Try not to kick the cat

Sleep is a precious thing, for it is during sleep that we rejuvenate aging minds and heal aching bodies. We allow our overactive brains to wander through the landscape of dreams, unfettered by rules or reality.  In many homes, sleep is defined by time and place. You go to your bedroom, crawl onto what you hope is a decent mattress, pull up the covers, turn out the last bit of light, then nod off into luscious slumber.

In our house, the usual rules do not apply.  Each evening, we go about the usual business of preparing for bed. The ritual goes like this: sometime around 7 pm, we lock the pet door so the cat can’t go outside.  This keeps him from bringing in live playmates after dark, and prevents him from getting into territorial wars with the feral cat community up the hill.

At roughly 9 pm, all outside doors are locked, blinds are drawn, and the dog is allowed to go outside one more time.  This step is critical; the dog has no particular desire to go out, but if she does so, she knows she will get one more treat for the evening.  So she dutifully goes out the door and stands on the deck for the requisite amount of time, then comes back in for a little snack.  So why go through the ritual? By feeding the dog at night, we are allowed to sleep until at least 4:30, when she starts to get hungry. Or wants to go out. Or gets bored.

The cat, on the other hand, abides by no such rules.  He wanders around the house looking for the warmest bed to sleep on, then settles in for the night – usually in the exact spot where you would place your feet when you sleep.  Cats can be rather perverse in that way.  If you are reading, they sleep on the paper.  Laptops are particularly comfortable when you are trying to write. And beds (or chairs) must be chosen according to the most likely place someone will want sleep or sit. 

After the doors are locked and the dog has been bribed for another night, the house settles down for what we hope will be a quiet night of sleep.  Mom crawls under her covers, often disturbing the cat from his perch on her small twin bed.  After some complaining and a few dirty looks, the cat jumps down and wanders into my room.  I choose to sleep in larger bed, so there is a chance that our feline fiend can go unmolested there.  Not so, as this devil incarnate inevitably chooses to sleep exactly where I put my feet each night.  Rather than anticipating a night of joyously peaceful slumber, I steel myself for what will most likely be a long, arduous, and often bloody battle for space.

When I prepare for bed, I usually have to move the cat to the other side. He grumbles and jumps down.  In a few minutes, he jumps back up, only to lie on my feet. This irony is not obvious, unless you know from experience that the cat will not abide any movement while he is trying to rest.  “Skittish” pales against level of reaction this cat can show when he is startled.  [Think cartoon cats with claws imbedded in a cellulose ceiling.]  I move him again.

Once dethroned from my feet the second time, the cat goes on the offensive, claws extended, eyes wide, imagining that under the covers lie monsters or villains or really large mice.  He pounces, attacks with bunny kicks, rolls in his best Monday night Smackdown moves, trying to remove my feet from his bed.  In the end, he tires, and settles down on the other side of the mattress until time for his 3 am ablutions.

You would think that the simplest answer would be to close the door against invasion; the house shows scars of our attempts at exile.  The carpet under each door is worn from the insistent clawing, scratching, and mewling of our nocturnal nemesis.  So we sacrifice sleep, silently hoping that the house will still be standing the next morning, rather than in tattered shreds.  We each find a place where our dreams come freely, and our bodies can rest. We fluff our pillows, adjust our sheets…and try not to kick the cat. 

Not your average kid

I wasn't your average American kid.

I never had the happily ever after family

With 2 parents, 2.4 kids and a dog.
There was never a white picket fence,
And Saturday birthday parties were never filled 
With crinoline and lace and party favors.
Most of my friendships were short lived.
We moved a lot.

Every year was a new face and a new place; 

A new space to call our own.
By the age of six I was a foreigner
Living in a foreign land with foreign friends
The child of war and a product of the 60s.
Living in Post-war cinderblock compounds 
With a Thai maid and modern conveniences
In a country where half of the houses had no running water
And the other half lived on riverine cesspools

I joined the military and saw the world

Surrounded by young men with rifles
Juke joints and head shops and tattoo parlors.
Every Navy base in the world looked the same
Except for the signs, which were always written
in a language I had to  learn.
I can order beer in 7 languages,
And find the bathroom in 6.
I try not to drink beer in the seventh place.

I still haven't learned to settle down.
When it’s time to transfer, I pack up my dolls and my teapots

and my photos of places long forgotten
And move from town to town
Trying to outrun my demons and my fears
and the ghosts of Christmases past.
 
Like Scrooge’s dreams, I carry the unsettling  memories of life
The back of a hand coming out of nowhere
The unprovoked, raging scream over spilled milk
The bombshells of divorce and separation and reunification.
The terror of a brain I could not trust
The neurosis and paranoia and fear
That only the unfettered mind can produce.
Artillery and terrorists of my own making.

Homeless couture

I saw a homeless guy today wearing a university sweatshirt, and it prompted some questions.

(1) If he went to that university, how did he end up on the street? What circumstances landed him there?  I know that without family, there are a few times I would have been homeless because of my illness.  It is a sobering thought. Was he once a "player" who lost at the game?  I never assume that because someone is homeless that they are incapable of being anything else.

(2) If he didn't go to that school, did he choose that shirt on purpose?  Would he have worn the sweatshirt if it represented a rival for his favorite team?  How choosy would you be if it was the only thing you could find to wear?  Would you turn it inside out so the logo didn't show?

Come on, UNC fans,  Would you rather wear the Duke sweatshirt or freeze?  :)