so we got a kitten for Murdercat

...this is a thing I've been threatening, cajoling, and advocating for, oh, two years, when it became obvious that Murdercat is twice Tinycat's size and not inclined to self-amusement. He wants to play with someone. Particularly another cat. And Tinycat, Witch-Queen though she is, cannot keep up.

When we moved to the new, large apartment last year, I stepped up my appeal (as Murdercat made a habit of thundering through the hallway, literally draped over Tinycat, so that it looked like Sleipnir the two-headed cat lived among us). Nous relented only so far as to say--when we find a kitten who needs us, he was open to it.

Where we live now we have a neighborhood list-serve, generally given to "free-cycling" and community announcements. Every now and then, kittens pop up, because people seem to think dumping cats in our neighborhood's a good idea (which, you know, not a bad strategy... a bunch of uni faculty aren't going to just leave kittens to die in the bushes), and because we've got some cat-fosterers living nearby.

He came to my attention twice--the first time, when there was a plea to foster him, maybe adopt, because he was too much for her current foster to deal with (two dogs, three kids, chemotherapy). Cute kitten, I thought, but he's got the sort of markings people like and someone will totally take him.

Then last week, he showed up again on the list, with another plea for someone to adopt him, saying he was 4 months old and a totally awesome kitten. Weird, I thought. Something's up. 16 weeks is a little older than I wanted, but I messaged the fosterer anyway (Nous pretended not to notice, knowing already that this meant we were getting a kitten. He knows me sometimes better than I do). I got photos of a kitten that looked younger than 16 weeks, which was great.  "He looks like a Rupert!" I told Nous. "We can definitely name him Rupert."

We set up a time to meet him. Long story made shorter: we met him in the living room of the email-posting fosterer, who was not actually his fosterer, because he'd been through three, four? fosters in the last week. "He's a lot," she said, somewhat apologetically. "Two people have already returned him."

We are there, on the floor, watching this kitten (I put him at maybe 13 weeks, give or take: big boned, solid kitten, past the attack-everything phase but not as coordinated as I'd expect from 4 months). He's walking around this woman's place that he's been in for 15 minutes, sniffing things, bright-eyed, curious. He checks us out. Eats a bit of food. Sits between us to clean (because one must wash one's paws after eating, always). Loud noise outside? He sits up and looks. Not climbing all over us, but he's not a puppy, so I don't expect that. Fur is shiny, eyes are bright, no fleas, ears are clean, he looks great.

The fosterer is talking, talking. He was the last of a litter from a situation in Riverside, where the family had given away the rest of the kittens and planned to take him to a high-kill shelter at week's end. The foster organization scrambled and got him. He passed through to the woman with two dogs and chemo, and he was "too much" for her which--okay, that's fair. Kittens are work, especially if they are really young. He'd been shuffled through various fosters since, one day here, two days there. Adopted twice, returned twice, because he was, again, "too much." Not a cuddler or a snuggler. Always running around. High energy.

Well shit, he's a kitten, we said, and took him home.

The first discovery: he is not a Rupert. This is not a thoughtful, cautious kitten. This is a grab-the-toy-mouse-and-shake-it kitten. He likes us and wants to be where we are; my sense is his various fosters kept him confined in small rooms (which, you know, fair) and relatively isolated, and his home-family just ignored him. Even so, it took 7 days to get him to climb into a chair with me, where we shared the seat, companionably leaning on each other; he won't climb into a lap.


He loves Murdercat, who, after 24 appalled hours, loves him back.  We have yet to get him to the vet for a formal weighing; I estimate he's between 4.5-5 lbs, and built like a fucking tank. If he grows into those paws and legs, he will be bigger than Murdercat. I put him into a harness this week and he was unfazed. Not trying the leash yet, though. I'd like him to see a vet first, get some shots, and learn to pull his claws before we go meet people. 

So please welcome Orion Alexander Odysseus Khan to the family.

sew what?

My parents came out for a visit, and with them they brought antiques for which they no longer have room but we do, and so... I have this 1926 Singer treadle sewing machine now. My parents picked it up at an antique show and held onto it until I had room, because who doesn't want a treadle sewing machine in case of a zombie apocalypse? I am no seamstress on a good day, but that's fine. This is a beautiful thing. It came with an owner's manual for a different model of sewing machine. I discovered this when I went to start trying to figure out what parts were which and the first diagram identified things that simply are not on this machine. The internet is mighty, however, and I soon found and downloaded the correct owner's manual. Now I just need to get the belt on it--a leather belt, mind you--and order some needles and oil we're all set to... I have no idea. Sew the occasional seam, I guess, in quicker order than setting up the little crappy Kenmore electric I have. Dad says with the right needles, it can sew leather. I don't see myself making a bodice or anything, though.


But look at this thing. How pretty is that? The I-don't-even-know-what-that-part-is-called is decorated for no reason other than it can be, so why not? I wish we still did that. Decorated things for no reason. Why can't a utilitarian object also be beautiful? And also why can't it be made to last for a hundred years?

Dad also brought out this guy, which is the only toy truck I ever played with. I guess it's missing a couple of ladders, and this is not the original paint job, but whatever. The steering wheel works, y'all. The front wheels turn. And it has a bell, an actual bell. I recall in the dim and distant past it had, what, paracord or something wound up and playing the part of the hose? I'd unspool it, then rewind it again, repeat, repeat, repeat. I don't know why this truck fascinated me as a kid, but it did.

It's awesome. It's all metal parts and heavy...like the Kitchenaid of toy fire trucks.

blue (balls) and fiber therapy

Grades are done (ish. Still to be submitted, after someone in admin fixes the fuck up so that I actually can submit them.) These fine blue balls are waiting for me. The amazing M, she who has so much fiber her husband does this little cheer when she gives it away to me (she's an indie-dyer, among her many talents, and she's always trying stuff out), gave them to me. Each of those balls is about 8 oz, or half a pound, and Arachne knows how much it'll spin out, but I bet it'll be enough to get me through season 3 Poldark for sure.  And then there's the 4-5 pairs of socks to be done by Christmas. So much knitting. But knitting is therapy. Knitting is "oh look, I am done with a thing, and the thing is objectively A Thing That Is Good."

Which is good, because oh, my various gods, this everything-since-January has sucked for so many reasons. A friend of mine, former officemate for years, died unexpectedly at the end of March. That was total toadshit. She'd just retired last year and while I missed her like hell at work, I knew she was out there being nona to her grandkids and adopting dogs and just, like, having fun and stuff.

Then, fuck you, April, we had two parental surgeries. First: Nous's dad, unexpected brain surgery (he fell. There was bleeding. They figured it out when he kept falling and having trouble walking). Second and third: My mom, knee surgery, the first for the actual fixing the joint, and second because it infected and they had to go back in and scrape things out. We didn't go back because, well, we're adjuncts and however good the benefits (we have them. That's something) and the union (until something crap comes from Janus, it's strong), we don't get actual sick time or vacation, so... anyway.  Nous's dad recovered nicely. He liked his time in rehab; he had a new audience for his jokes (he's the only extrovert in the family, poor guy). My mom is recovering, but her attitude is far wobblier.

The HS students give teacher awards. But I was provoked.

So...  I didn't have much left for students at the HS who were dealing with murdered friends and school shootings all over and general teenageriness. I had even less left for the ostensible adults in uni who sit in my office and explain that they just can't write this boring essay, they just don't do well on things they don't like, it's who they are. (While assuring me it's the class, not me, that they hate. I assured them back: I don't hate you either, okay? But your grade is sinking like a sinking thing, kid, so you better find it in yourself to adult and write the fucking essay. I didn't say fucking. That time.) There are moments when I feel like a crap teacher, which I know is, well, crap, because I'm good at this job and they have to meet me partway or it doesn't work. And there have been amazing students, too, just stellar. They are the reason I keep doing this job, right there.

And, and, I wanted to be done with the draft of the WIP by now, but HA. No. Even making wordcount on the days I scheduled for writing, no. I am at the stage where I am convinced it's totally awful, which, haha, is incidentally the place where I did trash a whole manuscript a couple years ago because it was total shit, so... this feeling is not without precedent or merit, though I don't think it will apply to WIP. I just have a much harder time dismissing feelings of failure with the writing than I do with the teaching.

So yeah. Looking forward to spinning my balls.

here. have a cat.

In lieu of an actual post--delayed by a combination of trying to finish the toadfucking WIP (not yet!) and a parental visit (part of the reason WIP remains IP)--I share with you Cat On A Cabinet, or, Stop Looking at Me You're Not Supposed To See Me Goddammit.

Parents are departed, writing has resumed, and a real post will come... soon. Maybe. M. is bringing over a small spinning wheel today, so who knows what will happen. (Besides: spinning, writing, beer, and the introvert's recovery from a week of enforced togetherness with people whom I love! but who also voted for 45).

photobomb

ENEMY launches tomorrow.

I am writing guest blog posts.

It's the last week of spring quarter.

We traveled 500 miles in 2 days this weekend, going to and from a wedding in NorCal.

An old (but far too young) friend of mine died on Monday of a sudden, massive heart attack.

And I have to cook dinner here in a few minutes.

Skugga is correctly expressing how I feel right now.

Therefore, you get pictures after the cut...

The Month of Many Things, Both Sublime and Awful

...is damned near over, thank you my various gods. That's what I'm thankful for.

That, and my gaming group. We spent yesterday--The Rat, Nous, and I--playing D&D (5e, which is a shock for someone who learned on AD&D 2nd and never bothered to upgrade, because why?). Hours of it, the culmination of Latest Adventure which the Rat has been planning for weeks, because this weekend she'd be able to come down to our place and run without distraction. And indeed: she walked in, said hi, and when I asked how T-Day went, said 'Later! After game.'

Because etiquette and pretty manners and petty conversation can wait, people. There are players' plans to upend, saving throws to make (or not), a high-level necromancer cleric to defeat. And math, because even streamlined 5e D&D has modifiers to add and damage to subtract from the ever-dwindling hit points. There were several several saving throws and oh shit, I'm so dead...am I dead? moments. (I was not dead, as it happened, thanks to race and class bonuses* and one hit point.)

The only sign of our age was this: green tea and beer instead of Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew. Carrots and celery and hummus (oh my) instead of Doritos. Vegetarian chili for dinner instead of pizza. No dessert because we ate too much chili (and too many corn chips). Totally therapeutic.

*Half-orc templars** for the win.
** House-rules class, because we believe you can do good and be honorable without also being lawful.

Skugga

There were two black kittens at the animal shelter. I had my eye on the older of the two, who appeared, in his photos, to be rather fluffy. But of course, they were both in the same cage when we got there, and so we took them both into the play area, just to be sure. I wasn't looking for Not Idris so much as I was looking for a more stable personality. Idris was amazing, and smart, and entirely high strung. I thought it might be nice to aim for amazing, smart, and a little more level-headed, if one can find such things in kittens. Also: no evidence of chewing. We figured a 12 week old would be teething already, and we'd be able to see if he was mouthy right off.

We chose the larger, more confident kitten, who, when confronted by a spinning feather toy making odd noises, sat down on my foot to consider it, rather than running for cover. The smaller kitten looked to the bigger one for leadership. He was also sleek and physically similar to Idris--smallish, slender, blacker than black. The larger one was stripey, fluffy, ginormous feet--totally different build. And he seemed super level-headed, so he was the one. We figured we'd picked the one from the photo, all right. Go, us. We even talked to his foster-mom (is there a better word for people who foster cats? There needs to be.) in the lobby. She was so happy someone was taking him. She'd bottle-fed him and his brother. He's high energy, she said, and a little needy for other cats, but he's great. Some older woman had returned him for being too rambunctious already (because kittens are not rambunctious in some universe.)  He just needed someone who got cats. She left all happy her foster had a new home.

Needy made my stomach sink a little. Oh god. Not this again. But he'd seemed so steady in the play room--oh, we were committed. We'd figure it out.

And then they ran his chip. Turned out the bigger, more confident kitten was the younger one. He'd gotten more fluffy since his first straggly baby photo, while the older kitten had defluffed and sleeked out. I felt awful for the left-behind kitten. We could name them Phobos and Deimos! I said to Nous. He pointed to our lease agreement, and yeah, okay, the shelter has a record of the cats we adopt, and they know we've got Louhi and had Idris. So FINE. One kitten.

And so we came home with Skugga.

He has the most piercing meow, which he fortunately deploys only rarely, when he has a particularly important opinion to share (I am hungry! This is a car! You should pick me up!). Mostly he chirps to himself as he scampers around the world. He's a full pound heavier than average for his age (a whopping four). The vet guesses we're looking at a big cat, someday. Fine with me. I fantasize he's part Maine Coon, though he's not nearly fluffy enough.

 Louhi is annoyed, but not angry. She came right out to see him. She disapproves of his shenanigans when he seeks participation, but she likes to watch.

The grief isn't over. One does not replace someone like Idris. One just moves over and makes room.

(not) too soon

Grief is a strange thing.

It feels like an empty socket where a tooth used to be. Poke and poke, taste the blood, poke and poke, feel the pain. Eventually it may, or may not, hurt less, even if the bleeding stops. Sometimes it may surprise you. Sometimes the weirdest shit surprises you. Like--I can talk about what happened with Idris today. Monday I could not. Today I almost made it without any tearing up, and would have, except there was a cat in the Petsmart adoption area who was yes, long and lean and black--but what got me were his eyes. Beautiful, green eyes, like Idris had. I had to walk away. I came back, because I will not be ruled by my feelings, but it hurt, surprisingly much, to look into that cat's face and see eyes like Idris's. Tonight we talked about our decisions, and his death, and Nous choked up. I didn't. But I cried my way through Monday and Tuesday morning like a small child, where no one could see.

And the grief isn't about Idris, not really. I mean, yes, it is--a beautiful cat, smart, so damned alive until he very suddenly wasn't. But he was a happy little guy, almost right up to the end. I grieve for me, because there's a happy little guy hole in my life and my routines. So it's...kinda selfish, in a non-perjorative sense. No. The word I want is personal. Grief is very personal.

I know, when we get another cat, people will decide it's too soon, too long, too something. People always have opinions about that. A friend of mine waits a year after one dog dies to acquire another. That would be too long for me. It works for her. Okay. My parents waited a month to get puppy Baron after my dog died. I think they waited a couple more to get Maxie after he died. We waited almost a month after Pooka to get Idris.

Tomorrow, we will go to the humane society and come home with one of the black male kittens.

It's not about replacing Idris. I can't. I don't want to. I loved him, and I still love him and I will miss him for a long time. I am glad to have shared his life with him. I am glad I was there to the end, no matter how much it sucked for me. I don't regret him at all. I wish like hell he was still here.

But I like having cats, more than one. And we can have more than one. And there are so many cats at that shelter who need a place. Well, we have one. It won't be Idris's place. No one can take that. Or Pooka's. Or Pixie's. But tomorrow, there will be someone new here. I look forward to meeting him. And I will probably (definitely) still tear up sometimes, when something reminds me of just how big the Idris-shaped hole is, will always be.

And that's okay.

my biscuit

We brought Idris home on a sunny November almost two years ago. He was all fluff and eyes, visibly stripey under the black. We didn't know much about his history, except that he and his sister were found alone, too young to be weaned, with no sign of  a mama. His sister went right away, because she was not black. When we adopted him, he was newly alone in his cage.


You would expect that to engender a little trauma. It did not. He was a gutsy little guy, as kittens tend to be. But he was also very, very small, and to him, the apartment was very, very big (and smelled of Other Cats(tm), the only living one of whom kept hissing at him). So naturally, he decided to sleep under the couch when everyone else went to bed.

The next morning, I came out, got on my elbows and knees, and peered under. "Where's my biscuit?" I asked. "You're MY biscuit."

He chirped and ran to me. And he was, ever after, my biscuit. He loved everyone, but he was mine in that way cats have.

He figured out opening doors before he was actually strong enough to do it. He figured out how to use the mirrors (our closets are mirrored sliding doors) to see who was around the corner. He played fetch with milk-bottle rings for hours. He would jam his head under my chin at night and lick, bite, lick, while I pulled his ears and told him that yes, he was my biscuit, and please stop biting. He never really meowed. Mostly chirps. Occasional squeaks. I could summon him across the house by exhaling hard through my nose, like an irritated mama cat.

Sometimes, he was Idris Dexter Oliver Mephistopheles Beauregard. But he was always, always Biscuit.

He also had a bad, bad chewing habit. He survived one round of obstructed bowels last spring; yesterday, he was not so lucky. This time, the vet guesses it was a longer piece of debris, and that it perforated his bowel and turned him septic. We took him in last night, and elected to bring him home again. It was something soft. It might pass. But we did not want to leave him there overnight, or put him into surgery overnight. We had a feeling that something was just...that we needed to have him home with us.

He spent most of last night under our bed, near the foot. He usually slept at our feet on the bed; last night, the on part was too uncomfortable, so he stayed just under. I woke up (oh, let's be real. I didn't sleep)--I became aware of Something Not Right around 6 am. He crawled out, I went to him, assuring him he was my biscuit, yes he was.

He shoved his head into my hand and stretched out. Then, sometime while I was pulling his ears and petting his head, he slipped into shock. I took him in to the clinic, because...you have to, you know. You can't just fucking quit. But the vet (same as last night) told me they barely had a heartbeat, they couldn't get BP. She was marshaling herself to advise against surgery. I saved her the trouble. She was kind enough to tell me even if we'd done it last night, the speed with which he declined suggests the perforation had already happened. Whatever he ate, it killed him.

They took two tries to get the catheter in him to put him down. I held his head. I pulled his ears. I rubbed my head on his head, which he loved. I couldn't manage to tell him he was my biscuit again. I don't know if he heard me. One eye opened, at the last. I suspect reflex. I choose to believe that, for a moment, he knew I was there.

Hear me, Idris? You're my biscuit. MY biscuit.

Idris, 2013-2015

toothless

We've called Louhi "Toothless" ever since How to Train Your Dragon came out.



We did not expect that nickname to be prophetic.

She has lousy teeth. We always end up with one cat who does. The teeth themselves are fine, but the gums get all plaque-y inflamed. Pooka, as he got older (like, 9 and up) had to have yearly cleanings. Louhi's only seven, but we put her on a yearly cleaning schedule last year.

So fast forward to the vet calling and asking us to come in and 'talk about some options.' That's never good. We knew her bloodwork was fine, so we weren't thinking omg, she will die! or anything. And indeed, she will not die. But she does have relatively severe feline stomatitis. This is a fancy way of saying her gums and the rest of the mouth membranes are inflamed.

The vet was surprised. Most cats stop eating when it looks like her mouth does. She, of course, did not stop eating. (That's really our metric for cat health. If the cat eats, s/he's fine. If s/he doesn't, go to the vet ASAP.) And since she's all of 7.5 lbs, the eating is important. Neither of our cats now carry much body-fat insurance against major illness.

It's an immune response, stomatitis, but in cats, they aren't quite sure why or when or how. She doesn't have a compromised immune system (like leukemia or FHIV). She has no apparent food allergies. And our vet was not all about 'stop her food now! let's do something else now!' He's pretty cautious and conservative with treatments. Always do the smallest thing first. Wait and see. Nothing drastic unless it's obvious that's what we need.

Which is good, because the treatment for stomatitis in cats is... well, there's steroids, which we will try first, but in severe cases (and the vet's on the fence about whether her case qualifies, since it's not the whole mouth affected), they remove the teeth. All the teeth. The vet thought maybe he could leave her a couple incisors and her lower fangs, because those parts of the mouth aren't mad yet. She's already down two. They sent them home with us in a little test tube.

On the one hand, steroids would be preferable to major mouth surgery. On the other, once the teeth are out, it's done. No more dental stuff. No more stomatitis, ever. We'll have to see which way she goes. She's a rescue, like Idris; her whole litter was bottle-raised from birth, but she was the runt. As in, our vet (who happened to be the vet who dealt with her litter, since he's one of the vets who works with the shelter) didn't think she'd make it. The foster mom insisted she would, and here she is. Does that mean she has issues that will manifest and kill her? I don't know. She's tiny. She's always been tiny. She was a PITA eater until we put her on a raw diet, but she's never been sickly or frail. So we'll see.

This has been one hella year for vet bills.

detritus-balls

So Idris, master of eating things, horked up a pair of detritus-balls on Tuesday night. Wednesday morning, actually. About 2 AM. I hear these things, having a finely tuned sense for cat-vomit sounds (and he's a sneaky, quiet horker). Anyway, the detritus-balls were their usual dubious composition of toy-stuffing, niblets of varying blankets (and a coin-sized bite of Louhi's pillowcase, because it is hers), and Idris's hair (in a quantity sufficient only to add black to the otherwise mixed bag of colors).

Anyway, this is not unusual. Once every 2-3 months, Idris produces a pair of detritus-balls approximately the size and shape of a fresh cat turd. I am forever impressed that he can keep them in the same belly into which he sucks as much food as he can manage. And he was cheerful on Wednesday AM, ate his breakfast, galloped around--and threw up. And continued to do so, every time he attempted to eat. Okay, this has happened before, too, and he rights himself within 24 hours, a steady improvement as his stomach settles down. He was perking up some by last night, and I was hopeful.

Then he threw up this morning, at 4AM, with nothing inside. This is his usual 'let me bury something in the box and scratch so loudly that Cin wakes up.' Instead, I woke up to cat vomit. And I knew that was a bad thing, which was only confirmed by a day of Sad Cat Loaf, with a lone trip to the water bowl. No more puking, but obvious discomfort. No purring. No interest, even in the cheeky birds hopping around on the deck.

Tonight, he is at the vet's being shot up with anti-nausea meds and plied with babyfood. The X-rays indicate 'something' in his small intestine, of sufficient mass to cause him pain, but not a total block. They will try and see if it moves along. If it does not, they will determine where and what it is through more exact means, and then they will unzip my cat and remove the problem.

I am trying to be cool about this. Really. I just keep checking that spot right behind my feet where he likes to lay, and where, if I don't look, I could step on him. And he's not there.

It's amazing how quiet a house is when a cat who never meows is absent. I may even sleep through the night without someone's wet nose under my chin at 4:15, shortly followed by someone's sharp little love bites on my chin. And that will suck.

On a slightly brighter note, the cat hospital has American Bobtail kittens up for adoption. They're kittens, so of course they are cute. The 5 month old is easily Idris's size. The 3.5 month olds are Louhi's size. These are gonna be big cats.

up and down and up again

Yoga training for this summer was postponed until September (exactly when I can't commit to 25 hour weekends)...and then un-postponed again within 24 hours. My teacher wants to run it for the seven of us who committed, even if he he might not do better than break even on the work. I suspect his assistant wasn't too thrilled about sending the second email, but I know *he* wasn't thrilled to've cancelled in the first place, and evidently *his* teacher suggested he go ahead anyway. So I am back in training starting a week from Friday, which will entail some creative logistics to get me from last day of class, ending at 1:50, to the training site by 2.

Mom's got hernia surgery today. It's out-patient and supposedly easy and minor, but it's still general anesthetic. One frets, long distance.

Mid-April, an agent asked for revisions on a manuscript. This was both an up and a down--up, because omg, someone read my work and liked it and down because it wasn't an offer. But those revisions are done and go out today, as soon as I get enough courage up to press 'send' on the email. The Rat, despite crazy work and her father visiting, came through and read the whole lot of it for me, catching typos and stupid sentences and generally making sure it all makes sense. She is my hero. I would buy her a beer except she doesn't drink. I think I'll buy ME a beer, then.

Really, I think this day just needs beer and yoga, and not in that order.

pooka

He was my first cat. Scrawny little runt, barely weaned, barely survived his first weekend away from mama. 

He turned into this magnificent monster of a black cat, all muscle and bone, fearless and smart and a little bit wicked. Nothing in plastic was safe, counter or table, he'd find it, open it, eat it. Saffron rolls, pumpkin bread, cookies. 

He had a crooked tail, which he carried straight up. 

He liked raw pumpkin. 

He growled at maintenance men and defended his territory and everyone in it. 

He walked on a leash.  

He moved 1200 miles without missing a beat or a meal. 

He had unusually long fangs. 

He didn't complain, unless he was hungry. 

Best cat ever. 

June 1996-October 2013

bossy

Yoga-friend Anna and I  are bossy women. We've been called that all our lives. Her life is about 27 years longer than mine, so she's been annoyed by the practice much longer. Anyway, in light of Lean In and all the media yap about it, we ended up this week discussing how it is that a woman who asserts herself is called bossy and condemned for it, while a man who does the same is called, well, assertive, and everyone's just fine with that.

I think my first time being called bossy was by a teacher, when I was a little kid, maybe 6? for having an opinion and stating it. I was told to be more ladylike, to tone it down, to be quiet. Boys who behaved the exact same way were not called anything.

The lesson: Boys will be boys. Girls will be quiet.

That same school, a year later, punished me for protesting--loudly, and then physically--when a little boy my age would not leave me alone, to the point of poking and touching me, following me around, and generally being a creepy little stalker. He was a weird kid anyway. His attachment was unwelcome and unnerving. I was told--be nicer to him. He likes you.

The lesson: Boys have feelings. Girls have to accommodate them.

These lessons did not stick with me, in the sense that I never bought the basic unfairness of them. Oh, I learned to be quiet. Sometimes. I never did learn to back down. My own mother, generally much smarter than this, yelled at me in eighth grade because I decked a kid who slapped my butt. There were better ways to handle it, she said. I thought I'd used restraint, having just come through a mini-course (which 99% of the girls in my class attended) on self-defense, which involved knee-breaking and eye-gouging and which was taught by a big ex-Green Beret who collected many, many bruises in the course of the training. Butt-slapper only got thrown in a snow-drift. But I'd embarrassed my mother, behaving like that. (My father said, very quietly, that I'd done the right thing.)

The lesson: You can defend yourself against strangers, but if it's someone you know, you just take it.

That last lesson is a tougher one--not to learn, but not to learn. That's how acquaintance rapes happen. Acquaintance sexual assaults. Abuse. Creeper "friends" who get excused by your friends because "we know them."

Now how much worse is it with someone's family? A fine question. An academic question, until very recently. A dear friend of mine discovered a heretofore unknown older half-brother. Dear friend is an only, so this is a Big Deal. Dear friend is married to my best friend, The Rat, so this affects me because we spend major holidays with them, and New Brother is very likely to be there. They brought him down here a couple weeks ago to meet us.

I can't say I liked the man. He is frightfully insecure, and seems to be entirely artificial. He performs himself constantly. He wants to be liked. He is not above trying to steamroll you with you freakin' RAD he is (yes, he uses that word. FFS). How cool. How with it. Okay, okay. So he's a big golden retriever wrapped in manflesh. I like the attitude in a dog. Not so much in an adult. Less when the adult's been drinking. But whatever. I didn't hate him. I didn't have much opinion at all, except 'maybe when he's sober, and he's relaxed a little, he'll stop being a git.' Then we got to the parking lot and said our goodbyes.

Goodbyes involve hugging. From Dear Friend and The Rat, that's okay. I know them. They're family. New Brother is also clearly a touchy-feely guy. Ugh. Okay. Whatever. I've gotten used to hugs as the default greeting/goodbye from everyone, regardless of length or depth of acquaintance. I suck it up and hug him.

This is not a sweet little hug, this is a full body hug, the sort I would give The Rat, or Kman, or Nous. There's like 3 people in the world I would touch that way, ever. And he won't let go. And won't let go. And. Won't. Let. Go.

I was clearly Not Happy with this. I didn't kick or squirm, but I did my best to pull back, put a little distance between us. Nope. No hint taken. So after about 30 seconds, 25 too many, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Okay, that's enough," and extricated myself. That would've been sufficient to make me twitch, but then! Then he says something like: "I wondered how long that would take." And chuckled, like it was some big funny thing, that he'd gotten me to do something I found uncomfortable. Like he'd forced me out of my comfort zone, and that was cool. Like he was helping expand my horizons, dude, rad.

I am Cin's slow burning anger.

Okay, not so slow burning. I was pretty mad pretty quick. I told Dear Friend I wasn't happy. I told Best Friend. Nous already knew, of course. I resolved that, when next I met with New Brother, I would not allow the hello hug. Dear Friend and Best Friend agreed this was a good thing. "He needs to learn the rules of the tribe," said Dear Friend.

Ah yes. The tribe. That's the batch of us who hang together at T-day, Christmas, various other holidays and parties throughout the year. The ones who went to Dear Friend and The Rat's wedding. I've known these folks, friends acquired through The Rat, for about 8 years now. We've all got attitudes, quirks, issues, likes and dislikes. I wouldn't say we know each other super well, but we do know each other. We tease, and we tolerate, and we generally all get along--and when we don't, we squabble and then work it out, because we're in this for the long haul. You know. Tribe. Of which this guy is now a de facto member, by an accident of birth.

And so, at Dear Friend's birthday gathering this weekend, I pointedly did not let him hug me. "Nope," I said, when he leaned in. "You got your hug last time. You got like 6 months of hugs."

Now...how do you think he took that? Did he say, "gosh, did I bother you last time?" No. Did he laugh it off, and treat it as Cin's Hazing Me? No. He looked at me, at Dear Friend, at M. (who is Dear Friend's best friend, and one of my favorite people in the world, too), at Nous. Then M. cracked up and said, "OMG, I've missed you." Dear Friend laughed with her. The Rat only smiled.

New Brother was seriously offended. He sulked. He snapped at me whenever I spoke to him for the rest of the day. ("Where are you sitting?" "Aren't YOU up in everyone's business?") Maybe I was being bossy by asking. Hah. So I did what I usually do with people I don't like, and ignored him as much as possible. That was easy. M. and I just hung out most of the time, catching up.

And then I caught myself feeling bad... like, had I been embarrassing? Had I been...bossy? Had I behaved in a manner unbecoming because jeez, this is Dear Friend's New Brother, and that makes him someone I've got to accommodate, and hell with my feelings.

That of course was not the end of it. He lamented to The Rat, later, that he was just trying to be himself, he just wanted to be himself, and he felt like he'd spent the whole day being someone else. He also said he didn't want to come between her and her friends. (She laughed. I don't think he understood why.) But what he clearly did want is reassurance. He's done this before, with Dear Friend, when she disagreed with him--went around and tried to get another one of the tribe to agree with him. I thought that was shitty at the time, for Dear Friend's sake. I'm not a bit surprised he'd do that with me...I am a little surprised he'd try it with The Rat.

I feel a little bit like I'm back in elementary school, aggrieved because there's this boy being himself and I'm not allowed to defend myself or my space. No one has said that--quite the opposite--but that's how it feels. Like I'm wrong for refusing to smile and go along with it. That pisses me off, mostly at myself, for not having quite kicked the bullshit out of my system. Also at him,  for assuming that he should get to be him, but not understanding that I get to be me, and that might put a check on his privilege. Damn sure it's time he learned. But goddammit, do I have to be the one to teach him?

we begin with tears

Pixie, 1997-2013

bullet the blue sky

My parents came to town for a visit. It was really nice. They spent a couple of days in San Diego, and then came up here and we played L.A. tourist for a week. There were museums, safari parks (technically in San Diego, but who's counting?), and large malls full of Christmas decorations, which my mother adores and my father tolerates with his customary good humor.

It's been a couple of years since we've seen each other. Since  our neighbor moved away, we haven't been able to just take off and go to Colorado. Boarding three cats is prohibitive. And now that we have one old cat who's blind and deaf, and another who's mostly blind and needs daily medication, we're sorta chained to the day trip. The parents understand this: Mom spent two years not leaving home because her old dog was blind and needed his meds. So.

They were meant to come this summer, but then Colorado Springs caught on fire, and more specifically the part of the Springs very near their house, so the visit didn't happen. Mom wanted badly to come in September, but that's the month school starts, and I am crazy-busy then, and most of the way into how will I do this teaching thing this time. Also, it's wicked hot in September.  So plans were made for December, but not actually Christmas, because she had to be back for a doctor's appointment this week. 

Of course, it rained. And it was what passes for cold in SoCal, which earned an admission from my mother that yes, 50 degrees and raining with an ocean wind does count as unpleasantly cold, even if no body parts can actually freeze. 

(Now that rain has turned to snow and they're driving home through it. I tell my mother not to worry so much, so I am trying to follow my own advice. Dad's an Iowan who can, and will, drive through anything. They have a good car. They have chains, food, survival gear, and cell phones. All Dad has to do is keep Mom calm while he's driving through a freak December snowstorm in a state that usually has brown Christmases.  This is my mother's fault (not really), because she worried for THREE MONTHS that it would blizzard on their drive to, or from, California. The weather gods listened, and they have a very Scandinavian sense of humor. "Oh ho. You didn't think Los Angeles was cold, is that it? You said, over and over, we need your rain! WELL, my dear, you can have the cold and the precipitation!"

I will make an offering.)

They also got to meet Shan, finally, and see the Rat again. I think my mother finds it hard to see "us kids" with grey in our hair, or the beginnings of crow's feet, or whatever other marks one has at forty. I think it's harder to see the age in them. They're always talking about "when we die, be sure to..." and then listing a litany of instructions or whatever. But I always think: What about before that? Will you move to wherever we live? Will the surviving parent move in with us?

 Bleak thinking aside--it was a fun time. This is not always the case, if there are Politics(tm) involved, of which there were blessedly few this year. Nous fielded those discussions. He can have more beer for that act of bravery.

But there was one thing we did agree on, the conservative parents and the not remotely conservative daughter/son-in-law: The very idea that Nous and I should be armed, as teachers, is absurd.  

I grew up in a household with weapons. Rifles, mostly, a couple of revolvers, a shotgun or two, a handful of bows with arrows  tipped for target and hunting, both (one of which was mine; all my arrows were target-tipped). The firearms lived in Dad's basement, unloaded. The bows lived down there, too. The difference was, I knew where the bows were, and where he kept the hunting tips to the arrows. I had no idea about the shells and bullets.

Point was: my father keeps guns, which I will someday inherit. I knew better than to pick them up or point them at anyone. I knew that if you picked one up, you checked it to see if it was loaded. It was never, ever loaded, but you still checked. Always. Even the single shot .22 that you just fired...you put it down, you picked it up, you checked it.

I think it's absurd that I have to go through more of a background check to adopt a cat than I do to own a gun. California is pretty strict, in that they require gun safety courses. I don't think that's unreasonable. I knew how to drive before I was licensed, too, but I still had to prove that to someone qualified to make that judgment. What's the big deal?

But if you want to arm the teachers... okay, let me borrow from the Twitter thingie floating around: if you think (you, monstrous hegemony of teacher-haters) that I am either a union thug or an incompetent, why in the name of small flowers would you want me armed? Why would you want me to be a de facto cop? Why would you think I should learn to decide when, and if, lethal force is necessary?

I don't think that idea will get too much serious consideration...I hope...but let's pretend it does. O Teachers' Union: if they insist we carry guns, then you insist we get the students capped at 15, and a serious pay raise, and a reduced course load so we can keep current on our weapon retention classes and our marksmanship. Seriously. Also: better benefits.

I can't even deal with the stupid people who think that more male bodies in the Newton school would have helped (because bullets don't kill men? Didn't seem to work in Aurora, or Columbine, or Fort Hood, or...) or who think we should teach kindergartners to bum rush armed men. That's even dumber than arming the teachers. And they say that we gamers don't understand the consequences of violence. Right.

creeping toward darkness

I love this time of year. The days are short, dark, and cold. Or coldish. Or what passes for cold here in SoCal. 

Quarter's over over. Grades are posted. Grading portfolios was both the most heartwarming and heartbreaking task I've had as a writing teacher. I am so, so proud of my students. Some of them really excelled. Some of them dropped the ball. One of them dropped the ball, kicked it, ran after it, and stabbed it with a pencil.

There's always one student like that.

Some of them will be sad about their grades. It's so hard for them to separate an evaluation of their work from an evaluation of their self. I get that. I used to feel sick with every fiction rejection I got. Now I am usually either relieved (oh good, one more off the list! Next!) or annoyed (are you kidding? You made me wait 3 months for that? Honestly.)

But 18 and 19 year olds don't have that armor yet. Well. Most of them. Some of them have lived through shit that makes my hair curl a little. I'm always surprised by how much they'll tell you, if they think you're listening and that you care (which I do, both). My course director (who is not the same as last year's, and is totally awesomely amazingly awesome, with awesome sauce) forbids personal narratives of any kind because they're so raw and heart-stabby. I encourage them for exactly that reason. Anyway. Good quarter. Good kids. Glad it's over.

There is a curry meatball (buffalo and boar) stew in the slowcooker, and thanks to Nous, a bucket of kale salad made and stored. Now we're waiting for my parents to make their way up from San Diego. They are coming, of course, just in time for the first winter storm of the year. My mother always complains how hot it is out here. Well, Mom, it's not gonna be hot for the next couple days. Or even warm. She's probably not gonna love the rain, though. I would mind it less if we didn't have outdoor plans. Nous and I will slog through rain. That is precisely why I have cowboy-boot shaped rubber rainboots with skulls and roses printed on them, and we both have heavy Aussie oilcan drovers. Ain't no rain gonna bother us. --But I suspect, for all their insistence that they like rain, don't mind weather, etc, the parents will be less sanguine about stomping through the puddles and rivulets in the Safari Park.

Then again, they don't have my boots.

cinders and smoke

The pines were roaring on the heights.

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red.

It flaming spread.

The trees like torches blazed with light.

I used to have this image on a pink (!) t-shirt when I was... five. Or six.

So a week ago Saturday, my parents called. This is unusual because they don't call me on Saturdays. We have an orderly, habitual relationship. I call them, and it's usually on Sundays. My father is the exception; he called twice the previous week to check on the colors for the matte for Nous's PhD diploma.

The point is, when one has, well, not elderly parents, but at least not young ones, one worries when they deviate from pattern...even if your first impulse is to ignore the phone because it's Date Night and you hate-hate-hate cell phones in restaurants (and you know your mother would agree with your decision).

The moment I got outside, I checked the voicemail.

Don't panic, Dad said (which is a guarantee that I should be freaking out, and that Mom probably is). But there's a fire just a little ways west of here, in Waldo Canyon, and we're under voluntary evacuation orders. We're not leaving, but we're packing. Just so you know.

This was a WTF moment. My parents do not live in the Colorado foothills. They live in a subdivision miles and miles from actual forests. There's a little wild-ish park across the street, laced with trails and paths, in which one sees coyotes and foxes and deer and bobcats, with rumors of bigger predators. But it's very much city. If you know my mother, you will understand why the very idea of living in the boonies is laughable.

Mom claimed to be unworried. Dad, too. And then the fire just...kept...growing. Manitou Springs was evacuated (and allowed to come home). Dry devil winds pushed the flames along the canyons, and over the fire lines. I watched the news on Facebook. I watched the live streams from C-Springs TV online. I knew, maybe 5 minutes before my parents called, that their section of Rockrimmon had been evacuated.

That was Tuesday.

It's a little creepy, and a lot awful, to see photographs of a place you know pretty well on international news, and to recognize landmarks, and to know just how close that glowing line is to your parents' house. To realize just how far into the actual city--a big city!--the fire had gotten. My best friend called daily to check on my parents. My friends on Facebook kept a constant stream of updates. And my parents and I talked daily, too--Mom convinced of the worst, Dad taking the wait-and-see position.

I came back from yoga on Wednesday and saw a big red ice-rune on the altar. Nous, it seemed, was getting into the fire-fighting business.

Mountain Shadows, a mere 350 yards as-the-crow-flies from my parents' house, burned. The little park across the street remained unburnt, but the subdivision on the other side--that I had seen being built, that I had looked at, as I hiked the park with my parents' dog--that burned flat.

And then the weather shifted, the winds died a little, the clouds came back, and the firefighters started winning.

By Saturday, my parents were back home. A little spoiled food, a little smoke-smell, that was all. Mom imagines that there's damage from falling cinders on the roof, but that inspection has not happened yet. Dad reported three sprinkler heads in need of repair. Life returned to normal, just like that.

Except for the ash-black hills behind them, where the mountains used to be.

oh, hello, 2012

So far, so good. The farmer's co-op has been joined, with a box of Fresh Organic Local Vegetables(tm) to arrive tomorrow. I have already solicited help on what one does with the expected collard greens, and I have some ideas. Nous suggested helpfully, feed them to someone else, which explains why we do not ask his opinion on vegetables. Also, he brought spaghetti squash into the house on pure hearsay, for fun, he said, and we will be trying that tomorrow, too.

2012, the year of adventures in vegetables.

We will not speak of the author's rather unfortunate encounter with Nous's homemade glögg on New Year's Day, which led to the author's first learning experience of the new year (one which, had she been a more typical college student, she'd've learned already).

Well. It's not that I wasn't typical. It's just that the Rat, who was also my roommate, Does Not Drink(tm), and so I did not, either. Instead, we tried on other personalities and new worlds for fun. AD&D. Cyperpunk. White Wolf. That hasn't changed. But the Rat has mellowed out about alcohol, having fallen in love with a wonderful woman who loves wine. In fine Rat form, she has decided to learn as much as she can about wine without actually drinking it. You got a question about the grapes that go into a Pinot Grigio or a Malbec, go ask her. Just don't ask her to taste it.

The new year has, however, brought out the shithead in the Rat's immediate family. Her brother, who would not attend her wedding on religious grounds, felt free to ring in the new year by emailing to tell her why, exactly, her spouse would not be welcome at family reunions, although the Rat herself would be welcome to attend.  Brother spoke to Uncle Patriarch, you see. There was consensus. Apparently there was consensus all around that side of the family, who sent nearly identically worded refusals to the wedding invitations--except for Rat's sister, niece, and parents, who could and did attend the nuptials (and who did not combust, or grow horns, or become lesbians. They didn't even become feminists). 

So I think we all know who the cool people are.

What's surprising is that this brother was not always a dickhead. I've known him since high school. I attended his wedding. He gamed with us. He wrote funny emails from the Army. He did theatre and brought his girlfriends to visit and sent pictures of his kids. I get that people change, sure, but  just two summers ago he was out here with wife and sons, happy to stay with his sister and her partner who lived close(ish) to Disneyland. Now, he can't even be arsed to attend their wedding.

So while my new year is starting out well enough, the Rat's is starting with (more) hurt and bewilderment from her only brother.

I am an only child. I don't know what it's like to have siblings. But I have watched my father, grandmother, husband, and friends dealing with their siblings, and I've concluded that one has relatives, and one has family, and only sometimes is there an overlap between the two. The Rat's relatives want a Rat-shaped object at their reunion, to parade around and be her mother's daughter and fill a hole in the photographs. They don't want the writer, the gamer, the artist, the thinker,  the feminist, the agnostic, and the one hundred other things she is beside lesbian. They never wanted that person. They still don't.

The Rat's family is much wiser, New Year's Day learning experience notwithstanding.  I'm sorry for her that her brother's turned asshole, but mostly I think he's an idiot. He's the loser here, not her.

2011, some 20-odd years into our relationship. Some things just don't change.

oh, vet bills

Three cats, two of whom are in their mid-teens. Fun times. Pix, 14, is in what we think is stage 2 renal failure (it was last year; the bloodwork for this year hasn't come back yet), good eyes, good ears, bad hips. Pooka, 15, is in fine internal condition, but he's got partial (and sporadic) blindness and failing hearing; however, he is smart enough to take the easy path onto the back of the couch, rather than try the 3 foot jump and end up clawing his way up the upholstery every. damn. time. And Louhi, all of 3, still under 8 lbs and likely to remain thus, has tartar issues despite the dry food that is supposed to control that. So she will get a dental visit in the near future, after which I will attempt to brush her teeth myself with those little wholly inadequate toothbrushes. Her mouth is at least big enough now to accommodate a human finger in it. Her temper may be another matter. She's a sweet animal, very amenable to handling, but I suspect she has her limits.

At least we have Pixie back on her meds. We stopped for awhile, because she'd twigged to the whole pills-in-my-food thing. Well. She'd twigged to it when Nous tried to pill her, and stopped coming to get her dinner (or coming near the kitchen at all) when he was the one feeding everyone. Seriously. She'd see him with the dishes and run out of the room and hide, and by the time she emerged, Pooka (who does not suffer from appetite loss) would have eaten her wet food, in which the pill was hidden. Now mind, I could feed her and stuff the pill in her wet food and she never cared because she never actually saw the pill. I am just that good. But it got to the point that she would run away when she saw him him, even if he wasn't trying to feed her. And she only caught him once with the pill. Once.  Breakfast, however, has never been associated with pills, and so Nous can give that to her, no problem.

I don't know. This cat has some issues.

Anyway, now we have liquid meds which I inject into her wet food. In a mere 12 hours, we have seen improvement. This makes me happy. She's destroying the couch and she has some territorial quirks, but she's still been my housemate now for a decade. She is solidly Nous's cat, unless there might be meds involved, but we're friends. She's also the only one who gets table scraps. She does love her bacon.*



*I know it's bad for her. She's in renal failure. She is the lowest-ranked cat in the house, constantly hounded by Louhi and occasionally abused by Pooka whenever he feels like he's gotten in trouble from the humans. Table scraps are something only she gets.