Guinness, 1991 - 2012

It was May 23, 1991. He was a small handful of tabby fur. Poison-green eyes, brick red nose -- both runny due to a massive respiratory infection. He was maybe six weeks old.

"Look, maybe you can do something for him. We can't keep him. Good luck!"

He got better. He went to college with me. He weathered heartbreaks and hangovers, family drama of all stripes and disasters. His fur was absorbent and could mop up tears easily.

He moved to Florida with me, for grad school. He developed a taste for small green lizards, and horked up lizard parts at inopportune moments (often as a form of social commentary, I am convinced). we rode out a hurricane because no shelter in the area would take pets.

He moved back to PA with me, and was there as I navigated pre-wedding planning and all the drama that goes with it. He stalked the 700 square foot domain of our first shit apartment, and made it clear to the new husband that HE had been in my life first, and as far as he was concerned, the husband was transitory. Shoes were crapped in; butts were placed on pillows. Eventually, detente was achieved, but it took years.

He inspected the new house carefully, discovered the best nooks and crannies to sun in, and terrorized any mice foolish enough to set paw in the house. The dog we bought was thoroughly cowed within 48 hours, as was the proper order of things. When dog #1 passed, dog #2 was similarly trained quickly.

He looked on in bemusement as the first baby came home. With resignation as the second one arrived. with indifference as the third one made an appearance.

As he got older, he spent more time sleeping soundly in the sun, and left the running of the household to the younger cats. As elder statescat, he only weighed in on significant issues, and his judgement was given mighty credence.

November 6, 2012: I came home to find him at the top of the stairs, struggling to move his back end and crying. Though the vet is literally 2 minutes away, it was the longest drive of my life.  The vet kindly told me, with pity in her eyes, that there really was nothing to be done -- there is no cure for old age. Twenty-one is practically Methuselah in cat years.

He purred in my arms as she gave him his last injection, looking up into my eyes with his poison-green ones. He calmly closed them one last time, and the purring slowed, then stopped.

I was lost. I sobbed for a few minutes, cradling my cat, and then gently laid his towel-wrapped form on the table. In the waiting room, a woman I had never met before pulled me into her arms and cried with me, and then walked me to my car.

A week later I picked up a box that was much too small to hold an animal who had been such a large part of my life and my heart. I swore that I would never, ever let an animal get that tied up in my heart again, and that I would never subject myself to that kind of heartbreak.

January 12, 2013: she was a small bundle of tabby and white fur, one eye permanently clouded white by an untreated infection. Her oine copper eye glared with "fuck you!" as she thrust her paw between the cage bars to grab my upper arm with her claws....

Underwear stickers

We have been lucky in that sibling rivalry has not been a giant issue amongst the three goblins. Each has their own sphere on interest and circle of friends. There are a few overlaps, but for the most part, they all do their own thing. However, with two daughters, that is bound to change.

About a month ago, the wee ginger beastie howled her way through the living room, tears squirting out of her eyes, snot blowing out her nose...one continuous wail of despair that sounded like all the souls in Hell were being flayed alive, doused in brine and set alight. The noise went right to the base of your skull and wrapped around your brain stem, directing your body to do whatever must be done to shut that Christing noise UP before a blood vessel popped.

Shocked and alarmed, eldest daughter and I rushed to the source. We checked for blood, broken bones, anything physical that could explain the unholy caterwauling. Finally, she made it clear that the problem was thus:

Glasses-wearing Snark Girl had received stickers, and the ginger biscuit had gotten none. The humanity! With that nugget of information disclosed, the cacophony started again,

Meanwhile, eldest daughter and I were gaping at each other.

"Did I give you any stickers?
"No....not that I remember?"
"Uh, what the heck??"

We turned back to the wee beastie, denying any inequity in sticker distribution.

She shot to her feet in righteous anger, stormed up to Snark Girl's room, rummaged around and hurtled herself back down the stairs to hurl the objects of jealousy and contention on the living room floor:

...a handful of brightly wrapped pantiliners.

"THESE stickers! UNDERWEAR stickers! She gets pretty underwear stickers and I don't get any and it's not faaaaaiiiiiir!"

Whereupon the Satanic wailing and waterworks started up again. There was no convincing her that she had not been slighted.

The next day, I went out and bought several packages of Sandylion stickers, which were accepted as no more than she was due....with a suspicious sniffle and a fierce glare.

She still has not forgiven us.

Harumpf. (Oh, Hi there! Long time no see...)

Balancing 1 husband,  2 jobs, 3 pets (and 3 children) and countless assorted freshmen and douchebags...wait. Freshmen and douchebags? I repeat myself.

 So, I acquired a second job back in late August, which played havoc with scheduling, free time, personal obligations and other such nonsense. Hence the long absence. I am going to try to be a bit more responsible in blogging from here on out. Promise.

In addition to trying to hammer writing skills into college students who are still in the larval stage, I started working in an elementary school library. k through 8th grade. It's done wonders for helping me come up with creative alternatives to cursing.

See, the (very elderly and extraordinarily crabby) nun that was running the library hit the unpadded kneelers a few too many times and ended up with a double knee replacement. The Pope himself had to force her into retirement, leaving no one to read stories to children using puppets and goofy voices.

That simply would not do.

As I volunteered fairly regularly and subbed for Sister on multiple occasions -- and because I apparently have "SUCKER" tattooed on my forehead in ink that is only visible to nuns -- I was asked to step in. Because the same order runs both the uni and the school, everyone was more than willing to schedule around college classes and elementary obligations and suddenly...BOOM!

Basically full-to-overflowing commode of commitments, and nary a plunger in sight.The last 7 months in a nutshell:

"Fuck summer classes. I'm not teaching shit. I may quit altogether!" (Can you say 'burnout?')

"Shit. I am bored. Not bored enough to teach Summer I or II, but...I might miss it a bit."

"Whoa. Budget's tight."

"Three overloaded classes for fall? Extra pay? Hell, yes!"

"Library job? Nah, I have...wait. You talked to the Dean already? Two days on campus, three at the elementary school? Done deal? Both Sisters signed the papers already? Huh?"

"FUCK THAT MEANS DOUBLE THE FACULTY MEETINGS FUCKFUCKFUCK!"

"Ugh. I forgod liddle kids gib me germs and I'b had a code for four months."

"Hi, library supply depot? Lick my 'taint. These are not the book covers I ordered. Also, throw another copy of 'The pout-pout Fish'  in our box."

"The amazing thing is there's little to no difference in teaching kindergarteners and college freshmen."

"This crop of paper cuts is from research papers. This set is from covering books."

"NO OVERDUES. Papers or books, doesn't matter."

"Thank God and Baby Jesus for Christmas break. And booze."

 "Wait. I go back tomorrow? Fuuuuuuck."

That about covers it. Obviously it was an eventful fall, and I'll play catch-up with more substantial blog posts later.

Happy new year!

Memorial Day

The dead soldier's silence sings our national anthem. 

-Rev. Aaron Kilbourn

Incomprehension.

"But I really want an 'A.' "

So we go over the printed-out numbers again. Spotty attendance, lack of participation, late papers, missed assignments; no grades above  "C."

Mathematically speaking, she earned a "D."  No amount of extra credit, no last-minute work or grace can turn this sow's ear into a silk purse. In fact, it's only grace that has garnered the "D" that currently befuddles her.

"I feel like I tried really, really hard, and I really think that ought to count towards an 'A.' "

No.  Just....no. Accept the grade that you earned and stop embarrassing yourself (and me). You will have to take it again next semester; perhaps a bit more effort on your part will pay off. Maybe this has been a learning experience: better time management, more research, extra effort...

"But I've never gotten a grade this bad before. Ever! I tried so hard! Can't you just give me an 'A?' I really, really want one!" (Note: I've seen your college transcripts. This is a lie.Your performance is on par with last semester: abysmal.)

Across the hall, Dr. Flannel utters a Wookiee-like growl of utter aggravation and frustration, as I -- for the third time -- go over the math.

It adds up the same. "D." People in Hell want icewater; students want easy/unearned "A's." It's axiomatic.

She leaves, weeping and railing at my cruelty, my unfairness, the shame of it. Dr. Flannel gives me a sympathetic shrug as I watch her go. He asks her major, and snorts when I say "Counseling Ed."

God fucking damn the people who fill these kids' heads with unrealistic expectations. The ones who socially promote them, who tell them that everyone deserves a trophy, everyone's a winner...the ones who prop them up, and fudge their numbers in order to pad them from ever experiencing failure on any level whatsoever....and then turn them loose with no coping mechanisms to use when they do fail. They fall farther and harder when they've been cossetted and shielded for all their lives.

Some people just aren't meant for college. It's not fair to build their dreams, sell them a white elephant, and collect interest on their failure.

Oh, balls.

The end of the semester is always ripe with excessive stupidity. Sometimes it's alcohol-fueled, sometimes it's just sheer desperation but mostly it is utter bottom-of-the-barrel stupidity that produces the best stories.

For instance:

If you're going to use technological enhancements for an oral presentation, it's best to check your flash drive and be sure that the file name you click is actually your powerpoint, and not a particularly graphic set of clips/stills from your personal stash of raunchy porn. No one needs to see "Midgets Bandage Spank Inferno" on the surround-sound SmartPodium. Yes, we judged, and yes, that shit was all over campus before class was over, thanks to smartphones. And no, you're probably never getting laid by any of the chicks on campusagain, because your taste in cinematic snatch was pretty heinous.

Also:

DO all the papers on legalization you want, but feel free to leave your bong at home. as one of your classmates succinctly put it, "You stupid Goddamned dumbass."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Finally, a public service announcement, brought to you my my insurance company, which outsources its accident report calls to India:

Be sure that you --or the deer you hit -- calls the police to generate a report.

Be sure to exchange insurance information with the deer.

Be sure that you can give the deer's contact info to the accident tech.

Do NOT, in a fit of aggravated smartassery, report the other "driver's" name as John Doe. They have no sense of humor.

Embarrassment X2

My dignity...:(

Last Friday, I volunteered to be a Mass driver for SnarkGirl's school. They go every Friday, and uf the weather is nice, they walk. If it rains, they ask parents who can help to ferry kids to and fro.

I made two trips hauling kids, and made a last pass to grab a couple of the teachers. I ended up with Dr. Beardy (the Headmaster), Dr. Philo (the history and philosophy teacher) and Mr. Mink (the maths and Latin teacher).  As we made the five-minute drive, Dr. Beardy decided to turn on the radio to catch something on KYW...

Of course, at this point, I should mention that I like to play my music loud when I am in the car alone, and that my taste in music is eclectic at best. Frankly,  iTunes + blank CDs + my musical tastes = some seriously obnoxious mix CDs for personal car consumption.

Which is why these three austere, staid and learned gentlemen were blasted by Depeche Mode's "Master and Servant" as soon as he turned on the stereo. Dr. Beardy's flailing for the "skip" button did not improve matters when the next song to come blaring out was Nine Inch Nails' "Closer."

Oh, dear.

Once the noise was dispensed with, an awkward silence fell over the car. Until Mr. Mink started to giggle. Dr. Philo, sounding impressed, whispered, "Told you she was probably freaky." Dr. Beardy smirked a great deal and uttered some suspiciously-chuckle-sounding coughs.

God damn it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

SnarkGirl is getting to That Age. She has Questions. Generally, I encourage her to ask away, and do my best to answer honestly and completely -- and most importantly, without embarrassment.

Of course, I try to encourage her to ask her questions discreetly. This does not always compute in a pre-teen's mind, though. A couple of months ago, she asked her Daddy what "the big deal about penises was," nearly causing him to chock on his pot pie and collapse in a puddle of embarrassment.

At dinner last night, she busted out one of her most burning questions:  "So, Mommy, Daddy...do you guys still have sex, or what?"

Followed by OctoBoy's perking up to ask, "What's sex?"

And Ginger Beastie chanting, "Sex, sex, sex...."

Calvin's Dad just about stroked out, right there at the table. I also was taken aback a bit. He harrumphed something along the lines of "Theology of the Body! The marriage covenant! Healthy relations!" and excused himself.

I just looked her in the eye and said, "Yeah."

"Oh."

"What's the ...."

"Let's continue this discussion after dinner, in the privacy of your room, hmm?"

"Oh, OK. Is Daddy OK?"

"I think he just needs a minute, babe."