A Letter From the Cat.

Dear Large Human Female,

I’ve been living in this house for about 5 years now, and I’ve tried mighty hard to train you to my way of living, but you just don’t seem to be catching on. You seem really nice and all, but you’re a little slow on the up-take, and it seems I’m going to have to put the dots real close together for you, and tell you what I need.

The smaller females in the household are pleasant enough, but they are so far beneath me that it is all I can do to acknowledge their presence. You are clearly the one in charge of that big, white cold thingy in the kitchen where The Most Wonderous Treasures of All are kept. When they start doling out that glorious, spectacular, greatest substance ever known you call “tuna”, then I’ll give them a glance. But for now, baby, you’re it.

You seem to be fond of that large, male human in the house, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out why. I’ve never seen him kill anything small and defenseless and then bring it straight to you. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t lick your face, or drool on you and butt his head into yours. When you are at the kitchen table staring at a large pieces of paper with black squiggles on it, he never sees it as the golden opportunity that it is to declare his love by coming over and laying down on it. (I figure you’re just sitting and staring at one spot, why not give you something lovely to look at?) Sure, he does give off the BTUs at an incredible rate, and I can see that he’s kind of nice to curl up beside, but he never purrs, so how do you know he likes you?

Nobody appreciates a good sleep like I do, and you seem to value it as well, but for some reason you do most of yours at night. Why do you do that? The middle of the day is the optimum time to sleep, night-time is party time; that’s when all of the really interesting stuff happens. A ping-pong ball rolling around in the bathtub makes a considerably more satisfying noise at 3:00 a.m. than it does during the day. Judging by your reaction to my little discovery, you do not agree.
And plus, I have to stay up all night to protect the rest of you, who are sleeping, against all sorts of dangerous intruders. Imagine what would happen if that friggin’ raccoon, who comes into the yard every night, did so and I didn’t tell you??? You seem to be wholly uncaring about this menacing terror to your security, but that does not stop me from alerting you night after night. It’s for your own good, you know. I do not appreciate being shaolin-soccer kicked off the bed for my efforts. And that one time, that another cat walked right under your bedroom window??? Thank God you had me there to protect you, or who knows what might have happened. You’re welcome.

I’ve tried mightily to tell you about the fabulous shredding qualities of claws, because you really should get some, but you appear to not appreciate my efforts. Those large, soft things you sit on seem very nice, but couldn’t they also be put to a good use as a scratching post? Why not both? I think the end of those things look much better after a good scratching.

That box you get into every day where the water comes pouring down on you? What’s up with that? That is my idea of a torture chamber. Every day, as you walk towards it, I try to stop you by gently tapping the last part of you to go by me, to alert you to the dangers that lie within. (Okay, so occasionally my claws get the better of me and I cannot help but sink one or two into that soft flesh, but really, what’s it going to take?) You are really going to have to stop going in there, you look just awful when you come out.

Look, I appreciate the whole “roof over my head, food in the dish” deal, and other than that trip once a year to the place where they stick things up my bum and poke me with very sharp objects, I like it here a lot. In fact, you’ve done a pretty good job of setting me up very nicely, and I’m grateful. So, if we could just clear up these few things, it would be kitty paradise here, and I’d be really, really happy. If I could just figure out how to get at that tuna all by myself.

Love,
Toby.

Thankful

My life is about as stress-free, mundane and run-of-the-mill as it gets, and believe me, I like it like that. And I have plenty to be thankful for, and not just the usual health, and beautiful children and wonderful husband. (I wish for once, I could hear someone say, "I have two perfectly ordinary children and a husband who really pisses me off now and then.") So here is a list of things for which I am truly grateful.

1. Hot showers. I remember reading a book about a pioneer woman who had a bath once a month in the summer, and not at all in the winter. I could barely finish the book after that. How disgusting would that be? I'm very glad to live in a time where hot showers are considered an inalienable right. The shower that I have after coming home from a week at the cottage is the best one all year. And we HAVE a shower at the cottage, (which, yes, I do use.)

2. The internet Man, do I love the internet. I don't quite know what I did with myself before it was available, but I'm sure it was productive. I had a university student I know say that she didn't know how people studied before the internet, and although I did it, I had to admit I don't know either.

3. Frozen fruit. Not that I believe I was ever in danger of scurvy, but being able to eat raspberries in the middle of winter is still an enormous deal to me.

4. Cordless phones. There was a time when the hapless phone user was stuck in a 3 foot radius for the duration of the call, and couldn't do anything but talk on the phone. Then, cordless phones came in (around the time I had my first baby) and a whole world of multi-tasking was opened up to me: I could fold laundry, do the dishes, or even play Scrabble on the computer while talking on the phone. (The last one is reserved for long conversations with my husbands aunt, whereby I have to hear the details of the life of everyone in her apartment building. I don't think that requires my undivided attention.)

5. Microwave popcorn. Really fast and no clean up. What's not to love.

6. My husband does not spit. I often see men walking down the street who suddenly hork up a big loogy and spit right out on the sidewalk. They don't even seem the slightest bit embarrassed about it either. Why do they do this? You don't see women spitting all over the place; I don't even feel the need to spit ever. Himself does not spit, for which I am eternally grateful.

7. My children are now old enough that I do not have to attend the Santa Clause Parade. I hate that parade. The weather is frequently miserable, cold and rainy, since they insist on having it in the middle of freaking November, it's crowded with people who are just as unhappy as I am, and the kids are always disappointed because they never seem to get any of the candy thrown into the crowd. And all of this with clowns, too! Thankfully, I'm done.

8. I really do have two beautiful children and a wonderful husband.

Of course, there are many, many other things to be grateful for, and I could go on and on for ages. (Like, Madonna seems to have given up acting altogether, and stirrup pants are out of style.) The big stuff it's easy to be thankful for, but I try not to ignore the little stuff; it matters too.

How I Know I Am Getting Older

My husband's almost 80-year old aunt tells me that "growing old is not for sissies", and I believe her. It appears that the indignities and ravages of aging take a hit on the ego as well as the body, and it's a tough gig. Although I am hardly on my way to the retirement home, there are certainly distinct signs that I am not in the first blush of youth any longer. These things creep up on you; you thought of yourself as a young person (even a "girl" once or twice) before the concrete wall of reality slams itself into your forehead. And I'm not talking about the obvious wrinkles and flab of middle age, it's the sinister external signs of aging that jump up and say "howdy". So, here are a few of the ways I realized that I am no longer young.

1. "OOoooff". That is the noise I make when I get up out of a sitting position. The first time I made it, I looked around to see exactly where in the room my father was. He wasn't. It was me. My hips and knees and back object to sudden movement, and that did not happen in my 20's.

2. "Does it have to be so loud in here?" To my utter horror, these words came out of my mouth in a store at the mall that my niece dragged me into. The musice was deafening, and it seemed to consist of an angry, young man with a serious speech impediment shouting and bellowing and mooing. I left.

3. "When did they put that there?" Buildings seem to spring up overnight now. When I was younger, perhaps I noticed this sort of thing more, probably because my head wasn't filled to overflowing with all the details of the three other lives I steer.

4. "You know, I could really use one of those." "Those" being one of the little metal carts that old ladies use to drag their groceries back from the store. I think they would be very useful because I do a fair bit of walking, and a bag of milk is like 50 very cold bolwing balls by the time you're half way home. On the other hand, that is the top of a very slippery slope and I'm not starting down it. If I got one of those carts, it's just a matter of time until I have a rain bonnet in my purse and nylon anklets.

5. "Oh, I can't eat that any more". There was a time when I had a cast iron stomach, and could eat whatever I wanted without consequence. Now, not only do I gain weight when I stand beside a cheesecake and inhale deeply, I find certain foods have an effect on my body that has diminished my enjoyment of them utterly. Croissants give me heartburn, and chocolate after a certain hour will make it difficult for me to sleep. I avoid things like nuts and hard crusts because I'm afraid I'll crack a tooth. And I don't miss them. That is the part that frightens me more than anything.

6. "You guys go ahead, I'll stay home". Believe me, I like to socialize; talking is my number one favorite thing to do. But as I get older, I must say that there are fewer and fewer events that are more attractive than my bed and a book, particularly in the evenings. I've been to more than one party where I was mad that I hadn't brought my book to it.

Like it or not, one has to face the fact that one is not 18 any more, or else one will end up looking lke Cher. There is such a thing as growing old gracefully, but I'm not at all sure it involves a little metal grocery cart.

Wood You, Could You...

Because of my cold, I have spent the morning wallowing in self-pity and watching DVDs. Except for the lack of chocolate, and the fact that I feel like a toxic-waste dump, it's been an okay day, even if I am spectacuarly unattractive.
The phone rang at around 10 a.m., and I didn't recognize the number. Usually this would call for a hurled invective and a pointed ignoring, but since I have very little to divert my attention from myself today, I answered the phone.
"Hello, it's Bob's Tree Service calling!" chirped the happy voice on the other end. (Rarely is anyone not brain damaged so happy to inform me that they are calling me.) "Oh?" came my pithy reply.
"I just wanted to tell you that your wood delivery will be arriving within the hour. We're sorry we're late, we were having some trouble with the truck yesterday, but I promise the wood will be there today."
This took a few beats to process through my cold-addled brain. You see, we don't have a fireplace, so we rarely need wood. In fact, we have a couple of tree branches that overhang the house that need to come down, preferrably in an organized fashion, so actually, it is LESS wood that I am requiring, not more. And, the Mister being what he is, I had to chew on the idea that he might have ordered wood without my knowledge or consent, perhaps as a late anniversary present or such. (Sadly, it is possible that he could somehow construe such a thing as an appropriate present. Then he would knock a hole in the wall and begin to install a fireplace and then let it sit in a half-finished state for the next year or so, until my head exploded.)
I had to conclude that we had not, in fact, ordered any wood. At least I hoped not.
She asked if this was Mrs. Loudshoes at Sounds Like A Much Nicer Address Than Ours That Probably Has A Fireplace , and I had to admit to the first, but sadly, not to the second. We live at The Messiest House On God's Green Earth.
"Oh." , came the reply, considerably less chipper than before. "That's not good", and she hung up.
So, I hope those other people got their wood, since they've been waiting a full 24 hours for it. I just hope tomorrow I don't find a hole in the living room wall.

I'll Feel Better After Some Whine

I have a cold.
That sentance does not encompass the misery that is my life at the moment, nor does it convey the extent to which my cold had taken over my life. It's all I can think about.
I don't even have a particularly bad cold, (not a "man-sized cold", as one of my friends' husband once described his affliction), but much like even bad pizza is pretty good pizza, even a minor cold is a mother of a cold. I HATE having a cold, and I'm making sure everyone knows it.
My head is full of a disgusting amount of yuck, and I swear that is why my bathroom scale hasn't budged in the past few days. (The Tattooed One says that when you are weighing yourself, you have to factor in that your head probably accounts for 8 pounds, so take 8 pound off the what the scale says and you have your actualy weight. That? is some logic I can seriously get behind.)
I am sneezy, and drippy and spewing. (Those are the lesser known dwarves, by the way, the ones deemed to gross to meet Snow White.) I sneeze in increments of three, so it bothers me no end when only two occur, because I know that other one is just waiting until I'm on the phone or in the middle of a traffic light or on my way to the bathroom.
What I'd really like to do is curl up on the couch with my book and a cup of tea and my weight (including my head!) in chocolate. But I have a PTA meeting to attend this evening, and I'm sure my fuzzy, warm, kittenish demeanor will brighten up the proceedings no end.
I will bring my own box of kleenex, and if the meeting goes on too long, I'll start to sneeze, loudly and in increments of three. That should speed things up.

Sites of Note

There is no doubt in my mind that I spend way too much time wandering around the internet. Imagine all that I would have accomplished if I didn't have a computer in my house, and big chunks of time where I am not accountable to anyone. I could have learned Spanish, or how change the oil in the car or the basics of home dental work; instead, I know just how much the neighbours are asking for their house, what everyone else thinks of last night's tv show and what do to with sweet gelationous mutant coconut.
Some of my most egregious time wasters are:

Television Without Pity: (http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/) ("Spare the snark, spoil the networks" )is one of my favorite sites. Apart from the absolutley hilarious recaps of just about any show on tv, the forums are full of amazing, witty, intelligent contributors. And who ever thought you could type a sentance like that in connection with tv?

The Straight Dope (http://www.straightdope.com/) The forums on this site kill me.Where else can you find a discussion about Britney Spears' child custodial problems that include a line like "Ah, the kids'll be fine once the reality show finds them new parents." There have also been lively debates on the merits of buffets vs. sit-down restaurants, lists of songs people sing to their pets and useless things people have memorized.

Go Fug Yourself (http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/) See? Even famous people with all sorts of fashion-stylist advisors get it wrong now and again. It makes me feel much, much better about my own sartorial choices. ("Well, at least I didn't show up in public wearing that.)

Dooce (http://www.dooce.com/) A seriously funny blog. I think maybe this woman and I would get along beautifully.

Stumble Upon (http://www.stumbleupon.com/) I can (and do) spend wa-a-a-a-ay too much time wandering around here. Where else would I find links to stuff like this and this and this ?
All very cool stuff.

And the biggest granddaddy time-waster of 'em all: YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/) I heartily ashamed at the considerable time I have spent on this site; none of it useful. This video makes me laugh each and every time I see it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z2yNzw00mpA&mode=related&search=) ("There's just so many things") and if I could explain my delight in this one, I would, but I just can't (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tt8bJdmUlSo) and this I've seen a hundred times.

I also check out the real-estate listings in my area regularly, not because I'm interested in buying a new house, but because I'm never quite finished buying the house I'm in. I visit the Library website obsessively, because I want to see what exactly I have on hold, and when it's coming in, and what's over due. And, of course, I waste hours checking my e-mail a hundred times a day, and writing this blog.

Luckily, my family wouldn't notice much if the housework got done, unless the dust bunnies under the bed actually came to life, and as long as I keep a thin, fragile coating of respectability around the place, no one would ever suspect the amount of time I spend keeping myself amused. Until now.

Before You Walk Down That Aisle.....

I went to a wedding shower yesterday for one of my husband’s 116 cousins.
(I’m not making this up, he really does have a whole whack of first cousins, so spread out in age that some are grandparents and some are still in high school. This is due to the fact that his grandparents were all married twice, and in a small town, and the combinations of progeny has resulted in the fact that all of them are now related to each other. I can’t explain it to you because I can barely keep it straight in my own head. Suffice it to say, you can’t swing a dead cat in the Mister’s hometown without hitting one of his relatives. )

Anyway, at the shower the guests were given a little piece of paper whereby we were to give the bride a bit of pithy advice on how to make for a happy marriage. (A dangerous game, this….I’d have never approved this at one of my own wedding showers. How do you know the anonymous advice isn’t going to be “run for your life” or “get a different groom”?) I wrote down something not too sappy that I read in a greeting card once.

It made me think about marriages and how they work and why some work and some don’t…it’s a tenuous business. I’m certainly no expert on the subject and I’m no psychologist, but I am a hairdresser, and spend a great deal of my day wondering "WTF?"at the Buick-sized holes in some people's logic. Some people really are just hear to serve as a warning to others.

So, after fifteen years of my own wedded bliss, not to mention 25 years dealing with brides at the salon, I think I may have a few rules to guide the new bride and groom.
1. Marry someone you like. This might seem like a ridiculous truism, but honestly, you’d be surprised at how many couples I meet that don’t seem to like each other very much. When the bride is talking about what an idiot the groom is in the chair on her wedding day, you’ve got to wonder about the long term viability here.
2. Marry someone you like as they are. He’s not going to change after the wedding. He’ll like the same friends as he does now, dress the same way and be enchanted by the same mind-numbing tv. And, news flash? You’re not going to change much, either.
3. Marry someone who gets along with his family. This is a fairly important relationship in anyone’s life, and if he (or you) has a rocky and turbulent connection to his parents and siblings, chances are he’s going to have the same dynamics with you eventually, too. He doesn’t have to adore them or even like them very much; he has to be able to be in the same room with them without flying into a blind rage.
4. Marry someone who’s past it just that. Everyone has some emotional luggage they carry around with them; hopefully they’ve learned from it and moved on. If you have someone who continually brings up that bitch he used to date or suffers from Post Traumatic High School Disorder, then you’re going to be dealing with those for a lo-o-o-o-ong time. And you can also tell a lot about a person by how they treat their ex.
5. Marry someone you actually know. Never walk down the aisle with someone who has been in your life for less than a year, whose family you have not met or who has to ask what your middle name is. You should have traveled together, decorated a Christmas tree, hung wallpaper and seen each other with a raging hangover and/or headcold.
6. Never settle. Marry someone that you think is the greatest thing on God’s green earth. You may not spend every day thinking he is the culmination of thousands of years of evolution, but you really should be able to think it once in a while. And he should think the same of you.

Marriage is the combination of two messy, complicated and usually selfish lives, no wonder so many of them go belly up. I suppose the real secret to a good marriage is compatibility, which boils down to the best advice I could have given the bride: Marry the right person.

It’s as easy and as complicated as that.