6 Things I Will Remember About Training for My First Marathon

Yes, I completed my first marathon on September 28! I don't often write about running because I feel like a bit of a sham, but it's weird calling myself a dancer, too, so, well…I usually just think of myself as a mover.

In any case, I trained for the Hamptons Marathon for 16 weeks and a lot of stuff happened. Here's some of what makes me smile the most:

* One of the reasons I signed up for this race was to figure out if I could make peace with my hometown, my childhood, the "me" who lived there who I sometimes dislike and pretend not to know…one of the Sunday morning group training sessions in East Hampton had us running down to 5 different beaches. Running through the fog and salty sea air, I started to feel the magic of the beautiful place where I grew up, accessing it like breathing, slowly and wholly, as I made my way through morning mist… I realized this is part of me, period the end, and no tourists or developers or stupid celebrities  who've overtaken it…or even myself!…can take that away. I'm the mist, I'm the ocean, I'm the sand and sky… it twinkles in me like a firefly.

* Maybe it was the endorphin release that sent me to some canine plane of consciousness, but about an hour and 15 minutes or so into my long runs, this weird communication thing would start happening with the dogs I'd run past. I'd notice them from hundreds of yards away and they'd turn around and smile at me. Happened on every long run. There was one English bulldog in particular, by Chelsea Piers--I wish I knew what he was saying to me, because I think it was something funny and motivational, the doggie version of Chris Farley as Matt Foley living in a van down by the river...

* Sonic memory: One of the runners at a training run in East Hampton, gloriously, unknowingly farting for about 1/2 a mile as we discussed shih tzus (One reason not to wear headphones…not to hear people farting, but to realize you are the farter…)

* My first 20-miler: Running down Madison Avenue when they closed it to traffic during Summer Streets on a gnarly hot August Saturday, listening to Prince's "Sometimes it Snows In April" on my iPod and smiling and crying at the same time because it made me think of how much I missed/love Bing.

* Stopping at the concession stand on Atlantic Beach to get water on a slimy and bright July day, and some jerk getting out of his car mumbles to himself as I pass by that you're not allowed to run on the dunes. It took me about a minute to realize he thought I was the one who'd been running on the dunes (slow to grok, I know!). Little did he know I am the dunes : )  In hindsight, I would have loved to have whupped his passive-aggressive honky @ss.

* On a bunch of Monday nights toward the end of training, I'd run with my friend Hope in Central Park. Before meeting her, I'd go into a candy store on Madison Ave. to get Gatorade, where there was a resident kitty who had his own cubby. One evening in early September, I noticed a little glittery hot pink scooter parked outside with pink unicorns and ribbons tied to it. When I went in, a little girl (clearly the scooter owner) was sitting on the floor with the candy cat, saying goodbye to him because she was going away for Labor Day and wouldn't see him for a while. The cat was totally in love, licking her and letting her pet him. I hear they remodeled and candy cat doesn't have a cubicle anymore, so I'm thinking of getting him a kitty bed and just sort of leaving it there. Pink, of course. : )



If I'm running in a race, with a group or with someone else…I don't like to listen to music. But by myself, it's fun to listen to  crappy 70s and 80s songs and full-length albums. Here's the first song on one I listened to a lot this past summer:

365 Days Without Bing

A year ago today, I said goodbye to the cat of my heart, my furry soulmate who always seemed person-sized to me, despite him being a low-riding short shorty with half a tail. His body was failing, and though I knew from working with the animal communicator that he wanted to make the transition on his own, we'd agreed that I would step in if he were at all suffering.

That morning he was, and I quickly-on-radar made arrangements at the emergency vet down the street. I also called my friend M. and asked her what mantra would be an appropriate send-off for my little loyal, royal meezer. Not only did she sing it to me so I could sing it to him, she recorded it and sent me the file so I wouldn't forget the tune. Bing told the animal communicator that he had been chanting for lifetimes, so I knew this would be important. It was the shri ram mantra, often chanted as a blessing before meals, so it just made sense… heaven, or whatever you wanna call it, has gotta be like a spiritual all-you-can-eat buffet, you know?

This morning, a big, giant year later, I pinned Bing's photo to my race bib and headed out to Prospect Park in Brooklyn to run in the (bing!) Cherry Tree 10-Miler. I'm a newbie runner, and I wouldn't say I necessarily *like* running, but I won't even entertain thoughts that go in that direction--I just keep showing up and putting in the miles. Race start was 10, and it's a good thing I got to Brooklyn at 9 because I got panickingly lost en route. At one point I jaywalked across the street because I knew the entrance to the park was in that general direction. From the side of the street I'd just left, I hear someone yelling at me…

"You're racist. A f*cking racist bitch…you know that?"

WHOA! I was stunned. I looked to see a young black guy, late teens or so, matching my pace as we walked forward.

"What are you talking about?" I yell back.

"You saw me coming and crossed the street. Racist bitch."

"I did not--I'm LOST!"

"I hope you die, you racist."

I am not the type to get into it with people who go all wonky and loose-canon on the street, and certainly I had a right to be pissed off/scared, but the whole thing was sort of ridiculous and odd and head-shaking, and I was more concerned about finding my way. So I asked the next guy I saw on my side of the street for directions; my 1-second assessment of him as a nice person was spot-on, as he took the time to explain that I was indeed far off from where I needed to be, but showed me one way to get there. As I turned around I ran right into the dude who called me racist, who must have followed me across the street when I was asking for directions.

"Are you lost, miss?" Without sarcasm or attitude. I thought: WTF!?! It's a big, albeit unstable, teddy bear.

"I TOLD YOU, YES! ! I'm trying to get to 16th Street and Prospect Park West."

"Do you like black men?"

"What?! I like everybody!" (Yeah, I did say that with an exclamation at the end.)

"Do you want to have sex then?"

If there's one thing I DO like, it's absurdity. In those 3 seconds you get to figure out what's going on in a situation, I realized how almost-silly this was. For one, he was like 18, and his bark was clearly way worse than his bite. And I wasn't getting the feeling this was really about race. I did not feel any fear or anger, but I also knew he wouldn't apologize or anything. He seemed to me equally sensitive and angry, looking for or maybe expecting trouble, and clearly had some, uh, communication challenges…  )

"No! I have a race at 10 AM." (See how ridiculous the conversation was? Like if I didn't have a race, I'd actually consider it!)

Somehow stating the time brought him back to a reality closer to mine, because he told me it was 9:25 and I'd better hurry, then proceeded to give me perfect and very detailed directions to the race start. I thanked him and told him it wasn't nice that he called me a racist. After some more mumblings and grumblings about having sex, he continued on his way.

What does this have to do with Bing? I'm really not sure. But I think it has something to do with being a peaceful warrior. Bing was such a love--the minute I sat down, he glued himself to my side, and he and Derrick were constantly cuddling--but strong, too. He'd greet everyone who came to the house, and never complained or got cranky with all the vet treatments and surgeries he went through in the last 18 months of his life. A lesser cat could/would not have withstood that. And looking back at that strange interaction today, I think it went the way it did because he didn't expect me to have the reaction I did. I didn't return his anger, and I wasn't scared. I'm rarely that "neutral," but today I was strong in myself and that negative energy just bounced off me. I would think peaceful warriors are all about deflecting that sh*t, too.

P.S. I just made it to race start at 9:57 and really enjoyed the run. : )

Meezer Monday: Being & Binglessness

We're somewhere in between Bing's birthday and the anniversary of a year without him, and I've been thinking a lot about what to write here. I'm pretty sure that some may think this/I is/am nuts, but, well, it feels like truth to me. No apologies.

Bing was young when I started working with an animal communicator, and two of the first things she told me was he often felt lonely when I was at work and he rearranged the energy in the apartment every day. Who wouldn't want a cat who does that? Because he was so naturally contemplative, and because I'll believe in any idea that's beautiful enough, she suggested I do the following meditative exercise with him. I was to imagine Bing's energy, and then imagine my energy separately, and then these 2 energies coming together. Pretty standard visualization stuff, 'cept one of the main characters was a Siamese cat with half-a-tail. So I gave it a try, and I can't remember how or when I tweaked the exercise to include elaborate tableaux, like me and Bing atop an ancient stone maze, looking down at a snowscape alit with flame-red trees…  In a summer forest, on a path leading to a big baby bay… That didn't always happen, and I never forced it, but it became a sort of go-to exercise when I was away from home, on a trip or something, and missed him.

Since he died, I find myself doing this exercise a whole lot more. It's a lot harder, but I think that's cause it's a-whole-nother ballgame--he's not in a cat body, but something strong yet elusive in my heart. Every once in awhile, I'll be meditating and he just sort of appears in that every/nothingness, distinctly different than the way a standard-issue memory or thought pops up… you can almost hear the air twinkle, and it's like, "Oh, hey, Bing." It's him. And then I'll try to do the exercise and see what happens. Sometimes the thoughts go fast and nowhere, or I try too hard and it's just me writing the story, not in it. But a few times--just a rare few over the past year--it's this different state that redefines time and space and place, and it's game on--me and Bing, Bing and me.

Like a couple weeks ago, he and I were running fast and joyfully on a trail of very hard-packed snow, but we were both the same kind of animal--dogs, or wolves maybe, definitely canines. It's like I could almost smell the wet wild woofness.  And before that, he was sailing a silent mountain through a star-lit sea of clouds, like a captain slowly, so slowly, navigating a ship through the ocean … It's not like he's the Siamese-shaped Bing I knew… he's Binger than that Bing. It's hard for my human brain to imagine what contains his energy, or rather, what his energy is contained in. How can a light body remain the same for more than a moonbeam… Is it the shape of a bucket? A flower? A  sped-up, time-bending hour?

And if by any chance light bodies have tails, I like to imagine that his is still bobbed.

Like Dreamers Do

If the mind's a library and memories are books, overdue notices are those out-of-the-blue recollections that float through your days and dreams, all WTF?like. Do you want to return, renew or just keep the dang book because you've had it so long the fine would be more than the actual list price?

Last night I dreamed about one of my best friends from college, a biologist who, as I write this, may be in Kenya counting the rows of Os from which a lion's whisker grows. That's how scientists ID them, I remember her telling me the last time I saw her. I dreamed that we were going to take an exam in a class I hadn't attended all semester (You know those dreams? Sometimes you show up barefoot, too.), and she seemed positive I would pass. The night before that I dreamed about her college boyfriend (WTF? I told you!), and the last time I saw him was when I'd just gotten Bing, and I remember him saying how much fun it must be to have a kitten…

Oh, Bing.

I've been dreaming about him, too. My therapist says it's not uncommon to dream someone to death as part of the grieving process, and I think that's what's happening. They're not sweet cameos of us together, but violent and desperate and confusing. In one dream I was about to be raped, and the attacker put Bing in a pink dresser drawer to get him out of the way. His cries kept me alive as I was beaten and hit and cut. I knew in the dream I would survive and rescue him--no physical pain could be worse than losing him. But geesh, who the heck wants a dream like that?! In another, there was some sort of disaster and I had to bring Bing and Derrick to safety. I dropped Derrick and he fell down the stairs, landing silently, still, in a snowpile.

More overdue notices: This morning I noticed that the ring I wear on my index finger, right hand, was broken. I'm not a big bauble person (unless the thing jingles,  which likely means it's  cheap), but I've worn this ring for, I don't know, 15 years. It was given to me by a beautiful and talented young friend who, just as she was in her freshman year in college, went into a coma. She remained so suspended for years, until she was taken off life support. The ring reminded me of life, only life, and her wonderful family and home, where I spent so much time during  my teenage years.

What does it mean that the ring broke? I don't know. This morning I was all doomsday about it, but maybe I don't have to bring the book back after all. Maybe this isn't about letting go off the past, but of letting go of what you think you're supposed to let go of.

P.S. Excuse the mostly depressing musical accompaniment, selected earlier but still killer, doncha think?

Meezer Monday: Balance, Beam

A friend of mine who's been teaching herself to tap dance (well, with the help of a Bonnie Franklin-hosted instructional video. Yes, Bonnie Franklin!)  asked me who my favorite dancer was. Of course, I suck at answering questions like that, but I did recall a scene in That's Entertainment that left me feeling floaty and inspired for days--Ann Miller doing a trillion, million chaine turns in some musical, smiling the whole time and full of so much big & bright it was like she radiated her own portable spotlight.


Here she is if you don't believe me:



When I saw this video, I immediately thought of Bing, who once told the animal communicator, "I can dance in the craziest ways, I can walk over teacups and not disturb them, because I am so centered."

Binglet and Ann Miller, then. That's my final answer.

Click this link to watch. (Sorry, embedding disablers. Though I bet you'd feel less stressed out if you let go of the fallacy that it's possible to truly 'own' anything on the Internets. Data just wants to be free and do its own crazy data dance, too, you know.)

Wordless Wednesday: Perchance to Dream

Lately I've caught Derrick and Lorenzo dreaming, and their styles are so different it really got me thinking. There's Derrick, big on the whisker- and toe-wiggling, as he no doubt races to doors that open to the most wondrous places (hallways! elevators! big skies with flies!). And Lorenzo, vigilant ears a staccato yes-or-no, alert even in sleep to the possibility of a can being opened somewhere. Definitely in contrast to little Binglet, whose ears would flutter hummingbirdedly, like he was tuned in to the most harmonious of frequencies and wanted to hear it all at once.

Meezer Monday: Be There Now

A couple nights ago, I woke up from a nightmare in which I was about to be permanently separated from Derrick and Lorenzo. True, Lorenzo was spotted like a palomino pony with a mane flaming autumn-leaf red, but I knew in the dream I would soon see him for the last time.


About to be, going to be, soon to be. That's the killer. 


The first thing I thought of, after keeping my eyes open long enough to delete the scene so I wouldn't have to go back to it, was the little puppet in this photo that my friend Kathy posted on my Facebook wall months ago. "I thought you might like this -- a photo from the WWII exhibit at the Imperial War Museum about the Kindertransport to Britain of Jewish children," she wrote. "This little meezer puppet journeyed with his child to England during the Kindertransport in 1939. As you can tell, he is a much-loved meezer." 


Oh man. And I wondered, what if his child left a real kitty behind? And what about all the cats who get separated from their humans? Lorenzo, abandoned on the street by his former owner, was so frightened in the shelter he became extremely aggressive. Derrick's intake photo, like so many others, is heartbreaking. Panting, cornered, bright pink-nosed. I'm so happy it turned out good for them. 


And for the little girl with the puppet. Unlike most of the children who evacuated during the Kindertransport, she saw both of her parents again. (I found that out here.) This is my tiny prayer for all those who didn't, and for all the kitties who've found themselves abandoned, for whatever reason. 'Cause sometimes it gets better.

And for Bing, who this is really all about.

Two nights after the nightmare, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I needed to use this song with this post. Don't ask. I'm not gonna bother : )

Echo, The Prettiest

I find myself looking for Bing everywhere. It's normal, I guess, 'cause I'm more familiar with him being there than not. A couple times I've gone to the bedroom to say goodbye to him when I'm about to leave the apartment, and walking home in that safe/small heady trance that I often put myself in, I'll randomly say his name.

Binglet. Bear. B.

I realize now I used to do that all the time--like when my body got close enough to home to know I was going there, a message was sent to my brain. Home=Bing. And saying it out loud made it so.

The weirdest has got to be the urge to seek and find when I go online. Yes, I'm used to searching for all sorts of answers there--I mean, that's a huge part of my job, I'm programmed to do it--but I always want to type in those 4 little letters. Is he there? (Turns out he is, of course. So ahead of his time, and why didn't I buy that dang domain name?!)

And then there's the real world. You know, the one where matter is arranged in forms we sort of all agree on. I was cleaning the apartment the other day, and sure enough, he's all over the place. His little sweater, still in the size-small blue Sherpa bag. Little whiskers on the cat tree he used to climb up to get to the bed. Stray hairs--are they Bing's or Derrick's or both?--in the rug, on the comforter, in the dust bunnies I was sweeping up. When I've vacuumed them all up, when there's no longer physical evidence of Bing the cat, will that mean I won't be sad about him anymore?

Thinking about all this called to mind the photo at the top of this post. (Click on it and you can more easily see it's not what it first appears to be.) I took it on a morning walk in Alexandria last fall, 'cause i thought it was so beautiful--a painting left by something once growing and no longer there. A vine still clinging and singing. And the aural equivalent? An echo that's not the effect that comes after a cause, but just because. Something quiet and deep and sweet, like a backing track that's always there if you listen for it, because it's holding the whole song together.


Darn it! I'd wanted to use just the backing track for this next song 'cause I think it better explains what I'm trying to say--something about how what seems fragile (like memory or what's on the other side of this world) is actually steady and strong--but no one has posted it yet. So here's the entire song-and at least you can hear how the chorus swarms, bee-treeing up the wall, and then leaves behind the sweet honey of the verse, the what's-not-so-obvious. Listen for the "doing doing doings" on the verses--I love them so much I once used them as the message on my answering machine. Oh, that's a "doing" that rhymes with "boing." Not do-ing, like a verb. : )



Update: I found it! Classic bittersweet BW, makes you just wanna cry your eyes out:






This next one's pretty geeky, but it's cool 'cause you get to hear just the bass and, right after that, the entire song. And, sure, every white guy with a guitar has posted a video of himself playing the big old solo in this piece, but LJ kinda quietly albeit funkily holds it up and keeps it going. Ah, so maybe that's what they're doing on the other side?!



P.S. Title for this blog was inspired by the E.E. Cummings poem that goes, "ecco the ugliest sub suburban skyline on earth between whose dowdy houses looms an eggyellow smear of wintery sunset." I know that's not supposed to be one long snake-tail of a sentence, but since I didn't know the poem's name, I had to search via the phrase. The only place I could find it was without the correct line breaks, on a site full of people discussing how they hate poetry 'cause it has no balls.

Meezer Monday: Bingie Wonderland

Happiness is a warm size-XXL donut bed, preferably one with a tail… I took this photo about a week or so ago, and I'm so glad I did. Derrick and Bing spent their mornings and late afternoons cuddled together, with one variation or another of Bing using Derrick's tummy/back/chest as a pillow. I'd be sitting on the bed and forget they were there, and then turn around to see something like this. Heaven in Sensurrround, purr-rumbling in that M-at-the-end-of-Om vibration, draped in creme and toasted almond with a chocolate-mocha center.

I don't want to make this all sad, but dang, am I going to miss bedtime with Bing. Every night, unless it was super-hot and humid in the summer, he'd be waiting there for me at my pillow. I'd have to lift up the covers at the exact right height and he'd hunker down after awhile. Sometimes I'd have to put my arm out so he could use it as a little perch for his paws and/or forelegs, and sometimes he'd just sigh all his weight into me in a spooning sort of way, this total surrender move that meant nothing but i love you and we're safe and happy. I know he'll always be in my heart (phew!!!), but there's something about that sigh that's so deliciously weighty and right-now-in-this-world.

Sigh.

This one's for me, 4:35 to 6:06:

Wordless Wednesday: Sweater Weather

Seeing Bing in his new sweater, all chocolate and sweet and snazzy and oh so smoothadelic, made me think he should be listening to this next song. But wowie, I'd never heard THIS version:



Bonus: One inspired listener left the following comment after watching Al: "OH MY GIDDY GOD!!! TESTIFY ABOUT LOVE REV!!! I HAVE TEMPORARY LEFT SIDE PARALYSIS AND THIS GOT ME UP AND SHAKING MY BUTT!!!!
WHAT A PERFORMANCE!! WHAT A UPLOAD!!!
HUNGRY FOR MORE NOW!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

My Sweet Sixteen

Happy 16th birthday to the brush-tailed Binglet, feng shui master and cat of my heart. He of complex mind and simple pleasures, who knows that what surrounds it is often better than what's in it…




I thought I'd never think of the right song to go with this one, but the answer came as soon as I powered up my computer at work this morning. I got all impatient and was pounding away at the keyboard like a freakazoid because the keys were sticking. Just 2 though… the 'A' and the 'S' …Hmmm… that'll do just fine!

Meezer Monday: You're Getting Very Sleepy...

Every morning at 4:40 for the past week or so, I've woken up to Bing poking me in the face repeatedly, not stopping until I pick up the comforter at the exact height that allows him enough room to walk under, turn around and hunker down. At the same time, Derrick walks through the house all sports commentatorlike, doing his trilling/thrilling play-by-play of how exciting it is to be alive, yet again. If it were summer and the windows were open, he'd be just in time to join in a chorus with the twittering birds who begin their day with a reverie that sounds like "Derek Jeter Jeter Jeter Jeter Jeter." (Of course they're Yankees fans.)



This next one is here by virtue of the name of the album it's from... Susan Sleepwalking. I used to think this was so beautiful and haunted, and fake drum beats didn't bother me then.

Meezer Monday: Seitan Is Real

Screw the eff word--I can't even write the ess word. It's certainly not because of my mom, who'd regularly pull out the powerful, "Tell the truth and shame the devil!" when I was growing up. That actually worked on me, my seven-year-old self imagining the devil--think hunchback goatlike creature with skin like a well-done hot dog, complete with pitchfork--melting like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz with every statement of third-grade veritas I made. "It was me! I ate all the mini peanut butter cups!"

At least that brand of devil is understandable and beatable. Just be honest and he loses all power, a big windbag who tells lies. (Incidentally, not unlike many of the people who come before Judge Judy on Channel 55 every night at 10 PM.)

It's the kind of d/evil that I can't understand that makes me shiver--or, if I'm feeling particularly Pollyanna, puts me in a serious state of denial. Or I'll read stuff like Helter Skelter and The Executioner's Song, antsy and agitated the whole time, trying to find the answer to that $25K question--why would someone do that? They all leave me in a nightmare, facing a brick wall behind which there is…no door number 3. No answer.

Groan, another post gone south. Like way south. And I really just wanted to show you how un-evil my little Bing is, even when dressed in this Halloween costume I bought him 2 years ago on a business trip to Evanston, IL. I think they also sold candy that was supposed to look like snot, but no way would I buy that.

P.S. Incredible book, and I'm still trying to stop squirming so I can finish it: M. Scott Peck's People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil

Meezer Monday: Grammar & Usage for Cats

Here's Binglet when I first got him, sans mask and still young enough for booties. (Like all meezers, he did eventually graduate to trouser socks.) His shaving brush tail remains the same, limiting his body language to powerful statements that end in exclamation points. While kitties with longer tails are able ask questions and insert commas and apostrophes as is their wont, this little dude knows that less is more when it comes to punctuation.

Meezer Monday: Wild Blue Wonder

When Derrick first saw the vintage Indian scarf I hung up on my wall the other day, his eyes went wonder-wide and globe-y, big blue sky marble and sniff-sniff-what's this. I later found one of the sequins on the pillow, so I'm guessing he was enchanted by the way they glimmer enough to explore, all paw thump and nosebump.

He actually reminded me of myself the other night, when I was running on the East River right as night fell. Have you noticed how silent, how aching, how beautiful and secret the sky is in November? I think it has to be my favorite. Anyway, as the light fades the sky goes all stripey, from robin's egg to royal to naval to midnight, and the river gets all moony and gentle like a bathtub, and I'm like OMG…Sky! How can I have never seen you like this? Like I've had a crush on you my whole life, and finally this is our first date, you're all twinkly and dressed in velvet and whispers.

Meezer Monday: Busy Doin' Nothin'

It took Bing 10 minutes to get into this position, which is actually pretty good for him. I don't know what's going on in his self-described matinee idol mind, but his MO is like this: he'll sidle up to Derrick and just kind of loom over him, staring, not moving, but very obviously engaged in some sort of special for-kitties-only spatial/energy-moving task. Then, after what could amount to 15-20 minutes of this, he hunkers down, first try, in the most comfortable, perfect position. His moves are few and well-choreographed--but then again, I've been saying all along he's a minimalist.

Lately I've been working on being energy efficient. Not like an air conditioner or anything, but as it applies to movement. I have no lack of strength or force, but I tend to fritter away my energy in the moments before and after I really need it. Like, hmmm… when you do pirouettes, the preparation is the most important thing--it's your time to center yourself and prepare for lift-off. If you get all excited and anxious about it, like I sometimes do, you might hop into your preparation, thinking you can use that extra force for pirouette-y goodness. No, no, no, though. You're actually screwing up your delicate balance. Far better to step the foot down, and use that errant kilowatt or however you measure energy--what is it? ergs? newtons?--for the actual turn.

Then of course you can waste energy on the back end, too, like fidgeting when you finish a yoga pose, which is sort of like laughing nervously at the end of an otherwise smart-talkin' sentence. Not that I'm some sort of energy prude, but geesh…things go much smoother when you don't blow your wad before you even start.

P.S. Snort! Somehow this post didn't end how I'd expected.

Keepin' busy while I wait...

Meezer Monday: It's Nice to Share

I originally bought the vanilla malted bumper car bed, above left, for Bing, but the minute Derrick saw it he shoved his whitey mammoth a$$ into it for a perfect fit. Then I thought for sure Bing, an under-the-covers cuddler, would take to the Cat Snuggie, which is like a giant pita bread with French cuffs. But within seconds of its leopard-spotted arrival, there was Derrick all mother's milking it, howling and whining when anyone got near.

There's all kindsa nuttiness going on in the above scenario, but the big takeaway for me is that he's actually utilizing/enjoying both of these items. This is especially important to me lately as I recently threw away a bunch of stuff that, although costly, had been worn less than a handful of times. Or could no longer be worn. Like, for example, the giant fluffy white coat I got on ebay that only a yeti or, possibly, Patti LaBelle could pull off. I swear, once I threw that particular behemoth out, my closet sighed.

And if anyone's wondering about Bing, well, he didn't show interest in either of the beds, so it's not like Derrick's the bully at school stealing everyones Michael Jordans. At least I think it's not like that.


Is it me, or does she look totally psyched and may have even kicked his lazy a$$ to the curb?



That's the way it is, troolie-oolie-oolie is...



Because I save the best for last:

Meezer Monday: He Ain't Heavy?

Um, yes, he *totally* is, so much so that he can no longer fit in his bumper car with the custom-built chassis. (I don't speak car generally--is that correct usage?) Bingie can hardly move, pinned underneath that honky cat turkey leg.

See the comments..smoova?!





Hot and sweet? Don't read the comments on this next one... (P.S. Yes, I hear what you're thinking, but the Hollies aren't brothers...)



Am I the only one obsessed with The Temptations movie that's like 10 years long? They like to play it at 3 AM, after The Jacksons: An American Dream.

Meezer Monday: Wooly Bully

Confession--my cat is a total nutter. Seriously, I've told you how Derrick has been known to go all mental and attack Bing, but lately the consequences are greater, particularly 'cause Bing's been sick this summer and he's already a frail oldster to begin with.

I figured it was time to call in the big guns--and on Friday we had an appointment with the animal communicator. Just in time, because Bing was feeling pretty distressed. "It's so hard to be in a situation where I never feel any peace," he told the animal communicator.

And Derrick's reply? "I just can't stand seeing him in my space sometimes."

WHA??!!!! Entitled much?! I get it, Derrick, I get how easy and well, cheap, it is to take your own $hit out on someone else, but couldn't you pick on someone your own size? Derrick's so tall that Bing can fit right under him like they're stacking end tables. I've walked in the room to find him straddling Bing like he's the freakin' Colossus of Rhodes, wobbling along like the family pet in a deranged Weeble family.

Oh wait, wait, that was me taking a bit of a poetic license! In Derrick's defense, 90% of the time, he's sweet and full of vibrant energy. He's one of those cats who licks your arm, follows you everywhere and talks to himself constantly. From 10 am to 3 pm, he and Bing cuddle together on the bed, Bing resting his head on Derrick's tummy. Total charm-ball.



Then, it's like this switch flips on and he's a psycho. I've seen Bing slink around the perimeter of the room to avoid the wrath of BFA (Big Fat A$$), the behemoth that takes over Derrick's kitty brain at times like this.

And no, he can't promise he'll try to be better because he doesn't really know what's going on with him. "I just go berserk," he said.

Berserk? Does anyone use that word anymore, except my dad, who pronounces it just like it's spelled and not the usual morph of ba-zerk? And is that the end of the discussion then? It's like he's copping the insanity plea, story's over, periodtheend.

Well, in this case, we're working on an entire treatment protocol to put Derrick back in balance. This will involve a visit to the holistic veterinarian, so maybe he'll get a chiropractic adjustment. Wish us luck. And honestly, if ever you're in a tight spot in which you, say, tripped a lady wearing a fur coat (egads! who would do that?!) or went postal on someone for cutting you in line at the store, tell 'em Derrick made you do it.

Do you know that the original "Wooly Bully" was supposed to be called "Hully Gully," but there was already a song named "Hully Gully"? And I still have the stickers that go with this album, even if it was the recent vinyl reissue:






OK, so since Mr. Lowe wrote that above song for Mr. Cash, it seemed only fair to feature this next one. And what a great vid this is! I've never heard this version, which is even more exciting than the costume changes. And if Nick can change his song, Derrick can certainly change his tune.

Meezer Monday: All I Want Is Everything

I envy Derrick and Bing sometimes. They don't have to worry about what to wear every day (though Bing does have a set of devil horns, a top hat and a baby blue hoodie with skulls from the Martha Stewart Collection), and they aren't weighed down by the desire for material possessions.

To some degree we're all addicted to buying stuff, to getting that bag and carrying around what's in it, even if it's just some crappy hair gel and gummy worms. Why, that's what makes us good Americans after all! Like, the stores all closed early on Saturday 'cause of Hurricane Irene, and on Sunday I saw people forlornly walking the streets, all sad-sack and jonesing cause there was nothing to BUY. I watched a family sprint to CVS when they saw it had opened, practically gasping for air as they set their sights on Pringles and Blistex (random items to be sure, but they kinda go together, don't they? Especially if we're talking pizza-flavored Pringles).

At least with cats, their thrills are relatively cheap. Derrick loves his rainbow catnip cigar, but I don't think he thinks about it when it's not there. Nor does he need to get it in multiple colors and styles, or worry that they'll stop making the rainbow stripe kind and life will never be the same again.

The Q, as interpreted by anthropomorphized sea life, remindin' us what it's really all about:




And all the world is biscuit-shaped…