It never rains....but it pours

Yesterday morning, I opened the door to our basement. Crouching at the top of the stairs was a very unhappy kitty. She cried a little and promptly slipped under the couch. When I pulled out the couch to check on her, it was obvious she was not well at all.

Jeeez. First the bird, now the cat. And it's not like I can drop absolutely everything to take her to the vet, not when I have a classroom of kids waiting for me. I called the vet and made an appointment for late that afternoon. Of course, by the time I finally got her there, I had worked myself into a crying jag.

Katy is 16. I lost my first cat five years ago, to kidney failure at age 17. It happens to older cats. We have been monitoring Katy for the last year or so to try and stave off what we could. But once the kidneys go, that's pretty much it.

The vet was noncommital. He decided not to run any additional tests on her kidney function, instead we treated her diarrhea and her dehydration. He wanted to wait until Thursday morning to see if she seemed better before deciding on the next step. I took her home last night and she was very weak, barely eating and sleeping behind the television most of the night.

Tonight she is a bit spryer. She actually came upstairs to sit on my lap and was seriously interested in the chicken I was making for supper. But, I know I have to face the harsh reality; she is not a young kitty and it is probably getting very near the end.

Being a pet owner is one of the joys of my life. I have always had pets in my life, and I can't imagine my life without them. But unless you own a parrot or an elephant, your pet is unlikely to outlive you. And saying goodbye is so very hard. Losing a creature that has been essential to your life for 10-20 years is similar to losing a part of yourself. Katy has seen me through homes in Southern California, San Francisco and Toronto area. She has sat on my lap and purred when I cried about my first failed marriage and came east with me when I found the Canadian love of my life. She was stranded with me in Cleveland when I brought her to Canada, she cried all the way from LA to SF when she drove with my ex in the moving van. She loves to rub against feet and purrs like crazy when you scratch her face. She sheds on everything I own; if you don't know I am a cat owner, you aren't looking. I can't imagine not having her on my lap when I watch tv and to look down and see that quizzical face as I work on the computer. Or having to brush off my bum every time I sit in her favourite chair.

But in the spirit of Monty Python, we say :

Not dead yet!

And carry on in love and hope and purrs.

I. Am. So. Tired.

Apparently, it is entirely the fault of my snooze alarm.

Anyway, Grant and I are going to sit here with stupefied expressions on our faces and watch C.S.I. Then we may pass out.

And all this without the benefit of alcohol.

Tulips

Grant and I were married on a snowy February day. The icy weather was in direct contrast to our surroundings; a greenhouse filled with beautiful plants and flowers. I carried tulips, because roses were simply out of the question. Getting married 4 days after Valentine's Day pretty much assures that!

My bouquet was mixed colours with a single blue iris nestled among them. Spring flowers have always been my favourite. I love summer roses too, but there is something about the first flowers after a long cold winter that lifts the spirit completely.

For ages, Grant has been after me to plant tulips in the fall, so we can have a riot of colour in early spring. We have a few intrepid bulbs in our garden already, but they haven't been blooming as regularly or in the profusion we would like. The other day, Grant came home with three boxes of bulbs from the supermarket. Which, since I probably will never get around to the nursery to do this properly, was just going to have to do.

Yesterday was cold and very damp from all the rain we have been having. But the rain took a break, so we bundled up and planted bulbs. Yay! Just knowing those little guys were under the ground, just waiting for spring sunshine made me smile.

I got home from work today and noticed that the dirt around the areas we planted looked a bit dug up. I investigated and discovered one lone bulb with its insides neatly scooped out. It took me several moments of reflection before I hit on the culprit. Damn squirrels!

I will, of course, tell Grant. He will, of course, insist we need to plant more bulbs. *sigh* I hate furry creatures of nature.

Girls' Night In

My 14 year old niece and I just spent the evening together. Her mom and dad are out of town for the weekend and although she had the option of staying home with her older brother, she decided she would rather spend the night here.

Grant had a function tonight (which I suspect is actually a boys' night out, but no problem!), so it was Alana, me, the dog and the cat (who are also girls....hee). We watched a totally girly movie Now and Then, which is kind of the girl version of Stand By Me . It has a very young Christina Ricci and Thora Birch in it, as well as Rosie O' Donnell, Demi Moore and Melanie Griffith. A nice little movie. Then we watched part of Chicago together, ate popcorn and hung. Alana played with the dog and cuddled the cat. She's in bed now; so everybody (the dog, the cat and me) can relax a bit.

I am so flattered that she wanted to stay here, but it made me terribly nervous. She hasn't stayed here before, or even been here for much longer than an evening. I am entirely at home at her house, but she is still a bit shy around here, so I had to keep checking in with her to see if she had what she wanted to eat or drink or watch. Playing hostess for a kid is tough. I didn't want to seem like a total nag. But at the same time, I really wanted her to feel comfortable and have fun with me. I hope I struck a good balance, because it was nice to have a girl in the house!

In Memorium

I just got back from putting our budgie, Nike, to sleep.

I inherited Nike when I moved to Canada. Grant and the boys had had her for a few years. I had never owned a bird; wasn't even sure I liked them. Honestly, Nike didn't seem terribly promising. She was quite skittish and shy. We frequently called her a "sucky bird" (note: a suck being a big ole baby) Still I talked to her all the time. Yeah, I do that with animals. I talk to them constantly, I make up silly songs for them, I treat them like family. Nike was no exception. And somewhere along the line, she became a true member of my little extended family.

Nike was the prettiest blue. She loved to beat up on the plastic bird we put in her cage. She hated it when I put the perch cover on her perch and instantly went to work on it, tearing it with her little beak. She would treat the cat to stealth flyovers. I'm not sure Katy ever completely figured out what that buzzing sound of wings was. Nike would chirp whenever she heard birds singing on TV and if we put on Shania Twain singing " Man! I Feel Like Woman!" she would start bobbing her head and singing along. We got to the point where we called that song "Man! I Feel Like a Budgie!"

Last Friday, I noticed that she was not herself. Further investigation revealed some bad swelling. Unfortunately, it was the Canadian Thanksgiving and there were no avian vets to be found. I had to wait until today.

Poor sick birdie. It was time to let her go. I held her in my hand. It was very comforting in a way, Nike would never have let me hold her like that in her prime. She would have chittered and bit me. I stroked her soft blue feathers and said goodbye.

We buried her just outside the window where she used to hear the wild birds sing. I hope she's singing with them tonight.

Of lacy underthings and rewriting history

My parents sent me a relatively sizable check (cheque, for my Canadian readers) for my birthday. Due to the increasingly ragged state of my undies and bras, I decided to blow the entire amount at the online catalogue for Victoria's Secret. We don't have VS here in Canada...some American conspiracy designed to keep Torontonians driving to malls in Buffalo to do their lingerie shopping, no doubt. I make a point of stopping into one of the stores every time I am in the states, because the lingerie stores here just don't come close.

I restrained myself admirably, purchasing some very practical cotton bras that were on sale and some silky thongs that were also on sale. My one splurge was a new Angel's bra. It is pretty and lacy. One of the undies match it, so I look coordinated too! I wanted to buy a merry widow, but practicality won out.

My purchase arrived on Thursday and I immediately tried on all the bras. Seriously, I tried them on without even going upstairs to the bedroom. Just unwrapped them and slipped them on right in the dining room. New lingerie waits for no man! Everything fit perfectly. Then I went upstairs to admire my lace and satin enclosed breasts and to try on the matching panties. Good times.

Victoria's Secret and I have some history. The original store was opened on Union Street in San Francisco back in the 70s minus the apostrophe. Victorias Secret was a tiny boutique, not much larger than a walk-in closet. The guy who owned it stocked the most luscious silk teddies and garter belts etc. I discovered it in the 80s, when I was working in retail. Owning sexy lingerie and wearing under your power suit was de rigeur back in those days. My first purchase was a black silk and lace teddy. It barely fit me at the time which made it even naughtier. It resided in my underwear drawer long after I could squeeze into it, because how do you toss out your very first extravangent lingerie purchase?

VS was bought out by The Limited, who promptly rewrote history, claiming that Victoria was a naughty English beauty. They even created a false London address for the company, to give it that international cachet. I used to make a point of informing the youthful salepeople what a crock it all was; how Victoria was really a guy named Roy who had a store in SF. They seemed unimpressed. I don't really know why I bothered, except it seemed important to me that history be honoured. Especially since it was an important part of my history.

The Limited got over themselves and stopped pushing the English rewrite. They just went back to focusing on pretty, sexy lingerie. For a chain they do a damn good job. I miss the original store sometimes, but it was purely a special event sort of purchase back in those days. I like that now I can justify pretty underthings for every day.

And so does my sweetie.

Um...yeah

I keep wanting to tell a few of my friends that I have a blog, but then I get this whole panic thing when I think of people actually clicking on my blog and finding....

absolutely nothing new to read.

I remember several years ago when I read The Artist's Way. One of the caveats of the book was the necessity of writing, sort of a stream of conciousness thing. I found myself seriously resenting the "necessity" aspect of this process; it turned out that I needed to let go of expectations in order to proceed further in my artistic life, not add new ones. I dumped the journalling and found myself a voice teacher. Which reminds me: I should blog about that....later.

The pressure. I don't deal well with it. Ironically enough, it tends to make me procrastinate even more. This tendency has forced me to become remarkably adept at finishing projects and necessary tasks just before zero hour, but quite honestly, as I grow older, I find that my stamina has faded for such all-nighters.

pause

Okay, that wasn't so hard. Maybe just ranting from time to time about how much I hate writing will work.

Sure.

Take 2

Sigh.

I had all of these good intentions. I was going to blog regularly. Really, I was. I used to be so good at this when I was in university. I have several volumes of reflective life stuff from those days, frequently over-written and bathetic, but still it is a good record of my life at the time.

I wanted to create a similar record here. So much of my life has changed: a move from San Francisco to Toronto area, an entirely new career, a new husband and a ready-made family of two teenage boys. I moved 3,000 miles to be with a guy I met on the internet and son of a gun if he didn't turn out to be the love of my life! That romance is fairly well documented through email and Yahoo! message records, but since I have arrived in Canada, my life has gone largely unrecorded.

Time to reflect.

Part one: Moving to Canada

This wasn't nearly as hard as one might expect. Well, except for the part about leaving the city I love beyond all others and all my friends and family.... Still, I had separated from my partner of 17 years and I knew that I was overdue for a major change in my life. I was miserable in my job ( selling print services) and had no idea of how I was going to afford the mortgage on my two bedroom house in the Glen Park area of San Francisco.

Then I met Grant. Once we realized that what we were feeling was real and not an internet fantasy it became increasingly obvious to me that I was going to have to consider a move. He had two sons aged 13 and 15. I couldn't ask him to leave his kids behind to be with me. To be honest, I don't think I could love a man that would have been willing to do that. If Grant and I were to be together it would mean only one thing: I was going to have to relocate.

My ex and I sold our house for a ridiculous amount of money and split it down the middle. I put all my stuff into storage and boarded a plane for Toronto. Over the next year, I returned to the states often enough to maintain my visitor status while living with Grant and his boys. At the end of the year, he asked me to marry him.

I said "Yes!"

To be continued...