Sasha, the cat who owns me, has excellent taste. She prefers the comfort of a warm laptop to a ratty old towel or blanket. She prefers one of my pillows to the dime-a-dozen cat beds built expressly for her kind (which, as far as I can tell, is significantly higher on the totem pole than my kind). She prefers to cry and yowl for me to get her off the dining room table rather than climb down herself (despite the fact that she managed to get up there all by herself).
Her desire for the finer things in life extends to food. Why eat boring, modified-for-renal-failure food when you can have bright, colorful, Fancy Feast? All I have to do is crinkle the bag it comes in and, suddenly, there's a little face with big ears in the kitchen asking "Where's the beef?"
So recently, when she and I both experienced some disorientation after rearranging the bedroom, I knew a little dry Fancy Feast was just the treat to calm her anxious tail. A little furniture movement proved to be quite distressing, since neither of us are inclined to change any more than our positions on the couch. All of the sudden, the bed was in a different place, her little kitty stairs (required, because my bed is so high) were on the opposite side of the bed (or is that the same side but the opposite side of the room?), and the baskets and toys that used to be on the floor by the kitty stairs are now somewhere else. What's a girl to do?
I started by putting Sasha dead center on my bed and watched her turn around in circles until I got dizzy. She sat. She turned again. She leaned forward. She turned again. Finally, she looked around the room, looked at me, and gave me an expression that told me she was about to jump, kitty stairs or no. Now, Sasha is 19, ancient in kitty years. Imagine your grandmother jumping off the roof of your house, because that's pretty much how it compares. I dashed to the kitchen, shaking the bag of Fancy Feast, and hurried back to the bedroom, placing a handful on the bed in front of her. As predicted, this calmed her down immediately. If you're not familiar with it, dry Fancy Feast is crack for cats. Sasha starting rubbing her cheek on the bed, tossing the pieces of food up in the air, batting them around, and finally gobbling them up as though she hadn't eaten in days.
Seeing an opportunity, I placed a few pieces on the nightstand next to the bed, and a few more on the kitty stairs that leads from the nightstand to the floor. Maybe I could get her to eat her way to the floor and finally figure out how to get up and down with the new setup. While Sasha has a heat sensor that can lead her to a basket of warm clothes from the dryer in 0 to 60, her sense of smell is not as developed, so I followed Hansel and Gretel's lead to create a trail of Fancy Feast from her spot on the bed to the edge closest to the nightstand. The temptation was too great. Tentatively, she stepped onto the nightstand, ate the Fancy Feast pieces, and looked at me. I have no idea what she thought I should be doing, so I pointed to the stairs. Oh, she seemed to say. That's kind of far, isn't it? But she bravely made her way down the stairs, familiarity returning, nibbling along the way. Satisfied, I left.
A few minutes later, I came back to find Sasha comfortably waiting at the bottom of the stairs. What now? She'd positioned herself oddly, around to the side of the stairs, essentially cornering herself under the window. Evidently, she was now under the impression that, if she waited long enough, the stairs would begin growing Fancy Feast pieces just for her. Since she has nothing but time on her hands, she figured she'd just wait for the next delivery. She looked up, glanced my way, and glanced back at the stairs.If there's a clearer way for a cat to order her mom around, it must involve them learning the English language. Anyone who thinks people own cats as pets has never had one. I would argue the point, but my cat is calling for me.
Gentle Reader,
I am frequently puzzled by the lack of manners demonstrated by those in command of the tanks, mid-life crises, and mom-mobiles driving around on our roads (which, by the way are for cars, not bicycles. We love bicycles. We love bicyclers. We love them so much that it makes us nervous for them to be outside bicycle lanes on the roads, which are for cars. See where I'm going here?). It seems that, once one becomes the director of a two-ton potential death-trap offering a level of anonymity exceeded only by the Internet, one loses all sense of etiquette. I recall having had to study a manual of driving before I was allowed access to one of these devices, yet those on the roads today appear to have lost all memory of instruction in how to politely, amiably, and safely interact with fellow drivers. You know, how to play nicely with others? To this end, I offer a refresher course on the driving rules that, evidently, so many of us have forgotten.
1. Use Your Blinker. Please. I promise it doesn't hurt, and it's really easy. To those of you who use your blinker before making a turn, yes, even in a turn lane, I congratulate you. Please note that blinkers work equally as well when preparing to change lanes. Those of us who do not travel with our crystal balls cannot read your mind to determine your intentions.
2. Pull into the intersection when preparing to make a left turn. That's right. A few more inches. No, no, don't turn your wheels. That will send you right into oncoming traffic if someone bumps into you. But there's no excuse for at least one car not making the light.
3. Stop completely at a stop sign or red light. Do not honk when I stop completely before making a right turn. Red means stop. Not pause. Not roll through. Not wave as you drive by. Say it with me now. Red means stop.
4. Turn into the lane closest to you. Just because one has a green light and permission to turn does not mean that one can turn into any lane of one's choosing. Turn into the lane closest to you, and then move over if you need to be in another lane. The person coming from the other direction and turning into THEIR closest lane will thank you. Yes, this is in the driving manual.
5. Adjust your speed to avoid too much togetherness. If you're traveling east at 45 MPH and someone else is traveling west (that's directly towards you, in case you missed it) at 45 MPH, and a bike or mailman or rogue jogger is on the side of the road somewhere in between you two...why wouldn't you slow down or speed up so you're not all across from one another at the same time? I don't understand.
6. Don't squeeze into a small space in front of me when there's plenty of room behind me. That's just rude.
7. Park between the two lines. As with coloring, it is frowned upon to park outside the lines. And while you're at it, park in an actual parking space. I regret to tell you that, when your mother assures you of what a special human being you undoubtedly are, she was not implying you could park along the curb while the rest of us have to go find a parking space.
8. If your speed is equal or less than the posted speed limit, get out of the freakin' left lane!
9. If you're going to drive, drive. Don't talk on the phone (well, not for long). Don't read (road signs are okay if you have your glasses on). Don't put on lipstick (okay, maybe at a stoplight). Don't eat (unless you're driving a really long distance and are faced with no alternative but to hit the Wendy's drive-through window), and don't chart your course on a map (except for a digital GPS, and only because they talk to you).
Gentle readers, these eight simple rules will not only keep you safe in your car and cause others to comment on the considerateness of your driving, but will keep me from being forced to rear-end you.
I admit it. I'm not good at forgiving and forgetting. Or, rather, I might forgive, but I rarely forget (which is really ironic considering the frequency with which I forget where I left my car. Perhaps I should have clarified). In case you weren't sure, this is not a good thing. The problem is that, for the most part, it's the person who can't forgive who suffers a whole lot more than the person needing forgiveness. At least, that's what I'm told.
Having recently read an astounding story of forgiveness at the hands of unspeakable treatment, I've been thinking about this a lot. The Devil in Pew Number Seven by Rebecca Nichols Alonzo is the true story of a pastor's family terrorized by a neighbor who was determined to force them to leave his town. I won't repeat my review here--you can go to Goodreads for that--but I will say that the actions of this man towards Becky's family put the family members' lives at risk and may have influenced the events that resulted in the death of Becky's mother and the physical and emotional downfall of her father. What has had me thinking so hard is the fact that, not only did Becky and her younger brother forgive the man behind the harassment, they did so before he even asked them to. Becky spends the last chapter of the book discussing the concept of forgiveness and that her religious upbringing tells her she has no choice in the matter. God tells her to forgive, and it is not up to her to judge who receives it and who doesn't. Choosing not to forgive someone only keeps the withholder in a prison of his own making.
I'm fascinated by this idea, though I haven't decided if I'm on board with it yet or not. I'll generally treat someone as well as they treat me, and I'm not likely to forget intentional wrongs (or even a few unintentional ones). Yet, as often as not, the person doesn't even know that they're being withheld forgiveness, never mind cares about it. Could this really mean that choosing not to forgive someone is most harmful to the person making that choice? And is it really a choice? What's the point if no one even knows? Even if they do know, what difference does it make to them? No, forgiveness would have to be something you do for yourself, because no one else is going to care nearly as much as you do, if at all.
What would happen if, instead of being angry with someone who did something I didn't like, I chose to forgive it and move on? That sounds a lot easier than it is, and I'm still a little uncertain about whether or not this is something I can actually choose to do or not. In kindergarten, or somewhere around that time when we learn the most basic lessons of life, I learned that it takes more energy to frown than to smile. I live in a perpetual energy drought, so the thought that smiling and forgiving is the path of least resistance appeals. Except, I don't think it is the path of least resistance, at least not initially. Forgiveness is hard work! But is it possible that, in the end, it's the best way to be good to both yourself and the people around you? I don't think I know how to do that. But maybe I could practice.
I read another book recently that explored a theme of forgiveness, among many other topics, after a main character dies, possibly at her own hand. Can she be forgiven? Can her friends, who didn't stop her from dashing head-first into a dangerous situation, be forgiven? Who does that help?
I don't know the answer to most of these questions, but here's what I do know, at least now that I've been hit over the head with it. Forgiveness is more about the person doing the forgiving than the person needing forgiveness.
Yesterday, I got to go to the dentist's office. That's right, I said "got to." I love going to my dentist's office. Just to be clear, I do NOT love getting my teeth cleaned. What fool with a metal sharpie, a water pic, and a God complex came up with the concept of semi-annual torture sessions in your mouth? This does not, however, keep me from thoroughly enjoying my time at the dentist's office. The cleaning is just a little thing they make me do before I can leave. Really, I go there to socialize.
True? Absolutely. I've been going to my dentist for about 11 years, and I've had the same dental hygenist for most of that time. My Marie, for I do feel somewhat possessive of my time with her, may be one of the funniest people I've ever met. Marie keeps me laughing the entire time she's cleaning my teeth, which you would think would make her job more difficult. Tall, with wild, curly hair and a smile from ear to ear, she catches me up on tales of her husband and daughter, as well as the cats, dogs, donkeys, and other various and sundry animals that live at her house in the country. When I saw her the other day, Marie tipped me back in my chair, pulled my hair to make me scoot up (she's tried adjusting her chair for my short frame, but this is the best she could come up with), and recounted her daughter's recent Day Off from first grade. When the school called her to report that her daughter was in the nurse's office threatening to throw up, Marie immediately called her husband, who was working at home, to pick her up. Rushing over to school, Daddy asked all the requisite questions. Are you all right? Where does it hurt? Do you have a temperature? Do you think you can eat a little something? Their daughter nodded, agreeing that maybe something to eat would be okay. Expecting to run through the McDonald's drive-through, Daddy asked what his little girl would like for lunch. Considering this a moment, she looked him straight in the eye and said "I'd like to go to the Angus Barn Steakhouse, please." Truly precious. I spit out my toothpaste. It's hard to keep up with Marie, and her cleaning my teeth while trying to do so only makes it more difficult.
Eventually, as much fun as we're having, Marie has to call in one of the dentists. I see Dentist and Son, and while I know Dentist the Elder better, Dentist the Younger is not hard to look at, so either way, I'm getting a good deal. Dentist the Elder says I keep them in stitches, but really, I think it's the other way around. This time I got Dentist the Younger, who spent five minutes bantering with me that his drive between Raleigh and Chapel Hill is worse than mine because he goes in the opposite direction. He began describing how Sports Radio keeps him interested and busy while he puts up with the traffic until he can get home to his wife and two-year-old, but I stopped listening somewhere around the word "sports." Nevertheless, he thoroughly checked my teeth while I tried to imagine bunny shadow puppets on the screen with my X-rays. Satisfied, he subtly suggested that I actually consider wearing the night guard for which I paid a great deal of money. With a smile that only a guy with a dentist for a father could have, cute Dentist the Younger was gone.
No party is complete without a goody bag. Marie handed me a paper bag filled with two rolls of dental floss (I'm pretty sure she's trying to tell me I need to floss more), two toothbrushes (a regular one and a children's one because I'm special. Okay, because I complain that the regular one is too big), two mini-tubes of toothpaste (because I need different flavors in case I don't like one of them), and some kind of new dental pick to keep in my purse, as she wants me to be prepared for any situation. Gee, in high school they used to give us something different to keep in our purses to be prepared for any situation. With a hug, she sent me off to the front desk.
The front desk is where I catch up with Libby, master of scheduling, and get a book report. Libby belongs to a book club, in addition to reading a good bit on her own, and since I live to comment on what other people are reading, this can take a while. This week Libby reported that her club is reading Gone Girl, which I told her was an uninspired choice, as everyone in the free world is reading it. She quickly grabbed her calendar to see if the group would soon be reading something else that met my approval. Settling on some worthy titles, it was my turn to give a book report. I convinced her that she and her club need to read The Devil in Pew Number Seven (more in another blog entry), an eminently discussable title involving churches, bombs, and mental hospitals. Writing this down, Libby and I began to say our goodbyes, only realizing that we hadn't actually scheduled my next appointment until I began walking out the door. And a good thing she called me back, as this was when Terri, the keeper of the insurance payments, called out of her office "Is that Tracy? Tell her "hi." Three patients on the other side of the desk looked up, presumably wondering why they were being called "Tracy."
Six whole months before I get to see these guys again! I miss them already.
Last week I got to meet one of the newest humans to populate the Raleigh-Durham MSA, Little Miss Harper (I think I had a book by that name when I was a kid). I used to work with Harper's mom--I still cringe at having to say the "used to" part--who allowed me to come visit her precious bundle a few days ago. Since she and I have a certain miniature-ness in common (if to varying degrees), I couldn't wait to welcome her to the world.
If there's something cuter than a newborn baby, I don't know what it is. When I arrived, Baby Harper was sleeping in Dad's lap just as you see her here, mouth open in a kind of perfect circle "oh" that can only be located on the face of a newborn baby. When I commented that I hadn't wanted to ring the doorbell so as not to wake her, her mom scoffed. "Please," she said. "I don't know why everyone's so freakin' quiet. She's a baby. She sleeps." These were the words of a mom who had been through a long week of learning the delicate rhythms of a baby's sleeping and eating patterns. Successfully, as it turns out, since here was Harper, snoozing away on her father's lap, already secure in her role as Daddy's Girl.
But Daddy generously offered to share. I took more time to make myself comfortable on the couch than my cat, Sasha, does, and Daddy handed her over to me. Not that Harper noticed. She continued to snooze, nary the wiser that she had a new protector in the world. Princess that she is, Harper has a full head of hair and is already busy trying a variety of hairstyles to see which flatter her the most (my vote is "all of them"). Some give her bangs. Some give her spikes on the top of her head. Here's a fun fact. Supposedly, babies born with a lot of hair were often the source of much heartburn for their moms (the kind that growing babies give their pregnant moms, not the kind that growing teenagers give their weary parents). Pregnant moms who have heartburn frequently inhale Tums like mountain air, and the calcium encourages hair growth in the unborn baby. Harper's hair is only the beginning of her good looks. With cheeks crying out to be squeezed, that full head of hair many women pay good money for, and a petite, 6lb figure (she STILL doesn't fit into the outfit that was to be her "going home" frock), the girl can rock a onesie.
I settled back and happily imagined ways that I might convince Harper's parents that she really belonged at my house. I love the way a newborn's head can kind of reshape into whatever position works best at the moment, flattening out one minute, pointing up a little the next. I watched Harper snooze, not even able to tear myself away when offered a slice of pizza. I needed both hands on Baby Harper, lest she, I don't know, sneezed or something. Dad sat next to me, watching with a smile on his face (HE was able to eat his pizza). Mom sat across the room, watching carefully, ever vigilant and not entirely unlike the Tiger Mother described in the well-known book of last year. Evidently, this sharing thing was only going to go so far.
Shortly before I was forced to offered to hand Harper back to her parents and give up my dream of kidnapping her before anyone could stop me, Harper's Auntie came home. Reluctantly, I handed her over and watched Auntie's face light up at being reunited with Harper. "Were they good to you?" she crooned. Harper's mom explained to me that Auntie has already been giving Harper life lessons in things like the proper use of the Internet and worthlessness that is the Gossip Girls books. Auntie takes her job very seriously.
Mom, having watched Harper make the rounds long enough, took her new daughter back and allowed me to snap some pictures and videos. Well, not so much allowed as stood still and muttered something about short people with camera phones. Through all this, Baby Harper didn't wake up once. Clearly adaptable, she has joined the world demanding all the attention that she deserves, happy to let those around her cater to her every need. Her mom reports that she does little besides eat, sleep, and require diaper changes, and really, isn't that the way it should be?
