creative writing, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

This Message is Jezebel-Approved, Good News, and So Forth

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Jezebel likes it. Whatever it is.

I love black cats, and I especially appreciate Jezebel.  I acquired Miss Jezebel in October of 2012- she was live trapped on the body shop lot when the owner of the shop requested we trap some feral cats for him to transport up to his horse barn.  I told Jerry that the shop owner could have any cats we trapped, but if one happened to be a young, black female kitten that I wanted it.  We trapped several cats- some grey kittens, a couple of adult calicos and so forth, but one night we ended up with the Perfect Cat.  Young (about 7 weeks,)  all black, and female.  The only problem with Jezebel at that time was that she was feral, and fiercely so.

I warned Jerry to handle her with welding gloves…at least until we could get her through a socialization process.  He learned the hard way that kitten baby teeth can still penetrate (and latch on to) the webbing between one’s forefinger and thumb, and that something that weighs less than a pound can inflict a shit ton of damage under the right circumstance.

There is a process for taming feral kittens which is generally effective (this site outlines it well under “Taming Feral Kittens” ) and it took about 2 weeks with Jezebel.  Now it would be hard to tell that she was ever feral as well as she gets along with people, other cats, and dogs.  This is probably only because we got to her very young.   She’s probably the most laid back cat I’ve had with the exception of Miz Izz, may she rest in peace.  Isabel was also a tamed feral, but Isabel was even younger than Jezebel was when we got her.    Older cats usually don’t do too well.

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Jezebel is 2 years old and all of 5#.  Almost exactly the same size Isabel was.

Miss Jezebel is not my only cat.  I also have Fanny, who is 17# of big, fat cat.  Fanny was bigger than Jezebel is now by the time Fanny was four months old. It’s strange how the variations work, but Fanny was of what I would call rural barn cat stock, while Isabel and Jezebel were city ferals.  Even the male city ferals around us are nowhere near as large as Fanny.  Perhaps small size has its advantages in the city.

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Fanny only looks small in the first pic.  In the second, the freezer gives one a sense of scale.

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This is F.B. (Fluffy-Butt) who generally won’t allow pictures.  She’s a sweet cat, but very reclusive.

F.B. is our only normal sized cat.  We inherited her several years ago when we got Heidi, but we really don’t know much about her other than she was spayed and that she was a few years younger than Heidi.  If I had to guess her current age she’s somewhere between 11 and 13.  The first six months or so that we had her she pretty much lived under the basement stairs, but now she is social with the other cats and the dogs.

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It’s baaa-ck!

My awesome ride has finally been returned to me, thankfully with a flawless paint match and with everything lined up as it should be.  There was a smattering of body dust on the inside of the decklid from where it had been repaired, but other than that no real reason to split hairs.  I’d almost forgotten how much better the stereo is in the Corolla vs. the truck.  Now I just have to get used to the shift pattern again (traditional Toyota 5 speed vs. the sort-of-screwy VW shift pattern that Toyota uses on the 6 speeds)  and the brakes.  I almost put myself through the windshield a couple of times this morning.  The brakes are a lot more touchy.

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Steel Panther- yeah!

Speaking of reasons to crank up the stereo.  I know they’re vulgar, sophomoric, puerile and vile, but I recently discovered an ’80’s hair band knockoff called Steel Panther.  This stuff is positively hilarious.  The video for  “Community Property” . is pretty good as well as is the one  for “Pussywhipped” although I would caution not to watch that one if you are offended by depictions of ball sacks.   I also enjoy the inspirational, “Just Like Tiger Woods.”

It’s a pretty good day.  Especially for being in February.

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assorted rants, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy, theology

Death, Life Beyond Miz Izz, and Something Else to Say

Isabelnotamused

So I haven’t been around for awhile.  There’s a few reasons for that.  Let’s start off by saying I hope no one else in my sphere dies anytime soon.  Death sucks.  Especially when it’s Miz Izz.

I acquired Miz Izz- Isabel- as a four-week old (it’s really easy to estimate young kittens’ age) that had been abandoned in a grocery store parking lot.  What amazed me is that a typical feral cat, even one that tiny, would have at least tried to run or fight, but not Isabel. She let me scoop her up and take her home.  As if she belonged.  And she did.

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This is Jezebel at 9 weeks- she and Isabel were virtually identical as far as looks and build.

Had Isabel lived another month she would have been 16 years old.  But her poor little body just couldn’t take any more.  She had always been petite and somewhat frail, and she had become even more so when she developed a condition called “pillow foot” or more correctly, plasma cell pododermatitis. Suffice to say this is a nasty condition, and Isabel had it rather severely.  At times her paws would swell up so much they would bleed and I would have to take her to get shots- which helped for awhile, but then she became too fragile for the meds (prednisone and doxycycline.)

Maybe I shouldn’t miss an old, fragile black cat with set ways and a loud voice.  But I do.

Death can be a mercy, especially when someone is suffering and there isn’t any real fix for it, when there’s no longer any good life to be had. My last good memory of Isabel was of her greedily snapping up pieces of top sirloin as we shared a steak.  The dogs were outside of course, and the only two cats that were ever bold enough to ever approach my Steak Experience were Isabel and Jezebel.  Jezebel is a bit more restrained, but Isabel never had a problem getting right up close to get her little bits of gristle and fat.  That was the last time I can say I knew Isabel was still enjoying being a cat.  I buried her a week later.

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Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

I admit that I fight with the idea that humane euthanasia is OK when a cat or a dog is suffering and they have gotten beyond what I would call “good life to be had,” but the same concept doesn’t apply to humans.  I understand, at least from a spiritual and theological view, that God is the Author of life. Since humans are made in His image, we generally don’t have the authority to take human life away.  (Capital punishment is an exception to the general prohibition against taking human life, and so is just war, but those are topics worthy of their own separate and detailed discussions.  Suffice to say that I believe in the merits of both, in the proper circumstances.)

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It is morally right to put a cat or a dog to sleep when he or she is suffering and he or she stops enjoying being a cat or a dog.  Euthanasia for humans is not acceptable even when it would seem to be a mercy.

As far as the higher purpose of human suffering, I’ll be the first to say I don’t get it.

Not that I would put a human life into the same (noble but still lower) category as the life of Miz Izz, but my mother-in-law had been suffering and confined to a wheelchair for most of the time that Miz Izz walked the earth.  My mother-in-law died last Saturday after being confined to a wheelchair for 15 years, suffering with rheumatoid arthritis, congestive heart failure and a laundry list of other maladies.  Her last two weeks were particularly brutal.

I don’t believe in euthanasia for humans- not ever- but sometimes I’ve got to ask God why.  Isabel pretty much enjoyed her cat life up until the last week of it. Granted happiness for cats is fairly easy- somewhere to sleep, food to eat and somewhere to drop a load.  Human life is a lot more complicated, but still, why did Jerry’s Mom have to suffer for so freaking long?

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Hospice is a great help for those who are actively dying, but it can only mitigate the process.

Worse than her dying was the funeral. I understand Southern Baptist soteriology (understanding of the mechanism of salvation) pretty well.  “Turn or Burn” is pretty standard fare at SB funerals, but to the uninitiated, it is about as anti-PC as one can get.  You don’t get a funeral message too often that includes, “Do you know where you’ll be if you get hit by a truck on the way out of here?”

Jerry’s sisters were a bit taken aback.  I had tried to give Steve-o a heads up on SB soteriology before the funeral so he wouldn’t freak out. His religious understanding has pretty much been shaped by growing up in a Lutheran church, so the really fundamental interpretations of SB soteriology would sound a bit bat-shit crazy to him.  Mom has confused him enough by trying to throw in the Catholic earn – your -points system.

I grew up around Regular Baptists (even more of the “Turn or Burn” mentality than the SBs) so I know all too well there could possibly be an altar call.  There wasn’t.  He did do the Sinners’ Prayer though.  I have to hand it to the preacher for preaching the gospel instead of offering pallid platitudes on how much life sucks and then you die, ya – da ya-da. At least Steve-o had a heads up.

Lutherans don’t do altar calls.  Our pastors do occasionally mention hell, but not usually at funerals.

It just seems strange to me. Life and death and all of that.

 

 

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary

2012 Pretty Much Sucked, Here’s Hoping 2013 Sucks Less

obama economy responseIf we could have unloaded this asshat, it would have been a far better year.  But even in spite of Obama, the apocalypse is still pending, so that counts for something.

Then again, if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass when he lands. I should try to be a bit more serene about things I can’t change, but I’m still outraged that anyone as anti-American and incompetent as Obama can hold steal the office of president.  I’m more outraged that he cheated to get there and no one will do anything about all the voter fraud that went on.  May 2013 bring Dick Nixon part deux. Congress needs to grow a pair and impeach Obama with the quickness, but Obama is too pompous and narcissistic and delusional to just resign and leave peacefully.  I know, I can’t stand this guy and the more I see of the damage he’s doing to this country with his Marxist agenda, the more I positively loathe him.

In fairness, this past year was sort of a mixed bag.  The weather was mercurial as it always is in Central Ohio.  I will mention that I’ve never seen as much snow on the ground at one time here in Columbus than what I’m seeing right now.  I’ve seen lots more snow at one time up north in the hinterlands, but I’ve personally not seen more than 6 inches of snow on the ground at one time here.

The White Death arrives- just in time for Target to put out the bathing suits and summer fashions.  Yippee yahoo.  Last year, by January 15, there was a delightful selection of swimwear, shorts, halter tops and other seasonally inappropriate attire throughout the women’s clothing section of Target.  Not a pair of long johns or a parka to be found when it’s 5° outside, but there’s loads of tankini bottoms to be had.  I just think that’s funny.

tankinisHappy New Year!  It’s 5°!  Let’s get our tans started early!

January is, statistically, the coldest month of the year here in beautiful Central Ohio.  Temperatures here are not swimsuit appropriate until at least the middle of May or the beginning of June.  I don’t buy clothes six months in advance.  It makes me wonder just how many people are buying swimsuits in the middle of January.  I can understand if you have an indoor pool or a membership to an indoor pool, or if you vacation in fairer climes during the winter, but aside from that, we poor folks have no reason for swimsuits in January.  That also begs the question: how many people who have indoor pools, or can afford pool memberships or expensive vacations, shop for clothing at Target?   Rich people do go to Target, but only because they need toilet paper and Glade products too.  You can’t buy Angel Soft at Macy’s, or refills for your Glade plug-ins at Nordstrom’s.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love Target.  It’s cleaner, and there are more English-speaking people than in WalMart.   The WalMart closest to me is a real life Zombie Apocalypse that I refuse to patronize since spending 20 minutes early one morning trying to find a cashier when I was trying to buy a jug of Pennzoil.

zombie_warnThis place is too scary for pictures, and I am not easily distressed.

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I also hope and pray not to have to visit the ER anytime soon.  That was the worst hospital stay I’d had since the Murphy’s Law Childbirth Experience from Hell.   Even when I was strapped to the bed and damned near made my Final Exit I don’t think anyone called me Mildred or asked about my diarrhea.  And I didn’t have to be bunkmates with a howler monkey either.  The only bright light in that hospital excursion was the two young, hot paramedics and the one nice looking male nurse in the ER, even if he did call me Mildred and ask about my diarrhea.

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Contrary to popular opinion, once the hospital staff learned I was NOT Mildred, tests revealed I actually do have a heart, though like the rest of me, it’s not quite normal.

On the bright side, nobody important to me (i.e. personal friends or relatives) died this year which is always a plus.  I actually got a really cool birthday present this year, which means even more considering that people generally forget my birthday.  My granddaughter was born at 11:50 PM on February 25- ten minutes before my birthday.  That was really cool.

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Kids do grow fast.  Now she’s 10 months old and running- and into everything.

As far as my own personal household, the only “kids” living at home have four legs and fur.  Against my better judgment (but I couldn’t resist…) we have four cats again.  Jezebel is one of the (formerly) feral cats Jerry trapped behind the body shop.  There were a total of four.  The two grey ones and the black and white one ended up going to the body shop owner’s horse barn to help keep the rodent life in check.  We kept Jezebel because she is all black. Black cats do not fare well in feral settings and they’re not really safe as barn cats either.  They are much safer (as is any cat, truth be told) as strictly indoor cats.  Jezebel is now very much a strictly indoor cat.  Like Isabel, she shows no interest regarding what’s beyond the door.  The week before Halloween when she was trapped, she had to be handled with welding gloves.  Jerry found this out the hard way when she got her mouth on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and latched on for dear life.

366Whachoo lookin’ at, Willis?

In eight weeks Miss Jezebel has made a dramatic change.  She is shamelessly attention and food-seeking.  She is just as bold as her mentor, Isabel (who is 14 years old and also all black) in her dealings with the dogs.  Jezebel has become a perfect, prissy indoor cat.  I just hope she doesn’t get in heat before her spay appointment March 5.

I hope the coming year is better- personally, nationally, financially, health-wise, etc.  My expectations aren’t that high, so I shouldn’t be too disappointed.

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assorted rants, dogs, historical interest, misanthropy, political commentary, theology

Stop Misanglody, Jezebel’s First Road Trip, and Lilo’s Butt Funk

equal rightsBack in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s there were a lot of Americans who weren’t terribly fond of the Irish.

Misanglody (N): 1.)The condition of loathing all things white, Anglo-Saxon and/or Protestant.  2.) A rather pervasive and pernicious form of racism prevalent in the United States, generally ignored when directed against traditional white conservatives. 3.) Cracka-hating.

Granted, a lot of the fear generated in the late 19th and early 20th centuries regarding immigration to the U.S. had more to do with religion than country of origin.  Many people in this country were afraid of Catholics (because of their belief in the primacy of the pope and the fact that the Mass was said in Latin rather than in English) and were afraid the Catholics would take over.   This sounds sort of crazy today but before Vatican II, Catholics referred to other Christians (i.e. Protestants and Orthodox) as “heathens.”  Today Catholics have a more beneficent term for Protestants and Orthodox: “separated brethren.”

That’s a little nicer, but as someone who was raised in Catholicism, I will tell you that the Catholics still teach that their goal on this earth is to convert others (including Protestants and Orthodox) to Catholicism.  If you’re a Protestant or Orthodox, according to Catholics, you might be Christian, but you don’t have the Faith in its completeness.  Catholic theology is an interesting study- and as a confessional Lutheran I am not too far removed from it, but I don’t subscribe to it 100% either.  I got lost on the pope thing as well I got lost on the prayers to dead people thing.  To each his or her own, and I know a lot of Catholics that live good Christian lives, but I can’t consider myself to be a Catholic because I don’t subscribe to Catholicism 100%. That’s one of the Catholic Rules, that you agree 100% with their rules.  Which makes me a Protestant by definition. Just sayin’.

indulgencesThis was some of the same stuff Martin Luther had problems with 500 years ago.  I’m not saying all Catholics are party to the corruption, or that Protestants are scandal-free, but it’s still there.  Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Today most Americans aren’t particularly wicky about either Irish people (though I know a few people who aren’t really fond of Bono) or Catholics, which is a good thing.  I don’t have a problem with Catholics other than I don’t entirely agree with them, and as far as Irish people go I can’t say much, because a good number of my ancestors are English and Scots- just different parts of the same island.

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Anyway, the point is that racism (as well as the myth that freedom of religion means freedom from religion) in this country should be a thing of the past.  It’s not, and it shouldn’t be, acceptable to use the “n” word or other racially derisive terms in public discourse.  But it seems to be perfectly OK to lampoon the “Cracka Nation” with impunity, and when white people say anything about it they get responses such as,

“White people don’t understand racism,”  or worse, “You can’t be racist against whites.”  Really?

I beg to differ, and hence, I bring to light the phenomenon of misanglody.

The popular culture is full of examples of the bumbling, inept WASP male and/or the ditzy WalMart queen WASP female.  Even in advertising, take notice how often the fall guy is a white guy.  To someone who only sees American culture from what they watch on TV, they might leave with the misconception that all white guys are Larry the Cable Guy (no offense to Larry the Cable Guy, but not all white men cut the sleeves off their shirts) and all white women are just like Honey Boo Boo’s mother.

not accurateI have body hair issues but even I don’t have five o’clock shadow like that.  Nor do I have three chins.

I do admit there are aspects of white culture that deserve the derision they get.  One is British cuisine.  Haggis and kidney pie do NOT sound appetizing in any remote fashion.  My ancestors may be Scots, but I can’t bring myself to eat mutton in any form.  The dogs eat mutton because that’s what’s in their dog food, but dogs lick their own butts and eat cat shit any time they get the opportunity to do so.  Just because the dogs eat something doesn’t mean it’s edible for humans.   I really don’t get the idea behind eating kidneys either.  I do eat sushi, (on the rare occasion I can afford good sushi) which might not make too much sense, but I just can’t get beyond the gross factor on haggis or kidneys.  Head cheese is another one I can’t get.  The fun fact about head cheese is that it is not cheese at all.

Haggis-001Do you eat the stomach “casing” too? Ewwwwwww!

So called “white supremacists” deserve the derision they get as well.  Hitler is not a role model.  Obama is not white, but he also is not a role model for the same reason.  Both Hitler and Obama are racists, just against different groups.  Anyone who goes around spouting hate against other races and nationalities- as opposed to pointing out faulty ideology or bad public policy- deserves to be called out for it.  I don’t believe white people are any better than anyone else, but I don’t believe we’re any worse either, unless you are taking into account that most of us can’t dance.

alcoholI couldn’t dance even when I could drink.

On another note, Miss Jezebel went on her first road trip yesterday.  I decided since I had to take Lilo to the vet yesterday to get meds for her re-occuring butt funk (seborrhagic dermatitis) that I would take Jezebel as well because she’s had a slight but lingering bit of the eye crusties and some sneezing.  So Miss Jezebel rode up to the vet’s tucked into my hoodie.  At least I have a closer estimate on her age (12-14 weeks) and have verified her gender.  Jezebel is definitely a girl.  She didn’t seem to mind the road trip at all, and was most compliant even getting eye ointment (most cats loathe this) and taking liquid Amoxicillin.  Usually I really hate giving cats either eye drops or liquids by mouth, because they normally hate it and it’s a good way to get scratched and/or bitten.  She has gotten through two doses of each without much fuss.  Let’s hope it’s that easy for the rest of the 10 days.

366So far, I can even give her meds without resorting to welding gloves again.

Lilo is the easiest creature on the planet to medicate.  She will even take Keflex without protest (getting it down Clara was an adventure, and yes, it does taste nasty) as long as it’s included in a bite of cottage cheese.  The combo of Keflex and Prednisone will clear up her butt funk, but I feel for her.  She does great with oral meds but isn’t so cool with the bath part of the treatment.  Baths were not suggested for Jezebel, which is quite fine with me.

liloallhangoutMost of the time Lilo is mellow.  Except when her butt itches.

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assorted rants, cougardom, gratuitous self pity, historical interest, misanthropy

Beyond the Void, Someone to Talk To, and Miscellaneous Tidbits

hell_is_realI know where this sign is.  You can see it on southbound I-71, somewhere in Madison County- between Columbus and Cincinnati.

I don’t like to think about that most terrible place I think of as simply the void, but I was reminded of it in of all places in church this week.  It’s that bone chilling, thought shattering, crushing experience of being everywhere and nowhere and immersed in grinding, mind-blowing pain that is brought on by extreme trauma, whether it be emotional or physical.  Stephen King sort of describes it in his short story, “The Jaunt.”  What I mean by the void is a sort of airless, timeless limbo that is between time and space (if that’s possible to comprehend.)  It’s the moment in which you are hit with unspeakably horrific, life-shattering news and the grief and disbelief and shock hit you like a tidal wave- and worse.

In “The Jaunt,” the entry into the void was a bit different.  A scientist discovered that teleporting things almost instantly across space was possible, but that live animals and humans only made it through “the jaunt” if they were anesthetized.  Live animals came through the process aged and weak and died shortly after arriving at their destination- and the few humans that attempted it came out on the other side certifiably insane.

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Maybe King’s story isn’t the best analogy, but it’s the closest reference I can find to those times in which the wind is knocked out of you, you are transported to an airless, breathless, motionless state, and your world falls apart.  It’s infinity in there.  And not in a good way.  It’s what I would imagine to be a tiny sampling of hell- and no I’m not referring to the BMV.  I have to go there soon enough for the dreaded driver’s license mug shot, for which no matter what I do it will turn out positively frightening and should say “Correctional Institute Inmate” on the picture somewhere, because yes, my driver’s license pics have always been That Bad.  Even so, I’d gladly take an hour at the BMV waiting on having a shitty picture taken vs. one millisecond of the void.  Believe that.

mclovin-oldMy driver’s license is valid, but the pic is just as bad.

I don’t like to be reminded of the void or of the times I’ve been there.

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However, as far as psychological pain goes, I am almost always a delayed reactor.  I can only think of one time that I completely fell apart instantaneously, and that is when I got the news about my four year old niece being killed, which was completely unforeseen.  It seems that in order for me to fall apart I have to be caught off guard.

For years I dealt with- (and at times, still do deal with) post traumatic stress, which is the gift that keeps on giving, those brief illogical terrors that show up unbidden and in the least likely of places for the most bizarre reasons.  One of the most memorable unbidden episodes was back when I was working a really crappy job.  The only thing that kept me from going nuts in that place was that they sent me out to run titles from time to time.  It’s not rocket science but it does give you a lot of time to yourself.  You find the title offices of surrounding counties and turn in the paperwork so people who just bought cars get their titles registered and all that crud.  Most of the time back then, title offices were in the courthouse in whatever county seat so I got to investigate some really cool old 19th century courthouses.  Today public buildings might as well be prisons, but back in the day architects built things not only to last, but for their aesthetic value.  That part of the title running thing was almost fun.

courthouseThis is the courthouse in Marion County.  I hope that the powers that be don’t decide to tear this one down too.

I had to go to Union County, which was only about a half an hour out.  The title office had temporarily been moved to the old high school which was slated for demolition, while the new county building was being built.  So I find my way through the vestibule and follow the arrow upstairs.  The staircases were well-worn and crumbling, but the metal framework beneath them was holding fast.  I had a really strange feeling in that building, as if I were violating someone, or something’s space.  I found the temporary title office, completed the transfers, and as I was leaving, a huge framed glass and gold leaf memorial caught my eye.

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I don’t have a pic of the Union County memorial that was in that high school, but this memorial displays a similar concept.

It was a memorial of WWI veterans who came from that school.  There were at least fifty names on that memorial, and I believe eight of those names had stars next to them, indicating that they had been killed in action. I wasn’t able to linger there long.  For such a small, rural town to lose that many was sad, but the fact that the memorial was in a high school sort of struck me.  These weren’t old men.  This wasn’t a picture of grinning old men reminiscing over old times at the bar in the VFW.  These were kids just out of high school- boys who either came home jaded and scarred, or never came home at all.   I don’t know how to describe the wave of emptiness and profound grief that washed over me that day, but I had to run back to the car as fast as I could, and for some reason I was overcome with sadness and rage and I don’t know what else.  I wept over strange young men who I had never met, who had experienced terrors beyond anything I could imagine, and to this day I have no idea why.

On a brighter note, I remembered that I haven’t put up any pics of my newest kitty, Jezebel.  Jezebel was one of the feral kittens Jerry trapped back on the shop lot the week before Halloween.  The other three went to the owner of the body shop’s horse barn to keep the vermin away from the horses.  I wasn’t planning on another cat, but Jezebel, well, she’s all black.  All black cats don’t fare well in feral or outdoor settings, so we made her a house cat.  The first week or so she had to be handled with a welding glove (this is sort of normal with feral kittens.)  Now she is very social and fond of human attention, Isabel (and she looks just like a mini-Isabel) and really isn’t fazed by much of anything, including dogs.    The key to socializing cats is getting them before the socialization window more or less closes at 12 weeks.  These kittens were about 6 or 7 weeks when we found them, which is the perfect age to socialize them.  They can eat solid food and live OK without Mommy, so the mortality rate is low, but they can still learn to get along with humans, other cats and dogs.

Jezebel instantly gravitated to Isabel, (who is also all black) which we are grateful for because Miz Izz loves other cats and has always been good at schooling youngsters.  So now I have a 14 week or so old kitten who is going to have to be spayed here in the next few weeks.  But Jezebel is already a really good cat.  No welding gloves are currently required.

366Jezebel- “Mini-Izz”

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assorted rants, cougardom, creative writing, gratuitous self pity, misanthropy

I Thought I’d Have a Bit More Time, and Other Famous Last Thoughts

I knew it would happen eventually.  I hoped for more time, not so much for me, but for the illustrious POMC to finish school and to already be gainfully employed and independent from the parental units before informing me that I am soon to be a grandmother.  Really.

I also hoped that he would be married to the baby mama at that point too, but at least he didn’t fertilize either Jezebel or Psycho Chick (his two previous girlfriends) and he’s been in a fairly stable relationship with the baby mama.

Marriage and employment aside, this potential train wreck could be a lot worse.

I can’t say that I’m angry.  I’m not angry.  I’ve been there.  Steve-o wasn’t planned either.  Life happens and life is messy with all the details and you have to work your way through.  Having a child at age 20 (and she’s 18 for heaven’s sake) is no easy endeavor.  Far be it from me to add fuel to the fire and make a hard situation even more difficult.  Hearing my critique and commentary isn’t going to make anything better. No sense in shutting the barn door once the horse is already out.  Steve-o at least wants to be a man and be a dad to his child- and I will do whatever I can to back him up with that.  He’s seen too many of his friends in situations where their babies’ mothers don’t want them around and one thing Steve-o does want is for his kid to have a mom and a dad and for him to actively participate in his family’s life.  I hope he means what he says, and I think he does.  After all, his sperm donor wasn’t particularly interested in him.  He knows what it’s like.  The thought of his own child having a dad who doesn’t care is particularly repulsive to him- as it should be.

Dad is pissed.  Dad will be pissed for a few more days until he finally realizes the futility of attempting to shut the barn door and then he will come around.  His desire to see and have contact with his first great-grandchild will win out.   I do think the whole parenting dimension will make it more challenging for Steve-o to finish school and make something of himself, but it will no means be impossible.  Steve-o does have an incredible talent for doing what he needs to do when he really wants to do it.  Will he care enough about his offspring to do so?  Only time will tell, but he certainly doesn’t need my cynicism and despondency to get in his way.

I was sort of surprised at Mom’s reaction.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she wasn’t nearly as pissy as Dad.   I know she’s pissed at Steve-o for not keeping his business in his pants, but I don’t think she’s completely disappointed at the prospect of a new baby.  Life is life and things happen for a reason.  Some people try and try to conceive and can’t- or some people, like me, could only have one child.

Of course, in my elderly cougardom the only thing keeping me from rehydration via party keg is that alcohol wreaks havoc with my blood sugar and with my blood pressure meds.  I am thankful in a dark sort of way that I am not going to have to endure all the pregnancy discomforts- a sort of  “better thee than me” scenario.  I already have vintage stretch marks and a lovely c-section scar (recently accompanied by its parallel hysterectomy scar)  that haven’t gone anywhere in 20+ years.  Even if I still had the necessary equipment I am way too old for that noise.  I am going to refrain from sharing the Murphy’s Law as it Pertains to the Childbirth from Hell story with them.  Some things are better left unshared, especially with a very young couple that has just been enlightened as to the existence of a third party.

I’ll have to be the poor sucker out there scouting about for baby clothes and other stuff they’re going to need.  At least I am not the one having to go through the endless succession of prenatal visits, weight gain, having to pee every ten minutes, and of course, the Birth Experience which she is going to want to be heavily medicated for, especially if their baby weighs almost 10# like Steve-o did.  She will want to rip off his nuts.

Lord have mercy.  They are going to need it.

 

 

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