Take the Money and Run

I have changed banks.

For most people this is easy. For me it is like changing skin. And about as painful and scarring and nightmare-inspiring as that would be.

I do this as seldom as possible. Only when forced.

I had to change banks when I got divorced. Lars, in a bizarre but not unprecedented act of freakish paranoia, had insisted, and would have gone to the mattresses over it, that there be language in our agreement that I would close my account that I had in the bank we'd used as a couple, and go find myself another.

And why couldn't he just take his little bag of crinkled up bills and go find a new bank himself? Had he robbed all the others in the neighborhood?

But I agreed. Just walking into the old bank made my stomach churn. It was the account we shared in that bank that he had drained except for a few dollars, without telling me, natch, on the very day I'd been paid, and stashed the money in his name. Then to ice the cake a little more thickly, had canceled my credit card. No money, no credit card, no gas in my car. And as I sat in my car turning into a little sniveling pile of goo, Charlotte rallied, found a bank 3 blocks from my house with evening hours and met me there. Did all the talking while I fretted and wrung my hands. Spotted me enough cash to to survive for weeks on my own and for God's sake hire a lawyer. She very calmly explained to the very empathetic teller, with surprisingly few expletives, what my louse husband had done, and what we'd hoped to accomplish by sundown, if not murder, and answered all the pertinent questions, and then helped me record each piece of treasured jewelry and each important document pertaining to me or the children as I placed them in a safe deposit box.

So really, what remained to be done by the time Lars was on his horse and riding about me leaving the Royal Bank of Whoville, was the settlement of whatever we decided to do with the children's accounts. The accounts for which I was the custodian. Lars insisted, stomped his trollish little feet and held his fetid breath until I agreed to divide the balance of each child's account with him so that we could open separate and distinct accounts for them for which we would be the respective custodians.

And to this day I ask, "Who does that?"

I mean besides a total asswipe?

But in the interest of settling, I took and gave him half of what little money actually had made it into the accounts, since it was Lars's habit to take big checks, like the ones for $1,000 his friend's parents, the Firestones had given the kids when they were born, and pocket them for his own use, however nefarious. I went dutifully, promptly and responsibly to my bank and opened new accounts for each child and assumed he'd done the same at the Royal Bank of Whoville.

Lars, I've learned recently, did no such thing. He claims to have done so, and then to have debited the accounts to buy things the kids have asked for - like clothes and sneakers, and school supplies, and that the accounts, without regular deposits, have simply been depleted and closed. At least that is what he's told the kids.

But I know differently because I know Lars. And can see the hallmarks of one of his lies a mile away. I know that that money never saw the inside of a bank vault. It went directly into his pocket, because he could take it. And because he feels he should be compensated for all that Life has heaped upon him. And because the children would never be the wiser.

But that is where he underestimates them. Because they are smart enough to question when things don't add up. And when he told them the tall tale about the fate of their money - from birthdays and Christmases and visits from the tooth fairy, they asked me about the money in the accounts I'd opened with them. Do I use their money without telling them? Do I reimburse myself from their accounts when I've bought them gym uniforms and ski jackets and Halloween costumes?

I told them honestly. Certain things are my responsibility to buy. Like all the things I've mentioned. Other things, if they really want them, are theirs to buy, like Bobbi Brown makeup and sports memorabilia. And if they really want them, as they have in the past, I will take them to the bank and help them make the withdrawal that they need. I show them their passbooks so they can see the credits and debits..."Here is your birthday money from when you turned 9...and here is where you took out some to buy a pair of hockey skates."

Because it is their money and it is my responsibility to see that it is used responsibly. Some things you need and other things you really want. And some things you have to wait and save for. Clearly a philosophy to which their father does not subscribe. Because he has always been, remains, and will forever be an opportunistic taker, whose selfishness knows no bounds.

It is a sad but important lesson for them to learn. Every kid realizes one day that their parents did not hang the moon. Worse, they are flawed. My kids, sadly, have had to learn that their father is the Grinch, only his heart will not be warmed by Cindy Lou Who, or even his own children.

The 27 Club

Amy Winehouse has died. Love her or hate her, you can not deny that she was captivating.

And now sadly, she has gone on to join a macabre club morbidly referred to as the 27 Club, referring of course to the evidently ever-expanding list of young musical geniuses who die at age of 27.

What strikes me about each of them, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain and Jim Morrison, is how old they seem. Amy and Kurt I might have guessed were younger than their appearances would have suggested. But Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison?…I would have guessed were far, far older. Especially Joplin. Yikes. Girlfriend could have used a few weeks at a spa, in addition to rehab. It must have been all the life they packed into too few years of living.

There is so much to be truly saddened by with Amy Winehouse. She was young. She was beautiful (give or take the beehive) and she was enormously, shockingly gifted. Her voice and style were unique and unmatched, and certainly could have taken her to places others only dream of: wealth, fame, ability to influence the world, a name that lives on in perpetuity. This generation’s Elvis or Michael Jackson.

Pity. That surreal voice that made her rich and famous is silenced like those before her. At 27.

And though that is plenty sad in and of itself, what makes me sad for those that love her is that her tragic, unending downward spiral, unlike the other members of the club, was public in a way that the others were spared.

I don’t think there is anyone who is on the fence about whether Hendrix or Joplin enjoyed their drugs. They certainly did. It is well documented. And even though Joplin’s family denied the producers of the movie “The Rose” the rights to her story, there is not a single person living on this planet who has seen The Divine Miss M come gloriously, completely unraveled in her screen debut and who does not completely understand that disclaimer or not, “The Rose” would be more accurately entitled “The Life and Times of Janis Joplin.”

And please, who has ever uttered the name Jimi Hendrix without also mentioning LSD or some other psychedelic drug? His death, shrouded in mystery and widely speculated about, screams of drug abuse. And cover up of same, natch.

And Morrison. Puh-lease. We have movies, authorized bio-pics, that come right out and tell you he used drugs. (Even if Meg Ryan wasn’t all that convincing as his co-conspirator, Pam, who famously changed her hazy recollection of drug use by herself and Morrison on the eve of his death in the bathtub.) And hello, if that weren’t proof enough, the very name of the band was taken from the title of Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception (as in "unlocking" of "doors of perception" through psychedelic drug use). Duh.

These were huge celebrities but none of them was exactly famous for their charity work. They were extremely talented, charismatic, dynamic artists who lived chaotic lives. But in a world that had only limited access to them.

What we know of them, if we weren’t at Monterey or Woodstock personally, is from stories we hear and pictures in magazines, and ancient, grainy amateur film footage.

But Amy. She died right in front of us. On the internet that was in its infancy when Kurt Cobain took his life, and on YouTube, the far reaching, highly accessible tool designed seemingly for little more than laughing at the misfortune of others (Unless you are Justin Bieber.) We watched her rise and fall. Every day. On every media outlet.

Sadly, these images will likely turn out to be what many remember her by. She won’t be remembered like Elvis, in his movies and his military uniform. (Because no one thought to post a picture of him dead on the toilet with the crusts from his peanut butter and bacon sandwich still on his lap) She will be remembered for being booed off stage too drunk to perform. Her haunting voice overshadowed by her shocking decline.

We don’t live forever. Our legacies may. If there is one thing you tell your kids tonight at dinner, make it this: Live your life as you want it remembered. Let your legacy really and truly and honestly speak for you. You may only have 27 years to create it. Make it something extraordinary and something of which you and your family can be eternally proud.

A Mouse Tale/Tail

So weeks go by following the middle of the night capture, torture and maiming incident which I have Pollyanna'ed myself into truly believing was a) an isolated incident (This mouse was clearly a loner. A recluse. No friends, no family. A party of one) and b) an event which culminated in the poor lone mouse's eventual death (which of course took place outside of my house and certainly not inconveniently in between my walls).

So it is this ignorant optimism I have to blame when three weeks later, I am awakened in the twinkling, half lit hours of dawn by the same woeful sounding throaty moan that haunted my sleep for days after Meeces to Pieces, Episode 1.

After realizing the moaning was not actually coming from inside my head where I was enjoying a dream about a big outdoor party, with live entertainment, that, wait a minute, that vocalist sounds like a cat...I sat bolt upright in bed. And yes, in a flop sweat and with a racing pulse.

I look down at Trinket, who is looking up at me from the floor in apparent bewilderment that I am overreacting already.

I expect to see a mouse dangling by its tail from her mouth, but she is licking her chops sans mouse.

But there in the dawn's early light, meant only to illuminate the Star Bangled Banner, and not the gore fest that I am about to deal with, I can see a little roundish dark blob on the light carpet. And the blob is not moving. And it is, even in the hazy lighting, and with my limited ability to see, evidently too small to be the preferred cat toy, the leopard print catnip mouse.

I secure my ponytail, lest it become a distraction or a screening problem in what activities I anticipate, and turn on my bedside light (again, surgical grade lighting). And there on the floor, now being softly chewed on by my darling kitty, is a pathetic, wet, small gray, lifeless mouse. It looks exactly like the one from Episode 1. But what do I know?

All together now: EEEEeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!!

I put on the slippers I had schlepped around in the night before and turn on even more lights. Trinket is now prancing around her little dead friend very proudly.

I will never understand animals.

I try a little animal psychology, and choke out feigned praise. "Good girl, Trinket! Mommy is so proud of you! How about a treat?"

And like that, we are down the stairs and in the kitchen where I am immediately heaping pieces of smoked deli turkey into her bowl...enough to keep her purring and distracted for a while.

I need to act fast. Hil and Pat are asleep for only a few minutes longer. I can only imagine the drama. Hil can't share space with a bug. Imagine her reaction to a gruesome little dead thing!

I grab a grocery bag, the plastic environmentally unfriendly kind, and then one more to double it up. I also take a piece of unopened junk mail in a stiff over sized envelope and then race back upstairs as quietly as possible.

I kneel, open the bag as best I can, and then artfully flip the little rigor mortised thing into the bag and tie a double knot.

But on its way into its little plastic coffin, I noticed one thing.

Mr. Mouse has no tail.

And as I run downstairs to put the mouse and the bag in the can that holds the morning trash at the curb, I am skeeving.

Where oh where is the disembodied tail going to turn up???

Hi Ho Silver!

Quiet is not my strong suit but I creep with the stealth that people in horror movies never have when they are trying to outsmart the psycho killer with the hockey mask and the meat cleaver.

But Scott must be distracted because I literally sneak up on him.

Sneak up to find him positioned standing high on the bed where he is poised to wave a towel, lasso-style, presumably to whale on the little critter lest it run up his leg hairs and into his shorts unexpectedly.

He sees me see him and begins whirling the lasso/towel creating a big wind and frankly, a lot of noise. He claims to be intending to use the whirling terrycloth cyclone of doom to scare the cat from beneath the bed. I am not sure if the intention is for the mouse to go with the cat or remain under the bed when the cat runs for cover from The Loan Ranger. Frankly, I am skeptical that that was the purpose of the towel at all.

In any event, the whirling of the towel makes such a racket the Trinket streaks from beneath the bed, out into the hall, whizzing past me at break-neck speed, but slowly enough for me to see that she still has the mouse clasped between her teeth. Poor thing. It is probably hard to breathe like that, much less huff and puff as you run for your life.

I turn on a dime in my daughter's slip on fuzzy slippers, found and commandeered on the landing. (She's sort of a slob, my Hil. Leaves a little trail of debris like breadcrumbs in her wake.)
I hot-foot it down to the landing, spin and take off down the last turn in time to see which room Trinket turns to run in. The dining room. I assume she's under the dining table again. It's military genius. She has a great view and room to maneuver. Drats.

I have a brilliant idea. I suggest to The Lone Ranger, now having joined me on the first floor, towel still unholstered and in hand, that he make it seem really, really dangerous and unappealing to run toward the center hall or living room, while I make it seem like an easy break for Trinket to run into the kitchen. You know, he can wave the towel and jump around like a loon. No one in their right mind would dare go near him, even if your mind is the size of a Licorice Nib like Trinket's.


Then when she falls for it and is trapped in the kitchen, the interior of which is not unlike a walk in closet, with far fewer options for escape, we make it seem like a swell idea for her to run down the basement steps. When she does, I will dash to the landing with her water and close the door for the night. She can spend the night chasing Mr. Mouse and still have the benefit of water and her litter box, but no ability to go traipsing about the manse showing off her kill.

Trinket falls for it hook line and sinker, and Scott and I go off to bed in relative peace, after having jammed a towel under the basement door to prevent so much as a mouse paw to get through uninvited.

The next morning I can not fight my curiosity.

I go to the basement. Trinket is calm and peaceful. I expect to see her prize kill presented center stage in the middle of a hoola hoop or some similarly spectacular showy fashion.

Nothing.

I look around. The mouse isn't anywhere, and furthermore, Trinket is acting as though nothing has happened. (Maybe in that Licorice Nib brain, nothing has.)

I get her some food, freshen her water and continue looking for Mr. Mouse, all the while fearing that I am going to step on something gooey, yet crunchy, any minute.

Nothing.

I convince myself that Trinket chased and batted the little pathetic thing to the point of exhaustion or maiming. And then when it ceased to be any fun at all to play with, ignored it. It is my fervent hope that the heinous little varmint then limped outside to die.

Fingers crossed on that. But based on the way Trinket perches above the heat vent and swishes her tail each night, never giving in to distraction, I am sure I've not seen the last of the Meeces to Pieces.

Divide and Conquer

Scott and I decide to split ranks and cover more ground. He goes upstairs and I enter the darkened living room.

I turn on a lamp and then another and then another. I want everything illuminated so that I can pick up on the slightest motion and spot anything, no matter how small or lifeless, on the patterned rug I am now regretting having laid there.

I stand still, trying to hear any minute movement above the sound of my pounding heart. You’d think I was evading the Boston Strangler.

After standing as motionless as humanly possible, given my visceral response to this particular stress, I decide that Trinket is trying to outsmart me by laying motionless unless the coast is clear. I assume she is under the sofa or one of the chairs. She’d have plenty of concealed room to run and lots of escape routes if she had to make a break for it (assuming I’d found the damn broom, which I hadn’t.)

I have not other choice. I have to get on my hands and knees and look under the furniture.

And this is why big scaredy cats who think there is a mouse about the house stand on chairs, people. Because up on a chair, you have a little distance. The mouse is not going to run across your feet and up your pant leg to parts unknown. And that is actually what we fear.

And here I am. Not only am I not on a chair, I am about to place my face against the rug, and potentially come face to face with The Beast, who will likely run into my massively curly hair where it will remained entangled while I have a full on hissy fit and die of a stroke of my own doing.

As silently as I can, so as not to inspire a mad dash, I get down upon my knees and turn my head to the side, my eyes wildly searching for signs of movement. I place my face against the floor and take in a wide view of the floor. And a deep breath so as not to pass out in that vulnerable a position.

Nothing.

Emboldened, I repeat this activity until I am sure the cat and her mouse are nowhere to be found on the first floor. Sqat-tah.

I call to Scott. “Scott, do you see her? She’s not down here. Neither is the mouse. They must be up there with you.”

I hear nothing from the second floor and ascend the stairs to the first landing and stop to listen.

More nothing.

With the caution of an international spy, I creep up the remaining stairs.

Welcome to the House of Mouse

At the sound of my shriek, Trinket races off to parts unknown leaving me with no choice but to follow her.

OK there is another choice. I could let her run all over my house with the mouse and leave it for me to inadvertently step on and instantly drop dead. Not at all appealing.

So, I take to the stairs to the first floor (as opposed to the attic, which was just wishful thinking, really) and flick on additional lights as I go. No chance Scott will return to REM sleep anytime soon.

I get nearly to the foot of the stairs and find Trinket, mouse in her mouth on the center hall carpet, looking like a fleeing robber with his loot. Bat cat.

From upstairs, I hear Scott. “Liza, is it definitely a mouse? You’re sure.”

No, my mistake. It’s a giraffe. My bad. “Yes, Scott. It’s a mouse.”

“Is it alive or dead?”

Now that I can’t answer.

“I don’t know?” I ask like a buffoon.

And with those words, I see a swish of the mouse’s little damp tail, and let out an involuntary, inhuman yelp.

The noise, since not heard in nature apparently, scares Trinket, and she drops the mouse. Who is evidently very much alive and tries its little heart out to run away.

It gets about a paw length away and with one deft, fluid swoop, is scooped up and place back in Trinket’s mouth where it resumes playing dead. It could win a Tony, honestly.

I descend the remaining steps to the center hall and the floor creaks. It is a 100 year old house, after all. And Trinket is off to the races again. This time she’s ensconced under the dining table, between all the pedestals and chair legs, where she is protecting her kill like an animal in the wild.

Scott joins me on the first floor where I am pitting out in the kitchen trying to find a broom, for what that would be worth.

And Trinket and her mouse are on the run once again.

And I have no idea where she has gone.

Oh Meeces to Pieces!

Trinket is a mouser.

And I say this with absolute certainty.

I suspected she was, because truthfully, some cats aren’t, because of her behavior upon arrival at my house. She not only took to the basement, but went immediately and with purpose to a place in the basement where there is the potential for exposure to the outside, and therefore, to things that typically live outside. Like mice.

And her posture as she sat, staring, waiting and positioned to pounce, was even more of a giveaway. My cat Morris from my childhood would not have so much as quickened his pulse over a mouse any more so than the Man in the Moon. Unless the mouse became a nuisance to Morris personally, it could be dancing a jig on the end of the damn cat’s nose and he wouldn’t have raised a paw to swat it away. Morris was definitely not a mouser.

Then one night, not so long ago, as Scott and I lay falling asleep, I heard a muffled meow. Muffled may not be the right word. It was hollow. Throaty. Not Miss Meowypants’ usual meow.

And it was urgent. Repetitive. Something was wrong. I could tell. Just like the way a mother knows which cries mean “I’ve got the crankies.” and which cries mean “My hair has gone on fire.”

I looked down from the bed and could see Trinket’s silhouette on the light carpet. And could see that she was wildly batting at something on the floor with both paws. Really fast.

The thought balloon by my head read “Please God let it be the leopard print catnip mouse Trinket goes mad for…”

But I had to be sure.

Scott was nearly asleep but I asked anyway. “Would you mind if I turned on the light? It won’t be a second.”

He was instantly awake and agreed to the light. Maybe it was my voice. Nuanced as it was with sheer panic.

Rather than hop out of bed where I can turn on the light with the dimmer and thus not blind Scott and me both, I opt for the “no feet on the floor until I know what’s there’ choice and turn on the bedside table. Which provide illumination not unlike that of a surgical suite. Woo hoo!

I look down at Trinket and immediately ascertain that it is most definitely not the leopard print catnip mouse. This mouse is small and gray and damp with saliva and has a long tail NOT made of rawhide dangling from it.

And of course I shriek and Trinket takes off for another area of the house, which seems endless and sprawling, like the world does to a man who’s lost his hat on a windy day.

Woe is I.