Meezer Monday: I'm OK, You're Sort of OK

Every day last week I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I'm beginning to think that maybe it's just easier to sleep that way with the apparently ginormous stick that's up my @ss. It hasn't been an easy summer and there are several contributing factors, but it's as if the switch has been flipped from "Angry? Cry and hate yourself!" to "Angry? Take the more mature route and make faces at people on the street." Srsly. It's like there's this ugly, small-hearted crone inside me that shouts out, "What the eff are you looking at?" 

I'm ashamed to say that's no lie. I was running past the garage in my apartment complex the other day when some random attendant inside called out, "Good morning!" He got rewarded with an expletive that burbled out like I was on an audition for the head-spinning scene in whatever that movie is. (Maybe that's a bad example--I didn't know the guy, I wasn't looking in his direction, and I was about 50 feet away from him. Call me a grinch, but I feel that he should MHOB. You think he says "good morning" to the guys running by?)

You see what I mean about that ginormous stick?! Why should I care if some Howdy Doody says "good morning?" I wish people were nicer to each other! He may have been a lug-headed busy body, but at least he didn't slam the door in my face or look past me as if I were invisible, like half the people in New York.

But the worst part of leaking and saying rotten stuff to random strangers?! It makes you feel really bad. And I really believe there's no excuse for being rude to anyone--in any situation. You always have the option of walking away and saying nothing (unless, of course, you have swallowed a small-hearted crone who shouts out "F*ck" like I have). So here I have been feeling like such an amateur human being, and guess who doesn't seem to mind? Who loves me even when I'm a jerk, when I don't wanna love myself?

Lorenzo.

The behaviorists would say it's not love, of course. But I'm not sure they've done much research in this one particular stinky arena, so heck, I'm gonna anthropomorphize. And overshare a little bit, too.

This summer I've been training for a marathon, so my weekends have been taken up with what is known as the long, slow run. But don't let that Robert Frost-y name fool you--on occasion they've been miserable, sweat-filled 4-hour affairs that  revolve around public bathrooms and easy access to Gatorade.

But it never fails. He always does it. When I come staggering in to the apartment, red-faced and dripping with sweat, there's Lorenzo, waking up from his nap and ready to join me for stretching on the rug. I remember the day he started doing it. He was watching me very intently as I used the foam roller, and then HE started rolling, tentatively at first, on his back. It was like, OMG, this cat's a freakin' genius.

As we stretch out, at some point he wanders over and sticks his nose in my underarm, nips me and then hits the floor, rolling on his back like he's been sniffing catnip. He doesn't care I had to take a 5-minute break at Mile 10. He doesn't care that half the city passed me (those freaking dads in running strollers, for gawd's sake!). Not only does he accept me for smelling bad, he revels in it. It's equal parts embarrassing and endearing, but honestly, I can't think of a better example of someone accepting you for who you are, even when you can't accept who you are. And trust me, its not nearly as gross as the story an ad rep once told me about the dog who was obsessed with her underwear drawer.

P.S. The next time you encounter a nasty human being who asks you "What the eff are you looking at?," know it's nothing personal. He or she is probably stressed out and feeling vulnerable.


Not my favorite by these guys, but it sho nuff gets the point across:




The last and only time I listened to this song was during my senior year in college, fall semester. I was in Greece, and they played this every week at a club called Rebound. Pretty sure the patrons thought we were stupid Americans.

Meezer Monday: Butt Seriously

You can tell that a cat feels good when he or she displays Butt Pride. If you have a cat, you know exactly what I'm talking about---that happy tail-up trot they do when they're about to get something good or see someone they like, or when they're just in the moment, just naturally "being cat." Or sometimes they'll just shove their furry asses in your face. They have no shame about displaying what's under their pantaloons, ever, and if the tail has a slight bend at the tip, OMG. Total Butt Pride.


Poor Renz. Yesterday he was either startled or miscalculated his usual ascent of the 6-foot-tall bookshelves, and he fell backwards. When he got up it looked like he'd hurt the area around the base of his tail--the seat of all Butt Pride--in the process. He wouldn't/couldn't put his tail up all the way and instead it hung sadly, like a drooping flower. I have a call in to the vet, but I think he will just need some time to heal--he's doing all the other Lorenzo things he always does, like zooming, fighting with Derrick and sprinting after the ball and then looking at it. Today his tail can go up a little higher, so it's like we're slowly raising the flag back up the pole. Please send the little shorty some healing vibes--I'll let you know when he's flying high again.

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! 

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.)

Meezer Monday: You Da Bomb

No wonder I like Anthony Perkins so much. Not only did he have two Siamese cats as pets (according to my extensive "if you read it online, it's gotta be true" research, this is either Banjo or Pansy), but he kicked butt in On the Beach, the film version of the Nevil Shute book that scared the sh*t out of me when I first read it.

I can't be the only kid who had recurring nightmares about nuclear war. No bombs ever went off in these dreams, it was more like me trying to navigate through the smoldering staircase of a falling building, no one around and I'm just trying to get home to feed the cats. I was moved, and confused (atoms that turn everything to ash?), enough to read all I could (bad idea), but at least I acted on it. My first protest--walking past Town Pond in East Hampton with my friends Petra and Mike carrying a sign that read "Students Against Shoreham" and demanding the editor of the local paper take our photo. Yes, there were only 3 of us, and we probably would have been taken more seriously if we weren't laughing, but it was a start. Only way to grow big balls is to start with teeny ones.

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 : )

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: Dream A Little Dream

For just a few months in between kitten and cat, she fit perfectly into this little box. She'd fetch mousie and jump right in, ears-up pleased and whisker-proud to fill the Puff-sized space so snug. This little Polaroid makes me so happy--she's like a little kitteh-sized loaf cake. When she got bigger, there were bigger boxes, of course, but none ever seemed so custom-made.

It's kinda like the tiny window between sunrise and moonset, when the sky sighs to make room for both. Blink and one sinks. I was lucky to be on the beach in Seattle as this happened last Wednesday morning, the blueberry-raspberry sky blushing right on my left as the silver moon made a lynxpoint connection with a demure cloud in the cosmos next door. A day starting as shy as a cat, whisker-whispering a dawn-blue hello.

For Puffelina, born January 14. The title is in reference to a dream she sent me that I was planning to write about. But this came out instead. : )

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: 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: 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: 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: Puff 'n Stuff

If Puff ruled the world…

…like Mick at the end of this clip in which the band is listening to a recording of "Wild Horses," we'd shamelessy, blamelessly, delightfully, rightfully know that we're perfect as we are.



P.S. This blog was created 2 years ago to this very day, in honor of the great Miss Puffelina.

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: A Bushel and a Pec

What do y'all think of Anderson Cooper? I actually stopped watching him after his coverage of the earthquake in Haiti, not because I don't think he's good, but for fear I might see his biceps again. Do you remember them? It was if I couldn't look away, like Cindy Brady staring at the red light in the studio on the quiz show. I couldn't understand why the camera would linger on his arms like that all Entertainment Tonight-y, when people were dead and dying and everyone in need of help, but all you see is the arms, making me think of turkey drumsticks, which I don't eat, or even a giant surgically enhanced breast. It's not like it was his fault or anything, but it was like we shouldn't be focusing on the results of multiple strength-training work-outs when the world's heart was breaking for the lives affected by this disaster.

As it turns out, other folks found the arms, uh, remarkable, too. Maybe not in the exact same way, but check out this article in the fashion section of The New York Times.

Anyway, so today, when I randomly came across the above photo, I had to figure out what was up. I found out that Anderson Cooper is Gloria Vanderbilt's son, and that he has a photo album on his website devoted to pets named after him. And that this photo went viral and he thought it was funny, and dang if they don't have the same nose.

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.