tactfullyblunt

I haven't been here for a terribly long time so I'm struggling even harder than usual to find something to say. Something that isn't as trite as this. Something I've not written before about how hard it is to find something to write.

Only it's not that hard to find something to write about. It's probably pretty easy. My problem has been a general overwhelming laziness. Of the monumental and lifelong type. 

Problem is, as happens to me nearly every year right along about March, I'm feeling the itch to do something creative. Something spectacular that will land me on the world stage in a huge way. And it's just that need to do something big that keeps me from doing anything big in the first place. 

I know I'm not alone in this because there are all kinds of books out there written just for people like me. People who are creative but don't write, draw, paint, knit or sew. I have no hobbies but I have a need to make something more than just my bed in the morning. 

I want to believe that this itch will lead to something this time...I need to believe.

"Now you stab mommy"

That's what a man told his son. After he himself finished stabbing his wife, the man gave the knife to his son and said that. His son? TWO-YEARS-OLD.

A man takes his daughter on a plane ride. Straight into her grandma's house, killing himself and the daughter. She? EIGHT-YEARS-OLD [Grandma's ok though].

A man has some heartburn with his wife for reasons still unknown, but suspicions are that it's because he thought she was traveling to her job in Puerto Rico too often. What does he do? Dismembers her with their two kids in the house. FOUR- and SIX-YEARS-OLD.

What. The. Fuck. People?

What kind of a world are we living in where stuff like this happens? To KIDS!

It's not like this is the first time things like this have happened, nor is it the first time where I've been left agog with wonder at the human condition. Somehow it just seems that much more shocking if kids are involved, because I've heard variations of these stories involving other adults more times than I care to consider, and while it's not ok, the "wrongness" is dialed down a little.

Does it make it worse that these people did these things to their own children? Is it any better that things much worse than this are happening half a world away between adults who are completely unrelated to the children they are murdering, mutilating and discarding? When I start considering all of the angles, it boggles my mind. I'm feeling a little nauseated, actually.

....

Unrelated, but this morning I was turning into my gym, thinking happy thoughts, looking forward to spring when it occurred to me that I had no idea when the last time I called my mother was. I wondered how she was doing, and made a happy mental note to pick up the phone to call her today. Only a small blip on the radar was the thought that she's probably annoyed with me for not calling sooner. Oh, well, I thought, maybe we can make plans to do something together--I could use some sewing pointers.

And then it hit me that she has been dead over two years now. And then it hit me again that this is the first time I thought about that and didn't feel like I'd been punched in the gut. Of course I wasn't happy about it, but my thinking was actually, "Oh, well then, that explains why I've not spoken to her in a while" and then a mental laugh (and not a malicious one either).

And then? Then I realized that this was a new way for me to think of her--that while she was alive I would never have been happy about calling her. Nor would I have looked forward to making plans to do something with her. For that matter, I don't know if I'd have taken up sewing had she still been alive. Maybe, I don't know. Regardless, the thought of her put a smile on my face, a smile that she isn't alive to take away from me (as she did numerous times in life; sharing in another's happiness? not her strong suit).

I don't cotton to revisionist history, but I'm wondering if this is a sign that I can have a better relationship with her now that she's dead than I'd ever have had while she was alive?

hmm...

The last few times I've been driving around a particular corner in my extended neighborhood, I've spent the next 15 or so minutes musing about a bandit sign that says if I have a dirty carpet I should visit the website for a company called Ethical Services. I would list the sign verbatim, but I don't want to start getting crazy trackbacks.

Anyway, the fact that a company with this name would offer carpet cleaning has sent my mind reeling on how many different permutations might bring me to the point where I need my carpet cleaned by them. Here are two that Bill and I discussed this morning:

Me: "Your crime of passion against your spouse/lover has left a huge blood stain on your living room rug. What to do? Call Ethical Services. We can counsel you on cleaning—and confession."

Bill: "Night of passion with your new lover left red wine all over your spouse's expensive Persian rug? Ethical Services can help you get that stain out—and get your marriage back on track."

I'm taking scenarios from anyone out there willing to play along.

trendy, how I hate thee

This morning at the gym I discovered that sewing is "in vogue" now.

Which is funny because Bill and I were just discussing the very sad passing of a 112-year-old local sewing icon, Blank's Fabrics. We concluded that sewing, unlike knitting, is so very NOT in vogue. It's difficult to find hip, pretty, and mod fabrics at JoAnn's (which, sadly, are the only fabric stores left in these here parts). I have looked far and wide online to find the specific patterns I want. Nada.

And then NBC does a human interest story with college-aged girls in Montana. Texas. And Ohio. All of whom are, like, sewing things that they, like, would really wear, you know, out to dinner and things?

My heart alternately leapt and then sank. Not because I don't want them to find happiness in sewing—I hope that I myself can find happiness in sewing. It's that I hope that all of the "like", "you know", and "whatever" that is apparently flushing the sewing scene doesn't make it cosmically unbearable for me to find my own sewing groove.

Don't ruin it for me, Paris! I don't want sewing to be, like, so hot.

try a little something new

Today the UPS man brought me something I never in a million years thought I'd buy myself: a sewing machine. But because of my piss poor sewing experiences at a tender age, of course I bought one that was all tarted up.

The last months have been full of, well, life stuff. Dad's cancer seems to have been a blip on the radar (knock on wood), Papa D did have to go in for more major surgery than an appendectomy (but seems to be doing quite well), and Mr Sage is definitely diabetic but appears to be responding well to his daily insulin shots (which means I get to keep the love of my life for a bit longer, thank god).

I make a lot of promises to myself at the beginning of the year, which brings me back to the reason I got the sewing machine in the first place. Outside of forcing myself to be the one who answers the door when the pizza man comes, there are only two things left in the world that I've been avoiding because of previous bad experience or obsession burnout. One is photography, which I've been coming back around to since Bill gave me the D50. The other is sewing.

I've bulled through other things I've found daunting (see learning how to drive a stick, cooking on a gas stove, getting married, and launching my own business), so now that I'm no longer going to be terrified of breaking someone else's/borrowed machinery, maybe I'll get over myself. I don't plan to be Marcy Homemaker, I just want to sew some damned curtains.

Now if I could only start on that story I was talking about months ago, I'd be set. For now, I'll be happy if I get back to posting more often about less mundane things.

Hello Kitties!

coming off hiatus, but not today

I've been away, but only because I've not had time to write lately.

We're headed to upstate NY in a few to visit with Bill's fam and be with his Dad pre-surgery. I'll write more once our holidays are officially over.

Promise.

kidney punched

Yesterday I woke up with a backache that I attributed to laying abed too long. I got up and tried to go about my business, but without drinking enough water apparently. By the time we started the drive to NY to see Mr D (doing better enough to come home, but waiting for the correct antibiotic cocktail to take effect), I was feeling the constant need to pee. That and the distant, 10-yr-old memory of what a kidney infection felt like put the fear of God in me.

In an attempt to flush the system and avoid the inevitable, we stocked up on water for the initial leg of the journey and then somewhere just inside the PA line I got three large bottles of cranberry juice. Thankfully Bill was merciful enough to offer to stop every hour or so, and by the time we made it up here I was feeling much better. I thought for sure when I went to bed last night, as well as when I awoke this morning, that I was peachy (or cranberry) keen because I had no pain at all.

A cup of coffee later told me otherwise, as did the trip to the local clinic where I got some Cipro. I discovered while I was there that the local medical staff were hesitant to give me the usual much lower course of antibiotics first "because people in Baltimore have more egregious germs than we have up here, and our regular antibiotics likely just won't abate whatever you've been exposed to".

In case you were wondering, my extraordinary in some bad way, glaring and/or flagrant germs are what brings all the boys to the yard.

bifurcated litany

At first I questioned Bill's decision to wait, but now I know that when the time comes, if possible, I will most likely do the same thing because the possibility of receiving a gift like the one we had with P. last night would be too enticing to pass up.

For the most part, last night was passed with Mr. P in a state of stupor that made it seem as if he'd already left us. And then, right as we were shutting the bedroom up so that we could go to sleep, Bill moved Penn from our bed into his own little wine box bed on the floor so that we wouldn't unknowingly punt him off during our sleep. He spent a few seconds in the box before standing up, staggering the four steps across the floor, and performing the most amazing feat of strength by launching himself halfway up our bed and then scrabbling with his back feet until he pulled himself up into the bed. Penn looked at me drunkenly and then flopped down on the bed. "Wow, I guess he really wants to be with us." Bill said, and we stared at one another for a few seconds, shocked by the short vision of the old, stubbornly lovable Penn.

This morning, after passing the stony night of silence (I'm serious, his breath wasn't even making a sound), he greeted us with loud purring. He hasn't purred for the last two days, which is unheard of for him. I like to think it was his way of letting us know he loved us for letting him sleep with us last night.

I have no more words. This is exceptionally difficult to watch, as it has been one of my cats who indirectly caused Penn's segregation the last two years (Penn attacked Geneva the week before the wedding and has never lost the taste for her blood). I feel an immense amount of guilt for the way he has lived his life, and while everyday I asked Bill if he'd pet his cat yet, if he'd told his cat how much he loved him, and if he'd checked on Penn's water or food, it doesn't make up for this shitty situation at all.

Peace out, Penndle.

I Love to Hate You, I Love to Hate You, I Loooove to Haaaate Yoooooouuu

It's official: Penn's got The Cancer.

There will be plenty of time for retrospectives on the life of Bill's cat later, but for now he is crying above his tranqs, moaning about the state of his existence.

His body has always burned through any meds we've had to give him—8 kinds of kitty psychotic drugs which had no effect on him (except to make him even more homocidal) proved that. But I'd have to say that this is the saddest drug burn through I've ever seen him go through.

Poor Penncil.

You're not much longer going to be trapped in The Pennitentiary.

I hate this cancer thing, man. Fucking blows.

Jesus, He loves Himself a pogostick

The last 24 hours have been a bit painful.

Yesterday we found out that Bill's cat, Penn, probably has mysenteric cancer (for which there is little treatment) -or- FIP (for which there is little treatment). For people who have no children, our cats are our children.

This morning Bill received a call from his sister to say that Mr D had an impromptu appendectomy. The update on that is that the appendix had already exploded by the time they opened him up and that he'd had some infection in there. They scooped him out like a cantaloupe but are going to keep him in the ICU for the next few days to make sure he's ok.

Our house, meanwhile, has been in a constant state of upheaval since before Halloween. This has caused Bill's other cat, Teller, to begin leaving us lovely little presents of the smelly variety all around the house. To say that this is annoying is putting it mildly, especially since it was only two months ago that I was going on and on about how our cats don't piss all over the place. As a way to remedy the situation, the only thing we can do (besides hurry up and finish the construction already before our obviously Felix Unger cat floods us with urine) is to put Feliway dispensers in every room, spray enzyme crap everywhere, and attempt to squeeze enough time into the day to reassure him that everything is going to be ok. I'm beginning to think that there is not enough reassurance in the world, however, because just the other day, immediately after I gave him the reassurance he was craving, he went and pissed on the floor. [He just went to the vet and there is nothing wrong with him, so this is definitely behavioral.]

I am really at the end of my rope with this cat and have contemplated that perhaps in order to figure him out I need to walk a mile in his shoes. When I'm hungry, I'm just going to piss on the floor. When I'm lonely, the same thing. No one's come to clean my bathroom for a while? Ditto. Bill spends too much time working and not enough time giving me pets? You got it. Someone calls me with more bad news? That person is going to get a snoot full of funk.