Life Without Socks

What about the cat?!

Have you ever sat on a cat? No, me either- but I did put my knee on a slimy, wet cat hairball just this morning. I was minding my own business, putting my knee in our overstuffed livingroom chair- the chair that cost me $398.00, the chair that the damn cat has already tried to shred (numerous times) and lo and behold, right through my white eyelet nightgown, comes this squishy, seeping, wetness.

My mind won't register anything at first. It tries to take me down the road of red herrings, coming up with such scenerios as- my knee is leaking- the chair has sprung a leak- I have nerve damage that leads me to feel sensations that are not real- when suddenly, I am struck with the realization that this is some animal abomination. Some disgusting function that only some animal- no, specifically, some CAT, can do.

I look down with a certain amount of "oh no you didn't" mixed with a fair amount of "you've been punked by a cat", and there it was. The most disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life! It looked like a miniture version of whatever is washing up on the beach near Montauk, NY- that hairless, bloated brown body thing- I wanted to scream and throw up at the same time, but instead, I recoiled my knee in an auto-response mode and set my foot solidly down- ON THE OTHER HALF OF THE ABOMINATION!! I had to hop across the beige livingroom carpet, down the hall, into the tiny 1950's bathroom, hoist my leg and foot into the sink (no easy feat- since the 90's) and scrub, scrub, scrub for hours. Still, I had the vague feeling something from that damn cat was still lingering with me.

Donning a gas mask and rubber gloves, I eventually went back to the scene of the crime to clean whatever the hell that was that the cat expelled. Hairball-schmairball. Really. I have a fair enough belief that cats do this on dead purpose. If it was just a hairball, why doesn't it look like just hair? Why does it look like a small, half-formed genetic cat experiment gone awry? Why is it always brownish tan and slimy? Cat's hair is not slimy- my cat is grey, why then, do I always see a small mutation minus a birthing sack and eyes?

But enough. The cat hates me and did that on purpose as she does everything on purpose- you see, I am a cat step-parent.

Before you all get on a bandwagon about me being a cat-hater and such, you must understand. I too, am a mother, but of real, human children, and my partner is a step-parent. My partner also believes my children are next to the devil's spawn and that I am inconsistent, too permissive and in general, a crap parent. My partner has been offered the solace of a room in the twin sister's house if the step-parenting roll- the children- are just too much to handle. Doctor Phil will devote a talk show hour to my partner if we want to go on national television to have my partner describe the horrors of step-parenting- but what about me?

Do I get offered a room somewhere to get away from the cat? Will Dr. Phil devote an hour-long segment to the trauma of living and trying to step-parent a cat? NO. Most people just scream out "buck up, how bad can it be?" Well folks, YOU HAVE NO IDEA!

Unlike children, the cat has no rules. Not even a pretense of rules. The cat is allowed- no encouraged- to eat on the table (the table my father built out of the oak shipping crate that my great-grandfather traveled with across the seas from Europe to America) and to use human dishes. The cat can stand on the counter with no complaints- The cat slobbers food and not a word is said. The cat plays in the street and goes out again the next day. The cat disappears and nothing happens. Why, the cat has even barfed in the livingroom, peed on clothing, drank out of the toilet and had two teenage pregnacies where we didn't even know who the father was! Still, nothing, nothing at all- but, should my daughter show up in such a condition, she would be in reform school! The cat? Free to walk around. The cat has stolen (jewelry) assaulted (my feet) vandalized (the wicker laundry basket and the livingroom chair) murdered (birds) and countless other infractions. She is allowed to sleep in our bed every night (good luck that my daughter would ever be granted that priviledge) never brush her teeth or take a bath, walk across the fireplace mantle and break, take, and snake around everywhere!

I'm the permissive parent? I'm the permissive parent?! That cat has no rules whatsoever!! The cat has no chores, no school and doesn't have to pick up after herself ever. At least I try to implement some type of discipline on the children. Em has been grounded, scolded, made to apologize and lost privileges. The cat is never grounded, never given consequences, rather she is rewarded with wet food and massages daily. I know, I know- a lot of cat lovers are not going to see my point- but isn't "what's fair for the girl, is fair for the feline?" I think it's about time that someone take a stand. So, the next time one of you gets into a relationship with someone with children, and then whines and moans because it's so hard- and all you brought into the picture was a cat (or a parrot, a monkey, a horse or a goldfish) just remember, it isn't easy being a step-parent of anything- but the kids might take care of you in your old age- MIGHT- if you play your cards right. The cat?..... not a chance... And who's fault is that?

Bi or Lie, you be the judge.

Here's a riddle for you: What do you call someone of the female gender who sleeps with both men and women? A lesbian. NO, IT'S NOT A JOKE AND IF YOU SAID IT WAS DUMB OR DIDN'T MAKE SENSE, I'M TOTALLY WITH YOU!

This, however, according to my good friend and person who thinks she is the boss of me- is exactly what a lesbian is. My question is.... when did that happen?! I'm not kidding. I keep running into self-identified "lesbians" who, for whatever reason, sleep (no, not like Doris Day ZZZ sleep) but actually have sex with men- males- real penises.

No, these are not women who USED to sleep with men and then realized they were lesbians. These are not women who used to sleep with women, then slept with men, then went back to women exclusively. No, these are more like women who sleep with men occasionally- like having your oil changed but occasionally having the high mileage, heavy duty, hard-driving crude oil put in. You know, just once in a while when you think that the 30/30 won't do.

And that's fine, I believe in giving every dog it's day- you want to use thicker oil? Go for it- but for heavens sake, tell everyone that works on your car what you've done! Don't pretend your a strictly 30/30 kind of gal and don't be mad if your mechanic lets other mechanics know what kind of oil you use! AND DON'T CALL YOURSELF A STRICTLY 30/30 KIND OF GAL!

I know there are people who don't believe in the benefit of that hyped-up type of oil, and I know there are others that do, but if you use it, whether on a semi-regular or just an occasional  basis, I think it is extremely important to identify this fact.

The same goes with bisexuality (or not) as the case may be.

I had the privilege of being at an old girlfriend's sisters house talking with her sister and family. When asked, I identified someone we all knew, someone who had recently "dated" a straight couple, a convicted male rapist, and a guy in a photo booth, as bisexual. I was speaking casually. It is the term I would have used for anyone who "dated" both men and women within months, days and sometimes minutes of each other. I was trying to keep emotion out of it, and political correctness in. I was trying to minimize the fact that she had been seen with all of these people and gone into great detail about her "dating" of them. All of them. Minute detail (if you know what I mean).

When my OG (old girlfriend) and I left her sister's house, she launched in. "How could you have used the term "bisexual" for Hilda!?!" (obviously a code name- even if someone tells you her name is Hilda for real, it is a code name, trust me). "She hates it when people call her bisexual. She is a lesbian."

I thought of the people Hilda (remember, just a code name) had slept with when she lived here and I thought of the hundreds of people that knew about it from Hilda's own mouth.

Are you kidding me?" I asked incredulously. My natural sarcasm settled in immediately "I meant to come up with something different- something that would adequately describe a woman who sleeps with both men and women repeatedly and boasts about it- but I didn't think "Lesbianly challenged" would work. "Horn dog" didn't seem good either and "lack of discretion" seemed kind of rough.

The OG just glared at me. "Well, I think that using the term bisexual just confuses the issue."

What?

"You know, when your dealing with family and stuff, it is better just to get them used to the fact that so-and-so is a lesbian, whether or not they sleep with men."

And that was it. That is what I had heard before- several times- from self-proclaimed, man-sleeping lesbians. "It's a sport" "It's recreational" "I just need to do it sometimes to blow off steam" "I like a little dick once in a while- it doesn't mean I'm bisexual".

WELL, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

Somebody tell me, because I am quite confused. Bi- meaning two, and sexual- pertaining to the physical act of... it wasn't as if I had said "Bi-emotional". Then maybe I would have been wrong. Maybe Hilda is Homoemotional and sex with a man is just a way to "blow off steam"- isn't she still Bi SEXual? I think of my own family members- I can't imagine that identifying someone who they know dates both men and women as "bisexual" is going to confuse them any more than calling that woman a "lesbian". My mom blushes when she has to fill out a form and comes across a box with the word "sex" next to it- meaning gender. She certainly isn't going to ask me how it is that a lesbian is sleeping with a male teller at the One Minute Photo Booth. She is just going to assume that all lesbians sleep with men. Then she is going to spend the rest of her natural born days setting me, and the rest of my lesbian friends, up with nice guys named Edmund. No, I think I will continue to identify known two-gender-copulation-preferring women as "bisexual". It's just shorter and easier to say.

The Crystal Cave

I am exhausted. I feel so tired that if I was to be placed inside a barrel, rolled down a grassy knoll, and over a rocky falls into a heart-stopping freefall, the only thing that might awaken me is dawn the next morning. I have come to the conclusion that although many are exhausted- few are chosen. By chosen, I mean chosen for the actual exhaustion that one feels after having lived life for a number of adult years. You see, The exhaustion that one feels in their fourties, isn't the same as the exhaustion that one feels in their 20s. "Mommie, can I have a cookie? Mommie can I have a cookie? MommiecanIhaveacookieMommiecanIhaveacookie?MommiecanIhaveacookie?" is so much less exhausting at 20 than at- well, okay, pushing 50. It's the little things that become utterly overwhelming!

When you are in your 40's things like "a trip to the mailbox" really becomes just that. A trip. I myself have taken to packing a light snack just in case it takes me longer than expected to trek out there, down the drive, over the neighbor kids bike and to the actual tin box. Then there is the opening of the lid, the sorting through the junk mail and placing it in the recycling (which may be another trip by the way) and back to the drive, the walkway, the house. I've started having a couple bites of trail mix each way just to boost my blood sugar. God forbid that the neighbor stops me to chat about the tomatoes, or the weather, or politics. At that point I have to politely ask her for some vitamin water just so I can make it to my front door! I have never been this exhausted before- is this old age?!

That can't be right. It can't just be from old age- I must have a terrible, disabling rare disease. Something with symptoms that would include the intense desire to own a riding vacuum cleaner. I keep thinking that doing the breakfast dishes should be used as an Olympic qualifying event for the triathlon and that dusting should only be attempted by certified yoga instructors. Right now, I am thinking that the energy expended to stare at the opposite wall from the one that I am sitting against could be new found source of power if done the way I am doing it. How can this be? How can I be that tired?

And then it hits me. Well, the lab results of my blood tests and the mysterious illness come back in the mail. I didn't know it at first (mostly because I sat staring at the mailbox for two hours after the overly- energetic mail woman had come and gone) but I finally made the trip, the trek, the quest, the sojourn out to the mailbox and there it was. The envelope, the results, the explanation.

It was at the end, almost like a post-script to my whole mid life. MENOPAUSAL HORMONE LEVELS ELEVATED.

And that is the whole story. Whether or not I have a nine year old, whether or not I danced until dawn not that many years (was it really 15 years) ago, whether or not I still wear Nikes, a ponytail and cool sunglasses without the string that clips to your sweater- my body is changing- becoming older, cranky and tired. I am becoming MENOPAUSAL.

I think long and hard about this event. Sure, now it explains everything. Why I just want to sleep, keep the house at 60 degrees or eat my youngest child. So this is what they were talking about. I stare at my spot on the wall- the opposite wall- and am thankful that it isn't late onset Narcolepsy. Yes, I might become a bitch. Yes, I will wear tank tops in December and yes, my youngest may turn up missing if she crosses me but still, in a year or two, maybe even just six months, I will go to the mailbox without the aide of an energy bar. I will do dishes and vacuum and dust. I might even dance until dawn. After all, it's only MENOPAUSE- right?

Is the World Getting Meaner?

Is it just me, or is the world getting meaner?
I mean, I don't want to start anything, (Lord knows that I have been known to be grumpy myself on RARE occasion) but I'm talking downright mean.
The kind of mean that makes you keep the extra money when a seven year-old girl scout gives wrong change in your favor.
The kind of mean that makes you pretend to listen and be interested in a telemarketer's spiel about "Opportunities For Retirement In Brazil", leading him/her on for forty minutes and then, conveniently not "owning" a credit card.
The kind of mean that makes you shove past the old, the ill, and anyone else that is in your way. THAT KIND OF MEAN.
It's like it's in the water or something. Even the presidential candidates seem extra mean. Okay, maybe not as mean as in some past years, but mean none-the-less. Both H and O (which, by the way, if they ran on the same ticket could be the "HO" ticket) are getting mean. Then they publicly announce that they aren't going to be mean.
Well, what is that?
My kids do that.
"He's being mean to me," screams Em-
"I'm not!" shouts back El.
"He's pulling my hair on purpose!"
"No I'm not, I am just trying to get a piece of lint out of it. It looks like a nit. Do you want to go to school looking like you have nits? What does that say about children in America?"

"Okay, guys- save it for a televised debate." I shout from the bathroom.
And maybe I'm meaner than I think, come to realize. For instance, the bathroom thing. I'm not really using it, It is just a small space that I can escape to.
It has it's own natural resources, value by it's sheer location and one very prime product. It doesn't take much to overpower so I have claimed it as my own. I don't admit to this, of course. I publicly declare that I am occupying the space temporarily, in order to clean it up and restore it. I insist that my presence there is temporary and I apologize for my presence explaining that it is just a matter of time before I will have finished my clean-up and restoration, and I will be gone. Oh sure, there are insurgents occasionally- someone hiding in the shower, a tricky ploy to use the toilet, and once or twice I have been hit by a blast of water or rubber ducky from a rebel terrorist- but for the most part, I have occupied this little corner of our world much to the dismay of the rest of the family, who is powerless to overthrow me as they have not figured out (yet) how to combine sources.
Now I wonder why?
Is it the right thing to do, or have i just gotten caught up in this "mean thing" that seems to spread like warm butter on toast.

I mean, look at some of the things that have gone on in the last little while-

-The Brittney thing- that was mean.
-Making us listen to it on a daily basis- meaner
-Packaging our food smaller and calling it "new, convenient, size"- mean
-That shark who bit the man's leg off- mean, very mean.
-The hard, clear plastic packaging that smart disks come in (you know, the ones that are impervious to scissors, fingernails, teeth and a drop from a 40 story building- plain mean.
-Gas prices-MEAN
-Those fake ads about increasing you libido (no it does not work) that flood the internet, causing unsuspecting readers who get a great idea to spike their partner's coffee with it, to waste money only to have the whole thing fail miserably -not that I know anyone who has done this, still- It's mean!

I think meanness begets meanness!

So, next time you are just tripping merrily along life's little yellow brick road- stop for a minute and look around. Are Angelina and Brad really breaking up? Does "no trans fat" but "430 calories per serving" seem right? And what about the number of bicyclists and pedestrians that are being run over in Portland, Oregon? I don't want to be a pessimist, but the world is getting meaner I tell ya, and I don't think a rousing chorus of Kumbya and "hands across America" is going to fix it this time.

As for me- I'm too far gone. In the last 10 minutes I have hired a small border patrol to man the entrance to the bathroom while I am at work. Their instructions: "No one gets across the threshold- tell them to go outside." Now that's mean.