The sighs of March

My son was born on the last day of March in 1990 and every year we celebrate my pain and sixty pound weight gain, not with a card or flowers, but with phone calls from school principals. It’s always a different school, with different specifics, but it’s still the same: your son is disruptive and disrespectful and something needs to be done. I agree, apologize to the administrators, then try yelling, threatening and reasoning with the child who doesn’t seem to care that he’s making his life, and mine, miserable.

He’s had a good life with two parents who love him, never been hungry, and only been dropped on his head once. He’s seen counselors since he was young, taken anger management programs in multiple schools, yet still has such pent up frustration and rage, especially towards authority figures. And absolutely zero respect for the person who loves him the most: me.

Last year in March, when his dad was in Iraq, I drove him to a new school rather than send him to the alternate school for druggies, thieves and common criminals. He’s intelligent, getting A’s and B’s…didn’t he deserve another chance?

Now, with seven unexcused absences since January, he’s an inch away from getting no credit for the entire semester. Again! The principal suspended him for a day, for his constant disruptive behavior, and I’m at my wit’s end. Is it time to let him pay the consequences, even if it means dropping out of school in 10th grade, like his dad believes? What do I do when he pushes the snooze button for every single wake up call?

It makes me wonder...if there had been a mandatory exam before motherhood, would I have passed with a high enough score to have a child? Or would the hypothetical school for parents told me to stick with kittens?

How does one go about getting banned from Lowe's??

Hypothesis: the smaller the project, the more furniture I'll have in my driveway waiting to be crackled.

Some mildew on the bathroom wall. Relatively small and easy to fix, I assume, as I head off to Lowe's to pick up some mildew remover. Unfortunately, their ingenious floor plan means it's not possible to leave the store without passing through paint and plants.

Mildew cleaner (focus, focus...).

I really should pick up some paint for the bathroom, to freshen it up a bit, since I'm here. First I'll have to patch a few small holes in the wall, then the ceiling, where a piece of the popcorn ceiling fell off (it's also moist, not a good sign as far as the roof goes, but I'll have someone come look at that later). Oh, yeah, and the hole in the living room from where the carpet installer had taken a gash out of the wall? I should fix that, too, since I'll have the joint compound and trowel tools. My dark wood bathroom cabinet, which I never did care for, is going to look out of place now, but I can't afford a new one, so I'll just take off the doors and paint it...it'll need new hardware.

I find what I need, plus some Tuscan accents paint for my living room (to cover the new patch) and a trailing ivy. I return home, move the bookshelves out of the way, and decide to try cackling them since they're already emptied out. The primer is on the bedroom walls, there's a thick layer of dust in the bathroom from sanding the patches and I'm about to start painting the living room.

Now what did I do with that mildew cleaner...?

License and registration, ma'am

I fell in love today.

Oh, sure we had a rocky start, as I watched him two-finger peck my car registration information into his computer. I tapped my foot, exhaled several times (loudly), and chewed through three packs of gum as I wrestled with the idea of jumping over the counter to help the idiot type FASTER. But then, after twenty excruciatingly long minutes, he handed my driver's license back to me and said, "you definitely don't look your age. You don't look a day over 32."

Me: My eyes are puffy today...and I didn't sleep (kittens!)....

Lovebunny: Well, you look amazing for your age. You look amazing for any age.

Me: Thank you. I'll be back tomorrow.

Fair-feathered friends

I complain a bit/all the time about the messes my kittens make because it seems to be never-ending. Like the hockey tournament they held in the kitchen with an entire box of Fruit Loops, or the glasses of water they consistently knock over, or even the trail of kitter litter throughout the house. Today, however, I reset the bar.

I was trying to change a lightbulb above the fireplace, lost my balance (I never claimed to be graceful), fell onto the mantle, which is apparently not attached, flipped it over and caused four potted plants with soil to sail through the air and crash onto the (BEIGE) carpet. Oh, and the black basalt cat statue I had from Egypt? It's not so much stone as something...less stone-like and more breakable since the ears broke off. Stupid cats.

My best investment: their new feather bed, which should sleep one but will occasionally sleep four. It keeps them out of trouble for...minutes at a time.

Center for Disease Uncontrollable

My son, Dr. Truant, informed me this morning that he had pink eye.

Me: Let me see. Yeah, it's just red from staying up too late on the computer last night. Get in the shower.

Truant: Pink eye is extremely contagious you know.

Me: Don't make out between classes and you'll be fine. You missed yesterday because of a sore throat - you are going to school today. Per-i-od.

So, dumbass walked into his first block class and told the teacher he might have pink eye...and home he was sent. His theory, he told me tonight, is that he has bacterial conjunctivitis caused by streptococcus, thereby explaining his sore throat and red eye in one devious plot twist (this only confirms my theory that he's spending too much time on the internet).

My kittens are battling their own contagious fungal infection - ringworm - right now (any idea how difficult it is to give pills to four squirming little maniacs with teeth?).

Me? I've been itchy, scratching, feeling a fungal/bacterial growth over my entire body. Maybe my son will write me a doctor's note so I can skip work on Monday.

Sisters Q

I consider myself an only child, with a twenty-three year old sister (we have the same father) and a fourteen year old brother (same late blooming mother), because I was almost an adult when they came along. Instead of sharing a room, fighting over clothes, and learning social skills, I was lost in a book or setting up Monopoly tournaments for me, myself and I.

My sister left yesterday and I'm actually missing her as I find signs of her visit: her ring on my nightstand, Bud Light bottles in the bathroom, the gum stuck to my Cosmo, the black sweater with sparkles she let me borrow...(don't worry, I'm mailing you everything! Probably. Heh).

She's a true extrovert - the one in a room with the sparkly personality that people can't help but want to be near, while I've always been more introverted and reserved. I used to be envious of her ease with strangers and her comparatively easy childhood, but our struggles are simply different and I'm finally able to appreciate our similarities (like singing Van Morrison songs at the top of our lungs in the bar).

She's my anxiety-ridden, music-providing, beer-sharing, crazy-cat-lady-in-training sister and I feel a little less alone in the world with her in it.

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
There must be an angel with a smile on her face,
When she thought up that I should be with you.
- James Blunt

Ask not for whom the ball drops, it drops for thee

You know you must have had a fun night when, the following day at noon, you're standing outside the strip bar in your pyjamas, 3" pumps, and princess tiara, banging on the door to see when you can get your credit card back (Monday, after 4:00).

12/31/2005: My sister TQ somehow convinced me to wear a little black boob-ilicious dress for our adventure New Year's Eve because it coordinated well with her sleek, backless black pant suit. Apparently, jeans and t-shirts are the southern dress code for bringing in the New Year in Alabama since we were WAY overdressed the entire evening.

We drank our beer and champagne at her mother's house until around 10:00, then decided to head to a gay bar in town. We met a couple of friendly women in line for the restroom ("Only one person may enter at a time. Strictly enforced"), but everyone there was a couple, so my drag queen sister and I kissed each other on the cheek when the ball dropped.

We drove through thick fog to the strip club and met Chad, my co-worker, in the parking lot. We stayed until last call, then headed to a "private" bar that stays open as long as anyone wants to drink (I'd never heard of this until I moved here, but apparently, as long as you are a "member" with a cheap cardboard name card, the party never ends. This has been my downfall many, many times).

More beer followed, then some guy that wanted my sister to pose with his band, bought us shots of Jagerbombs. I'd have to pinpoint this moment as the one she checked out for the evening:


It was around 6:30 a.m. by this time, so we decided to take the long way home, swinging by work so I could feed my ten stray cats. It's a bit unorthodox to be wandering around in high heels, out in the fog, with the sun coming up, carrying cat food and yelling, "Here, kitty, kitty..." but it was really important that I feed them, and don't argue with me when I'm drunk!

Don't open 'til...New Years

I used to write term papers the night before they were due. I file my taxes every year on April fourteenth and leave for work each morning five minutes late. I have perfected the fine art of procrastination and Christmas is my opportunity to shine. The day after Thanksgiving, when people get up at 4 a.m. to stand in line for sales? I'm at home stuffing my face full of pumpkin pie.

Since my family and friends live in other states and I have to ship their packages, my deadline for the hoopla is earlier. Last year, I waited until the 23rd of December and ended up having to FedEx them overnight so the little gremlins would have perfectly coiffed and coordinated gifts under the tree in time. It cost $186 - almost as much a flight I could have gotten to DELIVER the gifts in person. I am happy to report that this year I went to UPS (so I could use that awesome internet tracking device that tells me everything is currently in Sharonville, Ohio) and all my gifts should arrive in time. Eventually I'll get smart and send gift cards, but for this year, I can finally relax.

My ex- will be coming back from Iraq in about two weeks, which means he'll repossess his truck and I'll be buying a car. I can probably get a better deal if I wait until the last minute, right? RIGHT?!

The sweet, sweet smell of single

"You bought a WHAT?!"

"And paid HOW MUCH?!?

Being single means never having to rationalize any purchase or hide packages in my trunk. I stroll leisurely to the mailbox on the 22nd of each month, when the credit card bill arrives.

Meet my new Canon Powershot S80 8 megapixel digital camera...for no other reason than I wanted it. HA! Take that, you big fat man in a red polyester suit!

Pass the Resolve carpet cleaner

My bulimic cat Savannah purges most days between 3 and 4 o'clock in the morning. Since I replaced the carpet in the house when I moved in, I try to get up when I hear those pre-retching noises, grab her, and throw her in my bathroom, which is tiled, for easier clean up.

Right on schedule, this morning at 3:17, I heard the beginning of another puke ritual. I had two kittens sleeping beteen my legs, one on my chest and one near my head, so as I lept out of bed, I became twisted in the duvet and landed flat on my ass.

It's been one of those weeks.

And on the sixth day, she said, "Let there be Lucky Charms."

Apparently, six is the number of days I can stick to a low-carb diet before cracking, sitting on the kitchen floor eating bowl-after-bowl of Lucky Charms. It all started with Doritos, just a handful of crumbs from the bottom of the bag that my son had left sitting on the desk. Once I started...well, let's just say that while I understand the concept of moderation, I cannot practice it.

Damn the Doritos.

Royal Indigo

Each morning, I pull out my identification to show the guard, who lets me pass through the gate, onto the base, so I can go into the hellhole otherwise known as work. Yesterday, the guard at the gate said to me, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Princess Diana?"

Technically, yes, but he had Down's Syndrome so I took it with a grain of salt. I'm sure it's the hair combined with my regal nose, but it still made me smile...perhaps my son will look like Prince William.

If you change points of view
You may change a vote
And when you change a vote
You may change the world

Princess Di is wearing a new dress
- Depeche Mode

Dogbreath

Four times per day, seven days a week, I feed my kittens a well-balanced assortment of food guaranteed to please: liquid Whiska's catmilk, tiny cans of overpriced soft food, and crunchy chow.

What do they prefer? Dog food.

About last night

I watched the American Music Awards last night while getting my neck licked by a sandpaper kitten tongue. Best moment: Cyndi Lauper and Sarah McLachlan performing Time after Time (in black and white). Flawless.

My son redeemed himself slightly: "Look at Lindsay Lohan - that's disgusting. Her arms are only this big...she has to wear a big dress to cover up how skinny she is. Why would she do that to herself - that's just gross."

Bless him.

Home boy don't roll like that

My son was grounded this weekend. It started with his attitude as I walked through the door Friday after a long, alcohol-free week at work. "There's no food in the house and you're so mean and you're starving me..why won't you drive me across town to McDonald's?" (I gave him a 5.0 for technique, 4.5 for timing). Then he kicked the dog. Sure, he SAID he was playing, but that’s obviously unacceptable.

Imagine two entire days and three WHOLE nights spent with an angry fifteen year old boy - listening to loud rap, watching crap tv shows and nagging for him to pick up after himself.

Next time I ground him, I’m sending him to someone else’s house.

Take one placebo and call me in the morning

We have a family tradition: avoid health care, medical professionals and medication at all costs (except beer, of course, which falls under the category of holistic numbing). This aversion isn't rational, but I suppose it's considered a weakness if thy body cannot heal thyself. Like any other ridiculous trait, I've inherited it.

My son was four when we were living on Ft. Campbell base housing. The playground was behind our house so I'd fill his little canteen with water, give him some chewy fruit snacks and send him out for the afternoon so I could study/play Minesweeper on the computer. There were huge concrete pipes - probably leftover bunkers from WWII or something - and the kids played on them, hiding inside or trying to knock one another off. One evening he came running in the house screaming, tears running down his dirt-streaked face. He had fallen off the pipe and hurt his arm, so I made him dinner, gave him a bath, and tucked him into bed.

His dad came home later and checked on him as he was sleeping. He asked me why I didn't take him to the emergency room - his arm was still discolored - what kind of idiot was I? (how many different types are there, and is it possible to fall under multiple categories?). A few hours later, they returned from the hospital with my son's full arm cast. I DID feel horrible. And I had been a medic? Thank goodness I never saw combat: "Oh, that's just a sucking chest wound - get back out there!"

Oddly, this "suck it up" mentality doesn't extend to my kittens. Crackhead's (whose real name is Kennedy) fur fell out this week, and the other three's whiskers broke. I researched it on the internet and came to the conclusion that they had a rare and contagious fungus from the Amazon. I bundled up the kittens in the cat carrier, and off to the vet we went.

He checked for fungus, parasites, leukemia, aids, etc. and gave them a clean bill of health. He said they were very healthy, well-socialized and the fur must have fallen out from the stress of being abandoned or switching to solid food, since he could find no other medical explanation.

Combined total weight of my four kittens: 5 pounds.

Capital (One) Punishment - Death by Interest

I've always had a love-hate relationship with credit cards: I love the way they allow me to impulsively buy whatever my heart desires. I hate the way my heart desires forty pairs of shoes and the same shirt in five different colors!

My mother used to loan me her mastercard when I was sixteen years old since we had the same first intial and last name (I had to pay for it - she wasn't that generous). I was using it to charge a pair of jeans when the saleslady asked if I would like my own store credit card - with a driver's license and a master card, I'd have my own name stamped on a Hudson's card. The subsequent power trip was wonderful.

As a newlywed private in the Army four years later, my then husband told me that I'd have to cut ALL my credit cards...we would never get them paid off...then handed me scissors. Oh, sure, I fought and tried to cry my way out of it, but eventually they were cut and stuffed back in my wallet (you can still use the cards for phone orders with the account number - if you're a tad sneaky like that).

My credit has been fantastic for the past ten years or so, but moving three times this year meant sometimes there was a delay getting my mail and I made a few late payments (we're talking a DAY!). I complained about the $35 fee each time, but paid it, thinking I had been duly punished. Au contraire. Capital One recently jacked up my interest rate to 27.9% .

I was livid...furious at this blatant robbery. I transferred the balance to a new credit card at 5.9% and feel like the best bargain shopper ever - I believe I will be buying myself a new digital camera - surprise! Credit card season is upon us - don't go to Capital One, even if they do have really great faux leather credit cards and their commercials are cute.

Formation at 1300

My dog Skylar has taken over stepmother duties for my four new kittens. When she comes into the house, the first thing she does is count heads (preferably with tongue): okay, two kittens wrestling in the kitty litter, one hanging precariously on the curtains and one in the food bowl. Yep, all play toys present and accounted for.

When I took them all outside to enjoy the beautiful weather on Sunday, I know they wanted to run and frolic through the leaves. Nope. That overprotective stepmom wouldn't even let them wander.

Pugilist

From private high school to a geeky college, I was as wholesome as they come. I was young, idealistic, and determined to put myself through college, one student loan at a time. Enter one Army recruiter who promised me the world. And I, young naive thing, believed him when he said I could choose where I'd like to be stationed. Lying jerk.

We all have defining moments in life, a specific incident or event that changes our perspectives forever. There I was, in Basic training, with my well-behaved self and stylish asymetrical haircut...completely out of my element. Reserved and quiet means I usually come across as arrogant, but a big female oaf from the Projects in Chicago was determined to put me in my place.

This particular day of training was spent with pugil sticks (from the latin meaning, "to fight, rock 'em, sock 'em, robot style, while bopping your opponent in the head"). I've seen a similar set up on Survivor: two opponents face each other on a beam, then try to pummel one other using a long pole, with two padded ends, until one falls off. This was also the day we learned how to gore a potential enemy with a bayonet attached to an M-16. How many times have I needed that particular skill?

My opponent, Ms. Badass Chicago street fighter thought being street savvy meant she was going to wipe me all over Ft. Jackson, South Carolina and I'd run back to the barracks snivelling, begging her in the future to help polish her boots. She was a gangly 5'10", I was a slight 5'7", which I think actually helped me in the end (lower center of gravity). What she didn't know is that I had been captain of the lacrosse team - I was well-versed in the handling of sticks. So I played her like a weekend tournament, pushed her off the beam, and emerged victorious. HA! I learned that I'm not intimidated by anyone and she learned not to judge OR trust the quiet ones in BDU's. Win-win.

My two years as a medic was child's play compared to the sacrifices soldiers and their families make daily for our freedom. Give thanks for them today and every day - I do.

Beware of couch potato

I accidentally locked myself out of the house, popped out the screen in the living room and crawled through the window - while my dog casually watched from the couch.


No, no, honey, don't get up...here, let me fetch some of your toys for you (my smart ass dog enjoys sarcasm).

Audience of One

2:45

This is my new record for a monologue cleverly disguised as a phone conversation.

Bill & I have been friends for over twenty years. We don't see each other often because we both move regularly and frequently, but I'm starting to think our "friendship" should be redefined...he probably couldn't tell you what I do, where I live or if I'm single. Our phone calls, you see, consist entirely of BILL.

This summer, he:

• quit his job of seventeen years in order to enjoy life and travel
• took second in a Mr. Speedo contest (why would someone admit to owning a Speedo?).
• learned how to sail on Martha's Vineyard with James Taylor
• went to the Emmy Awards, where he sat behind and talked to the cast of Desperate Housewives
• talked to Donald Trump
• met and discarded 72 soulmates (fortunately, I had the sense to lie about picking up my son somewhere before he could carry on about his love life)

Hmmmm. No wonder we never talk about me.

Stop the Cheesecake!

Pet peeve for the day: Sarah Lee's slogan "Nobody doesn't like Sarah Lee".

Since when are double negatives catchy? HUH? Good grief. I will be boycotting her frozen cheesecake until something less grammatically awkward comes around.

Uh-oh...better get Geico

Ever been standing in your bathroom, freshly showered and wrapped in a towel, when you look up and notice a lizard curiously watching you? Okay, so maybe he wasn't curious - maybe he was just as FREAKED out as I was.


It's closing time, pal - I don't care where you go, but you can't stay here.

I grabbed last month’s Cosmo, put it near the lizard, and gingerly had him crawl onto…Scarlett Johansson. So far, so good. I started walking towards the door, when the lizard decided to take a FLYING leap for freedom…and havoc ensued.

I’m a cult leader of my house – a dog, two cats and four kittens are usually no further than 5 ft away from me at any given moment (under my feet is preferable). As the lizard dropped (semi-flew) and scrambled towards my closet, I screeched, the dog bolted, the cats pounced, and my sleeping son yelled ("MOM! I'm trying to sleep!"...concerned about me, per usual).

Sometimes I seriously believe my life is a series of Animal Kingdom episodes.

Embarrassing moment #1,037

Arriving at the McDonald's drive-thru pay window just as you remember your son taking your last bit of cash the night before.

Payback's a biatch, I hear.

Solitary Confinement

I’m a bit of a loner, I suppose. Being an only child for fifteen years, never having to share a bathroom, and always winning my monopoly tournaments (my banker persona won every time!). I’m self sufficient.

In fact, if I were to ever marry again, the perfect scenario would be a duplex, with a Holiday Inn-like adjoining door so we could just visit. And I would never have to watch Fox news. Or listen to AC/DC. EVAH!

Some days, though, when I'm hormonal and overly sensitive, what I really want, more than anything, is a nice strong pair of arms…to put my clothes in the dryer for me (and could you bring me a beer, while you’re up?)

Look what the cat/surrogate mother dragged in...

Two weeks ago I talked to a woman who wanted to know if my cat Summer could have been pregnant. I told her no, that was quite impossible because she was 13 years old and spayed. End of story? Not quite.

The mother cat, aka not-Summer, abandoned her six kittens at the woman’s house so she (Kelly) had been bottle feeding them and called me again last week to see if I might like one. She was going out of town and hod no other option but to drop them off at the pound, and she worried they wouldn’t make it (they’re about three weeks old). So I stopped by her house on the way home from work.

I talked to Kelly – it turns out she had lived in MY house a few years ago (owner #2). What could I do – this was fate. So I took a kitten (or four) home.

The little white one will only take kitten formula from a bottle, while the rest of them have figured out how to climb in the bowl, then lick the stuff off their paws. My son’s already named one – Crackhead. I haven’t given up on Summer, but she is gonna be PISSED if she comes home to see four bottle-drinking, mewing fur balls in her house and kitty litter. And I? Have resigned myself to being that crazy cat lady on the corner.

Obsessive is not a four-letter word

I've always had a one-track mind, which plays continuous loops of food or alcohol thoughts. I feel like I might possibly be obsessing about my missing cat, but that's what I do. That's who I am, scoffing at sleep and food and, yes, beer, when something's going on in my life. I imagine if I didn't have a blog, I'd be emailing family, and attaching various cat photos...just to reminisce (who am I kidding? I do that anyway).

I managed to get Summer's photo put in our area newspaper classified ads. It's very tiny, but between that and the seventy-five fliers around town, I've gotten three phone calls.

#1: "Is your cat black?"

Um, no, that's why there's a PHOTO!
----
#2: "I may have seen your cat..chasing chipmunks in my area."

This one was VERY promising, since my Summer did love bringing live chipmunks into the house for days of enjoyment (seriously, have you ever tried to catch one? They're like humingbirds...with legs). My two-year old son's version of the word was better...listening to him scream "motherfunk" every time he saw a chipmunk was well worth it.

"She's white and caramel-colored and has been around for about three months."

Nope. Sigh.
----
#3: "I saw her about 3 days ago. I had to stop my car to let her cross the street - a white cat with a dark tail. She didn't seem to be in any hurry."

Yep, that's her. And remember I wrote a few days ago that my dog was a dumb blonde with ADD? Well...it turns out she took us to the location near this woman's house so perhaps I should have trusted her instincts.

Back to the search this weekend.

Felinecentric

My dog Skylar has been seriously depressed with the disappearance of our cat a week ago. Yes, I know you'll say I'm transferring my emotions - she's a dog - but I'm telling you it's true. She brings pieces of her food to the floor in front of the couch where the cat spent her days napping. I ask her where Summer is, she tilts her head, glances around the room, then heads towards the door (granted, if you ask where a cow is, she'll do the same thing).

If Skylar was a person, she'd be a friendly, yet dumb, blonde with attention deficit leanings, but I was starting to get desperate and hoped she could help. We drove up to the middle school, about a mile away, where Summer was last seen. I held her sweet, block-head face between my hands and said, "Where's Summer? You need to find her. You can do it - find Summer."

Skylar took off running. I was optimistic - for the first hour. We continued. I followed her lead for almost three hours. She found: two squirrels, a dead bird, a half-eaten chicken bone and a coupon for orange juice. No Summer.

If Timmy falls into a well near my house? I hope he carries a cell phone.

Feliz Navidad

My father sends odd greeting cards...on the wrong days...with sentiments written in Spanish (which he doesn't speak).

Mainstream has never been my father's forte. He was the third child of twelve born to Irish descendants living on a small farm in Michigan - this is where I pull my right hand out and point to an area in the general vicinity of my thumb. Seven boys and five girls - they all have Irish names (Shannon, Erin, Sean, etc.) - except my dad, Tony.

He was a tall, skinny kid who was usually squirrelled away in a corner, reading a library book, until his brothers found him to drag him back to reality by beating the crap out of him or throwing him off the roof. He always wanted to be a monk, surrounded by God, books, silence and maybe an alcoholic beverage or two. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I suppose, depending on how you view me), my mom never received the memo.

Facts and quirks:

• he wears a broken watch with no face from a motorcycle accident he was in 35 years ago
  
• he had a full scholarship to Michigan State, but left after one year to hitch hike to California
  
• an insomniac, he grocery shops between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m.
  
• he tries to keep telemarketers on the phone by talking to them as long as possible...his record is over an hour.
  
• he bought and fixed up 20 old Apple GS computers to set up a computer lab in his classroom
  
• he's an audio/video equipment junkie - and still has Harold and Maude and The Vanishing Point on Beta tapes
  
• he loves music, from Hank Williams to Bob Dylan to Tori Amos
  
• if you touch him from behind, duck, because he will turn around swinging
  
• he turned 60 this year and has no grey hair (of course, he does have my son for the summer, so that's likely to change).

I believe one of the biggest factors in shaping my father's life was his severe stuttering (also for his dad and two brothers). As a child, I remember making phone calls for him - he would often not be able to verbalize the "hello, is..." before the person at the other end hung up. Sometimes, he'd call back several times, hoping to get the words out, until the other person would assume it was a prankster on the other end. He is one of the most intelligent people I know, but spent close to fifteen years working at General Motors, dreaming of becoming a teacher.

He still pauses before words when he's anxious or stressed, but he went back to college at 42 and finally has that dream job teaching 5th graders. Apparently a late bloomer, he also got married last fall. Intelligent, philosophical, generous, honest, compassionate, caring and funny...I hope to be more like this old soul when I grow up.

There's an empty space on my pillow

I can't sleep. I keep imagining her cry or a scratch at the door. I walk around the neighborhood, looking for signs of struggle, hoping to get a glimpse of her fluffy, short-legged body.

My cat Summer has been gone since Monday but I refuse to give up hope.