Whisper

It was a little before this time two years ago that my beloved Siamese Whisper became ill. She hadn't left my bed for three days and when I picked her up, she was with fever. I learned what was really wrong after taking her to the vet--acute kidney failure. They did what they could for her, but ultimately, she didn't have too long. She could live anywhere from a month to over two years.

She wasn't alive a month after her diagnosis.

I knew it was hopeless; I saw it in her eyes, the same old eyes full of love and wisdom. I didn't want to lose my baby but I didn't want her to keep suffering.

Whisper had been with us since 1998. We adopted her fully grown from the Humane Society and it was love at first sight for all of us. Dylan was 3 and he couldn't pronounce "Whisper"--it would come out "whipyoo"--so we called her Whipyoo more than her actual name.

Whisp seemed human. She was a beautiful blue point, small and delicate, like a refined Oriental lady. She and I talked regularly and we understood each other perfectly. She loved Tara, too; every night she would hop into Tara's bed and cuddle with her. When I picked her up and tucked Tara in for the night, Whisper would say "Good night" and "I love you." You could clearly understand the words.

The day she died, I had Tara with me. I picked her up from school and together we bore Whisper to the vet for the last time. I didn't put her in the pet carrier. She rested in Tara's arms in the car. In the exam room, we hugged her and cried; she felt our tears and knew she was a well-loved cat and that her time with us had ended. The vet administered a tranquilizer before euthanizing her, and she felt my arms around her as she traveled deeper into her death. I gave Tara her collar with the heart charm and I arranged to have Whisper cremated and her remains given to me. She rests on a special shelf I have in my room. It would not have been fitting for me to bury her because she wasn't an outdoor cat.

I honestly believe that my pets will be waiting for me at the Heavenly Gates, and that Whisper's voice will be the first one I hear, demanding to know what had taken me so long.

Rest in peace, my beloved companion. I will always think of you and cry over you because you were so loved.

I'm not complaining, really!

This post is dedicated to my children, who are an endless source of joy, happiness, compassion and to whom I've had to refrain from hitting over the head with a tube of Pillsbury canned biscuits (sometimes.)

Good: Dylan got all A's and only one B on his interim report. He had 100% averages in language arts and science.
Bad: It's the old story--needs to focus more, cut up less and participate in class more.
Ugly: Hearing Dylan and me singing "Mama Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys." There were FOR SALE signs up in front of all my neighbors' homes this morning (kidding, but wouldn't blame 'em.)

Good: Tara got straight A's on her interim report. I swear, she's such a model student.
Bad: Her "boyfriend" is pressing her to be his campaign manager for Student Council vice president.
Ugly: She says she will but will secretly vote for the opponent. They become corrupt sooooo young, don't they.

Good: Weather's nice today.
Bad: Cracked skin on my heels.
Ugly: Watching me peel away said cracked skin.

Laughter....good for the heart. And face.

Tanq'ed.

In case I forgot to clarify, that pic is of me. I was drunk and happy and Walter was afraid to let me out of his sight that night, because I was looking kind of cute that evening. That was New Years Eve, and we were at a private party with a huge open bar, and after settling in with a few Mic Ultras, I quickly switched to one of my favorite drinks, Tanqueray gin and tonic.

Now, that can be lethal, especially when I was quite thin and vulnerable to the sins of liquor. But---I was the Eat Drink and Be Merry Girl that evening, and I daresay Walter felt 10 years younger when he would look at me and when we danced.

Walter is approximately 10 years, 2 months and 8 days older than I, which would make him 45 now. I met him---well, hooked up with him in the summer of 2003, at a barbecue Sue and Larry (my sister and brother-in-law) threw. I had actually known Walter for years but never had the courage to even suggest that we date. After Jim died, I was horribly lonely, depressed and just plain scared of everything. He was fresh from a divorce that resulted from his ex-wife's screwing around. He became slightly fanatical about certain things after the divorce--religion, for example. He suddenly decided it was time to save his soul so he was on a fundamentalist Christian jag for about a year. Thank God that didn't last; if there's anything I cannot stand, it's someone pushing God into my face, especially after they've had 50 Budweisers and blasting their foul barley breath up my nose. That's exactly what he did, it seemed; this was around the summer of 2001, I suppose, and I was at Sue's, sitting outside with Larry, his colleague Mark, and Walter. My kids were over and playing with my nieces. Walter was fairly tanked when I joined them, and that's when I noticed that he had an irresistible smile and misbehaving eyes. Later, I found out that he flirted with every woman--he was just talented at it. Maybe that's when I fell in lust with him, and developed a very schoolgirlish crush.

I nursed this crush for two years. I confessed to Sue that I thought Walter was hot, but I became afraid to show myself around him. For one thing, I blushed from head to foot and that a pretty weird thing for a 31 year old woman who's borne two children and been around the block more times that she could count, to do. Time passed, I went to college, was busy with the children, and during this time, I lost weight. A lot of weight. I emerged in the summer of 2003 as a new, thin, sexy self. The night before the barbecue, I holed up at my friend Angela's apartment with her and friend Gretchen, coloring my hair to a new sexy strawberry. Next day, I carefully selected my outfit, picked a bowl of fresh tomatoes from my garden and arrived at Sue's, heart pounding, determined to keep my dignity no matter what happened.

I nabbed Sue in the kitchen and she confirmed that Walter was indeed there, out front with the other guests. So I gathered my courage and my tomatoes and stepped out.

There he was, sitting at one of the picnic tables, talking to Larry. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. The door screeched like a dying cat parade as I emerged out into the sunshine and all heads swivelled round to see who was the newcomer.

He looked at me in midsentence, and this quivery little smile played on his lips as if he wasn't sure of what he was seeing. I tried to be nonchalant-casual-unconcerned with my greeting--"Hi Walter, it's nice to see you"--and then made pretense about mingling. Meanwhile, Larry and Walter fled to the smoker/grill where the meat was cooking. I decided that at this point a beer was mandatory.

The afternoon wore on. I was having a great time, so were the children, everyone eating wonderful food, and so we stuffed ourselves and gradually folks began to leave. My kids were staying with my parnts because my school started a week ahead of theirs, so they left too. Walter was still there. I hung around the kitchen, said my goodbyes, and was out the door to my car before anyone could say anything.

Walter comes pounding out the back door after me, doesn't say a single word, just turns me around and starts kissing and kissing me. We stand there for about 10 minutes like that. Finally, I tell him I have to get home. We exchange phone numbers and more kisses. I drive halfway the length of the circular driveway and lean out the window for more kissing.

We're still together and still kissing.

Wounded.

Dylan took a hit at karate class yesterday. The hell of it was, I wasn't even there to see it. I was sitting in the car trying to get rid of my headache. Since I broke my glasses, I've had to wear my old pair and they're the wrong script. So now my head pounds out "Anvil Chorus" all day, every day.

Soooo...what drove me to the car were three little demons...err, kids who kept up a constant stream of high-pitched gigglyness while their mothers chattered on and on and on, unawares. When the hour is up, I go back into the dojo and there's Dyl by the water cooler, holding an ice pack to his head. He was hit by a much bigger kid during a sparring session. When I tucked him into bed last night, he whispered "Mom, I cried. That was the first time I ever cried in karate. I just couldn't hold it in." God, what a kid. I hugged him and told him it was OK to cry, that he should never be ashamed to do so.

Apprentice fans: Weren't you ever so glad to see that yappy little baggage Melissa get shit-canned?

more to come, I'm too tired tonight to type....Zzzzzz....

Chuckly.

Funny things my kids have said:

Tara (age 6):
Dylan, I have good news and bad news. the good news is, Jesus is your Saviour and Heavenly Father. The bad news is, your big poop clogged up the toilet again.
Dylan (age 4):
I'll go get the sponge...

Maggie (my niece, age 8):
What does "retire" mean?
Dylan (age 10):
It means you quit your job because you're so old.

Dylan (age 10), while riding his bike tonight:
Man, something sure stinks around here!
Me:
Everyone's put out their garbage tonight.
Dylan: Oh, yeahhhhh!

Dylan:
Mom, I have a confession, and I don't know if you're going to like it.
Me:
Oh yeah, well, what is it?
Dylan:
I think I'm going over to the Dark Side.

Dylan:
Grandma's hair looks like the foam on a glass of root beer.

The Order of Beauty: Aunt Glou-Glou's Soliloquy

"I love you cold unfeeling robot arm!"

I am an admitted viewer of Dr. Phil. I just love to watch him lambast the hides off all these rotten parents. Not to say, if I went on there for some parenting advice, he would not dress me down severely for some of my practices (like, letting my children watch "Chicago," purely for the artform, and reading to them the works of Edward Gorey, and allowing them to watch such garbage as "The Fairly Oddparents.")

I digress.

This mother--and as I explained to me beloved Pollyanna loopies should be "not only bitch-slapped, she needed BOTH those kids taken away from her and for those kids to learn: You don't treat people like that!!!!!!!!"

Here's the link to the show: http://www.drphil.com/shows/show/568/

This makes me angry beyond belief. How can a parent treat her own flesh and blood like that. So what if Victoria (the snubbed daughter) isn't as attractive as Hunner (the cute one.) WTF kind of name is 'Hunner' anyway. V cannot help if she has a skin condition, looks to me like vitiligo, as my best friend has the same thing. V is probably overweight because she fills the void with love that obviously doesn't come from her mother. This woman is a poster child for mandatory sterilisation. BLEEEEECH!

Now, from another mother's perspective.

I am the mother of two attractive children.

My son, Dylan, age 10, has his father's blond-and-freckled boyness about him and flawless skin that turns golden in the sun. He is sinewy, though has the potential to add bulk when he hits his teens. Intelligent, though would forsake school any day--typical boy. Budding artist, loves to draw his own brand of hero, though he tries to root for the bad guy. Has a knack for the guitar, loves ballads. His aqua-blue eyes are framed by lashes too long for any boy, and is he ever a girl-charmer. Hair, in summer, turns silvery-white as if it deliberately bottles sunlight. His smile makes me feel so good inside, like nothing bad can ever happen again. Sometimes, on my worst days, all he has to do is smile at me and I feel better instantly. If he could bottle that smile, there would be no more sadness in the world. He is quiet, reflecive to the point where he just tunes out the world, whether out of habit or self-preservation I know not. He does have small seizure activity and I am constantly ragging on him to Focus! Pay attention! Forgetful, yes, but when he does his chores he does so with a plodding consistency that insures an almost obsessive neatness. There have been times when I fear he had almost been killed because he chose that particular moment to turn off, something that scares me and many other adults alike, always thinking of his father.

Tara, my beautiful daughter. Twelve years old but looks older because she is very tall. Honey-blonde curls that only I know how to tame, as a mother would. A naturally slender, thin even, frame any number of girls would kill for, including me. Legs that go on for miles. A face like a fresh peach, snub nose. Her eyes--are the most incredible eyes I've seen on a human face. Blue, heck yes, my eyes and her dad's were blue, but in Tara her blue is the startling blue-and white of a star sapphire. The white radiates from the center exactly as such. When she looks at you, it's startling and slightly unnerving because she has caught your gaze like a shutter in a camera and you know she will not forget who you are. Tara's been enrolled in modeling academy and next month will go on to a big competition in DC, her first one. Despite her physical beauty, she retains a gawkiness, geeky if you please, mien that defines her age and station. Incredibly bright and has a hunger for learning, far more intelligent than I could ever be. Loves being the 'different' one, and the funny thing is she doesn't have to 'make up' an odd persona, she is one, but in a way that she can pull off without becoming the butt of jokes. Tara and I can't see eye-to-eye much of the time. She's belligerent, stubborn, arrogant and deliberately mean to her brother, defies me, and knows she can get away with murder around her grandmother. A total slob; surprised she doesn't attract roaches.

The point to all this is not to brag or disparage, though I see more in my children worthy of praise--the point is I love both my smeets equally and differently. I love them equally because they are mine; I love them differently because they are unique.

I was not a pretty child. I was very plain, picked on a lot. I developed acne at the age of 8. I tend towards fat, and my face is very ruddy, with a chin that may rival Leno's. I have blue eyes but they have an unmistakable tilt to them that exceeds attractibility. The fact that I could produce such pretty children is a miracle to me, and I feel--I guess--forgiven.

This is me.

The photo is by O. Winston Link, taken in 1957 in a tiny town on the outskirts of the Appalachians. Here is the link: http://www.robertmann.com/artists/link/full_01.html

This is where I came from.

Well, partly. It's a picture of the land I'm most at home in.

I am a descendant of a great family. I don't mean great in the sense of blue blood, or genteel Southern ladyship, or a shallow, iffy claim to be a direct descendant of royalty.

Great, to me, means honesty, kindness and perseverance.
Great is putting family first, always.
Great is, even though Dad might work for a week and then drink up the profits, coming home and giving the family not cash, but the telling of stories, the singing of old songs that crossed the ocean with his granddaddy, and perhaps the cooking of a rare treat such as an oyster stew that he learned to make while he was in Annapolis.
Great is stretching food to last a week longer and taping dollar bills to the underside of a sofa in case of dire need (Granny would inevitably end up forgetting where she hid the money, a habit I inherently picked up from her.)

Granny died in 1992, before she ever saw my father's first-born grandchild. My father's father died in 1970, a year before I was born. But--they left a timeless legacy that lives in me. I can hear the call of my ancestral home, the crooning of the fine mountain women and ringing, gruff shouts of railroaders, the Irish and Scottish immigrants who settled in these West Virginia hills to sculpt a life that could not be found back home. They left their parents, friends, maybe even children until they had the money to send for them--maybe they never were reunited. I am a child of greatness. My children are direct descendants of the Appalachian children, but they carry too within them the blood of the Pennsylvanian German immigrants and the English Virginia farmers. Our blood swells with proud heritage and I am certain to keep the pride alive in my offspring.

Spring--freshness, quenching, renewal.
How appropriate.

Response: negative.

Squeak the Musician Kitten is sick. I managed to snag an appointment today at the vet's and she has a virus of some sort that affects cats, much like humans picking up colds seemingly out of nowhere. Squeaky had a temp of 105, won't eat or drink, and now just wants to stay curled up in the recliner all day. So Dr. Sauble gave her an antibiotic shot, some electrolytes to lower her temp, and a take-home dropper of more antibiotic. I took her down to the Kitty Restroom and she went (didn't leave me a tip, hmmph!), then disappeared among the basement junkery. Please, in the spirit of All Creatures, say a little prayer for my Squeaky.

http://www.fox.com/house/
Season premiere is NOW on. Oh Hugh, my British bon bon, I pine for yooooooou.....

Hip-O-Crit.

Why is it that some people can talk freely about what is wrong with your children and the way you parent them; and when the tables are turned, when you tactfully point out some *discrepancies* in their parenting and some character flaws in their children, they feel flamed?

Walter and I have forever clashed on the finer points of childrearing. Seeing as how his children are functioning with divorced parents gives him leeway to 'explain away' their behavior. When finally, the dam bursts, and their behavior royally pisses him off, it's martial law, he screams, curses and downgrades his children. Then they go home to a mother who hails from the School of Wooden Spoon Discipline. No wonder his kids are so screwed up. Well, not the younger one, anyway. She still has a chance but I am not enthusiastic.

An in the mean time, he criticizes me for my parenting ideas. While I've been singlehandedly parenting my children for almost 6 years and have never claimed to be the Mary Poppins archetype, I know I've done a good job.

All this goes back to Memorial Day weekend. Walter had taken his kids and my son, Dylan, down to his sister's house in VA for a weekend of fun n sun. They come back and Dylan tells me that Walter's son, "Seth" had said a really hurtful comment about his (Dyl's) father, who's deceased. This, understandably, really struck home with Dylan and he told me about it, in private. Walter got pissed off that Dylan didn't come to him first. I said to Walter that Dyl didn't come to him because Walter probably would've blown him off. Do Walter's kids come to him about everything? NO! They go home to their mother and talk all sorts of trash about me and my family.

Dylan confides in me because he knows I listen. He doesn't confide in Walter because he knows he will blow him off. Simple.

All I can say is I am glad I have a son who talks to me because he knows I will see things as they are, a son who is kind and good-hearted, and not a hulking little brute who likes to bash heads.

Blessings overlooked.

Evan comes home today!
Rob called yesterday and said he was healthy enough to come home. He lost a little weight at the hospital but that is generally typical of newborns. Myung's mother is staying with them for a couple of weeks and she does all the cooking. Rob hates Korean cooking. He's been eating frozen dinners, heh.
It's so funny, picturing my brother as a father. He's always been Rob the uncle, my brother. I'm thrilled to death for him and Myung. They will be great parents.
I've always had a respect and certain admiration for my brother. he has never been afraid to say what he thinks. He's one of the most intelligent people I know.
He used to intensely dislike me when I was a kid, because I hadn't been born a boy. He wanted a baby brother and never had quite forgiven me and my mother for this gender faux pas. He used to dress me up as a football player. He would slick my hair back. He did mean things to me as well, like throwing a blanket over my head and slamming into me while I tried to escape. He told me that the scrambled eggs at McDonald's were really made from mashed-up baby chicks, and that was why they were so yellow. I haven't eaten eggs at McDonald's for almost thirty years.
He tried telling my daughter that the workers at McDonald's put the carbonation in the sodas by belching into the cups. She didn't buy it. Thank God, she inherited some common sense.
Yes, Rob is a cool uncle. He cracks Dylan up with his voice imitations. He once took Dyl to Philly for an Eagles game and he and Myung had the best time playing with him. I can't wait to meet my nephew!

I read that Napoleon Dynamite talking dolls will be available. I think I have to get one; it has one of my favorite quotes: "Tina, you fat lard, come get some dinner!"

I smell like an Italian sub.

Is it possible?
I mean, to use a deodorant and smell...well, like you haven't used any at all?
I switched from my old standard, Degree Powder Fresh, to Adidas Active. A few days ago, I noticed that a funny oniony odor was emanating from my pits. A fluke, I thought, since I had eaten spaghetti.
The smell lingered. I was sniffing my pits one day and Walter comments "Yep, it's you, not me. You smell like onions." Gahh!!!! I had NEVER smelled this bad. And it's all due to the Adidas. That stuff makes me smell like I wallowed in a field filled with kudzu and wild onions. I wondered how many people I offended. I did notice that the guy who sits by me in my algebra class was sort of distanced from me in Wednesday. Hmmm....
Anyhoo, I gave the deodorant to Walter (who rather snarkily pointed out to me that it was a men's brand @@) and went right out and got some more Degree. No more smell. Tonight, when I was outside pulling weeds and trimming, I kept sniffing myself, trying to be discreet about it. No onions. Just Powder Fresh. Praise God.

My little nephew Evan is still in the hospital. Jaundice and breathing problems, common in preemies. He's been under the bili lights and he's been breathing better, thank God.

The cute kitty is Squeak, about 15 weeks old now. My, they grow up so fast.

The Wrath

Makes you wonder what the heck God is up to.
It was difficult to see the images of destruction and death on TV. I can't even imagine it if I actually had to live it.
Katrina has taken New Orleans completely. The waterfront Biloxi area is demolished. I saw pictures of the casinos I had visited, smashed, looted, buried.
I whs I could help some way other than monetarily. All we can do is pray for those poor souls who are living through this hell. Who knew that hell could be waterlogged?
I stop and think about all these natural disasters: the hurricanes here in the U.S., the tsunami last year, the earthquakes in Japan, Cali, Mexico. Really, is this just foreshadowing of the Rapture? Is God trying to eliminate as many as he can before the Big One strikes? Think about it. I do, and it scares the shit out of me. I am afraid of death, dying. I am afraid that if the Rapture happens, I will be left behind because I am such a sinful person. I believe in Jesus Christ. That much is certain. I was baptized in His name along with my husband in 1998. But, alas, I have lived such a sinful life--and I am still living it--that I am uncertain of my position in God's book. I am scared. Very.