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Sober September

A crazy idea should never be voiced, particularly when it’s 2:00 in the morning. Furthermore, crazy ideas shouldn’t even be whispered when they sound something like “what if we didn’t drink any alcohol during the month of September?” And when you’re talking to a person who will be on a silent meditation retreat for ten days of the month anyway, you might as well not even open your mouth because the answer will no doubt be "let's do it!"

In honor of the 46th anniversary of Star Trek, “Captain’s Log: Stardate 13 days sober”. Believe it or not, we are now boozeless for almost two weeks. What on Earth, Mars and Venus was I thinking? This was the burning question as I sat on the screened porch this past weekend, bathed and relaxed after a hard day of working in the yard. The moment when I’d normally be breaking the blow-dried seal on a frosty growler of some hoppy brew or, more likely, asking Doc. B. when we could open the bottle of white (that, by the way, has now been chilling in the fridge for 14 days, since of course we didn’t know we’d be doing this sober gig 14 days ago!).

Contrary to popular belief, there are only two times I drink: weekends and holidays. By weekends, I mean Friday, Saturday and Sunday. And by holidays, I of course mean it in the British sense of the word which includes vacations. So let me spell it out - by “holiday” I mean:

1. Anytime Doc B and I vacation,

2. Anytime I visit my family or Doc B’s family,

3. Anytime my family or Doc B’s family visits us,

4. Anytime I take trips with my family (and I don’t mean the acid type),

5. All Christian, Jewish and Pagan holidays such as Christmas and Easter, Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, and Solstices, Equinoxes and moon day eves,

6. All government holidays including Confederate Memorial Holiday and Robert E. Lee’s birthday, (don’t scoff, when in the south, do as the southerners!), and finally

7. Any obscure, but socially, culturally or spiritually important holidays such as Groundhog’s day, Multiple Personality Day, National Tortilla Chip day and the Dragon-Con parade.

So you’re probably wondering how I’m doing since in the last 13 days, there have been several desert-parched weekends and multiple dryer-than-Sauvignon Blanc holidays including Labor day, Newspaper Carrier day, Cheese Pizza day, and Read a Book day, to name just a few? Well, the house is pretty much spotless. The cats have been combed once a day and the boxes have been scooped twice a day. I’ve finished three books. Work seems less stressful despite the number of times I’ve heard the statement “end of the ‘physical’ year”. And most importantly, I’ve decided I don’t care what J. Crew shoes Michelle is wearing or what Oscar de la Renta dress Ann is sporting, I’m still voting for Obama. Okay, true, that last one had nothing to do with being sober. But on a side note, I might just get my toenails painted gray (very nicely done Michelle!).

What else have I noticed? References to alcohol are everywhere. TV shows and commercials all seem to mention booze and of course PBS just had to be running a three part series on Prohibition this month. Speak easy? Easier said than done. The books I’ve read focus on an alcoholic father (the Glass Castle), wine trees and wine canals (The Martian Chronicles) and a cat whisperer who used to be a druggie (Cat Daddy).

What hasn’t happened? I’ve not lost any weight. Yoga feels the same. I still like Billy Joel. I don’t and never did understand where lupini beans come from. And finally, I’m not sleeping any better. Yeah, yeah, that last one might have something to do with the two 17 pound cats that joined our family a month ago and were given free range of the whole house, including the queen-sized bed, three weeks ago.

So, let’s just see if I can make it to my birthday. At least as I’m driving down DeKalb Avenue, swerving like I’ve had two too many as I dodge potholes, sink holes and drunks, they won’t be able to prove I’m one of the latter.

Cheers to me making it at least to my birthday! 24 sober September days would be a true accomplishment, no?

Pour Some Sugar on Me

I always smile big at the sight or sound of the first hummingbirds that return to our clematis vines each season. I can never think of the word clematis so, like a good student of Ms. Magnus’ Latin class, I’ve chosen to call it by another, easier to remember noun – Chlamydia. I can never remember the word camellia either, so it too is often referred to as Chlamydia. As usual, Doc B. puts up with this. Why? I have no idea but I do appreciate it because this type of humor is hereditary and cannot be altered in my DNA genetic instructions or by way of electroconvulsive shock therapy.

This morning I caught that first hummingbird glimpse and immediately knew I had to set up the bird candy feeders. So as not to scare the little guys off, I made a sweaty, tip-toed dash for the shed, grabbed the two feeders and brought them to the kitchen sink to remove the winter’s grime.

As the feeders dried on the cool counter tops, I pulled a pot off of the rack, found my grandmother’s measuring cups and poured in the water to heat. Next step: just add sugar to make a simple syrup. Turns out this is simpler said than done.

Where were the Dixie Crystals? I pushed aside the Kombucha fermentation container in order to get to the spice cabinet. Then I rummaged around past the homemade ghee, aromatic asafoetida, Turkish sumac, Vietnamese fish sauce, Indian methi seed and two year old expired nori flakes (do they really expire?). No such luck; no Dixie, no Domino. Here were my choices:

1. Evaporated cane juice: USDA stamped organic, Kosher, fair trade certified, not filtered through animal by-products, straight from Paraguay by way of Sugar Land, TX,

2. Jaggery: made from dried sugarcane juice and salt but made in a facility that processes peanuts, tree nuts, soy, milk, wheat and sesame, or

3. Sustainably grown and harvested organic coconut sugar made from granulated coconut nectar, produced from the flower buds of the coconut tree in Indonesia and certified organic by the Colorado department of agriculture.

How on earth would I choose?  What would the little birdies prefer?  Kosher?  Nut-free processing?  Sustainably grown?  I went with number one...and I have yet to see a hummingbird land on either feeder. Publix, here I come.  Move the Splenda, Stevia and other sugar substitutes out of my way and let me at the Dixie dang Crystals!

Oh, by the way, did you know that our DNA is made of sugars (and a few other things of course). I’m sure Doc B. would say “duh, of course there are 2-deoxyribose pentose/five-carbon sugars joined by phosphates.”

And I’d say “whatever.”

Jim Morrison

One month ago, I got a new job - a lateral promotion that came with an office and a door. No more cubicle work-life for me. There are three walls, a lockable door, a wall of windows, and a view of the Capitol (along with a view of the Five Points MARTA station, "Upperground Atlanta" and a McDonalds that recently scored a 46 on scale of one to 100). This is the first time I’ve been in an actual office since 1985 when I shared an office with a chain smoker. Yes, this was back in the day when you could actually light up in your office. Needless to say, I never closed the door since the second hand smoke would have been worse than any first hand smoke I’ve ever had…in outside venues...on very rare occasions…usually involving adult beverages…every once in a while…don’t tell my mom.

So who cares about offices with doors? Apparently I do. The same week that I got an office with a door, our only remaining kitty cat, Rumi, died. And now all I can think about are doors.

I came in the back door that awful day only to find Rumi sprawled at the front door, paralyzed and in pain. I rushed him to Claremont Animal Hospital where some sweet stranger held the door for me as I rushed him inside. The Vet ultimately held open the back door so we wouldn’t have to carry Rumi’s remains through the waiting room.

In a cat-less home, doors don’t really matter. In a cat-full home, doors (and windows) do matter. The basement door always remained closed so that kitties wouldn’t get into the crawlspace and escape into the cruel world. The front door had to be quickly closed behind us for the same cruel world reason. The window blinds in the back bedroom had to be open so that the kitties could bird watch, but the window couldn’t be open because of, you guessed it, the unkind world.

The back door could only stay open as of recently because Small Carpenters at Large built Rumi a screened in porch with a sliding door. It quickly became Rumi’s favorite place to cat nap and sometimes Doc B. would even join him. The upstairs porch door always had to be closed so that no kitties could have the chance to jump to their deaths. But the windows could be cracked so that we could hear them meow and see their whiskered faces as we lounged. The laundry closet folding doors had to be at least half open since that’s where the kitty litter box was. Closets and cabinets were also good hiding spots for kitties – so before leaving each morning, we had to make sure we knew where the cats were – hopefully not closed up behind a door.

And of course every time the refrigerator door was opened, a cat would come running. Since we are mostly vegetarian, the cats were often disappointed.

So now that Rumi has died, and our house is pet-less for the first time in 25 years, you can see why doors are all I can think about. I must have been unknowingly putting out that vibe because besides the new office with a door, there were other door references that came my way. My yoga teacher’s blog post from the day after Rumi died, entitled wild beauty: making the abstract concrete, included numerous references to openings and closings with photos of doors. And then Kali and K-Sheila sent us this card:

Two more doors to mention – since Rumi died, I finally closed the door on the gym (still love you Core Body). I feel certain this will now allow me to fully open the doors to ashtanga yoga.

For Doc B. to close the door, she wrote this:

Rumi

5/30/2012

It has hardly been 4 hours since we brought you home in a box, this time not to stay. I’ll complete the vigil of your life with a trip to Paws Whiskers and Wags crematory tomorrow and a second trip to pick up your ashes when they call me. We used magic markers to decorate your white cardboard coffin tonight and read Rumi and drank wine and ate tuna fish and crackers and posted news of your death on Facebook and we cried and cried.

The first time you came home with me was a little more than 7 years ago – still a memory as fresh as if it was yesterday. After several cell phone conversations leading to a decision that I should come home alone, Carrie called me and reversed the decision and said you could live with us – adopt you and bring you home. Our other kitty boy Murphy had been gone about 6 months and we were still missing him, but just starting to imagine the possibility of making room for another feline in our home. Of course you would not be Murphy, but we would love you. For me that was clear from the time I laid eyes on you. You were in a cage in Pet Smart on Labor Day weekend. Your name was Marcus. You had a bad cold and seemed lonely. It was likely that you would spend the long weekend alone in a cage. You let me pet you. And you were beautiful and HUGE. HUGE was what Carrie said when I lifted you from your cardboard carrier. I had not realized how much bigger you were than our Maddie cat until Carrie’s reaction. Well – what could I do now? It is a holiday weekend and you were ours now anyway. Carrie demanded that you (and I) be quarantined downstairs for the next two weeks until your cold was better and there was no risk to Maddie. That first night you started out under the bed. But during the night you crawled out and laid on my chest and reached your paw to my face –I was a little afraid because of your huge claws, but I soon discovered that you just wanted to be petted, but only for a little while then back under the bed you went. We continued the routine and bonding for the next several days along with a daily search on my part to find some food that would appeal to you because you were not eating. For a little while chicken broth was the key, then ultimately “Cat Milk”, which must have been kitty crack because it was a habit eventually that you would wake me up early every morning meowing outside the bedroom door to demand it, that is until I weaned you off of it. Funny thing was that you never asked Carrie for it. If I was gone, no Cat Milk demands.

We had a routine for a while of putting claw covers on you. Plastic covers that came in a variety of colors that we super glued on. You didn’t seem to mind it too much and you did look cute with purple nails, multi-colored nails, whatever the whim of the month was. And you made clicking sounds as you tiptoed across the hardwood floors. That is until you pulled them off, which you set about doing as soon as the claw covers were in place. We always tried to distract you from this by giving you a couple of treats, but that was a very short and almost pointless distraction.

We called you our clown kitty sometimes. You asked for water from the sink and tub faucet. You were a wild cat sometimes, cornering Carrie in the kitchen. Then we found out you had thyroid problem and also that you needed more play time. A radioactive iodine treatment cured your thyroid problem (we missed you and you missed us while you were at the clinic) and play time was fun for us all especially once Dena bought “Da Bird” for you. You liked group hugs and being held like a baby. You were afraid of thunder and hid under the bed. You loved the new screen porch. You loved salmon and chicken and cheese. You followed us around the house and watched us, particularly if we were in the kitchen. You liked lying on the bed sheet and on the sofas between me and Carrie. You would always lie on my chest if I lay down on the sofa and covered up with the fish blanket. You liked lying on the table and picking at the hand-woven Tibetan kitchen rug – that drove Carrie nuts. You would let me kiss your whiskers. You would fluff your whiskers when you were happy. After the thyroid treatment you lost your purr for a while – so sad. It came back after a while, but not as loud. You would talk to us especially when we talked to you. You would come in from the porch that you loved so much if we asked you to come in. You were generally afraid of people and especially men and children. But you were not afraid of our dads. We called you RumDog, sweet pea, butter rum. We hated leaving you to go on vacation. Better for us to take separate vacations so that one could keep you company. We always put a shim in the screen door to make sure you didn’t get out, but you never tried to escape. You liked being an inside cat watching the world through the screen.

When we brought you back home tonight in your cardboard coffin, I put a shim in the screen door and then cried when I remembered that you are gone. I know we will be remembering that you are gone over and over again for a while. We will always remember you RumDog, maybe we won’t cry, but we will always remember your sweet, naughty, clown boy self and we will miss you. You took up so much space here – the house seems empty without you.

Lovin' on the 'Rents

Putting up with three of the four of us

Clothing Line Clashes:  Banana Republic Mad Men meets Lane Bryant for Kids

Can you read the magazine title baby brother or are you just looking at the pictures?  Yes, It's Playboy

Never Looked Better - unless you count today!

If you keep up with me on Facebook, you know that my dad recently received the Citizen Award, presented by the Michigan Historic Preservation Network. This honor is reserved for an outstanding individual, who through personal effort and/or involvement in historic preservation projects has made a significant contribution to the preservation of Michigan’s heritage. Dad was nominated by their very cool friend and neighbor, Susan, for scoring close to one million bucks in grants and matching funds - I’m rounding up from about $900K. And speaking of rounding up, he also corralled a bunch of volunteers who racked up thousands of hours of time, his hours included, to make hefty upgrades to three Marshall Historical Society museums, including the famous Honolulu House.

When I called Dad to congratulate him and see how the awards ceremony went, he was appropriately humbled, tried to give credit to others, thrilled to no end that my baby sis was there to (as a surprise to him) present his award, and not exactly sure what to do with the award itself. He’s been retired for over 20 years now and doesn’t have an office wall on which one would typically hang this sort of thing. Well, unless you count an upstairs section of their house…where he tucks himself away…on the computer…researching stocks...listening to radio talk show hosts with whom I'd never be caught dead…into the wee hours of the night…communicating with my mother via Morse code...by pounding on the floor. Three foot stomps means “I’m on the phone and the person with whom I’m speaking wants to talk to you too”.

I called my mom tonight and sure enough, dad is still at it. Even after winning the award, he and other volunteers continue to work away. He’d spent several recent days painting historical markers on the sidewalks of my hometown all while alternating sitting and standing and crouching and stooping and bending and reaching (and for my co-workers, other social security disability lingo). Thank goodness mom had marked off his calendar this week for some time off at their cottage (even though I’m sure that while there he had a three mile long to do list). And, thank goodness, when I called, dad was in town getting a well-deserved massage.  He promised to bring back dinner afterwards.  While I was waiting for Doc. B. to bring home Sheik Burritos, mom figured dad would be coming home with Taco Bell, McDonald's or Wendy’s.

Loving on my sweet, humble, frugal parents today and every day!