I have no penis. I am a true, loving and honest… and caring… woman… and honestly, Thelma, there is absolutely nothing “special” about you for you to tell me.

regards vanessa

Like I don’t get enough SPAM in my regular email. Well, at least (unlike the SPAM I get at my Yahoo! address) it isn’t all about how to make my penis bigger…or is it?

Have any of you guys ever “fallen” for a message/email like this? Just curious.

He was out on the front step of my grandmother’s house when our car pulled up. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He put both things down and stood as my mom got out of the car.

“Vi! Come here, you!” He hugged my mom.

I (finally) got my seatbelt undone and charged him.

“Sweetheart!” He knelt down for me. I nearly knocked him over.

My mom got my suitcases out of the car. Steve hugged me and said, “You’re staying for the month, right?”

I nodded quickly and smiled.

“Good! We are going to have a good summer!”

I kissed his cheek. Of course we are.

My mother stayed for dinner. I loved my mother, but I loved her best when she was with Cousin Steve.

He could charm any woman. I’d seen him work his spells on several: the Baby Blues became guileless (if you didn’t know him), the tilt of the head, the wink, his smile, and the way he touched a shoulder or an arm… but my mother? She was not a woman so easily charmed. AND she knew him; they grew up together. He would never fool her.

Yet, when she was with Cousin Steve, she was not practical or serious, not the same mom as at home. She laughed a lot, and her laugh was different than usual somehow. She looked different, too: her eyes were brighter and her smile was wider, but more relaxed. She looked young to me. 

They talked about times when they were kids, and my mother became childlike. So did Steve. Even my grandmother seemed a bit younger, playfully admonishing them for childhood antics brought to light. I loved that dinner.

Before my mother left that evening, Steve made her promise to come to the dinner party my grandmother was having for him the next Saturday. My mom wasn’t much on dinner parties, and lately, she had been sad (the more time my father spent as Mr. Hyde, the more time my mother spent being sad), so I was happily surprised when she agreed.

Cousin Steve and I spent most of the week at the beach, painting (well, he painted… I just sort of splashed paint onto a canvas and imagined that magically, a beautiful picture would appear). We’d spend the day at the beach, and in the evenings, after dinner, we walked, I showed him the books I was into, and he’d call his friends to remind them about Saturday.

On Saturday morning, Steve called my mother. Apparently, she was trying to back out of the dinner party. Steve wasn’t having any of it.

“A promise is a promise, and you promised.” He sounded like a little kid… almost whiny. I covered my smile (I always found it amusing when grown-ups acted like they were younger than me.).

I sat outside of the dining room (I usually didn’t sit with “the guest people,” as my grandmother called them.) and listened. I heard Cousin Steve telling stories (he had a million of ‘em). Everyone laughed, but I only heard my mom’s giggling.  I didn’t understand any of the stories, but I laughed, too. I couldn’t help it. My mother’s giggle was contagious!

I drew a picture of the dinner party (all of the guests were stick figures, my mother with her head tilted back, hands over her stomach, laughing it up) and gave it to Cousin Steve the next day. He looked it over and said, “Now this is a happy picture, Sweetheart.”

He said that it was his favourite picture of his favourite cousin; he loved to see her laughing.

Cousin Steve had that picture hanging on his refrigerator when he passed away, years later. His sister, Irene, mailed it to my mother. My mom held it out toward me and asked, “Did you draw this?” (Who did she think drew it?)

I took it from her, and laughed and cried a little at the same time. I couldn’t believe he had kept it all of that time. “Yeah. Aren’t I talented? Look, mom, that’s you… laughing.”

Although the area is concrete with metal fencing, the place itself is wooded, and there are bushes that grow along most of the fencing (The Sam loves to gum the leaves and rub the sides of his face against them). There is a pond and more bushes and flowers just downhill from where his kitty-condo window is. There are a lot of ducks and other birds (There are bird feeders in all of the trees outside of the kitty condo windows.), and tons of butterflies.

There are also chipmunks. A lot of chipmunks. I would go as far as to say, metric butt-load of chipmunks. They are cute, little, and they dart around.

Did I ever tell you that The Sam doesn’t like little things that move quickly? Yeah. It bothers him. He feels the need to lay the paw down, to stop whatever is moving from moving… ever again, in most cases.

The Sam has had his eye on the chipmunk population since Day One.

Yesterday, The Sam found the fence’s weakest spot near the bushes. I was inside, cleaning out his condo; Ken went out on the nature walk with The Sam. As I swept out the condo, I saw Ken running… on the other side of the fence.

Shit! You see, all of my maternal worry buttons were pushed at once: He could have cut himself open with the gate somehow; one of the bigger dogs could escape and eat him; he could stumble upon a hornets nest and be stung/bitten to death; he could fight with another animal and get Rabies or something; he could get lost, and with no teeth, The Sam would have a difficult time surviving. (I needn’t have worried about that last bit; he only went far enough to grab at a chipmunk, about five feet from the fencing. The chipmunk escaped when Ken startled the cat and picked him up.)

Then I saw Ken carrying The Sam back to the building. Our grey and white longhaired kitty was green. Yes. Green. The Sam was half-covered in burrs… those sticky little green things that are shaped like berries.  They don’t hurt, like thorns, but with each burr removed, a little of the cat’s fur comes off with it… and there were well over a hundred on The Sam, some in quite sensitive places. 

“You are grounded, mister!” I said, opening the door so that my husband could escort our kitty back inside. “Look at you!”

It took more than half an hour to get all of the burrs off of The Sam (using a brush, a comb and our fingers). He was not happy; he alternately cried and hissed with each sticky little berry. As soon as he was cleaned up, he went to the door and began crying to be let outside.

“I don’t think so, little man,” I said.

Today, The Sam “escaped” twice (He has found three weaknesses at the bottom of the fence altogether. We call them Tom, Dick and Harry). We don’t want to deprive him of his nature walks, but I don’t want to worry about him every time he steps out (and none of us are enjoying the burr-removal part of our visits!)… So we have decided to buy a harness and leash, and take him out for “real” nature walks (Hopefully, we can steer him away from those bushes!).

Chipmunks beware!

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I woke up early. It was a work-at-home day for me. I liked to get up early on those days and get the work taken care of so that I could do “fun” stuff (like getting the oil changed, unpacking boxes, et cetera) in the afternoons.

Ken had the day off, and woke up with me. I started the coffee. Ken went into the living room and turned on the television.

I came in and sat on the couch next to him. “What the hell are you watching?” I asked. I was thinking, Oh, God, it is way too early for an action flick.

“I think this is the news,” Ken gasped as we watched people leap from the towers.

“Nah,” I said. “Can’t be…” and then the real news people came on.

“Oh my God,” I said, “All of those people…” Tears and panic attacked me at the same time: My brother!

Brother #3, The Professor, lived in The City. He took the subway early each weekday morning to the Trade Center. The Professor stopped there for breakfast before taking another subway to school/work (he was taking classes and teaching classes to help pay for his education). He and I had just met there for breakfast a week or so beforehand.

I tried to call his apartment, but I couldn’t get through. I tried his girlfriend’s phone, but I couldn’t get through. The Professor didn’t believe in cell phones.

I called my mother. I asked her if The Professor had called her. Nope. When she asked, “Why?” I didn’t tell her about his breakfast habit. Mom didn’t know much about his life in The City, and this was the wrong time to start sharing.

“I can’t believe what’s on the television,” she said. “All I can think of is, I am so glad you didn’t get that job. Yoi eesh’-ter-nem, thank God.”

I hadn’t even thought of that. The worst interview I ever had… on the 86th floor. It would have been such a sweet job to snag, too: incredible cash, benefits, the works… and I blew it.

“Well, if The Professor calls you, Mom, can you please tell him to call me?”

When night fell, and we still had not heard from Brother #3, I was convinced he was either trapped or dead. Surely, if he could, The Professor would call to let us know that he was okay… wouldn’t he?

Two weeks. It took him two weeks to get through and let us know that he had stopped to help a lady (one of his neighbours, I think) find her dog that morning and missed his subway. Those were two of the worst weeks I have ever experienced.

My heart goes out to the people who lost loved ones in the attacks. I know quite a few who lost a parent, a child, a wife, a husband, or a friend. I feel for them, deeply. I don’t know what I would have done… and I don’t know what my mother would have done if I had gotten the job on the 86th floor… AND if The Professor hadn’t missed his ride that morning.

I don’t buy into that horse-hockey.

Once a year, The Sam gets a bath, whether he thinks he needs it or not. His fur is thick; his tongue can’t get through it well enough to really cleanse his skin… and with all of the trying, no matter how much we brush him, he may still get a hairball. Hairballs aren’t just gross; they can actually be fatal: they can get stuck in a kitty’s stomach, and they can actually block his food digestion. Brushing him a lot helps, and giving him hairball-paste a couple of times a week is great… but once a year, a real scrubby-bubble bath is required.

When we visited The Sam at the kennel yesterday, I was talking to Kim (one of The Sam’s caretakers/girlfriends) about it. She said, “Oh, I can give him a bath, if you want!”

“You’re a very brave lady,” I said. “He doesn’t even like it when I bathe him.” (He’s never scratched me, but he gets angry and screams like he’s being impaled or something!)

Kim smiled. “I have a little harness I can put on him, to keep him in the tub here… we can do it tomorrow, if you want to help…”

“Okay,” I said. “As long as it’s a nice, sunny day. Then, he can lay out afterward, to dry off.”

This morning I woke up, opened the blinds, and thought to myself, it’s a nice, sunny, warm summer day. It’s a perfect day to give a kitty a much-needed bath.

Ken and I cleaned our selves up, grabbed a nice, clean towel, and drove to the kennel.

Kim said hi to us as we walked in. “He’s been out all morning while I cleaned up in there… I think he’s napping now.”

I smiled. The Sam follows Kim around while she cleans. Ken and I have been thinking that Kim is his favourite.

“Hiya, Handsome,” I said, as Ken unlocked the kitty condo and our big pile of grey and white fur bonked my forehead with his. “Let’s brush you out and get you ready for bath time, okay?”

Behind me, Kim said, “Oh, I brushed him out just before I put him back in his condo. He really likes brushing, huh?”

“It’s one of his favourite things,” Ken said. Ken loves to brush The Sam.

Kim put him into this little harness that fit around his belly. A thin chain was hooked onto it (kind of like a mini-leash), and that was locked onto a metal ring in the wall, just above the hip-level tub. The Sam looked curious.

Then he felt the water. The Sam looked pissed.

“This is oatmeal shampoo,” Kim said. “It’s very gentle… and it smells really good.”

She squirted it all over him, and then, with a plastic massager, Kim began lathering up The Sam. Not too gentle, not too rough.

I washed his face while Kim took care of the rest of him.

He purred.

The Sam didn’t like the rinsing off part as much as he did the lathering bit… but he didn’t scratch or hiss once.

Kim took a towel out of the dryer and wrapped it around The Sam. He purred again.  She took off the harness and lifted him out of the tub. He looked like a big furry baby in a receiving blanket… and he was giving us all kisses. He smelled wonderful!

We took turns brushing him out and toweling him. Then, Ken and I took The Sam out for his little nature walk while Kim took care of a new customer. He chewed on some grass for a minute or two, and hung out in the sun. Mostly, he licked himself and shook himself off.

When we came back inside, Kim was changing out The Sam’s bedding: he has a cuddle-bed now, and extra towels (He has a thing for towels). She gave him some hairball paste, too… the malt flavour that he loves.

After we said our good-byes to The Sam, I told Kim, “I’m pretty sure you’re his favourite.”

She giggled. “He’s my favourite.”