Little, You Do Know

I was one of those dreamy kids, the kind that don't really exist anymore, mostly because of the Internet and because moms would totally get crap for letting their children do, well…nothing. Each hour spent looking for four-leaf clovers I swear made room for something new in my head, like the imagination is this giant hole only you can dig for yourself, its adult size determined by how much space you can shovel into place by the time you are, say, 12…

I walked to the library every week and carried home my loot--goopy Nancy Drew, bad dream-making Alfred Hitchcock. I talked to the flowers in the backyard, scared to touch the bleeding hearts, lightly fingering the churchy Queen Anne's lace… I danced to my sister's terrible records (for hours!), drew ladies in ruffly, bustle-y dresses, raided the bathroom cabinet and mixed up concoctions in the sink, explaining to the television audience (the one behind the mirror, of course) exactly how to combine the ingredients.

I remember clearly one Saturday afternoon in late winter, when I took my red, white and blue basketball (cue up the Harlem Globetrotters theme song) and walked up the road and through the field to the basketball court at Most Holy Trinity to practice by myself. We had just formed our first girls' basketball team, and I was the center. I was 11 and there was nothing I couldn't do--keep up with the boys during sprints in gym class, hit triples during our lunchtime baseball games, get 100s on my tests, write, sing and perform my entry in the school song contest (to the tune of "Camptown Races," the only other song besides "Jingle Bells" I could play on the guitar)… So on that March day, I was full with potential, like the forsythia buds that my mom had brought into the house to force-bloom. As I looked up at the net I had this vague feeling that things were going to get complicated in the distant future, but in that moment, at least as far as I could see ahead of me, the world was kind and mine.

I'm pretty sure that's a basic rule to live by if you're a kitten like Ira, and I would do anything to keep his life--and that of his big brothers, Lorenzo and Derrick--that way, always. Dogs and cats have that pureness and sureness I get really fierce about protecting, because it seems like even kids have to let it go sooner and sooner… and somebody has to have it or we're all screwed.

At 13 weeks old, he reminds me that with every day dawns a whole new world, and there he is waiting for the sun. The first time he met Derrick and Lorenzo, he launched himself at them like a rocket, a kitty Odysseus finding his long-lost friends. (They reciprocated…a month later.) When he's hanging out on his cat tree or perched on the foot of the bed and sees me walk by, he gets so excited that the force of his wee-kitteh happiness knocks him off balance, and I am forever making sure he doesn't fall. He can't quite yet contain his meows either--I'll say his name softly, Ira, Ira, Ira, and he does this redonkulous bobble-head thingie, his whiskers start wiggling and only then does the meow come, like it's something he's still figuring out the choreography for… Can you imagine if you got that happy to be recognized, when they called your name at, say, jury duty, or when you're next  in line in the post office?

When Derrick showed his little bro how to play Bathtub (Cat A jumps in bathtub and uses magical kitty powers to make sure Cat B, who may be otherwise engaged in another room, knows the game is about to commence; when Cat B approaches, Cat A leaps out of the bathtub; Cat B chases Cat A), they played this every morning for a week. Then one day Ira tried to initiate the game while there was water in the tub.

Well…nothing much happened. He tumbled into water that went up to his little chocolate-brown cat spats and zoomed right out, galloping through the house in celebration. The next day he was back in the tub, watching the faucet drip.  I was too scared to try out for basketball in high school, and now I think I sing so badly I'm embarrassed to do karaoke (tho I practice it in the bathtub--I could probably do "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head," if they even have that one.)

Ira knows, in his tiny cat head, that it's not about how it's done, it's simply that it's done. And if you carry on as though good things will happen (like your big brothers love you even though you steal food and treats out of their bowls and push them off the prime real estate), maybe good things will happen. That people love you more the worse you sing karaoke, that it's the best feeling ever when someone's happy to see you, and that the world is big and you are small but not.








Incidentally, the MHT girls basketball team played just one game. We won, but I wasn't in it because I'd broken my finger the day before.

Cat, Sitting

 As a beginning meditator (yup, it’s been about 5 years since I’ve been consistent with my practice and I’m still just getting my feet wet), I benefit from guidance and instruction from others. Along the way, I’ve learned you can really cheat your way through it if you do it with people who are better at it than you. It’s super powerful meditating with a group, and that includes groups whose members have four legs and a tail. Cats definitely have it together when it comes to meditating, and can help you to: 

(1) Sit the Heck Still 
When you still the body, the mind follows. Tell that to my legs, which for about 2 weeks this winter would start itching fiercely every time I’d sit down to meditate. I tell myself to relax and breathe into it, but the more I attempt to do that, the more intense and burning the itch becomes, and I start thinking of “Disco Inferno” and blow the whole thing. 

If I were a zen monk in training, I’d have the Ino whacking me with a stick every time I moved or otherwise fell out of concentration—this according to my writing teacher/friend who is a zen monk, though I don’t think he actually used the word “whack.” If this is not an option for you, a regular old kitteh can do the trick. To train yourself to remain still, lie down and wait for your cat to crawl on top of you and park himself. If he is like Lorenzo, he will give you a harsh correction every time you try to move. 

This happened the other night as I was simply trying to fall asleep, and not even practicing meditation. Lorenzo had other ideas. He was perched on my back, and when I lifted my head and tried to turn it to the opposite side, I’d feel a paw on the back of my skull, pushing it back into place. I was restless so kept fidgeting, but Every. Single. Time., there was the paw, claws extending and flexing exponentially with each digression. Finally I just gave up and focused on the fact that I didn’t have to do anything except lie there. The moment that happened, he got up and began shoving his cold nose into my face and licking me, which of course necessitated the practice of #2....  

(2) Accept and Allow 
If I’m making meditation sound all rule-y and rigid, it’s because that’s where I am in the practice right now--if this is a journey, I’m still at the 7-Eleven paying for my Slurpee and filling the tank. I do know that the rules help to cultivate the focus you need for when the discipline dissolves and it becomes something else entirely…  kind of like painting a still life before you can Pollock…
 
Beginners like me can be easily sidetracked by outside noises and inner sensations: the aim is to practice accepting and allowing these things. Like, if I sneeze or the phone rings, I may go all Type A and wonder how many seconds that cost me, rather than just let the moment be … That’s where Derrick comes in. 

Every once in a blue moon, my big, sweet flamepoint will park himself next to me when I’m sitting. He’s a big talker with a big vocab for a cat, but during meditation he mostly employs the short, staccato quack. On one recent morning he wanders in and looks up at me, quacks as soon as I make eye contact, and commences purring. I was pretty quiet-minded that day, so when he starts quacking again, I think—not only am I going to accept and allow this furry big mouth at my side, I am going to follow his lead. 

So we take turns sneaking looks at each other, him quacking and purring and blinking and vibrating to the point I think he’s going to levitate. I am smiling so wide that I think it’s shining my skull.  And I think, hey…I’m getting an advanced lesson from him on the higher purpose of meditation, which is to…

(3) Love More 
One of my favorite yoga teachers, Erich Schiffmann, gives homework in his workshops—which always includes practice love more. He suggests starting with something/someone who is easy to love, and that way it’ll get easier when you practice on things/people who aren’t so easy to love. 

So, yeah, there’s Derrick, radiating this incredible joy and love and, HELLO, YUP, I GET IT! I can love him more, no problem. 

I am still smiling as he shoves his butt in my face, the tip of his tail candy-caning in full expression of feline happiness and confidence, walks a few feet and plops down on the rug directly in front of me. When I look at him he spreads the toes on his front paw. It is the luxurious, slow unfolding of a lotus flower, each paw pad a pink petal. And yes, he and I just pass the love back and forth like we’re in some dorky new-age dance-off… 

We both face the light, me wondering out of nowhere, “What is the sound of a candle flame?,” and Derrick just being, eyes closed.


 

Stealing Home

This past winter, Derrick was attacked by a bulldog. It’s not quite accurate to say “attacked,” since I don’t think the bulldog wanted to harm him—it was more like the psycho canine version of Capture the Flag, with the flag being furry and flamepoint. In any case, the timing was terrible—Derrick and I were out in the hallway for his morning walk, and he displayed his nosey-neighbor habit of dashing into any apartment with an open door just as the guy with the youngish, etiquette-challenged bulldog was leaving. They rolled, they tumbled; the owner stumbled as he tried to grab Santino. I pretty much screamed the entire time but somehow managed to open the door so Derrick could get back to our apartment. Which he did…followed by the dog.

When Lorenzo saw them run past, he leaped on top of the air conditioner and went textbook Halloween Cat. Within what was probably just a few seconds, Santino’s owner finally grabbed him and they got outta there. Derrick was left with bloody back paw pads, at least 6 fewer claws and an hour-long case of Big Tail. Lorenzo hid on top of the kitchen cabinets and stayed there for half the day, big round frying-pan eyes like he didn’t know who he was, or we were. We were all in a daze.

D. was way too stressed for a vet visit until the next week, but I did call the animal communicator. Derrick, typically a cat of few words, said even less than usual--he was still trying to process what was going on.  Lorenzo shared what they were both feeling:

“Attacked in our own home! We never thought that could happen.”

That just about killed me. Both of my guys were dumped on the streets by their original owners, and I promised myself, and them, that they’d always be safe and protected. But that day, I screwed up royally. The encounter with Santino was like a feline September 11th.

For the next few weeks, the whole house felt…piloerect. And I began to think a lot about that tired, mired myth of home, sweet home. About things that have happened to past and present friends, people I’ve worked with, strangers whose faces give away their stories… a lot of bad shit happens in places that people call home. From whoppers like physical/mental abuse and addiction to different-sized things like lies and love that gets withheld and not allowing someone to be who they are…  And oh, the stories of children abused in their homes that hurt us all so deeply, instantaneously. Nixzmary Brown, the little 7-year-old from Brooklyn who was tortured, molested and killed by her stepfather… Myls Dobson, 4, found murdered earlier this year, emaciated and covered in bruises and burn marks, while in the care of a babysitter… What did home mean to them?

One night after the bulldog incident I awoke thinking of Lotus, Gaza and Memphis—3 uromastyx lizards I took care of years ago during my work with a herpetological society. They were seized at U.S. Customs, stolen from their home somewhere in the Middle East and shoved in a box with dozens of other lizards, shipped to America to be sold in the exotic pet trade. We were asked to take care of them while a court case was pending; they were weak, stressed and sick, so it was more like hospice care. We tried to be hopeful anyway. 

Apparently they were of a species that was least attractive to pet owners, but I marveled at their soft pebble-gray skin, dinosaur heads, spiky Sex Pistol tails, kind eyes… they spent a lot of time being very, very still, like old, otherworldly Romanesque cathedrals. Despite my best efforts, you can fill in what happened—first little Memphis, then Lotus passed away. Gaza was so, so thin but still hanging on, eating her alfalfa that I sprinkled with Bach remedies (I tried everything)… I asked the animal communicator to check in with her. She’d never spoken with a displaced uromastyx before, but Gaza told her she just wanted to go home. And she just couldn’t understand why she wasn’t able to.

My heart fell. I knew she could never go back, and I knew deep down that a 75-gallon tank with full-spectrum lighting and a bunch of heat lamps in a New York City apartment was so, so wrong.  There was no home for her now, anywhere.  When she passed, I imagined her dreaming herself back to soft, silken sand near the hottest rocks she could find. A blinding sun shining down lizard love and life.

And so, for Derrick and Lorenzo and Gaza and Nixzmary and Myls and anyone else for whom home hasn’t always been home—I propose a change in definition. Maybe home is not a place, but a series of actions… Moves and moments we can take, no matter where we are, that show and let us know we are safe and supported and surrounded by everything we need.

For Derrick, that means Tiggering through the apartment and spinning out as he takes the corners… that slight uplift of his tail when you say his name… the way his paw pads open and spread like pink petals when I pet him… For Gaza, home is this little shimmy in the sand she’d do while sunbathing, belly-down…

For Lorenzo, aside from this…

…home is a very slight rearing up, a la My Little Pony, at the moment he knows a treat is forthcoming.

For me, home is doing most things for a longer period of time than most people do them for. Home is barefoot, home is blinking through raindrops while soaking wet, home is sitting on the floor, home is Bing perched on my knee or sighing into my side, home is leaping through hallways if there’s enough space…

And when you’re not limited by walls or a map, home may be something you never thought to look for… melting wax, chasing snowflakes, shaking a tambourine…

What’s your dance, homie?

Good In Bed

You know those random things you remember for, well, forever? Like, say, the impromptu song my sister played and sang on the day my family got rid of the piano… It was called "Goodbye, Piano," of course. I was 4.

Something else that stuck: An interview with then-12-year-old Brooke Shields, during which she was asked, "What does good in bed mean?" Her response: "When I'm sick and stay home from school watching TV and my mom brings me soup - that's good in bed."

Working with Brooke's definition, my cat Derrick is definitely good in bed. Lately he's been doing the feline equivalent of tucking me in at night, a furry nanny with toasted marshmallow ears and one lone black whisker. When he knows it's time for bed he gallops ahead of me, Tiggerlike and tail high, settling himself right at my pillow and positioned at eye level.

Then he'll look at me and purr, so loud it looks like he's hiccuping, until I fall asleep. I know this because one night I wanted to see what he was doing, and every time I opened my eyes, his big, moony blue ones were looking back. How freaking sweet is that?!

But really, I know it's all about the purr. It's like there's a crazy stereo receiver in his big cat head, and purring is the buzz that fills the air when the music's over--sound waves rumble, vibrating in the air around me, whiskers tuning into the best possible frequency to get me set for idea gathering, dream building, star watching, poem growing…

I also know he leaves soon after I fall asleep, and comes back when the sparrows wake up, greeting me with a squawk like a baby bird, born anew.

Meezer Monday: Just The Way You Are

"Don't go changin'…" 

Yup, crank up the corny to 11 and get ready for some sentiment just south of sap. (Seriously, if that song had been performed and heard just once in the entire history of the world, it would so not be cheesy, ya know?) 

Anyway, I want to tell you about Lorenzo's first trip to the vet last week. He's definitely not the most valiant cat, and he's come so far since March. In the middle of one night earlier this month, for example, I awoke to what felt like a little loaf of bread, pumpernickel-dense, cuddled up and very softly purring next to me. He's even ventured out in the hallway, and ran back when he heard the elevator. But yeah, I knew he'd be upset going to the vet, I just hoped he wouldn't be some hissy fear biter.

Aww, that couldn't have been further from the truth. The little dude was so terrified he pooped AND expressed his anal glands in the carrier. When Dr. K took him for a blood test, he was pie-eyed docile and compliant, with an affect sorta like Toonces, the Cat Who Can Drive a Car. I sound like I'm making fun now, but my heart was melting for him, my junior-sized pain-in-the-a** thug who launches himself at Derrick like a cannon ball. It was like seeing a sad Leo--a true crime, like the sun going in on a summer day.

When we returned home and the entire family practically passed out from our shared stress, I realized I really love this little shorty. And that you don't necessarily love people because of what they're great at (that's boring old admiration, not love), but for the sweet shortcomings and stuff they don't quite get right but try anyway. For the stuff you laugh at more than the stuff you look at. Not to say I love him for his anal glands, but, heck, you know what I mean, right?!

P.S. The ironic thing is this photo was taken a few weeks ago, when Derrick had his appointment. He and Lorenzo fought to get into the Kennel Cab, and Renz wouldn't leave until I offered a more-motivating stimulus. (Opening of refrigerator door.) There's something here about getting what you wish for, of course, but I just can't write another nasty, hair shaving-filled post this month.

If you've never heard Barry White's version, it's like listening to the song for the first time! 

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?

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.

Copy Cats

Lorenzo didn't come loaded with all the apps that most cats do. He sleeps puppet-awkward in the middle of the wood floor, front legs bent birdlike, in lieu of cuddling up in the perfectly good kitty-sized bed nearby. I'm used to Derrick, who arches his back when I put my hand near in order to get the most of the pet; Lorenzo, until recently, would very slightly shrink, like he was trying to fit under a limbo pole or something. Not in a frightened way, but like he didn't know that being touched by a human could be a pretty pleasurable, purr-inducing thing.

Luckily for Lorenzo, tho, with patient Derrick as his teacher, he's mastered some important basics.

Like that being a good friend=licking the inside of your bud's ears, not shoving your nosey face into his dish of Outback Grill, coming when he calls you 'cause he wants to play Bathtub with you and Bathtub is fun…. Renz has learned this all by imitation, and he's a quick study as you can see here.

OK, so the thing is--I'm kind of a Lorenzo, too. I have no idea to put on make-up w/o looking like a hieroglyph (you know,the King Tut eye, 80s-does-60s-style? Or, for those whose unit of measurement for all things is a cat, the wraparound-sunglass markings on tabbies…), and I just recently, in the past 3 or 4 years or so, nailed down shoe lace-tieing. Until then, they'd eventually come undone unless I triple-knotted. Something like that really freaks you out down to the soul--how could you not know how to properly tie a shoe?.

I've learned a lot about copycatting from the 10-year-old dancers in the jazz class I'm the assistant for. No matter how far apart they start when doing a combination across the floor in pairs or as a group in the center, they slowly but surely clump together, winding up trippingly close, happily in each other's way. And the other day at dress rehearsal for their annual performance, they decided as a group to wear their hair in pony tails. But when the first ponytail-wearer sweetly mentioned it would probably work best on hair of her length and texture, the others came up with their own variations, and in the end, no pony tails made it to the stage. It's probably an obvious "being a human" thing that everyone knows, but I was like, wow…being part of a group is an important part of being an individual.

It made me think of my sophomore year in high school, when I finally found a group I could be myself in. True, that group consisted of just me and my friend P. We made up our own dance steps, took aerobics together and wore the same clothes, but she'd get them in purple and I'd get them in pink. I was really happy being part of a unit, until the day P's older friend J. from show choir told her that she needed to stop hanging out with me so much. It wasn't healthy, J. said, to be so close with one friend. Actually, I see mothers saying the same thing to their kids on bad Lifetime movies, and I'm pretty sure it's bullshit. When P. told me what J. said, I remember thinking I must have done something wrong but I couldn't figure out what it was.

These days, I love being a copy cat--it's sort of my whole M.O., to grab inspiration from others and see what I can learn from them. And now that I think of it, that includes Derrick, too. When he rolls around on the floor and purrs when I meditate, I'm reminded that it's not a chore, and I should do it with a light, joyful heart. When I see him turn and walk away when Lorenzo tries to steal the last bite of food in Derrick's dish, I learn patience, tolerance and the importance of picking your battles… His easy good looks inspire my fashion choices, too, like wearing all-white from head to toe with an orange scarf and gold-framed sunglasses.

And if anyone tells Derrick that he's hanging out with me too much, they're gonna have to deal with me first.

Crispy On the Outside

Outskirts, coastlines, shores I am sure of.  Bullseye, the middle seat, landlocked I'm shellshocked.

I love edges. The butt of the loaf. The disappearing/reappearing line in the sand that's stitch-scratched out by a shorebird. The perimeter of the dance floor, where there's more room to bust yer own dang moves. The sound of something Cocteau Twinned, blending like a raindrop into  a crazy, wavy sonic puddle. The points on a meezer, like Derrick's toasted circus-peanut ears. And of course, the golden-brown halo on a pancake, but I think you only get that if you use a real pan (non-stick, ick!) and real butter. 

(Groan. Better writing=less examples in that first paragraph, but which one would you have pulled?! I couldn't pick, so screw that!)

I'm not sure why I feel a gazillion times better on the edge than in the center, but it's like this perfect storm of a) being a natural outsider-type of person (not wired to, say, succeed on Family Feud), b) growing up in a seaside town, c) having childhood asthma (can always use more room to breathe) and c) a burning love for fried foods (which are inherently edge-y). 

Conversely, I feel a little woodgy-boodgy too far away from water's edge or without access to the exit, so you can imagine how worried I was about my business trip to Denver earlier this month. Based on my track record there, it's no surprise that visiting the Mile High City was on my short list of 'absolute worst anxiety-making things to do ever.' 

But you know what? I got through it more than OK (stay tuned for the deets in an upcoming post in which I compare it to my recent trip to Vegas), thanks to, oh, like everyone I whimpered about it to. And special thanks are also due to Rick James, whose  autobiography, Memoirs of a SUPER FREAK, helped set the tone for kicking some big, honkin' Rocky Mountain a$$. I leave you with an excerpt from the book, which was filled with cocaine-fueled comma placement and all kindsa crazy typos that I found utterly delightful (Barry Gordy! Like 100 times!). Moral of the story: Might as well jump:

The cancellation of the tour had crushed me and I went to Hawaii to think. While I was there I had dinner with Shep Gordon. An artist was there eating with us. He and Shep talked art and shit but my mind was in another place. The artist thought I had great lips, at least that's what he said. He asked me if he could sketch me, which he did, on a napkin. The artist was Salvador Dali, he handed me the napkin. Later that day I unthinkingly jumped in the ocean wearing the same clothes from dinner with the napkin and the portrait in my pocket.

Go 'round the outside…

It's My Potty...

I just found out about the aerosol effect. Every time the toilet is flushed, an unseen mist comprised of microdroplets of fecal particles floats up into the air and can travel as far as 15 feet away, spewing your crap everywhere in what is known as the flush zone. Geesh. I guess that's why they say you should always put the seat down before you flush--another thing I'd never heard about until a few days ago.

I can only imagine what sort of effect was created by the activities captured in this photo, but at this rate, what's the use of worrying about the unseen mist? As it is it's like I'm living in a kitty locker room. I'd dragged the litter box into the hall in order to clean the bathroom floor, which was clearly, for Lorenzo and Derrick at least, the equivalent of the Super Bowl (ahem) being staged in your hometown. Derrick jumped in, and Lorenzo took a front-row seat, so enthralled with what went down he had to hang on to the railing. All this, and they still both smell like nag champa and don't have dirty feet from walking about barefoot like I do. How the heck does that work?




Pretentious and over-the-top, but it sounded pretty good after so long:

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:

Meezer Monday: The Way You Look Tonight (At Least From the Side)

While getting a manicure in my trademark Glitzerland (just one coat) on Saturday, I read in Cosmopolitan that when it comes to men, Nicki Minaj doesn't have a type. "I do like a dope nose profile," she said, further indicating that she prefers it nice and straight.

Hmmm… I wish the article had included some visuals, 'cause I'm not sure I get where the unstraightness would come in. Like she wouldn't like a hook nose that curves down at the tip, or one that wanders off to one side as if it's been broken?

Either way, I think she'd like Mr. D's profile here, though she didn't indicate a preference about gunk in the eye. Because cats have such man-in-the-moon faces, you never think about their profiles as an indicator of personality or overall look, really. 'Cause it's a whole new world when you look at them from the side. Little snorty-lookin' pink nostrils all violin-curvy and, best of all, those close-mouthed Archaic smiles.* Oh, yeah. I do like a dope pink nose profile.

* Dang, all those classes in art history finally paid off!


Commentary for this upcoming vid: This isn't the happiest tribute to Montgomery Clift, who uttered one of my favorite-ever movie quotes. It's not a biggie, so please don't get mad if this is underwhelming, but... in From Here to Eternity, he says to the bartender, "Give her a Coke--big Coke." His delivery floors me--I can't explain. It's all about possibility and love and he likes her so much he wants to make sure her Coke is the biggest it can be, even if it's just a Coke. Maybe love is in the deets, ya know?

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: Boy Toy

When it comes to toys, Derrick's pretty easy to please. Plastic grocery bag? It is best when rustled! Smudge on the wall? I must touch it with my big paw! But he really, really seems to like this new one, a Dalmatian with a nose that lights up and a voice that says "Merry Christmas" sounding suspiciously like Pepe the King Prawn.

It makes me think of the toys I played with as a kid. Or didn't play with, rather. I don't know why, but I really didn't have many. A Chrissy doll with hair that grew longer when you pushed a button on her back. Eventually, her hair made me frustrated..short or long, short or long, short or long…and she fell permanently out of my favor. Breyer horses on an endless journey across land and sea, as they made their way across a green and blue blanket. I guess mostly I read. And drew pictures of ladies with hair piled high on their heads, in dresses with bustles (???). And wrote stories about duck families surviving on bread crusts during terrible storms. And spent lots of time looking at the sky, and zooming from room to room while dancing to my sister's records, which weren't as good as my brother's, but I didn't know how to turn on his stereo.




Re: this next one: I hate when he says he's fat as a cow, but this one does contain a few of those random Wilsonian lyrical "Wha?"s: In the morning people are so happy/And that's the time when I'm a mister businessman.

Meezer Monday: I Knead You

You can tell by the angle of the ears on his big moon head--Derrick was not pleased when I took this photo. It seems I was interrupting his special private time with the new pillow, purchased earlier that day.

I should have known said pillow would cause trouble. Right as I was paying for it, some guy cut the line and started fondling it. "That's an interesting texture on that pillow," he said, groping and stroking the faux fur. At first I was pleased at myself for finding a bargain on such an obviously attractive item (16.67--marked down from original price of $50!), but then I started to think about boundaries, and how I have trouble knowing where they ought to start and stop--and alas, I think they do start at pillow-fondling at Macy's. You want an un-fondled pillow, ya know--or at least if anyone's gonna fondle it, he's gotta have red ears, four legs and a tail.

So yeah, anything plush and soft--i.e. the bumper car-shaped bed he stole from Bing--are clearly tactile Pines for Derrick. He kneads these objects like crazy, spreading his toes wide, rumbling, mumbling and drooling all the while. At least the guy in Macy's didn't do that.



Based not on personal experience but the range of comments on all video versions of this next song: If you're 14 years old or a guitar geek, the intro will blow your mind. Otherwise, just play it over and over while, uh, vacuuming.

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.