Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Jude: Making Sad Songs Better Since 2008

My Jude chose me.

My first cat's name was Aquila. She was a pastel tortoiseshell from the local SPCA, so fat she looked like sausage stuffed in a casing that just happened to have legs and a tail. Poor baby hadn't been brushed in years. The first time I slicked a brush over that beautiful auburn fur, she went plumb mad with joy.

I only had Aquila for a few weeks before her kidneys started to fail.She'd sit in the litter box and cry and cry from pain. I took her to the vet once, twice, three times; I tried one thing after another to ease her suffering. Nothing worked, and I was out of money. With a heavy heart, I packed her up and re-surrendered her to the animal shelter, knowing they would put her down. I wasn't strong enough to be the one to schedule a creature's death myself.

In the month of having Aquila, I had grown so accustomed to having another being in my apartment that I felt I could not go without another cat even for a day. I went back to the cat room at the shelter and looked around for another kitty I could have at my place, but my hopes weren't high: the rules of my building state that cats must be declawed, spayed/neutered, and fully immunized. I didn't have the money to pay for all of this; I'd gotten lucky with Aquila. I was just about ready to head home cat-less when an oversized white paw thrust its way out of a cage at waist level and patted the fringe on my purse. "Reow," said the owner of the paw: "Hey! Hold still! I want that dangly stuff!"

I bent down and looked. Two green eyes stared out at me. When I saw that the tag on his door read: "Jude. Neutered male. Front declawed. Domestic Long Hair." I just had to hold him. I sat down in a folding chair and had my friend pull him out of the cage and place him in my arms.

Jude was a rangy kitten too big for his britches. His ears were huge. His feet were the big, awkward stompers of an adolescent boy. He was rail thin and needed a brushing, but I could see what a handsome cat he'd be when he finished growing and filled out and got a shine to his tuxedo-patterned fur. "Alright," I said. "You're coming home with me."

"Reow."

It didn't take me long to discover that I'd fallen in love with a decidedly strange beast. He was very needy but didn't want to show it: he'd wait to cuddle till he thought I was asleep; I'd leave my eyes slitted open just the slightest bit and watch him sneak around the corner like a secret agent to lay himself out along my ribcage. He loved to climb but was afraid to jump down, so I'd come home from work and find him sitting atop the dresser crying piteously. He scorned most toys and went instead for the kinds of play he wasn't supposed to engage in: rooting around in the trashcan, dropping catnip mice into the toilet, finding a loose thread in a blanket and tugging it out for yards and yards, destroying entire rolls of paper towels and delightedly shredding kitchen sponges. And he never grew out of any of it. He just got more devious. He's been known to shred open a seven-pound bag of Purina One and surround himself with a sea of kibble. He eats my headphones. He has a strange affection for shoes -- especially Biz's shoes -- and handbags, and shiny electronic devices like iPods. At one point he was "going steady" with his girlfriend the red silk pump (Biz's) and also wining and dining an Army parka (also Biz's.) He hates to be brushed beyond reason and he's the only cat on the planet who's scared of the dark. He thinks the wind is out to kill him. His response to most things is a meow that sounds a lot like a smoker croaking out: "Meh." which I have interpreted as, "Screw you, where's the food?" He's very particular about object placement and becomes quite distressed when Debbie comes over to clean and moves things or touches "his" chair. He pretends to ignore me half the time and then comes kissing up asking to be scratched under the chin. He's a grumpy brat, and I love him.

What would I do without this face????:

Monday, January 17, 2011

This Too Shall Pass.

The last few days have been rough on poor little me, I tell ya.

Part of it is my fault -- or at least a product of something I'm doing totally on purpose. Most of you know that I have an ongoing project involving my autobiography. (Yes, I'm aware I'm only 26. I have fit a lot into 26 years.) I have forty-seven pages of work on it now. According to the document properties, I have spent a total of four-thousand, six hundred and twenty-five minutes writing. That's a lot of minutes. It's also a lot of memories. I'm writing mostly good parts right now, but even nostalgia for good things can be emotional. Yesterday, I wrote about how much my father loved to hear me sing Dolly Parton's version of "He's Alive." He loved it so much he'd rewind the tape several times and ask me to sing it again. Then he'd face the wall so I couldn't see that he had tears in his eyes. So of course, after I wrote about this, I just had to hunt down an MP3 version of Dolly singing "He's Alive" and put it on my iPod. I listened to it like ten times. I was crying after time number two.

I blame it on my friend Josh. I've recently started  going to a little church gathering called "The Common Place," which meets on Sunday mornings in my favorite local chill-out spot, Avenue 209 Coffee House. Josh and his wife Sarah own the coffee house. Josh is also the pastor of "The Common Place." I was coming to the coffee house for a long time before I decided to peek my not-so-Christian-friendly-but-I-need-some-spiritual-fulfillment face into "coffee church", so Josh and I were already on friendly terms. What I didn't know was that he gives truly awesome sermons. Often I don't agree; often I leave confused, and yet I keep coming to listen. He speaks well. He seems very genuine. Something about it is kinda magnetic.

This past Sunday, Josh explained why the word 'Abba' is not translated from the Hebrew in modern versions of the Bible: apparently it's too informal, being something like the Hebrew equivalent of "Daddy." He then went on to explain how its okay to call God "Daddy" if one should feel so inclined. He and Sarah have two small children; he mentioned that they have this certain cry of Daddy! that lets him know instantly that something is wrong, a cry that makes him drop everything he's doing and go running to help. You can guess the parallel.

And so -- in accordance with a certain autobiographical set of mind -- I started thinking about my daddy, which, because of the sermon, led directly to Dolly Parton and "He's Alive." It wasn't a bad thing -- or at least, I don't think it was. It made me cry, but that was okay. I needed to cry. I'm at a point in coming to terms with my childhood where I'm not just angry all the time anymore. Anger used to come first and foremost: there was a certain time in my life when I woke up angry and went to sleep angry and dreamed angry, spiteful dreams. I still get angry -- I think I will for a long time yet -- but nowadays I tend to replace some of the anger with sadness. Occasionally that leads to things like finding a song from way back when and sobbing till I wear myself out. I really hope this is an improvement instead of a setback. Sometimes I'm not sure how to frame it: to tell you the truth, it was easier to be angry. I cried a lot less. But letting go of anger had to happen sometime. Better sooner than later, I suppose. I'll navigate this just like I navigated the other. (*Ahem* By the seat of my pants, *cough, cough.*)


The other part really isn't my fault, and yet it appears that I've lost a friend because of it anyway. I guess it was Friday night it started to happen. Someone I care about decided she wanted to die. She made this known and then disappeared. People looked for her all day Saturday. She wasn't home or at any of her favorite places; she didn't appear to be anywhere. We all thought the worst. I sent her a message Friday in hopes of jolting her into reality before she did anything dumb: If you die, Biz will never be the same. Biz is my best friend, so if that happens I will have to be angry at you for a long, long time. It was the truth. I thought she needed to know that her death would impact people -- maybe if she thought about that, she wouldn't choose to die.

Apparently it didn't work. She was found by the police on Saturday night, comatose from an overdose of sleeping pills and a Wild Turkey chaser. I didn't sleep at all on Saturday, and so I learned this information at about 5:30 Sunday morning when I rolled off the couch and reached for the computer to perform yet another compulsive check for news. All the breath left my body. I made it through the next three hours alone and then drifted down to The Common Place because I just didn't know where else to go. I was okay for about five minutes before I ended up sobbing in Sarah's arms.

Sarah -- bless her heart -- offered to take me to the hospital to visit my friend. I walked through the double doors to the ICU with my heart in my throat, not knowing what to expect. And I found my friend sitting up. I'm pretty sure I gasped loudly enough to wake everyone else on the floor. My friend and I sat. We talked. It was hard to know what to say, but I ended up ending with: "If there's anything you need, just let me know. And for the record, I'm glad you're here -- even if you aren't." I kissed the top of her head and left.

And now she's angry. She's mad at me for the message I sent on Friday, when I was trying to reach her with a little dose of the truth. She now claims she knows "where her loyalties lie." Needless to say, I am very hurt and angry. I did the best I knew how to do, and she's throwing it into my face like so much mud. I don't even know what to say about it; I am truly speechless. And sad. I think I did the right thing; I really do. And now I've alienated someone I care about.

So yeah, it's been rough the past few days. Classes start up tomorrow. Maybe that'll help restore my sense of perspective, which is ... well ... a little boggled right now.

This too shall pass.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

A *Gasp* Shamefully Cursory Update from Caged Bird, Who is Occupied with Scribblings of a Different Nature at the Moment.

Alright, I'll tell y'all right now that this is probably just going to be a cursory update. I was talking to a friend of mine who works down at my favorite local coffee shop (and who, incidentally, makes terrific chai tea lattes) and I felt kind of guilty for neglecting you, my seven loyal followers. And so, to apprise you of my happenings as of late:

Christmas was spent in Willow Grove, PA, with my Dad's sister Jen, her husband Michel, their daughters Bonnie (who will turn three in March) and Azarin (who is four), Uncles Jonathan and David, David's girlfriend (also named Jen), Michel's parents, Grandpa Bernard, and of course my mom, Michelle. (Jen and Jen? Michel and Michelle? Family gatherings can be confusing.) This year being year 2 of our Willow Grove Christmas tradition, I felt more like a Bernard than last year -- I think I've been around for so many years now altogether that they've finally resigned themselves to the idea of never getting rid of me (ha ha.) Perhaps next year I'll even bake cookies for the annual Cookie Contest, although I'm sure Grandpa B. will beat my pants off. Oh, btw: Bonnie and Azarin (photo credit not mine; Jen's or Michel's):
New Year's Eve we had a quiet little Family Game Night at the house. We think it has become a monthly thing, which should serve well to keep me sane this coming semester. Time with my unconventional collection of loved ones reminds me to breathe and keep my feet planted when I feel like screaming like a madwoman and running the hell away. (Hence the reason I do not watch Survivor at home, though I could these days. Dinner and Survivor Night has become a tradition, like Olive Garden birthdays are now a tradition.)

The only other thing I have to report is that I have indeed been writing, though the writing I've been doing is part of a larger project that I am choosing not to reveal in its entirety until later, partially because it may take me a very long time to finish it. But I can give you a teaser:
(Spoiler alert, teaser coming.)


For all this bounty, Mr. Massey charged only a single, shiny quarter. I would beg to be the one to hand it over, practically falling over myself in my eagerness. I would close my fist over it and warm it with the heat of my hand before passing it on to Mr. Massey, dropping it reverently into his palm. He would exclaim over that quarter as if it were a solid diamond, holding it up and twisting it this way and that to admire it in the light before dropping it into the cash register and closing the drawer with a gratifying clang. The feeling I got when Mr. Massey beamed at me and accepted my payment was akin to how a saint at the pearly gates must feel when she’s smiled upon by God. I didn’t realize he was allowing himself to be drastically shortchanged, that the candy in the sack was worth much more than a single quarter. In my mind I was bestowing upon him a gift, a shiny treasure as a token of my appreciation for the pleasure I got from the candy. The fact that he always treated it as such made him a wonderful man indeed.

See? Proof. I'm writing.

And now, ladies and gents, since I have assuaged my conscience with this cursory update, I shall continue writing  this other thing. Love ya, knuckleheads. :)