Pussy Control
Initially when I looked like this…
I wanted to start this entry with, “I hate my cat,” but many things have changed in the past few weeks.
We have had a cat for more than a year and Azul loves her, he picked her and even picked her name, Eddie. I have had a very different relationship with her. First, I am severely allergic to her, which is why I look like the picture posted. Eddie is a beautiful long haired orange tabby, who sheds A LOT! I have had her groomed many times to get the excess hair off of her, I have rubbed a solution I got from the Vet on her to ease my allergy and I have resorted to having her shaved. Which was by far the cruelest thing, at that point, I had done to her. She looked awful without hair; well, she did have hair on her legs from her knees down, so she looked like she was naked and wearing Ugg Boots. Second, she has a piercing meow and she prefers to exercise her voice early in the morning, while we are trying to sleep. Although it is irritating, it is a little easier to deal with than the other things. Finally, she of course scratches. My furniture! She has the scratching post, floor mat and even sprays that I used to try to train her not to scratch my furniture. She has ruined two chairs and started in on the couch — this is where I drew the line. I took her to get caps on her little fabric ripping tools. She rebelled and ripped them off, so the fight was on, and I would replace them. This pattern went on for months and I was desperate, so I resorted to torture. I made an appointment with the Vet, left her there for a couple of days and she returned a changed cat. I didn’t want to do it and I feel a little bad about it, but having her claws removed is the best thing I could have done. I’m still allergic, but no more scratching, and the pre-sunrise calls have ended. Last night she finally sat on my lap and decided to be my friend again. I won the war and our little Eddie Girl is the sweetest thing around.
No Ifs Ands Or Butts.
Today I turn 41. I don’t feel any excitement or disappointment in 41, it is what it is. But, I remember the first time I did feel old, it was not the last, but of course your first is always the most memorable. It was the summer of 2007; I was only thirty-four, just months before I turned thirty five. It was an extremely hot day and I was outside with my best friend Ann Dee and her family. It was the day of her dad’s funeral and burial. It was an old family plot, mostly dust and sand, and the family was responsible for digging the grave. I’m not sure when the miscalculations took place, but when it was time to lower the coffin into the ground, it didn’t fit. So, as you could imagine, it was uncomfortably funny and the coffin had to be pulled out and more dirt dug out of the tight space. Again, it was an extremely hot day and while we waited for what seemed like an eternity for a proper goodbye, I was standing by Ann Dee supporting her in her time of need. That’s when it happened — I felt a bead of sweat slowly rolling down the back of my leg. It was a funeral, so I was wearing a skirt; it was summer time so I was not wearing tights, and obviously the skin on skin contact from my butt cheeks to my thigh was too much. That was the moment I knew I was getting old.
Sad is shitty
At my Father-in-law’s services, we asked anyone who wanted to share a story to please do so and there were some beautiful remembrances, given by some very educated and articulate colleagues of Jim’s. After everyone told their story, I decided to lighten the mood, so I spoke up. “Grandpa told some of the best stories and my favorite was his near death experience as a kid. He was seven or eight, running in the fields in South Dakota on the farm where he grew up. I don’t know if they were playing tag or hide-and-seek but he was running and tripped on something. That fall caused him to fall HEAD FIRST in a poorly covered pit toilet.” Some people asked, “A what?” I continued, “An old outhouse, which was no longer in use and not covered well enough when it was full and moved to another location.” A few giggles and snickers from the audience. “So, I don’t remember exactly how he got out.” And I turned to my husband, who added, “I think his friend pulled him out.” I’m back on, “So, he is head first in an old pit toilet and his friend grabs him by the ankles and pulls him out and…” At this point I have my hands in the air and wave both of them once and the wrist, “well, he survived that shit!” The welcomed laughter broke the sadness.
Carmelina Hart 