Child As Adult

My older son lives in the Dallas Metroplex. We see each other every couple of years, and keep up-to-date on each other's lives through the courtesy of Facebook, Twitter and texting on our phones. But because we're so limited in our personal interactions, I haven't really been able to watch him grow up. He'll be 40 this year (oops, I think I said that out loud!), so he's pretty well grown up. But the past couple of months I've seen him from a different perspective.

We're cat people, and he's had two cats during his adult life. Persephone and Orion became his masters about 13 years ago. Then Persephone passed away in August of 2009. So it's been just T.J. and Orion for the past three-and-a-half years.

So what does this have to do with my watching T.J. grow up? A couple of months ago, he realized something was very wrong with Orion's health. After a lot of worry and several doctors' visits, he learned Orion had a fungus that had eaten his skull away. I watched from afar and read his impassioned Facebook posts about this beautiful and affectionate cat.

What I have seen is a very mature man with an enormous heart do everything in his power to bring comfort to this beautiful animal that has been so special in his life. I'm so happy T.J. had this cat as a part of his life, and I'm so touched by his gentle carrying of Orion to his passing.

I have two wonderful sons. I'm a lucky mother.

Note: the picture above was taken last night by one of T.J.'s former roommates, who also loved Orion.

It's the Little Things That Count

The first "little thing" of the day was Angel. As I was waking up, he crawled up on my chest and went to sleep. He loves on his own terms, which is not what I like in a cat. However, his parsimonious love makes it all the more precious.

Last spring the Jazzman and I went somewhere; I was ill-equipped for the cool weather that blew in. He tossed me a black sweatshirt hoodie from the trunk of the car. I instantly fell in love with the garment, which I'm sure he bought a his favorite thrift store. I'd sneak it off his bedside chair when I thought he wasn't looking, and always return it from whence it came. Last night he pulled it from his closet and told me I could have it. I could have it!! Honestly, that's more precious than the black turtleneck cashmere sweater I've been wanting him to buy me (um, to replace the one he shrunk in the dryer a couple of months ago).

So this morning, with the temps hovering around 50 degrees and the sky filled with clouds, I put a silk tank, a cotton turtleneck, and MY new black hoodie on over a pair of comfy knit Eileen Fisher slacks. After pulling my socks on, I slipped my feet into the Jazzman's fleece-lined slippers, just waiting for me on his side of the bed.

Now, in my ever-chilly office, I'm toasty warm.

And very lucky.

And How Do You Use Clothesline?

This weekend's decrease-the-stash project began when I unearthed three pieces of fabric that I had hand-painted about ten years ago. I found a coordinating polka dot print stashed away that I loved with the three hand-paints. Then I started wrapping and stitching.

This is my third effort with this technique. Effort number one used up a yard-and-a-half total of two companion fabrics that have been sitting around for about eight years. The result was an oval basket with handles on each end that is being used to hold the current knitting project.

Number two was a sort of plate that was discussed here. I used up about a half-yard of fabric and—after I was very unhappy with the result—a bottle of dried-up fabric paint to which I kept adding water. The final result is in constant use.

Effort number three is a bowl. It's almost big enough for a very large cat to sleep in.

Almost.



His butt hangs over one end and his head the other, but he's happy. I finished the basket yesterday afternoon and took the pictures immediately afterward. This afternoon I glanced into the library and he was tucked into the basket again. I think he likes it.

And I like having four fewer pieces of fabric in my stash! Only about ten thousand to go!

The First Day of December

…and Northeast Ohio woke to snow.

I'm in my toasty office with the new, well-insulated windows. Angel is lying curled up in the cat basket, looking at all the birds in the tree just outside the window, dreaming of lunch (were he ever allowed outside!).

All is well with the world.

Look at those ears! Don't tell me that boy's not thinkin' about hunting!

I Don't Need Any Help!

I have some bee-YUU-tiful wool yarn I bought a year ago in a darling little shop in Berkeley Springs, WV. When I bought it, I thought I'd make an afghan or throw for the living room. This year I'm in the mood to knit a short kimono sweater.

<Sidebar On>
In case you're a knitter and dying to know, the colors I bought are deep hot pink, deep purple, mustard and teal. I'm making Dofuko on page 67 of "Knit Kimono: 18 Designs with Simple Shapes" by Vicki Square, published by Interweave Press. I'll make the body pink, one sleeve teal and one sleeve mustard, then use the purple for the cording between the color and the body. Yes, I will have to order more yarn. It should take me, oh, the next two years.
<Sidebar Off>

I've got a couple of trips coming up and wanted to get the project together for traveling. Last night, when I got home from rehearsal, I sat in front of the television for half an hour to wind the first ball. (Of course the Jazzman wanted to know why it didn't come already wound into a ball, and I couldn't answer him. My best answer was that the really good, high quality wool doesn't come in a ball. I don't know if that answer is anywhere near factual, but it's my story and I'm sticking to it!)

This morning when I was in the shower, I heard some thumping and bumping outside the bathroom. Of course my mind immediately went to a burglar being in the house stealing all my arts and crafts books or cans of paint or shredded bank statements or something.

When I got out of the shower, I started searching for the thumper-bumper. As I walked into the family room, I saw about 50 feet of yarn spread all over the room. Angel was crouched down, peering under a small chest, where I found—ta dah—my newly-wound ball of yarn, less the 50 feet of yarn that had become its tail.

Listen, Cat, if I wanted your help I'd ask for it! Right now you're treading on very thin ice. The day may come where you live permanently in the basement!

Oh, wait, there's far more mischief to be had in the basement. I guess I'll just suck it up and put my yarn in a drawer when I'm done with it.

The View from my Computer

The practice of working from home requires some adjustment. One is responsible primarily to oneself, and that requires a healthy exercise of integrity. I like integrity.

As I'm swamped with work, I realize how little serious and important (to the organization) work I've been doing for the past six months or so. I love my work, and I love sitting here in my aerie, windows open, breeze drifting through, cats nearby.

Several people said to me, "You can work in your jammies." One person even said, "You should wear your jammies for the first three days, just because you can." Jammies to work is so not my style. When I ran to pick up the Jazzman from his cousin's house last night upon his return from a long weekend in the Hamptons, I threw on a robe and a pair of yoga pants—over nothin'. I knew I would see no one, and it was a three-block drive. But still, it wasn't quite my style.

<Sidebar On>
Although, PianoLady would tell you stories of our 8:00 a.m. piano ensemble class forty-one years ago where we learned Mozart four-hand sonatas and Rachmaninoff piano duets. There are stories of my wearing a trenchcoat over my nightgown for these classes. I look back now and can't believe I ever did that. It must just be an urban myth!
<Sidebar Off>

So I share with you today's View From My Desk: Angel dozing in the window, waking with a start each time a grackle or a robin or a blue jay whizzes by.

This beats shivering in an overcooled cubicle any day!

Who Are You and Why Are You Here?

The cats are used to hosting parties all day long every day. Great parties with unlimited cat treats and clean litter boxes. They don't have to answer to me; they just invite all their friends.

Now, suddenly, I'm working at home. They're not alone during the day any more. They are not free to just do what they want.

They frequently sleep together on Ridley's bed. Whenever I walk past the open bedroom door, Angel looks up at me as if to say, "Why are you here? Can't you just go away?!" Rudi says nothing. He just ignores me and continues sleeping.

Really, if I had known my life was going to take this turn, I wouldn't have gotten Angel to keep Rudi company. Rudi would have just had me to keep him company. Think how much money I would have saved!

The Great Mysteries of Life

I have a cat. His name is Rudi. He's fat.

"Hi, my name is Rudi and I'm a catfoodaholic."

My Darling Daughter-in-Law calls him RudiFatTudi.

As you can tell from the picture of this beautiful boy, he's got fairly long hair. I couldn't get him to show you his tail when I pulled my camera out this morning, but it's long and gorgeous and very fluffy. (I could have named him Fluffy, but there's no opera character I know of named Flufolfo.) When I got him from the Humane Society in Tucson, his tail was bigger than his body (and remained so until his addiction surfaced).

Rudi is an excellent groomer. He spends long hours making sure his coat and, especially, his tail are in pristine condition. But you know what that means. He ingests a lot of hair. A lot! I feed him food that helps his digestive system and food that encourages the hairballs to slip right through. I give him that liver-flavored glop to lubricate his insides. My effort is all to no avail. The boy gets hairballs and, at the most inopportune times, hacks them out and deposits them at some central location.

So here's the mystery. It doesn't matter where in the house he deposits his hairballs. I will find some reason to walk to that area of the house and step squarely on the hairball with my bare feet.

This morning I walked to the other side of the bed to pull the sheet up and suddenly felt wet, squishy yuck under my foot. Yuck. Major Yuck! I didn't even hear him hack it up, but it had to have been recent, as it was still dripping with his digestive juices. (Wait—you're not eating while you're reading this, are you?!)

Can you please explain to me the mystery of why his hairballs act as magnets for my feet? If we can solve this mystery, we might also be able to find a cure for cancer and become fabulously wealthy.

What? Did the Bed Bite You?

Longtime readers know how much I love my cat, Rudi. He's the man in my life.

In my little house in Tucson, he would jump up on my bed once I settled in for the evening. When I turned the light out, I would pat my chest and he would immediately walk over and curl up on my chest, purring me to sleep. He'd move to the foot of the bed or the top of the dresser during the night, but the instant I woke and patted my chest, he was right back there, purring and wishing me "good morning".

He had a hard time settling in once we moved into our new digs. There are two other male cats in the house, and he and the younger one, Pepper, have a love/hate/let's-pretend-we're-killing-each-other relationship.

Rudi still slept with me much of the time in my new "house". But lately he's nowhere to be found.

I was concerned that there was something wrong such that he couldn't jump up onto my bed any more. I e-mailed Tyler and Jaci to keep an eye on him during the day, to notice if they saw him on any high surfaces. A couple of hours later, Jaci e-mailed back that he was happily lying on top of the piano. There went the Rudi-can't-jump theory.

Two nights ago, in my never-ending effort to again enjoy the comfort of this "man" in my bed, I brought him upstairs with me. I placed him on my bed and petted him for a couple of minutes. The minute I took my hand off his head, he leapt out of the bed. He jumped up onto the rocker, curled up, and slept there all night. Last night was a replay of this behavior—place him on the bed; he jumps down; he gets into rocker and sleeps all night.

What on earth happened in that bed while I wasn't looking that made him loathe to lie there? What little gremlins are running around his tiny mind?

I miss having a companion in my bed. (And yes, you may read between all the words in that sentence and assume hidden meaning.) (Some things never change.)

Random Thoughts, in Fast Succession

My mind keeps playing with the thoughts of merging households and merging lives. I've said since the day EEFFH broke up with me that I wanted to be in a committed relationship of the cohabitation type (with or without the recognition of the State). But the more settled I get in my life and the more of these stinking three-month relationships I go through, the more I question that desire.

I woke at 4:45 this morning, fixed a cup of tea, took my Excedrin, put the ice pack on my neck, and pulled the laptop into bed with me. And thought about the fact that the only person I risk disturbing in taking those actions is Rudi. Actually, a couple of minutes later Rudi bit me so hard I now have blood and a bruise on my left forearm, so I guess he really was disturbed. Or is disturbed!

I'm thinking I need to get another cat to get Rudi OUT OF MY FACE!

I think women are more adaptable than men. (Somebody contradict me if you think I'm wrong.) I think women are more able to amend or emend their lives to fit in with someone else's life. (As I write that, I picture two hands coming together to hold each other.) I've been living alone now for three years. Wow, is it only three? It seems like so much longer. I guess you could say I've been living alone, emotionally, for eight years.

My second husband had been alone for twelve years when we married. He wasn't so adaptable. I moved into his home and had to ask before I hung a picture on a wall or placed a rug in a bathroom. When John and I got together the second time around, I told him if we wanted that relationship to work, we would have to start over. So we bought a house that was ours. Not his. Not mine. No ghosts in closets. I highly recommend that action.

I've been thinking about having a home in the same neighborhood as my as-yet-unidentified man. That way I could have my things, my messy spaces, and he could have his. But if we were to break up, I'd have to move.

The Gardener keeps all his old girlfriends as friends. How does he do that? I can't imagine.

Once I'm done with a relationship, I don't really want to know what's going on in the life of my ex-whatever. Maybe it's because of all my acceptance/rejection issues. If I'm not good enough for you, then get the hell out of my life. Don't keep throwing in my face the fact that I wasn't good enough.

But does that hold with a relationship that develops only as friends? One man currently on my list is absolutely the dearest man. I hold him in the highest esteem and consider him a man of the utmost quality. But I really don't see it developing into a romance. I adore him as a friend. Is there a man alive for whom that is a good thing, or — coming back to Mr. Match's statements of competition — must it be all or nothing: friendship and love and romance and sex or nothing at all?

Is there a farmer in the house to say, "That'll do, Pig. That'll do."