The Benefits of Strep Throat

“Something is off,” I said in a rasp.

It was still dark outside, an early morning in the Midwest, as I prepared for the day. Two cats lounged in front of me, licking at their fur and stretching.  They were thoroughly unconcerned with the trials of their human-keeper.

I tried to swallow and felt razor blades cutting into my throat which was slightly more concerning than the sound of my voice.   Gingerly, I reached up to touch the affected area and discovered a golf ball sized gland just under my jaw and felt certain that it was not there last night.

One feline stopped grooming just long enough to acknowledge my ailing presence and meowed with a rather mean expression that seemed to say, “Just make sure we get our kibble.”

The two bullies left the room and their mistress for a pursuit of a higher calling, kicking litter out of their boxes.

Flushed with fever, I fanned my face. I had to get to work; there was the already overdue report that was only halfway done, clients in need of bus tickets, referrals, supportive listening, and my new coworker with a history of forgetting to return to work after lunch breaks who required constant supervision.  There was so much to do and such little time.  I couldn’t waste a single minute before Christmas, New Year’s, and the time off in between.  Could everything wait, I wondered with my soon-to-be-boiling-from-fever- brain?

“Yo, this some B.S. right here,” I could hear my coworker’s most used line as I felt the massive lump on my neck and tried to swallow again, as though the last time was an anomaly. The lump and pain were both still in place. After a quick inspection of the back of my throat in the mirror, white spots were added to the list of issues that led to a trip to Urgent Care where I was diagnosed with strep throat and kept from work for at least a day.

How dare they take me off work? I raged for about a minute and then accepted my quarantine orders. I read, napped, dutifully took my medicine and provided kibble to the gang of cats that rove through our tiny house and remembered the importance of taking care of me.

Sometimes it takes getting physically stopped in one’s tracks, rendered unable to eat or drink, and restricted from work to actually stop for a break and realize that if you give everything away, there’s nothing left for you or those who love you at home. I took the day and my antibiotics and returned to work rested and ready for the final push before the holidays.

I slowed down and re-prioritized, de-stressed, drank more tea than booze (until 12/31/16) and started saying no to unnecessary responsibilities.  And that’s how strep throat saved me in a painful and contagious sort of way from self-destructing over the holidays and with any luck in 2017.

Fine Dining

Feast
In an unusual spirit of generosity, I decided to prepare a special dinner for my girls.

I carefully considered the options from the fancy cat food shelf. Tuna or salmon, chicken livers or chicken in oil for the carnivorous cat and gluten-free, organic vegetarian options for the California cat. There was no shortage of choices so I grabbed a tasty chicken-like meat blend and headed home, excited for their reactions to this rare delicacy.

Six almond shaped eyes watched me as I divided up the can of smelly gunk into three little dishes. Only two of the six eyes showed any reaction, naturally belonging to the oldest and wisest of the pack.

Her tail might be skinny and her back balding, but her sense of smell was a keen as when she had a full set of teeth and thick, lush fur. Jibber-Jabber knew what a treat was about to be within a paw’s reach, the much sought after and desired canned cat food that she remembered from her kittenhood.

Jibber-Jabber sat anxiously where she expected her dish to be placed, next to her water bowl proudly reading, #1 Cat. She took this title seriously, especially when she had to deal with a young and foolish #2 and #3 cat.

They aren’t #1 Cat material, she mused while waiting. Her white whiskers twitched with impatience.

#2 and #3 mewed in anticipation of the hard, crunchy kibble to fill their dishes. They wanted the same kibble that filled their dishes every day and nourished their furry bodies and left them craving more.   Hard, crunchy kibble was to them what the white bread and peanut butter sandwich was to me growing up.  Change is hard and often unwanted.

They sniffed at the dishes with the wet cat food and stepped back in disgust. I got down on my hands and knees, scooped up a fingerful and offered it their sensitive, pink noses.

“Come on, just try a little taste. You will love it,” I promised.  It was the same kind of cajoling I used with my clients as I encouraged them to try new things, like budgeting.  Admittedly, I learned this type of negotiation from my own mother who swore I would like new things, if I just gave them a try, like lima beans and swimming.  Bleh.

The cats glared at me for what could only be considered treason in their small cat brains and left the kitchen.

In the meantime, Jibber-Jabber snorted and purred as she gulped down mouthfuls of the grey mush. She glanced over at her departing comrades with the simple and greedy joy that comes from not having to share the last piece of pizza or in this case a three course meal in which each course was the same, nasty wet cat food.

A job well done

Guest

“Do you need anything else?” I asked sweetly of our visitor.

I had just dropped off a towel, washcloth, and still boxed bar of soap. The sheets were clean and there was a working ceiling fan. Just shy of a little piece of chocolate on the pillow and the offer of a happy ending, the set-up was pretty luxurious for being free.

A cat sat on either side of me as I stood facing the man, their white whiskers twitched with mischief as they silently watched.

“No, thanks for everything. I should be fine for the night.”

A sly smile tugged at the side of my mouth knowing the terrors of the dark that he had yet to face. It was unlikely that he would “fine” by morning.  No matter, I bid him goodnight and shut the door.

It was not long after all of the lights were off and everyone was tucked into bed that the cats went to work. They started out as they do every night, with a song of their people, meowing back and forth between one another and sometimes all at once.  Occasionally, they harmonized but mostly tried to outdo each other with creative riffs and scats.

Once satisfied with the beautiful music that they created, they left to greet the newcomer. They knocked politely on the door with a soft paw and then more forcefully with both paws.  Perhaps they feared that he hadn’t heard their knocking as they started mewing demands to be allowed entry in addition to banging at the door.

I believe they stand on their hind legs to gain more leverage in their pummeling of doors.   This goes unconfirmed since I have only been on the receiving end of the knocks, on the side of the door to which they desperately wanted without really knowing why.

Like most of us, the cats are pushed and pulled by a current of life towards unknown destinies without any understanding other than this simple truth, there is no other way.

The next morning, our visitor appeared with dark circles under his eyes and his bags were already packed and waiting by the door.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Turns out I have things to take care of back home that just can’t wait.”

We waved goodbye from the door, while the cats supervised the departure from the window with pink noses pressed to the glass, most pleased with their night of work.

Jibber-Jabber Cat

Connected

While I’m writing, my precious cat, Jibber-Jabber, insists on draping herself over my shoulder or stretching out across my lap.  It doesn’t matter if I’m actively using a pen, she simply rolls and knocks it out of my hand and covers the pad of paper with her furry, white body.  Once she’s in place, she reaches her paw out to encourage a quick tummy rub.  Not too much or too long, she lovingly bites my arm to let me know when she’s had enough.  She purrs to show her satisfaction at achieving ultimate control.    

Clearly, she’s the boss of couch time and Sunday mornings in our house which makes her quite happy.  It’s hard to get anything done with Jibber-Jabber always lounging about and waiting for her opportunity to snuggle.  She left for a minute, likely to get a drink of water.  She’s always thirsty these days.   

She’s already on her way back  so I better write fast.

Jibber-Jabber and I have come a long way from the time she took up residency in our home.  I remember walking into our shabby one room apartment after class when an emaciated, greasy white flash streaked past me. It ran at top cheetah speed across the room and dove under the couch.  

I screamed, “What is that?”

Huge yellow eyes stared out at me from the safety of the couch.

“That is our new cat, babe.  She’s a Siamese.  Isn’t she great?  The pet store lady said she is practically still a kitten, a little shy but very special,” my life-partner then/husband now responded.

Jibber-Jabber remained under the bed or burrowed into the couch for the next month, coming out only for food and water.  I questioned how great she was after discovering she had ear mites, worms, and fleas and a thing for biting feet as they walked past her hiding spots. 

After six months, she started to gain weight and confidence and we realized she was not a Siamese cat.  She grew into a massive housecat, average in every way aside from her insatiable appetite.  After nine years, we knew for certain she was not shy, just riddled with unbearable anxiety.   While the pet store lady might have been wrong about the cat’s age and temperament, but she was right about one thing.

My once-little, now old and yellow-toothed Jibber-Jabber is special, really special, so I let her stay on my shoulder or in my lap and write around her.

Breakfast Favorite

“Whoa! Watch where you’re going!”

A bird flew from a bush with a great commotion of flapping and feathers. It landed on a branch on top of a pile of sticks a few steps away from the bush from which it burst and glares. The little bird redefined the cliché’ if looks could kill as it continued to stare at the intruder with beady, black eyes.

“Must be something good in there, eh little bird?” the intruder purred with a throaty voice and crept closer to the bush.

Sure enough, a nest was tucked into a low crook in the scrub bush. It was loving sewn together by beak and claw, made of twigs, trash, mud, and a piece of string. The nest was dangerously low, just low enough for a little peek by any curious, four-legged passerby.

“Eggs! There’s four blue eggs in there!”

The still-warm orbs nestled together in the center of the nest, siblings through the shell.

And through the next life.

The cat reached up with one furry, violent paw and whacked the nest down to the ground already littered with fading mulch and dead leaves. Speckled blue eggs rolled out over the debris in zig-zag paths. Each egg was neatly stopped by the pink, waiting tongue of the cat that loves scrambled eggs.

Mullygrubs

  
Rainy days are the worst, unless you have the freedom to curl up with a good book and wait for the world to dry out.

As for me, I am at home allegedly working. My work phone rings and I watch it buzz and vibrate like a trapped cicada. It is my prisoner and I don’t choose to be a kind guard today.

Dripping, grey skies bring out the bad employee in me. It brings out the whining, resistant to change, let’s-push-everything-out-until-Monday, really bad employee. Normally, I am at least half way compliant, sort of positive, and willing to tolerate company shenanigans. 

Another call comes in, this time from the couch as I sit in this impossibly hard-backed chair.

“Come, have a lay down. Your book is welcome, too.”

I try to find another reason to resist.

I am almost done with Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. A day like this would be perfect to find out what happens in Texas, his last stop. It is likely more of nothing, just another case of the mullygrubs. Still, I need to know.

Plus, my priorities are set around escaping reality, especially when Monday through Friday, so this would play right into my main objective.

Before committing to anything, I ask, “What about the cats?”

“Don’t be silly. They’re already here, waiting for you.”

As if on cue, the little one looks over the arm of the couch and gives me a sleepy mew. I see she has been warming up my favorite spot. The other two are curled up, deep in their normal 20 daily hours of beauty sleep.

My will power is weakening and I am walking towards the big, tan beast that beckons from the next room.

Just a quick nap, I bargain with myself and promise to work twice as hard in twenty minutes. Closing my eyes, I briefly consider that rainy days might not be the worst, after all.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=mullygrub

6 Tips on Preparing for a Job Interview

On preparing for a job interview
1. Don’t go out drinking the night before with your old college roommates. Celebration shots should come after a job offer, not before the interview.

2. Do remember what you wrote in the cover letter about all of the “relevant” experience you bring to the position.

3. Eat breakfast – passing out in front of your future boss and co-workers will definitely leave an impression, but not the best one to start building your street cred’.

4. Lint roll the cat hair off your best (only) suit. Hiss and show your teeth at the cats if they try to approach to re-apply. Don’t trust the purring, they don’t have your best intentions at heart.

5. Leave early- the world will conspire to make you late.

6. Take a deep breath and relax, you were made for this.

  

Deja vu sewer days

I am in a reflective mood, thoughtful and quiet, possibly poisoned by the noxious sewer gases creeping up through the wooden floor boards. Yes, the sewer lines are clogged from tree roots, the head of my niece’s Pretty Pony, and whatever else fell into the “terlet” over the past year.
Black sludge oozes from the relief pipe in the front yard, and pools around the laundry room drain. This situation is not going to fix itself and there is no more time left to wait it out. The smell of rotting debris and human waste hastens us towards action or insanity.

Dark, wet crumbs from the litter box are now mixed in the laundry room mess. It appears that the cats, unable to restrain themselves from the lure of the unknown, ran through the growing sludge pool. Something about the way it felt then triggered them to streak and spin through the rest of the house like berserkers.

These are the days that pets and home ownership are more of a delight than usual.

For once, we know what to do after catching the cats and cleaning off their dirty feet.

“Call the guy,” I say.

“What guy?” my husband asks, not quite on the same page yet.

“The guy. You know the one who came out last year.”

“Oh him, already called him. He’ll be here before lunch.

You see, one year ago, the same thing happened after less than a month of living in this house. I remember the day clearly because it contained a series of unfortunate events, beginning with the pilot light to the water heater whiffing out. We tried everything to restart it without success. On the positive side, we also didn’t manage to blow ourselves or house up. So we begrudgingly agreed to race through ice-cold showers before calling for help, which is when the tub started to fill with dark water. The shower plan was immediately cancelled.

Then we noticed the water in the toilet rising higher and higher. If this wasn’t the effects of global warming, then it was surely the end of the world. We looked outside, certain that this was the apocalypse. Perhaps the rapture was about to take place?

Instead of the good souls being taken up into the skies, black sludge spewed forth from a white pipe in the front yard, just like today.  I flashed back with a shudder, it was all so familiar.  Still not the end of days…

We survived a year ago just like we will today, only this time we know who to call for help.

May this house stand until an ant drinks the ocean and a tortoise circles the world.

Jonathan Carroll

The Slow Blink

The slow blink, it’s a sign of sleepiness or a medical condition in humans. In cats, however, it’s a form of communication. Some say that slow blinking at or between cats is like sending a kitty kiss and that it signals the slow-blinker as non-threatening. I always thought it was a way to show dominance (wrong) and to force the recipient into submission (also wrong) which is likely why I never received the expected response from my furry friends.

Somehow the silent message sent with the slow blink and the unbroken stare got mixed in my mind, as well as the fact that these techniques should only be used on felines not supervisors or presenters at business meetings.

It was a simple mistake, easily made by anyone who works from home and spends too much time away from people.

Yesterday, I regretfully tried to slow blink a presenter at a meeting in hopes of making him go away. He stood behind a podium reading numbers off of a power point slide which is definitely a presenting no-no, even for a head honcho.

As peon in the back row of the room, I had what I thought to be a secret weapon. I was going to slow blink him into submission and away from the podium. He would slide quietly into his chair while declaring the meeting adjourned, thus releasing his captive audience back to their respective work areas. I was going to be a hero.

I started the slow blink when he looked in my general direction, preparing for the basic and total submission.

Instead, we got nada-nothing-zip-zero response, just a disturbed look of annoyance, and another half hour of numbers and projections in the same monotone voice.

This prompted me to review the slow blink and its effectiveness.

Readers, it really is only meant for cats.

http://www.petsadviser.com/behaviors/cats-blink-slowly-at-you/

http://www.mewsletter.com/ask-fancy/cat-slow-blink

http://cats.about.com/od/amyshojai/a/Cat-Talk-Cat-Eye-Blink.htm

The Best of Apartment Living: a retrospective look

1.Rent
It is money that you never see again and good riddance to bad rubbish- who needs all those bills weighing down your pockets or cluttering up your savings account/fireproof lock box hidden under your bed.

2.Snow Removal/Lawn Care
There is always a boozy smelling guy salting, scraping, and shoveling in the winter or mowing and blowing in the summer making the complex a safer, nicer place to live in between trips to the work shed for his “medicine”.

3.Third hand contact buzzes
Pot smokers turn on their bathroom fan to clear out the smell of cheap weed which gets recirculated throughout the rest of the building thanks to the most up to date ventilation system of the 1950’s.

“What’s that smell you ask, Granny? Someone must be cooking something with a lot of herbs in it.”

“What’s that, Granny? Now you would really like something chocolaty or maybe a bag of chips?”

4.Broken Water Pipes
Since doing the right thing isn’t always the cheapest thing, broken water pipes get repaired with saran wrap and duct tape. Renter’s insurance should replace anything that gets ruined by ice cold brown water that has been in waiting to rain down since last winter, when the exact same thing happened to the last tenants.

5.Meeting people like the tomato-growing-cat-protector
She started by setting out a dish of food for a stray cat and ended up feeding and sheltering an entire colony of feral cats- all this between the buckets of tomatoes that she grew underneath of the stilted stairs and deck area of the apartments that faced the pond. Surprisingly enough, someone complained to management about the colony and the buckets of tomatoes. The tomato-growing-cat-protector was asked to stop feeding the colony and the cat boxes were mysteriously removed – to which she responded by replacing the boxes, leaving out bigger dishes of food, and bringing the ones she could catch to live in her apartment.

She was asked to leave the apartment complex by eviction notice- apparently harboring a colony of feral cats breaks the no-pet rule but the tomatoes were ok.