When it comes to memories, elephants got nothin’ on my monkeys. Back in like May we were at Wally World getting my oh so beloved Sudafed and crabbiness ensued. So, in an attempt to redirect, I told them if they were good, I’d take them to see the fishies. Thus a ritual began. Every trip to Wally World led to a pass by the fish. When they first saw them, they of course wanted to bring them all home. “But mommy we can have a whole wall of tanks.” I knew we were going to be moving in the next couple of months and moving fish is NOT fun. So, I told them when we moved, we’d get some fish. They made me pinky swear.

Months later, we did indeed move. Two days after that, they began to not only ask when we were going to get fish, but reminded me that I did pinky swear. Never mind boxes were everywhere, complete exhaustion on my part and having to run around the entire town a million times to get eldest signed up for school, they wanted their fishies. So, I did what any mom in my position would do. I stalled my ass off.

End of August neared and eldest monkey’s birthday rolled around. Yup, mom got her a fish tank. We marched into Wally World and marched out with a feeder goldfish lilest monkey named Tink, a “fancy” goldfish I named sushi, a spotted Molly eldest monkey named Wonder Woman and Chauncey The Wondersnail. Oh the love and excitement. They wanted to sleep by the tank. They wanted to tuck them all in with blankets and yes, I had to sing the tank the bloomin’ lullaby.

Next morning Chauncey ole love was bobbing around on the top of the water, floating like a lil golden apple. I am FREAKING and googling the hell out of Gold Mystery Snails. We have to rush off to start the day. On the way home, I decide to stop at the pet store and see what they think of what I read and get Chauncey “a friend,” just in case. Kind of a soften the blow kind of thing.

Before we walk in there, I type up a lil explanation of what’s going on to show the sales person on my iPhone notes. (I swear I would marry that phone and bear its children.) She rocks and did really well with explaining it without the monkeys catching on. Of course it helped they were wielding their own mini carts (which amped my anxiety off the charts) and were distracted by more fish. She agreed it could just be an air bubble and instructed me how to handle it. WOOT! Small problem- they didn’t have ANY snails. Grrr. But, the girls spotted the smallest lil African Dwarf Frog I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it’s like Über Dwarf. So, we brought Princess Leia home and added her to the aquatic tribe.

BTW, we get home and and that lil shit Chauncey is happily whipping around the tank. Sneaky lil snail.

Two days later the lights go out on the tank. Grrr..

Then Wednesday morning rolls around and the dreaded has happened. Wonder Woman is so not wonderful any longer. Thankfully, instead of floating to the top, she’d gotten stuck between the wall of the tank and the giant dayglow colored stone thingie that I thought was obnoxious when the girls picked it out, but now want to hug. Eldest thinks her fish is just sleeping.

Now, lil miss “Wonder Woman’s Mommy” just started kindergarten the week before so she is a wee bit on the emotional side right now. Plus, if there’s a way to keep my kids from suffering a loss, even just a fish, I’m gonna take it. Knowing her lil sister will rat me out in a heartbeat (I seriously tried to give her a lesson on avoiding the complete truth to keep from really hurting another person’s feelings the week prior. I know mother of the year here. She ate a coveted Lunchable while eldest was at school and I told her instead of saying a Lunchable, just list the contents of it when eldest asked her what she had for lunch. First words outta her mouth when eldest climbed in the getter at the end of her school day “Mommy got me a Lunchable and I ate it. I’m sorry,” DRAMA commenced.) yeah off to grandma and grandpas she went. Thing was, I only had a little over an hour window now to pull this all off. Operation Wonder Woman II is on. Come Hell or high water, I’m not failing this one. So, I haul ass to the pet store and am about to start running to another store when out from some crazy tower thing in the tank pops a spotted molly that looks miraculously close to the original Wonder Woman. (The fish, not Linda Carter, but I guess you knew that.) The lil fish guy tosses in like 5 of the teeny tiniest lil itty bitty snails that I’ve ever seen. YAY! A distraction, just in case. I fly home with 30 minutes to spare. I give a quick porcelain funeral, then tank clean and treated and all critters in place. I barely made it. But, it was a complete success. We actually still need to name all the bitty snails that are currently being collectively called “cutie pies.” Lilest monkey comes home and checks the tank and is none the wiser. True test comes when we get eldest monkey. She burns a path in the hall carpet racing to their room to see the new snails and yells “MOMMY!! MOMMY!” I freak until I hear “Wonder Woman is awake now!! And how cute are these lil insy snails!?!??!” **HAPPY DANCE** Mission successful.

This was a monkey weekend away so I was on aquatic tribe feeding duty. Saturday night I sat in there for a bit just watching our crazy lil tank family. Of course I am now neurotic about checking and counting heads in there to make sure all are still kicking happily. Now, the lil ones are hard to find and tend to tribe up at times, crawling all over each other. Poor Chauncey had 2 on his shell the other day. But, I swear two of them were getting it on. Their lil heads were all intertwined and there was definitely something going on. Now, I’ve never seen a snail throw down, so for all I know there could have been some brawl going on over territory or one of the other snails or maybe one was just talking some smack. I’m a lover, not a fighter though, so I’m really thinking they were doing the lil snail nasty. Which means I should probably start googling snail birthing . By the way, you are all getting early holiday presents. Start picking your snail names now. Gotta be honest, whatever they were doing, it was kind of cool. I didn’t stand there long with my held tilted wondering what was going on. I turned off the light and pondered playing them a lil Barry White. Get down with your bad selves lil itty bitty snails.

Who loses their journal during a move but has every cable and cord wrapped, organized and labeled? That would be me. My journal is where most of my posts stem from. I have many that I want to put up now that we’re all moved in to our lovely new digs. But, goofy me can’t find it. So, you’re getting one pulled fresh from my sleepy brain. (Well, it was fresh Thursday night when it was written.) Courtesy of an Office Max legal pad from 2005 (as dated by the state hearing screen card from my lilest monkey’s birth shoved in the back of it) and the pack of papermate pens I happened upon while searching for something to write on.

Despite the bliss of a bit of closure to a month of much hell in my life, today I am deeply saddened by the loss of John Hughes. No, I did not know him personally. But, the mark his work left on my life and who I am can not be denied. I don’t idolize celebrities and I damn sure am not going to be the crazy chick tweeting about wanting to join him in the afterlife. I am, however, going to give him a lil blog love. I wouldn’t be me without a lil babbling side note in a post and would hate to let anyone reading this who knows me down. It will be short, it will be sweet and it may piss some off but here it is:

I firmly believe that we should mourn the loss of John Hughes on the same level as that of Michael Jackson. In reality, part of me wants to say more than, but who am I to pu tone person’s life above another’s? Yes, as an entertainer MJ was an inspiration for some. His musical catalog, however, was not exactly life changing. While Thriller was fun, grounbreaking and will remain a classic, Hughes gave strength to the underdog, love for the geeks, helped a world understand what it was like to be a teenager and The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing for all as it contains one of the single most important lessons we should all learn in life. Will they fill a stadium for Mr. Hughes, hell even a theater, and televise it? Probably not. That, my friends, is a damn shame and breaks my heart.

While I was not even close to a high schooler when the bulk of his greatest hits came out, my sister was. The soundtracks to his movies became the soundtrack to my life. Bits and pieces of each of his movies have been found in my memories, gift wrapped lovingly and stowed away to hand down. From my Duckie who used to ride his 10 speed past the ad agency I worked at in high school every day to me sitting on the floor with my old sewing machine whipping up my prom dress (no, it was not pink, but close). Hell, I even dated a guy named Blaine. While my underwear was (to the best of my knowledge) never up for viewing, the science team appearantly had a bet going where $10.00 went to the first one of them I actually touched while we were at the State Science Finals. I had agreed to fill in for one of the team after they came down with chicken pox or some such thing. I was the Genetics ringer. Also, the only girl. That day is a whole nother blog though. I think you get what I’m laying down here.

John Hughes Rocked. In a BIG fucking way. For the memories, the lessons, the Duckman, the misfits, the no more yanky my wanky the Donger need food, the rise of the science geeks, the stand of Cameron, the hopes we’d all have an Uncle Buck someday, the understanding of a generation, the love. Thank you just doesn’t seem to be enough sir.

I leave you with my favorite moment of his…

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…Does that answer your question?…

Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.

Harold: So. you don’t use the umbrella any more? No more revolts?

Maude: Oh yes. Every day…but… I don’t need a defense any more, I embrace. Still fighting for the big issues but now in my small, individual way.

After my year term as president for SFAR, I stepped down. No more standing at the edge of a corn field on dark, damp nights with a half ass tv crew facing the owner of a dog farm, his friends and the damned Sheriff all glaring at us while toting shot guns. I will have to find the photo of his giant “stay off my land or alce” sign. Yup, alce.

I had to. Not long into my sophomore year of college, my year from hell began. From that point on, my umbrella was put to rest. The next few years were simply survival mode and healing. But, slowly, surely, my inner Maude returned. I too embraced embracing. Years, experience and some wisdom gained through those had shaped a different spirit of protest for me. No longer standing with a picket sign did not mean I turned a blind eye either. I never stopped voting, writing letters and signing petitions- using the voice, albeit more tempered and quiet, that I had. I strived to lead by example. Hoping it would be infectious. I also learned to choose my battles wisely.

It wasn’t until I left graphic & web design and went back into health care that my voice would once again return with some chutzpah. I have a fiery instinct to protect my residents. My first round back was at a company with all new construction and hoity toity lil old people for residents. So, my biggest battles typically were with hospitals that wanted to discharge them to nursing homes and doctors that didn’t follow through. There is, however, one priest that is not likely to forget me anytime soon.

One of the hardest things to do is to get a priest to come to a group home. Seriously. I’ve had Catholic residents whose entire parish was off on sabbatical and they were dying and no priest from another parish would come to visit them to administer the last rights (now called “anointing of the sick”.) I had a 92 year old lady move in from Racine ( a good 1/2 hour away from where the home was). She was Catholic, came from a nursing home and her priest had developed Alzheimer’s. She still wanted communion every month, so it was my mission to make that happen. Well, I struck out everywhere and finally just called the priest that came by already for another resident. What’s one more for communion? He was a crab on the phone, but agreed to see her and “see what he could do.” In he glides on his monthly visit and all the staff are warned not to let him leave without seeing the other lady. Sure enough, he tries to fly out of there and encounters me at the door. Smiling. I gently remind him of his promise. This jack ass then walks up to my lil 92 year old in the dining room and YELLS in her ear “ I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU. YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. CALL YOUR OWN PARISH.” Oh the seething. I turned and walked outside to the parking lot while he said goodbye. As soon as he walked out that door (all the staff’s faces now popped up pressed against the windows) I let him have it. Both guns blazing. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? You can NOT talk to my residents like that!” He didn’t even looked shocked. Just smug and pious. “She is not my responsibility. She is not part of my parish.” “Really? Well it’s a good thing Jesus didn’t operate on that theory now isn’t it? That is THE most unchristian thing I have ever heard.” His retort? “I don’t expect you to understand. You are just a commoner and most likely not even Catholic.” *deep breath* “I’m a recovering Catholic and they have the likes of people like you to thank for that. As far as the ‘commoner’ thing goes? Well, you weren’t born with some special mark on you that deemed you the chosen one, you pompous ass. ANYONE can take the vows you have. Clearly they were nothing more than some regurgitated words for you and hold no meaning. Even a “commoner” grasps the concept of the Golden Rule. If Jesus not only did not turn away lepers but embraced them, what gives YOU the right to turn anyone away? Let alone some sweet little 92 year old lady that has been a devout Catholic her entire life. So, go ahead and prance your self-righteous self back to your Mercedes and drive off out of here. But trust me- when it comes time for the God to whom you have supposedly vowed your life to judge you, He will knock that smile off your face.”

I called my mom when I got back in “Mom, it’s official. I am truly gong to hell. I just cussed a priest out in our parking lot.” My mom, bless her lil heart, “Well, that took longer to happen than we all thought and I’m sure he had it coming..”

Then I began running the “community based residential facility for those with chronic mental illness.” My first couple of weeks there I heard the phrase “ Oh ___ , you guys will take ANYONE.” At first I was offended. A long time case manager friend of mine came in surprised as hell to see me there one day. Just like the rest, she uttered “What the hell are you doing here? This place is a total hole and will take ANYONE.” And it hit me. Harder than Bobbie slapped Whitney around. “You’re damn right we will, J. You know why? EVERYONE deserves a home. Period. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hole right now, but I’m working on that. Someday we’ll be the Pfister for “crazy” people.” My crusade on behalf of those with severe chronic mental illness in Milwaukee then began.

The biggest thorn in my side? The VA. They HATE me there. I have gotten in more knock down, drag outs with them than I can honestly count. The reason? I have never seen a more gross negligence for the care for one’s patients EVER. And these are VETERANS. The very people that have laid their lives, and sanity, on the line for us. I have marched my happy ass down there and stood outside doctor’s doors waiting for them to sign off on a script renewal because it’s Friday and they have ignored my gentle fax reminders for two weeks letting them know their pharmacy will not dispense another supply of oh Depakote until the order is renewed. If it’s not signed that day, they don’t have Depakote for the weekend and the last thing that a person with schizoaffective disorder needs to do is go cold turkey off of that. They also insist on messing with the dispensing as well and that is a fight I have yet to win. The prescription will read “75mg of Zoloft, one tab, by mouth twice daily” Do they dispense 60 tabs of 75mg Zoloft? No, they dispense 30 tabs of 150mg and tell us to cut it in half. Not only does this not match the order, most of these medications they have us do this with are not to be cut PER MANUFACTURER’S INSTRUCTIONS. They don’t care though, because it’s cheaper that way. And, well, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t really exist. They’ll tell you so.

So, I found my voice again, using it boldly with my head held high, but only for small, individual “fights” if you will. No picket lines. No rallies. No mass assemblies. No newspapers. No half ass TV crews. No fields at night.

And then, one night, a tweet passed by my screen. It caused me pause. A desperate plea from what appeared to be an Iranian to hackers for assistance. It was @PersianKiwi and I knew there was a chance it was real. From what it was requesting, I knew what it was looking for and why it would be. (Sometimes the 2 years I dated a hardcore hacker comes in handy). As I clicked and read and clicked and read, the story unfolded. I began to research the Iranian election and the candidates that ran. That is all I could find. Nothing of this scandal that they were tweeting of. I then stumbled upon one Twitterer whose emotion was way too human for him to be bullshit. When my eyes could no longer focus, I went to bed.

My head swimming. My heart aching. My eyes wide open.

The decision was simple. I was picking up my umbrella again. That morning, Elphaba was born. My own little personal declaration of unity and support. Over the course of the next weeks I stayed glued and focused on what was going on. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sobbed, screamed and wished that I could do more to help these people that, yes, I don’t even know.

There have been many arguments thrown out there and at me:

“These are Iranians. They hate us, They are our enemies.”

“The change of power will do nothing to protect us from their nuclear program.”

“They made their own bed, let them lie in it.”

“How do we know it’s even real and not some propaganda to engage us in war.”

My retort is simple. Firstly, I respect the opinions of others. It would be hypocritical of me to not and I do understand where their points may come from. Mine is this:

Ghandi is the man in my book. We do need to be the change we wish to see in this world. Whether they are in Iran, China or Istanfreakinbul, they are people. Humans. Just like us. People have been a fascination of mine all my life. I have taken several different language not just for the language, but to understand the culture as well. These people standing (for the most part) silently declaring their desire for independence, for their vote to actually count, for their government to recognize they have given them a vote and need to uphold that are not the same “Iranians” that we have been shown via media for years. Propaganda and distortion of the facts by government and media works all ways. Could their nuclear program remain intact regardless of a change in regime? Possibly. But, I highly doubt it. One of their platforms for change is peace. Symbolized by the beautiful green ribbons bound around their peace fingers. Their eyes have been opened to the truth of the world, not what their government has force-fed them for years. They know. They don’t want to become another America, they don’t want to completely abandon their culture, their beliefs. Their requests are simple. Basic. They want to live peacefully with the rest of the world, they want more of a real say in their government, they want to live more humanely. And I wholeheartedly support them in all of that. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights no matter what soil ones bare feet intertwine with. No matter what language they speak. No matter what God they pray to, or don’t pray to.

Perhaps I am odd, but, if someone walked up to me, told me they hated me (yes even if they stated they wished me dead), then was being beaten in the street two minutes later because they were simply walking down the street holding the hand of the person they love, I would stand next to them in saying it was wrong. That, dear friends, is just how Elphaba rolls.

And, for now, Elphaba isn’t going anywhere.

Displaced paragraph time.

Middle school saw little “activism” action from me. I did end up throwing one bully up against a locker and scaring the ever lovin’ shit outta her for picking on M, the special ed student I was most protective of. Other than that, challenging Mrs. L, our accelerated English teacher who was a total condescending, uppity biotch, on a regular basis was it. Nothing much to report.

Then came High School. My lack of desire to eat meat continued. I went around and around with the principal repeatedly until Mr. W caved and added a salad bar as a healthy, non-meat alternative in the cafeteria.

I rescued a tank full of tadpoles doomed to be flushed. Ok, so the teacher was just scared of me at that point and handed them over. That was a feat in and of itself considering the guy walked, talked and acted like a varsity wrestling coach. Not that an accelerated, college level, Biology teacher can’t be a wrestling coach or vice versa, but com’mon now it was just weird. (side note: him teaching “reproduction” redefined the term “awkward as hell.” ) The tadpole’s poor father was sacrificed in the name of science. Teach decided to just spring a lesson of how to artificially inseminate a frog on us. This started with poor Kermy getting plucked from his lil ole tank, pithed in the head and well I won’t describe the rest to spare my guys that read me. Needless to say, I went OFF. Forced dissection was expected. Springing a frog slaughter on an innocent gal will get you a verbal woopin’ you aren’t soon gonna forget.

The other cause that was important to me was the continued segregation by some. Through a program called “220” here in Milwaukee, city kids could get bussed into the burbs for school. I was close with the three of them that started with the program back when we were in elementary school. Despite knowing these kids for what 8-10 years, well let’s just say “better schools” still have ignorant fucking students. I’ve never been one to label people, especially my friends and certainly not with something ridiculous. They weren’t my “black friends.” They were my friends. Period. Many smaller battles were waged on their behalf. The one that sent me over the edge?

One had a little sis, R, who was a freshman when we were seniors. Her locker was down the band geek/art hall with mine and I loved the hell out of her. (Still do 🙂 ) There was this one girl (I’ll call her IB for Ignorant Bitch) that used to be mean as hell to R for no damn good reason. R just took it each time. I was constantly showing up and threatening IB to back off. One day IB got REALLY stupid and jumped my girl. I came around the corner just as she grabbed her from behind, threw her on the ground and started swinging. R didn’t fight back. At all. I had dropped my bag and hauled ass down that hall. The band director came around the back corner just as I pulled IB off her. Probably a good thing he did in hindsight. He took both of them down the hall toward the office.

Next period I find out R got a three day suspension. IB got two days detention. I shit you not. Yeah… into the principal’s office I STORMED. I suppose I should mention that I’d known Mr. W. since I was in Kindergarten. His son and I were in the same class and I used to tutor his youngest son, who I swear works for like freakin’ NASA now. He sat there listening to me rant not only about this absolute bullshit that just occurred but all the other copious amount of uncalled for shit my friends quietly put up with and shouldn’t have had to. By this point he knew better than to interrupt one of my rants. My happy ass sat in that office until he called R and apologized. Then I made him promise to suspend IB and permanently relocate her locker. Forever. And he did. I just couldn’t be in there for that part.

I then turned around and waged war on the School Board. I insisted they include cultural diversity into the curriculum starting in elementary school. If only I could visually share with you my memory of the looks on their faces when they attempted to use the celebration of Black History Month as a defense. I do feel a tiny bit bad for making the Secretary cry. Just a tiny lil bit though.

It’s safe to say MANY were happy as all get out to see my ass graduate and get the heck up out of there at that point. Guess I can’t really blame them. I kinda screwed up their whole little ignorance is bliss thing. If that is true, if ignorance really is bliss, well I guess I’m just a wipe the smile off my face then kind of gal.

On to UW-Milwaukee. College is fodder for one with Save The World Syndrome’s soul. The list of student orgs you can join is more fun and more difficult to choose than picking your classes. You name it and I wanted to join. The one that seemed most suited to my non meat eatin’, salad bar gettin’, tadpole savin’ self- yup, Students for Animal Rights.

Hold up now! I know the first thing you thought of when you read that was PETA. Don’t even. I’ll get to them assholes later. Just chillax and hear me out.

I think it was like four meetings in when I got nominated and voted in as the first Freshman President they’d ever had. Before I agreed to take it, I told them I would do it ONLY if the group embraced my philosophy on what the group should be and how we should represent ourselves. I even made them revote after I was done with my little speech. The vote came back with me still President. Six members quit and walked out. In the next three weeks though, we gained 45 new ones. My philosophy?

We act as a RESPONSIBLE voice for the rights and treatment of animals and an educational resource for the students. Our library had squat covering anything to do with animal rights. This meant stocking books and literature that presented ALL sides to the main issues that were at hand and allowing those reading them to come to their own beliefs- whether it was that same as ours or not.

We did NOT call people who ate meat evil, we did offer sound, trusted information on how to healthfully embrace vegetarianism. ALL “shock material” was tossed. I got huge shipments of bumper stickers, samples, buttons, literature- you name it- from The Body Shop, The Humane Welfare Society and other groups and companies that did not test on animals. We were not to protest in any way, shape, or form unless it was agreed upon by the whole group. In fact, a dog farm in Darboy was our only real protest. That and assisting in getting steel jaw traps banned in Wisconsin (yuppers, I actually spoke at the hearing they had at the state capitol) were our two big stances that year. I’ll save those stories for another day cuz this bad boy is already way too long. Sorry bout that. I also worked with several other student groups and organized the first ever Earth Day Festival at UWM. That day just kicked ass. Last, but not least, we were NEVER, EVER to portray ourselves as the student division of PETA.

While, at that time, fundamentally I do believe PETA’s heart was in the right place, they’ve had (even then) a history of goin’ about it the wrong way. I don’t do backasswards well. At least not when it comes to important things. My grandma always taught me you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with giant posters of scalpless monkeys and gorey lab animals = beyond vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with vegan brownies, Kiss My Face samples, Body Shop animal friendly buttons and please adopt, spay and neuter your pets posters= honey. And I am all about the sweet folks.

I’m gonna wrap this part up for now (finally!) But, I’ll leave you with a lil something to kick back and ponder while I’m writing the third (and last) part of my Save The World Syndrome “affliction” saga…

Nowadays, you mention PETA and people think of a bunch of crazy assholes that want Obama to apologize for a fly. Seriously, a fly. No matter what you picture, then or now, I never understood one thing. Perhaps it’s just the dork in me. But, it’s the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “EH-THICAL.” Not “EEE-THICAL.” So why the hell do they pronounce it like they’re freakin’ pocket bread???

“You know what your problem is, Pee Wee? You have ‘Save The World Syndrome.’ You wanna save everyone and everything in this world and you’re never going to be able to do it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m gonna die trying then, Dad.”

I was 14 at the time. The cause? A stray cat.

I trust you won’t be taken aback by my divulging that I was an odd, odd lil girl growing up. I hated meat. My three fave foods were peanut butter & banana sammiches, raisin bran and mac & cheese. Not only did I love veggies, to my sis’s great joy, I always ate her lima beans for her. Once, I sat in the dining room for three hours chewing a bite of pork chop my father insisted I try, yet I refused to swallow. My mom finally took pity on me. This lil paragraph is going to seem a bit out of place as I jump ahead, but trust me.. it will all make sense in the end. Well, maybe more toward the middle really. Just enjoy the ride.

My first true sign of activism came at the ripe old age of five. To this day, my parents are still baffled as to where it came from. Honestly, I’ve never cared where, when, why or any of that- it’s simply a part of who I am. I tend to breathe in with the good and boldly expel the bad. Anywho. First week of Kindergarten. I was already getting yelled at by Mrs. H daily for asking to read the book to the class at story time. “You can’t read!” “Yes I can!” By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feelin’ fiesty.

Recess time. I watched a stray dodge ball take off, with no one after it. I didn’t know then that it would land in my destiny, I simnply saw an excuse to run. While I’m scooping it up, I realize there is a rucous of laughter with an undertone of the sound of a girl crying. It didn’t take long for me to scan the playground and see a group of kids I hadn’t noticed the other two days. Some looked exactly like me, two had foam helmets on, one was in a wheelchair and a few had what I would learn later on were some visual characteristics of Down’s Syndrome. The girl that was crying, was also bleeding from her cheek. Surrounding them was a group of older kids. Fifth graders to be exact. Now, I knew the first group was different in my head, but, in my heart, they were just kids. As I wandered closer, one of the older kids threw a rock at one of the lil boys in a helmet.. Though it missed him, he was still scared.

The look on his face is what first lit that spark, that beyond fiesty protectiveness that has never really gone out. It also sent me sprinting. Right on up to Mr. IThinkI’mCool rock-hurling boy. His arm goes up to pitch again and I tap his shoulder. He swings around and ends up pegging one of his buddies with the rock instead. Dumbass. He looks down at me right pissed and just screams “WHAT??!!!?” I look up at him, smile sweetly and say “I’m going to have to ask you to please stop throwing those rocks at them.” He laughed, literally in my face. Which, of course got all his lil mindless cronies to get to cackling as well. “Go away kid” he says as he pushes my forehead. I swear one of my eyebrows raised. My feet were planted firm though and I didn’t budge. He was too confident though to notice. (Seriously, picture Fargus) He picks up another rock, this one’s pretty damned big. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m going to ask you again to please stop.” More laughter. More fear on those kids faces. Dumbass completely ignored me. He pulled his arm back to chuck away. I’d had enough. So, I grabbed the arm that was up in the air poised to throw, spun him around and I socked that lil bastard in the nose. Knocking him out. Cold.

THEN the teachers decided to saunter over. To this day I think it was the sudden quietness that fell over that area that caused them to stop their freakin’ coffee clutchin’ and finally pay attention. All I know was, I got to meet the principal for the first time that. day.

Sitting outside her door, I could only hear her half of the conversation to my mom. Bless her heart though, she basically asked her why her lil five year old girl had to police the playground against bullies. Mrs. P didn’t really have an answer to that. Especially considering the lil girl whose cry I heard needed stitches. Dumbass came to like 2 minutes later on the playground. I could hear him siffling away in the nurses office though.

The next two days Mrs. P and I would have more bonding time during lunch recess. Dumbass visited the nurse again on Thursday. This time I heard the nurse make a comment about him ever being able to have kids again. Friday one of his cronies got a black eye. I always started the same polite way with them. Asking them to stop. They refused to stop, so I didn’t either. I continued to hover protectively over the special ed kids at recess. Doing the job that I feel the teachers should have been doing. I didn’t care then whose job it was. I just knew someone needed to do it. Each time my mom got called she asked the principal the same question. This continued until the bullies stopped. One would get a lil brave on occasion, but I was never far enough away to not be able to get there in time to handle them. Eventually, they gave up. Hell, by the time I hit second grade, people would finally start playing with the special ed kids too. I think they realized I was getting faster and taller and just wasn’t going to back down. Ever.

By the end of that first week I’d really given the principal a reason to hate me. Turns out I could read. Mrs. H. chucked the book at me and yelled “Fine! Here Miss Smartypants!” When I actually started reading the story, she turned white and ran out of the room. After I said “the end”, I looked up and saw her and Mrs. P standing at the back of the room. I wish I would have had a camera for the “OH SHIT” look on Mrs. P’s face. Especially when I smiled very sweetly at her and it turned into fear.

So, where does the misplaced paragraph from earlier come in? You didn’t honestly think that this was my only story leading up to my father’s lecture at 14? Hell, that wasn’t the only lecture I got. Nope, this was just the birth of my crusade. The full journey takes a bit and this, dear friends, is only the first post. There are three in total. I’ll let this one sink in a bit before our journey continues. Until then…I have the playground of life to go keep an eye on.

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?

Not unlike myself, our living room furniture is on the chunky side. Also, like me, it puts the omf in comfy. After I finally got the ex to vacate the last dwelling, eldest monkey asked if we could rearrange the living room. Slightly odd request for a two year old, but my monkeys and I are slightly odd.

So, I left the big ole wompin’ couch where it was and pulled the loveseat to the center of the room. Then, I pulled the chaise lounge thingie (which just sat in a corner usually as yeah, I’m not the hoity toity loungie thing type) up against the loveseat until it formed a ginormous square roughly the size of a queen size bed. We then all piled on it and snuggled down to watch The Muppet Movie. During the opening Rainbow Connection, the edlest one and I decided to name our new creation “The Island of Love.” It seemed quite fitting.

The Island of Love has since moved with us. Guests that visit for the first time look at us with a mixture of confusion and “wow, they really are kinda nuts” until they park their judgmental tushies on it and feel the love. I fear a day when it will have to be separated. No matter how crazy or rough our lives get, The Island of Love is our safe haven. It’s our fortress of fun, our wealth of woobiness, our sanctuary of snuggle, our lush landing of love.

And we, as you know, are all about the love.

This is an old journal entry I stumbled upon this morning and thought I would share.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

When working with Alzheimer’s, death is inevitable. I know, I know, death is one of the few things in life we can all count on. But, with Alzheimer’s, it’s expected. It always sits at the back of your heart throbbing like a dull pain that you can usually squelch with some Tylenol.

Mental health is not so cut and dry.

There were months at my last job that I would lose 4 or 5 residents. That’s 4 or 5 people I had loved and nurtured. It took it’s toll and was one thing I was not sad to leave.

This last year I have lost a total of 3 residents. Two went like most- I have this uncanny ability to just sense when the time is drawing near. I get them on Hospice and once that begins, the grieving, the comforting, the process of saying goodbye begins. One, died unexpectedly very early one morning without any sign it was coming. No matter how it happens, it hurts.

I have often been scolded by friends and family- “you shouldn’t get so close to these people.” Why the fuck not? I don’t get it. The day I stop getting close to them is the day I should be fired because I am clearly not effective at my job. It hurts like hell to lose someone you care about, whether they “are old and lived a good life” or died “way too soon.” But, I would rather mourn them when they are gone and live on with the memories of having known them than hold them at some sterile distance that won’t effect me at all. I have learned so much from those I have taken care of. That is something I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I now find myself in uncharted territory for me. A couple of weeks ago I got a call from the Hospice company that I use. They have a client at a hospital that can’t go back home. He’s dying, he just fractured his hip and he is absolutely refusing to go to a nursing home. The one compromise he said he would possibly make was “a group home.” Would I consider taking him?

I have fought tooth and nail with hospitals and discharge planners who try to stick my residents in nursing homes because “they are dying.” They have the right to die where they choose damn it and with Hospice, we can continue to meet their needs in a place they consider their home, surrounded by people they consider their family. Hell, in some cases, we are literally all they have. Now, I have someone I’ve never met before in the predicament where he can’t go back to the home he knows to die and he can’t bring himself to go to a nursing home. I can’t blame him on that one. So, without even pausing, I agreed to go assess him and if we could meet his needs, he was more than welcome to join our dysfunctional little family.

So on a dark, cold, rainy morning (cliche isn’t it?) I met “Guido” for the first time. I know, you had to smile at “Guido.” I have to alter his name for privacy and I’m telling you, if you had to pick another stereotypical Italian name, his would be it. So, “Guido” it is. I always like to go through their chart first. It allows me to get a picture of them and opportunity to ask them face to face any questions that pop up in it.

Before I got there, he was described to me as “a little rough around the edges.” While going through his chart, I couldn’t help but notice the little OT come running out of a room, crying. I looked at the nurse next to me and said “Let me guess, that’s “Guido’s” room?” She laughed “you must know him pretty well.”

When I got in there, I did not see some big ogre. Instead, a tiny little Italian man who looked like he hadn’t bathed or shaved in quite some time. He was drinking a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft for breakfast (I kid you not) and using it to wash down a couple of chocolate chip cookies. I explained who I was and where I was from. He wasn’t impressed. Before I left, I looked at him and said “Look, I understand you want to go home. I also understand it’s not an option. We may not sound like much, but we’re not a nursing home, you can still drink your beer and we’ll take really good care of you. Plus some of my staff are pretty hot. I’m not sure you’re going to get a better offer hon. But, if you’re a gambling man, you can hold out and try. In the mean time, stop being so mean to the therapy girls, they work hard, are only trying to help you and have to put up with shit from all the other patients they have too.”

I almost got to the door when he said “Hey- what’s your name, wait a minute.” I said “It’s Natali.” He said “Well, toots, you drive a hard bargain, but count me in.”

The next day, Bell Ambulance brought him in. The staff doted on him and he just sat there grinning and kissed their hands like a little gentleman. I cut his hair and shaved off his scraggly beard. Monday morning one would barely recognize him. He’s actually quite a handsome little devil. He’s attached himself to my assistant and I and likes to hang out by the office now that we’ve gotten him out of bed and in a wheelchair to join the land of the living. Such a warm, fuzzy story- right?

The problem is he is dying. It’s a fact we can’t forget. Actively dying and not from the fractured hip (which is the kiss of death for most people his age), but from a very, very large mass in his lungs which he wants no treatment for. He wouldn’t even allow further testing to officially diagnose it. It could be quick, he could linger on. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands and we won’t know until it is too late. At a a time and stage where I am usually starting my goodbyes to people, I am just getting to know him. The staff have already fallen in love with him. They were angry “Why would you bring him here for us to fall in love with and he’s going to up and die on us?” All I could do was be honest- he deserves to be surrounded by love when he goes, rather than rotting away in some nursing home. He’s crusty, he’s smelly (as soon as those staples come out, he’s getting hosed down!), he’s got a smile that would melt your heart and the manners of a prince when he wants to. It’s hard for me to remember, there is going to be a day sometime not that far off where I will walk into to work and not hear him yelling at his roommate and calling him an asshole. Where my day will go by and he won’t roll up to the office door several times and say “hey gorgeous, wanna come smoke with me?” or “you know I get 2 more cans of beer today, can you make it 3?”

When that day comes, it’s going to hurt like hell.

And it did.

It was during two very late night/early morning family trips to the bathroom recently that I learned the following important life lessons:

1. We all need to cut the liquids out a little earlier in the evening.
2. Our next place needs to have at least 2 bathrooms.
3. My youngest monkey is probably going to turn out with a case of OCD.
4. All my effort to instill the “family sticks together no matter what” principal is working.

It was roughly 3:30am on a Thursday night/Friday morning when I heard the sounds of monkey feet shuffling about. I flew out of bed and checked the pantry first. Yeah, I now not the first logical place. Last time I heard a middle of the night monkey adventure, I caught the youngest monkey in the pantry eating beef jerky. “It makes a good midnight snack” ya know.

Then I hear the familiar sound of monkey tinkle, followed by “I’ve gotta go too!!” I plod down the hall realizing I need to go too. So, I queue up as the littlest one is done. She barely gets her toilet paper in the toilet and the eldest is ploppin’ her tushy down. While she begins to commence with the task at hand, the little one begins to twitch and look beyond irritated. Just as I am about to ask her what’s up, she belts out “You can’t do that!! You can’t pee pee on my pee pee!!” By now I really need to go and my sleepy noggin is trying to process the freakage starting to occur. Instinctually, eldest wipes, tosses paper, I sit to pee. That is when the complete meltdown began… First was the loud scream “NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!” Then the crying began. Lastly, through sobs- “You can’t pee pee on her pee pee on my pee pee. It’s just wrong!!!!” Eldest monkey and I both froze, just staring at the meltdown. I’m thinking of the best way to handle this and figure the best place to do so is not while on the potty. I get up, complete my mission and am going to flush when the lil one yells (again) “NOOOOO!!! I will flush it!!” She marches up to the handle, gazes down into the bowl, says “I’m so sorry pee pee” as though she is bidding fairwell to a dceased pet goldfish and then proceeds to flush the toilet. After she was satisfied it all went down properly, the wee one marches up to me, sticks her finger out at me in a pointing manner and declares “YOU should know better.” And back to bed she went.

Eldest monkey and I shake our heads and back to bed we go. As she enters their bedroom, I hear her mutter “Dude, it’s just pee.” Then I hear “It’s just wrong!” So yeah, we flush inbetween now and I am bracing from some serious future OCD.

Roughly two weeks later, around the same time, I awake to realize that both monkeys have climbed in bed with me and the tiny one has hopped down on the way to another middle of the night bathroom venture. At the same moment I realize I am wet, eldest yells “Mommy- she peed on me!!” Mom mode kicks in, I’m wide awake now. I ask her to stop yelling, tell I’ll get her cleaned up, but we don’t want to make her sister feel bad. Off the bed I hop to go deal with the little one when she realizes she’s had an accident and begins to lose it. I’m getting her calmed down and stripping off the peed on jammers when I hear the oldest one start yelling. “No mommy, it wasn’t her fault, it was me!! I peed the bed!! Tell her it was me!!” She comes trucking down the hall to the bathroom stripping off her jammie bottoms and unders. She stickes them out at her sister and says “Look! It wasn’t your fault honey, it was mine, I’m sorry.” I take the unders and look and here, bless her little heart, she had squeezed out like four drops of pee so her sister won’t feel bad. THAT is love. That is how we roll.