This is not a nap, this is a strategy session

A golden oldie

Before the year winds down and you become bleary eyed from reading all the year end lists, I want to make special mention of a team of individuals who help make this blog what it is.

I’d be nothing without my pussies.

The cats, who began their long run on my old blog PoliTits, were then dubbed The Pussies for Peace because they were extremely vocal advocates for ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. You may have missed their most recent press release in which they took great pleasure in recapping their presence in the vanguard of peace protests that would eventually lead to a change in public opinion and ultimately the end of the war in Iraq. It is an unparalleled triumph for them only dampened by the ongoing war in Afghanistan.

As they mentioned in the official statement, they maintained their staunch oppositional activities toward the violence and their advocacy for a more peaceful world. In recent months, they have shifted their activities to focus on the biggest threat to peace. Income inequality.

In between lying around the house licking themselves, throwing up hairballs, fighting over the catnip mouse and stalking the sunny spots on the carpet, they managed to sponsor several successful fundraisers to help feed and keep warm the Occupy movement.

As they grow older, they find that it’s harder for them to get out to join the protests, preferring instead to occupy their food bowl and brainstorm ways to help from the foot of our bed.

To wit:  The staging of the First Annual Pussies for Peace and Income Equality production of A Christmas Carol. Tickets for all three shows plus matinees sold out in record time. Since I was busy wallowing in my own crapulence of depression and job searches, Sophie took over the directorial and production duties. I must hand it to her for helping the felines produce such a successful event because it truly was herding cats. The casting alone took an unprecedented two weeks. The cat who eventually won the role of Ebenezer Scrooge did a superb job even with the debacle in the second show. He proved once and for all that a long pause to sniff Bob Cratchett’s butt in the coal scene would slow the show’s pace requiring a speed through of the act with the Ghost of Christmas Past.

The reviews were mostly positive.

The PfP&IE also produced a comedy spectacular along the lines of Saturday Night Live sketches including the musical guests Cat Power, the Pussycat Dolls and Yussef Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens).

The skit receiving the most laughs was a take-off of the Republican presidential candidate debates. With only five cats now in the fold, we had enough players to cover Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Michele Bachmann, and Rick Perry. It all worked out in the end. By the time the show was staged, Herman Cain had dropped out of the race with his infamous Pokemon Movie quote and no one could be badgered into playing Rick Santorum anyway. These cats know the score. That whole gay sex leads to man on dog sex has put them off Santorum forever.

Other fundraisers are being planned. They include a pet treat bake sale, a bikini car wash, a Spring Fling, and the opening of a Zazzle shop with all proceeds going to support the work of the Occupy movement. (Less expenses such as cases of Fancy Feast, caviar, and several tons of litter.)

I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the Pussies for all their work and support. And for providing me with so many hours of companionship, forced or otherwise. (They know they love it when I talk in that high voice and kiss their cheeks.) The cleaning up of cat yak and the scooping of their leavings is a small price to pay for the good works they do on all our behalf.

This is not a nap, this is a strategy session

A golden oldie

Before the year winds down and you become bleary eyed from reading all the year end lists, I want to make special mention of a team of individuals who help make this blog what it is.

I’d be nothing without my pussies.

The cats, who began their long run on my old blog PoliTits, were then dubbed The Pussies for Peace because they were extremely vocal advocates for ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. You may have missed their most recent press release in which they took great pleasure in recapping their presence in the vanguard of peace protests that would eventually lead to a change in public opinion and ultimately the end of the war in Iraq. It is an unparalleled triumph for them only dampened by the ongoing war in Afghanistan.

As they mentioned in the official statement, they maintained their staunch oppositional activities toward the violence and their advocacy for a more peaceful world. In recent months, they have shifted their activities to focus on the biggest threat to peace. Income inequality.

In between lying around the house licking themselves, throwing up hairballs, fighting over the catnip mouse and stalking the sunny spots on the carpet, they managed to sponsor several successful fundraisers to help feed and keep warm the Occupy movement.

As they grow older, they find that it’s harder for them to get out to join the protests, preferring instead to occupy their food bowl and brainstorm ways to help from the foot of our bed.

To wit:  The staging of the First Annual Pussies for Peace and Income Equality A Christmas Carol. Tickets for all three shows plus matinees sold out in record time. Since I was busy wallowing in my own crapulence of depression and job searches, Sophie took over the directorial and production duties. I must hand it to her for helping the felines produce such a successful event because it truly was herding cats. The casting alone took an unprecedented two weeks. The cat who eventually won the role of Ebenezer Scrooge did a superb job even with the debacle in the second show. He proved once and for all that a long pause to sniff Bob Cratchett’s butt in the coal scene would slow the show’s pace requiring a speed through of the act with the Ghost of Christmas past.

The reviews were mostly positive.

The PfP&IE also produced a comedy spectacular along the lines of Saturday Night Live Sketches including the musical guests Cat Power, the Pussycat Dolls and Yussef Islam (formerly known as Cat Stevens).

The skit receiving the most laughs was a take-off of the Republican Presidential Candidate debates. With only five cats now in the fold, we had enough players to cover Mitt Romney, Newt Gingrich, Ron Paul, Michele Bachmann, and Rick Perry. It all worked out in the end. By the time the show was staged, Herman Cain had dropped out of the race with his infamous Pokemon Movie quote and no one could be badgered into playing Rick Santorum anyway. These cats know the score. That whole gay sex leads to man on dog sex has put them off Santorum forever.

Other fundraisers are being planned. They include a pet treat bake sale, a bikini car wash, a Spring Fling, and the opening of a Zazzle shop with all proceeds going to support the work of the Occupy movement. (Less expenses such as cases of Fancy Feast, caviar, and several tons of litter.)

I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank the Pussies for all their work and support. And for providing me with so many hours of companionship, forced or otherwise. (They know they love it when I talk in that high voice and kiss their cheeks.) The cleaning up of cat yak and the scooping of their leavings is a small price to pay for the good works they do on all our behalf.

Dogpile on the Rabbit

Last week I received two gifts I’d like to return – the rejection letter from the job I interviewed for and the official letter telling me I’ve exhausted all 99 weeks of my unemployment insurance. They came the same day.

I immediately started looking around the garage for things we could sell. Sophie, the youngest, most succulent of the Goldens, sidestepped up the stairs and locked the door behind her.

MathMan aka Dr. Hofstadter regarded me warily. Waiting for the storm.

I tossed the letters aside and went back to the task at hand.

“You okay?”

“Mmmmhmmmm.”

No one said anything for a moment.

“I guess it’s good to get all my bad news at once,” I said as I stomped on the next soda can waiting to go in the recycling bin.

Bob Lefsetz.

Tree Stand Philosophy 101. My brother’s blog.  He always was the favorite.

My very brief, positive review of The Buddha in the Attic. 

The rabbit hole I fell down today.

And then this.

I.U. is losing as I type this, but the game has been exciting. A metaphor for life?

Animals in Midlife Crisis and one more.

Dogpile on the Rabbit

Last week I received two gifts I’d like to return – the rejection letter from the job I interviewed for and the official letter telling me I’ve exhausted all 99 weeks of my unemployment insurance. They came the same day.

I immediately started looking around the garage for things we could sell. Sophie, the youngest, most succulent of the Goldens, sidestepped up the stairs and locked the door behind her.

MathMan aka Dr. Hofstadter regarded me warily. Waiting for the storm.

I tossed the letters aside and went back to the task at hand.

“You okay?”

“Mmmmhmmmm.”

No one said anything for a moment.

“I guess it’s good to get all my bad news at once,” I said as I stomped on the next soda can waiting to go in the recycling bin.

Bob Lefsetz.

Tree Stand Philosophy 101. My brother’s blog.  He always was the favorite.

My very brief, positive review of The Buddha in the Attic. 

The rabbit hole I fell down today.

And then this.

I.U. is losing as I type this, but the game has been exciting. A metaphor for life?

Animals in Midlife Crisis and one more.

Wrapped up

 

The funniest holiday newsletter we ever received began with the following salutation:

Happy holidays from the disgruntled Smiths. (I changed the name to protect the disgruntled)  The newsletter cataloged the family’s year of mishaps, misfires, and messes. It described battles with ill health and other unsavory features that are all too often a condition of being part of the human race. The writer of the letter was clear. In this race, the family was losing.

It was worse than the saddest country song you’ve ever heard without the weary acceptance of a blues song. It was an airing of grievances before any of us had even heard of Festivus and yet the writer gave the reader the gift of laughter.

I’ve always aspired to that ability. No matter what I write about, I want to be able to maintain my sense of humor.

While this year has given me plenty to fess about and I’ve had to dig deep to find the humor at times, it’s also been a year that highlights what really matters. Love. Family. Friends. Health. Laughter. Books. Music. A good meal. A decent night’s sleep. Shelter. Writing. Those are the things that make a life well lived. For me.

The coming year is full of opportunities for the good, the bad and the absolutely terrifying. But then, that’s life, isn’t it? We don’t get guarantees. Not even if we’re willing to pay the extra sixty-nine dollars for the extended warranty.

This is where I go all wobbly on you and tell you how much I appreciate you. How grateful I am that you come and read and share. How being part of this community is another vital part to my life well lived.

Now I have to go take a nap. Sophie woke us up at an obscenely early hour to unwrap her gifts from Dr. Who and I nearly wore myself out yesterday asking MathMan obnoxious questions about how he planned to stuff my stocking.

Wishing you all the joys of the season.

Love,

The Goldens

Bazaar

Each year we went to the Christmas Bazaar held in the high school gymnasium. Mom dressed us up for photos with Santa. When we got too old for Santa, we dressed ourselves in our holiday best. One year I wore a deep green velvet dress my mother made for me. It was the prettiest dress I’d ever had. It was long, to the tops of my shoes with white buttons and a high neckline.

Years later, I found the dress in the bottom of my mother’s cedar chest. My brother, bless his teenage heart, had cut squares out of it to use for cleaning his guns.

The grade school kids sang Christmas songs. Frosty the Snow Man, Silent Night, Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Up on the Housetop, one of our favorites.  A couple years in a row, David S. would put on the reindeer suit his mother sewed for him and entertain the crowd while we squirmed on the wooden bleachers and sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

In high school, I dated David S. for two years. I rarely teased him about his days as Rudolph, but if I could have gotten him to put that suit on just once….well……

The gym’s wooden floor was protected by canvas tarps stretched across them and taped down. You had to be careful as you walked in your dress shoes. Many a kid caught their toe in a fold and went down, scattering candy canes and other collected loot when they tumbled.

There were tables set up in large squares and moms stood behind them. I can’t quite remember what was on the tables. Crafts, I think. We kids walked around in clumps, chattering about the upcoming school break and wishes for snow. We shared our hopes about we hoped we’d find under the tree. We told on ourselves about snooping for gifts.

My favorite part was the Cake Walk. Folded metal chairs were set in a circle and you walked around it music played. When the parent who manned the record player lifted the arm and stopped the music, you looked at the number on the chair in front of you. If your number was called, you won a cake that somebody’s mom had baked and brought wrapped in a box or in a Tupperware carrier. At the beginning of the night, I liked to look at the tables holding all the baked goods. My sweet tooth has always been one of my downfalls.

At the end of the evening, we’d gather near the lobby. Our mother would stuff us into our coats reminding us to make sure we hadn’t lost a mitten or a dreaded knit cap. We’d go outside making smoke with our warm breath in the cold air. Stars flickered overhead in the winter sky. We’d climb into the car clutching our loot with our mittens and watch as Christmas lights made smudged kaleidoscope shapes on the fogged car windows as we made our way home.

Your turn.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Occupy

It’s that time of year again. I’m thinking about bringing the holiday decorations up from the garage and contemplating the green and red boxes for a couple of days before finally opening them up and remembering why it’s fun to have the house looking festive.

We’re stocked up with Hanukkah candles this year so I’m actually ahead of the game. Now I just need to find out when Hanukkah starts.

Chloe has returned home from school and is conducting her own form of Occupy. She’s occupying the living room sofa.

The cats are occupying Chloe. She’s warm and that horrid Lisa keeps the thermostat set way too low for their comfort. “If we had our own laptops to keep us warm,” they mew petulantly, “we wouldn’t complain about the 62 degree setting either.”

They are not fond of the phrase hard cheese.

Sophie, who typically is Queen of the Living Room, is occupying her mother’s side. She’s disgruntled that her big sister has control of the television and the cats and she’s determined to keep me informed of this fact. I respond unsatisfactorily  in her opinion. Read a book, go outside, find something to do, watch Reverend Al with me, but for the love of bob, stop complaining or you will be occupying your bedroom with no electronic devices to keep you company.

I must admit, her tactics are wearing me down. Today I will likely insist on some sisterly compromise. Sophie totally gets the idea of protest. Make enough noise to get power’s attention. Make change.

I’m occupying a space somewhere between optimism and freaking the fuck out. I still haven’t heard about the job, but remain positive. I’ve got one week left before I’m one of those 99ers you hear about. I’ll have exhausted my unemployment benefits.

MathMan occupies his Calculus books. Or perhaps they occupy him.

And this kid:

Smart Kid Doing Stupid Things 2009

Is now occupying the driver’s seat. He got his license yesterday.

Your turn.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Occupy

It’s that time of year again. I’m thinking about bringing the holiday decorations up from the garage and contemplating the green and red boxes for a couple of days before finally opening them up and remembering why it’s fun to have the house looking festive.

We’re stocked up with Hanukkah candles this year so I’m actually ahead of the game. Now I just need to find out when Hanukkah starts.

Chloe has returned home from school and is conducting her own form of Occupy. She’s occupying the living room sofa.

The cats are occupying Chloe. She’s warm and that horrid Lisa keeps the thermostat set way too low for their comfort. “If we had our own laptops to keep us warm,” they mew petulantly, “we wouldn’t complain about the 62 degree setting either.”

They are not fond of the phrase hard cheese.

Sophie, who typically is Queen of the Living Room, is occupying her mother’s side. She’s disgruntled that her big sister has control of the television and the cats and she’s determined to keep me informed of this fact. I respond unsatisfactorily  in her opinion. Read a book, go outside, find something to do, watch Reverend Al with me, but for the love of bob, stop complaining or you will be occupying your bedroom with no electronic devices to keep you company.

I must admit, her tactics are wearing me down. Today I will likely insist on some sisterly compromise. Sophie totally gets the idea of protest. Make enough noise to get power’s attention. Make change.

I’m occupying a space somewhere between optimism and freaking the fuck out. I still haven’t heard about the job, but remain positive. I’ve got one week left before I’m one of those 99ers you hear about. I’ll have exhausted my unemployment benefits.

MathMan occupies his Calculus books. Or perhaps they occupy him.

And this kid:

 Is now occupying the driver’s seat. He got his license yesterday.

Your turn.

Adventures in Real Parenting: Intense

My youngest daughter and I were watching television when this commercial came on.

She cleared her throat and said, “Okay, so I get the message that it’s supposed to enhance satisfaction, whatever that means, but what exactly is the point of KY?”

Blink, blink.

“Rub your hands together. See how that friction feels?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, now imagine if you were to put some lubrication like oil on your hands, what would happen?”

She looked at her hands for a moment then said, “There would be less friction.”

“Right. Do you need me to explain further? You know, you make your own. When a woman is sexually aroused—”

She cut me off. “You can stop right there. The last time we had a conversation like this, you ended up telling me about nipple clamps.”

“Oh. Right. Hey, you started it. Did you need me to explain what they mean by satisfaction?”

Under her breath. “My future therapist is going to be one busy person.”

Adventures in Real Parenting: Intense

My youngest daughter and I were watching television when this commercial came on.

She cleared her throat and said, “Okay, so I get the message that it’s supposed to enhance satisfaction, whatever that means, but what exactly is the point of KY?”

Blink, blink.

“Rub your hands together. See how that friction feels?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, now imagine if you were to put some lubrication like oil on your hands, what would happen?”

She looked at her hands for a moment then said, “There would be less friction.”

“Right. Do you need me to explain further? You know, you make your own. When a woman is sexually aroused—“

She cut me off. “You can stop right there. The last time we had a conversation like this, you ended up telling me about nipple clamps.”


“Oh. Right. Hey, you started it. Did you need me to explain what they mean by satisfaction?”

Under her breath. “My future therapist is going to be one busy person.”