Requiem for a Kitty Witty

You’re an orphan when your parents die.

You’re a widow or widower when your spouse dies.

What are you when your pet dies?

Because whatever that is, that's what I became this past week.

I had to put my my beautiful Roxanne down last Tuesday, as age and illness finally took their toll on her. She and I had been Mama and Kitty for 19 years; I rescued her from underneath some bushes outside a friend’s house one Friday night after happy hour -- she couldn’t have been more than six weeks old at the time. We were together ever since, right up until 9:45 am, September 25, 2007.

Roxanne was named after the iconic Police song --and while she wasn’t a hooer (hee!) like her namesake, she was a diva princess. Happily. Don’t know where she got that from. For many, many years, it was just me and her. She knew all my secrets -- and 19 years can hold a lot of them. I’m privately glad she couldn’t talk. She was my one and true companion. Giving me guidance and clarity with just her very being. Comforting me with nothing but tears would come. Unconditionally loving me.



I still have a hard time believing she’s gone. We’d been together pretty much my entire adult life. And while her body was betrayed by the ravages of age for a couple of years, her spunk and attitude were still the same as they always were. The decision to put her down was made quickly -- she had developed a nasty sore on her back left haunch; when the emergency room vet used terms like “quality of life” and “options,” we knew what that was gentle code for. Her kidneys had been declining in terms of useful service for a couple of years, but in the past two weeks, had accelerated in their breakdown. I’d known that this time was coming sooner rather than later for a while, but hadn’t deigned to think about it, instead preoccupying myself with the other pressing issues of my life.

My eyes are filling with tears as I write this -- I think the grieving process is going to take me a while to complete. It’s taken me several days to even try to put any of this down on paper. Initially, I was overwhelmed with the thought of losing her, my companion, my confidant. Yes, it’s part of the circle of life -- but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. But I was struck recently with a thought that I’m clinging to -- it’s not so much a matter of me living without Roxanne, but a matter of me being strong enough to hang on my own. That might sound weird, but it somehow makes a crazy bit of sense to me.

We’re going to try to live without a pet for a while, per the mister. Which is fine -- I can never replace Roxanne, but I think I need some distance between her and another kitty coming into my life.

Farewell, my darling, beloved fuzzy wuzzy friend. I shall miss you.


Roxanne and Mama, circa 1988

Classic

Dave Brubeck Quartet with "Take Five", circa 1961.

This is totally good for the soul. Not to mention it's my main cell ringtone.

'Dis, 'Dat and De Udder, Part 79

My mother's birthday was a couple of days ago. I got her something that I'm pea green with envy over -- tickets to see Tony Bennett. She invited me to go with, but I think my dad might have something to say about that.

Anyhoo... she turned 69. When I called her the morning of her natal day, she announced that she knew "69 was something dirty, so I'm going to have a dirty year." Whatever that means. HA!

She's nuts ("eccentric" to those of us with Southern blood running through our veins) but I love her.
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I think I'm listening to entirely too much '80s music these days, at least while I'm around Will. I asked him if he were hungry and he said "I'm hungry like the wolf." He also announced that he lives on Electric Avenue. His new favorite song is "Start Me Up." Which is fine, although I'm making a note to change the station before the part about making a dead man come pops up. That's all I need him to be repeating.

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The weird merchant marine guy is back in town. Haven't seen him, but the parade of cars in front of his house and in his driveway has started. Best case scenario: he's a plain old drug dealer. Worst case: my property values are decreasing thanks to the Merchant Marine Meth Lab across the street.

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Sight of the day: While I was doing time on the treadmill this morning at the Y, I noticed an older woman in a wheelchair coming up the sidewalk. Right behind her was her husband, carrying her walker, complete with tennis balls on the legs. And her prosthetic leg slung over her shoulder. All those men who complain about having to hold their wives' purses have nothing on this guy. That's love right there.

57 Channels and Nothing On...

... or is there? I say damn straight there is.

Some equally crazy pals and I have started a new site for our fellow TV junkies about our favorite -- and not-so-favorite -- shows. It's called Bored Morons and it's designed to be a place to rave AND rant about what you're watching on the telly.

Yes, this is totally a pimpage post. But we're excited about this little venture and with the new TV season just around the corner, it seemed like the thing to do to help us channel our energy into something semi-constructive. Besides, with as much TV as I watch singlehandedly, it makes sense to parlay my guilty pleasure into something more than just fodder for water cooler chat.

Damn. I’m It.

A while ago, I got tagged by the fabulous Susan DiPlacido

I figure better late than never, eh? So here goes... I'm not totally sure what this means (still a blog world neophyte of sorts), I'm gonna play along because it looks like fun.

The rules:

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Here are my eight things:

1. I’m a second generation native Floridian on both the maternal and paternal sides. Yes, we do exist. I’m proud of my state, weird as it may be, and as much as I bitch and moan about the heat and lack of seasons, I cannot imagine living anywhere else. (I’m also a third generation graduate of the University of Florida...whoo-hoo!)

2. I hate snakes. Snakes are the debil -- just read Genesis and the story of Adam and Even in case you had any doubts. Can’t even stand to see them on TV, much less in person. Needless to say, I don’t watch a lot of Animal Planet. Will sings a little song about picking up baby bumblebees/puppy dogs/kitty cats/etc. His favorite verse is about the baby rattlesnake, which he sings over and over, complete with the Ssssssss sound effects. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humour...

3. I’d not a big fan of chocolate. I don’t dislike it, but I also don’t go out of my way to find it -- no chocoholic tendencies here. Now, caramel and/or pralines are a complete other story... a praline from Aunt Sally’s in New Orleans is a little bit of heaven as far as I’m concerned.

4. I can’t drive a stick shift. I have a recurring nightmare in which there’s some sort of emergency and I’m the only one who can drive to safety and the only vehicle available is a stick. I also have a recurring nightmare about trying to drop a class in college before the drop period ends and not being able to find the administration building. Thank goodness the two scenarios have never collided into one Super Nightmare. Yet.

5.I have never seen one single episode of Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m the only person I know who can make this claim, by the way.

6. I didn’t see snow in earnest until I was 35 years old. (See fun fact #1 for a logical explanation of this.) I’d seen the fake stuff on some ski excursions to NC in my youth and there are photos of me as a toddler, posing with my parents next to a patch of snow in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But see drifts and drifts of the powdery stuff -- not until just a few years ago. I did it right, though -- in Park City, Utah for a business meeting of the mister’s. That was totally some serious snow. And I loved it. Although I quickly discovered that I’m better at apres ski then actual skiing. One day of lessons. It wasn’t pretty.

7. I would rather speak in front of a group of 100 people than go to a cocktail party where I know only one or two people. Public speaking = love. Small talk = afraid.

8. My happy place = my kitchen. I love to cook and read about cooking and think about cooking. My home library has well over 100 cookbooks. I would never want to be a professional chef or caterer, though. I’m content being a fairly proficient home cook, thank you very much. Although I do wish my knife skills were better.

That’s it. For now. Fascinating, aren’t I. *dislodges tongue from cheek*

Groovin' with Father Time

Time marches on and sooner or later you realize it is marchin' across your face.
~ Miss Truvy Jones

Brad Pitt, bemoaning getting old and flabby in a recent interview. Please.

A woman who, after years of washing that gray right out of her hair, stopped the coloring madness and did a sociological study of the ensuing fall-out. And then wrote a book about it. Bully for her.

My birthday fast approaching here in about a fortnight or so. Yippee.

It’s been quite a time for those of us wrestling with the persistently encroaching particles of middle-age.

Here’s what I've begrudgingly decided...

It happens. Part of life. Beats the alternative.

The lingering residue of that nasty case of the blues doesn’t seem to be coloring my perspective on all this aging madness. Thank goodness I’m able to compartmentalize my neuroses. It’s a gift, I tell you.

My immediate reaction to Mr. Pitt’s sob story was much like the rest of the world’s -- give me a freakin’ break, pal. You’re BRAD PITT-JOLIE.

But honestly, I have to cut the guy some slack. -- he and I are just about the same age, and while I have little sympathy for his plight (he’s not my type, but he still looks pretty damn good), I do have some empathy for where I think he’s coming from. From where he sits, his body is probably changing. Father Time be knock-knock-knockin’ on his door. As someone who makes their stock and trade partially on the physical aspects of their being, it’s undoubtedly a bit sobering. Brad and me -- we’re not spring chickens no mo’.

I had the ironic pleasure of reading one of the many media pieces about the Gray No More woman and her book at my hair salon while waiting for the color to work its magic on my grays. I’ve been coloring my hair for nearly 25 years, primarily to offset some serious premature graying. It’s genetic -- my mother went gray early herself and sported a jet black bouffant when I was a kid. She set herself free when she turned 40 and chose to live an au natural life regarding her hair. It works for her -- she is a gorgeous platinum, mature woman. Her real hair color is fabulous.

I’m hoping that underneath all my tint and dye that my grays are that great. My hair stylist figures I’m well over 50 percent gray. Not that I’m planning on finding that out for sure any time soon. Despite my genetics and Miss Gray No More’s pleasure with her decision, I still have a monthly appointment on my calendar for the color and trim. I’m just not ready to let go yet. I like being a brunette. It suits me. Honestly, though, my primary motivation in this little venture is Will. I’m the mother of a kindergartner, and an older mother at that. I sure as hell don’t need my gray hair garnering me an invite to Grandparents’ Day.

However, I had an experience recently which I conjure up in my mind whenever I get wigged out about that date on my driver’s license.

We had occasion to travel to Baltimore recently for the mister’s mother’s family reunion. An unexpected but most welcome serendipity put the Virgin Music Festival in town at the same time -- with the Police playing the last gig on Saturday. My MIL watched Will while the mister and I ventured down to Pimlico Race Track for the gig, planning on catching not only the Police but the Beastie Boys as well. Upon arrival, we realized that we were the minority for the evening, as I could have given birth to three-fourths of the fetuses in attendance. We looked like narcs -- the mister in khaki shorts and a short sleeve button down plaid shirt, me in what I thought was hip grown-up wear. HA! The dude in front of us wearing the t-shirt that said “It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself” was more indicative of the primary fashion statements of the day.

As we stood in the dusty, dirty field, schivitzing like there was no tomorrow, waiting for the Police to take the stage, a group of twenty-somethings set up camp next to us. And proceeded to begin passing around what was to be the first of many joints. No biggie. I’ve seen it and smoked it myself, back in the day. Once Stewart Copeland and his mates took the stage, I immediately began singing and moving and grooving. About two songs in, I feel a tap on my shoulder -- it was one of our neighbors, offering me a hit off of their latest joint. Me. The old lady in the crowd. I politely, yet regretfully declined, as I had to go and see my MIL after the show, and she already pretty much can’t stand me as it is. But let me tell you -- I was sorry to have to say no.

I’m still a bit high from that anyway. I might be old, but I’m still cool. At least in some contexts. And when my joints ache in the morning as I start my day or when the mister calls me Cruella and asks when my hair appointment is, I’m going to remember that moment. And embrace the fact that it’s not the number of calendar pages that you’ve ripped off, but it’s your attitude that matters in this aging thing. And damn it, I’m cool. I had hipsters tell me so.

Rock on.

Coming Once Again from the Shallow End...

It's hotter than the hinges on the gates of hell today. And I'm bored.

So... I thought I would treat myself to piccies of my OTHER sports boyfriend: swimming stud Ian Thorpe.

I could try to describe these photos, but I'm not gonna bother. They pretty much speak for themselves. Damn. Do they ever.









That's enough for now. *fans self*

Swimming in the Shallow End of the Pool

I have a new sports boyfriend: German tennis stud Tommy Haas.

Boy is smokin' hot. Smokin'.

And while I'm only old enough to be his favorite aunt, I still feel a bit Mrs. Robinson-esque about this.







I may be old. But I'm not dead. Rowr.