It amazes me how alike and yet how different my monkeys are. They are both undeniably my daughters in so very many ways. Personality-wise, there is almost nothing of their father in them. Trust me, that’s not a bad thing.

Both are strong and feisty in their own right. Lilest is my rebel, bold and proud of who she is and will defend herself and her sister in less than a heartbeat. Eldest monkey is equally proud of who she is, will womp an army if they even look at her sister cross-eyed, but will not stand up for herself. Both willing to bend, to change, to break for no one. Yet one remains silent when faced with someone who feels it is okay to diminish her feelings or bully her. She will merely stand silent and take it. I used to think she had inherited the trait from me. I will take a lot of shit from people before I finally say I’ve had enough and snap. Mess with someone I love though and it’s on like Donkey Kong. And over before you know it.

Yesterday, I realized I was wrong.

Eldest came home from school Monday and told me one of her classmates (I’m gonna refer to him as Eddie, cuz I swear he’s the bastard son of Eddie Haskel) pushed her at recess. Huge step for her. I asked to her tell me what happened. Turns out Eddie kept telling her to kiss another male classmate (Eldest’s BFF actually) and she refused to. So the little shit pushed her. Each time she said no to giving BFF a smooch, Eddie would push her down. When I asked her what she did, she replied “I just kept getting up.” When I asked her why she didn’t go get one of the teachers at recess, she said she didn’t want to be a “tattle tale.” Grrr… the guidance counselor had talked to them last week about “tattle tales.” One of the guidelines to when you should tell was only if someone was getting hurt. In Eldest’s head, she wasn’t physically hurt from the push, therefore she shouldn’t tell. Good job guidance counselor.

So we had a chat. I explained right off the bat that NO ONE has the right to hurt or to push her. That just because the push wasn’t physically hurting her, it still hurt her feelings and her feelings were even more important than her body to some extent. A scraped knee heals quicker sometimes.

We formulated a plan.

First push- she points at him and in the biggest voice she has says “NO! Eddie that is NOT OKAY! You do NOT have the right to push me!” Even if he stops, she tells her teacher what happened.

Second push- she goes to get a teacher.

If he tries to push her or stop her in any way from getting a teacher, I told her to push his ass back. That’s right. This is a point I would end up fighting with her teacher on. My point, bottom line- my children will know that if ANYONE tries to physically restrain them from getting help, they have the RIGHT to physically defend themselves. Period. Cuz one day it may not be lil Eddie. It may be someone bigger and far more dangerous. So, yeah, kick his lil ass monkey.

Tuesday she comes home. And yup, Eddie pushed her again. She stuck her finger out and she stated her case. Then he pushed her again. Then she forgot what number two was. So, we went over it again. I also made it clear that while I wanted her to address this with her teacher and would giver her the opportunity to do so, that I as going to step in if it happened again. On the way to school Wednesday, we went through the steps again. This time at recess she forgot all of them. So, yesterday morning I stepped in.

And then it hit me. It wasn’t that Eldest had inherited this trait from me. She had LEARNED it from me. It was all my fault.

This week there has been a situation going on in my life that has echoed some things that have happened to me in the past. Wednesday night I had made the realization that I was allowing myself to react to them in a similar way as I had and it bothered me. I had made a plan to change that. While writing Eldest’s teacher, the realization beat me over the head that some of her earliest memories of me are what has caused her to be the way she is right now.

While Eldest monkey was only two and a half when I finally got the courage to end my marriage, she was a very smart two and a half. And she remembers it quite clearly. In fact, no one is allowed to use the word stupid around me because of that. You see I say my ex was an asshole of epic proportions. What I have yet to mention is that he was a huge bully and incredibly abusive. One of his favorite things to do was invent new ways to call me stupid. “What did you eat a big fucking bowl of stupid for breakfast?” Despite that fact that I worked full time and did literally everything around the house, “useless bitch” was one of his favorite pet names. He couldn’t even wake up for work on his own, I was his “alarm clock” and he was a mean man in the morning. If he was late, it was my fault. Everything was my fault. I will spare you all the gory details.

He was constantly yelling and screaming at me and in my defensive mode, I kept thinking “don’t fight back.” At the time, in my head, I didn’t want the girls to see us fighting. I thought if I just stood there and took it, it would end quicker. And it chipped away at me day by day. Little by little I began to lose who I was. Something I’d swore I’d never do. Then one day Eldest came into the kitchen and says “Mommy, what’s that noise?” I say “It’s daddy, he’s home and outside snowblowing the driveway.” She FREAKED. Eldest became hysterical and yelled “I DON’T WANT DADDY TO BE HOME!! I HATE IT WHEN HE’S HOME MOMMY!!” And that was it. It took a couple more weeks for me to formulate a safe “escape plan” and get him out of the house.
But in my attempt to shield them from giant, ugly and potentially very frightening , violent fights, I had taught Eldest that it was okay to take that. It was okay to allow someone to treat her that way. To bully her. To not stand up for herself.

And you have no idea how much it hurts to know I have done that.

So, I have a brand new plan. It is up to me to lead by example. To be the change. To end the cycle. To stand up for myself. To acknowledge when people are treating me in a way I do not deserve and to vocalize it and back it up with actions. To cut ties with those that feel it is okay to bully me. To diminish my feelings. Or use me as an ego boost when no one else is paying them attention. Those that are used to getting away with things because I allow them to.

One of our Monkey Family Rules is “If you’re having a bad day, you can still turn it around. You can take a deep breath, a step back and yell ‘FLIP IT!’ And start it over and do it right.”

I am using my “FLIP IT!”

I like it when my phone dings. Just the tone makes me smile. It means I have a text, which means someone is thinking of me. Whether it’s “Good morning, Sunshine”, “Call me hooker”, or the kind of rare but treasured “I love you”- I smile. It’s a good noise. Usually.

This last week, ok make that two, has been emotional for me. You may not be able to tell, I hide it well. In fact, you need to be pretty fluent in Natali to know when something is really up. Most people aren’t brave enough to master Natali. But, yeah, a lot going on inside lately. Don’t start Googling local crisis hotline numbers yet, it’s not all been bad, some of it really good. That and it’s certainly nothing I can’t handle and eventually figure out. Either way, it’s left me feeling a little raw, definitely drained and I still have some emotions to sort out.

The drained part caught up with me last night. Once Operation Monkey Wrestle Down takes place for the night, when they’ve been tucked in, read to, lullabyed and smooched a million times, I need to remain fairly quiet until the snores are heard. Tonight was another creative stalling tactics night. While practicing the art of ninja stealth like quietness, I managed to fall asleep on the couch. Ninja fail there, that’ll get ya caught. At 10:46 the sound that makes me smile so jostled me awake. I sat there, smile still on face, eyebrow furrowed, staring down at a number I didn’t recognize and a cryptic message. A couple of weeks ago I purged quite a few people from my contacts, so the furrowed brow got furroweder as I attempted to wrap my mind around it all. The text read “I would like 2 talk 2 u soon. let me know if that is ok. I jst want 2 make peace w all those that mtr 2 me b 4 its 2 late. Pleze let me know eithr way.” I figured it was the wrong number and sent a “Who is this?”. I sure as fuck wasn’t expecting the answer I got.

There are two women in my life I have referred to as my adopted sister for decades. Our bond has transcended that of mere friendship. It is a true sisterhood. One, C, is the only person that knows every single thing I have been through in my life. The text was from her ex husband, G, who was like a brother to me. I was the only woman he could never charm his way out of an argument with. I was his greatest opponent in a battle of the wits (and we had some knock down, drag out ones). I was the only one that called him on his bullshit. Eventually when I met my ex (which is another thing I can blame him for), he and G became best friends. The four of us were a dysfunctional little family.

Then it all started to change. There is a barrage of players and events within this, but I’m going to try to keep this simple for once and stick to us four. The change was only noticed by me. It’s amazing how at times I can pick up the tiniest detail and see how the hand will play out. G hurt his back and what started as Vicodin, turned to Percocet and eventually to Heroin. Using turned to dealing. I watched him like a bullet train speeding toward those dead ends you see in the RoadRunner cartoons that lead Wil E. right off a cliff. I tried talking to all three of them. Really, I did. But, no one would listen. C & my ex popped open a can of denial and guzzled it daily. G was already a demi god in his own mind and his thick skulled lil head would hear nothing that indicated otherwise. I felt like fucking Cassndara. (For those of you not hip to the Greek stories, for which I so don’t blame you, she was given the gift of prophecy. She could see the future in all its clarity. Girl wouldn’t put out for Apollo though so he got pissed and cursed her with the tragedy that while she could forsee the future, no one would believe her. I think it was Apollo. I’m too tired to look it up and you all get the point anyway.) All I could do was stand there and watch. I braced myself and did my best to prepare to clean up a mess. No one makes a mess quite like G. Lying, cheating, stealing and when all was said and done, he was behind bars and I had a sister and a fiance that were completely gutted.

G knew my terms. Everyone who truly knows me knows that you can treat me like utter shit and I will take what I can of it until I get to the point where I just walk away. But, when you hurt someone I love, claws and fangs come out and I’m wiping the blood from your jugular off my face before you know what hit you. I am fiercely protective of those I love. I also know what will hurt you most. Went I went with C to go see him in jail after he was arrested, I completely ignored him. Not in that refusing to make eye contact and just keep looking everywhere but at him kind of way. In a staring through the glass, through him like he no longer existed kind of way. The only acknowledgment he got from me was when he told C that he would be out in two weeks and was going to make everything all right. That’s when I looked him in the eyes and laughed my ass off.

He served far more than two weeks. C and him were divorced while he was in prison. She continued to visit him. I never judged her for doing so, I just supported her the best I could. When she made claims of him changing, I replied “only time will tell.” I knew he hadn’t really at that point. After a few years, he made it out. I saw him once while he was at C’s shortly after I had kicked the ex out. She asked me to see him and for her, I complied. C asked me to forgive him. When I managed to see some resemblance to the man that was once my brother of sorts, I did.

Then his dumb ass ended up back in. There’s another series of events I will spare you, but the arrest is epic. It’s been over a year now since it happened. My ex’s roommate when I met him was a cop. He stood up in our wedding. It was him that busted G this time around. Karma does know how to give one hell of a bitchslap. It really was brilliant.

The kicker to all this is he has cancer now. He’s dying. C won’t bring him up to me unless I ask and I don’t ask. Part of me is really pissed she didn’t warn me he was out again. Seriously, that’s totally gotta break some sort of chick rule. There must be a “hey he got paroled” clause somewhere. My answer to his text was that I would talk to him, tomorrow. Which is technically today now. He continued to let me know that A. He still loves me and B. He’s sorry. And now I’m left wondering what to say to him.

I come bearing my own irony to this as well. I was just discussing a very, very dear friend of mine, B, who passed away four years ago. I miss him so much. He is also one of my very few regrets in life. HE was going to be my next post. G and him actually grew up in the same town and went to the same school at the same time, but they were never friends. My regret with B was my failure to see him bullet training toward his own dead end. My life at that time was really busy, I was pregnant with lilest monkey when he died. I just wish I could hug him and tell him I’m sorry. I know that doing so with G won’t change my regret with B. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is the powers that be giving me another shot. A do over. I will not apologize to G though. I don’t feel a need to. No matter what, I have no clue what to really say. I know he wants validation that I still love him. I don’t know that I do and I am not one to just say I love you for the sake of it. Then again, he is dying. So, if this eases his conscience(though I’m not entirely certain he deserves it), does it matter?

I’m feeling pretty damned by that ding now.

The choice to move back to a town I swore I never would was a very hard pill to swallow. Actually, it was more like the seemingly gallons of penicillin I guzzled as a kid growing up during my 3-4 times a year battles with strep throat and whatever other ailment that came along for the ride. I don’t care what anyone says, that shit does NOT taste like strawberry. It’s just vile. Yet, it was the easiest choice I made because it was done so through the eyes of a mother. I rarely refer to myself as that. Typically, it’s mommy. But, this was a very motherly thing to do.

So why so vile? There are many reasons I suppose. But, none are the seemingly obvious ones. I’m not one of those people that thinks they are “too cool” for the suburbs. I’m about the furthest one can get from cool. I’m not one of those people that fear it will change me. I change me. On my own terms. For my own reasons. They failed before, it would be futile for them to even try now. Put me anywhere and I can hold my own.

I guess, in the simplest terms, it may be that I just know too much. Towns, like people, have skeletons in their closets as well. They vary, just like ours, in size and stature. When you spend your whole life in a town and do so with open eyes you see them. Sometimes you crack open the door and peek. Sometimes they are blatantly waving from an attic window. Sometimes you kick down the door and bravely stare them in the eye sockets. No matter the way, once you’ve met them, they’re damn near impossible to forget.

Yes, people change. Yes, towns change. But when generation after generation remain or return- how much change is really made? To change would mean that they’d have to have opened their minds to new ideologies, new people. Embrace that change and then bring it back and cultivate it. That just doesn’t happen around here. At all. I so wish it did too. And the more gruesome the skeletons, the smaller the benefit of the doubt one can muster. And we’re talking pretty gnarly here. The following is where I dig deep and lay it on the line. It’s not pretty and the pacing is pretty odd for me. I have no problem babbling on about things. Trust me. So, yup, it is odd that I rush through them. If you venture on, at the end, I think you may understand why. If not, you are always welcome to ask. Ok kiddies, disclaimer/excuse/stalling over.

It all starts with my parents and how they met….

The biggest suburban fairytale of yore was high school sweethearts getting married, building the ole white picket fence and popping out 2.5 offspring. My parents fall under the next biggest one- my mother ended up marrying her best friend’s older brother. Out of high school my mom and my aunt Diane (my dad’s sister) got a place with another girl. After going through the loss of several of her friends from deaths due to drunk driving accidents (most the other driver’s fault), my mom had no desire to get her license. So, aunt Diane would drop her off and pick her up everyday for work.

On the evening of Thursday, November 3rd, 1966, my aunt was uncharacteristically late to pick her up. Worried, she called my aunt’s other brother (my uncle). He picked her up and they went by my aunt’s job to see if she was still there. No one’s lives would ever be the same again in our family. They still aren’t. There is simply no bracing one for what they saw. The coroner estimated her time of death around 5:10pm. Cause? She was stabbed to death. While the local news toned it down for the public, she suffered over 100 (no, the second 0 is not a typo) stab wounds. Most of which were to the chest, neck and face. Psych 101 will tell you that leaves a high probability that she knew her murderer. Despite the fact that there was a rather large amount of blood, tissue and hair samples found under her fingernails (she put up a fight) and that’s a hell of a lot of DNA for today’s technology- her killer remains unknown. The case is still open. There is no way to describe the weight, the hole, the heavy hurt that this has had on our entire family. I can tell you that growing up in the same town where the mere mention of your last name brings up a story about it, another reminder, another lump in your throat, another case of the hair on the back of your neck standing up takes its toll. The police, despite it still being an open case, have obviously just given up. Leaving a family, still mourning, abandoned. I could write an entire post just about this story, the journey and my encounters with those over the years that came across my name in a phone book or somewhere online and came crawling out of the woodwork with questions and theories and occasional drunken babblings, but that will be for another time. This, my friends, is gnarly skeleton number one.

Number two sits without a date. I recall being young and think perhaps around 1st grade or so. The first “official African American” family moved in to our town. They lived in the subdivision in front of ours. The kids were my sister’s age, so I didn’t know them. But, I remember the entire family being so nice. I also remember the morning I found out that the night before someone had placed a cross on their front lawn and lit it ablaze. Seriously.We’re talking the 80’s here. I had on a yellow Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. At the time I wasn’t sure why it happened. It didn’t make any sense to me. While it still doesn’t, I clearly know now what the significance was and it makes my stomach turn. Roughly a decade later “we” received our first African American faculty member. Mr. Mr. (my nickname for him hee hee and he called me Nata ata li) was a guidance counselor and he freakin’ rocked. He lasted a year and a half before the death threats and people calling the police claiming he was breaking in to his own home chased him out of town. I have NO tolerance for that. I have even less for the cowardly masses that allowed him to leave instead of standing up and screaming “bullshit!”. Gnarly ass skeleton.

Skeleton number 3 still brings a tear to my eye. Throughout elementary school we had a Teaching Assistant that was amazing. Those of us in gifted & talented knew her best, with me knowing her the most. She was in charge of the art supply room, so I used to volunteer to help her out whenever needed. I really loved Miss L. Flash to 4th grade, It was late fall, early winter. I remember it being the time of year it got dark early. It was a Saturday evening and my mom sent me downstairs to get something out of the basement freezer she needed for dinner. My sister just got home from some Forensics thing up at the high school. I was walking up the stairs, in fact I was 3 stairs from the top when I heard the conversation. Miss L hung herself. I would learn on Monday that it was my home room teacher that had found her. It was in the basement, the athletic supply room, with a jump rope. Christ that sounds like a bad game of Clue. Rumor is she left a note. My teacher then has since passed on. So, any remaining hopes of answering the haunting question of “why?” seems small. It just doesn’t seem right. It never did. She would have known there was a possibility of a student finding her and I truly believe she would never, ever do that to any of us. No matter what the reason was she felt her only way out was suicide, she loved her students and was proud of what she did. Am I saying there is some deep, dark murderous plot here? No. Am I saying it’s less than Kosher? Perhaps. All I know is it just doesn’t make sense. Something is blaringly wrong with it.

So, by age 11 I had confirmation this town was full of ugliness and shit. It likes to appear all wonderful and happy. Such a lovely place to raise your family. In reality, it was a Stepford town where football was almost a religion (though we sucked) and nonlocals and those even remotely “different” were completely unwelcome. If they couldn’t chase them out, they would harass them until they masterfully donned the mask of the fake smile. It’s one thing if you are dealing with a town full of arrogant, unkind people. This was an entirely different ballgame (football of course). They were all of that, just plain wrong and (I know this seems like an exaggeration) somewhat topped with a bow of evil.

I learned how to fake the mask when needed. Oh the absurdity of faking a fake smile. It wasn’t easy and there was a price to be paid at times. I managed to dance around it all and even grew to stand firm and speak up when I felt things were wrong. Fuck, growing up is hard enough as it is without having to learn how to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee for what feels like is just to save your soul. In the end, I escaped this town, soul intact, non Stepfordized. Truthfully, I never even went back to pick up the hard copy of my diploma. I hit the ground running and swore I’d never be back.

Yes, I do have happy memories of growing up here. I really do. Sometimes they fight to cloak the skeletons.

And here I am. And here I stay. And heaven help this town.

I’ve gotten to a point in my life where it truly does take quite a bit to phase me. Most events turn into a tiny dip, lil hill or occasional loop de loop on the roller coaster that is my life. This latest one is gnawing at me a bit though.

It’s at times like these that I wished events in my life were made up. Partially because then they wouldn’t be real. Partially because it is just so bizarre that it would make me pretty damn talented. This is one that combines them both.

I’m having many mixed emotions about moving back to the town I grew up in. It’s only been a week so they are all still very fresh. This is a town I swore I’d never live in. A town I loathed for many reasons. Funny how life works out.

So, this past Friday night I’m getting ready to go out and I notice an e-mail notification pop up for a new message in my Facebook inbox. It’s from a girl I’ve known for years. Decades even. Like basically since the 1st grade. Despite being really close (like BFF forget passing notes, we had a notebook we’d pass) a couple years after graduation we lost touch off and on. We’ve kept in spotty contact for the last five or six years. Even this last year on Facebook, our contact remains pretty here and there. It’s been a couple of months since we’ve really had some solid interaction with each other. When I saw the “OMG too funny” subject, I fully expected the message to be a “Ha ha I heard you moved back!” kind of thing. Oh how I wish it was. Instead I got:

“Hey Nat. . .
*** and I are getting divorced, and we are both on evenfreaksneedlove.com. I just logged onto his account. .i like to help him find dates, and I just saw he winked at you!!! OMG too funny. He is (Insert user name here), his pic is bad, he is cuter in person. And the greatest guy!!! btw i am dating girls now, so that kindof was a problem for our marriage. lol Anyway, thought it was super funny, and if you are lookin for a great guy. . he winked.

BFFKindOfFriendYou’veKnownSinceFirstGrade

WHAT THE FUCK!!?!??!??!! Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

I think I read it like three times before it truly started to sink in. Holy range of emotions batgirl!

Ok…

1) Usually one would get more of an ease into things. Maybe not so much on the divorce part. I think even I’m guilty of dropping that one like a “Yeah, Prick is an abusive fuck and I’m done” kind of bomb. But, the lesbian part is usually not quite sammiched between “BTW” and “LOL.” Truth be told, not an entire shock she’s batting for the home team. Also, she knows me well enough to know I’m the gal that’s going to be supportive and all about whatever makes her happy. Still, lil bit of an ease in to all this is all a sister is askin’ for.

2) Not yet divorced and helping him find dates. That’s…ummm…sweet? Perhaps it is the therapist in me, but they’ve been together far longer than my ex & I were and have kids as well. Now, I don’t really know him, so I could be way off on this, but after years and kids and being told you ain’t sportin’ the right equipment, there’s gotta be some healing time involved there. Even if he wants to jump back on a mare- she’s a new lesbian. Do you really want a rookie pickin’ dates for you?

C) WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR HUSBAND?? There may be a sub clause I’m missing in the chick rule book about suddenly jumping off the heterosexual ship but OMG NO! Beyond creepy!! Beyond wrong!! Like I’m calling a technical foul here! And what the hell must you think of me if you feel I’d be all up on that????

Perhaps I should simply be flattered by this whole situation. Lord knows I am no angel and certainly no prude. But leapin’ jeebus on a pogo stick, even I have a threshold of yuckyness. This done sprinted its happy ass right on past it.

And how does one respond to that message?? My first response of “Are you out of your fucking mind???” was put on the back burner while I let this all sink in and fester a bit. Instead I opted for a much more politely worded version of “WOW. Sorry to hear about your divorce. Congrats on embracing your inner lesbian. The offer to date your husband is very flattering but I’m gonna have to pass because umm.. I’m kinda seeing someone. Yeah. That’s it. Best of luck to ya both. I’m here if you need me, but forgive me for not winking back. What a small, crazy, fucked up lil world we live in.”

Still haven’t heard back from her. Future reunions shall be interesting.

Can’t be a Crazy Cat Lady In Training without cats. You’ll have the crazy part down alright, but a Crazy Cat Lady that thinks she has cats, but doesn’t will just get ya locked up. I never thought of myself as a cat person really. I had fish and frogs growing up. This girl’s always been an animal lover in general, but slimy and aquatic seemed to be my niche.

Until the day my first cat chose me.

Summer of 1994 I was a sophomore in college, out of the dorms and in a new place. Two of my peeps, a brother and sister transplanted to Milwaukee from PA, asked me if I’d take them to the Humane Society to get a dog. Of course! So, we arrive on a Saturday mornin’ and while they are scoping out the dogs, I get to wandering. Now, the Humane Society is just a bad place for me to be because I want to scoop them ALL up and take them home. Period. Young, old, short, fat, scrawny, smelly, twitchy….I want to save them. Hmmm… maybe I was destined into CCLdom afterall. I’m in the cat area and for some reason I spot this cottonball with eyes. I stick my finger in the cage and pet it and as soon as it grabs my finger and starts gnawing on it, I’m hooked. I look up and see a piece of paper taped over the sign on the cage that pretty much says “Go home sad, this one’s taken… we think.” It had a 24 hour hold for potential adopters. Can’t be too sad that it’s at least going to a home. My friends find the most spastic dog of the bunch and are thrilled. The Humane Society needs to hunt down their landlord and make sure it’s okie dokie for them to take her home. Bottom line- we need to come back tomorrow.

That night I had a dream. A black and white dream, which are the oddly fortelling ones for me. My colored ones are just weird. Anywho, in the dream the kitty was mine and I named her Cozmo. With a z and all. This was before Seinfeld revieled Kramer’s first name, before Cosmopolitans were all the drinking rage and I damn sure never read the magazine, so the name was a really weird choice. But, it was a dream.

On the way to the Humane Society the next day, I told B&C about the dream. I then declared if the furball was still there, it was coming home with me. We get there and they tear off to get their four legged mass of insanity and I go to check on the cottonball. It’s still there. It’s been 24 hours. I flag down a worker and tell them I’d like to adopt it. (All the its are because I didn’t know it was a she at that time. I pet her and played with her, but I respected her privacy.) So, B&C, their dog Sabina the spastic wonder, the Humane Society employee and I are all crammed in the cat room while my new ball of joy is sprung from kitty jail. I just get her in my arms when the Humane Society employee (who was forced to hear of my dream while waiting for the formalities to be completed) pulls the paper off the sign saying “won’t need this any more.” We all stare at the sign that had been cloaked in complete silence. It read “This cage is dedicated to the memory of Cozmo.”

So I named her Bob. Not really. Just seeing if you are still there. Don’t worry, this next part is shorter.

A year later and Cozmo and I are in our first studio alone. I can hear her meowing for me every night I come home all the way down the hall. So, for her first birthday, she was getting her own cat. Off to the Humane Wellfare Society I went. No prophetic dream this time. Instead, what I found was the ugliest kitten in the joint. He was the runt of what seemed like a litter of 8 or 9. His head was WAY too big for his body so he looked like one of those bobble headed cats old ladies put on the dash of their Buick Regal tanks. To top it all off- he was bow-legged. As soon as the lady there told me all of his brothers and sisters were getting sprung the next day and he’d be left all alone, I knew he was mine. Screw you pretty kitties, the freak is going home first!

And now he’s huge.

The two of them were the perfect balance. So much so that when they curled up together (after Zen grew in to his head) they looked like yin and yang. They went across country to California and back with me. The went to hell and back with me as well. Each time they’d take turns clutching my face in their paws and licking the tears away. I watched them lick bruises, broken bones and stitches determined to make them go away. No matter what I went through, they never left my side.

One of the only regrets I have in my life is allowing the ex to make me take them to my parent’s house to stay when I was pregnant with my oldest. Two months after she was born, Cozmo died.

Zen is still very much Zen. And, now he has a partner in crime. Yet another cat that isn’t really mine. Ok, PIC isn’t entirely accurate. I’m all about the honesty- the two fatboys are straight up brokeback kitty. My little two kitty spinster starter kit also likes to lay in geometric shapes. So, on to his lover……

Last year right around this time, I get a call from my C. She’s pretty much my adopted sister. She has a big fat cat that she rescued from a dumpster 2 years ago. Her roommate’s dogs have been terrorizing him and he’s been peeing on the stairs. She’s got to get rid of him. Yup, into our dyfunctional family he came. It took roughly 45 minutes for the two to get along. Zen (who is declawed in the front vs his man who has all 4 sets) beat his ass down once and that’s all she wrote. He is completely whacked so he fits right in. His name? He goes by MANY. Kitty is what the girls call him. He is also known as Fatty, Fatty McFat, Large and In Charge, Fatboy #2, Blairwitch Cat (he sits and stares in bizarre corners looking like the last scene in BW) and Bird Killer (see next blog post).

They are whacked, they are not really like cats and we love the hell our of their fat, furry feline asses. 🙂 And how lucky are we that they chose us?