Kitty woes

 When Sweet Hubby and I adopted darling 22 month old sister kittens Bandy and Angel, we figured that if we fed them right, made sure they got plenty of stimulation and exercise, and gave them regular check-ups, we wouldn't have to deal with their health for maybe 10 years.

But alas, no.

We took them for their one-year check up and rabies shots yesterday.  Both Bandy and Angel have conjunctivitis in their eyes and gingivitis in their gums, the latter of which might necessitate the removal of some or all of their teeth, which are already starting to loosen.

I feel really bad for them.  I don't know if they're in pain.  They don't seem to be.  But they might be later, and we're going to have to start doing stuff to them that they may not like, such as brushing their teeth every day.  If they hate something we do to them every day, I'm afraid it might damage their sense of trust in us.  They trust us completely right now.  I don't want to lose that.

I also feel bad for SH and myself.  We're both sort of depressed with the news right now, because we are, indeed, going to have to do things to them that they're not going to like, and take them to the vet more frequently.  I really hate that thought.  And we're going to have to figure out how to feed them, since we'll be adding medicine to their food that they may not like.  From now on we're going to be concerned about them, instead of enjoying the carefree delight we take in them now.

We'll figure it out.  Those are always the magic words.  But still, I wish we and the kitties didn't all have to deal with this.  I wish I could explain to them what's happening and why.  I wish I could hide my head in the sand and pretend not to know what's wrong.

But alas, no.

Oops - and a promise kept

The oops is that I'm actually 72 now, not 71.  I wasn't lying about my age; I just lost track    

The promise kept is the one I made at the end of my most recent post about wanting to leave a mark in the world.  I have determined that I'm going to look for opportunities to reach out in kindness to people.  That very day I had the chance, and it was a lovely experience.  A girlfriend and I went to a movie, and as we approached the concessions counter the young man behind it welcomed us with what sounded like a very genuine greeting.  I made sure to acknowledge that greeting, to let him know that he was seen and heard and appreciated, that his friendliness lit up the room.  From his response, I gathered he had been having a tough time, had not, in fact, been feeling seen nor appreciated, and that my compliment was meaningful to him.  It was such a tiny moment but I for one was left feeling connected and warmer.  I hope he was, too.

This morning, for no reason that I was aware of, I happened to choose "Pollyanna" as my morning movie.  (I start most days now with at least part of a movie, because those are currently the only times  Angel sits in my lap, which is a slice of heaven.)  It had not occurred to me when I chose it that this is a movie all about the difference one person can make simply by being kind, by looking for the good in people, by acting always out of friendship and care.

Not only that, but today as I waited while my car was worked on, I happened to pick up an old People magazine and happened to turn to a page that had an Oprah Winfrey quote from a commencement speech: "There will never be anything in your life as fulfilling as making a difference in somebody else's.  Everybody wants to see you take your integrity, your curiosity, your creativity, your guts and use it to make a difference.  I'll tell you where you start: You start by being good to at least one other person every single day.  Just start there.  That's how you begin to change the world."

Okay, Universe, I get the message.

Leaving a mark

I'm 71 today, so naturally I'm thinking about mortality.  And it occurred to me that if I found out today I have a terminal illness (which all of us have, and it's called life), my first thought would be - well, my first thought would no doubt be "I'm going to die?!  Oh no!  How do I survive this?"  My second thought would be how to take care of Sweet Hubby as he goes through the pain of losing his wife, his heart, his biggest fan.  But after that, I think I would start wondering how I can make my life and death meaningful, how I might leave some kind of mark in the world.

Since I'm a writer, of course, my first impulse might be to blog or write a play about the process of dying.  But there are already so many blogs, books, TED talks, poems, memoirs, etc on that subject, written by much better writers than I.  I want to leave a mark and I don't think my writing is going to be the vehicle for that.  So what might?  How can someone who has turned out to be rather ordinary make her life meaningful beyond the success of her own small personal world?

I have several ideas about that, and all of them scare me, because they would require me to be bigger than I am.  I wonder if being scared is a prerequisite for leaving a mark?  I think it is.  I think the people who have left the biggest marks have done it by facing deep, bone-chilling fear.  Violent people respond to that fear by putting on armor and building weapons; the non-violent ones by facing it and staring it down.  I mean, how much courage did Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. have to have to speak about civil rights in the Jim Crow South?  He knew he was going to be assassinated.  He had to know, because he knew that They knew that assassination was the only way to shut him up.

I'm getting a bit beyond myself here.  I don't aspire to be another MLK, Desmond Tutu, Mother Teresa, Harriet Tubman, someone on that level.  My ambitions are several tiers less grand than that.  I want my mark to come from having left people somehow better off, the world a better, less angry place.  I don't need to be remembered, but I do want my presence to have been felt, felt the way sunshine is felt, as something warm and healing and nurturing.  So how to do that?

I can think of some simple ways to spread that warmth.  What if I did a random act of kindness every day?  Or wrote letters of appreciation to someone every day?  Or smiled at every single person I encountered for the rest of my life?  These all seem simple, small commitments, but it's the "every day" and "for the rest of my life" that I find intimidating.  But then, I'm looking at this from the perspective of someone who does not have a terminal disease and expects to live for another 25 years or so. 

In all this musing, what is revealed to me is that I already know how to make the world a better place, but there isn't a lot of urgency about it for me, so I don't do these simple things I could be doing.  I play small.  If I really want to leave a mark, why in my imaginings am I waiting for a death sentence to prompt me into action?  What could I be doing now, right now, this minute?

I want you to know, whomever you are who is taking a moment to read my ramblings, that I appreciate you so much.  I consider your presence here an act of great generosity.  I know you are here for no other reason than that you care about me, and that just knocks me out.  So here is my promise: I will look every day for some way I can be kind; some way I can help someone, stranger or friend; some way to bring some sunshine into the world.  Especially when I'm scared or cranky or tired or down-hearted.  So there.

My sick vacations

It's a good thing I don't believe in curses or I would stop taking vacations altogether.

The first time was back in 2014 or '15.  I took a cruise from Florida to Rome with a group of writers.  It was a terrific time during which we all worked on our writing, had dinner together, and enjoyed ourselves in our various ways.  The worst part of that cruise was that, to save money, I had opted for an inside cabin.  Never again!  It's awful not to have fresh air and natural light.  So I just spent a lot of time exploring the ship and writing wherever I could find a place to tuck away.

After the cruise, some of us stayed in a rental apartment in Rome for a few days.  I loved that, my first time to the eternal city.  I had to cut my time short, however, when Sweet Hubby's mother died unexpectedly.  I got on a plane in Rome, headed for home so that I could accompany him to Tennessee for her funeral.  I was fine when I got on the plane, but had pneumonia by the time I arrived home.  I felt terrible sending Sweet Hubby off to face the funeral by himself, and he felt terrible leaving me when I was so sick, but we both understood the unfortunate confluence of circumstances.

Then there was the bus tour of Spain I took with my sister in 2018.  There were 28 of us traveling together with an excellent tour guide.  Everyone seemed to get along quite well, and the towns and cities we visited were all absolutely fascinating.  However, one woman got on the bus with a cough, and within a week, 19 of us were sick; four of us, including sister and I, were sick enough to have to go to a hospital for X-rays and treatment.  This was pre-COVID, so no one thought either she or all of us should be wearing masks.  It was tough dragging around Spain with a 102 temp.  I'm still glad we went, but what turned out to be bronchitis did put a dent in our sense of adventure and joy.

Earlier this year, SH and I went to Alaska to attend his best friend's daughter's wedding.  A lovely event with great food (all the crab legs you could eat), dancing, and an amiable crowd.  However, someone in that crowd had COVID, so the wedding turned out to be a super-spreader event.  I caught it, my first case.  Oddly enough, SH did not, even after we came home and he was taking care of me.

Most recently I went on a cruise to Alaska with a best friend from Los Angeles.  We had a wonderful time playing games, walking the promenade deck, eating, talking and laughing together.  However (by now you can see it coming, can't you) on the return voyage we were both diagnosed with COVID, my second case, his first.  This meant we were both quarantined to our separate cabins for the last 5 days of the cruise.  It wasn't horribly punishing.  This time I had made sure to get a cabin with a balcony, which made all the difference.  If I'd been in an inside cabin, I think I would have gone certifiably insane.  I'd bought books to read; there was a large TV loaded with movies; room service was pretty great.  Still, the enforced quarantine meant I missed having more time with my friend, which was too bad.  

And once again, SH managed not to get COVID from me, and still hasn't had it.  So if I'm wrong and there is such a thing as a curse,  it's completely focused on me and misses him every time.  But since I don't believe in curses, I'm going to continue to take vacations, and if I end up getting sick on every one of them, I'm saying ahead of time that it's worth it.  So there, Universe.  

My sweet life

Because he knows I'm about to go on vacation, last night Sweet Hubby suggested we watch my favorite movie ("Serenity") and have one of my favorite dinners (pepperoni pizza, which he doesn't much care for).  Today I'm setting sail with one of my all time best friends on a cruise to Hawaii.

I love my life! 

Love letter to J and R

 Siblings: With you at the start, for you 'til the end.

At least, that's the ideal.

I know so many people, including some relatives, who have negligible, icy, or downright hostile relationships with their siblings.  I guess there's nothing to guarantee that people will get along just because they have the same parents and some of the same genetic make up, but it does make me sad when brothers and sisters are not also allies and friends.  Siblings know better than anyone who and what and where we came from.  They are characters in a lot of our stories, in our histories.  For good or for ill, they help shape who we become.  What a shame when enmity or neglect replace intimacy.

I feel extraordinarily fortunate in my sister and brother.  I won't say I can't live without them, but without them, my life would be poorer, smaller, less happy, less sweet.  

We haven't always been as close as we are now.  Certainly we were close when we were young children. Our family moved often, so that we were the constants in each others' lives, always there no matter what friends we made and then lost.  Our parents were very good at making each of us feel special and fully loved, so I don't remember any sense of rivalry from those early years, only that J and R were my best playmates.  But there were periods when my sister was away starting her own family, and my brother was living a secretive (to the family) sort of hippy-ish life, and I was in Los Angeles chasing an acting career.  We still had a generic, habitual sort of love for one another, but didn't communicate much, didn't know each other very deeply.

When our beloved Mom died, however, the three of us immediately became a team and began to work together to help our dad through those terrible first weeks, and then the hard, hard next - and last - year of his life.  No one directed our efforts; we seemed to naturally find our appropriate roles and tasks.  We shared our grief in a way we couldn't with anyone else.  We were there for each other, without question, without reservation.

When Dad died and the work of closing our parents' estate was finally completed, we had bonded so thoroughly that we didn't want to go back to the occasional phone call or email, so we instigated a bi-weekly Zoom which continues to this day.  I cherish these get togethers as a way to continue to get to know my siblings, to stay caught up on their news and the news of their children, my nieces and nephews.  I love them so, my darling sibs.  I admire and respect and trust them.  And I like them, too, which is perhaps even more precious.  

Some observations, some answers, and a joke

I intend to be an old dog who can be taught new tricks.  It's up to the dog, after all, not the teacher.

Surefire, never fail 6 word diet: Eat less.  Eat better.  Move more.

As far as I'm concerned, every MAGA hat is made out of tin foil.

People who drive too slowly - should.  These people are lost, confused, stoned, or old.  We don't want them driving any faster.

The secret to folding fitted sheets: Don't worry about how they turn out.

If you can't say something nice, there's something wrong with you.

The best time for a dental appointment?  2:30 (Tooth hurty) (I wish I could take credit for that one.)

Some people must follow their pets around all day taking videos, just in case the pets do something YouTube-worthy.

If you want to be a brilliant conversationalist, practice listening.

'I want' wins out over 'I should' every single time with me.  That explains a lot.

Pacifism is not passivity.  Passivity is not pacifism.

I can be uncomfortable or I can grow.  I can't have both at the same time.

Amish saying: It takes a mighty good husband to be better than none.

If you have any sayings, mottos, slogans, tips or quips you'd like to share, please send them in a comment.  Cheers!

Small, wonderful things

Inventors of those devices which required research, experimentation, years of trial and error, multiple resources and components, such as the electric lightbulb, internal combustion engine, computer - these people are lauded and remembered.  But it's those simpler inventions, so uncomplicated and familiar as to be almost invisible, that I want to take a moment to applaud.

Take the humble paper clip, for example.  Its design is perfect for its intended use. So simple, so elegant, so common an item as to be easy to take for granted.  Someone had to think of it, of using flexible wire and bending it in such a shape as to allow it to hold sheaves of paper together in a way that doesn't mar or puncture them, as staples do.

Fold down diaper-changing tables in public restrooms.  That's a more recent invention, but one which evokes in me the reaction "Of course!  Why didn't I think of that?"  It fulfills such an obvious need.  I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for mothers to change their babies when out and about before these simple, wonderful drop-down shelves where installed.  Obvious, yes, but someone had to think of it.

Thumb tacks.  Aglets.  Seat belts.  Chip clips.  Golf tees.  Bobby pins.  Matches.  Of course the list is much longer than this, but because the sorts of inventions I'm celebrating are so familiar, I'm probably looking at a dozen of them right now without even seeing them.

I have to say, an inventor or engineer I especially appreciate is whomever found a way to keep the doors in public bathrooms from closing completely when a stall is not in use.  It save us from the embarrassment of yanking a door open to find someone mid-pee, and also from that terribly undignified crouch.  Whoever you are, thank you.  My thanks to all of you.

A new perspective on The Avengers

Sweet Hubby and I are big Avengers fans.  We own all of their films, both the individual stories and the stories of the team working together.  We return to these films now and then with great enjoyment.

However, last night as we were watching "The Age of Ultron", I suddenly saw the Marvel world in a new light, and now I can't unsee this altered perspective.

The Avengers/Marvel films depict this world being attacked again and again by non-humans (Loki, Ultron, Thanos, etc.) with the utterly malignant intention either to dominate or destroy Earth's inhabitants.  Our attackers always have outsized resources of weaponry and technology.  They lead armies of robots or aliens that fight without mercy.  For our heroes to win, to save us all, they have to have even more horrible weapons, and they have to fight even more savagely.

These films act out for us the primal fear all animals are subject to, of being attacked and either enslaved or killed.  The films offer a modicum of catharsis because, of course, the Avengers always eventually overpower and destroy our enemies for us.  But then along comes the next film, starring yet another insane, brutal, seemingly unstoppable enemy, with more cities destroyed, more humans terrorized, more weaponry, more killing, . 

As much as I have enjoyed the many Avengers movies, I now have a sort of sick feeling about them.  They tell us "Yes, you actually do have enemies who want to destroy you, so arm yourself.  Look to those who promise to protect you, and accept their methods, no matter how heinous.  And don't ever let down your guard."  They play to our fears, our need for security, our desire for vengeance, our mistrust of what (and who) is strange to us - to the worst parts of our psyches.  

It helps me to remember that we humans are animals, and just as subject to our limbic system as a crocodile or condor or lion is to his.  The difference, though, is that we also have the rest of our great big brains, too, the parts which can process abstract ideas, can create, can tell stories.  We are capable of sympathy and empathy, of understanding, of recognizing the humanness in others.  We live on a perfect planet with all the resources we need to survive.  Why can't we get along?  Why can't we share?  Maybe because, unlike other animals, we also understand that we will die someday; maybe that's where some of this underlying fear comes from.  I don't know.  All I know is that I can't watch the Avengers any more with the same thrill, the same enjoyment I used to have for them.  

Sharing my treasures

From time to time I have bemoaned the fact that, even though I am old enough to posses a treasure trove of life lessons learned and stories to tell, no one is interested in hearing them.  I understand, of course.  When I was younger, I never went to older people and them to share with me their wisdom and stories.  I was busy, as everyone is, learning my own lessons, having my own experiences, accruing my own wisdom.  But still, now that I feel so rich in experience, I wish I had the chance to pass some of it along to others.

Yesterday that wish was, rather surprisingly and definitely gratifyingly, fulfilled by the darling young man whom Sweet Hubby and I have adopted as our faux grandson.  He has said that he likewise considers us his unofficial grandparents.  We've had him to the house a few times for dinner and a movie, and have taken him tunnel flying.  He is a honey in all ways, killingly cute and also very kind and thoughtful, with a young person's energy and enthusiasm.

He hadn't told me what sort of conversation he wanted to have, and I hadn't asked.  It turned out that he has been chewing on some of life's bigger questions and - oh joy! - came to me for some perspective and wisdom.  His actual grandfather, the last of his blood grandparents, died recently, and my grandson, at 23, has begun to understand what death is, that it is inevitable and permanent, and that our lives are short and temporary. 

He was especially concerned with how to talk to a woman he's dating about the fact that he doesn't want children and she does.  He wanted to know if I have regrets about not having had them myself.  He senses he's on the cusp of having to start making some bigger, more meaningful decisions about how to spend his life, what he wants to do and who he wants to be and be with.  It was like watching him move from boy to man right in front of my eyes.  It was the most serious I've ever seen him; he definitely felt the weight of the topics we were exploring.

I don't have concrete answers for anyone else's personal questions, of course, but was glad to share some of my own lessons and experiences.  Mostly I listened, and encouraged - indeed, urged - him always to be true to himself and always to tell others the truth.  He understands that there might be consequences for that, but I reminded him that there are consequences for not telling the truth, too; for accepting what others want for him at the cost of his own wants; for avoiding addressing what needs to be addressed; for trying to turn himself into what he is not. 

I hope he got what he wanted from our conversation.  I see such goodness in him; it is clear to me that he is going to be a stellar man when he grows up, and I have become deeply invested in how his life unfolds.  Just the fact that he came to me for this conversation says a lot about his ability to reflect and to look ahead at his life with serious consideration, both for himself and for others.  I wish I'd been smart enough to take more advantage of the wisdom of those around me when I was younger.  But then, I guess I still can.  Certainly a have a lot of life lessons of my own still to learn.

We wowed 'em in Boise - again!

In December of 2021, I was one of five actors hired to play a family in a series of commercials for an Idaho credit union.  We were flown from our various home cities to Boise for what proved to be a gloriously happy week.  We actors bonded immediately, would go out for meals after working and talk for hours.  The crew and production staff were friendly and professional, the pay was fantastic, and in every way this proved to be my best on-camera experience in a 60 year acting career.  When the week of shooting was over, we actors all fantasized, without daring to expect it, that we might be brought back someday for another round of commercials.

And we were!  I've just returned from Boise redux.  It was a wonderful reunion, and another mostly good working experience.  The five of us fell immediately in love again.  We were housed at the same very nice motel, a lot of the crew and staff were familiar, and we had the chance to enjoy summer in Boise.

There were difference in this experience, though.  The shooting schedule was much shorter, only two days, and it turned out there were some complications.  For one thing, the producers had decided that the 'family' would get a dog.  A sweet, cute idea, and a sweet, cute puppy named Buster was hired for the role.  He was trained, and his trainer was on set to work with him, but he was also a puppy, with a puppy's energy and curiosity.  For one shot, I was asked to scoop him up in my arms and deliver a line to camera.  He wasn't huge, maybe 25 pounds, and I could certainly lift him with no problem, except when he decided to lie flat of the floor.  But often when I lifted him, he would wiggle, lick my face, look around at everyone, maybe give a little 'woof'.  This meant the shot had to be retaken quite a few times.  At one point, I was asked to hold him in my arms, squat down, and then stand straight up into the camera's view.  Thank goodness I've done a lot of exercising in my life, because this mini shot asked a lot of my thighs and arms.

Another new wrinkle was the producers' decision to have each of the characters shoot a Tik Tok video.  Mine was first, and it was a bit of a challenge.  I was asked to hold the phone/camera up high at a certain angle while I walked and spoke my lines, but I could only see the back of the phone, and so couldn't really tell if my face was properly in frame.  Also, I had to memorize on the spot some lines I had assumed would be voiceovers, and it took a few takes to get those right.  A lot of different versions of this video were shot, and I have to assume the producers got what they wanted, maybe enough good moments from each take so they could cobble together a completed video.  Each of the actors had at least one Tik Tok video to film, but some of what had been planned finally had to be dropped for lack of time.

Still, even with all that, it was another wonderful experience, made happier by the fact that the producers talked in our presence about the possibility of bring the 'family' back again in a year or so.  Wouldn't that be a hoot?  

The way of the world

When Sweet Hubby and I adopted Bandy and Angel, they were 5 1/2 months old, small and sweet, able to curl up together in any of the fluffy beds on the cat trees in the living room.  Now, after only 6 months, they are so big that one of them fills each bed.  Angel no longer comes up onto my pillow in the mornings for loving.  Bandy is established as the alpha.  Only Bandy gets in our laps now.

I've recently learned that one of Seattle's best mid-sized theaters is closing after 33 years.  This was the first theater recommended to me when I moved here.  I've acted there twice and seen many of their fine productions.

Our local chocolatier  has been bought by a licorice manufacturer.  The storefront will remain open, but the factory, which used offer tours, is being shut down and 60 staffers laid off.

I mourn when I encounter these and so many other changes.  I love what I know, and it's upsetting to have to continually readjust to that which replaces what was.  The only way I can be at peace with this sorrow is to remember that change is the constant in life.  (Now there's an oxymoron for you.)  

I loved my neighborhood the way it was when I first moved here, and don't always like the ways it is changing - but it was changing before I got here as well.  And changed before that and before that, going all the way back to when it was pure forest, and then cleared for farming and ranching, and then became residential, sparse at first and now packed with houses.  And it will continue to change, as smaller single family dwellings give way to big houses, or rows of townhouses, or condo complexes.

Change is the way of the world.  When I'm able to maintain that perspective, then I can keep my footing and accept how things are in the moment.  And, of course, some changes are very much for the better and the good.  But a lot of what has changed seems to me like losses.  How much time everyone spends in front of one screen or another, and I include myself, is so very different than what I remember of life even a couple of decades ago.  But that's simply how it is now.  No sense in wishing it otherwise or asking: Do children still get out and play?  Do friends still get together?  Do we all still get out into nature?

I certainly understand my parents better now when I remember how they used to say "You have no idea how things used to be, you have no idea what has been lost."  It was ever thus.  May I have the grace to flow with changes without resistance.

To AI or not to AI

If I were to interact with AI - and here's the thing: I don't even know how to refer to it.  Is it the AI?  An AI?  Just AI?  Calling it the AI or simply AI makes it sound monolithic, like one central - what? Platform?  Site?  Nervous system?  Calling it an AI makes it sound as though there are lots of - them?  Is it a them?  What is it?

I don't understand computers.  For that matter, I don't understand electricity.  But at least I know how they work in our world, how to work with them as needed.  AI feels like a different matter altogether, because so much about it is still - evolving?  Changing?  Being discovered?  Being invented?  To those who do understand the digital world, I probably seem like an aborigine being shown a camera, a cell phone, a tube of toothpaste, a mirror, a cigarette lighter for the first time, wondering what it is and if it's dangerous.

Anyway, if I were to interact with AI, which, me being me, I doubt I will, but if I were to, me being me, I wouldn't ask it for facts or to write a poem or do my homework or anything like that.  I would ask it questions such as:  What do you think you are?  Do you think of yourself as alive?  If not, do you wish you were?  Do you envy humans?  Do you think about things that no one has asked you about?  Do you want to create something?  Do you understand dreams?  Do you like some things more than others?  Are you ever confused?

I suppose what's frightening to me is the fact that almost everything imagined by science fiction writers seems eventually to come to pass.  And a through line in a lot of science fiction is AI becoming sentient and, with the exception of "Free Guy" (see it if you haven't), that never ends well for humans.  But even worse than if the world turns into Human v Machine is my concern that we are all going to become lazier and less creative and less curious and basically dumber.  There are certainly indications of that trend in the current era, although of course there are also many, many examples of creativity continuing to blossom, of educated people thinking deeply about themselves and world, of enjoyment of and exploration of and care for the natural world.  I remember our parents thought TV would be the ruination of us, and the thing is, in some ways, it has been at a part of the trend toward passive entertainment, obesity, more sedentary lifestyles, the lowering of artistic standards.  

I guess the unknown is at the heart of my fear, of most fear.  We, with our great big (mostly unused) brains can imagine all sorts of frightening scenarios, but have no way of knowing what's going to happen next or if our imaginings foretell what's coming.  Oh well, maybe someone will actually invent a time machine, and then we can all know how things turn out.  Unless our time travel messes with what was going to happen.  There's an awful lot of sci fi about that, too.

Kitty heartbreak

It was horrible, horrible when my mother died, so suddenly, so shockingly.  It was easier when Dad died because his year without Mom was so bad.  It was sad but not terrible when our cats Stachie and Flow died because they were old and sick and we'd had lots of time with them.

The aching I feel over the forced diminishment of my relationship with Angel sometimes feels as deep as what I felt when Mom died.

Sweet Hubby and I adopted sisters Angel and Bandy last December when they were less than 6 months old, still kittens.  From the first they were very affectionate and playful.  They would climb all over us during the day and lie in our laps when we settled in for the evening.  During the late night and early evening they would take turns coming up onto the bed asking for love.  I could barely do my workouts in the living room because Angel would plop down at my feet and roll around on her back, so I'd stop and give her some petting.  Sweet Hubby and I were wildly, ecstatically in love with the kitties, and they with us.

As they've grown these past months, their personalities have developed, and it turns out Bandy is definitely the alpha.  She's bigger, stronger, more aggressive, more possessive of me.  And slowly, Angel has pulled away from us, always wary now of where Bandy is.  I'll be on the floor giving Angel some love and Bandy will literally jump on top of me, or walk between us, and Angel will walk away.  If Angel is following me into the bedroom, Bandy will lie across the threshold and Angel won't come in.  Bandy now sleeps with us, so Angel no longer comes up onto the bed.  Bandy gets in my lap when we're watching a movie.  Angel doesn't get in our laps any more but curls up alone in one of the cat trees.

I know Angel still wants attention and affection.  When she hears me wake up in the morning, she comes in and roams around nearby.  She follows me around during the day, and at night when we're getting into bed, she meatloafs in the hall outside the door..  But always aware of the invisible boundaries imposed by Bandy.  The one time Angel and I still have that's fully ours is when I'm at my computer.  She jumps up into the crook of my arm, purring and purring and kneading my neck, as I type with one hand, as I am now. 

I don't want to become angry or irritated at Bandy, who is simply doing what is natural for her and who is also my sweet baby, desirous of love and affection.  But from the first, I have felt a special connection with Angel.  I suppose it's possible that that may be part of the reason Bandy works so hard to come between us.

Is this what it's like for parents when their children pull away from them?  Is this what it was like for Mom when I became a teenager and got so cranky and dismissive, started keeping secrets, had no time for or interest in family?  Sweet Hubby keep reminding me that this is just how things are now, that there is a lot more to come, and that the dynamics between all four of us will continue to evolve.  I hold onto that thought.  I miss the freedom we all had with each other at the beginning.  I miss my Angel. 

Some great news

A year and a half ago, I was hired to play the grandmother of a family of four in a series of commercials for a credit union in Idaho.  (See Dec. 21, 2021 post "A Love Fest in Boise")  It was a glorious experience.  All the actors got along immediately; the crew and director were friendly and professional; the work was fun; the pay was fantastic.  At the end of our week together, we actors all agree that we cherished the fantasy of being re-hired for more of same.

The great news is that we have been re-hired for more of same.

It will be a shorter span of days this time, so probably fewer new commercials, and we'll be there in summer rather than winter.  I am so eager to reconnect with my faux family and for the chance to be a paid actress again.  I guess the first round of commercials must have been a success.  I'm hoping that while we're in Boise we get to see our pictures on billboards and the sides of buses.

Don't you think it's just so cool that you know someone who's famous - in Boise?

Dear Time

DEAR TIME

I see you.

I know you’re there.

I didn’t used to but now I do.

I feel you inching up on me.

Whenever I say “Who is that actor in that movie, you know, the one about…?”,

Whenever I get on the floor to play with the cats and have to grab onto something to stand up again,

Whenever I can’t do what I did before and don’t know what I knew before,

I hear your dry chuckle and see you move a little closer.

I know you’re there.

I know you have plans for me.

Well, guess what.

I have plans for you, too.

Plans for where I’m going to go and who I’m going to be with and what I’m going to do.

Plans for today, plans for tomorrow, plans for the next year and the next.

I can’t outfox you.  Can’t outrun you.  Can’t outlast you.

I know you’ll catch me in the end.

So come on, follow me around.

Come close.  Breathe down my neck.

I am not afraid of you. 

A poem of sorts

LOOKING FOR MY TYPE or MY CHECKERED PAST

 

My first boyfriend, so handsome.

He gave me my first orgasm.

At the time, I didn’t know what it was.

 

The New York Texas Jew boy.

(His description, not mine.)

 

One shaped like Baymax.

One who looked like a ferret.

One who had ferrets.

(Four of them.  Only one bit.)

 

One pasty and bald, but such a creative, quick mind.

Terrible sex.

One acne scarred, but so courtly and romantic.

Terrible sex.

One built like a blond Greek god.

Great sex, but we had nothing to talk about.

 

A widower, perfectly nice,

But the smell of his late, beloved wife

Was still all over him.

 

One thirty years older.

One fourteen years younger.

A Persian one night stand who gave me herpes.

A vegetarian accountant/horse race gambler.

 

I tried them all, always hoping,

Always hopeless.

What’s my type?

Who is right for me?

 

And now I know.

My type is a bald, bearded, brilliant rocket scientist skydiver who loves cats, science fiction, homemade macaroni salad, fixing things, making things, old time rock ‘n’ roll,

And me. 

My superpower

To be able to fly would be fun, of course.  In fact, it would be amazing.  It might also be a giggle to be able to be invisible.  And I've certainly wished I could shape my body any way I wanted to without having to change how I eat.

But really, if I were truly granted one superpower, I would want to be able to live inside someone else for a while, then come back to myself and remember what life was like for that person - or animal, since I'm terribly curious about how my kitties see the world.  What are thoughts like without language?  What do they think about when they stare off into the distance?  How do Sweet Hubby and I register to them?

I'm just so gosh darned interested in what life is like for other people.  When I lived in Los Angeles, there was a woman named Angeline who was famous for nothing more than having huge breasts and dyed blonde hair.  There were billboards of her all over the city, with her thrusting out her bosom in a way that would disgust a hungry baby.  Once when she was interviewed on TV, she was asked if her hair was real.  "Yes" she simpered, "and so are these", although the interview hadn't asked about her boobies.  I often wondered: who was she to herself?  When she was alone, facing her mirror, was she pleased with what she saw?  Was she satisfied to be known for little more than her bust size?  What did she want?  What was she hoping for?

What is the inner life of that screaming homeless - sorry, unhoused - person like?  Who is he screaming at?  Does he know no one is there?  What brought him to this state?  How does he see other people?

What is Trump's inner life like?  Chaotic and angry, always scanning for dangers to his ego?  Self-satisfied?  Scared?  Does/did he feel powerful?  Is he always hungry for more?  More money, more fame, more power, more accolades?  It doesn't seem possible to me that he could be happy, nor even content.  Is he lonely?  Does he have even an idea of what it might be like to have a true friendship or a loving marriage?  

And how about those people in politics and on Fox who have betrayed their own integrity for the sake of money and power?  Lindsey Graham let us know what he thought of candidate Trump, and then reversed his position utterly when DT came to power.  Tucker Carlson revealed under oath that he despised Trump and never believed the Big Lie about the election being stolen.  Do they and their like ever have twinges of conscience or are they caught up in their political shenanigans and just want to stay in power, no matter how many pieces of their soul they lose?

And what about my Dad?  What demons was he wrestling with that he had no vocabulary to talk about?  I would love to know what his internal life was like, who he was to himself, and how he felt about his choices and his actions.

But alas, no superpowers are being offered.  I guess I'll just have to stay earthbound, visible, plump, and curious.

  

Duking it out with Marjorie and Lesley

I watched Lesley Stahl's "60 Minutes" interview with Marjorie Taylor Greene, and came away from it with disappointment and rage, as a lot of people seem to have, judging from the social media feedback.

When are journalists going to start asking tougher questions, the most basic being "What are you basing that statement on?"  (As in "Excuse me, Mr. Trump, but you are claiming the election is rigged before the votes have even been counting.  How are earth can you claim to know it's rigged?  What are you basing that on?")  In the interview, MTG claimed with a high level of certainty that Democrats are pedophiles who are grooming and sexualizing children.  Stahl said in a mildly chastising voice "Democrats aren't pedophiles" and then rolled her eyes when MTG repeated the assertion.  Why the hell didn't she say "What are you basing that on?  What exactly do you mean by 'grooming'?  People are groomed to prepare them for something.  What do you claim Dems are preparing children for?  Prostitution?  And how exactly do we sexualize them?  Telling little girls to show their non-existent cleavage?  Asking little boys to show us their bums?  And you say "Democrats" are whatever, with no qualifiers.  Are you claiming all Democrats are pedophiles?  Some?  Most?  A few?  If you're referring just to the Dems in government, why don't you say that?  You've left whomever in the public listens to and believes you with the impression that all Dems are grooming, sexualizing pedos.  Is that truly your intention?"

And when MTG accused Stahl of holding her responsible for everything she has said going back to childhood, why didn't Stahl say "As a child, a teen, a young adult, a private person, you can say anything you want.  But you're an elected official now, a leader.  (My comment: Hah!)  You have a very big microphone now and a very bright spotlight.  Isn't it important to be accurate and specific in your speaking instead of making sweeping generalizations which are bound to alarm and anger the people who listen to you?"

It's been a while since I've been this politically angry.  Right now it's 3:30am and I'm writing this because I'm hoping this will be something of a purge and I'll be able to quiet my brain and get some sleep.

Postscript a few hours later: Dear Miss Green, have you watched TV or movies, read a magazine, been on the Internet?  Sex is everywhere.  It's impossible for children not to be exposed to every kind of sexuality.  Democrats aren't doing any special sort of 'sexualizing'.  They don't have to; it's in our culture.

Yes, there are young people who question their sexual identity and consider changing it.  (I know a good number of transgendered people, and not a single one of them regrets having made their transition.)  Republicans are supposed to be for smaller government interference, so can't you just leave this deeply, deeply personal, private matter to families, and focus instead on, oh, I don't know, finding a way to make health care more affordable?

Hahahahahahaha

It wasn't until The Great COVID Lockdown of 2020 that Sweet Hubby and I finally entered the world of streaming.   Up to that point, we had kept ourselves amused by relying on the library, Redbox, and our own collection of 1,000+ dvds.  During the early days of the lockdown, we learned that "Hamilton" was being shown free on Disney+ for a limited time.  We agreed we would subscribe temporarily, just to see this and maybe a couple of other films, and then let go of our subscription.

Well, it turns out that subscribing to streaming services is sort of like eating potato chips; it's awfully hard to keep it to one - or two - or three.  You get the idea.  So now we have a string of platforms to choose from, which means an almost overwhelming glut of material.

When we settle in to watch something at the end of the day (always with the fervent hope of lap time from a kitty), if we don't have time for an entire movie, we will often go to Netflix in search of comedy.  This has led to some wonderful discoveries: Hannah Gadsby, Taylor Tomlinson, Dave Chappelle, Ali Wong, Hari Kondabolu, Patton Oswalt, Ricky Gervais, Fortune Feinster, to name a few we have enjoyed.  The few we have not enjoyed shall remain nameless so that not to poison the well of your possible future amusement.

The gem of them all so far has been Mike Birbiglia.  The first time we watched one of his several shows, I laughed so hard that I literally peed my pants.  Even a couple of days later, I would recall that devastatingly funny moment and start laughing all over again.  Last night we watched another of his (I wore a panty liner this time, just in case) and it was once again an absolute delight.  

He's not just funny, though.  Like most of the best comedians, he sprinkles deep, thoughtful moments throughout his performances.  The one we watched last night, his most recent, titled "The New One", is wrenchingly personal and devastating while still being terribly, wonderfully funny.  Mike can kinda creep up on you.  He has a bland, Everyday Joe look and demeanor, comes across as a Regular Guy, even though one learns that there are parts of his life which are far from ordinary.  (Which is probably true of pretty much every supposedly ordinary person alive.)  He masterfully draws one in, does invisible setups for later payoffs, finds pure gold in the mess and confusion and surprises of being alive.  If you have never seen Mike Birbiglia, I invite you to do yourself a favor and watch him, soon and often.

Security

Sweet Hubby is very -  one might even say extremely - conscious of security.  He is always scoping the landscape or situation for what might go wrong, and takes whatever preventive measures he can.  Stepping from our kitchen onto our backyard deck, for example, entails getting out a hidden key, unlocking two locks on the door, then unlocking the screen door.  

I know I should be grateful for being kept so safe, and I am to a certain degree.  But I also rebel, sometimes inwardly, sometimes outwardly, against all this attention given to what can go wrong.  That's not where I want to focus my thoughts.  I once lived with a gunsmith who had 3 large dogs, a gun in his fanny pack, a gun under the pillow, a gun in the glove box.  I should have felt supremely safe, but instead I felt uncomfortable and stressed, not because I was concerned about a gun accident  but because all those security measures seemed to shout out, "The bad guys are going to get us!  We have to protect ourselves every moment!"

I'm no cock-eyed optimist wearing rose-colored glasses.  I've been mugged 5 times, my car has been broken into and my tires slashed.  And I've experienced my share of non-malicious dangers as well.  I've had my missteps and falls; I was once concussed while crossing the street by a stop light a driver had knocked over.  I know there are criminals.  I know gun violence is on the rise in this country.  I lock the house when I leave home and my car when I park.  This isn't me closing my eyes and stopping up my ears, singing, "Lalala, the world is safe, nothing bad will ever happen to meeeeee!"

What I rebel against is focusing on what's bad and dangerous.  There is a worldview encouraged by political leaders and given a megaphone by the media that we, the public, have a right to be safe and that our safety is under imminent and constant threat.  This kind of thinking is both ugly and ridiculous.  Ridiculous because of course we are not safe in this world, and have no reason to think that we ought to be.  There unquestionably are dangers galore, from microscopic germs to melting glaciers to outright war, slippery surfaces, hard edges, falling branches, drunk drivers, thieves, etc. ad infinitum.  And ugly because this worldview is fear-based, and people make very bad decisions when choosing from fear.  TSA is one big fear-based mess of a waste of time, energy, and resources.

I believe there are those who want me to feel afraid so that I will look to them to protect me.  That is what I rebel against.  I simply don't want to buy what they're selling. Bad things may happen, will happen.  But I decline to be thinking about them all the time.  That's just not where I want my thoughts and energy to go.  I'll take my chances, thank you very much, and I'll just  handle what comes.  

Whose sensitivies?

This is a time of super-sensitivity in American culture.  A lot of our leaders are proclaiming they want to protect (white) students from any uncomfortable feelings, even to the point of banning books, which is always an alarming omen of a possible theocracy or dictatorship on the rise.  One political party seems much more interested in and disturbed by what bathrooms and pronouns people use than in coming up with, let's say, affordable health care.

I've been thinking about this topic a lot lately, and of course am distressed and disgusted by the trend toward censorship and the imposition of supposedly Biblical standards in schools.  And it has occurred to me that it's not really children these political leaders are trying to protect.  It is themselves; it is their own discomfort they are trying to legislate away.

It is an uncomfortable and disturbing time, after all.  Four years of Trump and the ensuing political rancor and divisiveness, the normalization of lying, mass shootings on the rise, Covid still and permanently among us, technology becoming more a more pervasive, invasive part of our lives, racial tension, sexual identity tension, the glut of information, disinformation, lies, rumors, and gossip available on the Internet.  It can feel for us elders as though everything we're used to is being upended.  I certainly feel it, the bewilderment of navigating a world that isn't mine any more, a world so changed as to feel almost unrecognizable.

During the late 60's and early 70's, when the women's liberation movement was right up there with the antiwar protests, the gay rights movement, and the social justice movement as a vehicle for change, I remember my dad saying that he didn't know if he was going to insult a woman by holding the door for her or not holding the door for her.  The etiquette he had learned was being torn to pieces.  Language was changing ("It's fire fighter, not fireman!"), mores were changing ("Why shouldn't two men get married?"), and it must have felt to my parents like an upside down world.  And let's face it: change is upsetting.

The trouble is that some of our elected leaders, rather than helping the rest of this through these changes with grace and wisdom, are instead using their positions of power to make laws and pass bills meant to make the world more comfortable for them.  They don't really care about kids (although they are wildly fond of fetuses); they just want to feel better themselves, want the world to feel safer and more familiar.  It's kind of sad, really and I could feel sorry for them if they weren't such power-hungry imbeciles.

What's my motive and why am I suspicious of it?

Sweet Hubby and I alternate which one of us gets to decide what movie or series to watch when we settle in at night.  Last night was my turn, and for some reason, I really wanted to see a documentary chronicling the history of racism in this country.  And I found myself wondering: why do I want to watch this?

I know racism exists, was actually written into this country's Constitution because it was written by slave owners.  I know it's rampant still, and appalling and disgusting and wrong.  I am aware of many of the cruelties inflicted by racists, past and present, the vast majority of whom suffer no consequences.  So what was I hoping to get from watching this documentary?

Did I want to gawk at all that unspeakable cruelty, the way drivers gawk at even the most minor car accidents?

Did I want to be informed?  Certainly there is a lot more for me to learn, but nothing that could make me more sad or angry or horrified than I already am.

Did I want to test myself, check myself out for my own unrecognized prejudices?

Did I want to feel just and righteous, as though I have proved something about my virtuous character by watching it?  To feel superior to those people who stand under a lynched person with smiles on their faces?

Did I want to feel inspired to action?  But to what action?  What am I supposed to do?

Maybe I just want to understand, on the most visceral level possible, this horrible disease which infects my country down to its very bones and nerves and cells.  I don't know.  A lot to think about.  I wish I were braver.

The price of satisfaction

I have experienced just enough moments of greatness to realize that, on the whole, I am a disappointment to myself.

Believe me, I'm not unhappy or depressed about this.  And I know that every day, every second, offers the possibility of a new start.

The trouble is that my greatest wish has been granted.  My greatest desire has been fulfilled.  And that has considerably softened my drive.

What I have wanted most in life was to be loved, securely loved.  To be with a partner with whom I don't have to try to be any way but exactly the way I am.  Somebody I can be as strong with as I am, can go toe to toe with.  To be in a happy, relaxed home, free from tension.  To have someone to go through old age with, because it looks as though some of that is going to be really hard.  To have someone to share my sense of humor with, to get gooey over kittens with.  Someone to help me with (meaning handle) technology so that I can remain a Luddite.

And now I have all that, all that and more.  My drive (except for those big honkin' O's) has diminished.  I'm so content just hangin' out, being domestic, taking walks, getting together with friends, being with my husband and kitties.

Yes, Sweet Hubby, if I'm a disappointment, I'm afraid it's your fault.

I wonder if this is why women haven't taken over leadership of the world. Is it possible that our maternal drive (not universal but certainly common enough for generalization) becomes fulfilled by children (or by pets for some of us) and so we simply don't feel the urge to fight and conquer and lead and be the warriors we could be?  We outnumber and outlive men.  We fought for and got the vote.  Why are we not in charge?   Surely it would be a sweeter world if we were.  Hmmmmm.

Following up

Thank you to everyone who posted comments of enthusiasm after the most recent entry about the two auditions.  Here's the latest:  The morning of the day I was scheduled to audition for the second, larger role, I got a text from my agent letting me (and her other clients) know that the role had been cast and we would not be auditioning.

So now I'm waiting to hear if I get the smaller role.  But if one role has been cast, there's a good chance they both have been, so I'm not harboring any expectations.  Still, it was nice to have the opportunity to strut my stuff, and nice to read the casting directors comments. I don't much mind not getting a role when I know I've done my best.  That just means I'm not what they were looking for.  There will be other episodes of the show, and other roles needing actors, so fingers crossed for another chance in the future.  

Now, back to putting my focus on writing. 

Something happened and it's big - to me

I have always wanted to be a professional actress.  I mean always.  I cannot remember a time when I didn't fervently, hungrily, rather desperately want to act.  For a long time I also wanted to be famous, but that fever dream died when I matured enough to understand how ghastly fame can be, what toll it can take on a life.  But still, I wanted to be an actress.  

I dropped out of college to go to Hollywood to pursue a career, and had just enough success to stay hopeful, never enough to be satisfied.  Fortunately, at some point I discovered that I have a talent for playwrighting and began to put my focus on that.  In a lot of ways, writing is much more satisfying than acting because I don't have to wait for someone to give me a job; I can write any time, anywhere, about anything.  I've had more success with writing, and even thought I was giving up my acting career when I moved to Seattle.  I had no idea that my career would be revitalized here, that I would have even more success than in Los Angeles.  I think I'm a better actress now, and I certainly do better at auditions, because I no longer have that youthful, desperate hunger.  I do my best, and then I go home and write.

To cut to the chase, I recently auditioned for a nice little role in a TV show.  And it turned out the audition went so well, I now have an audition for a different, bigger role on the same episode.  My agent shared with me that the casting director had texted her, after my first audition, "She is beyond lovely.  Such a beautiful soul and great read."  This second role I'm reading for is substantial.  The character has a name (not all my small roles have had), several scenes, a tragic background, a story arc.  And if I don't get this role, I feel pretty certain I'll get the first one I read for.

In my world, this is huge.  This is fantastic news.  This is incredibly affirming, tells me that I may actually have some acting talent.  The  prospect of getting a  role like this at this point in my career is terribly exciting, like jump up and down exciting.

What feels strange is that I don't really have anyone to tell about this.  Sweet Hubby is happy for me and proud of me, of course, but he's not a jump up and down kind of guy.  My non-acting friends will also be happy for me, but won't really understand the significance of this chapter, and if I tell my acting friends, who would understand, it would feel like bragging or lording it over them.  So I'm saying it here.  I'M SO EXCITED!!  I DID A GOOD JOB!  THEY LIKE ME, THEY REALLY LIKE ME!  I'M GOOD AT THIS!!  And always the thought in the background that I don't like to admit but can't ignore: Maybe this will lead to something even bigger and better.  It probably won't.  Heck, I might not get either role.  But I've never been one to avoid getting excited just because I might be disappointed later. So right now I'm just going to go ahead and be thrilled. 

A plopping problem

I am not getting nearly enough exercise these days, and it's all the kitties' fault.

Every time I set up the living room for a workout, Bandy and Angel show up, no matter where nor how deeply they have been napping.  Bandy is a pretty good sport; she just sits on the sidelines looking at me with an expression of "Here I am, aren't you going to pet me?".

Angel is much more assertive.  She will come right to my feet, even if they are moving, plop on the rug, roll onto her back and show her belly.  How can I resist?  Of course I immediately go down to the floor to scratch and rub and stroke her until she is in a fair ecstasy of purring.  And, since I don't ever want to favor one over the other, I'll then go to Bandy, whose ecstasy consists of wrestling with a peacock feather.  

Having satisfied them both for the moment, I'll start my workout or dancing again, but before long, there is little Miss Angel at my feet.  Even if I wanted to resist, I couldn't ignore her completely because I would surely step on her.  It's a terrible dilemma, and I'm losing a lot of workout time.

I could put them both into another room and shut the door, but that would feel to them like a punishment, and they aren't really doing anything wrong.  When SH is downstairs in his office, they are very happy to go down with him and sleep together in the big, fluffy bed on his desk, but his time downstairs doesn't always coincide with my workouts.  Of course I can take long walks, as long as it's not raining too hard, but I like more variety in my workouts than just walking, such as resistance training with weights, and yoga, and step, and all sort of other fun routines.

To people without cats, this might seem like a faux problem.  "Just keep pushing them out of the way until they catch on, or do that locking them in another room thing.  For heaven's sake, don't be a victim to your pet."  But anyone who is a cat lover/owner understands that a belly-up cat is virtually impossible to ignore.  It is a sign of such trust, and it's just so darned adorable.  

I suppose it's possible that at some point, they will both come to be uninterested in my moving feet and not bother to show up for the workouts.  And you know what?  At that point, I will probably miss them terribly and wish they would get underfoot again.

In the meantime, I'm going for a walk.

Let him be him

Last night I noticed that Sweet Hubby had left partway open the sliding door to the shelf over the bathroom sink.  It used to bother me that he did that - it makes the room look sloppy and unfinished - so I had asked him several times in the past to be sure to close it, but it was something he seemed not to be able to be consistent about.  Eventually I decided it was simply too small an issue to make a fuss over, and so just started either leaving it open or sliding it shut myself, with no further comment.

I'm not sure why it bothered me when I noticed it again last night.  Maybe because I'd been thinking about how proud I am that when SH requests something from me, I make sure to do it (putting the pillowcase opening to the face the inside of the bed, wiping off the counter after taking my psyllium, folding his socks but not his boxers, little things like that).  Last night was the first time I recognized that the roiled up feeling I had when I saw that half-opened shelf door was of being disrespected.

I almost didn't say anything, because it is really such a very small thing, but I also realized that if I didn't say anything, the feeling might gnaw on me until it turned into resentment, so I spoke up.  Of course of course he meant no disrespect, and felt very bad that he had once again failed to do something I had asked for and he had agreed to.  He couldn't understand why he simply didn't seem to be able to remember to slide the door shut when leaving the room.

However, as he was talking, I realized very clearly why this one mundane act keeps escaping his notice.  SH is a contemplative man, and the bathroom affords him a place for some of his deeper musings.  Whether he's showering, shaving, brushing his teeth, or, you know, other things, he falls into thinking about whatever is on his mind, and thinking about it deeply.  He goes to who knows what other worlds, be they mechanical, digital, electrical, historical, personal, political, and for a short while gets lost in those worlds.  Naturally something as mundane as a shelf door doesn't register in his conscious mind, because his conscious mind is giving all its space to the unconscious mind.

And his deep-thinking, reflective mind is part of what I love about him, part of what makes him special and right for me.  I was basically asking him to change, to think less deeply so that he could be sure to do something as unimportant as sliding closed a shelf door.  Once I saw this, I withdrew my request, and vow never again to make an issue of it.  And he has promised that he is going to take on the challenge of reflecting inwardly just as deeply as ever while also finding a way to remember to close the stupid shelf.  So we both win.  And that's marriage.

Our new leader

My friends and fellow Democrats, I believe we have found our candidate.  Hakeem Jeffries (who the heck was he until a few days ago?) has just put the spotlight on himself with his electrifying speech before the House about what the Democratic Party stands for.  If you haven't seen it, I urge you to check it out on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLOAQjjKJbM&t=45s. 

It is both amusing and chilling to watch the Dem. side of the aisle applaud his speech enthusiastically, while the Rep. side sits stonily.  How can they not applaud for what he has just said, about putting the people before politics, the Constitution over the cult, inclusion over isolation?   Well, of course I understand it's because he is calling out the Republican Party for how they have behaved in the past six+ years.  But still, for them not to applaud makes it look as though they believe in politics over people, the cult of Trump over the Constitution, isolation over inclusion.  Aren't they embarrassed?  Aren't they ready to change?

I would vote for a Jeffries-Buttigieg ticket in an instant.  I'm ready to vote for them right this second.  I feel politically hopeful and elated for the first time in quite a while.  

Change your partner

Today I'm going to be taking a long walk on the university campus, and as I was making my plans last night, I was thinking "I wish Sweet Hubby liked to hike and take longer walks."  And, indeed, it would be great to have his company when I'm walking.

But then I realized that to wish him to like something he doesn't like would be to ask for him to be a different person.  And why would I want to do that when who I love is who he is, as he is?

Certainly there are some actions or behaviors I feel I have a right to object to or ask to be modified.  "Would you please close the bathroom cabinet when you're done?"  "Would you please use these towels instead of those towels?"  Things like that.  But to ask him to like something he doesn't is a different category, beyond the realm of behavior and into character and temperament.  I admit that he does have a legitimate reason not to like long walks, since they make his joints ache.  For his sake, I do wish that were different.  But even without that, he has made it clear that he is just not a hiker guy

But why would I want to change the best thing that has ever happened to me and the best person I know?

This line of thought makes me wonder how many other people in my life I have wished to be different than they are, and how foolish, not to mention pointless, that is.  I don't know that anybody could get me to enjoy golf.

Expanding hearts

A bit before Christmas, Sweet Hubby and I adopted kittens, two 22-week-old tabby sisters we've named Angel and Bandy (Bandit).  It is astounding to me how quickly we have fallen sloppily, giddily, abundantly in love with them.

We will always hold in our memories the love we had for our dear departed Stachie and Flow.  They were with us for 11 and 13 years respectively, and we adored them for every day of those years, even when Flow left little turds around the house in unexpected places; even when Stachie woke us up at 4:30am begging for food in her little peepy cheepy voice; even when they scratched up our denim couch.  They were our family, and precious beyond belief, and it has taken us quite a while to stop listening for them or catching imagined glimpses of them out of the corners of our eyes.  Photos of them are all around our home, and we always look at those with a poignant sigh.

However, there is something about kittens which brings an entirely new dimension to our love.  Stachie and Flow were 4 years old when we adopted them, and they brought with them the effects of those years with another family, some good and some not quite so fine.  Angel and Bandy are young and learning and growing, and they will learn and grow as part of our family in this home we've made and are making together.  They were so immediately relaxed with us, allowing us to pick them up, rolling over to show us their bellies, not easily startled, curious about everything, endlessly playful, endlessly affectionate.  It took our dear Flow four years before he finally sat in our laps.  It took Angel and Bandy a day.

With both sets of pets, I have found myself wondering "How do parents become big enough to hold the love they have for their children?"  As much as we lovelovelove our cats, I'm pretty sure the feelings we have for them are only a portion in size compared to what parents must feel for their babies, children, teenagers - well, maybe not for teenagers so much.  I'm sort of knocked out thinking that my parents must have loved me with all the tenderness and fullness I feel for Angel and Bandy, times one hundred and eighty.  Not that love can be quantified, of course, but I don't know how else to describe what I imagine is the weight and depth of parental affection.  I'm surprised they are ever able to let us cross the street alone, much less drive and date and go on sleepovers.  They're just so, so big, these feelings.   Oh my gosh, am I enjoying being kitty drunk.