Alien Cat

This morning, there was a cat in my house.
Not Poki, the cat that is supposed to be in my house. Poki was on the roof, meowing at the window, as is her wont.
No, the cat that was in my house this morning was a different cat. A foreign cat. A cat masquerading as Poki.

She might have pulled it off, too, if she had crept into the house of one not quite as discerning as I.

She was pure black, just like Poki.
And small, just like Poki.
And quick, just like Poki.
But even out of the corner of my eye, distracted by the mounds of laundry that I was sorting and folding, I could tell that she wasn’t Poki.

It was the tail that gave her away.

Poki’s tail is crooked. There is a 45° angle bend at the very tip. The tail I saw disappearing behind a post, was straight as an arrow.
And, it was fat. A straight, fat, tail. Definitely not Poki’s.

I abandoned the warmth of my freshly laundered clothes and gave chase.
Out of the laundry room, over the landing, into the family room. And that’s where I lost her.

The family room, in the middle of a major overhaul, is construction central. Furniture is stacked “out of the way”, in the corners, and there are tools and wire, sawdust and nails, everywhere.
The imposter disappears into the shadows of this chaos.

I go back into the laundry room and continue my sorting and folding.
Quietly.
Waiting for the fuzzy black face of the alien cat to reappear.

No luck.

I stack my laundry and carry it upstairs. I am sure that the fact that I am leaving will be exactly the magnet I need to draw the cat out of hiding.
But when I creep back downstairs, deftly avoiding the squeaky step, I discover I am wrong.

Still no cat.

And so I begin cooing “here kitty, kitty, kitty” in the most alluring, I-am-a-cat-lover tone of voice I can manage.

Alien cat is not impressed.

I change tactics and begin banging on tables, stomping my feet and yelling “scat, scat, go away you cat!” I go for one last moment defining stomp and my foot, shoeless as usual, comes down on the edge of a nail. I grab my foot and forcefully swallow the expletive that has traveled in less than a nanosecond, from the ball of my right foot to the back of my throat and threatens to explode from my lips with the fury of a shaken pop bottle. As I cradle my foot and hop in ever shrinking circles, I’m sure that I hear the cat snickering from the safety of friendly black shadow.

I glance at the clock and notice that, in five minutes, I will be late for work.

“Shit!!!” The “bottle cap” jettisons across the room.

I fly back upstairs, grab my shoes and scream off to work.
Nine hours later, I return home.

I open the basement door and am assaulted with the unmistakable smell of alien-cat-trapped-in-a-basement-all-day-with-no-way-out-and-no-litterbox.
Flipping on the light, I tiptoe gingerly down the stairs so as to avoid stepping in any surprises.
In the basement, I discover that sawdust that has been swept into a pile and forgotten goes a long way towards containing the river of cat pee that wanted to snake across the floor. I make a mental note not to complain about construction debris – at least not today.

I feel silent eyes watching me as I move quietly around the room. They pierce my skin and I start to itch. It is driving me CRAZY!!! I know alien cat is somewhere in my basement.

WHERE?!

I open the outside basement door and it cries out with the exquisite agony of Tinman moving for the first time after Dorothy oils him. The rusty creak is the signal for which alien cat was waiting, the call from the mother ship to come home.
Alien cat answers in a blur that streaks out the door and into the arms of a spring twilight pregnant with the anticipation of rain.

On Being Catholic

I was raised Roman Catholic.
That means that, although I may recognize Bible stories when I hear them, I cannot quote from the Bible. Apparently, little has changed.

The following are actual answers from a test given at a Roman Catholic elementary school. Nothing has been retouched or corrected.

1. IN THE FIRST BOOK OF THE BIBLE, GUINESSIS. GOD GOT TIRED OF CREATING THE WORLD SO HE TOOK THE SABBATH OFF.

2. ADAM AND EVE WERE CREATED FROM AN APPLE TREE. NOAH'S WIFE WAS JOAN OF ARK. NOAH BUILT AND ARK AND THE ANIMALS CAME ON IN PEARS.

3. LOTS WIFE WAS A PILLAR OF SALT DURING THE DAY, BUT A BALL OF FIRE DURING THE NIGHT.

4. THE JEWS WERE A PROUD PEOPLE AND THROUGHOUT HISTORY THEY HAD TROUBLE WITH UNSYMPATHETIC GENITALS.

5. SAMPSON WAS A STRONGMAN WHO LET HIM SELF BE LED ASTRAY BY A JEZEBEL LIKE DELILAH.

6. SAMSON SLAYED THE PHILISTINES WITH THE AXE OF THE APOSTLES.

7. MOSES LED THE JEWS TO THE RED SEA WHERE THEY MADE UNLEAVENED BREAD WHICH IS BREAD WITHOUT ANY INGREDIENTS .

8. THE EGYPTIANS WERE ALL DROWNED IN THE DESSERT. AFTER WARDS, MOSES WENT UP TO MOUNT CYANIDE TO GET THE TEN COMMANDMENTS.

9. THE FIRST COMMANDMENTS WAS WHEN EVE TOLD ADAM TO EAT THE APPLE.

10. THE SEVENTH COMMANDMENT IS THOU SHALT NOT ADMIT ADULTERY.

11. MOSES DIED BEFORE HE EVER REACHED CANADA .. THEN JOSHUA LED THE HEBREWS IN THE BATTLE OF GERITOL.

12. THE GREATEST MIRICLE IN THE BIBLE IS WHEN JOSHUA TOLD HIS SON TO STAND STILL AND HE OBEYED HIM.

13. DAVID WAS A HEBREW KING WHO WAS SKILLED AT PLAYING THE LIAR. HE FOUGHT THE FINKELSTEINS, A RACE OF PEOPLE WHO LIVED IN BIBLICAL TIMES.

14. SOLOMON, ONE OF DAVIDS SONS, HAD 300 WIVES AND 700 PORCUPINES.

15. WHEN MARY HEARD SHE WAS THE MOTHER OF JESUS, SHE SANG THE MAGNA CARTA.

16. WHEN THE THREE WISE GUYS FROM THE EAST SIDE ARRIVED THEY FOUND JESUS IN THE MANAGER.

17. JESUS WAS BORN BECAUSE MARY HAD AN IMMACULATE CONTRAPTION.

18. ST. JOHN THE BLACKSMITH DUMPED WATER ON HIS HEAD.

19. JESUS ENUNCIATED THE GOLDEN RULE, WHICH SAYS TO DO UNTO OTHERS BEFORE THEY DO ONE TO YOU. HE ALSO EXPLAINED A MAN DOTH NOT LIVE BY SWEAT ALONE.

20. IT WAS A MIRICLE WHEN JESUS ROSE FROM THE DEAD AND MANAGED TO GET THE TOMBSTONE OFF THE ENTRANCE.

21. THE PEOPLE WHO FOLLOWED THE LORD WERE CALLED THE 12 DECIBELS.

22. THE EPISTELS WERE THE WIVES OF THE A POSTLES.

23. ONE OF THE OPPOSSUMS WAS ST. MATTHEW WHO WAS ALSO A TAXIMAN.

24. ST. PAUL CAVORTED TO CHRISTIANITY, HE PREACHED HOLY ACRIMONY WHICH IS ANOTHER NAME FOR MARRAIGE.

25. CHRISTIANS HAVE ONLY ONE SPOUSE . THIS IS CALLED MONOTONY.

Explains a lot...doesn't it?!

Standing Together

DO NOT read this post if you are in a hurry or if you are looking for a "light" read.

My intellectual self has always been aware of the fact that women often do not get a fair shake.

Women work harder for less. The careers that have been historically female do not garner the same earning power as the careers that have been historically male. Men seem to get more recognition for being good fathers than women get for being good mothers – it is somehow expected that women will mother well given their “natural” proclivity toward nurturing, whereas a nurturing man is perceived as an anomaly. Hillary gets called Hillary while Barrack gets called Obama.

I could go on, but you get the point. I have not been oblivious to the “plight” of women. Intellectually.

Emotionally. That’s another story. I just wasn’t there.

And it’s not because I have never experienced the subtle (and not so subtle) discrimination against women. I’ve been talked down to in all matters involving cars and power tools. I bore the brunt of the blame for the failure of my marriage – a stay-at-home mother should be able to manage to keep her home intact, after all, what else does she have to do? I’ve been asked why I don’t wear more form fitting clothes so that I can “show off” my body or “put on my face” before I go out in public. I’ve heard teachers make excuses for the behavior of boys because “boys will be boys” while girls get reprimanded for the very same behaviors.

Yes, these things disturbed me. They bothered me enough that I have talked often with my children about equal rights, their right to be treated as a human being and not ranked according to gender. But I have never been red-in-the-face-shake-my-fist-curse-the-injustice-of-it-all angry.

Until I learned about the Second Congo War. It has been characterized as the deadliest conflict since the end of World War II. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
I hadn’t.
A friend opened my eyes by forwarding me this 60 Minutes video.


Then I read this.

And this.

Rape has always been a factor of war. In the Democratic Republic of Congo, rape has become the preferred weapon of war. Women and girls, some as young as 14 months, are being brutalized. Families and communities are held at gunpoint, forced to witness this horrific act of violence being perpetrated on the women they love. Physically, the women are left HIV infected or suffering from fistulae or pregnant or all three. Often they are ostracized – children cannot take food from their mothers who are now “unclean”. Husbands abandon their families either because their “woman” has been with another man or because they are so broken at their inability to protect their families that they simply cannot face them anymore.

This is the systematic annihilation of a society through the destruction of its women.

Why should we care?


In the face of unspeakable horror, these women go on. They are strong. They will not allow their abusers to destroy them, their families nor their communities.

I am humbled by these women.
I admire these women.
I will help these women.

Women For Women International works to help these women rebuild their lives, to rise, like phoenix, from the ashes. Run For Congo Women events are staged in many communities in the US. This year’s Portland run is scheduled for September 14tn. If running is not your thing, sponsor a runner. If sponsoring a runner feels too removed, sponsor a Congolese woman. There are many ways that we can become involved.

Do not ignore these women. They deserve more. So do you.

Labels

I am struggling with words.
Specifically, words to define the men in my life for people who don’t know them.

Patrick is “my children’s father”. I try not to use the term “ex-husband”.
“Ex” feels dismissive. Cut off. Separate.
While I realize that I divorced him exactly so I could feel that way, I also realize that my children did not divorce him and do not want to feel that way.
My children love their father and he loves them. Labeling him “my children’s father” takes my relationship with Patrick out of the picture and puts the spotlight where it should be, on my children’s relationship with their father. That is the relationship that matters now, the relationship that needs to be nurtured.
However, it feels awkward when I describe him that way to a new acquaintance precisely because of the fact that it doesn’t address my relationship with him. I find that I often want to tack on some kind of qualifier that explains that we used to be married but are married no longer. I know that urge says more about my discomfort at being “left out” of the picture than it does about anyone else’s need to know “the rest of the story”, and that pettiness bothers me.

Then there is “the man that I am dating”.
What do I call him?
“Boyfriend” is too high school. Besides, I like to think I am dating a “man” not a “boy”.
My mother asked if we were “going steady”. Going steady?! That sounds both high school and hopelessly out of touch with the 21st century.
“Well,” I replied, tersely addressing her underlying question, “neither of us is dating other people.”
People at work use the term “partner”. That strikes me as being at once too cold and too intimate.
I grew up in an era when “partner” was a reference used for a business relationship. My relationship with this man is definitely more personal than that.
On the flip side, “partner”, to me, implies a relationship akin to marriage and I am certainly not ready to take that step.
I could just go with “friend”, and sometimes, I do. But then I get the “Oh, is he your “special” friend?” remarks.
And so I’m stuck with calling him, “the man that I’m dating”, which seems like too many words and not enough feeling.

And I know that it’s all just semantics. That it really doesn’t matter. Except…words matter.

My Pond

As a stay-at-home mother, my world revolved around my children and my home. The issues on which I focused were the issues that directly affected my small, little corner of the pond.
I worried about the schools my children attended and the neighborhood in which we lived.
I did my part for the environment – I recycled, paid extra for renewable energy and donated to the Sierra Club. I volunteered in classrooms, lobbied for school funding and was active in our church community.
I lived my life in a tight circle, the boundaries of which had been clearly defined for me.

As my children grew older, I realized that the limits that had been placed on me were beginning to limit my children as well.
And I realized that the dynamics of my marriage did not allow me to be both a good wife and a good mother.

Forced to make a choice, I chose my children.

It was not a popular choice.
Prevailing “wisdom” said that divorce was the worst possible thing I could do to my children.
Inner wisdom told me otherwise.
Still, leaving was not easy. I had to fight my way out, but my marriage had sucked me dry of the strength I needed to leave. And so, I relied on the strength of friends. Friends who loved me and supported me, who fought for me and held up the light so I could see in the darkness through which I needed to travel.

That experience led me to the work I do in support of women.
This has opened up a brand new world for me. It is a world that reaches far beyond the narrow confines in which I used to live.

It is a bigger world, with bigger realities.
It has more beauty, and it also has more ugliness, both of which have come crashing in to my life with the force of a tsunami.

And as my little pond fills with water, I am forced to swim to stay afloat in my ever expanding universe.

Some days, I feel as though I am drowning.
Some days, I am a water polo player, buoyed up, working with the water and possessing the strength to lift my body into the air so that I can slam the ball into the goal for a SCOOOORRE!

I am grateful for both kinds of days.

I grow stronger on the days that I keep from drowning.
And my water polo days…ah…those days are simply glorious!

Rio

She is old. My dog.

Her hair is long and shaggy, white, with black spots. Her “papers” say she is a “Springer mix”.

She became a part of our family in the summer of ’95, when she was two-years old. We had been talking about getting a dog for about a year and looking for a dog for a few months.
A dog, not a puppy.
With three children, I already had enough potty training and obedience lessons in my life.
We visited pet stores and private residences and the Humane Society. We scoured the newspapers and we talked to friends. We visited countless dogs. They were too big or too small, too jumpy or too noisy, too young or too old.

Rio found us on our third visit to the Humane Society. She was looking for a family that was not too big or too small, too jumpy or too noisy, too young or too old.
She chose us for the exact reasons we chose her.

Walking through the kennels at the Humane Society was deafening. The sight of humans set the dogs to barking and jumping, clamoring for attention.
“Pick me! Buy me! Want me!” they all begged. Loudly.

All except Rio. She was a lady.
She sat patiently in her kennel. Waiting.
Waiting for her perfect family to come along and find her.

OS noticed her first. He pointed at her and looked up at me with question and excitement in his eyes.

The day before we had visited with a Gordon setter named Everett. He had decided that OS was the perfect chew toy and that OD was the perfect jumping post. His antics had confirmed for us what we didn’t want.

Rio was the perfect anti-Everett. The perfect dog for us.

Before we had even left the pound, she had burrowed her way into our hearts. That day we grew from a family of five to a family of six.

For the past 13 years, Rio has graced our family with love and patience and peace. In an effort to compensate for the almost daily vacuuming required for the copious amounts of fur she sheds, Rio generously pitched in to help with family chores by being the official plate pre-rinser. She has also shared her superlative foot warming skills with cold toes on wet winter nights.

But lately, things have changed.
She has lumps that squish and bumps that ooze.
Her body’s urge to eliminate has overcome her mind’s ability to control the process.
Her soft brown eyes are clouded over with a silver haze.
My voice is no longer a part of her world and when she strays too far, she cannot hear me calling for her to return.
She chooses to live in the garage. The house is no longer a place of comfort to her.

I want to put her out of her misery.

And yet, when I take her in for her check-up, the vet says, “She has old dog lungs, but her heart is nice and strong.”
When I ask about the lumps and bumps, she says, “Oh, that’s to be expected with this breed of dog. They don’t bother her and they’re not cancerous.”
The eyes, the ears, the incontinence…all to be expected in a dog “this age.”

Rio, apparently, is perfectly happy. She rules her world from the garage, where she has easy access to outside and a comfy cave under the stairs. When the backyard beckons, the cool grass aching to be rolled in, the plum tree eager to provide a shady respite, Rio has the power to answer the call, or ignore it.

After visiting the vet, I realize that I want to put Rio out of my misery.
I am the one who perceives Rio’s life as miserable. Not Rio.

I have always been told that dogs are social animals that relish the companionship of their people. My dogs, therefore, have always been an integral part of the family.
When Rio started having issues with incontinence, I started putting her in the garage when everyone was gone and bringing her back inside when we got home. One day, though, Rio didn’t want to come back inside. I left the garage door open for her, so she could come back in when she was ready. Many months later, she still is not ready.

At this point in her life, she does not appear to need the constant reassurance of our love for her. She has lived with us long enough to know that we love her.

Apparently, what Rio wants is the freedom to make her own choices and the quiet and solitude she has earned after a lifetime of often chaotic, togetherness.

I will love her enough to give her this.

Girl Talk

I flee from my house, eager to get back to work and the predictability of emergency services. I realize that I will have to talk with OS when I get home. I know I should have done so before I left, but the shock of Elizabeth’s blinding smile wiped my mind clean of the ability to form words. When I finally regain the ability to speak, all I can do is apologize for the mess in the basement and mumble something about needing to get back to the office.

In the car, my mind is a jumble of questions.

Would OS have told me about his friend if I hadn’t come home? Why was she there? Why have I never met her before? Wow, she sure was cute, wasn’t she? What were they doing? Should I have made her leave when I left? There is no way any messing around could have been going on with eight fourth graders running around the house playing hide-and-seek, was there?

Mostly I wonder, how did my children get so old so fast?

It is difficult to concentrate at work. I fluctuate between wanting to laugh out loud and wanting to take OS and thump him on his incredibly dense little head.
Answering crisis calls and writing a letter for a participant serve as good distractions, forcing thoughts of home to the back of my mind. There, in the deep recesses, my agitated thoughts finally rest in the cobwebs that blanket important facts, stored long ago, for safekeeping.

Returning back home at 5:45, I find that work has provided just the respite I needed to put things in perspective. It has also given my children time to clear out all extraneous people.
This evening, in stark contrast to earlier in the day, the house is a virtual catacomb and I shake the walls awake as I slam the door behind me with a bang.
“Hello,” I yell, cocking my head to the side and waiting for three echoes to be returned to me. I am not disappointed. YD’s distracted “hello” floats down the stairs, YS’ “hello” bounces in front of him as he bounds into the living room and throws his arms around me in an exuberant hug, and OS’ “hello” crawls from the basement as though just waking from a hazy dream.
“Hey, sweetie,” I say to the top of YS’ head. I know that my days of seeing the top of this head, are numbered and that, too soon, our roles will be reversed and YS will be looking at the top of my head. I grab the opportunity to give him an extra little kiss and tousle his soft brown hair.
He smiles indulgently at me before he dashes off to resume his Lego creation.

I head downstairs.
Time for “The Talk”.

I find OS sitting on the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, effectively restricting access to the other side of the room. His thumbs dance nimbly over the video game controls as his player executes the perfect slam-dunk, complete with a 360 spin move.
He makes no indication that he has noticed me.

I wait.
He pauses the game and looks at me with eyes filled with equal parts interest and annoyance.

“When you have a minute, I’d like to talk with you,” I say to him, trying for a tone that casual yet serious, hoping that his available minute will be sometime in the future so that I can postpone the inevitable.

He calls my bluff.
“I have a minute.” As he speaks, he checks the TV screen to make sure that the game is, indeed, on pause.
“I wanted to talk with you about this afternoon,” I begin.
OS shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of where I am going to go with this conversation. He says nothing.
“Thanks for introducing me to Elizabeth.”

He nods.

“I kind of got the impression that I only found out she was here was because I stopped by.”

He nods again.

“I am responsible for the people in this house,” I remind him, “so I really need to know who is here.”
“I know. Sorry.” OS looks appropriately contrite.

“Of course, it goes without saying that I expect you to keep your clothes on when you’re with a girl.”

OS is shocked into silence.

“You did keep your clothes on!”

“Muh-mee!”

I’ve done this teenaged thing before. I know better than to let that question go unanswered. I also know that I need to keep it light, so I smile and chuckle, “Well?”

He nods.
I confirm, “You both kept your clothes on?”

He nods.

Question number one asked and answered.
I move on.

“And…having a girl come to visit, by herself, when there is no adult around, is really not a good idea.”

Nothing.
I keep going.

“I didn’t let OD have a boy over when I was out, I won’t let YD have a boy over when I am out, so it doesn’t seem fair for me to let you have a girl over when I am out.”
OS nods and shrugs his shoulders, which I take as a sign that he agrees.
“It’s just not a good idea to be alone with a girl. You don’t want to get yourself in a situation where it is difficult for you to say “no”.”

So far, I’m feeling pretty good about our “talk”. I rehearsed this part several times with my oldest daughter when she and I discussed boys. This is the standard, unisex, opposite sex talk.
But now. I must move into unfamiliar territory, the talking-to-a-son-about-girls territory. I hesitate as I try to form my thoughts into coherent sentences.

OS waits.

“Also, you don’t want to be in a position you have to defend yourself against false accusations, where a girl can say something happened, even if it didn’t.”

There is a vivid picture in my mind of exactly what I am trying to say – a shameless hussy, “in trouble”, falsely accusing my “nice guy” son in order to protect a boy who has been less than honorable.
My words get in the way.
I wish I could hook my brain up to a video camera. I want to project the movie I am seeing in my mind onto the TV screen so OS can see what I see.
I can’t, so I stumble on.

“You need to make sure that you always have someone who can back you up – who can verify your story.”

OS maintains eye contact, but says nothing.

I realize that I am making women sound manipulative and patently untrustworthy. This is not the message I am trying to give to my son, but I do need to make sure that he is aware of the entire spectrum of possibilities.

I add a clumsy disclaimer.
“Which is not to say that any of the girls you know would ever do anything like that…you just need to be careful. You have things you want to do and places you want to go and you don’t want to mess that up.”

My conversation with OS is turning into a monologue.

“And, of course, you know that “no” means “no”, right?!”

OS nods and rolls his eyes.

“No. I mean, “no” means “NO”. If a girl says “no” at the beginning of the evening, it means “no” for the rest of the time you are with her.”
I pause, waiting for a response.
I get none.
I plow forward.

“Even if she starts kissing on you later in the evening, her “no” from earlier is still in effect.”

I look at OS.
He looks away.
I press on.

“Even if she said “yes”. If she changes her mind and says “no”, it means “no”.

OS looks as if he wants for put his fingers in his ears and hum “lalalala” at the top of his lungs in order to drown out the sound of my voice.

I speak up a little.

“Even if you have already started something, “no” means “no”, no matter what point you are at.”

OS’ face tells me that I have gone beyond the bounds of decency, but he doesn’t seem to know what to do to make me stop.

I show mercy.
He’s had enough.

“Anyway,” I say, switching abruptly to a light, casual tone, “just wanted to put that out there…just so you know, and so I know that you know.”

OS nods.

“For now,” I finish, “I think it is just best if you hang out with girls in a group.”

OS unclenches his jaws.
I kiss the top of his head.

“I love you, honey.”
OS sighs.
“I love you too, Mummy.”