Even Pets Make Friends

I have what can only be described as the world's most unpleasant cat.  To everyone else, that is.  I adore the thing, but she is rather...well...not nice to everyone else.  Ok, that's an understatement.  She hisses and claws at anyone who is unfortunate enough to walk through the door.  It's entirely my fault.  The first day I had her was the day I moved to Chicago, and she spent much of the first few years stuck in a studio apartment in the sky, with next to no human interaction.  I supposed technically I was human, but as I was a law student, that is a debatable point.  Anyway, when people did enter her life, she wasn't thrilled with it, to say the least.

Also not shocking,she is not a huge fan of change.  Each time I moved in Chicago, she went ballistic.  She even found her way up into a bathroom cabinet once, making me think that she had somehow Houdini-ed out of the apartment or that we had left her somewhere.  Ask my friend who was kind enough to help me move--I was ballistic, thinking she was somewhere between the Loop and Lincoln Park.  But a few days later, she eventually made her way down and out into the apartment.  Then, just as she was getting settled, we moved again.  Tragic.

So fast forward to the most recent, rather large, move.  Of course she was not a huge fan of the drive out.  I tried to drug her (and me), but neither worked.  So she sat, terrified, in a carrier in the back listening to me bawl and the baby yell.  When we got here, we had no furniture for a week, so there really wasn't anywhere for her to hide.  And man did she let me know it.  But eventually her stuff came and the other day we even unpacked her three-tiered scratching post (I believe in bribing family and friends with gifts).  So she's relatively happy.

But the kicker is that she has made friends.  Seriously. I have mentioned the screen doors that allow the baby to see out.  Well, they also allow the cat to see out.  And there are two neighborhood cats who roam around and have sensed the cat is here so they saunter into the backyard to say hi.  The cat stares at them and they stare at her.  I presume that there is some taunting--"ha, you can't come outside" versus "why do your humans make you leave the house."  But everyone seems to get along rather well, considering.  And she seems to like it.  It's their own morning ritual.  Classic.

Just goes to show you, I guess.  If this cat can make friends (particularly at this stage in her rather long life), maybe there is hope for all of us.

The Good Stuff

I will fully admit--I can be a huge sap.  While a decade of fighting with people for a living has knocked a bit of it out of me, I still tear up at movies, I still get a lump in my throat at some country songs (even, occasionally, when that lump isn't vomit), and I still go absolutely insane with joy when my friends are happy.  It's these times that remind me (and I need to be reminded) that there are some good parts of life.

This week a friend of mine gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  Everyone is doing well, and little baby Oopsie went home already.  I suppose I will have to stop calling her that before she is a teenager.  Her parents, clearly, had not intended to have kids, but from the second she was known about, that child was completely adored by both.  And I know with 100% certainty that they are going to be one of those families that you see out and about and envy.  In short, she is a true gift.

And I simply cannot get over the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, life is really good.  I'm not saying a baby makes things perfect, I'm saying that sometimes the unexpected can be the best thing about this insane, often anxiety-filled life.  And this is coming from the woman who hates it when her coffee unexpectedly is stronger than it was yesterday.  But when Oopsie was born and when our common friends were pouring in the congratulations, it really hit me how stupid the rest of it all is. 

I have thought this frequently over the course of my life, but only when things have been really frustrating have I fully understood just how cool some moments are.  When it comes down to it, who the hell cares whether Company X's attorney is stonewalling you?  How does it affect your life?  Sure, it helps you maintain a job and a roof over your head and food on the table.  But (and trust me on this one) those things can disappear and yet you still wake up every morning and you still go to bed at night.  And (trust me on this one, too), the frustrating things may follow you wherever you go and may not let up for a while.  But, again, you keep going.  And if you have friends or family or hobbies or pets or WHATEVER makes you happy, that's really all it takes to keep getting up.  Because good stuff happens.  Sometimes it's just harder to see.

My friend will now have sleepless nights and worries and feeding issues and problems associated with this kid, for the rest of her life.  But she will also know a love that she has never felt before and will know a joy that can't be pushed aside no matter what goes on.  And there are other good things out there--from winning (PLEASE) the lottery, to your favorite meal being served up at home, to tomatoes actually sprouting, to the Cubs (PLEASE, PLEASE) pulling the season out of thin air.  There are countless possibilities for good.  So I guess maybe that's what should be focused on.  That's the good stuff.  And it's everywhere.  We just need to learn how to see it.

So congratulations Oopsie and your parents.  Welcome to the world, little one.  You're the good stuff.

Well, S*&t

In the past, I have been known to utter the occasional swear word.  Ok, fine--when I worked at a large firm, it was a natural form of communication.  Those who still work there can back me up on this.  If you say "good morning" to another attorney without adding a "f*&king," you aren't part of the gang.  It became as natural as a glass of wine at lunchtime.  Serious situations and 5:00am flights to Nashville required the occasional swear word.

So, fast-forward.  My child has begun to mock everything I do.  It's awesome.  He steals my keys and I once found him using them to try to pry open the lock on a cabinet in my room.  Last night I was blinded by a mini flashlight that his aunt had given him and that he learned to turn on and swing like a disco ball--just like mom does.  So you see where I'm going with this.  I need to curb the swearing because it is a matter of time before "good f*&king morning, Grandpa" comes out of his little precious mouth.

For example (and forgive me if you have heard this story--it's one of my favorites), I have a friend who has a three year old.  They were driving through Chicago traffic one day, minding their own business, when my friend was cut-off.  Her reaction was natural:  she yelled "Mother...." but in unusual fashion she stopped herself!  She had managed to keep from uttering the unholy of all swear words.  She was feeling pretty proud for a split-second, until her three year old angel in the backseat, his face contorted into fury, his arms outstretched and fingers pointing, yelled at the car "F*&KER!!!!!!!!!"  She was mortified, particularly because the windows were rolled down and the woman in the car next to her was appalled.  She said it wasn't even the swearing that killed her, but the fact that he was doing it with such conviction--even pointing at the source of his dismay.  A thing of beauty, really.  But not so much on the battle of mom victories.

This story has stuck with me, both because I continue to find it hilarious and because I really do need to watch what I say.  And so I have decided to mind my "p's" and "eff-you's."  It's unnatural for me, but I do find myself uttering a lot of "gosh darnit"'s.  Like I said, it's weird.  But it's in the name of preventing random strangers from being appalled at my child, so I guess it all comes back to me in some way.  And so, my friends, have a frickin nice day.

Found the Seventh Circle

In case anyone was looking for it, I found the Seventh Circle of Hell.  It takes the form of an indoor playground.  I had the pleasure of seeing it for myself with some awesome friends last weekend.  And I'm pretty sure that we all agree--we will go back, and it is unequivocally horrible.

In fairness to this place, they are only open at limited days and times and as it has been raining nonstop here, the place was swamped.  Kids of all ages were running around screaming, and parents of all types were running after them.  Sounds basic enough for a playground, right?  Not so much.  I think the problem was that the parents spanned every life experience, making them unnaturally hostile toward one another.  The place was inexpensive enough that those of us with limited means could go, and was new enough that those who spent hours and hundreds of dollars in collagen treatments getting ready for playtime could as well.  There were young mothers and old fathers.  There were working parents and stay at homes.  There were singe and married and (speculating here) what looked to even be a polygamist.  And each and every one hated each and every other.

Need an example?  There were older kids in the baby section and scooters in the ball court.  The logcal response to both would be to either ask the 15 year old who appeared to be in charge to say something, or to say something yourself.  What really happened?  Dirty looks, whispers and the occasional parent getting creamed with a soccer ball.  I even saw a woman with a huge rock on her hand tell her little precious to go steal a scooter from an adult because the adult "didn't look nice."  It was fantastic.

Here's the thing--the kids loved it.  As they well should; they were more grown-up than the grown-ups.  But back to my original point: if you are looking for the seventh circle, I have found it.  I can give you directions.  Just be sure to bring a child and a chip for each shoulder.  No admittance otherwise.

Shark vs. Death Squad

I have, most unfortunately, recently learned that I am in fact a giant pansy.  That's right--the woman who is first to yell in a completely inappropriate manner is, when it comes down to it, a wuss.

This knowledge came with my first real garden battle of the season.  As you likely know, I recently planted a garden.  And, thanks to copious amounts of torrential rain, it has begun to sprout.  I am super, super excited.  There are little baby lettuce leaves and the tops of green onions and carrots.  AWESOME.  So last night I was wandering around the border of my supermarket destined to feed families throughout the city when I saw something weird.  It was like a giant worm, but much slower (really didn't know that was possible).  My grade school science made me rule out snail (no shell), so I had to deduce it was a slug.  Cool.  Never seen a slug.  Not so pretty.  But I did what any respectible city folk would do--I took a photo.  The slug smiled and kept on his glacial pace across my garden.  I went in to finish my glass of wine.

Hmmm...this is 2011.  Perhaps I should Google whether slugs are good or bad.  I did so and found, across the board, they are bad.  Very, very, very bad.  They, despite their seemingly slow moving lifestyle, are capable of mowing down entire rows of seedlings before you even put the iPhone back in your pocket.  They're evil.  Well, crap.  So, I did the next logical thing that any city person would do.  I went out with a fork and...don't bother to cover your eyes...I picked each of them up with the fork and flung them over the fence into the neighbor's yard.

Yep.  I was too weak to kill them.  I went through article after article about how to do it.  Most methods had to do with impailing them or setting out egg shells so that they cut themselves as they wander across the garden.  I was fully capable of doing so.  Hell, I was a shark for nearly a decade, I can totally take care of a slug or two.  But the problem is a moral one for me.  If you (bug, animal, person, etc) are in my home or endangering my family, then you will get pummeled.  End of story.  But here, I sort of felt like I was in his home.  This poor disgusting creature was just going about his business, and I was going to light him on fire and do a voodoo dance (one of the more obscure websites)?  So, naturally, I made my poor neighbor woman's life hell and made him her problem.  I couldn't be the death squad.  I am a weakling.

Sort of.  In the end, I actually went for a combination of methods.  I couldn't bear the thought of my beautiful little seedlings being taken out.  So I put out traps.  Made of beer.  Seriously--that's what is recommended.  You put a container (in this case, an empty baby food jar) of beer in the ground, and they run to it.  It's open bar night.  Then they drown.  And the reason I figure this is ok is because I am thinking some Darwinism is at play.  If you're too stupid to stop drinking before you drown, that's not my problem.  So happy drinking, my slimy little friends.

I may be cold-blooded, but I'm not a killer.  Today.   Who knows what another week in the wild will do to me.

UPDATE:  I originally wrote this post last night, as I was so amped up about the entire situation.  Well, as of this morning, my morality has changed.  There were slugs EVERYWHERE.  And, they were happily munching on my poor little seedlings.  Done.  I started dropping them into the vats of beer, without remorse.  I figure that's a decent way to go--drowning in rather expensive brew.  I have a new mentality.  To quote the character Billy Ray brilliantly played by Eddie Murphy in one of the greatest all-time movies, Trading Places, "We have to kill the mother-f*&kers.  We have to kill them!"  Guess it took less than a week.