Earth Angel

Angel died today.

I wrote that sentence two weeks ago.  I had no follow up.

Angel is a cat we "fostered." And I'm using quotations for a reason.  One day after work, Larry said his co-worker needed to borrow our cat carrier.  Her grandmother was no longer able to take care of her 12 year old cat, and said cat was going to be taken to a shelter.

My heart bled immediately, all over; ask me about the stains in our car later when I'm done writing this blog. Good thing it was stolen.  I preached to him about Angel's immanent, pitiful death from my pulpit 9 inches away from the driver's seat.  He agreed that we could "foster" him, knowing full well that if I fell in love (also an 80% chance), he wasn't going to be just fostered by any means.  (And knowing deep down inside, that he would prefer that, too.)

We picked him up a few days later.  There was a struggle.  Most of you know what cats are, so I don't feel like detail is necessary here.  We took him to the vet, he took it like a champ, vet said he looked pretty awesome for a 12 year old cat, clipped his velociraptor talons, we brought him home yadda yadda yadda, he met our other two cats and one rabbit, it was smooth, he was so so so so so so very sweet, I fell in love yadda.

I have many pictures of him being hilarious.  If you don't have pets, or hate them or just hate cats, then get off my lawn, because you won't care about this blog, anyway.  His personality shined through immediately, like that old man who doesn't care if you have to clean his vomit up off your rug every other day.  Or the more literal description about the old cat you have.  He loved it when I knitted, and tried sticking his whole face in my yarn skein when I wasn't paying attention.  He was pretty irresistible to us, and to our company.  We still tried to push him off on our friends and family because frankly?  3 cats and a rabbit?  Entirely too many things that eat, shit and shed in your house.

Finally, my cousin Katie, (who already had a kitten named Spike and a gerbil named Buffy so, duh) said her family would take him.  We brought him to Thanksgiving and he made friends within minutes with the person I was most worried about him loving (not that she is not also wonderful and hilarious; it is just that she's 6...and wonderful and hilarious).  Katie and I were so happy with the transition.  He's the best.

After Christmas, Katie called to tell me he wouldn't eat at all.  She had tried everything.  Anything.  So she took him to the vet.  He stayed over the weekend, and the vet was optimistic that he would be fine.

He wasn't.  That Monday Katie called me in tears. Angel had lymphoma, and even if they could get him to eat with drugs, he couldn't last more than a week or two.  God, I felt awful.  Like, hi, hey, watch this adorable sweet thing that your kids love, die right in front of you, yay!  And, God.  I felt awful.  I loved him.

The vet's office called me after he had been put down.  They said they were sending Katie a keepsake, and they would happily send me one, too.  I readily agreed, in mucusy, blubbery tears that embarrass  me.  She said the keepsake was a plaque....and a lock of Angel's hair.

I was sick with a cold that day (which really leads me to give credibility to the whole E.T./Elliot thing!) so I laughed until I was coughing so hard, the receptionist on the phone had to wait until I was composed.  Those of you with furry mammals know why I was laughing.  Those of you who don't, don't come over to my house because you are deathly allergic.  I have tons of his hair.  Even months after he left.  So...Thank you?

I like to think that we covered everything that may have been on his bucket list.  I gave him a little of everything I was eating, so:

(1) Eat several different kinds of cheeses.  Check
(2) Look adorable enough to get some chicken wings.  Check
(3) See how that works when steak is on the table.  Freaking ChecK

(4) Experiment with catnip.

(5) Conspire for hours about how to to infiltrate the tank filled with water and chock full of delicious looking fish.
(6) Hear a white American 6 year old attempt speaking Spanish to try to find me ("Angel!  Como estas?!")  Check Check.

The list goes on and was fulfilled.  I miss him, you guys.  The keepsake came in the mail, and I laughed at it while tears filled my eyes.  I knew him for a stupid year.  (When Scout shuffles off this mortal coil, I will have to take a couple days off from work, and please come over; we are getting drunk at my house on a Tuesday.)
    

Labyrinth. But with mattresses and nothing else, really.

Whenever I flip the mattress (which is more than you'd think. I love sleeping and my back hurts), I always think of that little gnome in Labyrinth who flips the stones on Sarah's path and changes her marks. Then I try to talk like that little gnome while I flip the mattress, and then my whole day is just better.

Stop Hating on Barbra. That's why the zombies ate you first.

Larry and I (and others we love) enjoy going to something called Rifftrax.  For those of you who know what MST3K is, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  For those who don’t, your life is incomplete.  Google one of these two strange looking non-words and start living, for God’s sake. 

  

Basically, we go to a movie theater to watch a movie whilst 3 gentlemen broadcast live from Nashville making jokes at said movie’s expense.  They used to have a TV show on Sci-Fi and….you know what, you have the internet, like I said.  Go, then come back. 

Anyway, last night’s was Night of the Living Dead, which is awesome not just because it gave birth to the zombie craze, which is really just a metaphor for the epidemic of complacency and consumerism, but because it was made in the 60s and stars a black man, and at no point is the fact that he’s black pointed out or made an issue within the movie.  In fact, George Romero interviewed that this guy was a friend of his, and he hadn’t given it much thought beyond that.  Awesome.  But not the point of this particular blog.

We expect the theater to be close to full.  It usually is for Rifftrax.  I don’t hate this.  Or I do, but I can’t control it (yet) so I try not to waste energy hating it.  What I DON’T mind wasting energy hating are people who come in late.  I don’t believe for a second that this is a one-time occurrence for these individuals.  They do it all the time with a blatant disregard for the people around them.  I hate it even more when they climb over people to randomly grab a seat right next to me and have the F**KING NERVE to say, “I’m sorry.”  Are you?  ARE YOU???? (ß TIP: I have responded to these inconsiderate mongoloids with this, or I have said, “GOOD.”  Both responses are very surprising to said people and typically, they just give you the hairy eyeball and shut their stupid faces.) 

But this woman.  THIS WOMAN, YOU GUYS.  She and her man friend walk in at least 5 minutes after the show has started.  They climb over others to sit right next to me.  When she sits, she turns to me and says, “Hi.”  Now I’m the one with the surprised look on my face followed by a hairy eyeball.  I guess it was better than, “I’m sorry.”  They start talking to each other in regular voices about how they are happy to be at this show.  Like you do when you are the center of the universe.  Then it actually gets worse.  She laughs at everything.  Everything they say, she laughs.  Her laugh sounds like George McFly’s only through a blow horn.   Now, I know I can’t condemn someone for something they can’t control.  (Unless it’s, like, serial killing.)  That’s what her laugh sounds like.  Fine.  Then she starts repeating the joke.  Every single joke.  Like her man friend only understands English when she speaks it.  YES, THAT WAS THE JOKE.  WE ALL HEARD IT BECAUSE OF THE SURROUND SOUND AND ALL, BUT THANK YOU FOR REINFORCING.  I want to ask her to keep it down, but I don’t want her to think I mean her laughter.  I know she can’t help that, but explaining to her exactly why she is an asshole will just make ME the annoying woman talking through the movie.  Do you ever just meet someone and have the immediate need to murder them?  Do you wish you could “Zool” people?  You know, ask if they are a god and when they say no, electrocute them with lightning from your fingertips? Is it just me? (NOW who doesn’t even have the right to condemn serial killers, eh?)  

My wonderful husband could see me trying not to commit murder, and said we should just move, even though we would have to move to the very front.  This is wonderful of him because he prefers sitting all the way in the back corner next to the homeless guy who found $10 on the street and needed a warm place to nap.  (That last part of the sentence is just another mile marker I passed on my way to hell, which would scare me if I believed in it.)  We move down to the front row.  We can still hear her, but it’s much fainter, so she won’t be murdered.  By me, anyway. 

I got really lost in my head at that point.  I don’t laugh at every joke.  I am filled with rage that I direct at total strangers.  Do I not enjoy things as much as other people?   Was there more of a reason I hated her in particular?  Am I really the bitter hag that I joke about being?  This woman was having the best day.  I’m pretty sure she pooped a little at one point.  And she probably made a joke about what a jerk I am for moving OH, I HATE HER SO MUCH YOU GUYS SHE IS THE WORST.  I can’t stand to watch an animal be harmed in any way in a movie, even though I know it’s fake, but I can watch Freddy Krueger stalk and murder teenagers (and they’re mostly girls, but I’ll get to that part) all day long.  It brightens my spirits. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately (more than usual, and that’s saying something) about the way women see each other.  I’ve gotten really sensitive to jokes on TV about things that are “girly.”  According to movies and TV, being “girly” means that you show emotion and enjoy things, and that is bad.  As a teenager, I was the girl who claimed to prefer hanging out with boys, “to avoid all the drama.”  It wasn’t that I didn’t have girlfriends, because I did, still do, and they are some of the greatest and strongest people I know.  Hi, ladies.  I love you.  (Hi, Mom and Sis!  You are why I’m on this tangent!)

Now when I hear girls say that, or especially grown women, it makes my ass twitch.  We are our own worst enemy.  We will go so far as to turn on each other so we are not seen as “girly” in order to impress men.  I mean, come on, why else would we act that way?  It is ingrained in us from a very young age that we need to be paired off with a man to have value, so we turn on each other without even realizing that that is what we are doing.  It is ingrained in men that if they show any vulnerability, they are acting like women, and this is bad.

I got way off topic.  I still hate this woman.  She ruined my night, not just by being obnoxious, but by making me question whether I was the problem for being so bitter.  To question whether it was easier for me to hate her because she was a woman being an asshole instead of a man.  I allowed her to get to me.  That was my fault. 

So, your assignments for today:

Women: Call a girlfriend and do something girly.  “Girly” covers a broad spectrum of activities according to the media, so it should be easy.  Try not to hate any women around you.  Girly is good.  It isn’t bad.     

Men:  Make yourself vulnerable.  Get excited about a puppy you saw on the street.  Carve a pumpkin.  Bake cookies.  Tell your best friend or your brother or your dad that you love him.  (Add, “man” if you have to.  I don’t care.)  Kiss your son.  Ooh!  Get a cat!  They are great and get a bad rap because of the whole “girly” thing!

I’m going to try to go this whole day without hating anyone, man or woman.  I work in downtown Chicago, so it’s going to be a challenge, but I can do it.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child...

When I was small, my parents quit smoking and took up jogging.  Not back to back.  My mom first, then Dad.

I remember my mom participated in some sort of marathon (probably 5k, really, but it seemed pretty extreme to me when I was, like, 5).   I’m from a small town, so the route went right past our house.  My dad made sure we were out on the boulevard waiting for her to pass by us.  A gaggle of people jogged by before we saw her, and my dad scooped me up so we could wave and cheer her on.  Red-faced and sweating, my mother laughed and shouted, “Anybody behind me, John?”

I don’t remember his answer, but mine was an enthusiastic and earnest, “Nope!”  

Sarcasm is learned, not inherited.

It’s a memory that springs into my thoughts so often, I’m writing it down.   

Woops, permanent damage there, just move on, I guess.

Saying that this week was a bad week for racial relations in the United States is the biggest understatement…well… of this week.  I’m not writing this to add my opinion about the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman trial, although I do think that talking about it is a good thing.  Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I was taught that I was supposed to be “color blind.”  I know that sentiment had good intentions, but I believe it’s a mistake to tell a child to sweep racial diversity under the rug like that.  To ignore it.  I am not color blind.   No one is, and I am wary of the ones who claim to be.   I encourage more conversation.  The more you talk about and understand what you are afraid of--and that’s what racism is, the less you are afraid of it.  0.1% of humans have escaped a bear attack by pretending the bear wasn’t there.  That is a statistic I made up just now. 

My children will have the same advantages I did.  They will be white.  It will be easier for them.  I’m not denying that.  I know what it’s like to grow up as a woman, so I’ve got that badge on my sash, but I won’t claim to understand what it’s like to grow up Black, or Latino, or Asian, or *insert all the other races I missed because I’m a jerk here.* I once witnessed my black friend get followed around a clothing store, while I was free to shoplift (and I did; I was 16, come on, so did you).  I don’t know how it feels to have to accept things like that. 

Or maybe I do, to a degree.  I know how it feels to NEED to be pretty.  How it feels to know deep down inside that my body type defines my worthiness of love.  That my big nose should be fixed before I deserved affection.  But I don’t understand what it’s like to be feared for an attribute that you were born with.  I’ve only been disrespected for it.  I realize the difference.           

In the midst of all the anger, I read maybe the most precious and encouraging thing I’ve ever read.  I read an article about children reacting to the Cheerios commercial that upset people because it features an interracial couple, with an interracial child.  One child said, “I thought Martin Luther King spoke against this and fixed this already.” 

I think that statement should serve as a reminder that this country is still a young shoplifting teenager.  The huge mistakes we made as a country really weren’t that long ago.  Our civil war ended not 150 years ago.  Louis CK says it best, “I’ve heard educated white people say, ‘slavery was 400 years ago.’ No it very wasn’t. It was 140 years ago. That’s two 70-year-old ladies living and dying back to back. That’s how recently you could buy a guy.’”

These children seemed baffled by the anger the commercial produced.  Let’s not tell them to be color blind.  Let’s tell them to try to understand it.  Let’s tell them all about the enormous mistakes our country has made.  That it’s up to us and them to make it right. 

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but it’s my blog so shut up.  I'm not saying that this is an original thought.  I’m not even saying that I’m not racist, or even a little sexist, because that would be a stupid, pretentious thing to claim.  No one gets to stand on that soapbox.  I guess I just don’t want us to shut up about racial issues, women’s rights, marriage equality, and so on.  “Blindness” isn’t the answer.  Keep talking about it.  Be angry about it!  And then be hopeful that your children and your children’s children will be baffled that these were ever issues in the first place.    

And go eat something deep fried.  This is America.  It has perks.  You’ll feel better.  In your heart.  The metaphorical one, anyway.

http://www.ajc.com/weblogs/get-schooled/2013/jul/17/remember-cheerios-commercial-drew-so-much-criticis/

http://www.peacock-panache.com/2013/02/louis-ck-explains-historical-context-to.html

It's so shiny!

Here she is, guys:

Our new baby. We went with a 2013 Toyota Corolla. We did some research and this one should last long after we give it to our daughter (who admittedly only exists in our brains and *insert inappropriate and gross metaphor that will likely mortify our imaginary daughter here* right now). We're pretty sure she will be disappointed that the car doesn't fly or communicate with her like Knight Rider like the new cars will in the year she turns 16. Plus, she'll be all, "What's a Knight Rider?" Honestly, she's a bit of an elitist. Where did we go wrong?

Anyway, right now it's beautiful and we love it. We went from a gaping hole of no radio to all the radio!

We sort of CAN talk to it like Knight Rider! If Knight Rider could only call your mom and play music. Would have been a different show, really.

We were also able to get new phones with the rest if the insurance check. We downloaded an app that lets us see where the other one is, in relation to crimes reported and sex offenders' locations. It was here that Larry found this:

This is our stolen car. I can't get the "Circle of Life" out of my head.  This reminds me, can someone tell me how to take a screenshot on an android?

In other news, there is a large cluster of sex offenders living on our block. I think when our snooty daughter is actually born, we may have to move.

This morning was like any other.  Larry and I left the house at about 6:15 to go to work.  It was lighter out than usual.  Light enough that it was easy to see when we got to the spot where the car had been parked, it wasn’t there. 

Larry: Um. I think my car was stolen. 

Me.  Huh….

We are the proud owners of a scraped up dented white 1999 Plymouth Breeze with no air conditioning, no radio and a pathetic lack of hubcaps.  Also, I rear ended someone last year, so the hood can only be opened by a professional.  Needless to say, when we wiped the tears of laughter from our eyes, we hopped in a cab and called the insurance company.  They were so understanding and sweet and helpful that I felt guilty about all my giggling. 

It did occur to us when we got out of the cab at Larry’s place of employment that this wasn’t really funny, and a police report should be filed.  I volunteered for the job. 

As I entered the station, I realized that, although I have seen what Hollywood tells me is the inside of the police station 100s of times in the movies; in real life, I hadn’t been inside one since I was a child.  I vaguely remember being fingerprinted during a class trip.  I am assuming this was either to show pre-schoolers a good time, or to have my fingerprints on file in case I was kidnapped.  It was the 80s and kidnapping was the new cool thing to fear. 

Anyway, I began to file a report for the car. 

Detective in the Background [He was in street clothes and television has taught me that this is a detective]:  Hey, there’s only one of these red velvet donuts left.  I’m taking it. 

Officer Assisting Me: ….Well now you know that there is some validity to the stereotype…

Me: Ha!  Man, I just realized I’m starving.

Officer: Kevin, are there any more back there?  Bring them up.

So the cops gave me a donut.  I chose a cream filled long john because it reminds me of early morning fishing trips with Dad.  And now it also reminds me of the police station.  I once did shots on St. Patrick’s Day with off duty cops who were still in their uniforms.  This was better.     

By this time, a few cops were meandering around the counter.

Officer: Did you have any valuables in the car?

Me [After consulting with the devil and angel on my shoulders]: Nope.  Nothing that I can think of.

Officer: A newer radio?  Anything like that?

Me: There’s actually a gaping hole where the radio used to be.  It was stolen years ago and never replaced.

There was total silence.  And then, simultaneously, 3 uniforms, one Detective as TV Has Taught Me, and I start laughing.  Hard.  Like, pounding our fists laughing.  I think a full minute passed before it stopped. 

Before we were finished, the officer got a call reporting a missing person.  She placed them on hold to finish up with me.

The officer was honest with me that it wasn’t terribly likely they’d find the car.  I bit back all the Big Lebowski jokes and wanted to make, took the report and left. 

I can’t believe how lucky I am.  I was the woman in the cop shop eating a long john and laughing about the idiot who stole our poor old beaten up car.  I wasn’t the one on the phone.  The officer told me they probably wouldn’t find my car.  They didn’t have to tell me they couldn’t find my husband.  My sister.  My parents.  My friend. 

Perspective.  I’ve got it. 

*Doogie Hauser Theme*