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I am very sensitive to light (especially fluorescent), sound, and crowds. I have to run away or put on sunglasses or earplugs every day.

The year they made me, people didn’t come with filters.

Wonderful things can come from the most unlikely places, and usually appear when you’re not looking for them. (But it has to be genuine not-looking or the universe will know.)

I’m allergic to laugh-tracks and children who make sounds. Really, I’m allergic to children who cannot yet have a semi-coherent conversation. Don’t expect me to look at your new lump of dough and get all excited. And for the love of all creation, don’t try to make me hold it.

I stopped carrying grudges because they were getting too heavy.

The only thing you can control is your reaction to a thing. (Though the first 90 seconds to a stimulus belong to your biochemistry, the rest is choice.)

I’m terrible with names. Even if yours is the same as mine.

I can laugh at the same bad joke for years (and frequently have the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy).

Unzip before you commit. You wouldn’t buy a car without a test drive, why on earth would you marry a person you’ve never fucked?

I can never stretch enough; especially my neck.

Life is too damn short to spend any significant time doing something that you dislike. Dealing with bureaucracy and authority types is best avoided; engaging in such encounters should be rewarded and celebrated.

I can speak with great authority on topics about which I know very little.

There is no permanent record. Proceed accordingly.

I drink a couple gallons of water a day. More in the winter. I love ice.

There is no normal. Find the flavor of crazy that works best for you and hang out with the people around there. (No matter what, you are never alone. Find your tribe/community/whatever and you will find people who understand and who’ve probably been through something similar. When you reach out, it gives people the chance to reach back toward you.)

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I’m pretty sure we’re allowed to change our minds multiple times. Why else would life be so long?

Assume I have good intentions. If I ever want to do anything mean to you, you’ll be awake, you’ll be facing me, and you’ll know why we’re there. (adapted from Firefly)

I love cats, but I don’t need to talk about them for hours.

People vary. Better to remember and embrace this than to assume everyone operates under the same beliefs and conditions.

I used to help run a nightclub. It made me hate nightclubs.

Don’t be a dick. (Apparently this has become known as Wheaton’s Law). (But seriously, who would have guessed that when Wil became an adult, he’d be totally hot?) (Also, I once saw him box Barney the Dinosaur.)

If I’ve had more than a couple drinks, I’m unpredictable. Oh, wait, actually I can be unpredictable any time, depending on the circumstances.

I adore things that glow in the dark after exposure to light; especially things that glow any color other than the standard green.

I once owned a glow in the dark motorcycle.

We currently have four animal skulls in our house (plus two more being used by their owners). One is in a taxidermied mouse dressed as the Pope.

I’ll work harder for less pay for a friend than less work for more pay for an asshole. (Unless the asshole’s project is really cool, brief, and pays extraordinarily well.)

I love vintage Vespa scooters and have been riding them since 1986.

Do not buy a vintage scooter as an investment or as a daily means of transportation unless you are prepared to throw a lot of money into a fire.

I have actual, quantifiable brain damage.

Words are important. They can also be elusive.

When you travel, your body may go by air, but your soul goes by ground and may stop if it sees something interesting. When traveling, allow a couple extra days for your soul to catch up.

I keep copious backups and duplicates of things I think are important, but have no overall system for organizing them.

Donnie Darko, Lucky Number Slevin, and Fight Club are my comfort films. If I want a good cry, I watch Moulin Rouge again. I own most of the DVDs of shows by Joss Whedon and Kevin Smith. I cried after re-watching the last episode when David Tennant played Doctor Who because I dislike that new guy and his sidekick so very much.

Listen to your gut (intuition, instinct, whatever).

Sweeping generalizations ruin everything for everyone.

Don’t say “it can’t get any worse.” I did once and was immediately proven wrong. Instead, try “it can always get worse, until you’re dead, and then who knows?” (what the latter lacks in brevity, it makes up for in accuracy)

It’s not you, it’s me.

Exactly who are “they” and how do they know so much? Also, they are often wrong.

I value consistency more than quality, so if something consistently sucks, I know not to do it.

Sleep is my primary superpower. I once fell asleep standing up.

Walking the line between brave and foolish can be fun.

The worst experiences make the best stories, if you survive to tell them.

Do you like something? Does that thing hurt anyone else? If the answers are “yes” and “no”, respectively, just do it.

Exceptions and caveats exist for everything.

American cheese has its place in the world: grilled cheese sandwiches and cheeseburgers.

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OK, there’s my not-so-short list of random bits. Only slightly proofread, so if I catch typos later, I’ll probably be back to fix them.
How about you? Any truths you hold to be self-evident that you care to share?

The Schmoo, son of Safeway, was born in an apartment on 18th and Noe in San Francisco. A tuxedo baby, one of four in the litter, he was the polydactyl (seven toes on each front foot) runt and, at six weeks old, came to live with me in May 1995. We had a one-bedroom apartment, which seemed large enough to include a cat (though the addition of a cat to our household had been a subject of great debate). The Schmoo was small, pointy, and loud (typical kitten), but was also incredibly clumsy because his hard-wired cat-brain didn’t know how to cope with the extra toes. He tripped and got stuck in the carpet a lot. As he walked, he moved his front legs in sweeping sideways arcs to avoid the extra toes.

We slept in a loft bed with a hand-made, round-runged ladder. When the Schmoo was too small to cross the lowest rung (about six inches off the floor), he would cry and cry until I came down to get him. Then he’d cry and cry until I put his ass back on the carpet. One day, he wasn’t in the bed when I awoke. A couple weeks later, he was running up and down that ladder without a problem.

We kept plastic and paper shopping bags for re-use next to a hutch in the kitchen. When he was around nine months old, we started coming home from work to find bags spread all over the apartment. I’d put the bags back, he’d spread them around again. Eventually we had to store them on top of the hutch because he couldn’t get there. I tried to organize our tiny kitchen by adding a counter-top paper-towel holder. Within a day, I began coming home to thoroughly vanquished rolls of paper towels. Shredded paper towels spread around the apartment like so much (so very much) confetti.

I take baths nearly every day. When we lived in SF, the Schmoo would lay on the narrow counter that ran behind the tub. During the bath, he’d come down and drink out of the tub with me still in it. Once we moved to Portland, there wasn’t a great place for him to sit, so we saved one of the moving boxes and threw a towel over it for him to sit on while I bathed. He would lick the water that dripped off my wet fingers, or lean way over the tub to drink from my cupped hands. And after every shower or bath, he insisted on the “wet pet”. I think it helped him get rid of excess fur.

You could tell he was about to puke because he’d look abruptly worried, puke once, jump away, puke again (and then usually do it a third time for good measure). But the worried look: priceless. He could also look really annoyed: that developed when I got him a kitten as a “friend” (note: grandpas and infants are not compatible as friends).

The Schmoo loved to eat strange plastics and latex. When we’d dye our hair, he’d drag the discarded gloves from the trash and eat the fingers off them. The Schmoo also loved closets; especially the big one in the living room, where we kept our costumes, club-wear, and the possessions of a long-term couch guest. Turns out he actually liked the *contents* of that closet: he ate his way through a latex dress, a latex shirt, and a latex skirt before we discovered what all that rustling was in there.

The Schmoo loved plastic bags: some to lick for hours on end, and others for what was simply “the bag trick”. Say what you will about cats and bags; this was a special relationship. In the living room of our SF apartment, you would shake out a plastic, two-handled bag loudly, and allow it to drift to the floor. From wherever he was in the apartment, the Schmoo would come running, dart inside the bag, lay down, adjust himself *just so* and begin. He’d stretch out first one front leg, so that it was taut against the side of the bag and begin to move that section of the bag up and down. Up to hit his face, then down to the floor. Repeatedly. His eyes would be half closed and a dreamy sort of trance would overtake him as he continued to repeat the motion. Occasionally, he’d stop, switch front legs, and adjust his position so that the bag was taut, and he’d continue. Sometimes he’d do this for 30 minutes before wandering away. It was known as the bag “trick” because he’d do it every time. You’d shake and drop the bag, and he’d come running.

He also licked the emulsion off photographs, ate coffee grounds, and pissed on clothing left on the floor. 

Our tiny SF apartment was his domain, and for the first two years of his life, we had no guests, so when guests started appearing, he defended his apartment against the intruders. He trapped people in the bathroom and the kitchen with his hissing, spitting, clawing fury. On his first visit to our house, Jesse (Wussy 1), who loves cats, slept in his helmet and gloves because he was scared of the Schmoo. Most people probably remember this version of him. J (Wussy 23) met both versions of the Schmoo and can attest to the remarkable change.

His name was “Scootercat” until he turned 9 and it didn’t fit any more. That’s when he donned the title, “The Schmoo”, and wore it like a crown for the next 7 years.

When he was 10, a new influence came into his life and he mellowed into a wonderful, loving, demanding, lapcat. Yes, he still pissed on the occasional random thing (including me!), and he vomited pretty regularly, but retrospectively the extra cleaning was a small price to pay for having such a wonderful companion waiting for me when I awoke and when I came home from work every day for 16 years. I miss that guy.

::clink:: Here’s to you, Schmoo. Thanks for sharing your life with me.

The place was 95% female. Hundreds of employees on several floors of multiple expensive downtown SF buildings populated by So Many Women. The IT department and the mailroom are where the guys hid. I can only imagine what it was like for them. There was a dress code because apparently office-bound people working for an international cosmetic company can become vicious fashionistas. Even though the dress code was only about colors (red, black, white, gray), I still felt pretty repressed.

Most of the art people and design women I met were pretty OK. The product managers were absolutely girlie-girls who squealed with delight when some celebrity (I had to look up her name online and forgot it justthatfast) was in the office to discuss her new perfume. Ahem … fragrance line. Their voices went to octaves mine did not. They actually cared about designer clothers and used cosmetics. I did not belong there. We all knew it. But I did my job and they liked that, so it was fine.

Near the end of my assignment, there was a panic because one vendor had failed to provide most of their line by the date we needed. My manager talked to Some Important Executive and they decided that the best course of action was for someone to go into one of the retail outlets and buy the missing products. I just happened to hear the end of the conversation and volunteered to do the deed. Paid time out of the office? Score!

The next morning, I hit the Union Square store armed with a 10-page (10-point, single spaced) list. A giant spreadsheet of eyeliner, blush, foundation, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara, and so on. It was right at opening, so they weren’t busy, and when I told them the mission, their commission-based eyes lit right up. All we had to do was find the stuff, get a total, and the main office would call with the credit card number. The assistant store manager called two clerks to help me. Using that immense list, we sorted through every damn display, drawer, and storage cabinet of that vendor’s products and filled basket after basket. Must have been thousands of dollars of products. Two hours into the process I got a call from my boss. There had been a change of plans. I was told to wrap it up and come in because they weren’t going to actually buy the stuff after all. I’m a terrible liar, so I politely excused myself, told them that they’d be getting a call from Corporate, and scampered my ass right out of there. At the bus stop toward downtown, I felt horrible. I worked retail in college. I knew the thrill of a huge sale and the sadness of a return. But these clerks were certain it was a final sale, so their joy was unfettered.

Later that day, my boss had to make the really hard call to the store and tell them to put it all back. She got ripped a new asshole by the store manager and told never to darken their doorstep again. I still felt so bad I nearly sent flowers to the store with an apology letter.

Shortly after that, I quit the job. I left two weeks before my contract was supposed to end, but I got an offer from another client that paid more than triple what sephora.com was paying me. Again, you do what you have to do. Despite the lack of notice (I came in early that morning, wrapped up what I could, and told them I was out of there), my boss completely understood.

Fast-forward a month or so: late September. I was at Brews on the Bay with Dave. BoTB is an annual local-brewers beer fest on the WW2 liberty ship the SS Jeremiah O’Brien (terrible site – you can tell it’s run by volunteers). BoTB is a day spent listening to bad music, drinking as much beer as you can, and climbing all over this beautiful 1940s ship. Near the end of the day, as I’m waiting for the single-occupancy bathroom in one of the narrow halls of the ship’s interior, a girl emerges. She looks a little familiar. We do the SF half-smile as we pass and the mental checklist to determine why we might know each other. I finish up and emerge to find her waiting with other friends in line.

Her: “Do I know you?”

Me: “I’m not sure.”

Her: “Do you work near Union Square?”

**In my drunken brain, an alarm goes off.**

Me: “Ooooooohhhh. No, I don’t. But you may have seen me there recently. I stick out a little in that area.”

Her (realizing it): “Hey – you came into Sephora a month ago to buy all this stuff that we had to put back!”

Me: “Heh, yeah. I’m so sorry about that. Things got complicated.”

Her: “It’s OK. The store manager was pissed, but we got over it.”

Me: “Well, tell everyone that was there that day I’m sorry and I appreciated all their help.”

Her: “No worries.”

So… 1) you never know who you’re going to see again, even in a city of 750,000 people 2) it’s never too late to say you’re sorry 3) don’t work anywhere with a dress code because it speaks to a darker, more sinister aspect of the place, and 4) There actually are people out there who say “oh em gee!” ::shudder::

In this particular instance, our place leaves at 7am, so we arrive at 5:45. Our flight is booked on American, but run by Alaska, so once you get dropped off at the American desk, you get redirected out the terminal, down a quarter mile, to the other terminal, where you can finally get your boarding passes. Though it’s technically an American flight, you can’t check in through American (because that would make sense), so you have to do it through the Alaska kiosk. Thank the deities that we’re not checking luggage because there’s another line. We finally get our boarding passes (the barcode on the itinerary doesn’t actually work, but luckily Dave’s credit card does) and we head for the security line. We show up at the apparent end of the 100-person-long line to be directed by Helpful Security Lady to the start of this other line, which begins at a different roped off queue, which is another 100 people long. *sigh*

Fine – we take our places in the apparently correct queue, as happy as all the other people sharing our fate. Trying to be cheerful, but mocking the whole process. Shared suffering is shared experience, after all. We get to the front of the the first-10o-person queue and happily pass into the second queue by Helpful Security Lady (why, hello, again). We notice now that the initial 100-person queue has more than doubled – it now extends way past the roped-off part and down the terminal. OK – it could suck worse. Good to know.

Another people-herder, this one with a bullhorn, starts calling out that the people for the 6:50 (six-five-oh)  flight can ditch the line because they’re going to miss their flight if they stay trapped here. Bullhorn guy actually has a sense of humor. Makes his statement a couple times, then adds, “this is for the 6:50 flight *only* – if you show up here with a ticket that says 6:51, I’m sending you to the back of that (gestures to the 200+ people-long) line. Quit complaining about saving your place in line because I WILL send you to the back of that one (gesturing again at the now 200-person queue).”

The line is moving remarkably fast, considering they have only two guys checking IDs. The airport probably didn’t realize that they were going to have that many people there at that time of the morning. They probably don’t have access to the flight information and the number of passengers coming to their security check at any given time. Poor guys were downright overwhelmed. I feel bad – they look really overworked and pretty unhappy. But they were nice anyway. At this point in any airport experience, even the least bit of civility or a shy smile is gratefully accepted.

I’ve packed well for this trip. Everything that needs to be in its own tub in two individual bags as the laptop, but all stuffed into my backpack so I can dump it all out in one fluid motion. Not wearing a tiny bit of metal. Shoes easy to slip off, but wearing socks so I don’t have to partake in the nasty walk of millions of other bare feet. Ew ew ew. Not wearing a coat. Phone in the bin with computer. Only clothes in my messenger bag. Not a thing that would require me to set off the metal detector – not even once. I’m the lowest trouble girl in the queue. But somehow I get rerouted to the plastic cage of extra search anyway. Clearly I’m up to something because my bags and my metal detector didn’t set off any alarms. My hippie husband (the one sporting the natural dreads that scream “I smoke weed”) – he gets through without a problem. I think (this time) it’s because Im wearing a Redwings jersey in Sharks territory. BUt how does that explain every other time I’ve ben pulled aside for the extra search? Since 2001, I wonder how many times my luggage been dusted for bomb dust? I fly twice, possibly three times annually. But EVERY FUCKING TIME I get the extra search. And I’ve learned that if you hop up and down angrily or look even a little rushed once you’re in the secondary cage, it’s going to take them even longer to get to you to frisk you. By then, if you’re not traveling with a friend, all your baggage, computer and all, has been left unguarded at the end of the roller mill. But don’t look concerned because that means you’re guilty. Of being concerned. Or probably of simply being human.

A year ago, when we flew to Hawaii for our honeymoon, I had just happened to have hurt my ankle really badly. I was wearing a knee-high brace that enabled me to walk and I had crutches. Poor Dave was hauling all our luggage. The SFO folks were pretty nice – got me a wheel chair and rushed us to the front of the security line. But then they made me remove my brace and hop through the metal detector gate. And there was the cavity search (I didn’t know you could get cavities there). I didn’t mind all that much, because even with the extra searching, we still got through way faster. Then, later that trip,we took an island hopper on Hawaiian airlines and they didn’t make me remove my brace. I guess they really are more laid-back in Hawaii.

So, how can they possibly say that their extra searches are random? How could I possibly score the extra search every damn time? Am I really that lucky? I sure doubt it when you consider how exactly lucky I am at gambling joints; if random chance was on my side, I’d be a fucking millionaire. Puh-leese. Fuckers. I am so tired of being profiled. I can’t even imagine how it feels to be middle-eastern or even have brown skin – they get profiled more often by other people inside AND outside the airport. Mad? You bet your ass I’d be mad. One of my hirsute friends recently severely trimmed his beard because he was considering visiting his family in Texas. So he shaved. For the TSA. Not for pleasing a potential mate – but for the fucking air police.

Oh, and by the way you SFO security fuckers, you made me miss my traditional “I made it through security” bloody mary. So I had to have two on the way back.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Before posting this to the interwebs, I decided to give the airport folks at Seattle a chance to redeem their SFO brethren’s actions. Wore the same clothes and this time I even put my phone in my bag to go through the x-ray machine, so the only metal on me is my wedding band. I pass the metal detector without a beep. AND YET the woman on the other side of the archway says, “I’m going to need to pat you down. Please raise your arms.” **SIGH** And I assume the position reserved for gangsters. I break the airport code and actually ask, “what did I do wrong?” Her answer: “Your shirt is too baggy.” I took it a step further and said “but there’s not a dead fish under here.” Puzzled look. “Oh, um, you see, Redwings fans have a tradition of smuggling octopus under their jerseys into the arena during the playoffs. So they get searched there a lot.” She’s done feeling me up, so just dismissed me with a vaguely disgusted look. As Dave and I hobble away from the security area, shoes still untied, he points out that I broke the cardinal rule: say nothing to those searching you. They’re like cops: the only correct answers are “yes sir/ma’am” and “no sir/ma’am”. My protestation: I just want to get through this process without getting the extra search. I suddenly remember the actions of one of our favorite agencies: NUDE SUITS. Next time I fly I’m wearing a leotard and a tutu. Possibly with a tiara. Though Dave points out that this might draw even more extra attention to me. Really? Heh. At least then I’ll have yet another fantastic story about our domestic flying adventures. And I’ll provide some extra chuckles to the people traveling around me. And who couldn’t use a laugh while dealing with all the intrinsic BS of flying these days?

PS: There should be a law against putting infants on regular planes without notifying the other passengers. Especially when the infant and the parent all have colds. That’s just common courtesy. Also, there should be “baby-friendly” planes with a happy little place for them to squeal and coo at one another. And the parents could make those high-pitched baby noises at them and make encouraging noises when the baby takes an extra good shit. Airplanes could even put in those retractable walls like they do for first class. Baby class. I’m a fucking genius! I should design airplanes.

A lot of people I know use Facebook. Most of them use it obsessively. I thought it was OK, briefly, but all the poking and super poking and ninjas and pirates got boring fast. Plus, my high-school best friend/worst enemy finding me and wanting to chat? Ack! (Brief pause -> Delete message.) I stay on FB because my family likes it. I tried dragging them over to LiveJournal, and they just couldn’t get the hang of it. But FB? Even your brain-damaged cousin can understand it, plus, look, a farm! Shiny and simple wins their vote. And, just as they don’t know about this blog, they don’t hang out in my favorite bar, Twitter. (The bar metaphor came from the awesome Havi [she's @Havi] who also once said, “lowering the bar makes it easier to reach your drink”.  She has a degree in clever metaphors.)

Then when I talk to real-life friends -  those with whom I’ve actually shared a physical drink, or slept on their physical couch, or held their physical hair back while they puked? Most of those don’t do Twitter. Some do, but most do not. They don’t see the need, when they can barely keep up with Facebook (exactly!). Some say that they can’t say what they want in only 140 characters. But that character limit is exactly why I love Twitter.

In the morning, when I have only enough brain to scan the headlines, but no longer receive the newspaper, I go to Twitter. As my tea is steeping, I hit the twits. (OK, yes, I do scan my email inbox in case I may have just won a million dollars, but I don’t really read emails first.)(And yes, I like to call them twits because it amuses me.)
Twitter is small – it offers digestible bits of information that I can tune into without commitment.
It’s not a whole news story or blog post. It’s not making a huge statement that will make my hair clench before I even shower.
It’s wee bites of things that are happening to and for people I know all over the world.
It’s not shouting.
In this era of information overload, it’s a great way to ease into the day. Don’t use it? Don’t try talking to me before my second cuppa tea.

*****************

PS: I use NetNewsWire for reading RSS-enabled blogs – and that comes third in my daily reading. I link to the app here because you might not have tried it and I think it’s fantastic.)

Ten miles out of town we approached a black and white kitty who had been hit by a car and was laying in the tiny double-wide-double-yellow-line center-divider of the highway. I went around him, and as we passed, he lifted his head and looked right at me. At us. Oh deities of all faiths, please tell me I didn’t see what I just saw. In the car, a moment of silence, then…. Me: “He’s still alive!” Dave: “He is! Should we go back? What do we do?” I thought for a couple of seconds, pulled the car over to the shoulder. Glanced left then right and pulled a high-speed u-turn back toward the kitty. Dave: “What are we going to do? What can we do?” Me: “Something. Anything. See if he’s still alive. Check around for owners. Call a doctor.”

As we approached the spot where the kitty was still laying, I slowed, then stopped on the shoulder, the nose of our car nearly parallel to the little injured guy on the highway. I was out the door and tearing into the trunk as fast as I could move. Yanked the new blanket out of it’s bag, tore it open, and tossed the cardboard sheets it had been wrapped around aside, in time to hear Dave yell, “It’s running over here!” And he had – this battered little guy had overcome the fear of being struck again and summoned the strength to move; and he’d run right to us, then collapsed into the gravel right at our feet. Blanket in hand, I cautiously approached; crouched and made myself small; spoke softly and gently touched him. I assured him that we were going to help and that he could trust us. I spread the blanket around behind him, then scooped him up, so that his weight was supported all around, but that he could see out and we could see in. He was surrounded in softness and warmth and love. Then we got to business.

One car and one truck had also stopped. No, the cat didn’t belong to them, and no, they didn’t actually think they could do anything. The car folks left right away, while the Cowboy hat-sporting gentleman from the truck went into the trailer park and asked one of the residents if he knew whose cat it could be. Cowboy hat to cowboy hat, they conferred in Spanish about the situation. The resident’s response, essentially, was “who cares?” The woman traveling in the truck with Cowboy-hat-man (and two dogs) suggested that we could take him to one of the vet hospitals back in CC, but there was no local SPCA or anything that might help for free. Cowboy-hat-man gave us lengthy directions to take the kitty to “county” – which we took to mean “sheriff” and, therefore, “someone to end it.” “OK, thanks” we say as Dave helps get me into the car so we don’t jostle the kitty. We head for town FAST. I’m holding the kitty as gently as possible, stroking his ears, and trying not to dissolve into a pile of tears. Dave’s on my iPhone dialing the nearest veterinarian. Convincing the receptionist that even though it’s not our cat, it desperately needs some help, and could they please please please be the place for us to bring this little guy.

The kitty starts to pant (his nose was clogged with blood, so maybe he couldn’t breathe?), so I turn on the air conditioner, thinking maybe he’s in shock and is getting too warm? I hold a paper to keep the sunlight from hitting him directly. I’m openly crying now. The small drops of his blood on the blanket are just SO red. Hic-hic-hiccup. Soothing noises to the kitty; a few for myself. Actually, aside from the road dirt and the blood from his nose, he looks OK. His eyes are bright and he’s paying attention to things moving and changing. He tentatively licks his nose. He’s got longer hair and cute little tufts coming out of his ears, but he has the same B&W markings as our two cats, safely back at home.

We arrive at the vet’s office. Dave helps me get out and lets us into the office. The receptionist says that every doctor and nurse is out to lunch, but are due back soon, so if we could leave kitty in one of the back kennels, they’d tend to him as soon as possible. I gently placed kitty, still snug in his new blanket, into one of the waiting cages. Asked the receptionist to please get some water for him. Offered some money to “help with the exam costs plus … you know, if…” More crying. Kitty starts to pant again. Receptionist says that’s a natural reaction to pain. She asked for details of where we’d found him and we had only a tiny bit of info. Because we were heading back that way, we assured her that we would call with road names, trailer park names, whatever we could get. I touched the little guy through the cage bars and said goodbye.

Back in the car now, Dave was driving now because I was in hysterics.We got back to the cross roads and I started taking notes to call the vet office back with details. Dave looked in the trunk for something to make signs out of and, behold, there were the two pieces of cardboard around which that blanket had been packaged. Dave wrote two copies of a note, with the details, that the cat was still alive, and could be found at the Vet Hospital, and the phone number and address of the hospital. He attached the note to the bank of mail boxes by the trailer park, and put the other note on the gate of the house across from the trailer park. I called and gave the receptionist all the information we had, and told her that we’d left notes, and hoped for the best. She told me that the vet was examining the kitty right then. I didn’t ask for an update, but I thanked her profusely for taking care of a cat who desperately needed some kindness.

Dave’s still driving, because I can’t stop crying. Bawling for a cat we barely knew, whose life had taken such a horrifying turn, and who we helped find some comfort, maybe a little less fear, and hopefully some care or at least a humane ending. Tears of sadness for the little guy, so scared, but brave enough to run to us for help. Tears of anger over the negligent parents. When you bring a domestic animal into your home, you agree to love them, to feed them, and to take good care of them. Their little lives are in your hands. And some asshole broke his agreement by letting an 8-pound animal outside within 100 feet of a freeway. Jerk.

The red ribbon that had been tied around the blanket we used to comfort the kitty? Pinned to a wall in my living room as a reminder that no matter how heart-wrenching it is to stop, it is the only possible thing to do. We all need kindness, we all need comfort, and sometimes we just need friends to scoop us up in softness and whisper gently to us that things are going to be all right.

We finally got to the house and hit the hay. After about seven hours of sleep, I got up and started meandering around the house looking for caffeine and food. I discovered that the power was out, which threw me into a crying jag because I’d packed for a very short trip, which did not include those things I like to do when there’s no electricity. I wandered the house, admiring the snow that had fallen since my last visit, and paying special attention to the circle between the trees (now filled with snow) where I did Shivanata one day. It was a most powerful practice that day and it’s given me lots of new thoughts. About boundaries. And making your own space. And claiming your space. Jumping up and down saying “mine mine mine!” Though I’m too exhausted this trip to repeat the experience, the lessons have stayed with me. Stating my boundaries to coworkers. Explaining that on a given day, I might be cranky and that it has nothing to do with them. Engaging the Hippie Hubby in painful conversations about his mom’s failing health when he gets snippy at me. Trying to use NVC. But mostly knowing (in my gut) that I have established my sovereignty and am starting to own my space in this world. It only took 42 years. Heh – only.

The point here is this: stamping out your space in the snow (or the beach or even your living room) is a powerful thing. It gives this sense of rightness in your heart that helps to make other aspects of your life easier. You have the right to be here. You are important. You have a place. You have a you-ness that you previously lacked. And it feels like I’m headed in the right direction because I’ve taken this step. Our future has possibilities. And choices. And no matter what else is Hard in my life right now, I know that I have my space. And from this space I can conquer anything. It’s there for me. It is me.

In his 20s to 30s, Cory was a bit irresponsible and a lot experimental. He walked an adventurous path with a great attitude and more courage than I could ever muster. No matter what the outcome, he was always up for more.

In Our College Days
Cory used to save his farts in jars. Yes, plural, making it all the more unusual gross. He inherited the most vile toxic emissions from his father. Words are incapable of describing how foul his farts could be and he took great pride in this. So he saved them, to share with unwitting friends, in jars in his bedroom. As if the practice itself wasn’t strange (weird, crazy?) enough, the results were hilarious (as long as you weren’t the victim, of course). He once unscrewed a cap for a friend to elicit the extreme inhalation disgust, then rapidly resealed the jar so he could spring it on someone else another day.

Encounter at Coit Tower
Not long after Cory moved to San Francisco, he was visiting Coit Tower at night (possibly Halloween or another fall holiday) with some friends. He was on acid, and probably some additional illicit drugs, as he’s always been an experimenter. (I’ve mentioned his tendency toward bad judgment, right?) Well, on this particular evening, Cory was walking around the Tower, admiring the views of the city from this lovely spot. All was going great until a strange girl came charging up with her boyfriend in tow and pointed at Cory and said something to the effect of “He’s the guy who tried to rape me!” Well, in addition to the statement itself being false, Cory had never before seen the girl or her boyfriend, and was incapable of such an act. He’s a really nice guy, with good intentions, and possibly one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met. He’s also a raging homosexual. Not that he didn’t try a few girls back in the day, but by this time, he knew his love was for the boys.

His protestations of innocence, along with his slight frame, led to him getting a solid pounding at the hands of the boyfriend and the boyfriend’s friends. His only crime? Wrong place at the wrong time. (A crime that is probably the single most common in San Francisco.) His friends came along shortly and took him to the emergency room to get patched up. No serious harm done, except to his sense of security and a few bruises he didn’t earn.

I think that’s enough for today. I’ll post some more later.

A long time ago I was downloading nearly every free application for my iPhone. (I think the original goal – to fill up all nine screens of the phone to try to get Weather and Stocks to fall off the backside – failed.) The experiment left me with a lot of apps still to delete, but one is a keeper: iPet Cats.

It’s an easy enough game. Keep the virtual pet alive. Like tamagotchi for the iPhone. But here’s where I find the fun. If you go to the Search function and search for ANY likely cat name (I usually do “scooter” in honor of The Schmoo’s original name), you’ll find some dead ones. Feed the tombstone and the cat comes back to life. Hungry and sad, but alive. Magic! Keep petting and feeding and eventually the resurrected fake cat has the happy-smiling-sun icon of a happy healthy fake cat.

For every time you pet a cat (other than your own), you get three points. When you feed a cat, you give up one point. Ultimately, bringing back a dead cat results in you having nine additional points and the practice gives you oodles of karma points.

I think my real cats know I’m steppin’ out on them, though, because if I play the game in my living room, I immediately have real cats in my lap. (Yes, I quit playing the game when that happens. The irony of ignoring my real cats for the fake ones is not lost on me.) So, yeah, don’t tell the iPet folks about the loophole because saving fake dead cats is more fun than a Facebook poke.

I started to answer in a comment to her post and quickly realized that I was going to take up far too much room. So here we are. My bridge.

This version of my bridge is pretty damn new. We hastily built it within the last three weeks, out of recycled materials and combined purpose. It’s not exactly rickety, but it’s clearly not meant to last forever. It’s strong enough to carry us on our quick, unexpected move.

I don’t know what this bridge looks like, except that it is wide enough for Dave and I to walk side-by-side comfortably. It has intermittent spots with overstuffed chairs, soft blankets, classical music, and tissues. It starts at our current apartments (we have two, across the hall from one another) and vanishes into a fog. It’s not a cold fog, just a haze that obscures the other end. My bridge starts in a sad place, once filled with homey safety and now filled with fear and uncertainty. It ends at our Happy New Home. We have a vague idea of what might be there, but we haven’t fully seen it yet.

Dave doesn’t have time yet to start across the bridge, but he’s right there, ready to go. I’ve been foraging ahead – exploring – a little bit at a time. Finding those little comfort stations, having tiny breakdowns, giving myself permission to fall apart for a few minutes, but also to be scared and to go running back to Dave for hugs and support. I know I don’t have to cross this one alone. Together we are stronger.

I’m actually pretty happy with the bridge. I see that in creating the comfy rest stops, I’ve learned to start building the need for comfort and safety (and the ability to ask for them) into my life. It’s a surprise to see this progress when the last few weeks have been so chaotic. And I’ve been exploring this bridge, seeing glimpses of our Happy New Home, and considering exciting new possibilities (a garage! a garden! no bums! no sirens! the hilarity of cats sliding around on hardwood floors!).

So, yeah, that’s my bridge. At least for now. I suspect I’m secretly (even from myself) already building new bridges in new directions. New ones that will start once we’ve found the end to this one.