A VISIT TO THE VET

When you only have one kind of pet, and a species-specific virus lands like a smart bomb in downtown Kittyland (where I live), you usually have one individual who will be effected enough to seek professional help. Such was my plight last Saturday.

"Princess Putanesca" had been sniffling for days and seemed to be dangerously congested.  "Felix," her house companion was the culprit, sneezing in her face with no regard for her well-being; and so to the open-on-Saturday vet in a neighboring county.

Princess Putanesca (whose right eye was damaged by a motorist)

Felix (one brown eye, one yellow) the virus spreader

This particular vet clinic segregates dog and cat owners in their respective rooms.  We dutifully sat on a wooden bench in the lesser of the two, the cat waiting room (which accommodates all non-canine patients).   There was a most uncomfortable gerbil on the bench next to us.  Having filled out the necessary forms, we began to sense the disparity of the two rooms was emblematic of larger differences in the polar-opposite pet lovers.  

A small group of cat people clustered in one corner, a baby stroller parked beside them.  I glanced up from my paperwork at the group relating continuously the biographies of their significant feline others; describing the ecstasy of automatic litter boxes, the cherished inconveniences, so quaint and amusing;  and the glory of ego consumption as payment for the privilege of loving an omnipotent cat.  As my eye glimpsed the baby stroller, I saw two cats in the baby seat, which rolled past me when the attendant called the patients' names. Stunned, I scanned the lady-owners who gave off vibrations of eccentric overindulgence and implicit strangeness.  

And there I sat, I thought, one of them.  We change Her Majesty's name on the form to "Scooter," and appeal for a more desirable reputation as a rare and "completely sane" cat owner.  My grandfather always touted silence as the cloak of personal shortcoming.  Better to look smart than prove the converse with words, was his belief.  I toed that line and exited the clinic without seeing anyone roll their eyes once.  And her Royal Regal Highness, The Princess Putanesca, has been exemplary in tolerating her illness and taking her medications.  I have several wounds.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH WOMEN?

Like Brer Rabbit (Joel Chandler Harris's historical character of black folklore), born and bred in the brier patch, women have become inured to the pricks and actually enjoy them (plus they are a biological necessity).  Originally the animal kingdom, of which I count myself a part, flourished from asexual reproduction - you know, nature's magical genetic splitting of one into two complete individuals or more.  If we had hung onto that method, we would all be equals and probably happily devouring each other in an orgy of eternal protoplasm.  But at some point, our species diverged from the earthworm, where we were all bisexual and enjoying our own company for procreation.  How we got Adam and Eve out of that beats me.

  

A Cousin of Brer Rabbit on Waverly Lane

The Bible maintains that God made man from scratch and seeing he needed a side dish, made woman out of his rib.  Right there is the basis for inequality.  Man was God's main thought, woman was an afterthought, the amusing little helper creature.  Someone should tell Miss Piggy (The Muppet Prima Donna) how we stand because she clearly doesn't get it; and I don't either.  

In my baby bin at Buxton Hospital, where I was born, I could see through the blur that my booties were pink, while others were blue.  No big deal, I thought.  Maybe I'm some kind of royalty.  Little by little that idea lost ground as new unending prohibitions sprang up like signs along the highway:  Red Light, Stop; Green Light, Go; Yellow Light, Caution; No U-Turn; Do Not Enter; Buy Burma Shave.  (That last one is a history lesson, Google it.)

The hair-pulling contest over which political party has the high ground with women is laughable.  Neither does; but one is less likely to toss a virgin into a volcano than the other.  Burning people at the stake used to enforce "traditional family values" too.  Corraling women up and forcing them to face the consequences of a hard decision and the judgement of hard-core believers and the indignity of unpleasant medical procedures does not convince me that anyone has the high ground here.

Mount Hood Daffodils Grown on Waverly Lane

So what is wrong with women?  I think we all suffer from Stockholm Syndrome (empathizing with and abetting your captors).  We can be compared to Otis (the tippler on the Andy Griffith Show from the 60's) who routinely locked himself in jail for drunkenness.  We secure our own imprisonment in illegitimacy and hang the key on the wall.  It is the only way to make everyone happy; and our own happiness is put off until someday.  We sing the hymns to male superiority and consider ourselves a fine creation.  

Enough of this going along.  When you have leverage, use it.  It is the saddest thing in the world to see so much ability and wisdom controlled by the powerful with narrow agendas.  Shake free of "traditional" precepts and think like a bitch, that "back in your place" epithet used by the dogmatic.  Before I die, I want to know that my lifetime of bitching was not in vain!

IS THIS PARIS? (AN OLD LADY TRIES A MARATHON)

I recognize defeat when I see it.  Defeat is old age, where your most unattractive feature becomes more loathsome and the chaotic universe of your being coalesces around it, presenting it with cosmic bombastic emphasis.  Oh, just get drunk and kill yourself; or, pick yourself up and walk a charity race of at least 6.3 miles.

The Free Goody Bag (Shirt, Water, Coupons...No Easter Turkey)

As I write this, I attend nerves, sinews, muscles, joints, and (I maintain) bones which are in full rebellion after the insanity induced pilgrimage of today - March 31, 2012 - in the form of Richmond's "Ukrop's Monument Avenue 10K."

At the start, I was in the "wave" of amateurs and novices; my daughter (CBW) was farther up the road with runners/walkers of legitimate abilities.  Even so, Meg, my new friend from Williamsburg, took off at the starting line and I never saw her little pink hat again; ditto, Ann Marie, our friend in her little red crab hat.  There were people in costumes, which I did not require to elicit pointing and laughing.  I still marveled at the competitors who blew past me:  the highly motivated, the gray and thin-haired, the morbidly obese, the amputees with artificial limbs.  The good news:  no terrorist snipers leaning from upper windows.  Still I was proud of myself for trying and determined to finish well.
 
To preserve dignity, I ran when necessary to secure the good opinion of onlookers who lined Monument Avenue shouting, "You can do it!," "Just 5 more miles!," or "Free hot dogs and beans!," which on hearing my stomach almost caused my knees to buckle.

My Little Outfit (Not Pictured:  the panty-girdle which will accompany me to the crematorium )

After the projected consequences of my foolish commitment set in, I enumerate all the possibilities and prepare for:  (1) an undistinguished upright finish; (2) embarrassing failure to reach a porta-potty in time; (3) mental confusion; and (4) sudden death.  I decided to maneuver things toward number (1) with a cautious eye on number (2).

At about the half-way mark, the bricked road became uncomfortable underfoot and brought me back to Paris in 1983, where my feet cursed my shoes for just such inhospitality.  I made a mental note:  "Don't forget where you are, stay focused; and should the worst happen, DO NOT ASK, "Is this Paris?"  It is my fondest wish not to die in a mental hospital.

At the finish line, I ran confidently, my apple-red cheeks spreading to the whole face; and after a Chinese buffet, a turn in the jacuzzi, and a three-hour nap, it has only recently returned to normal.    I may do this all again next year!!

FUNDAMENTALLY FEMALE

The Governor of Virginia should go back to Regent University, Pat  Robertson's haven of zealous fundamentalists, and learn how to deal with the "outside world"  That goody-two shoes, holier than thou veneer usually covers an individual who is among the first to be found face-down in the soft pelt of a lost soul at a brothel, a la "Elmer Gantry," Sinclair Lewis's velcro-souled preacher.  (Shirley Jones was awesome in the movie.)  This is all conjecture on my part, which usually precedes history, but I believe in reading signs.

   From the files of The Daily Press

The Face of Fundamentalism, Governor Bob McDonnell

(who evidently believes all women should have all offspring they conceive through their original sin)

We ladies have our weaknesses too.  I freely admit to sacrificing my potential (whatever it was) on the altar of matrimony.  Attending church, I realized my reward every Mother's Day, when I was recognized along with every other adult woman in the congregation, by standing.   Sort of a reverse "Red Letter A" tribute to doing God's will, it always felt like I was an anti- "Hester Prynne," Nathaniel Hawthorne's tramp-stamped protagonist of old.  Though I haven't been to church for years, I'm certain they all get their stand-up exaltation on their designated national holiday.

I hope I don't sound surrendered to the poisonous venom of a disappointed life, but I guess I maybe, kind of, am.  Being called out of the water at water's edge, this swimmer resents never leaving the inner tube of security for a free swim; and now to see the tide ebbing for women, nationwide, evaporates my conviction that America, sanctuary for people seeking freedom, equality, and opportunity, is anything but a stag party.

From "Bible Pictures and What They Teach Us"

The First Eviction:  Somebody's Going to Get Blamed.

The remedy for hopelessness is effort.  Do something.  Speak up.  Reason diffuses anger, if anger doesn't annihilate it first.  Vote for a man, which is your only choice usually, who might possibly protect your equality as a human being, and I sincerely hope you can find one.

BABY SISTER

Soo-ey, Sewerage, Soo-Soo, or some other slanderous version of Susan was Baby Sis's handle around our home, thanks to the ever-creative older sisters who (knowing her short fuse) loved seeing their youngest sibling (or Cybil like the multi-personality protagonist of the book/movie of the same name) levitate off the ground with her head spinning in white-hot anger.  They knew how to push her buttons and have her self-destruct.

  

CB Older Sis, CB Middle Sis, and Baby Sis

Can you pick the non-conformist?  The Artist?  The Nudist?

Morning at our house was always hectic, with three school-age girls vying for the bathroom mirror and railing against ear cleaning, parent-imposed hair grooming, and the ever popular mandatory nostril inspection.  Having cleared all those hurdles one morning and hearing Big Sis start the VW bus, I sighed relief  and believed them all on their way to whatever tumultuous  experiences they could inflict on their teachers that day.  My heart sank as the engine stopped, and one sister stomped up the stair from the garage, followed by a second set of stomps and then a third.  Baby Sis appeared crying with the shocking news that..."Big Sis hit me for NO reason."  The second stomper stood glowering at her and pontificated, "Inform your daughter that I am NOT a faggot!"  Middle Sis was non-committal but seemed to concur that there were incorrect assertions.  Knowing all this had not occurred in a vacuum, I addressed the bad choice of a word, which is a tad too archaic to have been picked up in the 'hood.  I then reminded them to visit me at least once a month at the insane asylum, where they were sure to send me.

   

Can you pick out the responsible older sis?  The middle sis?
The cat that ate the canary?

Baby Sis, thin-skinned to insults, always seemed to be engaged in scuffles at school, especially with bullies.  She championed shy children, whom she felt obligated to speak for and protect.  One of the first children she brought home to spend the night was so shy her mother feared she might have to come and get her before night.  She had a very notable speech impediment which other children found amusing, but not Baby Sis.  When Big and Middle Sis laughed at her friend, Baby Sis was incensed and gave them a heated lecture about the golden rule.  Needless to say, the little overnight guest never wanted to leave.  The mother was shocked when she cried at having to go home!!

Can you pick the difficult to manage horse?  

For all her conflicts with siblings, Baby Sis was popular with friends as well as a bad influence it seems.  Her efforts to build a strong band of sisters almost resulted in getting the Japanese exchange student deported, no small feat.  While on a shoplifting venture, which I neither instructed or inspired, Baby Sis and her unskilled pilferers were apprehended and that created my first opportunity to stand proudly and receive an ear-blasting from a local judge.  Oh, the places you will go.

Baby Sis in High School

We learn from our experiences and are better for them.  Baby Sis has never done hard time and can still vote!  She is beautiful, funny, talented, and a real sweetheart.  She still has a soft spot for downtrodden people and animals and we would not change a thing about her.

Baby Sis Today 

EVOLUTION TAKES TOO LONG...THOUGHTS FROM THE DEEP END OF INFINITY

Thankfully, Husband, seeing my over-involvement with the credible UFO tales on H2 channel, has downgraded our DTV package to save money and steer me toward more constructive pursuits, such as dish washing, floor sweeping, toilet scouring, etc. - all the things I dreamed of doing when I was a young girl.

Husband Pulls me in the Garden Trailer to Clear My Head

Perhaps he has a watchful eye on my fragile sanity as well.  One probably never realizes the intermediary between "sane" and "off to the home."  That transition may well be like going bald, getting gray hair, or becoming an adult. Contrived of nebulous stages that alter so slowly until one seamless reality emerges with gongs and sirens and screams of "Oh no!  I can't believe this happened:  where is my precious yesterday."

 Along with the expected deterioration are the persuasive documentaries of unidentified aircraft appearing world-wide and no explanations of their seeming abilities.  Most of these are undoubtedly explainable.  Some just aren't.  It is the latter which stimulates my imagination most.

A UFO Over my Garden (Really) 

Columbus is reputed to have journaled a UFO.  He was freaked; so we should respect that.  Flying vehicles are cited in the Bible, in art, in cave drawings, etc.  While this is all human interpretation of phenomena, still it is there.

Not long ago, the Pope issued some planning-ahead acceptance of the possibility of alien life. What are they doing here?   My own guess is gardening.  Since my head is in the cabbage patch anyway, why not?  Perhaps the creation story is not that far off.  Creating an environment on a good candidate planet would be feasible, and seeding that environment would require TLC over eons, hence the many sightings over time.

Earth's Daffodil Garden (Mrs. Backhouse Variety)

Or the lizard creatures from the planet Faroff are here to exterminate humans and make earth their retirement planet.  Steven Hawking (the famous theoretical physicist) thinks aliens would not be friendly, and chances are he's right, if they are anything like us.

Did I mention Baby Sis and I both dreamed a flying saucer landed in the back yard, ON THE SAME NIGHT!!?  Top that.  We were not abducted, though we are open to that only if no transvaginal probes are involved.

Baby Sis Picks Daffodils with Her Grandfather

(About the time of her strange dream)

My advice:  If you come upon a UFO on the ground and not in your dreams, don't touch it.  Just run and get the geiger counter to see if it is radioactive.  I am lucky to have one in the attic from WWII.  I can't say for certain that it works, it would likely need batteries or possibly jumper cables; however, it pays to be prepared.

DOING WITHOUT

There was an author on TV promoting her book on inspiring people who lived in destitution, one supporting a family of eleven by selling refuse of the rich.  It jostled my memories to similar experiences, though less challenging, and to similar people who took their seemingly deprived lives and spun a cloth of determined well-being and expected good fortune through their own toil.

My mother and I used to visit on foot a nearby trash site for the purpose of "seeing what people will throw away," in her words.  She occasionally found a useful item, a small stool, a lamp shade, etc., and congratulated herself on finding something in the midst of nothing.  We also walked to cemeteries to visit old friends now gone and conclude how the most luckless of the living can at least hope for more fun and opportunity than our deceased acquaintances.

My Mother at Twenty Something Visiting a Mathews Beach

My Mother and CB Woman, CB Baby Sis, and CB Middle Sis

My grandfather's sister, Great Aunt Maggie, seemed to attract misfortune through none of her own doing.  Her first husband, the father of her two young boys, drowned at sea.  When her second husband died from a heart attack, she survived by visiting relatives on a rotating basis.  She was religious, hardworking, and indefatigable in her optimism.

Aunt Maggie on One of Her Outings

She came to visit with her sewing machine and sewed furiously until everyone in the house had their wardrobe outfitted or repaired.  One visit to our house, she covered our living room sofa and chair; on another, she made my May Day dress and two school dresses.  Imaging having a traveling seamstress in the family today.  The last quote I got for covering a wing chair was in the $900.00 range.  How I miss Aunt Maggie.  She always bought the material on sale, and sewed for free.  And it was all beautiful!  She took me on walks to find wild muscadines which she made into the most wonderful jelly.  She was one who did without.

My grandfather worked in his shop for eight hours a day and then chopped firewood to cook and heat his house; he tended a beautiful garden, which provided canned tomatoes, white and sweet potatoes, onions, apples for applesauce.  Everything they subsisted on in winter.  The hen house provided eggs and a neighbor lady gave Grandfather and his wife, Inez, milk, to churn into butter, in return for eggs.  That butter was divinely delicious on Inez's homemade biscuits.  The fish man came to your door daily in season and weighed out fresh fish for pennies a pound.  I don't recall them spending much at the grocery store.  They did without.

My Grandfather in Later Years with Grandkids, Middle Sis, CBW, and Baby Sis

Happier is the person who does without and works toward the coming of good things, than one who has everything and still needs more.

A Testimony to Doing Without

Grandfather, CBW, Baby Sis and Middle Sis

All Happy