Bupkis

That's what I got this week.

Bupkis.

Zilch. Nothing. Nada.

Neither a story nor an opinion...

But since so many people enjoyed learning about my cat, Lotto, in last week's post (scroll down to "Welcome Home" if you missed it), I thought I'd share some pix.

Enjoy!




Looking regal on the bedroom bench. This was taken probably within a month or two of his arrival at my door in April, 2009.








Taken around the same time. He thinks it's funny that I gave him his own phonebook.






Probably a year later. Note, though, his weight has remained within 8 ounces of 11 pounds the whole time. I'm not kidding. It's all about the fur.



It seems wrong to post photos of Lotto and not also include the more senior cat here at Chez Katie.

What follows is a pic I took not too long ago.

As you'll see, Lotto adores Vesta (just as I do). And what is really cool is that -- despite her having no teeth (now 15, she had severe gum issues at an early age) -- Vesta harks back to Hemingway heritage, which means she has extra toes. And therefore extra claws! And so, she generally wins their mock battles, which are so much fun to watch.












Thanks for stopping by!

Monday Reruns: My Literal Childhood: More Reflections

original post-date: October 20, 2010

In at least one previous post, I shared how, as a child, I had a tendency to interpret the meaning of things with a strong sense of the literal. I corrected my mother when she suggested that she might “tuck me in.” I assumed teachers were constantly bestowed with gifts by virtue of how many kids answered the roll call with “present.” I thought the phone’s busy signal indicated an inordinate amount of activity in the home being called…

Well, here’s another anecdote. It’s about the Beatles.

Back in the early- to mid-Sixties, our family had a few routines, and one of them occurred on Sunday nights. Martha and I would watch The Wonderful World of Disney as Mom and Dad would hang out in another part of the large basement room, preparing the main course of our Sunday night supper: square hamburgers (pre-made frozen patties) prepped in the electric frying pan and ultimately placed between two slices of white bread. Generally, dinner would be ready in time for The Ed Sullivan Show, which we would watch together, en famille.

The basement in question went through a nice metamorphosis during the summer of 1967, but before that, it was a little skanky. And on either side of the change were the insects and household creatures that are simply indigenous to where you live.

In our basement, the indigenous crop of insects included beetles, and although they showed up regularly, they never felt intrusive. A little less than an inch long and black in color, they always seemed innocent enough. (They certainly never seemed as gross as the cockroaches I would confront years later, when I lived in New York.) Beetles were simply part of rural life, and there was no denying our rural life: on the other side of the backyard’s barbed wire fence was a cow pasture (and the requisite cows).

So I guess it was late January, early February of 1964 when Mom started getting excited. She just couldn’t wait for the upcoming Ed Sullivan Show. “The Beatles!” she would say, enthusiastically. “The Beatles are going to be on Ed Sullivan!”

Just over six years old, I wasn’t up on current events, and because I never asked my mother to SPELL OUT her enthusiasm, I could only draw my own conclusions. So, for that week before the infamous debut of the Beatles in the states, I had a vision. I imagined these incredibly large bugs jumping through hula-hoops. I kid you not. And, by the way, if you were a kid my age watching Sullivan, you will have to admit that an act like that would not be out of the question. Sure, it might have made Topo Gigio and the venerable plate-spinners feel totally upstaged, but, come on, it could have happened!

Of course, and as we all know, it didn’t happen as I had imagined it. No insects jumping through hula-hoops that night, but rather a fabulous foursome of mop-headed boys, and among them, one who was (“sorry girls”) married.

Martha and I quickly identified our bachelors. For me, Paul. For my sister, George. And during the entire telecast, I don’t remember once looking back at the couch where Mom and Dad were sitting. I never once looked to see the joy that must undoubtedly have been spread across my Mom’s face. After all, she was the one who had been so excited about this event.

I do, though, remember so many instances, in the years thereafter, of jumping in the car when Mom would come to pick me up from school. Her smile broad, she’d share, “I just bought the latest Beatles album!”

I also remember working on a school report once. I was probably in 4th grade at the time. At that point, our family’s Beatles collection probably included no fewer than seven albums. As for my report? It was about friction, and a line therein contained the following phrase, “rubber souls help…”

My mother saw the line and was compelled to comment. “Look at that,” she said. “You’ve got two Beatle album titles in a row there!”

Of course, I could have corrected her in that moment. I could have pointed out to my mother that the album Rubber Soul is in the singular, not the plural. I think the thought even crossed my mind at the time. But I decided to dispense with any parsing. I clearly was growing into a different phase of my life.

Thanks to my mother and the band she introduced me to, I was beginning to view things a little less literally. And I would need that new mindset for the grey areas that lay ahead.

… In the liner notes of Flaming Pie, which – in my opinion – is the most Beatles-sounding of any album Paul McCartney has recorded since he became independent, there are comments from the artist regarding each song. I loved reading this note that Paul wrote about the song, The World Tonight: “The lyrics were just gathering thoughts. Like ‘I go back so far, I’m in front of me’ – I don’t know where that came from, but if I’d been writing with John he would have gone ‘OK, leave that one in; we don’t know what it means but we do know what it means.’”

I love that. We don’t but we do. It’s like spelling the name with a Bee or a Bea. Whatever is meant to take the stage will take the stage.

And history will unfold from there.

Welcome Home

More than two years ago, and just a day or two after he showed up at my door, I was curious about the breeding of the cat I would name Lotto.

I had a feeling he was a Maine Coon, and so I googled the name.

Within a hit, I saw a picture of a classic tabby Maine Coon.

Within a hit, I knew that was Lotto’s breed.

The description on fanciers dot com reinforced my conclusion: “Lynx-like tufting on the top of the ears...” (CHECK.) “The tail … at least as long as the torso.” (CHECK.) “ …most distinctive features … eyes … large, round, expressive…” (OH YEAH, BABY.)

Lotto’s personality emerged fairly quickly, and it followed the suggestions of those wise cat fanciers. Here’s more language I found on the site:

While Maine Coons are highly people-oriented cats, they are not overly-dependent. They do not constantly pester you for attention, but prefer to "hang out" with their owners, investigating whatever activity you're involved in and "helping" when they can. They are not, as a general rule, known as "lap cats" … Most Maine Coons will stay close by, probably occupying the chair next to yours instead.

Sure enough. To this day, Lotto hangs around me, and I love him for it. When I wash dishes at the sink, he sits on the counter and watches. When I work at my computer, he sits nearby, on his phone book. (Yes, Lotto has his own phone book. It’s the one I allow him to shred. It spares the others.) As for my lap, it took him about a year to consider its value as a resting place. I think that, because he saw Vesta sitting on it so often, he decided to give it a go. But, prior to that, his trespassings were clearly uncomfortable for him. He responded to my lap as if it were quicksand. He couldn’t wait to move on. To sit above me on the back of the couch. To watch over our world.

Yes, the fanciers have it right in most cases, but I’ve also realized – from reading the website’s descriptions – that Lotto is an exception.

According to the site’s language, Maine Coons “are not as vertically-oriented as some other breeds, preferring to chase objects on the ground and grasping them in their large paws.”

I beg to differ. Yes, Lotto’s paws are large, but the dude can catch, and he enjoys our games most when he’s positioned on the bed. From there, he’ll reach for the heavens.

In the bedroom, I stand in the open area and throw toys. From the bed, which is probably more than three feet off the ground, Lotto catches.

But I should be clear: I have not taught Lotto how to catch.

On the contrary, he has taught me how to throw.

… When I reviewed the website’s language on the Maine Coon’s growth potential, I was very impressed. It stated that most members of the breed “don't achieve their full size until they are three to five years old.” Although Lotto (now 3-and-a-half) has maintained his 11 pounds of body weight for a full two years, his coat has fooled me. Every month, something changes, and he looks bigger. Several weeks ago, when he was walking out of the room, I looked in amazement. “When the hell did you get jodhpurs?” I asked him.

But mostly, Lotto isn’t walking out of the room.

Mostly, Lotto is in the room with me.

… This past Monday night, I returned from 10 days on the East Coast, where I visited my mom, a few cousins, and some childhood friends.

I had a great time, but I also was happy to be home.

Happy to see my two cats.

And within an hour of my having parked my suitcase in the bedroom, Lotto joined me for a ritual he first introduced about a month into our cohabitation. Not two seconds after I sat on the toilet to pee, Lotto jumped in the tub and proceeded to pee over the drain.

It’s something we do together.

And it was totally his idea.

… There are all kinds of ways to make one feel welcomed home.

Lotto comes up with the best of them.

Monday Reruns: WORK, Dammit!

(original post-date: October 13, 2010)

Several months ago, through the disputable wonder that is Facebook, I reconnected with an old friend. And the timing was fortuitous. As it happened, she was only weeks away from traveling to the L.A. area to see her Dad. So, we made plans to get together.

On the day of our scheduled reunion, I found myself cleaning my apartment in anticipation of catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years. While reloading the Swiffer Duster, I thought about priming the CD player for a song that was part of our adolescent experience back in the mid-70s. But then I got sidetracked by the vacuum cleaner…

Later, after her arrival – which found us jumping up and down outside my apartment building as we squealed and hugged and squealed some more – we were settled on my living room couch in rapid-fire catch-up mode. On the one hand, it seemed as if we had been talking together only yesterday. On the other hand, we each had three decades worth of personal history to share.

At a certain point, I remembered the idea of providing a soundtrack from our youth.

“Hold on!” I said, interrupting our conversation. “I gotta find a CD.”

I then ran to my bedroom to retrieve the disc, and I quickly returned to set it up in the living room player.

My sound system, though, would not be cooperative. Sure, it would make busy moves, and it would click to convey that busy-ness, but no song was delivered as a result of its efforts.

I tried a few maneuvers that, in the past, had helped to kick the CD player into submission.

And then… I simply took a few steps back, looked at the machine intently, and yelled, “WORK, Dammit!”

Immediately, we heard the tender opening notes of Harry Chapin’s Taxi.

“I’ve got it on voice command,” I told my friend, smiling smartly.

If only.

(Voice command, my ass.)

The fact of the matter is this: I have a love/hate relationship with anything that involves a cord.

The love comes from what I get from the technology: music; netflix; the opportunity to share my writing in cyberspace; quick communication with my clients; and so on. The hate comes from the possibility that, at any moment, something could go wrong with that technology, and I feel completely powerless in those moments of malfunction.

More than two weeks ago, I bought an external hard drive, and then… I let it sit on the table for 10 days. I dreaded opening the box and going through the procedure of setting it up. Why? Because I might confront a problem.

(I’m still hoping to meet and fall in love with an IT Guy, but until that happens, I’m screwed.)

Finally, the other night, I got bold and took on the project of setting up the external hard drive. And as I was going through the install procedure (and, for the most part, it wasn’t difficult), I had an AHA! moment regarding technology and me. It is this: I don’t CARE how it works! Technology is simply not something I want to LEARN.

And that is very much the problem.

I am absolutely learning-oriented, and technology flies directly into the face of my modus operandi.

If I don’t care, then I’m not interested.

And if there is not a learning opportunity (that I care about – from my gut), then I’m definitely not going to stick around for all the hairy details.

Period.

End of discussion.

I don’t care what’s making the damn computer and all its software work. I don’t care if it’s a microchip or a fucking hamster on a treadmill. I don’t know megas from gigas, and I don’t even want to hear about them. You can just take that chatter to another Gates.

And speaking of names… the other night, after I plugged in the external hard drive and had moved on to the screen that allowed me to backup (but not to the 60s, unfortunately), the window indicated that the computer from which the hard drive was retrieving files was KATIENEW.

Seeing that title really jarred me for a minute. I swear, I have no idea where it got my name. (I know I didn’t introduce myself!)

But… maybe I shouldn’t complain.

It could have said KATIEOLD.

... I recently was sent an hysterical YouTube video that speaks to my frame of mind. It's about a Medieval Helpdesk, and the subtitles are therefore in English.

I just tried to load the YouTube here, and I am growing increasingly impatient. So, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQHX-SjgQvQ&feature=channel

... I'm over it. I'm just.. over it!

The Help: Memories from my Upbringing in Virginia

The movie has been out for a while, so I suspect that if you had intended to see The Help, you have done so. I saw it the first weekend of its release, and I was very moved by it. Among other things, I appreciated its depiction of the variety of relationships between whites and blacks during that era. As some of those scenes conveyed, the racist laws and customs of that time were much more cruel and inhumane than many of the white individuals living within that societal culture. With that in mind, I want to share some memories from my childhood…

On many occasions, we’d go to Grandma’s for “Sunday Dinner.”

In our corner of the Shenandoah Valley and in the world my father’s family occupied, Sunday Dinner took place at 1:00 in the afternoon, and turkey was always the main course.

Gathered around Grandma’s dining table, which was dressed in the finest linen and appointed with the best sterling, we’d partake of the meal that was delivered, in courses, by Hurley, Grandma’s cook.

When something was needed between courses, Grandma would ring the silver bell that was just north of her teaspoon. In response to that ring, Hurley would enter the room to receive her request.

Hurley would serve us throughout the meal, and – as a child – I never had a sense of our family collectively hurting Hurley.

In fact, Hurley always felt like family.

… My grandfather, who died 6-7 years before these memories, had founded a prep school in the small Virginia town where we all lived. And that prep school revealed – through its staffing – some southern ways. I didn’t even notice those “ways” until I was 14, which is when I entered the school as a sophomore.

It was a boarding school and so – even though my parents were less than 10 miles away – I boarded there. And so, every morning, my wake-up call came from George.

Every morning, one hundred plus of us adolescent girls would zombie our way down to the dining hall.

Every morning, George was there to make us smile and laugh.

George was awesome.

Into my third and final year at Fairfax, I realized his magic: Within one week of a fall semester, he knew every new girl’s name. Every girl. And he loved the opportunities he had, as Head Waiter, to wake us out of our somnambulant states and get us smiling.

Yes, we were all white, he was black, and something in that picture was terribly wrong, BUT: George loved his job, and we loved George.

… I remember the end of junior year, when my dear friend Barb needed to find a place to store her large reclining chair so that she’d have it for her senior room. There was no logical place to leave it, so she lent it to George for the summer. When we returned for senior year, George told Barb how much he had enjoyed that chair. He loved sitting in the breezeway, just outside the kitchen. Rocking back and forth, enjoying the down time before the fall semester would begin.

Senior year, George spoke of that chair often. And in doing so, his sense of home was apparent.

… The school had been taking losses for years, and so, just at the beginning of the second semester of my senior year, the announcement was made. Fairfax would close with the Class of 1975.

As a member of that class, I felt like a “meanie.” (I remember sharing that very word with a riding instructor, as we were ambling our horses through the woods that were part of the school’s property.) I mean, I already was planning to leave, so what would I care? But… there were others. Underclassmen… Girls who expected to reach their senior years at Fairfax, just as I had.

I wasn’t particularly thinking of the faculty and staff, but they also were looking at an unknown future.

... Graduation came and went. Tears were shed. Then, each of us walked away with our memories and our yearbooks.

Along with just about everyone else, I had asked George to sign my yearbook. And, as he did with others, he proudly pulled out his stamp, drew ink from an ink pad, and squarely filled the space below his picture in the faculty/staff section.

“George E. Stewart,” his stamp said. “Head Waiter.” He also signed his name, just above the stamped section.

George smiled and chatted happily as he met our requests for his autograph.

I don’t know if anyone asked George what was next for him. I know I didn’t. And if others also didn’t, it’s probably because we were more worried about ourselves than we were about him. And that’s not about color, either. Adolescent girls are simply and always more worried about themselves than they are about anyone – or anything – else.

I wish, though, that I could turn back time and find out what George was thinking. I wish someone would have pursued his inner thoughts. But I guess no one did. And later, that summer, George put a bullet through his head.

Monday Reruns: Don't Pity My Wardrobe

(original post-date: October 6, 2010)

Yesterday, one half of my “good” pair of flip-flops broke in an irreparable way, and this incident came on the heels of a broken sandal occurrence as I was rushing to my car on Sunday (late for lunch). I realize that for many women, the opportunity to replace a few pairs of shoes is exciting. In fact, many women would probably take this opportunity and parlay it into a spree in which they come home with more than a few new pairs of footwear.

Not me.

I consider it an inconvenience. I really don’t want to have to buy any new shoes. But: I need the basic starter set, and so I’ll have to make a trip to the cheap shoe warehouse in the next couple of days. Oh well. At least the discount warehouse is in my ‘hood…

No denying it: I am the antithesis of Imelda Marcos.

But it doesn’t stop there. I’m not really much of a clothes horse, either. I can “fix up nice” when doing so is required, but comfort is my preference. I also don’t set aside funds for clothes. It just never occurs to me.

Besides, you don’t have to pay top dollar if you’re willing to go with pre-owned.

Four or five years ago, after a dental appointment, I approached the receptionist’s desk to get the financial verdict. Kim, who was ringing up my sale (as it were) immediately complimented the shirt I was wearing. She clearly liked the design, and she noted particularly that it was somewhat unusual – or at least hard to come by.

“You don’t see that a lot,” she said. “… the short sleeves with the v-neck and the collar.”

I smiled in response to her comment. “Yeah,” I said, enthusiastically. “Isn’t this a nice shirt? I think I got it on the dollar rack at the thrift store.”

Pause…

Oh dear…

The look on Kim’s face…

Not at all what I was expecting.

There was sadness in that look.

Pity.

I mean, I think in that moment, she felt really sorry for me.

Poor girl, her look said, poor girl having to buy her clothes at the thrift store.

And here's my take on that whole transaction: Poor Kim.

Because what she didn't get was this: when I shared where I got my shirt? I wasn't looking to elicit pity. I was bragging!

Seriously. I think it’s great that I can pay a dollar for a shirt that elicits compliments.

…Reminds me of an evening in New York, many moons ago. I was walking to the workshop of the theatre group I had joined, and I was wearing an extremely faux fake leopard-skin jacket. (That’s right, I typed “faux fake.” I would have typed “fake fake” but Microsoft doesn’t like it when I do things like that.) Anyway, I loved this jacket. It made absolutely no attempt to look like the real thing. It just looked very hip, particularly in Manhattan in the 80s.

I had bought it for seven dollars at a thrift shop in Virginia, and it was actually two jackets in one, the reverse side being sheepskin (and every bit as fake as the leopard side). But although it was ostensibly reversible, there was no experiencing the sheepskin look. No way, with that thick fabric. Reversing the sleeves would have taken a team of Olympic medalists from the tug-o-war games. Doesn’t matter, though -- the leopard-skin side was the one to wear.

The jacket had a nice cut, too. It was relatively long, with a straight line. And the shoulders appeared padded (though that was probably just a result of the thick fabric). The sleeves were long enough to be cuffed, thereby featuring about five inches of fake sheepskin at the end of each leopard-skinned arm. I always felt like Veronica Lodge when I wore that jacket. (She’s the one in the Archie comics, in case I just went over your head.)

So back to that night I’m remembering. I’m on West 50-something, near Eighth or Ninth Avenue, and this was when the area was called Hell’s Kitchen. (I don’t know what its name is now, but I’m guessing all the kitchens are well-appointed and probably worth six figures.) Anyway, I’m walking on the sidewalk, and I pass a young man who’s standing closer to the parked cars.

He looks me over. He nods. “Twenty dollars,” he says, attempting a seductive tone.

Dude! I wanna say, the jacket was only seven!

But I’m glad I didn’t respond as such.

Like the gal at my dentist’s office, he might have felt sorry for me.

And when I’m feeling like Veronica Lodge, well… I just don’t need anyone’s pity!

You and Me Both

Very early in my New York waitressing years, I was standing on the subway platform, waiting for the Broadway line to pick me up from the Fulton Street stop. I had just worked a Wall Street lunch shift, and I had made maybe $25. I was a year out of college and not particularly happy.

Although it wasn’t rush hour, I was waiting for the train at the very back end of the platform – all the more likely therefore to get a seat when the Local arrived.

But that location also was desolate, and because this was the early ‘80’s, that desolate status presented a risk.

A guy in dark glasses approached me, and he approached me close.

His face probably less than 12 inches from my own, he said (quietly), “When that train comes, I’m going to push you in the tracks.”

I didn’t take a moment, but simply responded. And I responded with absolute honesty: “Oh please don’t do that,” I said (also quietly and with no inflection). “I’ve had a very bad day.”

He smiled, touched me on the shoulder, and said, with an empathy that felt genuine, “You take care, now.”

And then he walked away.

… About eight years ago, an L.A. friend of mine, who is a communications professor and was teaching an online course, needed some teaching assistants. I was among the four she recruited. We T.A.’s didn’t have to read the material (unless we wanted to). We just had to have enough smarts to “get it,” and we needed to be able to grade papers.

It was a fascinating project, and from the students’ references to key passages from books on their syllabus, I realized that I had – intuitively – already been on top of some things in the communications department. Specifically: the results you want won’t come from blaming another party. They’ll come from connecting with that party.

As I reviewed the students’ papers, I remembered the guy on the subway platform. I also remembered two other moments from my early adulthood in New York.

Moment One: As per my being one of the many on-call waitresses of Manhattan’s premiere burger-slinging chain, I was working a cocktail shift in midtown. I remember running around, keeping track of my tables and their orders as best I could. I’d just collected on a check from two people who had had a few drinks. Next to their table, three younger people were thirty minutes or so into their happy hour. I brought the young group another round, and then I turned to bus the table that the couple had just abandoned.

I immediately noticed there was no money on the table. I had seen the tip a few moments ago, but now, it was gone.

I had little doubt that the younger trio, sitting within arm’s length of the abandoned table, had stolen the dollar-fifty. I also knew that confronting them with my suspicion wouldn’t pay. And so I began an improvisation.

“Damnit,” I said, as I picked up the dirty glasses of the departed couple.

“Damnit!” I said again, turning to look at the trio.

“You know,” I confided to them in a crestfallen tone. “I barely make ends meet. And the two people sitting here just left without tipping me! I don’t even know what to say. It’s just not fair.”

I shook my head as I wiped the top of the abandoned table. Then, I walked away slowly, dirty glasses in tow.

A few minutes later, I returned to the area of intrigue, where the trio’s energy was particularly happy.

“We found your tip!” they said, their enthusiastic kindness undoubtedly driven by guilt. “It was under the napkin container!”

“It was?” I said, playing along. “Oh wow, that’s such a relief. Thank you so much.”

I scooped up the money and walked away, allowing all of us to feel good about ourselves.

Moment Two: Around the same time, my roommate – who had better resources than I – had hired a team of guys to refloor the living room of our two-bedroom apartment. So, there they were during the day – the team of unknown guys. Working on our apartment while my roommate and I were off at our jobs.

I generally got home from my waitressing shift at about 4:00 in the afternoon, and as was my routine back then, changing my clothes was immediately followed by opening the top drawer of my dresser. That’s where I kept my pot.

But on one particular afternoon, there was no little baggie in the drawer.

And I knew.

I knew the guys who were dealing with the living room floor had found my stash and had taken it.

I also knew that accusing them would not result in anything helpful to me.

Within a few seconds of intuitive reasoning, I began my act.

“Damnit,” I said from my bedroom, loud enough for them to hear.

“Damnit,” I said again. “I’m such a ditz! Why do I always misplace my pot?

“I’m so pissed right now,” I added, even more loudly (and for effect). “All I want is a joint and I can’t find my pot! … I’m just such a loser.”

I then emerged from my bedroom, took the short walk down the hallway, and entered the living room.

“Guys?” I said, a slight whine in my voice, “Have any of you seen a bag of pot?”

They shrugged their shoulders as I stomped back to my bedroom, continuing to berate my “loser self.”

Just a minute or two later, a voice came from the living room.

“Lady?”

“Yes?” I responded, curiously working my way down the hall.

“We found your pot.”

“Really?” I said, entering the living room.

“Yes,” the spokesman replied, “It was tucked behind these books in the bookshelf.”

I shook my head as if to acknowledge my own disoriented filing system. “So glad you found it,” I said, as he handed me the baggie. “I’m such a ditz!”

Yup.

I’m a ditz.

I’m a ditz that knows she’s not the only one on the planet who’s having a bad day...

You and me both, kiddo.

You and me both.