I can't write right now....really really can't. Tired, lazy, bored and crazy. I have a lot to say....type just won't come. Words just all seem dumb.

Later


©L'uragana

Fancy that

People around me keep seeking my advice, craving my words, wishing me to share my experiences as of late.

Are they bonkers??????

©L'uragana

Like a spiral staircase

There's nothing quite like therapy to make me feel. . . well, crazy.

The intense one-on-one focus on all the ugliness, all the crap you think you're dealing with, all the stuff you delude yourself into thinking you're managing, facing the obstacles you think you've tackled, outrun.

But going back in, I realize I maybe have gone up a few flights up the staircase -- but there's oh so many more stairs. And what sucks, is just as the spiral staircase winds around seemingly covering the same territory, I feel like I'm going over the same crap -- just maybe a little more removed.

I've seen therapists over the years -- one very good one who gave me just what I needed. She took me to a level I needed to get to (and it took me a while) I could uncover more, peel off more layers. I would have stuck with her if it weren't for an insurance change. But looking back, I think she and I could only go so far together. She was the surrogate mom--the kind, brimming with advice, love and totally accepting adult figure I never had. She held my hand, cheered me on, even cried with me.

At first, I needed that.

Then I saw a woman last year. She was approved by my insurance and I thought she was OK. I learned some from her and she gave me more practical exercises to follow. Put some things in perspective for me. She was much more no-nonsense, no frills and much less sympathetic than Dr. B. I suppose I needed that then.

But I'm not done. There's still some issues with fear and procrastination and resulting anxiety that I have to tackle. She couldn't reach me, didn't have any words that penetrated.

So I'm on the staircase. Again. This time with an older male doctor--which that in itself is a huge breakthrough. He's good. He seems to insert a lot of humor in a kind of "that's not so serious" philosophy in our talks. He seems to just know when to make me laugh, to not let me get too dark discussing my past. And I suppose I can handle that now.

He's already teaching me about the procrastination, analyzing the threads as to what it means. Showing me ways how to snap it free.

But going in and dredging up the past to look at how it colors the present and mars the future is no fun. I hate discovering how far back my behaviors of today are painted in fast-drying acrylics of the past.

I rail against stopping on the staircase and looking one flight, two flights, 20 flights down. Feeling like I've reached this landing before. And most of all, I sometimes fail to see how close the top is. Cause sometimes, it seems so damned far away.

©L'uragana

It's just a color. . . pick one

My son looked at me askew one night--strangely askew. "Mom, when did your eyes turn green?" He asked curiously as if I performed a slight of hand on him.

My eyes started out soft black, then faded to a dark brown--like the center of a Tootsie Pop--in third or fourth grade. For a number of years, they stayed that color, warm and chocolaty. In my late teens, early twenties they again shifted a bit. I began noticing a forest green color that would at times, circle my iris. That dark green caused the brown part to lighten a bit -- to a dark amber. Flecks of gold could sometime form too. But they morphed into a green/brown hue that can be either clear or murky--and depending upon that--again, the color changes.

My father's eyes changed sorcerer-like too. When he was sick (he was afflicted with Addison's Disease at a young age) and his hormones off-kilter, his eyes would transform from a melted milk chocolate to a hazy tornado green. I never liked when that happened. He usually ended up in the hospital when he came home with those eyes.

No. I don't have hazel eyes. No one has ever called them that nor would I. There's a stability to hazel eyes that my eyes don't own. Ours are mercurial and alter with mood. As poetic as I'm being now, I just say I have brown eyes. Plain and simple. No fuss.

"You know what?" the dewy-skinned MAC cosmetic girl asked as she looked for appropriate-colored eye pencils in her drawer, "Your eyes are kind of hazel, but kind of not."

"I know. They kind of . . . are sometimes brown, but sometimes not," I said sounding kind of confused, but glad she noticed the complexities.

"Khaki."

"What? That's a khaki pencil?" I asked.

"No. Your eyes. They're khaki. Exactly. When someone asks you again -- you can tell them that with complete and utter assurance," she supplied.

Hmm. Khaki. I can dig it. In fact, I have to go get my driver's license replaced next week. I hope I drive the drones at the DMV (dept. of motor vehicles) crazy when I pencil in "khaki" under eye color. Now that they have an identity, I won't be stifled.

Oh and I won't relent.

©L'uragana

Where the Wild Things Are

Some find inspiration in great literature, reflective meditation or at the bottom of a tea cup; I find mine in pop culture and movies.

Just began reading Marley and Me by John Grogan right about the time I happened to be sitting in the blackened movie theatre waiting for the main feature to pop.

From nowhere within the folds of the theatre, I heard a faint primal, soulful sound--a horn of some kind--getting louder as the shadowy screen faded and shapes began to form. Within a few notes, within a few seconds, I knew instinctively that I was watching a movie scene from "Where the Wild Things Are." I grew quiet, a warmth spreading. I had no idea a movie was imminent.

My son owns a copy of Wild Things. He tucked it in his foot locker for his kids. He never really embraced the book; it frightened him. But I will always retain sweet memories of the thin book about Max and the wild things.

Before I even wanted to have a child, I fingered the hardcover book at a booth at an outdoor art fair. The colors, the drawings of big, hairy fanged creatures spoke to me. I took it home and tucked it away because I thought it would be a good book for a child. A someday child. A maybe child. Who ended up being my boy. It was like buying that book called him into being.

I loved the adventure, the philosophy and the celebration folded in this small book. I never knew of Wild Things as a child; if I did, it would have explained a lot about my life, my spirit.

"Marley and Me" tells the tale of an oaf of a dog who wreaks havoc in the lives of a young couple and their growing family. This dog eats jewelry and mango's by the dozens, knocks over tables and lamps, slobbers over everything, chases cars dragging hapless family members for the ride--every bad behavior a dog can possess--this guy has it. But, he also exhibits an unparalleled exuberance, a fierce loyalty, a talent for bringing joy to this family as no other could quite do. It is a sweet tale, one I identify with because I live with my own scaled-down version of Marley. And his sister, too.

In both cases, what speaks to me most about Marley and Wild Things are their celebration of the raucous, the loud, the chaotic. Author John Grogan in page after page talks about how they celebrated their dogs pigheadedness, his expulsion from obedience training. They sympathized when Marley ripped and consumed drywall in fear of a storm. They stacked extra Cheerios on the high chair so Marley could enjoy along with their child the joys of scooping up those tasty O's.

They never felt the need to pound the dog into submission or make him wrong. They didn't just tolerate it either. They celebrated Marley's joie de vivre. His pluckiness.

In Wild Things, Max is scolded for being a wild thing and takes off on an adventure in which all wild things are celebrated--a land of wild things.

Our life is chaotic, wild, loud, raucous. It is on a daily basis. Even if I employed a horde of maids, laundresses, nannies and the like--our nature (the boy's and mine) would be to draw the wild card.

Our pooches attack us each and every time we open the door with the kinetic energy of someone with ADHD on crack. They howl, jump five feet straight up. Their tails switch so hard I'm afraid they will crack off. They cry as if we haven't seen them in years, when in reality, we've only gone out front to put out the garbage. Did I mention they bark? One so high-pitched it's illegal in kennels, the other owning a rousing deep-throated hound dog bark.

Often, there's loud music bellowing throughout the house. More than one kind. Often, there's loud debates being held between the boy and me or our friends. There has never been a board game played that didn't end in someone screaming victory as the others cry out, "cheater." Booming laughter spills out into the street. When we Wii, people can hear us down the block. And you better make room, too.

We run late. Peal out of my driveway often. We talk. Lots and lots. We spend all days in PJ's sometimes. We'd rather play than do laundry. We pair odd food items for the experience and the creativity and don't feel bad if we "waste" something. We camp in our backyard watching movies on the computer eating pistachio nuts and imagine we're in wild woods of Canada. We chase the moon and stalk the stars.

I am so done with attempting to live a metered, orderly life. Always doing the right thing, in the right way. It is not in our nature--and that is OK! But not only will I accept it, I shall embrace it. I celebrate the chaos. I revel in it.

Let the wild rumpus begin!

©L'uragana

The cats: final chapter

"Well, if you know any one willing to adopt any of these cats. . . call. It's sad they'll have to be euthanized." Officer Snow informed me in a tone sounding so less than upset.

The ride in deception had begun. The cats' mews and bellows drifted from their placement in the back seat. My nerves taut, ready to pluck loose at any second.

The ex-husband of the former cat owner sat beside me in the minivan droned about life in general. He sighed and expressed that his car now smelled. I loathed him. Wanted to begin beating on him, but just breathed deeply and kept my mouth shut. I asked him for a cigarette to calm my nerves because I would be weaving my tale--that I found these cats abandoned in a box at a shopping mall--so that geographically they would have to take them and begin placing them in foster homes.

"You know, the place where I get my cigarettes isn't too far from here. We could go there and get you a pack," he said.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to take a road trip now? Right now?" my words hissed as if I were a member of the cat colony. "If you're concerned about me taking a cigarette, if that's an issue, I'll pay you. No problem. I think these cats have been through enough." my words deliberate and venomous.

I hated him. I hated him for his stupidity, his lack of sensitivity. I hated that I would be leaving my name at the police station, not him. I hated him for putting me in this situation.

I poised myself upon entering the formidable police station doors. Fourth of July, short-staffed, I was hoping this would go down easy. I allowed my gait to loosen up, my body to appear that of a concerned suburbanite doing the right thing--but nothing more.

"Hi. I'm an animal lover and I've got this crazy situation on my hands. I was shopping at JC Penney's last night. I was leaving the lot and was on the phone. I happened to see this tall man in a red SUV leave a huge box in the lot-- and then drive off. Really fast. I was curious . . . then I saw something come out of the box -- and I just had to look. Imagine, my shock, when I found this box filled with cats. Filled."

I went on to say that I took them home not knowing what to do and put them in my basement. I called a known cat shelter (The Tree House) who suggested I bring them in to the police station -- that they couldn't take any more cats in. The first cop seemed to buy it. I breathed a little easier.

The second officer, a young man who's lanky body, wide steps and bopping walk made him appear years younger, also bought the story. See, I had to throw in the part about taking them home because there would be no other way to explain some of the cats bwere being transported in a dog carrier.

That dog carrier caused an added step in the rescue. Because he wouldn't be able to return it, he wanted us to take the cats directly to the animal rescue that he'd be bringing them to any way. Ok, I thought, one more step. I can handle this.

The ex-husband bitched some more about wanting to get the damn cats "outta" his car. Began asking me if I wanted to get a bite later, did I want to see some fireworks. Frankly, the only fireworks I wanted to see were ones launched from his ass. But in crisis, I recede as quiet as a mute and continued my word boycott.

We waited over 40 minutes at the animal hospital. Any animals and their human counterparts here on July 4, were not in good shape. I felt like a rube, grimy for lying---like I was pulling a fast one on them. And in a sense, I was.

Eventually, the cats were called in and they dragged the carrier and took the boxes to the anonymity of a back room. The woman re-emerged with a scowl, "The cop told me there were kittens. These aren't kittens."

"Well, four of them are," I countered. "No, they're not. They're really not," she chided.

I wanted to scream, they were born in March, of course they're kittens. I wanted to shout: these aren't my cats. I would never leave them in deplorable conditions. I would never not spay them or not vaccinate them or leave them strewn about like old clothes I got sick of wearing. This isn't my fault. I'm doing a good thing, I played iover in my head.

Instead, I took in her cruel looks and down-turned mouth. I slunk away in shame.

I felt relieved as we left. Exuberant. They were safe. They would be seen by a vet. They would live in clean, loving homes until a real family welcomed them home. But I also felt like weeping in someone's arms--my special someone who could help me recover from this experience. I wanted to cry the day away and melt. Decompress until there was no sadness left and I fell asleep exhausted like a child.

I did just that, that night. I shook away the man, the grime, the guilt in a hot shower and awaited J's arrival. I broke down. I cried. Over and over. The experience left me feeling defeated in a way I didn't understand. I guess it's because I couldn't follow up and wouldn't know what ever really happened to those sweet, innocent creatures.

I was wrong.

A few days later, I kept seeing a number flash across my cell phone I didn't recognize. Finally at a lunch with some vendors, I took the call. It was from the director who began asking me how I found the cats. I heard suspicion finely laced in his questions and I put on my finest actor's voice. He said one of the cats contained a microchip ID'ing it to a woman from Hanover Park--the suburb from which they came. I began to panic. What if this dude's ex-wife was called. What if they somehow slipped and gave her my name? Or described her ex-husband as being an accomplice? Would she lie and say I stole her "property"?

They found it odd, he said, that the cat organization I had mentioned as instructing me to where to drop the cats off was indeed from where this cat's chip came from. "It's weird, don't you think?" His accusation poised as a question. I didn't crack. He eventually ended the call. And once again, I felt relief. The woman who was linked to the chip was coming in that evening to retrieve the cat--not hers--but a neighbor's from across the street, he told me.

Before I could even worry too much about an hour later, another unfamiliar phone number popped up. And again. The caller not leaving a message. Eventually, I chose not to outrun the inevitable.

"This is Officer Snow from the XX police department." I froze, certain I'd be accused of property theft or that they would demand me to pick up the cats.

Officer Snow, who's voice was cutting and edgy like the rough glass, was I'm certain trying to crack me in ways the shelter director couldn't. She asked the same questions, but ended her interrogation by informing me the cats' time was up. . . the next day. "If you know anything about them. . . you really should tell us because they're going to be euthanized," the delivery rough like barbed wire on skin.

I knew I had to keep my emotions in check; they were counting on me to either burst into tears and give up the story or admit I was the owner or knew of the owner -- I'm not sure what they were thinking.

I kept defending my decision and even began to get angry as my acting took over for reality. "You know that's a terrible thing to tell me. I'm an animal lover and thought I was doing the right thing. The cop told me that the shelter doesn't euthanize; if I knew that, I'd have driven them to Anti-Cruelty because at least they've got some shot there."

"Well," she began to stumble,"They try. They do the best they can. It's just if you know anything or any one who can come and adopt them. . . " she droned, "cause they seem like sweet cats." I found out they were in good health . . . and yes, sweet-natured.

She ended the call satisfied I didn't know anything more than I did.

I was sick the rest of the day. I thought I had done something good--saved them. And now, I had to live knowing that I might have sent them all to be euthanized. I handed them right over. I couldn't find the number of the woman I talked to who promised me, as long as they were "good" they'd be placed. The pit of nerves grew harder in my stomach. I was useless at work.

In my gut, I feel that the cop was trying to scare me or break me into telling them what happened. I suspect they felt either I stole the cats or those cats were mine and that I gave them up and didn't want to take responsibility. But I don't know. I didn't have the courage to call the next day to find out.

Days later, I did find the woman's number and left a message for her to call me back on follow-up; she never returned my call. Part of me wants to have someone call there -- but do I really want to know the answer?

Two cats remain. A very fat orange marmalade tabby and a long-haired chestnut cat who looks like she's wearing her own mink coat. The ex-husband told me that his kids said these cats were close--liked hanging out together--so I'm glad they were the ones left together.

The ex-wife sent the ex-husband a text message that told him to provide "documentation" he took the cats to a no-kill shelter so that she could prove to their kids that their father was not the cruel man they think he is.

She had over a year to find homes for these pets. Then after the court awarded the home to him in June, he gave her (at my urging) another three weeks to find placement. But apparently, she felt the need to make demands, decided she cared at this stage of the game. He told her two cats remained, did she wish to take them to her new home. She "warmly" said that no, they were his problem now. Such devotion, huh?

I have been on the phone for days looking for any no-kill shelter to take the duo in. Glutted with owner-abandoned animals from foreclosures, job losses and filled to the brim because it is now mating season and thousands of kittens are being born at each second---they've told me they sympathize but no, they cannot chance to squeeze two more in. I've been told to take them to animal control -- that although they only have seven days on the chopping block -- the shelters often go there weekly picking who they can save.

But this isn't good enough for me. I don't want their blood on my hands, too.

Finally, I got clever. Called one of the newest best shelters in Chicago -- but called the foundation not the front guard who has been trained not to be swayed by any more hard-luck stories. And this time, I got a real live person.

So this part of the plan should be begun this week. I plan on luring these two out with savory tuna fish, scooping them up in my carrier and taking them to either of two angels who agreed to foster them for two weeks (the shelter's demand) after I get them fully vaccinated and a clean bill of health. They are also requesting I give them a hefty fee to take them in--but they promise to work with me. I was told by one shelter worker that I should consider this offer a blessing, a miracle.

Then the shelter will take them in promising never to leave them abandoned, to fill their bellies, to give them rubs when needed, occasional treats and most importantly, a chance.

That's all I wanted to do. Was give these guys a chance.

I've had to come to peace that even if the original eight were euthanized, that a humane passing is far better than a fate left to fend for themselves on the streets with no vaccines, reproducing at rapid rates, prey to diseases and other animals.

I've had to make peace with that. I don't have a choice.

Hurricane Girl wishes to thank readers of this saga for listening. It has been a harrowing journey. Thank you for being a part of it. And please, please remember if you have any time or money to donate, these shelters are working nonstop (some even taking in 300 in one week!) to provide as many opportunities for as many animals as they can. They have to be remembered. And remember if you are ever in this situation, there are options. It is not hopeless.


Luragana

The cats: Part II

"This just all seems . . . suspicious," said Officer Snow in a barky tone ground to perfection to be used for eliciting confessions.

For weeks, I fretted over the ninety-degree heat and how it swells in a home with shuttered windows. I worried that the bank would come and claim their prize. I feared I would not be able to keep this man in collusion with me on taking care with the cats--I had to be nice to him. And most of all, I imagined that "animal lover" would one day let them all out herself, setting them "free" in her twisted logic. She still had a key to the house and came back every few days to sprinkle kibble and offer them fresh water from a dirty bowl. I urged the man to change the locks. He did. The count down had begun.

Contacting a recent reacquainted friend who happens to be a vet, she offered kind words and a single phone number. Start there, she encouraged. And of the six or so numbers that initial call solicited, I made a connection with the first number I dialed, fourth on the list. I went by gut and it seemingly paid off.

This was a conduit to a grassroots group of cat rescuers. A chain of every day people fostering abandoned cats, strays and owner give-ups. She began by letting me know there was really no more room for any cats anywhere. I expressed my disgust at this couple, their lack of responsibility, of compassion. "Assholes," she spat. I agreed.

"I normally don't do this and if you tell any one, I will deny it up and down," she said. She began threading the fabric of our plot. I was to take the cats to the XXX police department, tell them I found the cats in a box in a mall parking lot. Geography was key to whom would take them in, I learned. The police would do an intake and begin the chain of events that would lead the cats and kittens to a series of foster homes. Lead them to safety.

On July 4, we pulled up to the house once again, equipped with my large dog carrier and several boxes punctured with holes. I was confidant this would be an in-and-out operation. I planned on being back home in an hour, hour and a half max.

I could smell the cloud of ammonia from the driveway this time, while I was still in the car. My eyes watered upon entry. I heard nails scatter on linoleum, heard small thumps from all corners as the cats bunkered down in hiding spots.


What the night lovingly hid, the daylight harshly told the truth.

The innocent gray/silver/black kittens were easy to coax. They melted under my touch. Four. I saw what I assumed their mother atop a urine-stained mattress lain on the front room floor. The kittens scampered about her as her round amber eyes grew rounder and bigger in suspicion, her ebony coat eliciting a pet. A fat orange tabby came out to look. Other cats disappeared as I turned my attention their way.

I called a creamy cougar-esque cat to me and plunked her (or him) in the carrier. I grabbed the tabby by the scruff and urged him in, too. One pluckish kitten curious, got placed inside. Then the ebony mother got too close to the man and he grabbed her, not by the scruff, but somewhere else causing her to twist, caterwaul--scream out a guttural ancestral sound. Once the other cats heard the mournful cry, they went down under.


It would take hours before the mission ended.

Two of the kittens played hide-and-seek in the entertainment center that had one door hanging askew like a fallen tooth. When I went behind there, I found feces stacked up some two feet high. Cats despise filth and will refuse to go in a dirty litter box. They'll find another place.

Another cat ran into a side bedroom. Apparently, the owner thought that leaving a window open was the right thing to do. The cats jumped in and out of the room with the aplomb of seasoned acrobats. Seemingly hundreds of flies flew in tornado spirals in the center of the room. It was like something out of The Amityville Horror. The stench of baked feces filled the room.

Baby blue walls told me this was one of the boy's bedrooms. So did piles of discarded urine-soaked sports shirts, shorts and PJ's, random action figures akimbo on the floor which could hardly be seen, a dismantled Game Cube. The closet reflected three-feet high piles of . . . a discarded life: comic books; gym shorts; crayons; an original Disney sketch yellowed by urine.

A note in loving script taped to the door read:
Nicky, please wake up Cody at 7 (be nice!)
Have a muffin and yogurt for breakfast.
Love you.

I cried. I cried for the cats lovingly collected like Precious Moments figurines. I teared for the boys who called this filthy war zone home. I wept for the adults even. How could they think this normal on any level?

As much as I would like to say that I spent hours gingerly placing all the cats in the carriers so they would feel safe, I can't. He began chasing the cats who fought and howled and I receded to a place of paralysis and could only assist as he got one after another into the boxes.

I cannot describe to you the horror of pressing my face to the filthy floor looking amidst debris for the cats. Nor the hopelessness when I discovered that some of the cats dug out holes in the couches and had buried themselves. I am ashamed I felt so defeated.

Further, she had lied. There were not seven cats; I counted eight. And as we left as the daylight hours dissipated, and "oh my God" sprang forth from my lips. I turned and saw yet another orange tabby. After another half hour of hide-and-seek, I told him we had to go-that we could return for one cat.

Except I turned again and atop one scratched up bureau sat a gorgeous long-haired chestnut brown cat looking regal and austere. The bureau was taller than either of us. He asked me to attempt to get the cat; I looked at his bloodied, scratched up arms and the paralysis rose.

So he reached up but the cat eluded him, moving back and forth. Not to be undermined, he grabbed at the lower half of the body and the cat fought valiantly using all its strength to hang on to the corners of the bureau. It sounded like he was killing the cat and my speech was lost. I could only look -- but couldn't move. He shook the cat loose, forced him to release his grip; I ran to get the carrier. . . but he fumbled and the cat escaped.

We had to leave; I would come back for the other two. For now, I felt good in knowing that most of them were out and headed for good health, new homes and a better life.

But it wasn't quite over. Yet.

Part III tomorrow.

Luragana

The cats: Part I

Ring. Ring. Ring. An unknown number across the screen. "This is Officer Snow from the XXX Police Department." Being as guilt-ridden as I am for no real reasons, these words paralyzed me from the inside out in an instant.

A few weeks ago I, through an unusual set of circumstances, learned that a finalized contentious divorce coupled with an impending home foreclosure left seven house cats lingering in a home no longer occupied by humans and in deplorable living conditions.

Two-foot high grass and the muted cloak of dusk gave the house a wild look, like it belonged on the prairie, on first inspection. By the time we got in the house, darkness masked the full horror. It looked as if the former inhabitants were awaken in the middle of the night by secret police who threw all the contents of their lives amid the rooms while scouring each inch for some priceless item and then forced the residents to leave.

Layers of school papers lay in haphazard stacks like carpet. Family framed photos shattered in half by lightening bolts littered the counters. Drawers pulled open like hungry mouths. Unknown objects threatened to harm at each turn, unidentifiable in the dark. Cat feces smeared on the floor, the walls, the lower cabinets.

Since not enough litter boxes had been provided by the "animal lover" and former owner, those there were spilling feces like cut-open guts. The litter boxes clearly hadn't been emptied in months and months. And months.

Older cat urine transformed to ammonia and fresh cat urine sprayed on walls, clothes piles, furniture and the floor saturated the house, my hair, my clothes. These innocent animals smelled as if they had been bathed in urine. Each pet of their fur resurrecting the stench.

The cats slinked from crevices, corners and other hiding spots in the shell of a home warming up to my female voice, my light step. They melted under my touch, begging for a rub of the head, scratch of the lower back. The isolation of these creatures skulking like a shadow among us.

I erupted into halting tears; my breathing coming in short gasps.

The man I was with the ex-husband clearly was no fan of cats and transferred his feelings of anger of his former wife onto the animals. I begged he continue feeding and giving them water until I could find a place for them. I went to the faucet and filled dirty bowls and poured cheap cat kibble left in the cupboard into other equally filthy dishes.

After weeks of back-and-forth, the animal loving ex-wife said her ex-husband should just leave the cats there. That they were fine. Despite the obvious, she also ignored the facts that the longer these cats (and kittens) remained alone in this indoor colony the greater the risk they revert to their instincts and become wild, i.e., unadoptable.

She also alleged spewed the foolish thought that the bank would not take possession of the home--my biggest fear--even though the mortgage hadn't been paid for a year and a half. I suffered nightmares that a cleaning crew hired by the bank would be dispatched to the home and upon seeing the cats would scare them out onto the street.

I had to be in action. I only hoped it was the right thing.

Part II tomorrow.




©L'uragana

Of love and life

I've resigned myself to the fact that I will live alone. Forever.

I'm too old and too committed to freedom, paid too big a price for it, to share my house, my bed, my life with someone full-time. I've attempted this dating thing that boggles my mind and breaks my spirit (at times) with it's unrelenting new rules and ever-changing mores.

I had one guy disappointed when he found out I wasn't in any stage of menopause (the birth control factor). I have been chased by men in their early thirties who feel that dating within my own range only leaves me open to a pitiful pool of men needing kegs of Red Bull and frequent doses of Viagra to keep up.

I've been pursued by much older men who still think that acquiring a hot, young chick is the cat's meow even though at 45, I'm not hot, nor young nor even a chick anymore.

Broken-down men hobbled by bad divorces, bankruptcies, foreclosures and rising child support payments living back home with mom seem to think I might find them a tasty catch.

Worst still, I still gravitate toward the one person whom I think knows me best of all, the man who fell in love with my words before ever thinking of bedding me, the man who raises my nettle and my spirits all in one conversation.

The man who makes me think, while reminding me I think way too much. He's let me rail against him as substitute for the world. He had slices in his soul hiding bits of my shame that he alone knows. The man who makes me be a better person because when he is in my orbit, everything realigns and suspends somehow how it should.

But even this, I question.

For when he did commit to me fully, I ran like the most skittish of fawns into the deep woods and only when he retreated did I find the courage to exit the brush. I sometimes think if he came to me now and laid his heart for me to take, that I would once again run like Artemis sure that he was in a million ways wrong for me.

But to me, he feels like home. The world never looks safer than from the vantage point of peering just over his broad shoulders.

But I am a daughter of hope. It has scarred me and healed me. I am a late bloomer too. And I am cuttingly aware that if we had coupled years ago when new love blazes, it would have ended in an inferno charring us both. I know this. But I know that things have changed, evolved. The inferno just lit embers. I don't know that he knows this.

I am done convincing him.

Timing is everything and things come to me when they will. I know this. I just don't know if this will make it's way toward me. It seems I'm destined to have a trail of failed relationships behind me.

I question why I love and whom I love for my definition is skewed, faulty. It seems in this arena, I cannot see like others. It is cloudy, no matter how much I wish for clarity and clean the glass.


©L'uragana

In the summertime

This summer's not shaping up to be the laid-back, pool-lounging relaxing respite I planned. Counted on.

The weather's been uncooperative. May rains spilled over to June and trickled into July. We had one work week of 90-degree humid blankets that left me cranky and house-bound.

My son's foray into a summer sports camp didn't work out because I felt their militaristic attitude toward being physical (and the philosophy behind it) unsafe and unreasonable. My boy took their flier and blocked out the word "sports" and replaced it with blocky letters transforming the name to "Boot Camp" before slipping it under a refrigerator magnet as comedic fodder for house guests.

After the encouragement of one parent of Jake's friend, I signed him up for baseball one wintry day dreaming of emerald ball fields and steamy hot dogs after the game. He assured me as asst. coach, he would work with Jake and even be able to take him to practices and games if I got caught in bad traffic--which I often do.

Although his intentions noble, he got another job that has prevented him from getting there in time, let alone picking up my kid. In fact, I've taken his kid to more games/practices--a reversal of our plan--then he has been able to provide. And after this abysmal baseball run, I've given up the dream that my son will finally unleash his inner athlete and smack that ball high above as onlookers gape, mouths wide open.

Missed games due to the monsoon season in Chicagoland resulted in games stretched out in mid-July and practices bunched up on top of each other to make up lost time. This means I've been a wreck at work always trying to get out early to be able to make the 40-mile hike back home to cart him to the ball field--on time.

Because of the time commitment (coupled with the torrential rains) we've been unable to enjoy lazy days and evenings at the town pool--one of our most beloved summer rituals.

Last summer was idyllic. Through a beam of luck, I got him enrolled in a free program at a summer camp right by work. The structured program offered daily a bit of books, some hands-on projects, daily walks to the playground, an occasional field trip and a reward of a movie during the hottest of late afternoons. The counselors were kids in early college with education as a field of study; the classes racially diverse. He spoke of his new friends, Omar, D'Shawn and Diego. They even provided lunch!

I didn't need to worry about making it home before a minute after 6 o' clock struck. He was so close to the office, I sometimes popped in during lunch. The completion of the summer program closed with a wonderful cheesy version of"Johnny Appleseed" play that all the children participated in.

Nearly every night, we'd head over to the town pool and spend the remaining two hours of it's availability splashing and lounging as the natural light diminished.

It was an unfettered summer. It was a summer I will lovingly cherish. I need more of those.

©L'uragana

A thought

"I was so afraid of everything. . . that eventually, I feared nothing."

Roderick Toombs

©L'uragana

Brilliant

"I'm nobody," I said.

"You're not a nobody; you're just unknown," he replied. Kinder, more relevant words never spoken to me.

©L'uragana

minutes

My life is fleeting by--all of ours--in seconds. I'm angry that I've wasted so much time, so much time. What do I want? What do I wish?

I spent so much time grieving, crying, in pain and unrest. In worry, in confict, in anger and angst. I've thrown it away like left-over cotton candy at the fair.

What do I want? What do I wish?

And if I could ever answer those questions, do I have the courage to go after what I want? To live the life I want?

Do you?




©L'uragana

Some days, like today, I'm sick of all the bullshit.


©L'uragana

I am NOT a baseball mom

Not today. Not any day.




©L'uragana