Friendly Landscapes

My friends, Valerie and Matthew, spent 18 months landscaping their backyard into a gorgeous little oasis in the midst of a San Fernando Valley suburb. You can watch it all for yourself (compressed into an amazingly deceptive 26 minutes) on this Wednesday's episode of Landscaper's Challenge on HGTV.com.

Watch it.

No, no.

You don't understand.

I'm not asking.

I'm telling.

Watch it.

Or else.

I know your secrets, and I will reveal them. All of them.

Don't make me prove it.

Have a nice day.

~C~

Mary-Mia's Twins Aren't the Only New Babies Around

Okay, so Rod and Mary-Mia have an adorable set of twin girls waiting for them in China. And, yes, we all agree they're pickin' adorable.

BUT! Not to be upstaged or outdone, their house is not the only one that has a new baby (or two) to brag about. We have a new baby in our house, too. And she's every bit as cute as the twins, PLUS... and this is a biggie... she has a tail! Can Mary-Mia's twins boast a tail? Surely not. Not one tail between the two of them. And what about whiskers, dammit. Any whiskers on those round, apple cheeks. I dare say not!

So, while the Chinese twins are, indeed, precious and bitable, in our house, we're preoccupied with our own little baby. She was found by Savannah and her friends, under a bush in a BMX park, screaming her lungs out and a little dusty, but otherwise no worse for wear. We suspect she's about five weeks old or so (her eyes are still very blue, and she's obviously new to solid food). As you can clearly see, at the moment, she could fit quite comfortably inside a No. 10 business-sized envelope.

She remains unnamed as yet, but we're still trying to get to know her. If you guys have any suggestions, please feel free suggest any names if you can think of them. We only just named another kitten a couple of months ago, and we're fresh out of fresh ideas.

~C~

A Big, Honking Congrats!

After a year and a half of waiting, stressing and doing unspeakable things with Mentos and Diet Coke, Mary-Mia and Rod over at Do They Have Salsa in China have finally received their adoption referral.

The Naked Voodoo Chicken is dancing up a storm to celebrate not one, but two gorgeous baby girls, Rose and Marie (middle names are kind of in a state of flux as yet). Here's to a speedy travel date and to having the little girls home before (or at least very close to) their first birthday, sometime in October.

The best of luck, Mary-Mia and Rod. I can't think of a better reason to lose sleep than these little cuties.

~C~

Motherhood: The Real Skinny

My friends know me. They love me for who I am. And my friends who know and love me know better than to expect me to sugar-coat my opinions, even for them. So my friends do not come to me if they want to be in denial. They come to me if they want the straight scoop. Because that's what I'm going to give them. I'm going to tell them things they might not want to hear, but that will do them a world of good in the long run.

I have a problem wiht how America markets stuff -- the Iraqi war, the current gas crunch, our political candidates, the Democratic party platform -- but, first and foremost, motherhood. You know what I mean. You've seen the commercials. You know which ones... those Johnsons Baby Lotion commercials with the mother all dressed in a flowing, white organza kaftan, whisking her impossibly adorable, clean, happy baby, clad only in a diaper, over her head, while the window sheers behind them billow with a heady Spring breeze and the cat looks on admiringly?

Forget it. In real life, a minute later, the baby spits up and her flowing white organza kaftan is splattered with pre-digested baby food and/or breast milk. I'm sorry. But that's the real story, and every mother reading this knows it.

Here are a few things that women who long to be mothers but aren't yet don't want to hear about motherhood from those of us who've been there:

1. It's really hard work.
2. The first two years are pretty much body effluent. From every possible orifice. After that, it's just them doing thing you really wish they wouldn't do.
3. You don't always like the kid.
4. The kid doesn't always like you.
5. The first two to three months are the hardest, least pleasant time.
6. Sex is never the same again.
7. Your partner will probably not be as much of a help as he has said he will -- mostly because he didn't know how hard it was going to be.
8. The kid doesn't alway look good and smell good.
9. There will come a moment at some point in the process -- perhaps even several moments -- when you will wish you'd rethought the decision to have unprotected sex -- even if the pregnancy was well-planned. Most of the time, this feeling passes quickly if left alone and ignored.
10. You are not June Cleaver. Your husband is not Bill Cosby. This isn't a sitcom. It isn't a diaper commercial. It's real life. Let it go, for God's sake.
11. Did I mention the "hard work" part?
12. You don't deserve to get anything out of the experience. It's not your childhood, it's the child's. You better take your pleasure in the giving and the growth and the progress of your child's childhood.
13. And while we're on the subject -- Giving birth to your child is not your birth experience. It's the baby's birth experience. Quit making it all about you. (I hate that American women prance around like they freakin' invented childbirth.)
14. The work is really hard.
15. No. I mean, really hard.

Motherhood is not an Olympic event. It isn't a pageant or a contest. Even more than the military, motherhood is the toughest job you'll ever love. Babies ruin your life. If you're ready for them, and you've wiped the freakin' stardust from your eyes so you can see real-life, they do it in the best possible way. But get this, and get it good. Remember that story that women-who-wanted-it-all always told us about the women in China giving birth in the beanfield, then going on picking beans as if it were nothing. Forget about it. You're not a Chinese beanfield picker. That life that you love, full of weekend getaways and blissful Sundays lolling in bed, pouring over the Calendar section of the LA Times? Gone. Dinner parties? Gone. Every journey out will be chaperoned by a tiny, bald person with appallingly bad manners. Goodbye, Ma Maison and House of Blues. Hello, Bob's Big Boy and House of Pancakes. And, bear in mind, won't you, that each journey with your new constant companion will approach a complexity something akin to a NASA launch.

"Diaper bag?"
"Check."
"Five changes of clothes?"
"Check."
"Baby wipes for the baby, and small, mini-bar sized bottles of hard liquor for us?"
"Check, and double check."

I believe that the current wave of post-partum depression is not just hormonal. It comes from this frilly, florid imagining of what we think our experience will be raising our children. Then this mysterious little larval creature arrives, and we have no idea who he or she is, or what he or she is thinking, or "for the love of God, what do you want from me?"

That's when the depression hits. We are the end of the boomer generation, after all. There's nothing we can't market for our own edification. We came in fully prepared to "reinvent" motherhood. No, sir. Motherhood is way too old and way too set in her ways to be reworked by the likes of you. You don't reinvent her, she reinvents you. Understand this, accept the changes that it makes in you -- your body, your mind, your relationship with your significant other, your priorities -- and your path will be filled with little adventures and casual surprises. You can't imagine the simple, commonplace miracle of arriving in the nursery in the morning to a beaming, slightly damp ten-month old who has pulled herself to a standing position and is so happy to see you that she's rocking from side to side in a celebratory little crib boogie. It will shock and amaze you how having someone spontaneously hug and kiss you because you helped them into a fresh diaper and a clean, dry t-shirt can utterly melt your heart. But mostly you can't imagine before you become a mother -- no matter how hard you try -- just how much you will love your child. As much as you think, in your present anticipation of motherhood, that you think you will love that child, it doesn't even come close to the real thing. "Love" is, in my belief, a pathetically inadequate word for the feeling a devoted mother has for her child. It's far too common to sum up the emotion.

And its that love that makes it all possible. The giving. The thanklessness (newborns rarely say thank-you after the 2 am feeding). The drudgery (diapers after strained squash -- 'nuff said there). The imposition on the relationship with Mr. Wonderful (and my wish for every woman is that he truly is Mr. Wonderful). Those little miracle moments when it suddenly occurs to you that you've contributed a strange, relentlessly independent human to the world, and no one could have done it the way you did -- those moments make you happy and at peace.

Motherhood may not always be easy, and it may not always be as pretty as commercials, movies, and television paint it, and you can rest assured you are going screw up more times than you get it right. But, big picture, its a blessing and a joy and if you cut yourself some slack, and don't buy into the bill of goods, you'll never be sorry you did it.

Now then. Isn't that better than the mass-marketed crap you get from pregnancy and women's magazines?

~C~

Join Us At the Buffet

Today's post is in Pink.... and nothing could be more appropriate. Best Available's Deirdre and I have conspired to bring the unbearable cuteness of toenails to the blogosphere.

Please, join us at the Buffet of Cuteness.

You won't be sorry. Well, you might be. But we won't... and that's the most important thing, isn't it.

~C~

The Worst of Times

The end of July and beginning of August are always difficult for me, but I always forget why until long after I've melted down. July 20th is the anniversary of my beloved godmother's death from lung cancer. July 23rd is her birthday. August 9th is the anniversary of my own mother's death, from a cerebral hemorrage in 1991.

Sometime around mid-July… like, say, the 17th or so, I begin to get a little edgy and unsoothable. No amount of anti-depressants helps. By the 19th or 20th, I'm fully on edge and ready for trouble. I spend the next two weeks in a state of mood fluxes and surges that last until sometime around mid-August, when it dawns on me why I'm getting this way, and I'm able to pull it all together.

This month, I figured it out by August 13th, after I'd experienced an emotional meltdown in the middle of Hollywood Cemetery after a screening of the movie "PSYCHO" (no, neither the locale nor the thriller were to blame). I won't delve into the immediate causes, except to say that they surrounded the current stress I'm experiencing in my home life involving family and physical and mental deterioration (only partially my own).

Usually, though I complain a lot about it, I manage to handle the emotional upset of the situation I'm in quite well. Saturday night, standing in the cemetery, I simply fell apart. I did NOT want to go home. I did NOT want to deal with anything any more. I did NOT want to keep doing this caregiver thing.

Sunday, a quiet day of cleaning, grocery shopping and reflection, I realized why. I want my mommies. I want at least one of my mommies, preferably my godmother, Linny, who was infinitely wise about human beings and their weird-assed behavior, and had the patience of a saint. I need her now. I need her ability to be loving and kind in the face of hostility and anger.

I hate that she died so young (three days short of her 65th birthday), when we all thought she'd live to a ripe old age. I hate that she never got a chance to fight her cancer, because secondary physical complications from the disease and chemo kicked her ass too soon.

But more than that, and this is the part that's really kind of sinister and makes me disappointed in myself, I think I'm resentful that now, when I need mothering the most, the one person -- Linny -- who proved up to the task, has taken a cosmic powder (not her choice, I realize, but still... grrrrr....). I suppose this is just something I'm meant to figure out on my own. I suppose that all the answers to my pointless questions would be just as pointless if I got them (which I won't).

Still, knowing that this time of year is difficult for me, knowing that I'm a little emotionally raw, I have to remember that next year, so that I'm not so knocked for a loop. I wonder where I'll be next year. Another pointless question. Today is what I have to work with, so I guess I'd better get cracking.

But here's a little toast with Newman's Own Lightly Sparkling Lemonade to Linny, whose love -- I'm going to have to assume -- has given me the strength to get through this with my spirit intact.

}( clink ){

~C~

We Didn't Start the Fire

Ever heard of Catherine Sanderson? No? Me, neither. That's her picture on the right. Recognize her now? Yeah, neither do I. I sincerely doubt that Ms. Sanderson's own mother could make a positive ID from this photo, but for now, we'll let that go. According to this CNN.com article, Ms. Sanderson was recently given the sack from her administrative clerical job at the Paris office of conservative British accounting firm Dixon Wilson when her bosses discovered she was the blogger behind "La Petite Anglaise."

Though Ms. Sanderson identified neither herself, nor the firm, about which she wrote occasionally unflattering things, she was terminated for what Dixon Wilson called "gross misconduct." They told her that, by keeping the online diary of her daily experiences at the firm, she was potentially exposing the company to defamatory and damaging publicity. Ms. Sanderson disagrees, and is suing Dixon Wilson for two years' wages (the equivalent of roughly $98000).

I wish her luck, as I'm afraid that the days when executives could keep their bad, unseemly behavior, which they seem to save especially for their underlings, a secret. As long as an employee refrains from revealing actually company secrets, I think he or she should be perfectly free to write whatever they want, in the same way that journalists can chronicle their adventures, as long as they follow basic journalistic rules of truth, nonmalicious discretion and respect for the privacy of the nonfamous. It doesn't appear, given the CNN article, that Ms. Sanderson did much more than ruffle some twead-clad male egos. Many of her posts are personally driven -- about her life as a single mother, recently separated from her French lover, and raising her young daughter, whom she calls "Tadpole" in the blog. Her blogging about work seems to be particularly self-referential -- in the selected posts I perused, she doesn't seem to to intentionally set out to "out" negative executive behavior, short of how it affected her personally. Just the way a good online diary should be, actually. Everybody has a pseudonym, nobody is described too fully, except by their actions. All pretty clandestine, actually. I daresay, given the publicity generated by her firing and subsequent litigation, the disgruntled executives seem to have drawn more attention to themselves by firing her than they might have by giving her a stern warning and letting her appeal to her 3,000 regular readers. I guarantee you more than 3,000 people read the CNN article, and that those personally familiar with the executive line-up at Dixon Wilson know precisely who had the "plumby Oxford accent" and who the boss was who committed the "unforgivable faux pas" of releasing a Christmas popper before a higher-up.

Ms. Sanderson's plight does, however, reveal an interesting side of what we do here on a regular basis. I have written about work and work-related problems, both here and on the Chron. Sometimes, the things I've said have not been flattering. Could I be let go for the things I've written? I have never named names, nor been too overly specific about issues that roil up at work. But I've bitched about them, certainly. There are others, like Deirdre of Best Available, who have blogs specifically devoted to certain professions (which I would too, if I actually had an interesting profession. See? There I go again!). Deirdre's revolves around being a VFX coordinator. For those of you who don't know what that is, you'll have to click the link (when you're done here that is) to find out. For now, though, trust me. It's a cool gig.

Deirdre is very circumspect about where she works and with whom she consorts, and sticks primarily to discussing the ins and outs of the visual fx biz. But occasionally, even Deirdre has a rant... okay, more than occasionally -- and usually justificably. But since she's anonymous and she has revealed nothing personal about herself, do her rants count as being "defamatory?" I'm a fairly open blogger, in fact. But could my occasional blog blabs be considered "gross misconduct?"

Granted there's a world of difference between the movie industry and the world of high finance. It's a little difficult to fire me for gross miconduct when they're busy courting Roman Polanski, the convicted child rapist, to direct their next film. (I mean, what's a little under-aged sex between top level male movie mavens?) Still, it seems ironic that Ms. Sanderson should be punished for NOT saying who she is, where she works, and with whom. I wonder how a French civil court will find on the issue. You can never tell how they're going to go.

So, the best of luck to one of our own, who is still up and blogging (last I looked). Stop by and push her hit counter through the roof and show those stuffed shirts who's boss. Stick to The Man (or, more appropriately, L'Homme).

~C~

Tradition? You betcha.

My former musical theatre director's husband sent me this today... (thanks, Matt).

Never let it be said that the Japanese can't dance a mean Horah.



(For the record, I think they're actually quite good, especially since it appears that this is only a rehearsal.)

And... by the way.... What DON'T we love about YouTube.com, I ask you?

~C~

Spatulas in Space

Is it just me, or is this of some concern? I mean, what if beings from another galaxy -- with higher intelligence than ours, but with heads shaped like a stack of flapjacks -- should happen across our lost spatula? What if they completely misunderstand that the spatula on this planet is a universally peaceful implement, signifying love, brotherhood and chicken quesadillas? What if they misinterpret the existence of our spatula in space as a challenge -- a gauntlet, if you will -- to be taken up and volleyed back at us, in the first salvo of a cataclysmic intergallactic war.

Oh, sure... mock me if you dare, but mark my words. The careless act of losing a spatula in space could be nothing more than a blip in a footnote in the annals of this space mission. Or, it could be the beginning of the end of humanity as we know it.

Or... maybe its just me.

~C~

The Hands We're Dealt

When my father was at home, working on a big project with an imminent deadline, he would occasionally stop to relieve his stress and freshen his mind with a game or two of computer solitaire. Every now and then, I would catch a glimpse over his shoulder and I began to notice a pattern. If the hand that the computer dealt was particularly lop-sided -- three of a kind, too much of one color, too many high value or face cards -- he would simply click the "New Game" button and start with a fresh deal. I asked him once why he did this.

"Because that kind of game is impossible to beat," came his reply. "What's the point of even starting it if you're probably going to lose?"

But that simply wasn't true, and I knew it. In my illustrious solitaire career, I have won many games that seemed to start as lost causes. Three of a kind would pop up, and I'd have to be really careful as to how I played them and what I sent to the suit stacks. The thing about solitaire is that winning is more about dealing with what you don't know than what you do. The up-facing cards are right there; you can see where you stand with them. They weren't going to get any better or worse than they already had. But the unrevealed cards on the board and in the draw stack -- those were the ones you had to count on. They had to arrive in a certain order, have a certain number, be a certain color, and be the right value.

A lot of times, when you got a bad deal on the first hand, you lost. But sometimes, even if the first hand gave you what seem like insurmountable obstacles, you managed, through fate and perseverance to beat it anyway. Those were moments when you figured you'd lose, but you played the hand because that was what was in front of you, and you had to play it -- probably lose it -- then move on to the next.

I was at his computer once, using one of his programs, when I decided to take my own "mental health break." As I was playing, it was my father's turn to watch over my shoulder as three 7s dealt out. It drove him nuts that I wouldn't just hit "New Game" when the situation looked hopeless. I kept playing as long as there was a move. Click, move, click, click, move, move, click, move. Until at last, I had put the last King into the last suit stack. The little suit stacks went wild, and the cards danced triumphantly across the computer screen. I had won. I had conquered impossible odds. I had snatched victory from the jaws of… well, you get the idea.

All of which is a long, roundabout way of saying that you have two different people, with two wildly different ideas of how to approach a seemingly "no win" situation. One bumps up against an obstacle, throws up his hands and hits "New Game". The other looks at the situation, assesses it and plays the cards that are dealt.

Because in Life, there is no "New Game." In Life, you get what you get, and you can either sit in the chair and mope about it, or you can play the cards that are dealt you to the best of your ability, until you have no more moves left. Then and only then is the game over.

I've told this story for years now. It used to be a little story I told about my father's peculiar solitaire habits. But more and more lately, it seems that solitaire is really beside the point.

~C~

No Time To Say "Hello." Goodbye.

I'm late, I'm late, I'm late.

(See you when I get back.)

~C~

Discovering Rilke

I have been exploring poetry lately, mostly on PoemHunter.com. This week's poet is Rainer Maria Rilke. I thought this was especially poignant in light of Memorial Day.

Again And Again

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

(Translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Rainer Maria Rilke

~C~

Anniversary Gift

I was halfway through May 16th, and suddenly it hit me. Yesterday would have been my 19th wedding anniversary. Nineteen years ago, I did something amazingly brave and courageous, or apocolytically stupid and ill-advised (depending upon your vantage point) and married a man I'd known less than a year. And by "less than a year," I mean half a year less than a year.

I was 27 at the time, and I wish I could tell you that I didn't know better. But I did. I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew it would be difficult. I knew we didn't know each other well enough. But I was certain that what I thought was love would be enough to carry us through.

It wasn't.

It is the height of youthful arrogance to think that you have the resilience to withstand a knowingly bad relationship choice for the rest of your life, without it damaging you in psychological and emotional ways. No one does. No one gets out of an ill-conceived relationship without being scarred for life.

I was talking to my friend, Deirdre, just today, in fact, about the 80's. Deirdre isn't a big fan of the 80s. She's on location in... uhh... New Dehli... (yeah, that's the ticket), and she and I have taken to IMing between the time she gets back to her hotel and the time she goes to sleep. Television in... uhh... New Dehli... leaves a bit to be desired, especially at night, so she was subjected to having to watch Pretty in Pink while we were chatting on AIM. Between Molly Ringwald (one of my LEAST favorite parts of the 80s) and Jon "Ducky" Cryer's Flock of Seagulls haircut, Deirdre was puzzled when I told her I loved the 80s.

"What's to love?" she asked.

"I loved everything about the 80s. Torn t-shirts. Dancing welders. My stomach was flat. My ass was small. I loved the music. Then, I got married. And that pretty much sucked the joy out of everything."

(It bears noting -- not to out Deirdre or anything -- that she was in a fairly lackluster marriage herself during most of the 80s, which could explain her aversion to the entire decade. I have no direct clinical proof. My theory is based solely on anecdotal data.)

My marriage, which, like all marriages do, began on such a happy, hopeful note, quickly deteriorated into one person trying to recreate his birth family, and another trying to resist this with all of her might. What began as a sweet, optimistic, ambitious experiment to start a fresh, new family ended with two angry people who never really knew each other trying to find a way to part without damaging their toddler beyond repair.

Sad, really. I just wanted to start a family -- not replay someone else's. He just wanted to be the head of the house that he grew up in.

I was so sure we'd straightened it all out. I was so sure I knew what he wanted and what would make him happy. He was probably just as sure that if I could only succumb and let him build the family unit he wanted, I'd be happy, too. Of course, we were both wrong. I didn't realize that it wasn't my job to make him happy, and he didn't realize that trying to recreate his family was a futile (though common) effort.

Cross purposes....

So, I live alone, and he is remarried to someone who better suits his idea of family (though he is, at present, not speaking to his parents). Its better this way. Truly.

But I do wonder if I have it in me to make something different. Something better. Maybe the key is choosing a man who, like myself, has no discernible family model (single mother, disinterested absentee father). Or maybe I need to find someone who is mature enough to realize that every relationship wipes the slate clean. The only thing you should be bringing from the past into the present are lessons that make you kinder, more compassionate, a better listener, a better partner, a better lover. Anything from past relationships about the other person -- whether they abused you, lied to you, cheated on you, stole from you or snorted cocaine off your grandma's heirloom marble-top dresser -- is useless in this relationship and should be jettisoned at once.

So it wasn't a total loss, my marriage. It gave me some insights. It gave me my daughter. And it gave me the appreciation for holding fast to who I am as a person and not allowing myself to get lost in someone else's vision.

So, Happy UnWedding Anniversary to me. May I live to have 50 more....

~C~

Math and Art (Again!)

Somebody's been playing in the 3D again!

Where Math and Art Collide

~C~

Sometimes, Things Just Go Right

This week, somebody got a new computer at work, and a new coffee mug from WaiterRant (and two nifty free WaiterRant ballpoint pens to boot).

Who could that be, I wonder? Who could the lucky person be who got all those wonderful things?

Oh yeah.

Me.

(Life is good. Very good.)

~C~

When a Door Closes...

... a negotiation opens...

It seems that there could be a bigger future for Chris Daughtry than winning American Idol could ever have afforded him. Apparently, since lead singer Brett Scallion left the band, Fuel, the boys have been looking for his replacement. Daughtry's rendition of "Hemorrhage" didn't go unnoticed among the band's remaining members. They tested the waters back then to see if Daughtry might be interested in taking Scallions' place.

Now that Daughtry has left Idol, the offer was made, publicly and in earnest, when Fuel bandmates Jeff Abercrombie and Carl Bell appeared on "Extra" and made Daughtry another pitch to join the band.

Daughtry has also expressed interest in launching a solo career, and his wife, Deanna has said she's not even sure which road Daughtry will pursue. Let's face it -- the guy's exhausted. The schedule for performing in the last legs of the American Idol competition are grueling, and no one can expect Daughtry to make career decisions that affect the rest of his life -- at least, not until Sunday.

If I had a say in the decision (and frankly, I'm stunned that he hasn't called me to ask), I'd tell him to take the Fuel gig and wipe the stain of American Idol off his little bald rocker head. Then, he can launch a solo career after the band falls apart (because, don't they always?).

Well, now that that's settled.... We can all get on with our lives.

(Psst... Chris... call me before you sign anything!!!)

~C~

America Voted And...

... proved once again that the same people who voted to make George W. Bush their president -- not once, but twice, mind you -- can't even be trusted with a simple phone-in vote for American Idol.

Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots!

The producers have voted, and Taylor Hicks is your next American Idol (though you deserve no better than that damp washcloth, Elliot Yamin, you mealy-mouthed, lilly-livered Americans!) Just when I thought I was being too harsh on my own countrymen for wanting to go and live in England after the 2004 elections, this happens and reinforces my desire to expatriate. I'm ashamed to be seen with you, you descendants of English and German religious exiles, you! You shallow cretins who have let yourselves become so steeped in mediocrity that you don't know talent when you see it! You sorry examples of cultural bereftment!*

Go home, Chris. Get some sleep. Play with your kids. Make love to your wife. Then go cut a CD. I'll be the first one in line.

~C~

*Okay, I'll grant you -- that one may be a little like the pot calling the kettle black, since I'm admitting that I actually watch American Idol. Or, more accurately, "watched," since the show has officially been permanently banned from my house for all eternity. You think I'm kidding. You don't know me. Never. Ever. Again. Ever.

What God Hath Wrought

Today is the 18th anniversary of the day when I stopped worshipping at the Altar of the Self. It's been a bumpy road, but more than worth it. I wrote about it (complete with Pictures!) on The Chron.

Happy Birthday, kid....

~Mom~

Some Folks Just Don't Understand the Meaning of "No Vacancies"

For an apartment building that's about to be torn down in a few months, my apartment building is a pretty popular place. My on-site manager actually rented the last three apartments with the full disclosure that there would be no lease, and that the plans were already in the works to tear the building down and build condos or other apartments, probably by the end of the summer. They rented anyway. So the sign outside our apartment building says, quite clearly and unambiguously, "No Vacancies."

For the last two weeks though, we've had a couple of new tenants who've decided that signs in big red letters just don't apply to them. It's not the first time that we've gotten a duck coming to roost in our heart-shaped swimming pool. Five years ago, a mother (possibly this sexy thing) roosted for nearly two weeks at the end of April with her three ducklings. Last year, another duck (again, the same femme fatale?) showed up with not one, but two drakes in tow, vying for her favors.

And this year -- our last here in the complex, sadly -- we are treated to this couple who come and go every few days, perhaps to escape the crowded filthy nearby Lake Balboa. Perhaps they've just decided that, since the management company has seen fit to lock down the pool until we're all cast out on the street, somebody should be using the fabulous heart-shaped pool. Perhaps they're on their honeymoon, and snapping pictures of them is in really poor taste.

Whatever brings them here, seeing them floating leisurely along the blue surface makes me happy. When you think of all the things I could walk out of my front door to see (I refer you to Mary-Mia's post on Do They Have Salsa in China? regarding the wildlife that landed in her backyard not so very long ago), seeing a couple of pretty ducks, cruising along the top of the water, enjoying each other's company is kind of a treat.

Ah, Spring....

~C~

Kitten Mommy Report: Small Victories

Here we are, Day 12 into Life as Kitten Mommy....

Big Cat has decided that Kitten was not brought here to eat him. He will now tolerate her presence in his immediate vicinity without growling and hissing. I have allowed Kitten to hang outside the bathroom during the day when I'm at work, but I suspect that they each go into a bedroom and sleep most of the day, because life doesn't seem to start until Kitten Mommy returns home and wants some peace and quiet. Then, all manner of feline feels the need to bounce hysterically off the walls and hang from the proverbial rafters.

I can report progress in a two areas. First, as you can see at the picture on the right, I have managed to get them eating in the same general area. This is a considerable "win" -- while Big Cat thought Kitten might eat him, he wouldn't put his head down to eat. Hunger eventually won out, and I suppose that, faced with the prospect of being eaten by Kitten or starving to death, it became necessary to take some risks.

The other area where we have achieved a small victory is in the "play" department. Kitten has her work cut out for her. I'm told that when he was adopted as a baby, Big Cat (then not nearly so big as now) was beset upon by his sister, who was adopted with him, and attacked by her nearly daily. Is it any wonder that the sight of another very small cat-like being with an enormous head and poor fine motor movement might raise an alarm in him? It all becomes clearer. Big Cat put his guard up very early in his young life, and it's stayed there ever since. He has forgotten the fine art of "play."

Kitten's task at hand is to reteach Big Cat how to play. Then she will have a playmate all day at her disposal (did I mention the world is her oyster? right... ), even when I'm at work. She seems to understand this, because she pursues Big Cat relentlessly, batting at his tail, stalking him, peaking and poking at him from under the dust ruffle of my bed. She runs at him, and leaps up in a posture of attack, then falls to the ground on her back in a thoroughly submissive posture... "I've got you... No... Now, you've got me! Oh, clever you!!" Of course, Big Cat just sits motionless, like a basque cat statue, watching her as if she is a total idiot. (Which she kind of would be, if she weren't so pickin' cute!!!)

But every once in a while, he will reach out at her, almost as if her spell is more than he can conquer, and bat at her gently, then realize what he's doing, and stop himself. Two days ago, Kitten and I were in the bathroom (she helps me blow dry my hair every morning -- an activity which both concerns and perplexes her, yet fascinates her as well), and when I came out, I caught Big Cat red-handed playing a rousing game of mylar crunchie ball soccer on the kitchen floor by himself. He's batted at things before, but he's never actually indulged in a raucous, slide-across-the-kitchen-floor, risk-looking-like-a-fool free-for-all.

Kitten is having the effect I'd hoped she'd have on Big Cat. She's reteaching him to play. She's awakening his inner-Kitten. Soon, I hope, they will be playing together like two kittens in a litter, and Big Cat will get another crack at a happy childhood. I think everyone deserves that, no matter how old they are.

~C~