Lion and Magic Boy

Why, hello! I am reminded I have a blog. So hello, blog! Nice to see you again. Have I been avoiding you? No not at all why yes, actually. But it’s not you, it’s me. I mean it baby! You have many fine qualities. I am sure you will find another blogger soon. Very soon. One with motivation. One who loves you enough to post every day, just like in the old days. One who updates your links and looks at your stats. One who loves you enough to tell you when you’re getting fat and then updates your theme.

…What? Well, yeah, maybe I can still be your blogger. I mean, we do have a history, don’t we? Two years of posting regularly, and four years before that of holding onto a blog name with a couple of really old and lame posts. Something about a trip to a dentist. I mean, what was that?? We’ve come a long way together, you and me. I can’t exactly forget all we have been to one another now, can I?

So okay. I’ll give us another shot.

Yeah. Well.

See, early last week I was told Strollerderby no longer had need of my services. They were going in another direction, and it didn’t include me (what? bitter? me? noooo…)  So, having spent approximately 3,209,577 hours in the past year trolling the internets for stories for Strollerderby, thinking about stories to write for Strollerderby and my angle on them, writing said stories for Strollerderby, queueing them up (for Strollerderby) checking stats later and counting posts, plus the all-important back-chat with my fellow Strollerderby bloggers, I sorta associate my laptop and indeed ALL computers with Strollerderby now. And nobody likes getting fired. It sorta hurts. So I have been discovering a world outside those 3,209,577 hours: hey! there are other things you can do with the internets! Like…buy things! (oh. sorry. nope, can’t do THAT without a JOB). And…look stuff up! Interesting stuff! (If you know of any let me know) And….oh look, I am making a new website! (coming soon)

So yeah. Associating writing with Strollerderby with the burning pain of being fired (better check out those burning-type pains, just in case…antibiotics maybe?), I have not exactly wanted to write much lately. It’s MUCH easier to simply ignore said pains and pretend they aren’t there.

So here is what else I am doing:

• Getting ready to give a metaphysical workshop in Tucson AZ in 2 weeks. Wanna go?
• Getting rid of lots of STUFF. It is time, for a variety of reasons. I am starting with Waldorf-craft and knitting books, since there is little likelihood I will be needing them any time soon.
• Lots of channeling. My work is taking me in new directions, a life of its own, blah blah blah. Sometimes you just have to go where life takes you.

And this is what I am NOT doing:

• Cooking. Why do people need to eat every day anyway? Several times a day, even? What’s up with that?
• Eating. See above. Seriously, what’s the point?
• Cleaning. See above. You just have to do it again the next time. I mean, what’s UP with that? The short people here can do some of it anyway.

So anyway, that’s me. What have YOU been up to? Spill it! I want to know!

Woo!

There. I got that out of my system.

Wait a minute, no I didn’t after all. Hang on. Woo!

Okay, there. I think I can talk now.

It’s been a week, hasn’t it? I mean, it’s been A WEEK! Not only has it been a week since I wrote last, about the lovely Valentine’s poem (has it only been a week since then???!), but lots has happened. Not so much on an external level, but internally, boy, things are MOVING!

First. I saw an actual doctor! For an actual physical-malady-thing! I won’t bore you with the details, but it involves peeing and razor blades and drugs, all things I highly recommend you avoid. Except maybe the peeing; that’s hard to avoid. But I’m good now, or on the way to good. So, One Down, and it didn’t feel so terrible to be one of the millions who fall through the health-insurance-free cracks. (Yay for being self-employed!)

Second. Matthew is still here! Imagine my surprise (and his, probably) to find him still here on a two-week visit that began two months ago. And, well, there is transformation with that. Like with everything. Not that I would jinx anything by talking about it, but maybe! And I am still feeling privateish about this relationship, like maybe it’s a gossamer-thin bubble, so delicate that breathing on it even gently will cause it to disappear. Like one day I will wake up and open my eyes and find I have dreamed all this. So I will remain in dreamland just for now, that delicious feeling when you are still warm in bed and half-awake and you know you don’t have to get up yet or even quite awaken from that dream.

Third. I read this post the other day and was amazed at the words exchanged between mother and daughter, the openness about past hurts and present pain, even the blaming. It seemed wrong to me at first, and then it began to seem very right. It got me to thinking. Remember when I wrote this? Since then I have avoided contact with my mother, mostly because It’s Our Way, the Avoidance of Talking About Anything Emotional. But I am getting ready to have some confrontation. I’m completely frightened of it, yet I feel drawn to it at the same time. There are things I really, really need to say, things I don’t even quite yet know what they are but will figure out in the process. So much has been buried for so long, and I don’t want to hold onto it anymore.

Oh yes, it’s Valentine’s Day! As sappy and fake as it is, a holiday crafted by greeting-card manufacturers and candymakers to commemorate the grisly death of a martyred Roman saint, I love this day. I love the little romantic gesture (or even the grand romantic gesture as long as it doesn’t involve having to carry around a 2-foot tall greeting card for an entire day), no matter on what day it occurs.

It was a poem. A Shakespearean sonnet, to be exact. And I would have received it on time, that is, on The Day, today, if I hadn’t been (oops) looking over someone’s shoulder at his laptop a couple of days ago, at which time the element of surprise had been removed. Oops.

You want to read it, don’t you? Sorry, it’s for me. But every time I read it I get the same feeling. Here, then, are the last two lines:

But if the sun’s envy were felt in red hue
It’s at how bright in love I am with you.

[contented sigh]

I love Valentine’s Day.

It all started in Paris.

It was my second (of three) time(s) there, at about this time of year. Cold, rainy, grey, wet. But still Paris. And there was one unmistakeable thing that stood out, that kept hitting me in the face over and over.

The smell.

Paris has a smell.

It’s a perfume, a sweet delicious scent wafting gently from impeccably-clad Parisian women on the Metro, on the street, a subtle hint here and there. And it was all the same, all the same scent. The scent of Paris.

I wanted to take it home with me, to have to savor in odd moments, to bring me back to the clusters of crunchy baguette sandwiches cheaply available at any patisserie to consume while strolling down the sidewalk while looking at the gorgeous produce displayed in stalls lining the streets of the Latin Quarter. Or to bring me back to the buttery sweet soft-crisp-crunch of the Mardi Gras crepes available for just one day each year in any chocolaterie.

So I went into a department store. Not just any department store, but the Galeries Lafayette. If they didn’t have the scent of Paris, no one would.

I went straight to the perfume counter and set to work smelling every bottle. It had to be there somewhere. Every woman in Paris owned this scent, drifted it across the waiting nostrils of sentimental Americans at every opportunity; surely it would be here.

And it was. I had it wrapped up securely and I brought it home tenderly. The scent of Paris.

And I wore that scent for a couple of years. I sprayed it in my bedroom from time to time, and on the bed. I wanted to sleep in Paris, and breathe it in. Then a subsequent pregnancy caused me to swear off any scent at all lest I lose what little lunch I was consuming. And the scent of Paris lay fallow.

Until this past Saturday, when I glanced at my dresser, fairly bare except for a few unused bottles of scent and other paraphernelia, and remembered Paris.

It was time to have Paris again.

I sprayed one tiny spritz in the room, misting an invisible wearer who would walk through the bare mist, allowing only a modest amount to cling. Then I went downstairs.

A few minutes later I was seized with disgust. Serena was having a shower and must have been using an entire bottle of shampoo! How perfumey! How wasteful! I’d better go up and check.

Upstairs, the scent was stronger making a left turn instead of a right. A right turn was where Serena hadn’t even made it into the shower yet, whereas a left turn was…my bedroom. I walked in and nearly choked. The scent was unbearable. How did I ever think this smelled good?? And ohmygod how did it ever get so strong? How was I going to even sleep in the room?

I opened a window despite the frigid temperatures. I’d rather freeze to death anyway than asphyxiate.

Had to close the window before too long, and it did little good anyway. WHAT WAS I THINKING??

I guess I’m a little more sensitive than I used to be, because no one else noticed a thing.

Paris is going in the trash anyway.

It’s been (pronounced “bean,” sort of) brought to my attention recently that I may have treated an entire country too harshly. Yes, I have dissed the whole nation of Canada. That vast blank pink space vaguely located “up” from where I live. That one.

I must make amends.

I also have to rectify a slight error I made in recounting a conversation Matthew and I had about Niagara Falls. He didn’t actually say “woo,” and this error causes me to prostrate myself with humble grief and perhaps some chocolate. This is the actual conversation:

Me: (after approximately 1.45 minutes at the falls) Okay, I’ve seen it.

Matthew: Then please allow me to escort you inside, my lady, and show you proper respect and obeisance. And also maybe massage your feet.

Me: Sure.

Matthew: Shall I use my cloak to cover this small puddle so your oh-so-attractive-yet-somehow-overlarge sheeplike boots are not sullied with moisture?

Me: Ummmm…

Matthew: Allow me to whittle this wooden bench for the pleasure of placing your shapely backside upon it to rest your weariness from the short walk we have just undertaken. My apologies for my failure to carry you farther.

Me: Knock yourself out.

Matthew: Perhaps my lady would care to enjoy the earth emanations arising from the large quantity of water falling rapidly just outside this humble palacelike arcade by placing her shapeliness upon said bench? Oh, and watch for splinters.

Me: Woo!

So I’ve been vacationing in Ontario, Canada’s Vast Frozen Vacation Wonderland, for the past few days. Actually, Matthew and I drove up to the Niagara area to see an old friend of his there.

Yes, we saw Niagara Falls. Hey! That’s a lot of water! And it was really really cold! Good thing my camera either froze or melted, I forget which, because after a minute and a half and one photo we went back inside. A lot of water! And not very many tourists! But inside was warmer. And had benches.

Matthew: Hey, I can feel the falls from here! Through my butt! Woo!

Me: Me too! Let’s just stay here!

Oh, and the Niagara region is full of little wineries, and you can drive down the river from the falls and stop at the zillions of wineries along the way. It’s quite beautiful, and feels a lot like France where you can drive and drive and stop at every freaking little winery through a whole region and spend hours doing this. Many of the Niagara wineries sell ice wine, which I really like. But virtually all of the wineries were closed for the season and we had to content ourselves with the enticing little road signs every few feet announcing yet another delectable winery filled with [unattainable] delectable wine.  Fun!

Oh! And we stayed in a very nice restored mansion where they let people sleep and all and throw breakfasts the size of Rhode Island at them in the morning. It was quite nice having people bring us coffee and fruit and croissants. And stuff. The only problem was that apparently the place was built in the Stone Age or something (or 1800′s, maybe), and completely lacked wireless anything.

No. Wireless.

So we had to compete to plug our respective laptops into the one cord-thingy attached inconveniently to an actual wall.

Mostly we thumbwrestled for this honor and I used my power of the Reproachful Glance and once we decided to naked mudwrestle for it but got distracted when the sunken tub was finally full of mud. After all, who cares about the interweb when you’ve got real, actual mud?

Oh, and you know what else they have there in Ontario’s Frozen Winter Wonderland? Bowling! Woo! So we went bowling. Except some pins were missing and the balls were tiny and lacked holes. Weird! And I almost won, and I could have won, but it seemed like a better idea to come in last, so I did that. Here’s how you play:

My Body: Oooo! Exercise!

Me: What do mean, “exercise”? This is “5-pin bowling”!!

My Body: Feels like bending and stretching to me.

Me: So what? It’s not exercise, trust me.

My Body: Ha! You’ll feel this tomorrow! [snickers]

Me: Then the least you could do is stop dropping the damn ball early. Can’t you handle a 5-lb ball? See those pins? The ball is supposed to actually hit them and make them fall!

My Body: I CAN’T HEAR YOUUUUUU! LALALALALA!

I don’t recommend trying to be this.  It will wear you down to a nub in no time, maybe years, but a nub nevertheless.

Feeling rather nubbish myself these days.

At least, this very minute.  Ask me again later and I’m sure it will pass.  Things do.

Shadow, the remianing cat, seems happy that there’s an available lap for him for a change.  He’s been looking for someone to play with, though.  He plays a bit rough (though knows what to do with claws) and last time I checked I’m not a cat, which seems to puzzle him.  Shadow is easily puzzled, actually, a cat of a lot of fur and (evidently) little brain.  But he’s a gorgeous cat with a penchant of entering any open door without stopping to look at what’s in there.

Eric has confused his nose with a faucet.  Serena’s doll had a party and served Pez (the pink ones taste like ass).  Nathaniel got a haircut, several of them actually (harhar) and procrastinated blogged a lot.

And that was the weekend.

You were the sleek one. I called you that because your brother, having all the fur and an elegant waving fluffy tail, was showier and I had to give you something.

You both hid for days after you first came home, just over a year ago. Here you are under the Ikea TV cabinet, which is where you two spent a lot of time at first. That’s you on the left.

Still, you were the inquisitive one. For months, every time I opened the refrigerator, you’d be there. Uh, in it.

You also found a hole under the kitchen cabinets, and I was afraid you’d get stuck in there. You didn’t. You also liked licking moisture out of the dishwasher every time I opened it. Whatever. We all have our eccentricities.

You and your brother Shadow had a love-hate relationship. Many a night I had to pick you both up under one arm and toss you out of the bedroom and shut the door because you thought it was playtime. The two of you would run from one end of the house to the other, over furniture, over people, up the steps and down, leaping down four stairs to the bottom, skidding a little on the wood floor below.

Shadow beat up on you a bit, eventually becoming bigger and faster than you. It didn’t matter, though, you loved him anyway. I think. But you tell me; were you enjoying this?

Yeah. No. Didn’t think so. You guys never really curled up together, not after you grew out of kittenhood anyway, and even then not often, although you did it here. I notice you’re not on top.

Typical. Like I said, you got beat up on a LOT.

Mostly, though, you were on my lap. Every time I sat down at the computer, you’d run and jump onto my lap, using all your claws. No one ever taught you proper Claw Etiquette, and I have the holes in my legs, 4,855,231 of them, to prove it.

Was it love? You never gazed up at me with those adoring half-drunk-with-love kitty eyes I have seen on other furry faces, but you did purr every time you jumped up near me. You purred a LOT. And loudly. I like a cat who’s not afraid to purr like that; you could teach your brother a thing or two about purring. I especially liked the purring at night when you curled up next to me, which is where you slept without fail.

I was your person.

But then you got sick, and with the sick came neediness. You couldn’t get warm enough, and you crept under the covers, under sweaters. Waiting. We renamed you Ninja, hoping it would bring out your Inner Panther, and you liked it for a few days. But you were already sick, and a new name wasn’t going to be enough.

Yesterday we had the fire on in the livingroom and your stretched out in front of it, looking the most comfortable I’d seen you in awhile.

And you had a virus that’s not treatable: Feline Infectious Peritonitis.  Sounds painful, and it looked painful. Your belly filled with a bright-yellow viscous fluid, and you couldn’t eat or drink. It was hard for you to breathe and you could barely walk. Cats who get this usually die quickly, in a few days or weeks.

But you crept right into the cat carrier like you knew where we were going today. You did know.

And it was okay. And they were gentle, and loving. I was still sad to see you go, even though I’ve known all week where you were headed, that you wouldn’t be getting better.

This, then, is what I want to remember. Goodbye, Nacho.

Yeah. Well, I don’t have much to report, actually.

Catdeathwatch 2008 is in full effect. Poor Ninja/Nacho has lost bladder control (on my bed, thank you, among other places) and hasn’t eaten or drank in, well, awhile. He can barely walk and can’t go up or down steps any more. This morning’s vet visit may well be his last, because his pitiful face is too heartbreaking.

Thanks to all who posted suggestions about my coffee problem.  This Whole Foods coffee I’m drinking presently is a temporary solution, and I’m reviewing your suggestions carefully.  You can’t overlook the importance that these types of vices play in our lives.

So, you know, the transformation stuff.  It’s been an intense week, rather.  Things feel actually quite wonderful just now, and I’m hesitant to step off the conveyor belt again into transformationland.  I’d like to enjoy this feeling of balance for a bit.  The whole process, this deep inner soul-searching stuff, is as they say like peeling layers off an onion.  Yeah, except I want to go right to the heart of it, baby!  Either that or avoid the process entirely, can I do that?

Things I learned this week (that I already knew but had somehow forgotten):

1.  I always have a choice.  Woo hoo!

2.  Um, refer to #1.

3.  What I see about myself isn’t necessarily the way other people see me.

4. I always have the answers.  Even when I can’t seem to find them.

There! Wasn’t that fun?

I will leave you with a story:

When I was 3 we lived in a 2-story house in a smallish town in the East Bay Area.  We had moved there from southern CA, not that I remember much of that place.  The new house had STAIRS!  and a playroom where we kept our record player, my brother and I, that played a Smothers Brothers rendition of “Yesterday”.  True!  I never heard the music of The Beatles AT ALL until late in high school.  Where was I?

Anyway.  The new house had STAIRS (did I mention it had stairs?).  And we’d relax after a hard day of whatever-it-was we did by watching Batman on TV, the campy version with POW! and ZING!, while dinner magically cooked itself in the kitchen or wherever,  licking peanut butter off a spoon.

And on good days I’d get someone to fasten Blankie around my shoulders with a big fat safety pin and I could be Robin, flying around the house and hiding from Batman or some Bad Guys under my crib.  Why didn’t I have a bed?  I was like three!

And once our cat Lucky, who wasn’t very, got sick or had an accident or something, and he came home from the vet and I SWEAR TO YOU this cat had polka dots.  Most of his normally black fur was gone, and instead he was white skin and red blood.  Polka dots.  I remember this CLEARLY, so I know it happened.  No one else remembers this.

It feels lately like the number of things I can safely talk about here is becoming smaller and smaller, and I don’t like that feeling. People read this blog who read it simply to report back to others about what I said or did not say about them. That’s wrong. But it’s the way it is.

Still, my thoughts and feelings about things, especially about myself and how I interact with people, continues to change. One thing is certain about life, and that is that it will aways change. Circumstances, perceptions, whatever. Nothing remains static and you can be sure about that. Like where you are right now? Feel comfortable there? Don’t worry, the rug will come out from under you eventually. Not that it’s a bad thing, being flung toward the floor, and if you have great balance it’s no big deal at all! But it will happen. We thrive on change, as much as we resist it.

Oh. So what was I talking about? Oh yes, my mom.

I phone my mom every week. Back some years ago, we didn’t speak as frequently. I was uncomfortable with her, mainly because she was uncomfortable with me. Fine, whatever. But we came to some unspoken understanding and found a place where we could at least interact. Sort of. I mean, if you like shallow water and all. But if anything ever got deeper than that, even a little bit, she’d retreat. I figured I’d just deal with that (after all, it was “good enough”) indefinitely.

Sorry. I have changed my mind. Not gonna do it.

True. I thought I was “over” my issues with my mom, but guess what? I’m not.

So the past few weeks we’ve (or rather, she’s) been talking about a situation at her work. New Manager Guy annoys her. New Manager Guy talks too loud. New Manager Guy asks for too much. New Manager Guy wants her to change the way she’s been doing her job for, like, 20 years. She hates New Manager Guy. So, Karen, what should I do? Please tell me what to dooooo!!

Understand, my mom is 72, almost 73. I’m not sure she needs to work financially, but I have no idea what her financial situation is because she changes the subject if I ask questions like that. It’s fine for me to talk about my kids or the cats or even the herd of cats she feels obligated to feed and care for and can’t spend the night at my brother’s house on Christmas because of because the Cats Might Miss Her and because She Won’t be There to Feed Them (these are OUTDOOR cats. Who live OUTSIDE), but if it gets more personal on either end then things get mighty uncomfortable.

So I ask questions. She vents. I give some advice. Bottom line? I think she’s the victim of age discrimination. I am not litigious by nature, in fact I am the polar opposite of litigious especially after all this fucking time spent in custody/support/divorce court, but I advise her to see someone, to find out what her options are.

After all, she’s on a mandatory suspension from her job right now. (Which is why I can write this, because I am taking the chance she will never read it since she only reads my blog from work…am I playing with fire here?)

So she has some time on her hands.

She only had to say “okay, that’s a good idea, I will think about that.”

That’s all I wanted. I have been in middle management. I know what goes on when a company decides to squeeze someone out. I also know what an employee’s rights are.

But no. “Don’t worry about me, Karen. I can handle it.” Um, yeah. Like you’ve been handling it. Would it be a crime to let someone HELP you?? Hey mom, I KNOW that this makes you uncomfortable, makes you want to run for the hills and then stick your head in the sand when you get there, but there are times when you need to STAND UP FOR YOURSELF DAMMIT!!

Oops, I may be speaking to myself there. My bad.

But hey. She’s getting screwed, I care, and all she had to do was at least acknowledge, or just PRETEND to acknowledge, that maybe Karen had a good idea. Maybe Karen could be right about something. Maybe Karen is trying to help. And maybe I can let someone in, just a little.

Maybe not.

I’m all for the idea of choices, believe me. My entire understanding of the universe is built on the concept of Choice, so hey, I GET IT when I see my mom making a choice that I think sucks and will hurt her. I get it. I do. But it hurts me to be so fucking invisible.

Hello?

Anybody there?

Enough. Not invisible any more.

Watch out, people.