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Stress Busters

My family and friends think I'm crazy. I have too many pets - so my family says, and so my friends hint. Wouldn't my life be less complicated, my house cleaner, my car smell nicer, my wallet fatter, my stress level reduced, if only I gave up my animals?

To tell the truth, the answer to all the above questions, save one, is yes. However, the one that isn't true is why I have them in the first place. Far from causing stress (outside of the occasional bad dog/naughty kitty moment), my animals bring me a sense of calm. I look forward to their smiling faces when I get home. I know that when I'm home, five living, breathing creatures adore me, worship the ground I walk on, and completely depend on me for their well being. No one in this group is going to grow up and move out. No one in this group is going to toss me a sarcastic comment when they're grumpy. In fact, no one in this group is ever grumpy!

If I have to replace my dogs' daily romp with a dentist's appointment, they don't even mention it. If I forget to clean the litterboxes, my cats don't complain. If I have to cry, they vie for my personal space in a frantic competition to be the one who makes me all better. Even my goldfishes have sweet personalities, lining up and wriggling in perfect sync like tiny, aquatic Rockettes, along the edge of the tank when I walk by. (Yes, I know it's the food stimulus thing, but it's cute nonetheless.)

People aren't really capable of having the unconditional quality that pets do. Really. There are always emotions involved with any human transaction. Animals don't have emotions, really -- they have devotion. There's a big difference.

I have to say that at least one of my pets makes me laugh at least once a day. All five mammals are such incredible goofballs. Witness thus:

Scarlet (aka Mr Smooth): One cool cat, he prefers Pinot Grigio. He really thinks no one can see him here. Check out the glowing eyes! Classic!

Blue (aka Blue-bob Fluffypants): Blue is devoted to my youngest son and insists on following him everywhere - a born babysitter. Blue is like a goofy pre-adolescent, still tripping over his own big feet and still growing into his ears. I love this shot. Look at that re-donk-ulous smile!

Ash (aka Bogart, Ash-bob Fattypants): Smaller than Blue, Ash makes up for it by Bogarting everything I give them - bones, toys, treats, affection. She is a champion ankle nipper when it comes to Blue. Here she is after elbowing her way past Blue - "Pick me! Oh! Pick me!!"

Pele (aka Mr. Belly): Scarlet's brother, the runt of the litter no less. He was skinny and tiny until neutered - when he proceeded to gain 10 lbs. I've GOT to stop free-feeding this monster.

Frank Sinatra (aka Old Blue Eyes): Very vocal, he "sings" whenever you touch him. The "miaow" lasts as long as your touch does. My older son likes to "play" him like a piano. It's hilarious. Since we brought him home at the age of 8 weeks, he has stubbornly insisted that Pele is his "mom" then...:

...and now:

What happens when you watch "Dog Training with the Monks of Skete" with your dogs in the same room:

I'm not the type to prefer animals to humans. I don't consider my pets to be my children. I have kids, thanks. And I'm way too verbal and philosophical not to enjoy people. But I can't deny that my animals mean a lot to me. They love me just so, without any suggestions on how to improve myself. They don't care if I'm fat, or haven't showered, or late with my electric bill. They agree with my choice of DVD. They love my music. Even when they manage to screw up, I know that in their li'l fuzzy brains, they're going nuts trying to figure out exactly what it is I want them to do. Get rid of mine? How could anyone even suggest it?

THIS JUST IN: In loving memory of faithful reader Dave's precious kitty Feisty I post this adorable photo:

Posted by Bullyland at 03:12 PM | Comments (8)

There Are More Songs To Sing

"Pls call me."

This was the subject line of an email my mum sent me the other day. There was no content. So I called her, not knowing what she wanted, but not suspecting anything was amiss.

"You rang?" I asked, knowing that she didn't really "ring," but it's all the same. "Yes," she said. "Um, I went to Boston with your brother today. They've found another tumor."

The words fell flat over the phone, her voice was deceptively empty of invocation. I was silent. The words pinged inside my mind for a few seconds, trying to find solid thought to cling to. Images started flicking through my mind's eye - the photo of my mom and he as a preschooler with their matching mushroom haircuts; my dad holding him in the yard at age 1 because he was afraid of the grass; streaking around our lawn in Guam, 4 years old, naked and shouting "Naaaaaaked Maaan!" while we tried to catch him. I knew it would happen, I knew it wouldn't happen. The past year had gone by with so much promise, I had been lulled from hoping into believing he would be one of the chosen, miraculous few who recover from brain cancer.

When my brother was first diagnosed with his tumor around this same time last year, it was both a tragedy and an answer. His personality had changed so much. He was unpredictable, subject to emotionally charged outbursts, often angry and frustrated, and simply not the boy I grew up with, not the boy my parents had raised. This change had come about over several years and so it wasn't like some blinking neon light over his head, complete with arrows pointing downward, "SOMETHING'S NOT RIGHT." To know that his erratic behavior had an outside cause, beyond his control, was important - but then, the outside cause was a tumor the size of a grapefruit. We'd rather have him cranky, thank you very much. But the choice wasn't ours.

The months of May and June went by in a whirl of hospitals, doctors, commutes to Boston and tears. We knew we could lose him any time. Once the immediate threat was past - the tumor removed via surgery - our emotions seemed to stabilize. When his 30th birthday rolled around in August, we were still edgy - but not on edge. His chemo and radiation had gone well. There was no growth. In November, my family held hands at our Thanksgiving table and my brother prayed to God, thanking Him for this. I saw him squeeze his wife's hand, and in turn she squeezed their baby's hand. I knew she was thinking what we were all thinking, that miracles can happen and that maybe this was one of them.

And now.

I still haven't come to complete terms with the news. I haven't spent any time alone with my brother yet, so I don't know how he's dealing with this. He has gone through so much in the past year, getting poked at, cut open, stitched together, sick to his stomach, weak, bald. He actually had to have brain surgery while awake, and the pain, he said, was unspeakable. Through it all he has renewed his faith in God, kept us laughing, and I haven't yet heard him complain about any of the shit he's had to endure. His faith, sense of humor, and bravery are unbelievable - I can't believe how brave he is. I don't know if I would have the fight in me, but he sure does.

It's been kind of a joke in my family about me and my brother. When he was born, I was seven and the baby of the family. I had my nose out of joint, according to Mom, since the day he came home. And I know I did. I would get insanely jealous when he touched my stuffed animals. I would pout, hiding under the bed, while my Dad bounced my baby brother on his knees. Daddy used to coddle me, now he was drawing "twucks" for the baby. Ironically, I am responsible for saving his life two times when we were children. Once, he was toddling off a cliff at a nature hike lookout, and I was the first one who saw him running for the edge. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back from literally, a fall off of the cliff. Another time, he was two or three and we were swimming in a pond with a ton of other kids. We were in very shallow water, but he managed to fall over even so. I was snorkling and felt something paddling against my feet and legs - turned around, annoyed - and saw in the murky brown water my brother struggling underneath. I pulled him out and smacked his back. He was wet and crying, but he was alive.

We always had each other's backs, too. I knew firsthand how hard it is to be the new kid, and if any brat tried to tease or threaten my little brother, I promised a butt whacking to remember. I recall him sticking up for me, he 9 and me 16, when we were both new at school. Some kids on our communal school bus started whispering and then talking loudly about my obvious pregnancy. "Shut up!" he shouted, not knowing them, being a new kid, not caring about the fallout. "She's my sister, and it's none of your business!" I remember my Mom making him take me as an escort to a Pearl Jam concert, presumably to shield him from the evils of rock and roll, not knowing that we bonded over a skinny joint after the show, giggling like idiots for the rest of the night.

Maybe this is why I am having a hard time accepting that this is the truth - that the tumor is back and I can't reach into a pond or for the back of his t-shirt this time. There are more songs to sing, right? He's not going anywhere. I tell myself this. My new mantra. There are more songs to sing.

My Dad called me this morning, relaying a story about my brother getting a special note from his doctor. After he was diagnosed, my brother wanted to take his wife somewhere exotic, Bermuda maybe, if they could afford it. They found that the passport process can take up to three months. The doctor wrote a note stating that he has a terminal illness, that his life expectancy is within the year, and that the passport process should be expedited. This story made me weep, but I know my brother will find a joke about using this "pass." He is a wonder. He is my little brother, and a super hero.

I believe in miracles, in last minute calls of reprieve; I believe that faith can move mountains. I believe he's going to see his 31st birthday, and Christmas, and there are more songs left to sing. He has beaten so many odds in his life that one more would be par for the course. God, if you are listening, this would be a really great time to pull off another one.

One Little Song

Gotta be a song left to sing
Cause everybody can't have thought of everything
One little song that aint been sung
One little rag that aint been wrung out completely yet
Got a little left
- gillian welch "soul journey"

Posted by Bullyland at 10:47 AM | Comments (4)

Block This

I recently signed up for a two week trial with Blockbuster online rental service. It's almost the same as Netflix, and I've never had either. The only difference between Blockbuster and Netflix is that Blockbuster also emails you weekly free in-store rental coupons. It's about $20 (with tax) a month and you get three DVDs at a time, as many as you can handle. You watch, you send it back, they send you a new one, from a "queue" of DVDs you select online. Of course, I'm probably the last person left on the planet to learn the details of online rentals.

I have to admit I'm not much of a movie person. I rarely, rarely rent DVDs. Mostly, my son's dad lends me movies he's rented as long as I take them back on time. Sometimes, visits with friends will produce a DVD or two. My regular viewing habits are pretty austere - CSI a couple of times a week and the news nightly. So, I was hesitant to spend twenty whole bucks a month - or in other words, one more bill for me to remember to pay. But a girl at work had me convinced, going on and on about how much she loves the service, and so I signed up for the two week free trial.

I feel like I've entered into a whole new world. I've been absolutely gorging on movies. Some for me, a few for the kid, and every evening I'm watching a DVD instead of regular television programming. This is insanely fun. Blockbuster has almost every Fellini flick made - try and find those in your Movie Galleries. I mean, how many times can I watch Breakfast at Tiffany's - the typical "classic movie" at video stores? I've got La Strada, La Dolce Vita and about four other Fellinis lined up in my "queue." (I feel strangely compelled to put that word in quotes.) There are almost endless possibilities for a vintage movie fan. I've forgotten how much I love old movies. I rented the old "Haunting" along with the new "Haunting," and just so I could compare (the old one beats it by a mile). I wouldn't have ever done that before; I had to be picky (not that any video store even carried the old "Haunting") as I only could afford a couple at a time.

I've also got documentaries in my "queue" (Orwell Rolls in his Grave, Dig), newer movies that I never did see (Corpse Bride, Saw), and every horror movie Cinemallory ever recommended that I haven't already seen.

My point is, since I've become addicted to DVDs, I haven't watched the news one single night. I have no idea what's going on in the world, politically or otherwise. I've been getting my weather forecast the old fashioned way - by looking out the window. It's contagious. I find that this news "block" has extended into my other habits as well - I haven't bought a newspaper in over a week nor have I seriously perused the online edition of the Herald or any other newspaper (sorry, staff). I think this is a subconscious thing, though. Perhaps my brain was so tired of being upset over current events, so tired from how I get over issues (strung out and hypermanic), it enforced its own forbearance from any source.

Visiting the seacoastconnects.com forums, I find myself in semi to total ignorance over certain current events that have others up in arms and in heated debate. I even forgot to read Chris Elliot's column this week. (Thanks to the forum poster who brought it up! I would have kicked myself if I missed out on hearing him sing his version of the Mexican American National Anthem.)

As with most things in my life this new rage may take its course and then dissipate. It is a rare hobby that sticks with me. I tend to go overboard with my hobbies, then suddenly just get sick of them and quit. About the only trivial pursuits that have ever really stuck with me are gardening, books, and writing. So, this movie thing may be just a phase. When I finally do have to fork over that $20 a month, I will more than likely suddenly develop a renewed love for painting.

Until then, however, I'll be brushing up on my Italian with Fellini, blissfully unaware of the latest news.

Posted by Bullyland at 03:42 PM | Comments (9)

Bipolar Luck?

I have had rollercoaster karma lately. I've been struck with the strangest bad luck/good luck situations. I truly believe in karma, or more simply, what goes around comes around. When my luck turns bad, I examine my thoughts and actions to see what I am doing to bring it upon myself. But the up-and-down luck I'm having lately has me completely boondoggled - is my fortune aligning itself with the chemical imbalance in my brain? The weirdest thing is, everything always seems to happen on a Friday. I'll illustrate with these case histories:

Case #1: I lost my wallet on a Friday afternoon. I had absolutely no cash or access to get any and was almost out of gas. I assumed it stolen, as I lost it in a store parking lot, and no one ever turned it in to the store. I was in a panic and called my son's father to ask if he could lend me some money for daycare. He just happened to have a couple hundred dollars that he could lend me to pay daycare and get through the weekend (what a doll!). I spent the afternoon on the phone cancelling my debit/credit cards, my checks, etc. Three days later the Newington police find it and nothing is missing. Bad luck - lost wallet; good luck - ex lends me money; bad luck - cancelled all my cards/checks and had to start over; good luck - found wallet.

Case #2: Two of my car windows - automatic - rolled down and refused to come back up again. I mean, nothing - no click, no whirr, everything indicated a wire unhooked or a switch broken. It was Friday night, and no chance of getting it fixed until Monday. I checked and rechecked the button, wiggled the door panel, fiddled incessantly and finally gave up - it was toast. I bought plastic sheeting and waterproof tape, since the weatherman predicted rain Saturday night, and spent two hours painstakingly using the hairdryer to shrink the plastic tight so I wouldn't have to have the plastic loudly bleating near my ear. (Of course it never rained). This morning - Monday - out of habit I pushed the buttons and voila - they both are mysteriously working again. WOT! I gleefully rip off the plastic - I hate the feeling of being vacuum sealed into my car - but the tape I bought worked so well ("even applies under water!" was the pitch) left behind a thick, gray, impossibly sticky residue. It won't come off! Eeew. Bad luck - windows broken; good luck - windows working; bad luck - gooey residue producing a ghetto look for my car.

Case #3: I found a much needed mattress and box spring for free on freecycle.org. I brought it home on a Friday after work and hauled them both upstairs by myself, twisting my ankle in the process - OUCH! As the evening progressed, so did the pain and I was sure I'd sprained it. The next morning I woke up and the pain was almost gone - yay! Then I realized I'd accidentally given away the adjustable bed frame I needed for the new set along with the old mattress set I was replacing. DOH! Good luck - finding free mattress; bad luck - twisting ankle; good luck - ankle not sprained; bad luck - no frame for mattress.

Anyway, these are just a few examples of many bad luck/good luck situations I've found myself in lately. I'm not really complaining. I'm just scratching my head and thinking, "what the heck?"

Posted by Bullyland at 01:28 PM | Comments (3)

Let Them Eat Cake

"Words fall upon the facts like soft snow, blurring the outline and covering all the details."
George Orwell, Politics and the English Language

I've been reading Orwell's 1984 again. It’s one of those books that you may only read once but some essence of it will forever stay in your consciousness. I read it as a child, too, so the exaggerated circumstances of Orwell’s 1984 society were even more impressionable. All through my life after reading it, like any truly great work, I would bring up bits of it in my memory to compare with some event I witnessed or heard about. 1984 came to mind when I read an interview our vice president had given where he discussed the "situation" in Iraq. The way he phrased his statements and the dismissive tone he phrased them in were to me, chilling. It was as if he was only saying what we wanted to hear, what would keep us at bay for a few more months. Feeding us cake. All the things that really need to be spoken of were folded into the dough of things that he wanted to speak of. It was so bizarre how he smoothly paved over the death toll as a sidenote, ignored the obvious question marks - it was like a parody. I kept expecting the interview to end with, “Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night!!” I thought to myself, who on this planet is still buying this crap?

I don't believe the US is headed for the cataclysmic communist state that Orwell created in his book. However, something made me want to read it again after reading Mr Cheney’s interview. When I came upon the old 1984 Party slogan, "War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength," I got the willies. I was reading the part where Syme is discussing the latest Newspeak dictionary, how it was more than inventing new words, it was more importantly, the destruction of "unnecessary" words. No more adjectives or antonyms, nothing that would make the brain work "extra" to process. Everything will be destroyed and rewritten (i.e., Chaucer, Shakespeare, even newspapers - and thus, history). How in the end of it all, the goal would be to annihilate conscious thought processes or original thought and eventually any effort to protest.

Though exaggerated and extreme, what Orwell was writing about wasn't so different than the exaggerated and extreme spin put on Iraq by our nation’s leaders that leaves us either complacent or confused and overwhelmed to the point of tuning out. Our president and vice president, et al, believe that they have us covered. They are so rarely contradicted to their faces that they don't even squirm anymore when they are. They have a ready supply of candy coating to wrap around the real answers and they are certain the American public will be distracted with it. (I believe President Bush at times doesn't even realize he's being contradicted or put on the spot, so convinced is he of his powers of mass mind control.) Ewuggabuggashivva!!

We simply can’t stop Dick Cheney or George W. Bush or Karl Rove from hiring the best spin doctors and presenting us with cake, but we don’t have to eat it. We still live in a free nation, despite subversive attempts to squelch free thought and speech among the less educated or the poor and middle classes, and attempts to corral the more educated or wealthy into political circles.

We can open our minds to different ways of thinking; we don’t have to accept spoon feedings of loose facts and persuasive lies simply because they are chocolate-frosted and fresh from the oven. We can read, write, use our brains; push our limits. We can be unafraid to think contrary thoughts, or to voice them - and I am seeing evidence all the time that we are.

So why are they still serving it up?

"Poets, priests and politicians
Have words to thank for their positions
Words that scream for your submission
And no-one's jamming their transmission
And when their eloquence escapes you
Their logic ties you up and rapes you

De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you"
-the Police, da do do do

Posted by Bullyland at 10:44 AM | Comments (7)

Let's (Not) Roll....United 93

Anyone go see United 93 this weekend? Despite so many with the opinion of "I'm not ready" the film still drew approximately 1,450,000 moviegoers.*

My initial reaction to the movie was, "I don't know if I could sit through that." I had an immediate bad feeling in my gut about anyone making a movie from this event, kind of the same feeling I had when I first saw Robert DeNiro's American Express ad. Should money ever be profited by a person or entity from the story of this tragic day? I read up on the movie, however and it did seem that the director had good intentions to his credit. It was reported that he received permission from all the families of passengers of United 93. Though I would doubt complete altruism on his part, it made me feel better about the movie's existence. After watching the newscast last night though, I don't think I'll ever be able to stomach a viewing.

I was watching channel 6 (Portland) and the benign anchorwoman was talking about this or that, then left for commercial promising an on-the-street piece featuring people who had just seen United 93. I was interested what these people thought, these people who either nonchalantly or with much emotional prepping decided to actually see the movie that so many others insist they are not ready for. I hung around for the piece.

It wasn't any big deal, they interviewed 3 or 4 people and featured just a sentence or two from each. Most people just said predictable things such as, "It was unbelievable, you just gripped your seat, blah blah." One said something like, "It was hard to watch, but it didn't have the effect that the 'original' did."

After the segment, the anchorwoman segued into commercial thus: She lowered her eyes and lost her smile for a nanosecond in what must be, for a news anchor, a heavily ingrained posture when covering a major tragedy. She then looked up, and with bright eyes and even brighter smile, chirped, "United 93 came in second place at the box office, earning nearly twelve million dollars its first weekend. When we come back, we'll have our box office report!"

Jesus, I thought I would be sick. Profit will always be the bottom line in Hollywood, no matter what. No matter how well made, no matter how sensitive to the victims it might be, even no matter how much the victims' famlies wished this movie to be made, I wish it hadn't been. But maybe that's just me.

*rottentomatoes.com info figured at average $8.00 ticket.

Posted by Bullyland at 09:25 AM | Comments (2)