Five-second Rule

I recently attended a cat show in Brentwood, NY (Long Island), a show I’ve gone to twice before. This year, weather permitting, I wanted to try the Mapquest recommended route of taking the ferry from nearby New London, CT across the Long Island Sound to Orient Point and driving another 90 minutes to the show. Driving the entire route was listed as 3 hours, 30 minutes, assuming there was no traffic on a Friday afternoon going toward New York City, over the Throgs Neck Bridge and on the Long Island Expressway. 

Since it was cool outside, I opted to leave the two cats I was showing in their crate in the car during the ferry ride, figuring it would be easier than trying to lug two carriers through the ferry. Clair, the Selkirk Rex Longhair and Trixie, the Maine Coon kitten, would remain in the large crate together in my back seat, their litter box readily accessible.

Clair and Trixie

This worked out really well. The car stayed at a comfortable temperature for the cats. For $57, I avoided the city traffic, bridges and tolls, had an hour and 20 minute ferry ride then drove from the northern tip of Long Island to the show hotel. I never knew there was so much rural land and vineyards on Long Island. I definitely wanted to take the ferry back home now.

After I left the show early on Sunday to avoid the expected snow storm, I again took the ferry route. I called the ferry people ahead of time to see if I could show up 4 hours earlier than my reservation. I could.

Cats safely snuggled in together in the car, I went upstairs to appreciate the view from the front of the boat. As all the tables along the front window were taken, I sat in one of the theater-style seats about 15 feet back from the front tables. My view was of the tables and beyond that, Long Island Sound as the ferry sailed toward New London.

The table directly in front of me had a young family seated at it, with two adorable little girls between the approximate ages of three and five years. The girls were being kept busy with activity books and video games. Each girl had a pacifier in her mouth. When the girls spoke, the pacifier stayed in, waggling like Groucho Marx’s cigar as they said words I couldn’t understand. Their parents obviously understood Paci-ese, answering questions or denying requests. If the girls ate any of the snacks in front of them, the pacifier came out, the food went in and they plugged their mouths back up with the pacifiers almost immediately.

Cringing as I was at the speech impediments allowed in their daughters’ mouths at such formidable ages, I noted that the parents seemed to be educated and attentive to their children. The youngest had a tendency to speak loudly (even with the pacifier) and her parents hushed her each time she did so, making her keep her voice down to a normal level. I wondered if the kids were the kind who would act out if their mouths weren’t plugged up all the time, but they seemed well-behaved for their ages. There was no crying, tantrums or whining. Most babies need to suckle something, but these children were beyond the toddler stage, potty trained and very verbal. The oldest was probably in a pre-school program.

At one point, the mother took the oldest girl over to where a service dog was seated with its owner. The black lab had the brightly colored harness on, but the owner was open to letting children pet her dog. After a few minutes, the child thought it would be fun to pretend to be a dog herself and got down on her hands and knees, barking. Mom immediately told her daughter to get off the dirty floor. As the child stood up, her pacifier fell out of her mouth mid-bark, hitting the floor. The little girl quickly squatted down and put it back in her mouth. Her mother was offended about the dirty pacifier going into her daughter’s mouth, pulled it out of her child’s and “cleaned it off” by, you guessed it, putting it into her own mouth. After "cleaning" the pacifier, the mother popped it back in her daughter’s mouth.

Ew! I’ve never understood this practice, but have seen it before. Some mothers have told me they’re “flavoring” the pacifier. I’ve raised two children, have utilized the “five-second rule” in controlled situations (fairgrounds, no; my kitchen floor, yes), and sit my bare butt on public toilets if the need arises. I am not a germaphobe, but I just don’t get the paci-mouth-cleaning thing.

Not too surprisingly, pediatricians discourage this practice, because, guess what, mother's mouths are full of harmful bacteria, germs and swear words. Among the objects listed as cleaner than a human mouth are a public toilet, subway railings, and urine.

I was amazed to find through my extensive 3-minute Google research that there is one theory that actually supports parents who mouth-clean their child’s pacifier, arguing the practice may be boosting the child’s immune system. If that’s the belief, why not just forego cleaning the pacifier at all and let the kid lick the floor?

Still Cute

I realize that my siblings and I are not the first people to experience the decline of a parent, but lately the reality of how life ends is forced in front of me. The geographic distance between all of us makes the logistics of care difficult. North Carolina is where our mother resides with our step-father, but we, her three children, live in Connecticut, Minnesota and Arizona. Our step-father is not capable of providing the kind of continuous care his wife needs now. We want to honor her wish to die at home. Not knowing how to plan and for how long is inconvenient, but shouldn't be my main concern. Now that Mom is under hospice care, I have taken on the role of primary caregiver. Thank goodness my sister can arrange her work schedule so we can take turns.

With all this, I try to take heart with a few positives:

 

Mom isn’t in pain.

Her dementia has kept her from worrying as much about her liver cancer as a more cognizant sufferer might.

She still knows who we are and accepts our care without embarrassment or resistance.

She has flashes of humor, reminding us that she’s beautiful inside and out.

Mom is so weak, she requires assistance to stand, to turn over, to move her legs out of the bed. She barely eats and drinks only when the offer is in front of her. She has no bowel control or awareness of having gone. She’s so emaciated, her bare torso shows every rib.

Her norm over the past few weeks has become communication with a look, a nod or shake of the head, especially when she’s sleepy. Sleep is her life right now. When she does speak, it startles me. When she spoke in full sentences to a former colleague who called her the other day, I was amazed. Then she became tired and I had to take the phone.

Our mother took care of herself throughout her 77 years, making her cancer seem that much more unfair. She was active, never over-weight, regular doctor visits, no smoking or drinking, brushed and flossed…all those things you’re supposed to do. She always been a positive person and looked amazing for her age; never even had to color her hair. At this late stage, she has gray roots for the first time. Her signature heavy eyebrows and dark lashes are barely visible with their light color, making her look dramatically different.

So we focus on moments and try to freeze those in our memories. I was on the phone with her hospice case manager, a wonderful woman named Joy who had called to check on her before the weekend started. As I spoke to Joy, I walked into Mom’s bedroom where she lay and she opened her eyes, wondering who I was talking to about her. I told her, “Joy wants to know how you’re doing, Mom.”

“Tell her I’m cute.”


Post Note: My mother passed away peacefully on August 2, 2016.

 

 

Another One Comes Home

In my effort to be a responsible Maine Coon cat breeder, I have vowed to be ultimately responsible for the kittens I sell. This means that even though I sell them to screened, loving homes where they are intended to live long lives as part of a family for the duration of their feline lives, I will take them back if things don’t work out.

Not often, but once in a great while, my kittens have come back. It’s usually as adults, for various reasons; home foreclosure due to job loss, upheaval caused by divorce, severe allergies of a new family member and death of the owner. In virtually all the cases, the owners are distraught about giving their pet back, but realize I can find them a new home more easily than they can. It’s also in most breeders’ contracts to have first right of refusal if the original owner can no longer keep the animal. I would always take the cats back rather than risk them being put in less desirable situations, like an animal shelter.

Almost all of the cats that come back to me are on the younger side and are easily sold to new homes after a short adjustment period where I can have them vetted and assess them. It has always worked out well; a family gets a Maine Coon and a cat gets properly spoiled in a new home.

Recently, I’ve taken older cats back that I felt were too old to re-home. One cat I took back was Ray, a nine-year-old red tabby who I blogged about in February. Ray’s owner had died and Ray himself had been recently diagnosed with cancer.  We enjoyed Ray’s company for about four months before my vet helped him leave us to escape his cancer. 
 
Last week, I brought Ray’s mother, Boom Boom, home.  I took the 11-year-old cat back from my mother, with whom she’d lived for the past seven years in North Carolina since she retired from breeding (the cat, not my Mom). Some of my readers may remember Dracoonfly Cosseboom, one of the largest female Maine Coons I ever had the pleasure of showing. Even with her tell-tale torbie and white coloring that’s normally assigned only to females, Boom Boom was large enough that a couple of judges felt the need to verify her gender.  Sixteen pounds on a one-year-old Maine Coon is big, even for the boys. Boom Boom earned the titles of CFA Grand Champion and TICA Supreme Grand Champion. In 2008, she became a TICA Outstanding Dam which means five of her offspring also became Grand Champions.

I had not wanted to bring Boom Boom back like this. Unfortunately, between my mother’s liver cancer, her increasing memory loss and my step-father's limited mobility, Boom Boom has not been receiving the attention she needs.  My mother would complain about how much the cat vomited and scratched herself, yet neither she nor my step-dad, John, seemed to be able to take preventive steps.

I spent quite a bit of time and effort over the years, trying to educate Mom and John on the need to avoid feeding Boom Boom cat food with corn meal in the ingredients because of her skin sensitivities.  Cats are obligate carnivores and many pet food manufacturers use corn meal as a cheap source of protein. Cats are not designed to digest corn. Thus, corn meal is a primary reason for cats vomiting after eating. However, Mom and John kept going back to Meow Mix; it was easier to buy at the grocery store than go to a pet specialty store and invest in the better brands I recommended.

In addition to food allergies, Boom Boom also had fleas. Fleas are more difficult to deal with in the South as they hitch rides indoors on people. Keeping a cat indoors is not an absolute guarantee to avoid fleas. Having Revolution applied monthly on the back of her neck to prevent fleas never became a habit for poor Boom Boom. Instead, when Boom Boom scratched, the knee-jerk reaction was to put a Hartz flea collar on her. This was not only ineffective, but irritating to the cat’s sensitive skin. Thanks goodness they never tried Hartz Spot-on as that product (which is still out there for some reason) has been known to cause seizures and death in cats and dogs.

No surprise then that Boom Boom has bald spots and scabs on her. I know I should have taken her back sooner, but when your mother always talks about how much she enjoys the cat every time you talk on the phone and the last doctor’s report indicates her time is getting shorter, you rationalize leaving the cat as a therapy pet for a few more months. My sister and I increased our visits to Mom after we saw the situation last December, when Boom Boom was badly infested with fleas and she’d lost weight.  My mother actually had not noticed because the scratching had become normal for Boom Boom.  We used Revolution to get rid of the fleas and got her weight stabilized. We bought the better dry cat food, but would just return a month later to find Meow Mix again, because “Boom Boom didn’t like the new food”.  My family is just too spread out to make visits more frequently; Mom is in North Carolina, I’m in Connecticut, my sister lives in Minnesota and my brother in Arizona.

So last week my husband and I drove to North Carolina to visit Mom and prepared to return with a cat. We packed the large, collapsible dog crate I use to transport the cats to cat shows. It’s big enough for a litter box and a couple of Maine Coons. We had already checked Boom Boom for fleas and found none, but just in case, the last day Boom Boom was at Mom and John’s house, I gave her a Capstar pill and a bath. Capstar will kill any remaining fleas within 30 minutes and I wasn’t taking any chances of bringing the little blood-suckers in my house.  Mom asked if we wanted to take Boom Boom’s cat tree for her, but we didn’t want to take a chance on unhatched eggs either.  I have several cats, two dogs and no fleas. I want to keep it that way. The seven-foot cat tree went to the dump.

I was very nervous about the prospect of taking my mother’s cat away from her. I had a vision of Mom bursting into tears and begging me not to take Boom Boom. To offset this, I had bought Mom one of those realistic-looking stuffed cats that lies curled up and breathes with the help of a D battery as a substitute to sit on her recliner with her. I also enlisted my step-father’s support as I knew he was tired of taking care of the cat. If Mom forgot why Boom Boom was gone, I needed John to be able to give her gentle reminders. Mom just can’t do it anymore and although John likes Boom Boom, he has enough on his plate with his wife and his own limitations.  

John agreed that this would be best and backed me up. We told Mom that Boom Boom needed to come back home with me where I could take care of her. Mom was in agreement; she even thanked me several times for taking care of Boom Boom during the week we were down there. Mom tends to repeat herself, but I was happy she remembered what I was intending to do. Still, when the time came for us to leave, Mom burst into tears.

Why does this have to be so hard? Aging parents. Cancer. Dementia. Aging, neglected cats. In the end, we’re trying to make the best of a bad situation. Mom calmed down quickly, saying she hadn’t intended to cry. Something would be wrong with her if she weren’t upset. I know how much she loves this cat. I reminded Mom that seven years ago I had cried when she took Boom Boom away to live with her in North Carolina.

Now that Boom Boom has been back a week, she seems very happy. My mother still thanks me for taking care of the cat, and is getting used to being cat-less. Boom Boom doesn’t appreciate our other cats yet, but she clearly remembered our house, jumping immediately into our master bathroom window. Right now, she’s enjoying an itch-free lifestyle, learning to like new foods, and meeting the other cats one by one while she lives in our bedroom. When Boom Boom is ready, she’ll come downstairs on her own terms and take on the rest of the household. I’m relieved the transition is working out well and we’re happy to have Boom Boom back in the family.

Things My Daddy Taught Me

As I did for my mom on Mother's Day, for Father's Day I have written down the things my dear Papa has taught me. Whether my dad intentionally set out to teach us these things or not, I find myself doing or referring to "Dadisms" quite frequently throughout my adult life.

Do stretching exercises at rest stops when traveling, ostensibly to keep the blood flowing, but mostly to embarrass your children and grandchildren.

Know how to check your car’s oil yourself.

Women should expect men to treat them with respect.

It’s “chimney” not “chimley”.

Real men cry.

When watching TV, conduct the theme music.

Be politically correct.

A change of key is called modulation; Barry Manilow was notorious for modulating. 

Exhale deeply and loudly when stretching to get everyone’s attention and/or make people wonder if you’re okay.

Flatulence in an enclosed space can be deadly and will be talked about for years to come.

When the accelerator cable on your 1972 VW Beetle breaks, take your screwdriver out of the glove compartment and adjust the timing on the engine so it idles fast enough to putt-putt at 20 MPH to the nearest service station.

For all major endeavors, have a Plan A, B and C.

When your teenager confides what she’s been up to, don’t freak out but instead tell her you’re glad she came to you. 

Precede your instructions with “May I suggest, “ so others won’t think you’re too controlling.

Don’t describe people simply by the color of their skin.

If you’re uncomfortable and someone can do something about it, speak up rather than put up.

Don’t put a spoon into a blender full of potatoes until the blades have completely stopped.

 

Stay in good physical shape so you can claim that you weigh the same as you did in college.

E-nun-ci-ate, ar-ti-cu-late and be correct in all things grammar.

Sing frequently and often around the house in full voice. My favorite? “She has freckles on her butt….she’s nice”.

You may over-communicate until others’ eyes roll out of their heads, but they can never claim they didn’t know or that you’re unorganized. 

Never hesitate to tell your family that you love them and are proud.

Even though you don’t really understand it, support your young daughter’s obsession with animals, especially her desire to have a pony. Later, warn her husband that she also always wanted a Jersey cow.

When napping on the couch, don’t react to anything going on around you, like when your young daughters apply make-up to your face or your 3-year-old grandson licks your glasses.

If you’re really angry at something your child did, warn her that you’re about to lose your temper.  Sorry, that always made me giggle (silently).

Embrace technology and learning new things.

Don’t attempt to do basic maintenance on newer cars; what you think are spark plugs are not.

Men can be feminists too.

Keep the “I Heart Dad” socks your daughter gave you for Father’s Day forever, always wearing them when you see her, even thirty-plus years later.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

 

Pull My Finger...Not!

When I’m up on my game (meaning, I remember and have the time and energy), I will bathe the kittens that will be leaving soon for their new homes; more so if the kitten will be joining another cat along with his or her new family.  This way, the kitten will smell more neutral to the other cat instead of so much like my house.  I have found this helps to gain acceptance in the feline world. 

 

The kitten bath is much simpler and easier than the type I give a show cat.  I use shampoo or even hand soap, holding a squirming kitten in my kitchen sink while it jumps like a kangaroo to attempt escape.  Sometimes a kitten panics and needs to be scruffed.  Sometimes it simply gives up and lies down in the sink. The bathing process takes about five minutes, then the kitten is toweled off and placed in a carrier where I direct warm air from a blow dryer at low speed on the drowned rat-looking thing.  Kitten coat is comparatively fast and easy, enabling the offended party to be released after about 10 minutes of drying.  It will still be damp, but not easily chilled by then, happy to walk out and groom itself thoroughly.

Sometimes a kitten surprises me, but none like the other night.  I had already bathed his littermate with no problem and moved onto Kitten Number Two.  As soon as this kitten heard the water from the faucet hit the stainless steel sink, he panicked.  I moved to scruff position with my right hand, but this little guy was determined to escape and he bit down on the index finger of my left hand.  I let go as I was now bleeding from three places and it hurt!

I’ve been bitten before, even to the point of vomiting and requiring antibiotics administered intravenously in the Urgent Care every eight hours for two days several years ago.  I understand and appreciate the seriousness of a cat bite.  This is why I have my doctor prescribe Augmentin so I can always have some on hand (no pun intended) in the event of a bad bite. 

My finger bled quite a bit while I waited for the pain to subside.  There was a lot of swearing and near-crying on my end.  I took an Augmentin and just sat with ice on it for a while, waiting for my husband, Jay, to come inside so I could share my drama.  Jay was appropriately concerned, offering me wine and Ibuprofen and fixing salad for supper.  My finger was still throbbing when I went to bed that night, but I told myself that if it were worse in the morning, I’d call the doctor.

The next morning, it seemed better.  At least my finger didn’t hurt anymore and the swelling was still confined to the first knuckle.  By afternoon, my second knuckle looked a little swollen too.  I could tell a difference when I compared my two index fingers.  I showed it to Jay for his opinion while I was driving us to Home Depot to pick up more lumber for the larger chicken coop we’re working on.  Now picture this: I’m driving the car.  Jay is sitting in the passenger seat.  Keeping my eyes on the road, I crossed my left hand over toward my caring husband and said, “Look,” dangling my wounded finger in front of him.  I expected an “Oh my goodness!  It looks more swollen.  Does it still hurt?”

Instead I got a “What?”

“Look!” I repeated, waving my finger again.  So what does my husband do, my husband who knows my finger has been mutilated by a vicious animal, who witnessed my arm in a sling years ago when I was being treated for a serious cat bite, who has been bitten himself and sympathizes with the pain and concern involved?  What does he do?  He pulls my finger.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I thought you were making a joke and wanted me to pull your finger.” 

“No! No! No! What’s with you and farting? I just wanted you tell me if you thought it looked more swollen.”

“Oh.  No, it looks the same.”

“Not for long.  You want to step on my hand next?”

What Do Lumberjacks Wear?

During the week between my son Tyler’s college graduation from the University of South Carolina and my step-brother’s wedding in St. Simon’s, Georgia, we had to move Kelsey home from college in Vermont and then my husband Jay had a birthday.  A lot of planning, airports, driving, carrying an endless supply of dorm necessities down three flights of stairs, waiting for a cat to give birth, visiting family, spending money, etc., all within one week bookended by two eventful weekends.  I normally plan birthday gifts in advance, but this time Jay was an after- thought.

When I finally thought to ask, Jay came up with his usual request.  “I really need a white dress shirt and a tie.” Again?  Well, this year that would be okay with me, given how stretched I was feeling.  I asked one more time after returning from Tyler’s graduation and before our trek to Vermont to move Kelsey.  “Well, maybe a new chain saw.”  Really?  Now you tell me? 

One of my husband’s favorite past times is playing lumberjack.  He loves to split and stack firewood, always preparing us for the long cold winter by stocking up for the wood stove which supplements our heat.  The last time he purchased a chain saw was in 1985, a Stihl which still worked.  He wanted another Stihl of course.  I said nothing to indicate that I was thinking anymore about his birthday, but called Jay’s friend Curt.  Curt is my gift advisor for Jay when it comes to fishing gear and power tools.  I know enough about the stuff to know I know nothing (can we hear it for using the same word three times in one sentence?)

Since Kelsey and her dorm contents had to be crammed into our van which drove a total of eight hours on Wednesday, I had only Thursday to pull this off.  Thursday was Jay’s birthday.  Curt and I drove out to the Stihl dealer to pick up the chain saw he’d selected as the best for Jay. 

As we returned, Curt asked me how I was going to give it him.  I mentioned the Lumberjack Song as performed on the Monty Python Show many years back.  Curt gave me a blank stare so I sang the one verse I remembered, the verse I sang to Jay when I felt like teasing him about his hobby:

                Oh, I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay

                I sleep all night and I work all day.

                I cut down trees

                I wear high heels

                Suspenders and a bra.

                I wish I were a girlie,

                Just like my dear papa.

Curt has a good sense of humor, but having never heard the song before, I got a look.  It was very similar to the response Kelsey gave me when I told how I was thinking of presenting the chain saw to Jay, although she added the teenage eye roll at the end.  I didn’t care what they thought, my idea cracked me up and in the end, that’s all that really matters when it comes to satisfying my warped mind.

That evening, we took Jay out to dinner then came home for Reeses ice cream cake, joined by Curt.  Kelsey gave Jay a T-shirt which read on the front, “I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry.”  I gave Jay a funny card with a piece of paper enclosed which had the following typed on it:

You asked for a shirt

And also a tie

That’s all you wanted

But we know you lie

To get your gift

You’ll have to work

High and low you’ll look

But please don’t twerk
 

You get three clues

About your present

If you guess right

You get to open it

Your first clue resides

In a special place

Under lock and key

Where you record the fish, rivers and lakes 

Now my doubters, Kelsey and Curt, perked up.  This was going to be fun after all. They didn't know the location in the clue, but Jay certainly did.   Jay went right to the armoire where he keeps his fishing flies, rods, and the fishing journals he’s maintained for decades.  There he found a wrapped present which revealed the new Vera Wang shoes I intended to wear to the wedding that weekend.  Confusion, but another clue lay with my pumps.

Oops! Not quite your size

But this is clue Number One

Number Two is where

Number two is done 

Easy clue.  In the bathroom Jay found a pair of rainbow suspenders wrapped in tissue paper (purchased from Goodwill that morning).  What? Curt started teasing Jay about what he needed to wear to the next fishing club event.  Next clue:

Clue Number three

The final one

Has keys a plenty

But none you turn 

Found in the piano bench (it wouldn’t fit with the piano keys), wrapped in tissue paper, was one of my bras and the last clue.

Your three clues…hmmm

Now use your head

If you’re right

It’s in the shed

Jay started to go outside to the shed.  I stopped him.  “Solve the riddle.  No present until you guess based upon your clues.”

“Hmm.  Shoes, suspenders and bra... Suspenders.  Bra.  Wait a minute! ”  Ding ding ding!  “The Lumberjack Song!  You got me a chainsaw?”
 

Watch the Lumberjack Song skit on You Tube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mL7n5mEmXJo
 

Things My Mama Taught Me

On Mother’s Day I celebrate being a mother and having a mother.  Every year, we thank the women who brought us into this world and raised us, influencing us in ways they probably never thought they would.  Child and parent have different memories of those formative years, so I thought I’d make a list of some of the lessons I have taken from the marvelous woman who brought me into this world.

Take care of your teeth as they are the only ones you get

Write thank-you notes after receiving a gift

Wearing sunglasses regularly will prevent premature wrinkles around your eyes caused by squinting

Thank you for not only allowing me to try the bang-trimming method I’d read about in a magazine on you, but for forgiving me when I royally screwed up your hair

Allergies are all in my head (well, technically I guess they are)

A bug in your food is just extra protein and not a big deal

Snakes, mice, spiders and other creatures are fascinating

Learn how to fix basic stuff around the house by yourself

Grow a garden in the summer

If it looks like your outfit doesn’t really match but your mother assures you it blends, don’t wear it

You never truly appreciate how patient, calm and tireless your mother is until you become one yourself

Don’t judge other people; there is good in every one

If you are critical of others a lot, maybe it’s yourself you aren’t happy with

Compared to all the other kids’ moms, mine was always the prettiest (still is)

It’s okay to call out to inanimate objects and ask them where they are hiding

Don’t be afraid to try new things

Love animals

Be stoic and don’t complain

Practice piano, flute, violin, etc. for at least 30 minutes a day

You can’t play until you’ve completed your Saturday morning chores

You should always have a Sunday-go-meeting outfit and loud dress shoes

If you can’t pay attention, then draw during church so you don’t disturb everyone else

Respect adults, but don’t assume they are smarter than you

One month after cancer treatment, go on a Caribbean cruise

Learn how to properly wrap gifts

Never miss the opportunity to make a snow angel

Put your napkin in your lap, don’t chew with your mouth open or sit on your knees at the table

If you’re tired, take a 10-minute nap

You don’t need to know the top 40 songs on the radio as long as you know church hymns and Broadway songs…all the songs from every musical soundtrack we owned memorized, in order, verbatim

If you see a baby locked in a car on a warm day or a man passed out in the park, call the police

Love your children unconditionally

Cuteness is not just a characteristic of short people; a 5-foot, 10-inch tall woman can be adorably cute

Never tire of telling the story of your child’s birth to her and recalling how perfect her little toes were

If your daughter was born 5 days before Christmas, always celebrate separately and wrap the presents in birthday paper

Eat breakfast

Hike to the top of a mountain on your 60^th birthday

If someone prepares a nice meal, it’s “fancy”

If you enjoy your food, hum and make appreciative noises while eating

Never use racist language or swear

If you don’t want to wait until Mom gets out of work to pick you up, either walk or get a ride home from after school sports and activities

Bactine and Pepto Bismal cure all itches and ills; anything else is an evil drug

Don’t get in the water until 30 minutes after eating or you may drown like your great uncle did (I found out later he really drowned because he didn’t know how to swim)

If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all

Flatulence means someone has to go to the bathroom, referred to back then as “dirty work”

My brother Paul must have had to go A LOT

 

What Would You Do?

I distinctly remember my denial of the price of gas rising over three dollars per gallon years ago. I stopped the pump when my total reached exactly $39.99 because I refused to pay over $40 to fill my tank. Oh, those were the days!

This past Friday, I drove to a friend’s house in upstate New York for a girl’s night at her place, over a three hour drive for me. As I knew gas was cheaper just about any place outside of Connecticut, I planned on filling up in Massachusetts. Once on the Mass Turnpike, the service areas and exits are about 20 miles apart with a whole lot of trees in-between. I pulled into a service area complete with McDonald’s, restrooms and gas pumps, everything a person could need all in one place. The two gas islands were occupied with cars that also had their gas tanks on the same side as my mini-van. Rather than wait in line, I thought I’d see if the hose could reach around my vehicle from its off (right) side.

I pulled forward and parked to the right, popped the door to my gas tank and got out. Nope, it wasn’t going to reach and I couldn’t turn around to get to the back of the line without violating the one-way rule of traffic. Disgusted, I decided I’d just have to drive the 22 miles to the next service area. As I sped up on the acceleration lane, I glanced at my side-view mirror and realized the little door that covers my gas cap was still open. Not in a position to pull over safely and knowing the gas cap itself was still intact, I kept going.

Then I had this vision of well-meaning passengers in passing cars on the highway trying to tell me that my gas tank was open. They would be going too fast to see the cap, just see the opened door, and honk, wave or point to get my attention. I anticipated waving back to thank them, “I know it’s open. Thanks. I’ll get it at the next exit.” Five cars passed me and nobody tried to communicate with me. My mood went from irritated that I’d have to deal with good Samaritans to pretended annoyance that no one cared enough to communicate. “If this were What Would You Do?, you people would fail!” I chastised out loud to no one in particular.

When I reached the next service area, my gas tank was in a more desperate situation and I happily found an open space at the pump on the left side of my car. As I started to remove my gas cap, I was taken aback by a woman who came around the back of my car and started talking to me. She said she needed money for gas so she could get home to Saratoga. She was only asking people for a couple of dollars as she didn’t feel comfortable asking for more. My initial reaction was of suspicion. I normally don’t contribute to beggars.

The woman looked to be in her thirties or forties, wearing a long dress and her red hair in two long braids. I did not detect a smell of alcohol or body odor. I decided to give her a couple of bucks, if no reason other than to get rid of her. I only had one single in my wallet. Amazingly enough, the rest of the bills were $10 and higher; obviously my husband and daughter hadn’t used my wallet as an ATM recently. I gave the woman the one single I had and watched as she approached others at the pumps. The man behind me with the New Jersey plates pulled out a wad of bills and peeled something off for her, but I didn’t see the amount. She approached others at the pump, but I couldn’t hear or see their responses.

As my tank filled, I continued to watch the woman while she made the rounds. She returned to her car which was at the pump island opposite me and just stood there looking out at the people pumping gas; apparently there wasn’t enough to fill her tank and she needed new candidates to approach. I wondered if this was a scam, but with her car sitting there, it was looking more legitimate.

Again, I thought of the TV show What Would You Do? Pretty sure that John Quinones wouldn’t bring a camera crew this far away from civilization, I didn’t look too hard for hidden cameras or mic packs. I felt I had to do more. I pulled my van up out of the way, got out and walked up to the woman standing beside her car, handing her a ten dollar bill. Once I got up closer to her car, I saw a man asleep in the passenger seat and a baby in a car seat in back.

I began to doubt my gift as I drove away. Why wasn’t the man doing anything? Why would he leave his wife to beg for gas money? Was he really asleep or was this part of a scam? I’ll never know for sure. The man and the baby were African American and I wondered if the woman was acting on the belief that their chances were better at soliciting funds if the clean-cut, red-headed white woman was the solicitor.

Having watched a similar scenario on the TV show where people of different genders, races and styles of dress ask for gas money, the producers asked if the difference in people’s contributions were due to race. Race wasn’t the issue with me, but gender and age are definite considerations; if an African American or Hispanic woman approached me in a similar manner, I would have felt the same way. It was a matter of a woman (me) feeling safe with a stranger and fairly certain that I wasn’t being taken advantage of. Broad daylight with others around helped the stranger’s predicament.

I realize that begging for gas money at the pump probably happens more often than I know, but this was my first experience. Would I do it again? Yeah, probably. I don’t have a lot of extra money floating around, but I did have enough fuel in my car to get where I was going.

So I have to ask my readers: What would you do?

Mammograms Are a Pain, But Cancer is Worse

“It’s difficult to get a good picture of your breasts because they’re so dense,” explained the mammographer.

I looked at her. “You’re telling me my breasts are dense? Isn’t that why they’re called boobs?”

Offending my girls notwithstanding, I got a phone call from the Breast Imaging Department of Lawrence & Memorial Hospital the day after my annual mammogram, asking me to come back in so they could do a follow-up with a more specialized mammogram. I was concerned. The representative on the phone couldn’t give any more information and advised me to call my doctor if I wanted more details. I opted not to panic and call my doctor. I was going to be fine.

When I’d gone in for my regular squishing of the breasts the day before, I had not anticipated any problems. Cancer does run in my family, but no relatives have had breast cancer. It’s a small reassurance, but doesn’t guarantee anything. The mammographer that day, Katy, had been quite talkative and we enjoyed a rather lengthy conversation about our sons in college. I even wondered if I was distracting her too much as she took images. In retrospect, maybe bonding with the mammographer isn’t always a good thing.

Women generally complain about the pain caused by a mammogram. I decided long ago that it’s merely uncomfortable momentarily and not nearly as painful as those stiff, sharp-edged, square things the dental hygienist puts in your mouth to get X-rays. “Bite down and hold,” she instructs as I feel the insides of my cheeks slice open. I’d take a mammogram over dental x-rays any day.

I tried to hide my concern about going in for a follow-up mammogram. Jay asked if he should come with me, but I excused him. I rationalized that the mammographer wouldn’t be able tell me anything immediately anyway and I’d have to wait until the next day to get results. We talked in general about how much better cancer detection and treatment is today than it was even ten years ago.

Against my better judgment, I played the “what if’s” in my head as I drove to the hospital. If they found something, I’d probably just tell my sister at first. If it came to a biopsy and that was bad news, then I’d tell the rest of my family. No need to worry anyone unnecessarily, especially my mother who is living with liver cancer (and doing extremely well, thank goodness).

At the hospital, my mammographer of the day was Lisa; friendly, but not as talkative as Katy. I saw breast images on her screen and asked if those were mine, hoping to get a clue about the problem. “I can tell how cold the room was,” I joked. Lisa laughed politely and got down to business. They needed to concentrate on a specific area of my right breast. She used the analogy that if you imagine the breast as a bag of marbles, not all of the marbles are seen clearly when the bag is compressed in an effort to get a 2-dimensional picture of a 3-dimensional object. Her goal was to single out a few marbles. I resisted a “losing my marbles” crack.

Remember what I said before about mammograms just being temporarily uncomfortable? Not so much on the follow-up when a more specific area is compressed. It was a gasp-areyouserious-thisfrickinghurts-hurryupdammit-pain. There were red marks left behind that would surely turn black and blue. Lisa apologized and advised Tylenol when I got home. I was certain this called for ice packs and a glass of wine too.

As I held my whimpering breast, Lisa informed me that the mammogram review doctor was in and she’d be back momentarily to give me the results. Really? No waiting for hours, days possibly, mentally torturing myself with more “what if” scenarios? I sat down, still wearing my hospital-issue blue cotton top while Lisa left me alone in the room. A few minutes later, Lisa returned. “You’re fine,” she smiled. “You can go home.”

Human Placentophagy - Seriously?

Warning: this blog is not for squeamish or humorless folk.


Actress January Jones has recently publicly discussed the benefits of eating her own placenta after the birth of her son, putting a face on an increasingly popular fad in America. Although pictures of January Jones depict her looking marvelous post-partum, I think her appearance has more to do with genetics, a personal trainer and Photoshop rather than a placenta. Apparently, there are placenta recipes and placenta encapsulation specialists who formulate the organ into capsules taken like a vitamin. The placenta handling and encapsulation business is booming.

The arguments in support of the practice of human placentophagy (placenta consumption) stem mainly around the idea that since all mammals and a few reptiles eat the placentas of their newborn babies, it is natural and therefore better for you, right? The nutrition one gains from a placenta supposedly helps the mother recover more quickly and wards off post-partum depression. Joel Stein wrote a very entertaining article, Afterbirth: It's What's For Dinnner about his wife's personal experience with placentophagia after the birth of their child. Nancy Redd, a writer for the New York Times, reported that she experienced very negative side effects after trying her placenta.

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was in awe of the ability of a woman’s body to create an organ that would support her fetus. The placenta is the link between the mother and child, filtering nutrition and excrement (yes, that too) until it is time for him to leave the womb and live as an independent being. I was curious after my baby was born to see what a placenta actually looked like and was shown a bloody organ about the size of a large steak.  Not once did I feel an overwhelming urge to try it, not even with A-1 Sauce.

Now that I’ve delivered countless Maine Coon kittens and one foal, I look at the birthing process more pragmatically. I know some cat breeders who don’t allow the mother cat to eat the placenta for fear of it making her (the cat) sick. Others believe that eating the placenta provides the mother with extra nutrition and stimulates milk production.

I’ve noticed a few things over the years which relate to cats so I’ll just liberally generalize based upon my personal area of expertise. One is, not all cats and their placentas are equal. Some queens (a breeding female cat) will swallow the placenta like an oyster. Some placentas are tough, requiring the mother to gnaw on it endlessly while the wet kitten is ignored. Some new moms prefer to just lick the placenta clean, then leave it.

A couple of things to keep in mind with cats and other animals that deliver multiples; usually one birth quickly follows another so clean up has to be efficient. If the placenta isn’t taken care of before the next baby arrives, it’ll just have to wait. After delivering several kittens and consuming a placenta for each one, a queen gets full and very tired. She welcomes help cleaning up and drying her kittens. I usually follow the mother’s lead. If too much time is spent on the placenta or she shows no interest in it, I’ll start removing them for her so she’ll focus on her kitten.  I normally dispose of placentas along with the used bedding in the trash, but I've been known to flush them down the toilet too.

I think the instinct to eat a placenta is not only for a carnivore’s easy food source, but for hygiene. Herd animals whose babies are up and running within hours may have less of a need to consume their placenta, but animals whose young are helpless at birth must stay near the nest for protection and warmth.

Most domestic cats don’t like to leave their new kittens at all, so I usually put food and water in the birthing cage to make it easier for the mother. Likewise, if the mother cat has a choice, she will not use a litter box anywhere near her brood. Birth and all the fluids that go with it have a certain odor that is bound to attract predators. By cleaning up all signs of birth and kitten excrement, the new babies have a better chance of survival. That’s also why many cats move their kittens, to get them away from the birth aroma. I’ve seen new moms fastidiously lick the wet bedding in an effort to clean up the evidence. She is relieved when I remove the wet, disposable puppy pads and replace them with clean cotton bedding. Cleanliness is survival in the wild, an instinct the domestic animal still possesses.

A Maine Coon cat’s placenta is about the size of a large McNugget and looks like a piece of raw meat. I’ve often joked about breading and sautéing placentas, but I don’t eat red meat. I suppose if I were more enterprising, I could use my feline source and market my own magic placenta pills.

So with all the Hollywood hoopla about doing the natural thing and eating one’s own placenta, I have to say, this is just gross. Having the placenta steamed, dried and put into capsules may look more appetizing than grilling out, but it all seems like a scam to me. If you have a healthy diet, a placenta pill isn’t going to really make a difference. Post-partum depression?  See your doctor, please.  Even in third world countries, they’re not so hungry that placentophagy is an option and just bury it. The practice is not as common in most cultures as some would have you believe, but it has been promoted by Chinese medicine. Hey, don’t the Chinese also eat goat genitalia, monkey brains, dogs and cats? I found a huge assortment of exotic (read "disgusting") food sources native to China on the internet, so it must be true.

If a human mom really wants to emulate nature by eating her placenta, I think she should take it the rest of the way. Mother cats also eat the excrement of their newborn babies. It’s just another way of recycling really. Go for it Mrs. Jones.

Olivia with her Oscar Litter at one day old

Wilson and Willy

Ben is seven-years-old, the youngest of three, very active and needs something constructive to do or there will be trouble. He and his ten-year-old sister Amanda come over one or two times a week while their mother is at work or nursing school. “Technically, they are my step-grandchildren,” I respond when people hear them calling me Grandma Sharon and question how it’s possible, either because I look so young or because they know my kids are 20 and 16 and wonder if one of them “got in trouble.”

As Ben was recently frustrated with our flat basketball and had been taking an interest in sports, I picked up a new basketball and a football for small hands prior to his next sleepover. The balls did not become objects for sport as much as they were adopted by Ben as his new playmates. I told Ben about the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away and how his character had only Wilson the soccer ball to talk to while stranded on the island. Ben was inspired by my story and named his basketball “Wilson” and the football “Willy.” After all, they were also Wilson Sporting Goods products and had their names on them.

Ben's artistic rendering of Wilson and Willy

Wilson and Willy played on the swing with Ben, jumped on the trampoline with him, had conversations and disagreements, sat at the dinner table with us, got wiped off when they got dirty; just like they were dolls. He even took Wilson and Willy to bed with him and kept the boxes his new friends came in so they could be perched without rolling. My daughter Kelsey rolled her eyes when Ben brought the balls to the table and carefully placed them in the chair beside him, insinuating that Ben was a little crazy. “Doesn’t he remind you of someone else when she was little?” I asked her, “You used to have conversations with your spoon and fork at the table, your crayons got in fights with each other then kissed and made up. Pretending the balls are people isn’t really that much of a stretch.”

What a great age to be able to lose yourself in your imagination and create personalities for inanimate objects. How incredibly cute!

Major Bad Hair Day

When my son Tyler comes home from college, he’s way overdue for a haircut. Tyler attends school at the University of South Carolina so homecoming is at Christmas, spring break and summer. He claims the barber on campus does chop jobs and won’t go there anymore.

At Christmas, Tyler simply borrowed his friend Chad’s clipper set, complete with several attachments to dummy-proof the length of hair clipped. The clippers I have for my cats has just one blade length and God forbid my child use a tool on his beautiful head that had touched cat hair. I clipped Tyler’s hair at Christmas with Chad’s clippers and had very positive results, both of us happy that we’d saved money too.

The evening before Tyler was scheduled to take the Greyhound back to South Carolina, he borrowed Chad’s clippers again. However this time, the clippers made a sporadic ear-splitting noise at somewhere around 90 decibels. Occasionally, the cacophony would suddenly switch to the healthy low-pitched buzzing and we’d sigh with relief. Then, it would start back up again. I experimented with different settings and blades to see if I could fix the clippers, but nothing worked for more than a few seconds.

Tyler and I resigned ourselves to just trying to get his overgrown locks trimmed quickly in spite of the distracting dissonance. After trimming the bulk of his thick, brunette hair, I blame the raucous clippers for what happened next. I folded down Tyler's ear in order to clip the hairs behind it. I had taken the attachment off so I could trim closely. A demon possessed the instrument of evil and touched the side of his head in two areas, leaving parallel stripes about a half inch in width, three inches long. Tyler said he knew it was serious when I dropped the F-bomb.

I was horrified; Tyler was too…initially. I apologized profusely, memories of the time I convinced my mother to let me cut her bangs coming back to haunt me. Back when I was a teen, and probably now too, bangs weren’t normally worn only one inch down from the hairline.  

Thank goodness Tyler has the ability to forgive and see humor even at his own expense. His sister Kelsey couldn't stop laughing and promised that if I’d messed up her hair like that, she’d hate me forever. I suggested he wear a hat until it grew back out and offered to take Tyler to a hair stylist for a fixer-upper. He didn’t think my mistake could be covered up and came up with a solution of his own; I had to give him a Mohawk and make it look like an intentional new doo. A Mohawk was on his bucket list anyway, or so he says.

Tyler took the clippers and got his Mohawk started. I finished it up and did the back. My son looks pretty good considering; kind of like the character Puck from Glee. He’s been told he looks “badass”, but cautioned not to complete his new look with gauge earrings or tattoos. Tyler says he still loves his mother, although I’m sure he will use this little incident against me for years to come.



Kelsey and Tyler