Right around my birthday, Amazon sent me a profoundly ridiculous book suggestion:

Since I Was Abandoned After Reincarnating, I Will Cook With My Fluffy Friends: The Figurehead Queen Is Strongest At Her Own Pace

Reader, I bought it.

The book itself was completely unexpected. I honestly thought I was buying a comic book (ahem, graphic novel), but it’s not. I would have had no idea how to describe it, but the first review labels it “Isekai” (along with a five-star rating), which wikipedia says is: “Isekai (Japanese: 異世界, transl. “different world” or “otherworld”) is a genre of light novels, manga, anime and video games that revolve around a person who is transported to and has to survive in another world, such as a fantasy world, virtual world or parallel universe.”

In fact, the even more narrow genre is “isakei tensei,” where the main character is reincarnated into another world. In our heroine’s previous life, she was an office worker in Japan who liked to cook, but in her current life, she’s first engaged to a king and then married to one in a sort of temporary platonic arrangement.

It’s pure fluff. The great drama is that the heroine is going to bake a chiffon cake for the king for his birthday, but her nemesis has stolen the recipe and is going to make the same thing. Not quite a fairy tale, because completely modern in sensibility, but still somehow reminiscent of a children’s cartoon. (The book is labeled as Teen/YA and, in fact, is currently #1 in the category Teen and Young Adult Cooking & Food Ebooks. I bet you never ran into that category on Amazon before! ) I read it outside, in about an hour, chuckling aloud every now and then, and when Suzanne got home, I read lines aloud to her.

Example:

The wolf was so beautiful and majestic and yet, I knew almost nothing about him.

One thing I did know was that the bottom of his paws sported little black pads. They were smooth, without any large cracks in the skin, and stood out against his silver fur. I desperately wanted to give them a good squish.

“Paw pads are the work of the gods…”

I scrunched my fingers, imagining squishing those little pads.

since I was abandoned, etc.

So why buy what I thought was a comic book?

Because of the absolutely irresistible tag line: “Fluffy Friends, Good Food, And Freedom, What More Does A Girl Need?!” It has become my new mantra. In fact, I’ve written it down on one of the chalkboards hanging above my window, the ones that are supposed to be providing me with writing encouragement. I’m not sure I’d exactly call this writing encouragement, but it’s excellent life encouragement.

Fluffy friends, good food, freedom. Ingredients for a satisfying life!

Meanwhile, in the two months that I didn’t blog — okay, almost three — WordPress did some kind of crazy update and I can no longer figure out how to write or create links or add images… it is SO ANNOYING. And I feel like a Luddite, complaining about the speed of change, but seriously, why do I have to learn a new interface for something as straightforward as writing? WHY?

I had a really nice conversation with the Best Brother Ever today.

I cried.

That wasn’t what made it nice, though. We’d been texting, which we do pretty regularly, and I’d written:

I’m so tired of being depressed. I feel like I work so hard at all the things I know how to do — being mindful and eating healthy food and journaling and getting outside time and being grateful and finding things to anticipate and you know, it just shouldn’t be so hard. I need to get a dog, I really do.

me

The next minute, my phone rang and for the next hour or so, we talked about depression and grief and dogs and therapy and drugs and exercise and all the things. And at the end of it, I felt better.

I went to write about it in my journal, which is the only place I’ve been writing for the past few months, but almost before I started, I thought, “No. I want to write about this in a place where I will save it. Where I will find it again. Where I will be reminded of it, sometimes randomly because of those little links at the end of my posts re-surfacing past entries and sometimes intentionally when I search or read. I want to write about it on my blog.”

And so, I am bringing my blog back to life. I’m not actually hurting less than I was when I killed it. The summary from my text pretty much covers my current state of mind: working hard at happiness, doing all the right things, and yet still depressed and grieving and incredibly hurt by the callous behavior of people I loved. I’m still both horrified and disgusted that my son would read my blog while ignoring my texts, phone calls, and emails. Even more horrified that someone I thought was a friend would be in touch with him closely enough to know that and yet not care enough about me to let me know she’d heard from him and he was okay. For all I know, he’s homeless, unemployed, and… but that’s not my problem, is it? I have to let that go. I’m working on it, truly I am.

And meanwhile, the Best Brother Ever remains the Best Brother Ever. I’m so glad he’s in my life, so grateful for his existence.

Also grateful for Serenity, Serendipity, & spring.

April 20, 2021

Early last week, Olivia Murderpaws was finally spayed. The surgery is common, of course, but serious, with a ten-day recovery period and stitches, so she was supposed to wear the cone of shame. To no one’s surprise, she figured out how to get out of it in record time. Suzanne went out and bought a doughnut type cone, and Olivia managed to escape from that one, too. Oh, well, no cone for her.

Fast forward a couple of days and OM is lethargic, not eating, and seems to be running a fever. Suzanne calls the vet, the vet says bring her in, and I spend the afternoon sitting in the vet’s office parking lot while they run increasingly expensive tests — x-rays, bloodwork, an ultrasound, more bloodwork, urine test, kidneys. Olivia’s running a high fever, but they can’t find a cause. However, while there’s no evidence of infection around her stitches, she’s managed to pull a couple of them loose, and the vet has to re-tie them. The stitches must be protected, so if she won’t wear a cone, she instead gets to wear this horrible mesh t-shirt.

Needless to say, she’s not happy about it. In her zest to get it off, she gets her claws tangled in the mesh and flips out. So 7AM Saturday morning, on her way to work, Suzanne knocks on my door and asks if I will check on Olivia throughout the day and make sure she hasn’t gotten tangled again. Of course I will, is the obvious answer, but also, isn’t there some other option? 

Why, yes, there is. The vet said she could try using the sleeve of a long-sleeved t-shirt, but Suzanne has no long-sleeved cotton t-shirts, so she’s going to hit up the thrift store later and try to find one. I, however, do have a long sleeved t-shirt, which I’m willing to give to the cause. So Suzanne goes to work, and I dig out my t-shirt, cut it up, then go inside and brave the dressing of the kitten. The kitten is surprisingly non-resistant (worryingly lethargic, in fact), so I manage to get her out of the mesh shirt and into the cotton sleeve without too much trouble. Basically, it was like putting her into a sock with a hole at both ends — I pulled it over her head and down.

A little while later, Suzanne comes home on her work break to give Olivia her medicine. Olivia’s managed to get the sleeve half off, so Suzanne decides it needs arm holes. It takes both of us to get her into the armhole version, but it works. And it does seem safer than the mesh, because there’s nothing for her to get her claws tangled in. 

Suzanne goes back to work and I go back to my tiny house. Probably a couple of hours later, I walk outside and discover a piece of black fabric next to my door. 

I look at the fabric and think, Huh, I must have dropped the shirt remnants. But that’s awfully small to be the entire rest of the shirt. Did I cut the second sleeve off? Did Suzanne?

Also, why did I bring the fabric back to the tiny house? What am I going to do with scraps of t-shirt? Why didn’t I just toss them in the garbage can inside?

Also… also… also… (By now I think I was probably not breathing…) … WAIT! This piece of fabric has arm holes cut into it!!!

The back door to Suzanne’s house is slightly ajar. The sick kitten — who is never allowed outside! — must have escaped. Somehow she’s also gotten out of her safety sleeve, stripping down right next to my door.

I look around wildly. In that moment, I was the mother of the kidnapped child, realizing the child is gone, only her jacket left behind. I’m imagining having to tell Suzanne that Olivia, the sick kitten she just spent a week’s salary on, is gone. Just… gone. Loose in the big wide world.

And there’s no sign of her. I can’t see her anywhere. I hurry to the driveway, looking under Suzanne’s trailer, where she’s hidden on previous escape attempts.

No kitten.

I think maybe she went back inside, because it’s not a nice day — it’s cold and gray — so I run into the house and search for her there. She’s not in her cat cave, she’s not on the chair, she’s not on Riley’s bed, she’s not on Suzanne’s bed, she’s not on either of the window sills that she likes. 

I run back outside and search some more. Around to the front of the house. Is she on the steps? Is she in the straw where the dog likes to sleep? Check under the van. Back to the back yard. Kitten, kitten, where is the kitten? I’m imagining her being gone forever, just disappearing. Milk carton kitten. I want to call the police and put out an Amber Alert. She has GOT to be somewhere. 

Inside the house again, searching all the places. Under the bed, in the bathroom, in the laundry room closet. There is no kitten. 

She’s not a dog, she doesn’t come when called. But I call anyway. 

And it turns out, she does know her name, and she does come when called, because there, wandering out of the depths of the garden, is Explorer Girl, saying, “Who, me? Were you worried about little old me? But I’m just out for a stroll.”

The relief!

Of course, I don’t want to scare her into running. So I dash into the house and grab the bag of cat treats. I try to entice her to me and she’s not interested until Gina comes over and says, “Oh, treats? Yes, I will eat that, thank you,” and then Olivia wants to have what Gina’s having.

As soon as she comes close enough, I grab her, and carry her inside, where I try to put her back into her sleeve. The good news is that she was clearly feeling better, because she was NOT having any part of that. The great news is that she didn’t get hit by a car, chased by one of the neighboring dogs, or permanently lost while wandering down the city streets.

Suzanne would really like Olivia Murderpaws to be an inside cat, but I’m just not convinced that’s ever going to work out. Even while sick & running a fever, Explorer Girl wants to explore!

On January 20th, I was sitting outside on the back patio, appreciating a moment of rare sunshine, when Vivani Catpants sauntered up to me. 

I’d been living at the Mighty Small Farm for about ten months. Over the course of that time, Vivi’s opinion of me went from, “Interloper, ignore completely,” to “Potential Door Opener, treat with disdain,” to “Acceptable Servant, if given clear instructions.” I’d gotten used to interpreting her demanding meows, mostly based on location. At the door, she’d be telling me to let her out; on the table or the small carpet where Suzanne put cat food, she’d be telling me it was time for a snack. Once, on the front porch, she seemed to be ordering me to assist her in getting on the railing, which I did, gingerly, wondering whether I was about to get scratched for my impudence.

On this day, however, she did not meow at me. Instead, she conveyed — and I’m honestly not sure how — that my lap would be an acceptable place for sitting. I had my doubts about whether I was correctly understanding her, but I gently lifted her up and set her down on my legs. For the next twenty minutes or so, we enjoyed the sunshine together, while I stroked her soft fur and she purred. It was the first time I’d ever petted her. 

It was also the last. She stopped eating several days later, and on February 15th, after a slew of ups and downs, hopeful moments and resignation about the inevitable, we said good-bye. 

Vivi’s story started in Oaxaca, Mexico, where Suzanne and Greg found her as a kitten. As I remember the story, they heard her before they saw her. She had a most imperious meow and as a lost kitten (probably dumped because she had a broken tail), I’m sure she was thoroughly annoyed. I suspect she accepted her rescue as her due, and her rescuers as acceptable human servants. 

During the time that I knew her, she was relatively sedate — also sixteen years old, so maybe that should be phrased as “understandably sedate.” But if every cat has an adjective — Tank was tough and Gina is curious and Moe is shy — Vivani’s word was regal. She was a princess of a cat. Or maybe a queen. Definitely royalty, anyway. She never just walked — she either sauntered or stalked. But she was also an elegant predator, with the sort of graceful beauty that didn’t quite seem to match the headless bird bodies left on the doorstep or the absolute determination to battle the neighbor cats.

She loved to be told how beautiful she was. The practical part of my head is pretty sure that cats don’t understand any more human language than dogs do, which is to say not an awful lot of real words, more tone of voice. But the less scientific part believes that Vivi absolutely understood if your tone of voice did not match the meaning of your words. She liked to be told she was beautiful, she didn’t care what tone of voice you used. The compliment was what mattered. She definitely knew she was beautiful — she wasn’t grateful for the compliment — but she was a cat who accepted worship as nothing less than she deserved. 

Saying good-bye to pets is so damn hard. Knowing that little lost kitten had a good life, lived a long time, and was as pampered as a cat can be doesn’t actually make losing her any easier. But I think Suzanne and I both believe that Greg was waiting for her, happy to see her, and will be taking good care of her until she’s ready to venture forth on her next life. 

A Revealing Conversation, held via text message

(Mildly Edited for Clarity)

Me: Oh, funny story! Or amusing anyway. 😊 I don’t know how often you read my blog and whether you read the post where I outed my son as a substance abuser, but I did my random occasional Twitter check last night and discovered that he and his girlfriend had both locked their Twitter accounts. I find it quite impossible to believe that’s a coincidence, so either he’s been reading my blog or someone told him/them about it. I really don’t believe R would be reading my blog on his own — that would seem sociopathic on his part. 

T: So who would have told him/them? 

Me: I was tempted to ask Pam if she had, but… it would be the death knell of our friendship if she did. I’m not sure I want to know therefore. In the long run, does it really matter? I think the outcome is sufficient to know there was a cause and our friendship is on pretty shaky ground these days. 

T: Sorry to hear that. Twitter is the death of Society, however. 😊 

Me: I actually don’t mind at all that they locked their Twitters. It felt unhealthy to me every time I looked and I tried not to do it often. Like picking a scab, just let it alone, self. It’s probably for the best. But it’s weird. She’s been my friend for a long time, the oldest friend I’ve got. 

T: What happened? If you feel like talking about it.

Me: Well, Rory happened, really. I know I’ve told you bits along the way, but we got into this fight that came out of nowhere where he was just incredibly hurtful to me. And probably from his perspective he was saying his truth and I was refusing to listen, but it was an attack. Super personal. 

T: Yeah, the fight around pre-election time.

Me: The thing that he said to me that still makes me want to cry was actually, “It’s just that you’re really smart.” 

T: Ouch.

Me: He was, I believe, trying to explain to me why he and his girlfriend had decided that I was condescending. Suzanne asked if it was calculated, if he’d deliberately gone for something that would hurt the most, because my intelligence has, in fact, been something that I’ve been rejected for in the past. 

T: I wonder that too. I can see that as an avenue of attack, not that I knew that about your past, but you know when someone says something and it just feels true. You are very smart, and I like that a lot about you.

Me: I honestly do my best to hide it a lot of the time, which is sad, but you know… And it’s not like I particularly want to be around people who are intimidated by someone who can do basic math in their head. I’m okay with those people not being in my life anyway. But I never expected R to turn into one of those people. Anyway, I was very hurt, definitely said some things I regretted. It was an ugly fight. I apologized, he apologized, we went to the movie we were headed to, and we have not spoken since. Almost a year now.

I’ve left voice mails and sent texts, sent emails. I sent stocking stuffers for Christmas (to his girlfriend’s mom, who never responded in any way, but I have no reason to believe they didn’t get there) including a toothbrush with “Hey, crankypants, I love you,” on it which totally made me laugh. 

Every person in my life thinks he’s been an asshole. Every one. Except for Pam. 

T: Ah.

Me: Who says I should respect his boundaries and get some therapy. 

T: Thus the cracks in the friendship.

Me: She’s entitled to her opinion and I like therapy, I’ve had lots of it, so I know it can be really helpful. 

T: Heh. Well, we could all use it from time to time, but as a response to a family issue in that tone, yeesh.

Me: Yeah, exactly. 

T: “I’m hurting,” “Shut up, you need therapy,” wow…

Me: And this spring I was super suicidal. Being treated like that by Rory, having the most important relationship of my life suddenly become something so ugly, having him ignore me when I called him in tears… I just didn’t want to live anymore. 

T: I for one am glad you chose to keep on keeping on.

Me: I needed, “I love you, I know it hurts, I’m so sorry for your pain,” and I got “you shouldn’t feel that way” and “he’ll get over it.” Which is completely irrelevant. Because he might someday decide he should be in contact with me, but I will always know that he’s the person who chose to ignore me when I called him, scared and crying. The relationship might become something else someday, but I will always know that he threw me away. 

T: I can’t imagine just getting over that. To me that’s permanent strain, no matter how close. I don’t want it to be, since you two seemed to have such a strong relationship. But I’m still really glad you’re still here.

Me: Well, you saw the relationship from my point of view, not his. He presumably always knew that I was disposable to him. Anyway, back to the Pam story! Because it’s connected, but not the same. I didn’t find her advice or attitude helpful, so we stopped talking about it. Radio silence. Which is fine, she’d offered to pay for therapy and I’d rejected it, so she’s entitled to decide that I didn’t want the help she was willing to give. I’m not judging her for that. Crack in the friendship, but not a break. We had a text interaction in June, another in July, another in Sept, another in November. Just brief, “How are you? Doing okay here,” exchanges. (And I just looked at my texts to determine that.) 

T: Nod. And that’s it, eh? Just perfunctory “hey, hi, how are ya?”

Me: But on R’s birthday she sent me a picture of a bottle of wine and a nostalgic, “I remember going to this winery with you and Michelle,” which seemed really weird and completely socially inappropriate. 

T: Weird. 

Me: “Hi, my possibly suicidal friend that I barely speak to, on a day that I know must be incredibly painful because of the reminder of the son who was once beloved and is now completely estranged, allow me to send you a picture of the alcohol you no longer drink and a memory of your best friend who is dead.” Because that’s thoughtful?

T: Yeah. That’s thoughtful! 

Me: But, you know, it crossed over into the “so weird it’s just funny” zone. Although I actually rather want to burst into tears at the memory, so maybe it wasn’t as funny as all that. 

T: Well, that’s one way to take it. I guess?

Me:  At any rate, it was extraordinarily clunky, but I decided to assume that she’d been drinking and wasn’t thinking and it was just nostalgia, without really considering what it might feel like to me. Sometimes people make mistakes. Sometimes people don’t realize how their words will be taken. Sometimes things get misinterpreted.

T: What one intends as sardonically funny can be taken horribly wrong.

Me: I was certainly not going to assume ill intent, I just replied with “Happy New Year to you, too,” and let it go. And then Zelda died. 

T: Yeah. ☹️

Me: I texted my brother, I texted Christina who immediately called me, and then I wrote a blog post to rip the bandaid off and let other people know. Pam texted Suzanne to ask whether she should get in touch with me. Suzanne, being Suzanne, was like “Yes? Obviously?” but also promptly told me about it. 

T: Of course she should. Oy vey… Well, I guess that she feels some awkwardness too.

Me: Pam texted me and said, “Read about Zelda on your blog. Very sorry. You were a good dog mom to her. She was a great dog love for you.” That’s quoted, so word for word. Now, I don’t think I’m the kind of person who takes needless offense, but — seriously? 

T: Yeah that’s… just… I don’t really have words for it.

Me: I read that and thought, “You just compared me to my dog and I came up lacking in the comparison?” And especially the ‘mom’ piece, like… it just…  Was that truly a dig about being a bad human mom or just completely insensitive? Total strangers did better. Total strangers did enormously better. Christina (not a total stranger), “I wish I could be there, I so want to hug you now, you must be devastated, I’m so sad for you.” Random internet friend, “Oh, Wendy, tears are streaming down my face. I’m so sorry you had to finally say good-bye.” Like, those are the responses of people who care. 

But I texted “Thanks” to Pam and let it go, because I was busy being heartbroken. The next day she called and left a message on my voicemail that started with, “I’m on my lunch break,” which is basically, “I don’t really have time but wanted to fit this in.” 

T: Yeah, frell it. I was going to try and say maybe she’s caught somewhere in the middle, but JFC…

Me: I sent her back a text that said “Got your message, I don’t actually feel like talking, but maybe someday soon. Stay safe!” 

T: I think you need to decide if you should repair it, if you even want to. I might just let it fade and pop like a bad splinter.

Me: She replied with “You too! And again, so sorry for your loss.” LOL, that’s a great gross image. 

T: Well, in its current state it fits.

Me: Yeah, it’s been puzzling. But 30-some year friendship, not going to let it go lightly. 

T: No, I don’t think you should, but I have a hard time counseling you to embrace that pain.

Me: But! I sent her another text. 

T: Yeah?

Me: Here we go: “Also — and I’m sorry, there’s really just no graceful way to say this, so I’m going to be honest and not worry about grace — Suzanne is not comfortable talking about her friends behind their backs, so please don’t do that to her anymore. I appreciate that it comes from a place of concern, but it’s super awkward for me. We aren’t in high school. If our friendship is in a rocky enough place that you don’t know how to express your sympathy for the loss of my dog, do what feels comfortable for you without asking for validation from Suzanne, please.” 

Me: (In other words, SMACK.) 

T: Oh, damn. Good for you 🙂. That’s a very polite smack too.

Me: She replied, “I am sorry I made either of you uncomfortable.” I texted her “apology accepted, now let’s forget it entirely 😊 ” 

T: Hah. Next move in her court?

Me: No, next move in my court! I wrote her a card, and mailed it. Got a card back in the mail, too. 

T: Well, hey! How bad was it?

😛

Me: It was not good. I think my card was good, but hers was… not. 

T: I WAS trying to be funny, I didn’t want to be right.

Me: It’s oddly not good. Which is honestly how everything has been since Rory turned into an asshole, LOL. So I will spare reading you the full cards, but the last line of mine was “And if my grief for the things I’ve lost feels powerful and overwhelming, I want to at least know that I’ve done my best to make sure that our friendship isn’t one of those losses. Love you,” 

T: That’s very well said and beautiful, actually.

Me: The last lines of hers were, “I am still very troubled by the break between you and Rory. I wish you both would accept professional perspective and support around it. But it’s not my business and I will do what I learned in Alanon and stay out of what I haven’t been asked to participate in. Enjoy all the lovely animals, food, time in Arcata. Much love,”

Is one of these things not like the other? I think so, yes. I think I wrote “I value you enormously,” and she wrote “It’s none of my business.” It’s also completely disingenuous because I specifically asked for her help — I asked her to ask Rory for his address so that I could send him a letter — and she declined, because it “made her uncomfortable” to be involved. 

T: Well, shit.

Me: I’ve been trying to decide how to respond for days. 

T: Yeah, I don’t know what’s going on there but that doesn’t sound like the friend that wants to repair the friendship. It DOES sound like she’s somewhat possessive over her time with R, and oddly it sounds like she’s trying to out-mother you in her way. Maybe I’m reading that totally wrong, but… huh. Bad responses…

Me: Which is why I’ve tortured you with this whole story, because I’ve been struggling with it and writing it out was helpful for me. It’s been interesting talking to Suzanne about it, too, because… well, Pam doesn’t look so great in some of the stories of my past. 

Here’s one of them: On the day I thought, “Huh, my period is actually really late. And I feel weird. I wonder if I could be pregnant. God, that would be a disaster,” I said to my boyfriend, “My period is really late. What if I’m pregnant?” 

He replied, “Would it be mine?” 

Pro Tip: Bad response. 

T: Hahahaha! Yeah, that’s a bad response! Jesus.

Me: I believe I said, “Okay, we’re done.” And I got out of bed, got dressed, went to work, did my job. That night, I went to Pam’s place instead of home. Her place was always really busy — four people living there and lots of people coming and going. And she was getting ready for a date. 

An important date. 

I don’t remember why it was important and I don’t remember the guy’s name. But it was an important date. 

I needed to get a pregnancy test obviously and she was going to come with me to the drug store and buy it for me, which was a thing I’d done for her in the past. It’s the girl rules, the awful anxiety of buying a pregnancy test is much diminished when you know that the sympathetic look the clerk directs at you is not really for you. 

Except she was getting ready for this date. This important date. This really important date. And she was going to come soon, really, very soon. 

But the drug store was going to close. In the end, one of her housemates walked to the store with me and I bought my own pregnancy test. 

T:  Wow…Yeah, Pam doesn’t come out good in that story either.

M: It’s not done. I went back to Pam’s house, where lots of people were roaming around, drinking beer and doing stuff — it was midweek but for some reason it was super busy that night — and I drank a beer and waited until I needed to pee and then I peed on a stick and waited for it. And Pam looked at the stick and said, “Whew, you’re fine,” and I read the directions and looked at the stick and said, “Yeah, no, that’s not fine. That’s positive.” 

Then I went back to Pam’s kitchen table and sat there, no longer drinking a beer, because beer is not good for babies. 

And Pam? Went on her date. 

T: Obviously the friend thing to do is cancel the date because you’ve got a friend emergency. Christ, even I know that.

M: Yeah, it’s pretty much a no brainer. I’m sure I told her it was fine if she left, because I was not at all good — in fact, one might even say incapable of — being clear about my own needs. But if this friendship ends, it will be because Pam has had a lifelong history of dumping me for boys and Rory is just the latest in a long string, ha. (Written with a wry smile.) 

T: Heh.

M: I just texted Pam and asked if she’d mentioned my blog to Rory. Specifically, “Hey, did you tell Rory that I mentioned his Twitter account on my blog?” 

T: Ah, going to rip off the rest of the bandaid and see if the death knell rings on the friendship?

Me: Yep. 

Me:  Pam answered, “No, but I know he reads it regularly.” 

To which I replied, “Wow, that’s – I’m… blown away. I guess that’s the end of my blog.” 

To which she replied, “Your blog is lovely, but might be better to not write about Rory on it. I hope you don’t give it up entirely. You have many lovely things to say and observe.”

The death knells have sounded. 

I am literally trembling with rage and hurt. It feels quite odd actually.

But the idea that Rory reads my blog — has seen my pain and has responded to it with nothing, not an email, not a text, not any attempt at a fucking apology — is horrifying. I truly didn’t think that was possible, because I thought he would have had to be a sociopath to enjoy my pain in that way, and I didn’t think he was that. Now I know. 

And the idea that Pam knew this and didn’t tell me is a betrayal so vast  — and then that she prioritized his feelings! That they were her first concern! He’s not five, or even fifteen. He’s an adult, 25 years old! 

I literally finished up our text exchange with “Burn in hell. Blocked.” And blocked her number. 

30-some years into this, I am finally goddamn smart enough to know that I deserve better and that some friends are not worthy of the name. 

*****

And I’m killing my blog not because I don’t love my blog — I do, actually — but because I am not willing to let people who treat me like shit know anything at all about my life and experiences.

Thanks for reading!

The title seemed appropriate, but don’t worry, it’s said with irony. Not sarcasm, however.

I’ve decided to shut down my blog. Thank you so much for following my journeys over the years, lovely readers. I appreciate the interest in my life and the comments that have shown your care.

For those of you interested in my fiction, I will post any further updates to my blog at Rozelle Press, my business site. I realize if you go there now the last post will be from April 2020 — time flies when you’re having fun! — but I will update it if and when I have publishing news to announce. I might someday, one never knows.

I won’t be shutting down this site right away, because I’ve got to change the links in the backs of my books. Also, I can’t get rid of the links in books that have been already sold, of course, so this site will probably be sitting here for a while. But I won’t be updating it any more and eventually it will go “poof” and disappear, in the way of all ephemeral things.

That’s okay. All things die eventually and sometimes, it’s just time to let go.

Take care of yourselves!

Last week’s meals:

• Monday: Chicken enchiladas, using Hatch green enchilada sauce and home-made tortillas, stuffed with leftover rotisserie chicken sautéed with onions and spicy pepper relish, and topped with crumbled cotija cheese. 
• Tuesday: Pizza (on a purchased GF crust), with pesto, artichoke hearts, black olives, goat cheese, mushrooms, Tillamook mozzarella, and Italian herbs. 
• Wednesday: Quiche (in a purchased GF pie shell) with carmelized onions, mushrooms, chicken-apple sausage, spinach, kale, and cheddar cheese. 
• Thursday: Shrimp tacos, with shrimp marinated in jerk seasoning and spiced rum, then sautéed with tomatoes and red onions; on home-made tortillas, with cilantro, avocado, and tangy cabbage slaw.
• Friday: Spicy rice with sausage, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, and greens. 
• Saturday: Cod and kimchi stew served over rice. 
• Sunday: Double-pork carnitas tacos, on home-made tortillas, with tomatillo salsa verde, cilantro, white onion, and cotija cheese.

On Sunday, I had my head in the oven checking the doneness of my tomatillos, and I told Suzanne that I thought my cooking skill had leveled up. She laughed.

One month into my 2021 resolution of tracking my cooking, however, and I seem to be showing off for myself. Last week’s meals included three things I’d never made before the year began (enchiladas, quiche, and salsa verde). I did follow a recipe for the tomatillo salsa verde, more or less, but with the enchiladas and the quiche, I read some recipes to see how people did it, then I did my own thing.

The enchiladas were fine — even an audience more critical than an essential worker busy racking up the overtime hours wouldn’t have objected, I don’t think. But the quiche was fantastic. So were the carnitas tacos, so were the shrimp tacos, so was the cod and kimchi stew, which was clearly pushing some weirdness boundaries, but was spicy and tangy and quite yummy.

And I do think my cooking skill has leveled up, which is actually sort of a surprise. I don’t aspire to cook professionally, and short of that… well, suffice to say, I didn’t see a need to become a better cook. 🙂

The thing I noticed on Sunday, though, in the midst of a reasonably complicated cooking project, was that I wasn’t thinking about it. A few years back, if I’d been braising and broiling and blending, kneading and pressing, frying and chopping — all for the same meal! — I would have been calculating, too. I would have been thinking about timing and the order of events and what I needed to do first and how long it was going to take me. I would have been watching the clock, with a constant mental inventory running. Now, though, that math seems to have become pretty much instinctive, which is… well, a level up. It turns out that when you practice a skill a lot, it gets easier. What a surprise. (Picture me rolling my eyes at myself.)

I’m trying to remind myself that the same is true for writing. I’m calling the words I’m writing these days, “compost words.” I don’t know what’s going to grow out of them, but I’m working on writing them five days a week, with weekends off. And I’m feeling mildly optimistic, which makes for a nice change!

I’m becoming the queen of unfinished blog posts. I’ve started… oh, maybe five or six of them recently and none of them made it to “actually posting for other people to read” level. It’s not like I’m all that perfectionistic about my blog usually: I’m a big fan of treating this as casual writing, more or less stream-of-consciousness. I try to think of it as being for Future Me more than for any current reader. What will I want to remember? What will make me smile? 

But it’s a weird time. Yesterday I was sitting on my bed with my legs folded under me. My knees started to hurt, so I went to shift positions, but before I moved, I checked to see where Zelda was. Gotta make sure I don’t kick the dog, you know. 

Surprise, she wasn’t there. It was a surprise to me, actually, even though it has been 19 days since she died. (I’m not really counting the days like that, I just knew it was more than two weeks, less than three, and I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was.) 

Last Saturday would have been her 16th birthday. I worked on a blog post for most of the day, decided at the end of the day that those words could just be for me. I thought it would get easier after that. 

On Tuesday, we picked up her ashes. I thought it would get easier after that. 

Someday soon, I’ll scatter her ashes at a beach. I even pretty much know which beach and which part of the beach. I’m sure it’ll get easier after that. 

Meanwhile! Um, well, lots of thoughts about friendships and relationships and people’s roles in our lives that I don’t intend to share. Except to remind myself of these moments from journals in my past: 

February 16, 1992: …Worst fear — that Michelle might die. Second worst — that I will go on feeling this far away from her.

So weirdly prophetic! She died February 5, 2012, almost exactly twenty years later. 

And: 

August 14, 1991: …Work people — too many right now to have figured them out but I think I want to be friends with Suzanne, aka Bones.

Good call, self! Really, truly, brilliant call. I’d just started a new job, a REAL job, and I was extremely excited about it. I think it was maybe my second day there, or pretty close to that. 

And yeah, my failed attempt to write a blog post on Saturday led to a lot of looking through old files. I was not keeping an electronic journal in 1991 – 1992, but when I got rid of my house and all my belongings, I copied bits of some of the things I was throwing away before tossing them. Only five years later, but it was still like stumbling upon the unknown. In my defense, I was pretty busy right around that time. 

*****

My favorite of the poems I saved: 

5/26/1987

There are little purple flowers

smiling at me

They will be dead by sundown

I can do nothing to save them

They do not care

They rejoice

*****

I probably shouldn’t share this one, but it so made me laugh. 

2014-08-16

Rory’s first day at New College. I miss the kid he used to be. I often feel these days simultaneously proud and exasperated. I’m pretty sure he’s a terrific person, but I don’t get to see enough of that guy. I get to see the expressionless, “I have nothing to say to you” person, the one who views any question as an interrogation & takes offense at the slightest insult. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around him and then every once in a while we have a conversation about something like “esoteric happy endings” and I’m reminded that he’s still in there. So today was a mix of bad and good, but at the end of the day, I’m leaving him in a place that I think will suit him well. I’m optimistic for the future!

Is it funny? Maybe not really? But sort of, definitely sort of. I laughed, anyway, and it wasn’t even bitter laughter. I guess maybe it’s actual irony.

I was trying to explain to Suzanne recently how I felt about him and our relationship (lack thereof) these days. I told her that when Rory was a newborn, I thought he was the most beautiful baby — glorious, gorgeous, amazing, so incredibly darling and delightful. Probably ten years later, I could look at his newborn photos and roll my eyes at myself. He was a newborn baby, born via natural childbirth after a long labor. He was squashed and splotchy and wrinkled, absolutely the little old man style of newborn, and definitely not beautiful. But I could still remember how it felt to look at him and believe that he was gorgeous. 

Up until a year ago, that was how I felt about him as a person. Sure, there were obviously moments like that first day of college, but I believed deeply, profoundly, with all my heart, that there was an incredible person inside of him, someone funny and sweet and loving and clever and kind. And now… well, now I know that person only exists in my imagination. The person I thought he was wouldn’t have ignored my phone calls and emails and text messages. Or the stocking stuffers I sent him, which would have made Imaginary Rory laugh. 

And Imaginary Rory — well, Imaginary Rory would have known that Zelda died, because someone would have told him, believing that he would care, and Imaginary Rory would have reached out. Imaginary Rory would have wanted to tell me that he was sad, too, that he remembered Zelda with love. Imaginary Rory would have reminded me of how fun she was as a puppy, and Imaginary Rory would have listened while I cried and told me that he wished he could be here to hug me. 

But all that is Imaginary Rory. Actual Rory is that guy from the first day of New College. I’m coming to terms with that, slowly but steadily. 

Somewhere along the way of his long silence, I found his girlfriend’s twitter account and was stunned to discover her level of drug use and alcohol use. And you know, no one is in a relationship with a heavy substance abuser and not abusing substances themselves. So is that an explanation for who he grew up to be? Maybe. Maybe someday I’ll get that Step 9 phone call. Or maybe not. Maybe he just is who he is, and that’s who he chooses to be. Either way, I’m working my way through my grief and someday, well, someday I’ll find the other side. 

The other day, Suzanne and I made one of our rare trips to CostCo, and I asked if she wanted to get a rotisserie chicken. Up until the week before her death, rotisserie chicken was one of the few foods that Zelda would reliably eat. The other animals all like it, too, right down to the chickens who LOVE tearing apart the carcass. Rotisserie chicken day is always an excellent day at the Mighty Small Farm. 

She said, “Yes? But I don’t want you to be sad.” 

I don’t think I said it this articulately, but I responded with something like, “I’ve had enough practice with grief by now to know that the only way out is through. You don’t get to make the feelings go away by avoiding them. They only go away when you’re finished with them.” 

I’m not finished yet. 

Someday soon, though. 

As long-time readers might remember, after I lost Bartleby, I cried every day for a month. I decided then that I needed a Zelda Loss Survival Plan, because if losing B was bad, losing Z would be… worse.

Unfortunately, my ZLSP was not prescient enough to account for Covid Times.

The Best Brother Ever offered me a plane ticket yesterday, if going somewhere and having something to look forward to would help. To Florida to visit my dad if that was what I needed; to Pennsylvania if… Well, if I could quarantine after I got there… somewhere… okay, yeah, maybe not.

Pretty much that floundering on the constraints of our current realities is what happens whenever I try to find something to look forward to. So I’m not trying to look forward, I’m just trying to get through one day at a time while doing my best to make healthy choices. No alcohol: depressed people shouldn’t consume depressants. No doom-scrolling: I don’t need to know how awful the world is. As little ruminating as possible on the things I can’t change and which aren’t mine to control.

And as much kitten time as my allergies can handle. Olivia Murderpaws, once known as Explorer Girl, is a personality.

The other day I said to Suzanne, comfortingly, “She’ll grow out of it. Once she’s not a kitten anymore…”

Suzanne winced.

I said, “No?”

Suzanne shrugged and said, “None of my other kittens have ever been…” She spread her hands as if encompassing the sheer essence of a Murderpaws was beyond her.

Murderpaws is pure predator. Nothing is better than attacking. The other cats, the dog, a leg, a scrap of paper, a piece of food, the dust in the air. She wishes to go everywhere, see everything, and then kill it. “Friends don’t bite friends,” usually said with a yelp, has become a catchphrase of the Mighty Small Farm. She’s three and a half months old and her demanding meows to be let outside (where she is not allowed, because she doesn’t have a chip yet) can be heard through the walls when you’re outside.

And then she switches gears and she is Olivia. She wants to purr and snuggle and be held. She wants to cozy up in your arms and have her belly rubbed, she wants to know that you, warm delightful person that you are, will talk to her and stay with her and love her.

Olivia is killer on my allergies; Murderpaws has very sharp teeth. Both of them are a lovely distraction from my grief.

January 8, 2021

Two and a half years ago, I read some article about canine dementia that said, referring to euthanasia, “Better a week too soon than a day too late.” 

I thought, “No way. Savor every minute.” 

Until the week began. 

Zelda has more days left. She’s still drinking, and she ate a handful of treats this morning. She looked in my eyes and recognized me a little while ago, and she got up to come sit closer to me. 

But we are out of good days. We went to the beach this morning and… she wasn’t there. She roamed, she walked, I let her off leash and she went as far as she could go along the line of beach, one step after another, determined to get to some destination that only she can see. 

But her heart wasn’t in it. It wasn’t curious sniffing, eager appreciation of the gallery of smells. It was trudging. 

At night, she walks and walks and walks until she gets stuck somewhere and then she whimpers — a sort of breathy sound that might be distressed breathing, might be weird snoring, but no, is crying. She has to be helped from her stuck place, whether it’s under the bed, in the corner, in the closet, trapped between the toilet and the wall. Stuck. She wants to go somewhere, but she can’t find the place she’s looking for. And she wobbles when she walks until she gets her footing, and then she walks and walks and walks. 

She hasn’t eaten real food for a few days now. A few bites of chicken apple sausage two days ago, a pupperoni yesterday, some Zuke’s today. But she’s still drinking water, which means she probably has at least three more days of life left in her, at least according to the internet. And it could be more. But I don’t think they will be good days, even if there are good moments. 

At the beach, two dogs were running, chasing a ball. Running the way dogs ought to run, running the way Z used to run. She had a moment where she was looking at them. And a moment where she was interested in the people with the dogs. But those moments are interspersed with a struggle that reminds me of my mother’s terminal restlessness in her last weeks of life, a desperate attempt to get somewhere, do something.

She’s such a tough little dog, she’s so determined. Do I think she could last another month? Maybe. Do I think it’ll be a good month, filled with joy? Nope. So I cry and cry and cry, the tears running down my face, trying not to do it loudly, trying not to make any sounds, trying not to upset her. And I bury my face in her fur and tell her how much I love her and that it’s okay, that I know she has to go, and that I will still love her, that I will always love her. 

But I wonder who will be there for her. That spirit, so persistent, so engaged, so centered on me for so long. For almost sixteen years, she has wanted to know where I am, always checking to make sure that I’m still near her, following me when I move. My shadow. I haven’t left her alone for months, except for quick runs to a grocery store. Now… I won’t be there. And I can’t fix that. 

Suzanne called the vet for me. We’re waiting for a call back, but it’s 4:20, and soon it’ll be dark and cold. Not raining, but if I’m going to help her leave me, I don’t want to do it in the dark. I just don’t. I guess that’s how I feel about the whole thing in general, but — well. Someday soon it will be that day too late, and I will have made my dog suffer because I couldn’t bear the suffering myself. That’s just not okay. That can’t be how this story ends. 

*****

January 9, 2021

The vet called this morning. I said no. Then I cried some more and said yes.

In the car on the way, my nose started to bleed. Not a little. It wasn’t dripping, it was gushing. Napkin after napkin (and thank God Suzanne had them), filled with blood. It wasn’t a metaphor, but if my life was a movie it would have been a stupidly obvious symbol. I would have rolled my eyes but I was too busy holding my nose.

I had to let her go inside the vet alone — damn Covid times — and it broke my heart. I’m not sure she was aware enough to care in the way that she would have desperately cared six months ago. But I knew I was breaking a promise I’d made her a year ago and it hurt. Oh, it hurt.

But after the vet examined her and talked to me on the phone, she and the tech brought her back out. I held her on a picnic bench in the sunshine and whispered to her, telling her all the things she needed to know, while the vet searched for a vein. That I loved her with all my heart, that she was the best dog ever — in contrast to Bartleby, who, you know, was good at loving me but not very good at learning to behave like a good dog. That she was smart and beautiful and adored, and that very soon now, very, very soon, she would not hurt anymore, and she should look for my mom. And she should run. She should run so far, so fast, run with all the joy of those other dogs on the beach. And maybe go swimming, too.

At the moment when she left — between the vet finishing with the needles and returning with the stethoscope — a voice in my head said, clear as day, present as any real sound, “I’m coming back. Look for me.” Maybe it was my subconscious, trying to make this easier for me. That’s fine, if so. Go, subconscious, go. But I’m willing to believe that those were her last words to me. They do make it easier.

Only a little, though. The silence inside my tiny house is deafening.