In Which We Try to do Good. And Fail Miserably. September 25, 2009

Fully aware that certain combinations can lead to regrets (drinking+texting, lamenting+ice cream), I try not to speak or write when furious. At least not at first, and not anything the  public will ever see. In the past, such actions have only led to the firm implantation of my foot in my mouth.

BUT.

Here’s today’s story anyway. Hopefully coherently written and not overly cruel.

For quite some time now, J and I have been contemplating adopting a little friend for us and Sophie. We were hoping to bring a male kitten into Sophie’s world before she’s old and bitter and hates everything new. Today, for some reason (okay, yes, we were scouring the “pet” category on Craig’s List which leaves nothing to blame but our own compassion), we were both overcome by the desire to get out and see some of the candidates in person. We looked at each other, we looked at the clock. We said, “Let’s do it.” And, giddy and excited, we grabbed Sophie’s old cat carrier (just in case, we told ourselves) and ran out the door.

The Humane Society is not far from where we live, and after a short drive, we pulled into their parking lot, promised ourselves to try to remain level headed, and in we went. I was surprised at how few cats were currently housed there. A few adults wandered the great cat enclosure they provide… and then there was Harpo. This 3-month-old black and white male kitten was playful and lively, and I liked him even though he was a little older than what we’d had in mind. Then, I picked him up. Harpo cuddled against my shoulder and placed his tiny soft paw against my cheek, then my lips. And I was ensnared. Hook. Line. Sinker.

Just in case (again), we decided to think on it, and drove down the road to the Animal Control center to look as well. There we found more adult cats and one tiny, tiny black kitten. Who was psychotic. We’re talking demonic possession. J found it entertaining to attempt to play with her without losing any blood. I was ready to go back and see Harpo again.

So we jump back in the car, drive back to the Humane Society, and revisit our little guy there. Everyone behind the adoption desk is excited to see us again. Harpo’s little brother had been adopted the day before, and the staff was rooting for him to find a new home, too. We filled out some paperwork, and one of the women was gathering together some toys and food to get Harpo started in his new home.

Then. The worst.

They called out apartment management office to check on the pet policies where we live. Which would have been fine. Our place allows 2 cats in one apartment. But then this woman goes on to ask if we needs to pay a deposit, and if so how much, and if so, do we need to pay it before we bring home a new animal. The answers: yes, $200 and yes. $200 for EACH ANIMAL. Whether it’s a 10 lb cat or a 150 lb lab. $200.

We’d already put down the $200 nonrefundable for Sophie. We thought THAT was insane. We also thought that this fee would cover another pet, and that we’d only need to tack on additional pet rent (also b.s. if you ask me). Not so, apparently.

The woman at the Humane Society told us we should just go get that “squared away” and that we could come back for Harpo the next day. We said “sure,” and walked out as if everything would be fine, knowing fully that we could not afford another $200 we’d never see again.

Fuming and dejected, the drive home was quiet and sullen.

Had that woman not called our property management and asked specifically if WE had paid for another cat to live here,  no one would’ve known the difference. He woud’ve had an amazing home and loving parents, and isn’t that what the Humane Society really wants for their animals? Was it not enough for them to see that animals are allowed in our homes? I know they don’t want to see adopted animals come right back to them. I get that. But there was no opportunity to defend ourselves, no chance to say, “Look. He’s going to be fine with us. Better than fine. Why the EFF are you ratting us out, you paranoid witch?!?”

(Remember how I said I don’t speak or write when I’m really angry?)

Needless to say, we’re still a one-cat household.

~a

28 April 10, 2009

 

~a

The Unbearable Lightness of Bing December 23, 2008

Oh, Columbus.

Yeah. I said it.

All this time, and I’ve never revealed the identity of my beloved, Midwestern city. But there you have it – Metropolis unveiled.

“But why now?” you may ask yourself?

Well, for several reasons. The first being that I’m sick of not being able to write in juicy detail about my daily adventures for fear of giving up Columbus’ identity. Also, from the stats, it looks like a good portion of you are from the region anyway, so why not fill you in on all things I’ve come to love so much about where I live.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes…

Oh, Columbus. Where else in the world can there be a veritable monsoon one day, then subzero wind chills that cause my car engine to freeze up entirely the next? True, living where the climate is as indecisive as… well, as I am – keeps one on one’s toes, but good GOD does it make it difficult to simplify your wardrobe (I have short-sleeved blouses alongside fleece hoodies), go out on the weekends (we got lucky for the benefit show last weekend – the temperatures dropped drastically AFTER people arrived – was a fun ride home) and stay healthy (at which I have failed miserably; I have coughed instead of slept for the past three nights).

Speaking of both not staying healthy and the benefit show – THAT was a trip. Of sorts. Ironically, in rehearsals leading up to this little show (a quick, 45-minute set of holiday music a la the Andrews Sisters with a couple musician friends of mine) I had been in fine form and chose to take the high parts on most of the songs. On the day of the show, I awoke with no voice. By mid-day I was a dead ringer for Selma Bouvier (as to whether or not this was an improvement, I’ll let you be the judge). In the end, after gallons of tea and a glass of champagne, I pulled it off (by which I mean: I sang the specified notes – quality and  pronunciation be damned). When we left the venue, the thermometer in J’s car read 3 degrees. It hurt to breath.

Back at home, we found Gabriel on the verge of an aneurysm. He’s terrified of the wind, and, in his heightened state of anxiety was lying under the kitchen table shaking. The only cure for this advanced state of terror: Bing. Yep – I’ve discovered by pure happenstance that nothing soothes the Gabe monster more deftly and instantaneously than wrapping him in a blanket and bringing up the Bing Crosby Christmas album on Itunes.

Not classical. Not opera.

Bing.

But I digress…. heading out of town on Wednesday for a couple of weeks, but I’m sure there will be enough downtime to squeeze in a post or two along the way. Everyone have a safe holiday and the happiest of new years. Looking forward to writing more in the year to come (possibly some music???).

~a

It’s Called Black for a Reason December 1, 2008

Courtesy of Exploding Dog

Oh, Mondays. How brilliantly you find ways to rub in my face the beginning of the work week. How early you startle me from my sleep with blaring classic rock. (This choice of genre is not masochism, it is assurance that the music will NOT lull me back to sleep, nor will I be able to let it play for more than 5 seconds before getting up to turn it off. Have you ever tried listening to 5 seconds of Magic Carpet Ride?? It hurts.) How brutally your  chill attacks my pajamas as I wait for Gabe to wrap up his morning business. And then there’s the uncooperative hair, the trudge from the parking lot down what is essentially a massive wind tunnel, an office kitchen dishwasher that needs unloaded as evidenced by the dishes in the sink including a mug that is growing something akin to those multi-colored aquarium crystal kits, and an e-mail box stuffed with online shopping ads and Things That Need Done Before Nine O’ Clock. It is 8:45.

But…. I am alive. Which is more than at least two Black Friday victims can say. Can I get a “What the F@#k?” What has the world come to when one man, just doing his job at a big box discount store, gets TRAMPLED TO DEATH by his fellow human beings. Why? Because they needed things. NOW. And, by god, they were going to get them by any means necessary. And when they announced, at this particular Wal-Mart, that the store would be closing due to the death of this employee and the crowd needed to exit the building, how do you suppose said crowd responded?

With horror and sadness at what had occurred?

With shock and guilt for a death that some of them had directly caused?

Why no. They were mad as hell and not going anywhere. They had WAITED IN LINE, damnit! For hours and hours. Camped out for the opportunity to stampede into a tacky, low-end warehouse for the chance to be the first to get their hands on tacky, low-end goods. They didn’t care who had died, they weren’t going anywhere!

People. Are we savages? (Clearly some of us are)

In another story, a man was shot to death in a dispute over a toy in the parking lot of a Toys-R-Us.

It’s enough to make a girl want to collectively grab the population of the United States and give them a good, solid smack across the face.

Since that’s not necessarily possible, I’d like to call for the death of Black Friday. This product of idiot mob mentality is the perfect symbol of all that is wrong with our country right now. Our priorities are out of wack. Our greed and self-absorption are out of control. I’ve boycotted this silly little event every year, and now I will most certainly lobby for others to do the same. (A link to the Wal-Mart story for anyone who hasn’t seen this yet: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/29/business/29walmart.html )

Ok. Stepping down from the soap box.

In other news, the band had a show the Saturday after Thanksgiving at a local theater. The theater is a converted garage downtown, a clever use of space, and a much different type of venue than I’m accustomed to. For one thing, there was an audience. And they sat. And listened. And didn’t talk.

Strange, it’s what we always want, but when we finally have it, it’s so bizarre it becomes a little unnerving. But they were gracious and supportive, even when my stupid shoes (did I used to love shoes? Because I hate them now) and their ridiculous tall heals and slippery soles caused me to lose the pedal during the most epic of songs (can we say train wreck?). As soon as the song was over (we actually did get through it),  I stopped, unlaced my shoe, through it to the side, and continued the show with one foot bare. Problem solved.

Sadly, though, I fear an oncoming burnout. And unless I want it to be swift and complete, I feel the need for a break. The pressure needs to come off, the stress taken out of the music, before these are so intertwined that I hate the latter. (Not that I think I could, but you never know). I need to be able to give my keyboard a more permanent home in my living room, rather than slogging it around from bar to bar with little quality time in between. Playing out has become a duty. I need to need it again.

And I need time to pursue the many other things on my Want To Do list.

I think this decision took so long to arrive at, because I was worried about letting people down. But when the reality of it hit me, that the only person I would really let down was myself, I felt relief. Because I don’t feel let down at all. I accomplished more than I set out to do, even if I didn’t achieve All That Was Possible. I’ve got other possibilities to pursue to that end. So I’m good with this.

For now 🙂

~a