This Time, It Wasn’t the Phone.

A nap. That delightful suspension of animation and wakefulness blissfully surrendered to the call of Morpheus. That same thing we used to resent and fight against in our youth now beckons with open arms and promises of relief.

Unless you have a phone, then a nap is that wonderful state you reach right at that same moment someone thinks they must contact you. I love attempting to speak when I’ve been pulled from slumber. My conversations sound something like, “nnnaahhhmmmm-ello?” “Hi, did I wake you?”

Why would anyone ask that? I mean, seriously do I ALWAYS sound like that when I answer the phone? Because if I do, then I should head out to see a neurologist, STAT! I realize it is just the caller’s way of connecting with understanding and perhaps allowing me a few more seconds to wake up, or the chance to say, “Yeah, you did” and let them gracefully offer to call back in, say, 45 minutes or so.

However, my mouth does not cooperate with my desires and cannot form words other than, “no. m’wake.” This is usually accompanied by the sound of me attempting to regain the ability to speak coherently.

This last time, though, the phone stayed blissfully silent and sleep began to settle in for a much-needed reprieve. I was just about there, when most of the air was exited from my lungs by sudden pressure and highly localized pain in my midsection. That happens when a 15 pound cat notices I’m in “the chair” and leaps onto me. Following the initial discomfort of the arrival is the unpleasant “getting comfortable” phase, which is only comfortable for the cat.

Once she was settled and relaxed, I allowed my brain to once again disengage. Just as the last worry fluttered off to trouble someone else for a little while, THE OTHER CAT realized her sister was EXACTLY where SHE wanted to be, so she took the leap onto the heap. This caused a great deal of reorganizing and a do-over of the “getting comfortable” routine, only this time it was times two, and “cooperation” is not a familiar word to cats.

Me: “Oh! Hey! Can you please not stand RIGHT THERE, because you’re hitting a nerve and making my leg twitch.”

Freya Fish Whore: “She’s in my spot!”

Meow: “No I’m not! You’re just jealous because I was up here first!”

Me: “Actually, girls, I’m the one who was up here first.”

F.F.W. and Meow: “Shut up.”

FFW: “This isn’t about you.”

Meow: “This is OUR business.”

Me: “This was MY nap!”

Meow: “You call this a nap?”

Me: “Not any more. In fact, I’m thinking of calling this a slumber party, only without the slumber and not much party, either. I’d really like to have a nap.”

FFW: “You know nothing of naps. You wanna learn about naps, you gotta talk to a cat. Cats know naps.”

Meow: “Hey! Don’t touch my tail. You know I don’t like that.”

Me: “I didn’t touch your tail.”

Meow: “I wasn’t talking to you. Here, have my butt in your face while I chastise my sister.”

Me: “No thanks. I think it may need some attention. From you, not me.”

FFW: “She has the worst ass-crusties.”

Me: "I can see that. It's disgusting."

Meow: “Silence! Both of you!”

Me: “Ow! You’re on my boob!”

Meow: “Yes. Now I must make it squishier.”

Me: “No! That is not comfortable.”

Meow gives me a squint-eye and a feline shrug and begins to settle down with a purr.

FFW: “She’s going to put her bottom on your arm. All those ass-crusties right there on your furless flesh! Eeewwww!”

I still need a nap.

My "R" Word

There is a campaign out there to make people stop using the word “retarded” to mean anything less than perfect, anything awkward, anything unliked. I’m all for it and I’ve been doing my best to help those around me rethink their word usage. It’s not easy. It’s like using the word “gay” to mean anything less than perfect, anything awkward, anything unliked.

I’m sensing a pattern…

Anyway, this post isn’t about the misuse of the words “retarded” or “gay” (and I’m putting them between quotation marks to indicate their significance, not because I think they’re… less than perfect, awkward, or unliked). This post is about the word: “Remember”.

As in, “We already talked about this, ‘remember’?”

I found myself saying that over and over again when I was visiting my parents and every time I said it, I would mentally slap myself because NO! They don’t “REMEMBER”.

Every time that word would slip out of my face, I’d regret it and wish I could take it back. But it was out there, dancing around whichever parent I was talking to, sticking its tongue out and echoing, “remember? Remember. Remember?!” in a sing-song voice. If I hadn’t been so impatient and exhausted, I would have attempted to formulate less hurtful ways to remind them that topic had already been discussed and we’d reached a conclusion. They just needed to be reminded of the conclusion in a much kinder fashion, but it’s not easy after the 100^th time reminding them of something.

Three times explaining to Pop that “We are going to the Mexican restaurant but we have to stop at the bank first. Remember?”

Multiple times telling my mother what I needed her to do. “You need to find a bucket to empty the cans into…remember?”

“We’re going to take this load to the recycle and this load to the dump, REMEMBER?”

“We already went through this pile and it’s ok to throw away. REMEMBER?!?”

So many times that word slipped out because I was not thinking and I just couldn’t…remember to stop.

A Line in the Dirt

It’s not rock bottom, rather it’s that thick, nasty quagmire of stinking mud. Still a ways to go before rock bottom, but not far and not pretty.

That’s what I’ve hit.

I hit a few other things as well. Not directly, just by throwing some shit that lay within arm’s reach. Plus the pile on the floor that used to be on my desk. And the broken plastic container that used to house a tiny shredder. And whatever that thing was on the shelf that got taken out by some flying object just heavy enough to do damage and scatter anything it hit.

It started with pressure; pressure to give more and care less. Pressure to just turn the other cheek and say "whatever" whenever someone asked for something, or just fucking took it, without so much as a "thanks for the stuff."

And I sat there, without a backbone to my name, and let it happen. “Whatever,” I’d say and wish I really felt that way, wish I could say “not gonna happen” more often and stick by it. But I try to be nice all the time and saying “no” when people are in need isn’t nice.

Still, the pressure built with all the little nasty picks and pecks at me and my paycheck. I’m always being asked for my time, my money, a little more here, a little more there. People are always asking, and always with the assumption that I would do it and I wouldn’t mind because I rarely say “no.” I’m a nice person; I hate seeing people struggle and suffer.

Apparently I’ve not been looking in the mirror, because I’m having a bit of a struggle myself. Pretty much every cent I earn is taken away, either through bills of my own or food purchases that I share. That’s when it finally dawned on me that if I wasn’t reaching out to help everyone else, I might actually be able to live on my own paycheck and make ends meet. I could even have enough to buy a cup of coffee once in a while without first thinking, “Ok, I can do without something this time” or “I’ll put this on the card and worry about it later.”

Screw that. I’m done.

I’m done waiting for mercy from those who take. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done. I’m drawing a line in the dirt and I’m taking mercy on myself. I can’t expect others to lift me up when I know they have their own issues, so what am I waiting for? This is my money. This is my house. This is my time. And I’ll spend them on ME. I’m supposed to get pre-approved for a loan to buy a house, which I will do (at least I will try to get the approval) so my parents and my partner will have a place to live. I do this willingly and without hesitation (except for all that damn paperwork). I do this out of love and affection for my parents and Tam.

But…

I’m done with charity. I’ve given and given and gotten very little, if anything, in return, and quite frankly, that blows.

I’m standing up, taking my sword and drawing that goddamn line in the goddamn dirt and saying, “This is mine.” Then, I’m going to attempt a step forward where I’ll draw another line and another and another. And I’ll keep drawing lines until my backbone has grown in and I really no longer care if people think I’m a bitch.

Because being nice has gotten me so far in life.

Just Getting (It) Out

After some debate with myself over a sinkful of dishes, I decided to write this post and let the chips fall where they may. I will accept the consequences of my actions.

There have been several posts on facebook throughout the years where folks put on their high-and-mighty panties and stomp about, waving Old Glory and shouting things like, “If you love America, then thank God or get out” or “If you can read this, thank a Veteran or get out,” or, “If you don’t salute the flag, then get out.”

Fine. I’m out. Out as in I’m coming out of the non-flag-saluting closet. I’m getting it out of my system and off my chest.

Because I work in a public school, the class is expected to stand and salute the flag every morning. It’s the American thing to do, and I’m ok with that. You can shout the pledge to the skies, and I will support your right to do so but, while I may stand with my hand on my heart, I’m not saying the same words.

                  

I believe America was once a great place, filled with wonderful people and amazing opportunities, and technically, it still is. But instead of having the people in charge, greedy corporations have taken over and this land of the free is becoming less free and more oppressed. We are becoming less educated because we cannot afford higher education. Public education is being destroyed by standardized tests created by people who don’t know the first thing about how kids learn in a typical classroom. We are becoming chronically sick because we cannot afford health insurance, healthy foods or the medication to treat illness or maintain good health. We stick our political nose into everyone else’s business and send our war machines to make sure they do things OUR way because we’re so right about everything.

Yes, there is a lot to be thankful for in America, and I’m thankful for a great deal, but do not shove your opinions in my face and tell me if I don’t agree with you, I should leave.

Maybe it’s time for YOU leave. And take your greedy corporations with you. Perhaps those of us left behind can do something to restore this country and heal this land. America has been trashed with McMansions, muscle cars, and money, and then if that wasn’t enough God gets dragged into the mess and that’s supposed to make it right.

Love God or get out.

I’m just curious to know what your God would say when you tell him you kicked your fellow citizens to the curb because they had different feelings about things than you do.

Love America or get out.

Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. I’m still a citizen, and I don’t plan on changing that any time soon. But I still won’t pledge allegiance to the flag, because my allegiance isn’t with politics or religion, it’s with the land and the people trying to keep it from being totally lost under asphalt and hyperbole.

I pledge allegiance to this land

Of the United States of America,

And to the people who dwell within.

As one nation,

Let us stand,

For liberty and justice for all.

Adulting 101

I’m almost thinking I should change the blog name to Adulting 101, but I’m going to be learning this stuff along with you all, so… I’ll just leave things the way they are. At least I’ll know SOMETHING has remained the same.

I’m becoming my mother.

Wait, let me rephrase that… I’m becoming THE mother. Of my mother. And my father. I’ve become their protector, their advisor, their liaison, their advocate.

And I’m really ok with that, even though it’s not happening quite the way I’d imagined. Somehow, I thought I’d be more settled, more secure, less stretched so thin you could read a newspaper through me.

Um, that last part is totally figurative, since when I’m stressed I tend to eat and I’ve been VERY stressed for quite a while now. Like, since I was 23.

But this new phase of my life kind of began with a phone call. Or more like several phone calls in which I realized my mother was starting to repeat things. Now I am well aware we all do that, but they were things we’d just talked about and even though I have been known to do that very thing on occasion, this was becoming frequent and kind of irritating. I’d find myself getting impatient, thinking she was just doing it on purpose, or not paying any attention to what I was saying.

Then it got to the point where she admitted she was forgetting things more and I began to realize she was getting older and, perhaps, there was something more going on.

My job has taught me a lot. Working with special needs kids has opened a well of patience and humor that I never thought existed in me. I wish it had been available when my children were young, but that’s another story. But I have a feeling it will stand me in good stead when it comes to taking care of my parents.

For instance, when talking with my dad, I am frequently regaled with tales of him falling down and having to crawl around “for two hours” until my mom got home. Of course, five minutes into the story and we learn he’d been crawling for four hours! Then five hours! Finally, SIX HOURS LATER he was rescued and no longer had to crawl around the patio looking for a way into the house. He has been known to exaggerate upon occasion. I guess we know where I picked up that trait now, don’t we?

Personally, I think the old fart flings himself to the ground just so my mom won’t catch him smoking.

After many discussions and sleepless nights, I decided it was time to make some changes. If we hadn’t purchased the hat shop, chances are very good, we would have packed up and moved to southern Oregon to take care of my folks and raise some kind of organic stuff to sell at the market. Jobs are scarce down there, so making your own way is pretty much the best chance you have to survive.

Looking at it from that perspective, I think I’m glad we didn’t go that route, although I do love it down there, Tam and I aren’t exactly spring chickens and tending five acres is best left to those with non-arthritic joints. Especially since about 1/3 of that property consists of steep hillside… in wildfire country. And there’s poison oak and stuff.

But this journey is a young one. Fraught with moments that make me laugh, cry, and wet myself, and I’m sure it will only get better as we go along.

My Life with Cats

Figures the first post of the year would be about cats. Sheesh.

I’m not a cat person. I’m just putting this out to the Universe and anyone who will listen. It’s true. I am not a cat person. I love my cats because they are my cats, and I love animals in general and cats are animals, but I’m not a cat person. I’m a dog person. I am a bird person.

I love birds. I adore birds. And dogs I really adore dogs.

And the Universe hates me, which is why I have two cats, one bird, and no dogs.

The furry felines currently in residence are one of the Crash and Burn twins (Freya, the fish whore) and Meow (she named herself. Truth!)

My morning rituals include trying to get dressed with a cat. Trying to drink coffee without cat fur in it. Attempting to enjoy a cat fur-free breakfast. And finally, leaving the house without tripping over a cat and breaking myself.

I’ve managed to master that last one by shrieking, “MOVE IT, FURBALL, BEFORE I STEP ON YOUR HEAD!” This not only alerts the cats to my intentions, but it also alerts my nephew that I’m about to head out the door. Or I’m rushing to the bathroom.

Getting dressed with cats in the room is always a joy. Especially when that cat is Freya Fish Whore. She is of the impression that all of my clothing must be covered in fur and small holes that she makes herself. Sometimes those holes happen before I don the article of clothing, other times…

Sometimes the holes are not in my clothing, but in my skin, which she seems to enjoy touching with her claws while I’m doing my best to quickly cover and protect myself with clothing. She is sneaky and will investigate exposed flesh with little regard to privacy. She is shameless.

She also texts Tam when I’ve set the phone on the bed before the screen goes dark. It’s one way I’ve found to distract her while I’m donning my unmentionables. The sensitive screen will happily accept her input (which is more than I can say it does for me) and send the missives to my love who after a few moments of puzzlement will realize it is an actual text from a cat and stops thinking I’ve just had a stroke.

Recently, I was sitting at my computer with my love on Skype, when I started feeling a little snack-ish and grabbed the package of dried cuttlefish from the fridge. Yes, it’s is preserved and does not need refrigeration. In this case, the fridge is more of a large, cold, combination-less safe. As I sat enjoying a few pieces of stinky fish jerky, I was visited by Freya Fish Whore.

She sat at my feet, her eyes wide and fixed on my snack. MY snack. “Give her a piece of it,” Tam said. After a moment’s thought and the sharp pain of a single claw hooked into my leg, I decided to give in and held out a piece. Apparently she enjoyed it because the next thing I knew she was all over my business.

“Gimme fish!”

“No. Go away. You already had fish.”

“More fish!”

“Get down, beast. This stinky mess is mine.”

“Holy Bast, your breath smells good! What I gotta do for more fish? Huh? I let you have Floofy Belleh.”

“We do Floofy Belleh every morning, so… no. My fish. Go away.”

“What if I let you do TWO Floofy Bellehs.”

“Ha! You’ll do Floofy Bellehs for dirty socks, you shameless hussy. Go away.”

“What I gotta do for fish?”

“How about no cat fur in my coffee for a week?”

“For one lousy piece of fish? No deal.”

“Fine. Go away.”

“No fur for an hour.”

“Nope. Two days.”

“Ha! You think I’m cheap!”

“Something like that. This sure is tasty – OW! – cuttlefish. Too bad you can’t have any.”

“I hate you. Ok. One full day no fur in coffee.”

“…”

“Ok, one day no fur and a Floofy Belleh.”

“…”

“Please?”

“Have some fish.”

“Nomnomnomnomnom…”

“Hey! There’s fur in my coffee!”

“We never said which day no fur. Thanks for fish.”

Moving Forward

I have reached that stage of life where I must become the parent to my parents. I consider myself extremely lucky to still have them in my life and I wish I could spend more time with them.

Of course, that wish is about to come true in a way that I never quite expected. Tam and I are doing our best to get my parents moved up to Long Beach where Tam is currently residing and I hope to be moving there soon as well. This is not going to be some cut-and-dried pack ‘em up and move ‘em kind of undertaking, these are my parents we’re talking about and there is nothing cut-and-dried about them.

My mother is a packrat. Not exactly a hoarder, because from what I’ve been able to discern, hoarders buy many of the same things when they’re on sale and keep them stashed in closets, cupboards, cabinets, etc. My mother simply does not throw things away. Being raised in the depression by parents who knew how to repair things in creative ways could do that to a person. Nothing was wasted. Nothing was thrown away until there wasn’t much left of it TO throw away. Of course, that's when you just tucked it in a corner “just in case it might come in handy.”

Or, in my mother’s case, might become a collector’s item. She’s big into “collecting.” She did that all her life, and now she has amassed a large collection of everything. Had she just collected dishes, we could deal with that. Or dolls. Or jewelry. A single type of collected item would be a lot easier to deal with because chances are good you would have some idea of the value.

My mother collected bits of everything and we have no idea how much any of it is worth. The treadle sewing machine (one of which I’m keeping because I love it), or the antique baskets from Japan, or the array of strange kitchen gadgets (that make my darling Tam drool), or the painting supplies (not antique, but holy crap that’s a lot of watercolor), or… or… smatterings of stuff that doesn't actually constitute an official collection, it's just a collection of stuff.

So…much…STUFF.

I have the same problem, although I’m starting to let go of a few things that have sentimental value, but is no longer of any use. The little toy car that my son loved, literally to pieces, will have to go. Eventually. But I understand my mother’s mindset on this. When you’re not always happy, or when life has been particularly difficult and mean, it’s easy to glom onto things that remind you of wonderful times, or at least better times. You want to keep them close because it is almost like bringing those good times back and keeping them close as well. I get it, I really do.

I have things from my offsprings’ youth that I hold very dear. It got really bad as they moved out, because I wasn’t ready to let go. I wanted to keep them close to me, to keep those tender moments alive. But, time can be cruel and children must move on, so I kept things that held memories in the hopes it would ease the pain of moving forward.

In case you’re wondering, it doesn’t really, but it took me a long time to get to that point. I’m closer to it, anyway. I can see it from where I’m standing, as long as I’m on tiptoes. But my mother is having memory problems and that makes it even harder for her to let go. These things are keys to her past, good and bad, and she holds them in a grip of steel as they sit covered in dust on shelves, countertops, an in the back of closets.

This move is not going to be easy for another reason: I am very attached to the land on which they live. It once belonged to my beloved grandfather, a man who was equal parts scamp, god, scoundrel, and McGyver. I worshiped the man and so many fond memories are tied to that place he built. The oak trees that shade and the pines that scent the air are all parts of him. And me as well, for I was there every summer, and when he passed away and my parents moved down there, I brought my children down every summer to continue the tradition.

But times have changed. It is a long seven and a half hour drive from where I live, and while I’ve always enjoyed long car rides, with everything that’s going on in my life right now, that carries too much weight in certain decisions.

Like selling the property.

I have resisted even thinking about it because it was the last place where I got to spend time with my grandpa. It was the last place where I felt comfortable allowing my children to roam unfettered to play in the dirt, ride their bikes, fish in the pond, and get chased by the geese.

I am tied to the land and the thought of letting go kills me.

But I must be a big girl and move forward. I must think with my head and not my heart in this matter. I must let go of the feeling, but not the memories. I must remember that it is about the safety and security of my parents and that is way more important than fond memories or bygone days.

We will move forward. We will create new memories with grown children and aging parents. And they will be just as good as the ones from before. Memories may fade, but new ones are just as dear and just as important, I just need to give them a chance to take root, while I grow to love them as much as I do the old ones.