The Sun's Return

"Mom.  I'm busy.  Obviously."

Even

After

All this time

The Sun never says

To the Earth,

"You owe me."

Look

What happens

With a love like that.

It lights the

Whole

Sky.

-Hafez

Unrest

Our usually peaceful household has been well, a lot less peaceful over the last few weeks.  The unrest is separate from the stress of moving and unpacking (which is largely over), as well as  the seemingly small yet strangely exhausting tasks of buying silverware, lightbulbs, groceries, car insurance, etc, all in a new place.  It also has nothing to do with the potential for adjustment that the Nanny and I might have anticipated from transitioning from living in the same building in separate apartments to now living in the same apartment, in bedrooms connected by a Jill-and-Jill bathroom (I figure it's only a Jack-and-Jill if there's a Jack involved.).  No, this unrest, this disruption to the calm, this excitement, if you will, comes from one creature, and one creature only.  Tucker.

Photoshop skillz by Nanny

Tucker, as it turns out, is having a midlife crisis.

I can think of no other explanation.  Though he seems a bit young for such a major life event (he's four and a half), I can no more deny his emotional turmoil than I could deny the truth of global warming (which, depending on your political leanings might not be all that demonstrative of a comparison, but I digress).

He meows at all hours of the night, his dreams apparently disrupted by his own emotional duress.  My bleary explanations to him that there is food in his bowl and that his litter boxes are clean are met with stony glares.  Obviously, I don't get it.  I go back to bed, obviously indifferent to his pain.

During the day, despite frequent exercise chasing his toys, he'll tear around corners in the house after his sister, Lucy.  How dare I infantilize him with my pathetic offering of yarn toys, anyway.  Only after Lucy has exhausted herself running away from him will he occasionally settle down for a one-eye-open nap.

He graces us with his regal presence anytime we go into the bathroom.  Don't try to tiptoe so that he won't hear you.  That's insulting.  Are we less than thrilled to have a furry, purring companion during all bathroom activities?  That's absurd.  Soak up the love while it is given.  Turn on the faucet too, in a small, yet steady stream.  Make sure it's not dripping.  Leave it on for as long as he needs it.  Don't pretend you have something more important to do.

He retires to rest again.  After all, nighttime will be here soon, and with it, a new chorus of mournful meows.

Perhaps this would all be solved if I could afford to buy Tucker a red convertible and some expensive sunglasses.  Doesn't every hardworking man deserve some fun?  A chance to cut loose?  To leave his responsibilities behind?

Tucker, your six-dollars-a-bag organic dental treats are going to have to do for now.  Sorry.

Love,
Mom

On the Road Again

This is the fourth time I have moved in the last two years.  That's not counting the packing up and storing of all my stuff at the end of each academic year at Smith, and the subsequent unpacking into a different room the following fall.   I'm so unbelievably, down-to-my-bones tired of moving.  I'm tired of finding boxes, of cramming everything I own into them, of tape getting stuck, of losing my marbles over how to get everything done, of paying exorbitant amounts of money for moving help and U-Haul trucks, of signing new leases, of breaking old leases, and of never feeling at home.  I'm tired of it all.

I know that this is what being in your twenties is supposed to be about, on some level: being unmoored, portable, and (relatively) spontaneous, given that I am unattached, unmarried, childless.  I certainly wouldn't argue that moving a family of five is more difficult than moving myself, a friend, and two unruly cats, but I still crave stability.  I want to be able to attach things to the walls without Command strips because I don't have to worry about getting a security deposit back in six months or a year.  I want to actually unpack things, instead of just stowing overstuffed plastic totes under my bed or in a closet, because I'll just have to pack it up again, anyway.  I want to be able to give someone my address without the caveat that by the time they send something, most likely I won't be there anymore so they should probably send it to my parents' house instead.

All of which leaves me with a wary sense of excitement and tentative relief at the prospect of where I will land on this move.  After all, the first floor of a cute little Victorian house on the outskirts of New Haven will be home to me for at least the next three years.  I can settle in there, I hope.  I can set up my printer, I can find a place for my Crock-Pot, I can maybe even start going to the dentist twice a year, like you're supposed to do when you live in one place long enough to keep appointments like that.

And really, I know there are worse things.  I really do.  I know that even setting aside the horrendous troubles of the world at large and other people's pains that I'll never try to compete with, I myself have gone through a hell of a lot worse than moving.  I know that.  But when I stand in the kitchen, here, and remember how sad and desperate I was when I moved in, and I remember all the times I've cried on this here floor, and I take a bite of the lunch I just made out of things I'm trying to use up in the kitchen so I don't have to pack them (i.e., rice with eggs and Sriracha sauce) and the rice has the nerve to be undercooked because I can get into Yale and I can't cook rice, what the hell is wrong with me and I start to cry, again - it just seems like a bit much.

In a few days, this will all be over, I tell myself.  You just have to keep pushing to get through the next few days.  Put everything in a box.  Don't worry about it not being organized, just label it so you know.  (This is how you end up with boxes with labels like BEDSIDE LAMP, TUCKER TREATS, WEDDING DRESS, HUMIDIFIER, WAX PAPER.)  Keep taping up boxes until it's done.  Try to sleep a bit, then go pick up the moving truck.  Drive.  Don't think about how scary it is that you're driving a 20-foot long vehicle, alone.  Just drive.  Move things into house.  Hope the moving men speak English.  Return scary huge truck.  Go back to the yellow house that is now home.  Collapse.  Get up again.  Commence unpacking.  Find a place for everything.  Make your bed, and if necessary, bury your head in your pillow that smells like your shampoo and Tucker's sweet fur, and the old t-shirt you sleep in.  Cry again, if you must.  Then get up and keep going.  Because it will work out, I tell myself.  It has to.

Looking for a new mascot, Yale?

March 1, 2012

Dear Caitlin:

On behalf of the Admissions Committee, I am pleased to inform you that your application to the 2012 Graduate Entry Pre-specialty in Nursing- Nurse Midwifery program has been accepted.  I want to offer my congratulations and invite you to join the vibrant Yale School of Nursing community.

Can't believe this is really happening.  Start to finish - I did this.  I did this.  Myself.  With no one else.  This is MY dream.  And I am making it come true.  Sometimes?  Dreams really do come true.  Because you make them come true.  Here's to my dream, coming true, right before my eyes.

Not my best day

Just like with any couple, there are things that Alix is good at and things that I'm good at.  I remember to buy toilet paper before we have to start using tissues, for example, and she calls the super when the pipes are so hot they're melting the paint off of them.  Unfortunately, when you're on your own, you don't get to divvy up the chores and beg the other person to do the ones you hate to do.  Which is why I haven't called the super about the kitchen faucet that has slowed to a trickle over the last three days.  It's also why I spent fifteen minutes clipping Tucker's claws tonight.  Alix is cool, calm, and efficient when she's on pedicure duty.  I am, in a word, not.  I have to wrap Tucker in a towel and it takes me at least five minutes to wrangle each toe from the growling, writhing, terry-cloth-and-cat bundle clutched on my lap.  Against all my wishes, I needed to take on this onerous task tonight because our screen is in danger of ripping down the middle if Tucker gets his claws stuck in it one more time when he's pursuing our fire escape pigeons.  So there I am, squinting in the dim light, sweat pouring down my face, hands shaking too much to hold the clippers, idly wondering how high my fever is now, and I actually hear how crazy I am:
"No, Rupert, stop, STOP! STOP JUMPING ON ME!!"
"Tucker, NO! Just. Hold. Still. Please."
"Rupert, I swear to god, if you don't sit down right now, I will put you in your crate.  Don't think I won't!"
"Tucker, you don't act like this with your other mother, so don't start this with me. Just HOLD STILL!"
and so on
until we were done
and this day got the best of me
and I burst into tears.

I tried for four days to convince myself that a constant fever, a headache that never eased up, and an ever-worsening cough were just a common flu.  This morning though, when the dim sunrise made me wince and set my eyes streaming, I knew it was time to give up the ghost.  Three appointments later, and the top contenders for a diagnosis are pneumonia and meningitis.  I never thought I'd be praying to have pneumonia, but that's exactly what I'm doing.  The countdown is on for tomorrow morning: if I don't feel better by then, it's off to the hospital for a lumbar puncture.  NOT FUN.

I've felt adrift and disoriented without Alix here, but today was the first day I felt truly lost and alone.  I rushed home in between my appointments to walk the dog and nearly passed out each time on the stairs.  I couldn't afford yet another cab ride at the end of the day so I had to take the forty-five minute subway trip home.  Thankfully, a kind and alarmed-looking gentleman gave me his seat after I sagged dangerously against the pole when I started to black out.  I talked to myself in the mirror for ten minutes tonight, convincing myself to eat dinner, knowing that my body needs nourishment in order to get better.  (That logic didn't sit well with the eating disorder, but I told it to go to hell, at least for tonight.)  I can't help thinking back to this time last year when Alix was sick and I took care of her.  I sat in the dark kitchen one night, too scared to sleep, and prayed silent, desperate pleas for her to get better.  I gently helped her from the bed to the bathroom and back.  I cooked up an enormous batch of chicken soup. I brought home trashy magazines from the pharmacy along with her medications.  I know (because I talked to her and she told me) that if she were here, she'd be doing all those things for me.  Not because she owes me, but because that's what you do for the person you love.  I desperately hope I don't need a lumbar puncture tomorrow.  Not because it will hurt.  But because I won't have anyone's hand to hold when it does.

Curbside Gathering

I'm managing to slowly clear away the debris that the hurricane that swept the apartment left in its wake.  I've put a Craigslist ad up for the dining room table and chairs that weren't being used for anything other than as a massive dumping ground for junk (Mounds of plastic bags, bills we didn't want to look at, old catalogs, extra bags of dog and/or cat food, and overdue library books are just a few examples.).  The very last thing we did at that table was eat, and the chairs were only put into use as hangers for wet laundry when our clothesline and drying rack were full.  So, as you can see, it was time to get rid of them.  Now I just need someone to actually buy them...

Anyway, I've moved the table and chairs into the bedroom until they're sold and I've recreated the corner - it's now my own personal book nook!  The "missing" chair I mentioned the other day turned out to not be - er - missing, exactly.  It happened to be in the hallway.  In my defense, I thought the giant box belonged to the couple that is moving into another apartment on my floor.  It took my non-English speaking super pointing angrily at the box and then gesturing wildly in the direction of me and my apartment for me to realize that the box was, in fact, mine. *headdesk*

Several minutes with a pair of scissors, a few garbage bags, and several curse words later, the chair and ottoman were unpacked and - this is the truth - it is the most comfortable chair I've ever sat in.  You can see it here.  When I sit in it, I feel like I'm sitting in a womb - warm, cozy, and enveloped in soft, fleecy, cushiony loveliness (I sure hope, for my future babies' sake that this is what a womb feels like).  It is so comfortable that I fell asleep in it the other morning for a couple of hours after I woke up at 2:30 AM.  Chair completed, the next step in creating the book nook was to acquire a bookcase.  I despaired of getting one soon, knowing it would take weeks for my father to build one, let alone get it 400 miles across New York state.  Now that I'm on a very strict budget as well, I further despaired over finding one I liked for an affordable price.  And then, the universe cut me a freaking awesome break. 

Because this morning, when I took Rupert out for his morning walk at 6:30, I stopped short fifty feet from my apartment.  There it was, my bookcase, calmly sitting on the curb waiting for the trash pickup.  I rushed Rupert through his bathroom routine, ran up the three flights of stairs, poured his breakfast in a rush, and stomped back downstairs and out the door.  I'll be damned if I was letting MY BOOKCASE go either to anyone else, or worse, the trash.  It was lovely.  It's about five feet long and three feet high, with thick, heavy outer boards and thinner shelf boards with an open back.  Excitedly, I hefted it onto my shoulder.  It didn't move.  Uh oh.  This was going to be harder than I thought.  Ten minutes later, I had reached my front door with it (fifty feet, remember?) while the line of homeless people waiting for the soup kitchen across the street to open watched interestedly.  I then spent another six or seven minutes navigating the bookcase through the obnoxiously heavy and too close together double door entrance to my building, politely turning down help from a passing mail carrier.  I'm sure I looked a sight: bright turquoise pajama shirt, flaming yellow sweatpants that say PINK on the butt, hair sweaty and hanging in my face, cheeks bright and eyes slightly maniacal with excitement.  Then came the fun part.  Okay, Cait, I thought, It's only three flights.  No problem.  Just in case you're wondering, the first flight has eighteen steps.  The second has sixteen.  The third also has sixteen.  Something about thunking a seventy pound bookcase up those flights kinda burns the numbers into your head.  Finally, I got it into the apartment, sanded a rough spot, cleaned it thoroughly, and set it up against the wall before gleefully calling my mom to tell her of my find (it's a good thing she wakes up early is all I'm saying).

It holds all the books that needed homes and get this - there's room for more.  There's even room for a certain someone to nestle into.  He seems to think that one cubby of this case was designed especially for him, which, of course, it was.

Here's the bookcase in all its glory (it kills me that this is blurry but I'm too lazy to try again):

Now, it's not a finished product.  I'm envisioning a colorful runner for the top, a different lamp, and some framed pictures (our apartment holds precious few and with this fancy new camera of mine, I'm determined to take some frame-worthy shots).  Decorating tips and ideas are always greatly appreciated!

Right now, I'm basking in the comfort of my new chair, admiring all my favorite books close at hand, and being grateful for the slow clearing of my home.  Wednesday, you've done well so far.  Let's keep it up, shall we?

The (Furry) Men in my Life

Mom, did you buy these new underwear just for me?  

Mom, my bed is too small.

Mom, I hate you.  Leave me alone.

Out of clutter, find simplicity.

Part I: Tucker resting in bag.

Part II: Tucker inspecting said bag.

Part III: Tucker realizing that perhaps his explorations have gone too far.

Unrelated...

Like?  Dislike?  Don't care?

Even more unrelated...

Quote of the day:
Me: "Bee, are you excited to go see Alix at the coffee shop before we pick up LM from school?"
Bee: "Yes!  I like Alix more than zebras."

No. Joke.

Alright People...

So a pattern has emerged.  When my posts are funny and light-hearted, I get comments and love.  When they're serious and (attempting to be) insightful, I get nothin'.  But here's the deal: if you want to read anything more scintillating than an extremely edited version of my life/thoughts, you're gonna have to accept that when things are shitty around these parts, I can't always pretend to be funny and upbeat.  Now, in all fairness, I try to not write depressing posts all that often.  So can we get some love around here when it's clear that I need it?  Awesome.

Other things:
1.  I learned tonight that Alix knows how to make pasta in the microwave.  This rivals my own ability to make macaroni and cheese in an electric tea kettle.  (There are some things you learn in college that have nothing to do with academics.)
2.  Has anyone seen the commercial for the newest as-seen-on-tv product...Pajama Jeans?  Please, please make attempts to find it.  (I'm sorry, I'm too lazy to go searching YouTube for a link for you all.)  It is hilarious and makes you want to have a friend who will buy them just so you can see them in person, but not actually have anything to do with them yourself.
3.  The adult equivalent of "The dog ate my homework," is "The dog ate my ____ bill."  Yes, this actually happened to me.  Not sure if my doctor will react to this news with any less skepticism than your average fourth grade teacher.

Alright, folks.  That's the best I can do for you tonight.  I'll leave you with a picture from happier times.  Tucker likes boxes.  A lot.  Especially ones that have sight-holes.

Sharing is Caring

What, doesn't everyone share their spoonful of peanut butter with their cat?  No?  Oh well.  Guess it kinda fits with the lesbian stereotype that I should be a crazy cat lady too.

An(other) exciting day in the lives of Cait and Al

Tonight I saw a girl who was no more than sixteen drop her handle of vodka on the sidewalk outside our corner store where it shattered into hundreds of glass shards and sent the reek of cheap alcohol into the air.  It made me feel old, to be so disappointed in her (good God, I sound like her mother).  And then I got to thinking that at 23, I really could be leading a much more exciting life than I do.  Instead, this is generally how things are going right now.

 Laundry day yesterday!  Um, so, laundry in New York is EFFING EXPENSIVE.  We're talking $5 a wash load here, people.  And a quarter for every five minutes in the dryer.  So, thanks to my mother's college gift to me of a massive drying rack - that yes, I got made fun of by everyone in my house until, heyyyy they wanted to know if they could dry some of their clothes on it? - we are able to save some money each week by drying things in the apartment.  The problem is, the massive drying rack just isn't, well, big enough.  So the rack is layered three times over with clothes, like this

And then we also have to put clothes on other things, like this:

(this is the tv)

and this

(this is a lamp.  that we got for free on the curb.)

The other members of our small family, i.e., the boys, keep us young with their wicked antics.  Please examine Rupert's most recent attempt at destruction.  TO MY KINDLE.  My Kindle is my baby.  I love it more than I love many flavors of ice cream.  I read it on the subway, at the gym, and in bed when I can't sleep.  Thank goodness it still works, or I wouldn't be speaking to Rupert for weeks.

But then Tucker took a swing at him in what I believe was a show of loyalty to me, with the amazingly captured moment looking something like this

But, in all honesty, I'm a big softie and I love this puppy more than anything.  Which is why I give him treats when he does cute tricks like these.
Notes about the video below:
1) I probably sound nothing like what you thought I do.
2) Rupert is not so great at rolling over - give him a break, it's hard!
3) I am not, nor will I ever be, nor do I aspire to be a videographer.  This crappy stuff is the best you're going to get outta me.

So there you go.  We might not be that exciting, but hey, at least we keep ourselves entertained.

An exciting (snow) day in the lives of Cait and Al

Scene: Alix is washing the dishes from the cheesecake I am making. I am sitting at the computer, having just finished speaking an entire conversation for Tucker (yes, we have voices for our pets and use them to express what we feel they are thinking*) which involved, oddly enough, krill.

Alix: Isn't it weird that krill are so tiny and whales are so big and they eat them?
Me: They eat all day long.
Alix: Isn't that really inefficient?
Me: Well, what else are they going to do with their time?
Alix: Oh, I don't know, build bridges, make roads...
Me: ...make tea cozies? What would a tea cozy for a whale even look like?
Alix: I'm not even entirely sure what a tea cozy is...

*In case you are wondering, Tucker's voice is something like a combination of a Russian accent and lolcats speak. Rupert's is more along the lines of a kindergartner with an ADHD problem.