess around her food bowl trying to reach the kibbles that lie just outside of reach at the edge of the cone.

All together now...I am wracked with guilt.

It has just occurred to me that I have no idea what I am doing.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News

It is exactly 6:30 in the morning.

I call Scott with the update. He is appropriately horrified. Both by the ordeal and the price tag.  But he agrees with my decision. How could I risk any chances standing there knowing what I learned?

I wonder what the next few days would have been like if I'd not seen the needle dangling from Trinket's mouth. If I'd not known she'd swallowed it. What would have been her fate?  As awful as this last hour has been, imagine how terrifying and sad the next few days would have been if I'd not known.  I can not imagine her being sick and suffering and dying.  How dreadful.

I decide to rally and go to work. I will be a few minutes late. I just need to call my assistant. I go into the attic to spend a couple of minutes with Gidget while I call. I won't be a minute, and I can just do my makeup while I am up here with her.

I calmly dial.

She answers.

I come unglued.

Through sobs and sniffles I relate the story to her, beginning with Trinket eating a needle and thread.

Of course she thinks I've said, "Trinket is dead" and immediately begins to console me. Asks some questions. Wants to know if anyone is with me. Where Trinket is.

I tell her she is at the vet, which of course given the hour and what she thinks she heard, does not compute.  And after 10 minutes of repeating and explaining and asking more questions, we are laughing. She thinks I should stay at home. I know I need the distraction of work. She says she'll meet me in the lobby for coffee and a pep talk on the elevator ride.

I manage to get myself dressed responsibly and remember my lunch. On the drive in, I call Scott. He'll feel better knowing that I've composed myself sufficiently to drive. 

I am chatting brightly with him on the phone when I get a call waiting. I don't recognize the number but I do recognize the exchange. It is the vet hospital.

Oh no. It's been only about 45 minutes.  This can't be good.

I tell Scott I have to go and why. He wishes me luck and asks that I let him know what the news is.

I am in near panic when I click on the other line. Hold my breath while the surgeon announces himself.

"We are out of surgery..." he says.

"And....." I say closing my eyes and bracing for the news, which if of course, not advisable in traffic.

"It went very well," he says, and it is all I can do not to turn my car around and go back and kiss him.

"I made the incision and I could feel the needle in her stomach. I was able to just poke it through and pull it out without actually cutting the organ. Which from a recovery and an infection standpoint is ideal."
Oh I am sure it is when you are you. I am getting the willies just hearing about it. TMI, doc, TMI.  I would have been just as satisfied to hear that she went to sleep and the Needle and Thread Fairies came and took the needle and left a dollar. To shake away the image, I focus on the practical.

"When can she come home to me?" I ask.

"We'll have to wait and see. She will need to eat and we'll monitor her temperature. And hopefully, in 24 to 48 hours, she'll be well enough to come home."

I am dying to hold her. I want to see her. I want to tell her how much I adore her and let her know she's not been abandoned.

But I try not to seem like a loon. I ask if I can call later to talk about her progress. The surgeon tells me that of course that is welcomed.

I promise to call and hang up.

And as I dial Scott to tell him the news, I realize, you guessed it, I am crying again.

A Gut Feeling

The doctor is very nice. Very soft spoken. Very frank.

Cats have passed things like this before, but the risk is very great. And a needle could do a lot of painful internal damage on it's way out. 

Super. Next.

We could try endoscopy.  There may be a way to go down Trinket's throat and pull the needle out.

With what?  A magnet?  I ask for more information on that option.

He explains that the only real risks involve time.  They don't do endoscopy at this facility. I would have to drive to the nearest one that does, an hour away.  And in that time, the needle could have traveled further and make the endoscopy impossible. And then I'd be driving back presumably for surgery, which might be more complicated by the additional travel time. 

Not a great option after all.

Or he could do surgery now. He could have her on the table in 15 minutes.

He seems like a nice man. I ask him, "What would you do?" 

He tells me that surgery is the best option.  Endoscopy might just be prolonging the inevitable. Hoping she'll pass it seems dangerous and could be painful.  The most human option, and the best chance for success is surgery.

I agree to surgery and he goes to get consent forms.

The consent packet is pages and pages long. I have to decide on heroic measures. I have to opt in or out of pain meds. I have to decide on a threshold for treatment. I have to make a lot of seemingly harsh decisions about what I am willing to take financial responsibility for. The information leaves me breathless. Good thing. That way the alarming estimate doesn't propel me into a state of shock. 

I sign off on treatment and sign away my next paycheck. I ask if I can see Trinket one last time. He agrees and then tells me to go home. It will be a few hours and they will call me. I should not stay.

The tech brings her in. She is wrapped in a towel. She seems woozy. Three of her four legs have been shaved and there is a tiny IV in her front right leg, taped and oozing.  Her fur is wet. She has had her abdomen shaved.  She is pathetic.

I am visibly shaken by her appearance. The tech tries to calm me by telling me that I am in luck. This particular doc is one of their very best surgeons. Trinket will be well cared for.

I reach out and scratch her ears and the top of her head. She leans in to rest her little kitty head heavily on my palm and closes her eyes.  I kiss her goodbye and tell her she is my good girl. 

And again I am crying as I turn to go.  I feel like I've seen Trinket for the last time.

Picture This

I dress. I brush my teeth. I crate Trinket. I feed and cuddle Gidget so she does not feel orphaned just yet. 

As I drive to the vet's office, I realize that this ordeal started at 5:15 and I am on the road to a pretty heinous day at 5:45. A day that starts like this is not likely to pull out an extra innings win.  And again, I am crying. Just a little.

I try to be hopeful. Maybe the needle and thread are on the floor at home and I just didn't find them. Maybe the needle is stuck somewhere convenient and not too painful and the doctor can just pull it out. Maybe almost anything else happened.

I get to the office and walk in sullenly with my foreign-object swallower. The tech is a Goth enthusiast with 11 facial piercings and some scary tattoos and gauges in his earlobes that are filled with blobs of amber in which there are little entombed scorpions. Guessing he opted out of charm school.  He is very nice though, in spite of his almost scary appearance and he is very sweet to Trinket. 

The doctor comes in and asks me about the episode from this morning. He's pulled her chart. He knows all about the bat and the rabies and the fleas etc. Seems Trinket has been the Story of the Day at rounds these last few weeks. Which makes me Owner of the Day each time, for sure. I am so proud.

The doctor assures me that it is not uncommon for cats to eat weird things.  He's seen lots of oddball things come out of  cat, in spite of the dog species getting the bad rap for eating things that aren't food.  He says that for some reason, needles and thread hold great appeal to cats.

Somehow this makes me feel oddly better. Like if he's seen this situation a few times he's a pro.

He tells me he'd like to examine Trinket (who is with the tech) to see if she's really swallowed the thing.  I am encouraged that one of my other dreamed up options might not be so far flung.

He returns in a few moments to say that he did not find the needle protruding from her tongue or stuck in the back of her throat, or resting peaceably along side her gums.  He'll have to perform an X-ray to know for sure.

I consent.

They will have to sedate her a little.

I consent again. 

A few minutes later he returns.  He logs onto a the computer to show me the images.  I am alarmed that Trinket looks all stretched out and elongated like the cats we dissected in 10th grade biology. It gives me the shivers to see her body like that.

But the most alarming thing lies in the middle of the image.

There, shining like a beacon in the night, is the precise outline of a sewing needle. In such great detail that I can even see the eye of the needle.

"Well, no disputing that she ate it," I say.

And then, "What do we do now?"

Needle in a Haystack

Oh.
My.
Gawd!

That little trip to the night table was evidently a scavenger hunt.

I am not unlike most people in this respect. I have a little dish on my bedside table that has a lot of little unrelated pieces of junk in it. A button that fell off. A Chapstik. A fortune from a fortune cookie. A book of matches. And in this case, a needle and thread. I'd recently mended the hem on a black jacket and left the needle, with about 8 inches of thread still attached, in the dish with the other junk. 

Once I discovered the needle dangling from Trinket's mouth, I of course shrieked in horror.  Which of course, made Trinket scamper away.  I of course, gave chase, trapping her in the spare bedroom before she could hid under the treadmill. I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and reached for he needle. Three of four times as she thrashed and squirmed and fought with me.  It took her only a few seconds to scramble from my grasp and dash down the stairs.

I spring to my feet and chase her as she runs. Down the first 6 steps. Turn on the landing. Down the next 6 steps. And then a hairpin turn across the center hall, through the dining room and into the kitchen where she stops to look at me. 

I flick on the light. Exactly 10 seconds has passed.

And I can see that the needle is gone!

Trinket is calmly walking away to hide in the basement.

I grab the phone from the center hall and call Scott. As I explain what has happened, I cradle the phone against my shoulder and drop to the floor. I retrace my footsteps, and more importantly, Trinket's pawsteps from the kitchen to the spare bedroom, feeling along the carpet and hardwood with my fingers, hoping to land on the needle and maybe even the thread. Please, God, let me find the needle.

Scott is very calm.  He is googling while I make my panicked hunt for the needle.  He tells me that I really need to call the vet and do it fast because a tiny cat is not a lot of body to pass through and a needle will be doing major damage in no time.  The alternative is pretty bleak.

When I am certain that the needle is gone I dial the vet. Of course I need to come in...the sooner the better. Trinket is on borrowed time.

The Cat That Ate the Canary, Or Worse

The next few days go much the same way.  I have Gidget confined to the penthouse suite and Trinket terrorizes her during every brief encounter.  It is madness. I've had to get very creative about carving out time to make each cat feel like the light of my life and frankly it is leaving my nerve endings in shreds.

When Gidget is out of view and beyond smelling range, Trinket is as lovable and sweet as ever. Curls up with me on the couch. Sleeps on my bed with me. Greets me like a puppy.

One morning, I reach down for her as she slept by my side and she climbs up to nose around near my face, purring the whole time. I reach out to pet her and she climbs onto my night table.  And very quickly she jumps down. As if she is in hot pursuit of something.

For a moment, I wonder if she's somehow managed to find a way to open the attic door and is off to pounce on the poor unsuspecting kitten whose wandered out to explore the rest of the forbidden house.

She runs back into my room and appears to be mauling something - paws flailing near her face as though she has something in her teeth. She is making a gaggy sound.  I am flinging off the covers to see what is happening.

I lean over the edge of the bed and talk to Trinket.  I can see that she is moving her head back and forth as she is silhouetted against the light carpet.  Maybe she ate something and is choking it down. She continues to make an awful gagging sound. 

"What is it, Trink?" I ask as I turn on the light, hoping that what she has is very dead and no more heinous than a cricket.

The light comes on and I look at her, and she at me. In my bleary-eyed view, I can see that she is trying to chew something. I lean in close and gasp in horror when I see what it is.

Not a cricket. Not a mouse. I can see something shiny dangling from her mouth along side her chin. 

My cat appears to be attempting to swallow a needle and thread!

Wait'll You See My Gidget...

Gidget and I get to know each other over the weekend. She is a sweet little thing and the dogs love her.  I am growing hopeful about the homecoming with Trinket. She needs a friend to hand with while I am toiling away at work all day, right?

Not so fast.

On Sunday morning, I gather all the kitty gear, and my gear and my work gear and head for home feeling optimistic about the introduction. On the drive home, I plan what to do. Trinket always greets me when I come home like you'd expect to be greeted by a puppy.  She hears the car, and comes to the kitchen window. She perks up as I walk through the opening in the hedge and smile at her and wave. She leaps down from the counter and greets me at the back door. And then, as I walk in and up the steps, she leaps to the surface of the dining table to climb into my arms and purr, tucking her head into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

Today is no different. I leave the Gidge in the car in the carrier as I bring my things in. I go through the hole routine with Trinket, which ends with the usual snuggles and a handful of treats.  After we've spent a few minutes together I bring in the carrier, which feels empty with only a half pound cat in it.  As I place it on the kitchen floor, still closed to prevent any abrupt, accidental confrontations.  Trinket walks calmly, curiously over to the crate.  No visible signs of distress.  I can see her nostrils flaring as she sniffs out the competition.

And that is where the cordiality ends.

Hissing. Growling. Pawing at the crate. Maniacal meowing and posturing to pounce.

I snatch the crate and scowl at Trinket who retreats to the basement. I go upstairs to the attic and get Gidget settled. Baby-proof the place. Set up the kitty litter.  Stock the fridge with fresh water and kitten supplement milk.  Put away the bag of kitten chow and cans of smelly wet food. I take care of everything -  as though I'd brought home a new baby.

What I forge to take care of is closing the attic door tightly behind me. As I turn to put Gidget down in her new little bed, I am confronted by Trinket who has crept up behind us. And she looks none too happy.

I hold Gidget securely and get down on one knee a few feet from Trinket.  I speak as sweetly and soothingly as I can.  "Look Trink...a friend for you.  A little bud..."

And just like that Trinket is howling like a jungle animal moving in for the kill. "Don't you dare!"  I screech, and she is racing for the steps.

As I place Gidget in her bed to go secure the door, I realize my heart is pounding and beads of sweat have formed on my forehead.  This is not going to be easy.

Kitty Bits

It is not a restful night. Kitty meows a lot. And the dogs, at least four of the five, come a-running to see what the matter is with their youngest little family addition. I remember when we brought Cooper home. They did the same thing.  It can get very noisy.

Eventually, I go and get the kitten and bring her into the bed. I am deathly afraid of rolling over on her/him squishing her/him. I lay on my back and it tucks in under my chin and immediately begins to purr. And falls completely and soundly asleep.  Eventually, so do I, with a warm live scarf that only occasionally digs a nail into my jugular.

It is not the best night but I've had two children so half sleep is not the worst I've endured. Certainly nothing me and the Keurig machine can't fix. 

I am working from Scott's house so I have set up the command center. Iphone. Blackberry. Laptop.  Ipad. Files and notebooks. I have everything spread out on the counter in front of me...and the kitten behind me in the kitty condo. 

Every so often, between conference calls that are occasionally punctuated with meows, I take my phone and laptop into the bedroom to let the kitten run about more freely.  On one of these sojourns, I text James about the kitten. 

He writes back, "Do we know what it is yet?" 

"No, I am still perplexed by the parts. How can they be so confusing?"

He writes back, "That's because a cat's penis is not on the outside."

I love the way some people use the proper names of naughty parts with such ease. And a straight face. And without having to whisper. James must have grown up in a naked house. 

He continues, "Don't panic. Eventually you'll figure it out. You can just not name Kitty until it is a little older. And then either there will magically appear a set of testicles or not."

Yep. Definitely grew up in a naked house.

I secretly was hoping that he'd offer to take a look and ask me to snap a picture of the cat's crotch on my cell phone and text it to him. Could one of us get arrested for that? 

He doesn't offer. He just says that it would be easier if the cats could just talk. 

Yes it would be.

But I have a stroke of genius. Scott's type of genius. He always consults YouTube for instructions on the most obscure things.  How to change the spark plugs on a 2008 Toyota FJ Cruiser. How to repair a refrigerator fan. How to install a gas range.

I search YouTube for "How to tell if my kitten is a female or male."

Hundreds of videos come up as matches. Do people sit around making these wacky instructional videos all day?  Can anyone just put anything out there?  What if they decide to give you wrong information. Like the hip bone's connected to the ankle bone?  Do you have to be skeptical? Hil has learned how to braid her hair from YouTube.  It is a whole untouched frontier for me. 

Someone calling herself "Dr. Wendy" appears to be the best match.  I am in awe as Dr. Wendy demonstrates how she, a veterinarian, determines the genders of her young patients.  It is exceptionally complicated and requires a couple of viewings, my glasses and a little guess work.

But after three consecutive views of Dr. Wendy's Gender Determining Tricks of the Veterinary Trade, I very confidently take to Facebook.

I post the picture of the kitten Scott first sent to me.  And then I write, "Meet Gidget!"

It's a girl!

What Have We Here

I get to Scott's hours after I'd hoped.  Damn rambling parents. I really don't fault them. It was the idiotic person chairing the meeting that let the bleeding heartness of it all bleed all over everything. I might have been more forgiving if there had been better food. A baby quiche or some crab dip would have worked wonders. A cocktail would have, too.

Scott usually greets me at the door, but tonight he does not. And of course it is the night that I am dragging my suitcase, cat gear, my briefcase, and a bag of groceries.  I am moderately annoyed as I struggle to get in the door and the dogs, which now number 5, try to escape.  If anyone had been attempting to sleep through my arrival, all bets are off.

A little peeved, I haul my armloads of stuff into Scott's room even more perplexed that he seems to be awake, yet reclining on the bed in spite of my (highly anticipated) arrival.

And then I realize why.

Sitting on his bare chest is the tiniest little ball of gray fuzz I have ever seen.  Scott puts his finger to his lips to suggest I whisper (instead of squeal about the extreme cuteness I am witnessing).  I quietly put my things down and come sit by Scott on the bed. The fuzzball stirs, and suddenly I am face to face with the biggest roundest green eyes I have ever seen. And then the fuzzball sprouts legs and it's little gray body is toddling unsteadily toward me on little white feet. I am overwhelmed with adoration.

I pick up my little fur ball and hold it close. It is no more than half a pound and could fit in a tea cup. I want to squeeze it in the worst way. 

Scott gets up. He wants to show me where he's been keeping the little dust bunny.  We walk into the kitchen and up on the table is the giant dog crate. On the table! He's placed a cardboard box in the crate with a company sweatshirt folded up for a bed. There is a tiny saucer of water and a tiny plate of food. And a makeshift kitty litter fashioned from the 8 x 8 brownie pan. (Note to self, replace brownie pan immediately and bury current one in recycling bin.)

It is so cute that Scott has made the little kitty condo.  He's so proud of himself and he's taken such care to make her safe and comfortable and not be too accessible to the dogs.  It warms my heart. 

I am feeling so much less annoyed now - I ask Scott to come over under the kitchen light to look at kitty's little private parts. I want to know what I should call this little bundle of adorableness so I can begin to squeal his or her name a million times a day like a loon. 

He takes her little tiny body in his massive hands and walks with me to the light above the sink.  It is the brightest. We could perform surgery quite competently under this light. He deftly flips kitty onto her back (and remarkably she does not object) and pulls back the tail.  Exclamation mark?  Maybe. Question mark is more like it. I have no idea whether I am holding Gidget or Ringo.