Where's My Treat, Bitch?

I have two cats. Peanut is friendly, affectionate, playful ~ he thinks he's a puppy. Shasta, on the other hand, is pure feline. Shasta is strikingly beautiful, and knows it. She has thick, lustrous black fur, with a charming white necklace and playful white bikini. She's elegant, graceful, condescending. We all know what female dogs are called, but do you know what a female cat is called? Queen. Shasta is well aware of this fact and finds it perfectly reasonable. When H. Rider Haggard wrote of She Who Must Be Obeyed, he was really thinking of a cat like our Shasta.

She spilled the catnip. Then rolled in it. She looked like the
ceiling of a planetarium.

She does have a weakness, one thing that will cause her to humble herself. Shasta is a nip-ho. She will do anything for nip, even tolerate having her claws clipped (she bitches, but only scratches once or twice). In effort to get her to file her nails on something other than my couch, I rubbed catnip all over her long-neglected scratching post. It worked. She loved that post. She molested that scratching post. It was the best thing ever. Until the nip wore off. Then the couch returned to primary target status.

Dave had a "better" idea. He somehow got her to scratch once, then gave her a treat. Those Temptations are almost as good as catnip. The next time she used the post, another treat. Pretty soon, the sisal on the scratching post was frayed, she'd scratch & scratch and get those treats. But, it didn't really look like she was into the scratching. She scratched shorter and shorter times before seeking that treat. It began to look as though Shasta had trained Dave to give her treats.

Now, she's a man's gal. I am allowed to exist only if I serve her needs. This has been long apparent ~ if I turn on the faucet when she's thirsty, open those Fancy Feast cans, etc. she won't kill me in my sleep. Sometimes she goes to the post, drags one paw down its surface, sits in front of me and gives me a very clear look, "Where's my treat, bitch?"


I need to take good care of my opposable thumbs, if I can't open those cans, I'm in a world of hurt.

PLOP. . .goes the wedding ring.

I itch, a lot. I scratch like a dog with fleas. It's gotten so embarrassing that, for a fun vacation treat, I finally went to see a dermatologist. She determined I have a rash. That isn't as stupid as it sounds, she thinks the seven separate rashes all the same. One of her recommendations was taking off my wedding ring before I wash my hands, and not replacing it until my hands are completely dry.

This is harder than you might think. After twenty-six years of always wearing a ring, taking it off is easy to forget. So, I stepped into the shower, ring and all ~ just like normal. When I remembered, I thought about putting my ring on my pinky, after all, there's no rash on that finger. But, it's a pretty sloppy fit on the pinky. What if falls off and slides down the drain before I can grab it? Fishing a ring out of the drain, with all that hair an slime, ewww. Dilemma.

I open the shower curtain a bit & ponder where to put it. The window sill, two inches away, didn't occur to me because . . . umm . . . because I hadn't yet had any coffee? The toilet lid? Yeah. That's close and level. (stop laughing) I gently tossed my ring to the toilet, thinking how much better this is than risking it going down the bathroom drain. (didn't i already tell you to stop laughing) It landed perfectly on the very smooth lid, slid to the back, down ~ clanking cheerily as it bounces off the porcelain and under the seat. Even with the shower going, I heard my wedding ring go PLOP into the water.

Oh yeah. It's so much more fun to fish it out of the toilet than the shower drain. Admittedly, the toilet was freshly scrubbed (thank you, God) and the shower was. . .errrr. . . less than immaculate, but still. . . something about reaching into the toilet is so icky.

This wasn't the first time I've felt how cold the water in the bowl is (very, for those who don't know).  When I was very little, no more than three, Mom was hanging some handwashables over the shower curtain and I was sitting. That hole is pretty gosh-darned big for a toddler. I lost my grip. I went splash. I remember my tail in the water, my hands & feet in the air, shoulders caught by the seat. It was very undignified, and a little scary. "Mom!" I screamed. "What?" she snapped, turning. I don't remember what she said, but I do remember the horrified expression on her face.

When someone is late, in my family, it's not unusual to ask, "Did you fall in?" I was in my thirties before I learned that no one outside of my family knows that expression. It is just an ongoing joke at my expense. Gee, thanks Mom & Dad.

Genealogy tip of the day: This cannot be said enough, check the math. I can't tell the number of times I've looked at someone else's family tree to see that Bob was born in 1920 and Bob's mother was born in 1868. Really? Possible, but not likely. Usually, it turns out that Mom was born in 1886. Sometimes the purported mother was actually a grandma. Anytime someone has a child after fifty, it's worth double-checking. 

The Wimpiest Hero

Donated platelets today ~ first time ever. It took an hour-and-a-half, but I got to sit in a comfy chair and watch a mediocre chick flick. I picked The Time Traveler's Wife and I'm not sure I could have followed it if I hadn't read the book, but having read the book, I kept looking for missing scenes and characters, etc. It was a pleasant movie, but read the book, it's better.

Anyway, platelets ~ so they stick needle in, just like a regular blood donation, only this time they suck out your blood, spin it around, pull some plasma and all the platelets they can get, and return the rest. Ninety minutes and they got what looked to be thirty cc's of sweetened condensed milk. Apparently, that's a good amount. The various people who need platelets include bone marrow transplant (BMT) patients. Now, my regular job involves making drugs for BMT patients, so the opportunity to do even more for my patients, while sitting on my ass, is extra cool.  I gave my platelets, watched a movie, got my cookie ~ Memorial Blood Center gets the best chocolate cookies ~ and went on my merry way.

While I was driving home, all smug cause I'm some kind of hero, saving lives and all that, I realized that I'm about the wimpiest hero ever. In an actual crisis, I'd be doing good to remember to call 911. Seriously, the pain in the butt in the movies who stands around crying, "Oh God. Oh no." until you want to reach through the screen and throttle her, that's me. Heroes are cops and firemen. A hero is the guy who sees a couple fighting and steps in to pull the dude off his girlfriend. An EMT who braves the scariest of ghettoes to get to his patient is a real hero. Heroes risk something more than the possibility that the chocolate cookies will be gone by the time they're done lounging in their comfy chair.

Next time you see a hero, say thanks. In the meantime, go earn a cooky so I won't have to be the only wimpy hero-lite.

Genealogy tip of the day: When looking at census forms, check institutions in the area ~ some relatives end up in state hospitals, some in prisons. Don't be disappointed if you find them, a black sheep (or a polka-dotted one) livens up the family story. 

OMG! Homosexuals in love!

A gay couple might want to get married someday. Here. In Minnesota. Oh, the humanity! For years, Minnesota was a haven for people who didn't (or at least, tried not to) hate groups of people for something they couldn't help. I'm talking after World War II, of course, we were atrocious in the twenties. Lately, though, we seem to be getting good at that hate thing again.

This whole business of a marriage amendment is silly at best ~ hateful at worst. I think most supporters are drinking the Kool-Aid and have decided that if we don't have a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage (which, by the way, is already illegal in Minnesota) that we'll be overrun by all sorts of special interest groups who want to redefine marriage as a legal opportunity to bond with children, farm animals and their ten best friends.

Proponents claim that gays will destroy marriage if they can marry. How much damage did Sally Ride and her wife do to the institution of marriage? None. How about Larry King, with seven exes? He makes a mockery of it. Easy divorce does far more damage to the cultural institution of marriage than gay marriage ever could. Welfare wreaks havoc on the family by encouraging couples not to marry ~ if Antoine marries Shauniqua, he'll have to get a job to support his kids, if he doesn't, he can live off her check; that destroys marriage and shreds the traditional family. Mai and Toua can marry at 15 and somehow that's okay, but Ryan and Mike can't marry at 30? Preposterous.

Churches should certainly continue to be allowed to pick and choose who they'll marry ~ if you don't like their rules, go to another church ~ it's called Freedom of Religion and is guaranteed by the First Amendment. The state is another subject entirely. The state should only be allowed to discriminate in marriage based on age (and 15 is way the heck too young). If we must have an amendment defining marriage, let's define it as a "binding contract between two consenting adults".

Marriage is the only contract where gender matters. And it shouldn't. Love is love and should be something we celebrate. Happy couples ~ all happy couples ~ are good for us. Emotions are contagious, so let's spread love & happiness instead of bigotry & bitterness. Vote NO.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Genealogy tip of the day: If Great-UncleWalter, the confirmed bachelor, shows up on several consecutive censuses with the same male roommate, they were probably more than friends. Wouldn't it be nice to end the lie for future generations?