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.

Vacation Signs

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JHSgAGeh8gw

April 10, 2011 marked the 30th anniversary of my parents buying a two week share of time at the Sea Crest Surf and Racquet Club on Hilton Head Island. I’m sitting in the Dock Master, sleeps 8 Unit, as I type. It’s a two bedroom, two bathroom, pull out couch and bunk beds, 1980’s era (still) condo just a block from the beach.  Several of my dedicated readers have visited here over the years so you get the visual.

I was a junior in High School when my family purchased weeks 14 and 15 of this time share "deal". Their realtor, Bobby Sandell, was honest with them and made sure they knew this was NOT an investment but rather a vacation location for years to come. Bobby is still a realtor with Re/Max on Hilton Head.  When his name is spoken, we all smile; such a cutie then and a handsome man now.  I feel certain I can feel his presence or at least the presence of his BMW convertible, every time I drive onto the Island.

Shortly after conferring with my maternal grandparents (for financing I’m sure) and holding a Brady Bunch family meeting at the Ice Cream Cone across the street (est. 1971), the deal was sealed. So what if mom and dad spent $17,000 30 years ago for what can now be STOLEN for $7,000? We love it and it’s been so worth it!

So here I sit on my last evening before returning to Atlanta – typing out the top 10 signs I’m on vacation (well, I didn't quite make it to ten).

I've only been here a week, but there are 32 Piggly Wiggly plastic bags tucked under the kitchen sink.  It, along with the Red Dot liquor store, are within walking distance of the unit.

The remote control on the living room t.v. doesn’t work and I don’t care.  I can just pull a chair right up to the t.v. and operate the channel changer by hand.  Or, I can be lazy to the max and go lay down in front of the television in the master suite where the remote control DOES work.

On my way to Hilton Head, I stopped in for an appointment at {Intimacy} for a bra fitting.  I spent over $300.00 despite a potential government shut down and after days of hand wringing and beating myself up, I'm finally over it.  And my girls are happy.

Every meal has fresh seafood and alcohol involved.  Prime example here at Chef David's "Roastfish and Cornbread"...

I begin to ignore the irony in life but am subtly brought back to reality at "The Salty Dog" at Sea Pines' South Beach where, you guessed it, there are no dogs allowed...

I've finished three books including "Quiet Guilt: The State of Michigan v. Starr" by my second cousin once removed, Clare Adkin.  Also in the top three for this vacation were "Sophie and the Rising Sun" by Augusta Trobaugh and "Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat who Touched the World" by Vicki Myron (Thanks Christal and Katie!).  I only cried once during that last book - during the death scene - and I didn't even care that I was out on the beach deck when that happened.

And for the 14+ times during this trip that I visited the Piggly Wiggly, I always chuckled at the "Butt Wipes" aisle - thanks to WPPJ (Witness Protection Program John) for pointing this out to me.  I wonder how many years it's been there?  Gotta love that Piggly Wiggly, that's been there for 50 years, for leaving it up there.  I dig the pig....

Hope they sign the budget tonight so that I have a job to go back to on Monday to pay for this week of decadence!

Little Bunny Foo Foo



me and baby brother




I want one Million dollars for that rolling rabbit!



oh look, the cat likes the fake bunny!


With little Maddie Cat in a better place, it’s time for me to move back to a self-deprecating mode. Let’s start with a children’s poem to get us back in the groove.

"Little Bunny Foo Foo
Hopping through the forest
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
Down came the Good Fairy, and she said:
Little Bunny Foo Foo
I don't wanna see you
Scooping up the field mice
And bopping them on the head!
I will give you three chances,
Then POOF you're a Goon".

The well-known moral of this story is “Hare today, goon tomorrow.” Personally, I prefer a different moral to this story as outlined in the book “Lenore, The Cute Dead Girl: Noogies.” In this book, after being chastised by the fairy, Little Bunny Foo Foo starts bopping other animals on the head. The Fairy reappears to remind Little Bunny Foo Foo that you’re not supposed to bop ANY animals on the head. At which point Little Bunny Foo Foo bops the fairy on the head. The moral of this version of the story is “be more specific.”

In our household, I tend to be the whiner, specifically. Sure, Doc B. will complain now and again, but my bouts tend to be more pouty with intermittent lashing out. All that anger and generalized repression has to come out somehow…and sooner or later.

So when I get in one of those moods, Doc. B. (lovingly?) refers to me as Little Bunny Foo Foo (LBFF for short and LB for even shorter). When this first became my nickname, I tried to pretend that “LB” meant “little butt.” Unfortunately, that has not been the case since approximately 8th grade, but who’s measuring? Apparently the neighborhood has a lock on my dimensions because the butt factor was confirmed again for me this afternoon. While bending over to pull weeds on our busy street this morning, only one car honked and whistled. I could swear I heard Sir Mix-a-Lot thumping some bass in the speakers with a remixed rendition of “Baby Got Back.” The “I like big butts and I cannot lie” part of the lyrics stood out like a sore gluteus maximus.

Anyway, as you can see from the baby pictures above, I have an early connection to bunnies. I think I’ll continue to see that as a good thing, butt or no butt.

Maddie Cat

Madison: May 12, 1988 - February 27, 2011

Yesterday, Maddie enjoyed a stroll on the screened porch. It was a wobbly jaunt, but a walk in the fresh air none the less. She circled the perimeter, taking in all of the smells and sights. She lost most of her hearing years ago but I bet she heard a few birds too. This was her last moment in the sun, at least on this earth that is. After three days of difficulty breathing, so much so that she couldn’t purr, she passed away at 7:30 this morning. Doc. B and I petted her as she took in her last few breaths and let go of the very last one. It’s going to be a new world for me. Save for vacations, I never went more than a day without hearing that little girl purr. Almost 23 years of the loudest, sometimes obnoxious, yet most comforting sound I may ever know.


While she didn’t quite reach her 23rd birthday, or the point at which she would have lived half of my life (in December 2011), she lived in 4 decades: May 12, 1988 – February 27, 2011. So many people, jobs and homes have come in and out of my life over that time period and she was there through it all. She was my constant witness to the joys in my life as well as the things I’d just as soon forget. I miss her already.

To all of you who knew and loved her on so many different levels, and who supported me in the decisions I made because that kitty was in my life – I thank you. Hug a pet for me today.

My Love-Hate Relationships

Ruby-Crowned Kinglet?

I’m so grateful to have my J - O - B, but I'm not so much lovin' on it right now. In today’s economy, it makes little sense to spew "I hate my job" tirades when I have friends who don’t have them or have one that doesn’t pay half of what they previously earned. This caused me to start thinking of the many love-hate relationships in my dolce vita.  Or is it dulce vita? No, it’s dolce vita and dulce de leche – either way – they both translate to excellente!

Let’s take birds for example. In general, I would have to say that I love, Love, LOVE birds. Just this week I spotted the above bird that everyone believes is a ruby-crowned kinglet. I specifically ended my 40 minute jog with a stop at the Sugarcreek garden just to see if I might stand still for a few moments and greet a sparrow, a wren, or a chicken hawk. Within minutes, my ears were drawn to rooting-around sounds in a pile of brush. My eyes then focused on lovely shades of green reflecting off of the cutest little bird.  He had a red spot on the nape of his neck. I say "he" and "his" because for some reason, unlike with humans, male birds get to be pretty. The little guy even stalled long enough for me to get out my iPhone and snap his picture. So when I say I love birds, I think you get it. And right at this very moment, I love that there’s a bright-red boy cardinal sitting in the bird bath...sharing space with a little girl house finch.

So with all this birdie, birdie affection, what on terra firma could be my love-hate relationship with them? One word – STARLINGS. I hate that these ugly, mean, flying and screeching machines that use and abuse the eaves of our home to get it on, hire a doula, and ultimately birth more devil Starlings (and for those of you in therapy now, or in the recent past, is this shadow-self stuff?). When I say eaves I really mean attic. And when I say attic, I really mean the spot directly above Doc. B’s meditation space. There is absolutely no way I could muster the equanimity, let alone the concentration, required to emit thoughts of loving kindness with Starlings feeding their spawn directly above my freshly cut and colored head of hair. Yes, there’s room in the inn but this ain’t no nativity scene.  They're supposed to eat insects but apparently they don't even do that - we were still "forced" to build a screened porch to keep them AND the skeeters away.

Perhaps as I begin to mellow in my old age I’ll find the patience to share square footage with these annoying creatures. After all, they and their ancestors have resided here longer than we have.  Our contractor's carpenter had to scare them out of the house over ten years ago during our renovation…yet they keep coming back...damn squatters (or are we the squatters?). Plus, I’d bet one year’s worth of my J – O – B salary that there are, and will continue to be, days when I’ve been described as an annoying creature.




Clarice the Starling


More of my love-hate relationships:

• I love Elizabeth Gilbert and Hollis Gillespie but hate that I covet their writing skills.

• Along those same lines, I love writing (including this blog), but hate that I can’t get it together to write a book.

• I Love the cats but hate scooping the poop.

• Along those same lines, I love going to the hair salon to hear the joke of the month, but hate that I’ll be paying for it until I decide it’s okay to be gray. Joke of the month: knock, knock…who’s there?... smell mop…smell mop who?

• I love that we have a housekeeper for the first time in my life but hate that we clean before she visits.

• I love that Doc. B is a vegetarian, but hate that it means we don't cook a juicy steak on the Weber grill every now and again. Oh wait, I can do that when I go out to eat when Doc. B. is off on a meditation retreat.

Hope you're lovin' on what you're hatin' on!

Life in the Single Wide

Since I was being all hoity toity about living in Victorian villas and Arts and Crafts abodes, I thought it only right to admit that I also had my dose of mid-century, pre-fab, modern-for-the-times, static caravan, shabby chic, 12’x 60’, living spaces too. Yes, I lived in a trailer.

The first trailer, that I lived in (before birth) was, according to my mom, pink…inside and out. So you know my parents must have gotten a deal on it. Or wait, it was the 60’s so maybe they actually paid top dollar for its trendiness? And look what they’re eating here in the pink trailer: canned peaches, hamburger patties on white bread, and probably milk in those really cool drinking glasses that would no doubt be worth a fortune on eBay this very moment. But hey, there was a candle and gifts on the table – could this have been my parents' first Christmas dinner together? How cute!

Then there’s trailer number 2 where we lived when I was born. Look at the upgrades! For one, it’s not pink – they went with the classic white. Next, it looks like it’s on a corner lot – good call if there’s a kid on the way – fewer neighbors to hear all that baby crying and whining. And is that an attached garage? Who knew! Is that even allowed in trailer parks? I wonder if this is what piqued my dad’s interest in planning and zoning? Oh wait, he already had his degree in urban planning before moving into this trailer so I don't know what to blame.

So there. It’s not all glitz and glamour in my residences like you thought. And to keep us humble in our current home, we bought a double-wide for the cat.

And here's our beloved cat, all ready to open up his very own double wide - some things never change...

Silence of the Chicken

How are you doing on those resolutions? Does your list fill a legal pad or did you simply type it into the "notes" application on your iPhone? I was tempted by the latter but I still can’t bring myself to completely give up paper. Perhaps I’ll add that to my resolution list, "consider giving up all paper except toilet and wrapping." Actually, I prefer gift bags so maybe I can even give up wrapping paper. Did you post your resolutions on Facebook for all to see or are you keeping them private? I think you’ve got to put your resolutions out there in the public domain or you won’t stick to them. Of course I won’t be putting mine out there, but everyone else should. Does your list include at least one item related to weight, nutrition, or how much alcohol you will or will not allow yourself to drink each day? Mine has at least 17 such entries. Okay, I’m exaggerating, it only has 15. One thing I’m thinking about for the New Year is whether or not I want to continue to be chicken godmother to the brood next door when their owner is gone. Up until the other night (for my Yankee readers, it’s okay to double up on your prepositions – "up under" is actually my favorite), I hadn’t given it a thought. Why wouldn’t I? What’s so hard about it? The hens put themselves to bed each night, I collect the eggs and close them up in the coop for the night, then I let them out in the morning…right after I eat the scrambled product of their immaculate inconceptions (yes, I created that last word – seems like it should be in the dictionary doesn’t it?). Well, Wednesday night was different. It was a cold, rainy, blue-moonless evening. I put on the crappiest pair of tennis shoes I could find and trudged myself next door to close up the chickens for the night. With the flashlight, I waded through the mud and chicken poop to do my usual peek into the coop to count off the four hens. The hay on the floor of the coop was all in disarray. My heart stopped as I listened to myself say "oh shit" over and over again as I realized that two of them were missing. Then I noticed that one of the coop windows had been broken out from the inside…a struggle of some sort had obviously ensued. In the pouring rain, I searched the entire mucky backyard without success. There was nothing more I could do that evening. With my blood pressure at its highest since Kanye dissed Taylor at the VMA’s, I went back to the house and poured myself a shot of leftover Christmas whiskey (doesn’t everyone have that tradition?). The next morning, in the light of day, I pretended I was Brenda on "The Closer" and went back over to survey the crime scene. Sure enough, one chicken was ready for chalk outlining. But where was the other one? I couldn’t find it. Perhaps Buffalo Bill had killed one and decided to keep the other for himself? I could only hope that Agent Clarice Starling was already on his trail. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and I really had to get to work soon or I’d end up having to stay there late to get my hours in. I went back home still conflicted about what to do with the deceased chicken. After several thoughts of asking Doc. B. to take care of it, I sucked it up, grabbed some plastic bags, and decided that since it was trash day, I better just deal with it. Thank goodness I did because synchronicity prevailed. As I walked next door, there in the front yard was the missing chicken. It had gotten out of the fenced back yard (flown the coop?) in order to save itself from whatever got its sister. Now all I had to do was catch her. For what seemed like hours (but I’m sure it was only about a minute), I ran around (insert bad pun) like a chicken with my head cut off until I caught the hen and got her into the back yard. I won’t go into details, but I then “took care of” the departed chicken, washed my hands about a thousand times and got myself to work by 8:15. All I know after this incident is that I don’t want to be a farmer. Even though farming is in my blood, it must get regularly filtered out by the desk job that’s in my heart. In the meantime, I’m still deciding if Chicken Godmother will be a role I continue this year. I probably will. That is if another chicken (or the hamster I’m also in charge of) doesn’t croak on the remaining two days of my watch. I wish you all peace, love and low blood pressure in 2010.

Addendum to last post

Mom made a trip to the Log Cabin Animal Hospital today! They are still open and even have the same phone number that's on the health record of the last post (if you click on the photos/documents in the last post, you can see them better!)

The Vets who owned the place 21 years ago have retired. No one there now worked there 21 years ago...

Thanks Mom!

Mad Dog Slide Show

This little old cat, formally but rarely called Madison, just turned 21 on 5/12/09. What is that, about 125 in human years? She's been through heaven, hell, purgatory, and back again at least 8 times. And I'm only saying that because she's WAY outlived her allotted nine lives. And I’m also saying that because I’ve been telling Doc. B. since 1987 that Maddie is on her death bed. I guess it’s all that feeding, watering, pill jamming, petting, lovin', touchin' and squeezin'…Yes… Journey has been a part of her life.

The above vaccination record is hard to read, but trust me it begins with an office visit on 7/12/88 when she was just 8 weeks old. She was an addition to the family at the time. My friend Tina and I had already adopted Murphy a few weeks earlier (who lived to be a sweet old man of 17) and she was taking him in for a check-up. When Tina arrived at the vet's office - Log Cabin Animal Hospital in Battle Creek, MI - she discovered that the previous night, a litter of four kittens had been dropped off at their doorstep. Tina couldn't resist putting a hold on Maddie (whom she wanted to name Byron, but thank goodness Maddie turned out to be a girl). We brought her home when she was just four weeks old. Tina, to this day, continually repeats the statement "and I picked her out." And who wouldn’t want to claim credit for this cat that was so dang cute and lovable? She would amble up to just about anyone and always wanted to be in your face, literally. She would climb up your pant leg or even the drapes just to kiss, okay lick, your cheek. This was probably because the first 4 weeks of her life were spent with the happy women at the vet's office. These bubbly ladies must have loved and doted on the entire litter. Oh, and we figure they must have made coffee every morning too because, since she was a kitten, Maddie would come running to the kitchen every time she smelled mocha java brewing.

When she first came home to St. Mary's Lake, she had to get used to Papa Smurf (Murphy). And of course Murphy had to get used to her too. But eventually they developed a very loving and playful relationship, though it took some time, some fighting, some ground standing, some giving in and some posturing. Isn't that what we all hope for if we just hang in there long enough to make it work?

This is the first house that Maddie ever lived in, on St. Mary's Lake in Battle Creek, and the first house that I ever owned. I bought it for $12,000 and also got an $8000 home equity line so that I could do some upgrades. I think the house cost was exactly the same as the price tag on my very OWN first new car - a Pontiac Sunbird. I purchased that sporty red car (along with a “bra” for the front bumper) with money from my first job AND with money from the very bad deal I made on selling the Ford Pinto that my parents gave me. Okay, Dad...I know I made a bad deal, but thanks for not being too mad at me - it did help out a fellow employee at the Cristo Rey Community Center before he crashed it a few months after buying it.

Maddie’s had a number of nicknames over the years (Mad Dog, Madder, Maddie Maddie Kitty Catty, Toonces, Chicken, Tuna, Tuna Breath, and Sweet Feet to name a few). But in all of her 21 years, she’s only had one favorite toy. It's never been lost this whole entire time. Here’s a picture of Maddie with "Bag." This little yellow pin cushion was part of an old sewing kit that had been left at the St. Mary’s Lake house by the previous owner. When Maddie was younger, she would play fetch with it for hours. In her old age, she simply carries it around in her mouth, pretending she’s brought home a dead chipmunk (I can only guess), all while screaming out this awful howling noise. We have to hide it from her most of the time because it’s so loud and shrill. NOTE: sometimes I give Maddie her Bag Toy when Doc. B. isn’t looking just to see how long Doc. B. can stand it.

She’s also witnessed many personal events and milestones. All of my siblings have gotten hitched during Maddie’s life. All of my nieces and nephews have been born during Maddie’s life. My parents celebrated both their 30th and their 45th wedding anniversaries. And here I am with my grandma and grandpa O. after receiving my master’s degree. Maddie has been there through the passing of all four of my wonderful grandparents and even for the passing of my great grandma Edna. By the way, Maddie doesn’t even mind if you get tears on her fur so long as you continue to pet her while you cry.


Maddie’s lived with me in two states (Michigan and Georgia), five cities (Battle Creek, Atlanta, Norcross, Avondale Estates and Decatur), and eight houses/apartments (St. Mary’s Lake, Westminster Way, Briarcliff Rd., Peachtree St., Stratford Dr., Mimosa Place, 14th St. and 2nd Ave.). Here are two forced photos of Maddie, Murphy and me in two of our eight homes.

And while I’ve gone off to every one of the 12 jobs I’ve held during the course of Maddie’s life, she’s had no problem staying at home to keep the bed warm. And not that keeping the bed warm would/should remind me of all the dates and relationships I’ve had during Maddie’s life, but I guess it did. However, unlike the states, cities and houses, I decided not to count them all. Why? Two reasons: 1) it would go beyond my ten fingers to try, and 2) it’s the relationship that I’m in currently that counts the most at this point in my life. Yes, ALL of the others have had an impact, large or small, but I want to be in this one for the long haul (hint, hint Doc. B.).

Here is one of my favorite pictures of Maddie. It was taken by a great friend who not only pre-dates Doc. B., but also shares my love of basketball and Jagermeister. Oh wait, that could be almost any of my friends – well, you…taker of the photo… know who you are. So here’s to Maddie, with a shot of Jager and a beer chaser, who in her 21 years on this earth has never had any qualms about where I lived, where I worked, who I dated, how much I weighed, how much I drank, how I dressed, what my hair looked like, what people called me, how depressed I was, how happy I was, or how old I got.