Me, as Myself

Sister #1, our hapless heroine

Sister #3

The Cats

Amidst this year’s dramarama, my sister made the decision to move to Florida.   The last month or two have been incredibly hectic as she finalized preparations.  Finally, she decided that last night was THE night.  She was packing the three cats into her car and heading south.  Naturally, our youngest sister and I were present to help pack the car and see her off.

I should mention that the three cats have been extremely unsettled by the moving process.  I should also mention that my sister had to take cat 3, the 14 lb’er to the vet on Tuesday.  Unfortunately, he hates the soft-sided zip-up cat carriers and he let out a howl as she tried to crate him.  The other two, both 25 lb Maine Coons, panicked when Cat 3 howled and they attacked my sister.  This was a shock to ALL, since none have ever bitten anything more than cat food.  But attack they did and they tore her up pretty good.

This plays a role in the tale I am about to share.

So, yesterday night #1 hits the road around 8pm.  #2 and I finish up a few things and head home.  I JUST get home and am changing into pajamas when my phone rings.  It’s a hysterical #2 – I need to get my ass to Fredericksburg, NOW. What I later learned was this – the cats are butt-awful in the car.   Beyond butt-awful.  #1 had stopped in Gainesville to gas up and give Cat 2 another Xanax.   She also felt so sorry for all of them so – despite cautions against this – she let them all out of the carriers. “I thought they’d all lay down and go to sleep”.

She also left the bottle of Xanax on the back of the car as she drove away.

Back on I95, she is doing about 75mph when the cats abruptly Lost Their Shit.   A firestorm of cat erupts as all three start fighting and racing throughout the car.  #1 happened to be on the phone with #2 at the time… as the tornado ricochets off all 4 windows, Cat 1 steps on the window control. The window descends and he launches himself out of it. From a car. Doing 75. #1 catches him by the tail – have you see Marley and Me???   It was something like that.   Well, here’s this dumbass cat hanging out of the window as #1 clutches his tail, doing 75 mph and trying to maneuver her 5 speed across 4 lanes of traffic. Poor #2 can hear #1 screaming , cats screaming, horns blaring, tires screeching and she is SURE she’s hearing her sister die in a horrible accident. #1 manages to get off the road and has a screaming panic attack.  #2 calls me in panic attack #2 and Mom also calls with another panic attack.

Ok, this is the weirdest Bat Signal yet, but off I race to recrate all three psycho cats that #1 is now too terrified to touch, since they went all Jeffrey Dahmer on her Tuesday. I get down there and commence Cat Wrangling.  I am here to tell you that wrestling alligators would have been easier.  Maine Coons are big and strong and these two were pissed off to boot.   The battle was legendary and I’m sorry it won’t show up on youtube.   I really can’t describe it well enough to do it justice; it was kind of like Gojira vs Mothra vs Hydra… on acid.    The first cat was more concerned with escaping this living hell and if he happened to get in a lucky shot at me, more the better.  The second cat, however, had just witnessed the  takedown of his buddy and he totally wanted to eat my face.  This added an extra layer of desperation to the struggle because I really kind of NEED my face.

After 40 MINUTES I get those two bastards back in their carriers and turn to #3, who has witnessed the two battles in complete silence.   He looks at me like “Don’t tase me, bro!” and simply rolls over and lets me slide him into the carrier like butter.   Eventually I get #1 back on the road, everyone else calmed and I head back home from bloody Fredericksburg.  I arrive home at 12:20.

At 1:20 my cell phone rings.  Yep.  #1. She shrieks “OH MY GOD, the cats all just SHIT!   They’ve shit themselves in the carriers, what do I do??”

Yes, I said it.

“Bitch, PLEASE. Keep driving”

The cats proceeded to crap themselves from Richmond to somewhere in North Carolina.   She couldn’t even open a window because it sets them all off again.   Cats scream murder until 4:20am.   Somewhere in South Carolina, my sister made another grave error.  Gassing up again, she felt so sorry for #3, because you know he was the GOOD cat that didn’t go all psycho kitty qu’est-ce que c’est.   So.  Yes, she lets him out.    And he was already covered in cat shit, right?

Remember the old circus commercials, with the motorcycle racing inside that sphere??   Do you?

Good, because that is precisely what happened, except that the cat spewed forth an unending fountain of urine and catshit as he raced sideways around the car. Every inch of the interior – BMW, leather – is coated and I mean SATURATED with cat urine and crap.  So was #1.   So was every item in the car.   She gets him re-crated and proceeds onward.

By 9am this morning, she’d only made it to Savannah.  She still can’t open a window and every mile southward bring the temperature up a tad.    I think she hit Tampa about 20 minutes ago, covered in excrement, with a car that is no longer a showpiece but an abomination needing to be burned.  And three huge furry cats that will somehow require bathing.  And that, my friends, is my poor sister ringing out the old year and bidding farewell to the state of Virginia.

But clearly it takes neither time nor energy to embarrass myself thoroughly.

I’m in my car (also known these days as the Rolling Trash Heap), on my way up to my sister’s, and I have my mp3 player plugged in and the volume cranked, just singing along at the top of my lungs to whatever comes up on shuffle.

I might have also been kind of lurching around in my seat in some pale imitation of dancing, except that I was seated so it probably just looked like a bad case of fleas.

But there I am! Loud! Probably offkey!  But I am belting it out!

And I glanced to my right at the stoplight, to see an elderly couple in the car next to me, staring at me with a look of combined horror and revulsion with just a dash of contempt.

I probably shouldn’t have had the window open if The Bloodhound Gang’s Bad Touch was playing at top volume.

It’s damned hard to slink away when you’re behind the wheel people.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
Canadian Army

I was helping a still-groggy Short Stuff down the stairs.  The sound of my husband doing dishes is echoing up the stairs… His Shortness remarks brightly “And I hear my DADDY!”   He paused on the stairs for a moment and looked up at me, puzzled.

“But… that do not SOUND like my DAD. That sound like YOU!”

*cries*

Now, my husband does do dishes.  But he usually does the night dishes, after Short Stuff has gone to bed.

And by that, yes, I do mean that I fell down went boom.

So anyway, during one of the Daily Rounds of Drama that last week served up, all steaming hot and fresh, I drove up to see one of my sisters, who isn’t doing so well.   After I’d taken her to get a Starbucks, she really really wanted me to go to see this carved Christ monument at the cemetary right next to her house.  Foolishly, I consented.

Now, it was about 10:00 at night and to quote another ridiculous saying, it was “darker’n the inside of a black dog”.  We parked my car outside of the gate and we trot along to the monument she wanted to show me.   I guess at dusk, motion sensor lights kick on and suddenly this large head of Christ appears on a curved wall?  I’m not certain because no lights were working at the moment and I was lucky I could see the wall.  From what I understand, the appearance of a giant glowing Christ face can be a bit unnerving if you aren’t expecting it, but clearly Jesus wasn’t going to pop up and say Boo or anything tonight.

I have to admit, the idea of Jesus Christ suddenly appearing and scaring people was sort of  all right, because you know He might be thinking some of us need a little Old Testament kind of reminder.

And you know,  SOME of us just had to go and poke THAT bear, even if we weren’t thinking about it.

And yeah ok SOME of us might be just ONE of us.

And so my sister and I are walking back to the car and she’s telling me how she’s seen people jump a mile when those light kick on and how Christ’s eyes appear to follow you.  I was half listening as we trudged across the grass, wishing I could see in the dark.  Mildly frustrated with my inability to see, I admit I took the Lord’s name in vain, oh yes I did.  And I had not even finished the last consonant when I got the smackdown.  One minute I was walking, muttering “Oh Chr…” and the very next instant was a 5 star, full body flailing that resulted in a megaton impact – my face and the dirt.

It was an EPIC fall.

My sister turned just in time to see the Eagle landing .  And rolling.  And coming to a grass-covered stop at her feet. I will say this, it cheered her up IMMENSELY.  She hasn’t been able to look at me since without laughing so hard she has to sit down.  “That’s what I get,” she gasped between giggles “for taking a heathen to see Christ!”

“You didn’t get anything but a good laugh,” I pointed out as I attempted to limp on both feet  (not easy).

I’m recovering nicely from the sprains and the bruise on my butt is just about gone.   And I’m trying very hard not to require any more Old Testament kind of lessons, thank you very much.

“and now,” crows J, “Let the Wild Grumpus start!”

“Honey, it’s rumpus. Let the wild rumpus start.”

“No, its GRUMPUS.  They’re angry.”

They zero in on the one of Short Stuff.

“Oh!  Is this your grandson??”

Aaaaaaaand right about there the rest of the day went to hell.

To salt the stinging flesh wound…  I am fairly certain someone else did this to me LAST year, too.   I keep trying to be a People Person, but the People?  They keep on making it hard.

“You know, America’s Test Kitchen recommends…”

“No.”

“But…”

“Ah! You’re suggesting!  I don’t care about America’s Test Kitchen; leave my recipes alone!”

“But…”

“Those items.  Exactly.”

“But…”

“Nope.  You’re lucky I cook, you know.  AND that I’m a good cook. “

“The slow cooker beef thing is good…”

“I know, I’ve been making it for…”

“… but I don’t like the chicken.”

(withering look)  “I’m not making chicken soup.  And I really need to get this started, so if you could….”

“Rutabaga???”

“…. by noon if…”

“Rutabaga.  Rutabaga. …… rutabaga.”

“…….”

“Rutabaga.”

“You do that every time I make this soup, you know.”

“What?”

“Start repeating the word rutabaga, over and over.”

“Well, I will now that you put the word in my head!”

(Jacob pipes up with a puzzled “what is a rutabaga??”  A brief Google break is called to pull up images of rutabagas.  The child thinks we’re nuts.)

“You know, Amer…”

“Quit. trying. to.  change.  the.  recipe.  You’ve put up with me for nearly ten years now, you know I know what I’m doing.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘put up with’!  I’ve enjoyed every single waking minute of these ten y…”

And that’s when we both dissolved into fits of howling laughter, because neither one of us could say it with a straight face.  We both know we’re living in the Twilight Zone.   And we’re hopeless….  we can’t have a single conversation without it turning into some sort of weird “Who’s On First” routine.

But we’re having soup tonight.  With rutabagas.

America’s Test Kitchen be damned.

And what if that’s not the only train on a collision course?

I mean, I know what the obvious answer is… get the hell out of the rail yards, for one.  But that’s easier said than done when people close to you are apparently taking leave of their wits and dynamiting those railroad tracks, blithely stating that it will let them see the path clearly…

Except the train is now heading for a massive derailment.

This has not been an easy week.   It’s hard to accept when you’ve got nothing in your tool bag, no superman cape, no magic wand.  Just your everyday, ordinary mortal who can’t do anything but witness the wreckage.

And hope I at least packed some bandaids for the aftermath.

Yeah, cryptic.   Could be about anything, could be about anyone.  Maybe.  But although I need to lessen some of this tight pressure in my chest by getting it out somewhere, I don’t feel comfortable naming specific details.  Forgive me.