Good Mourning!

For no apparent reason, my daughter decided to sleep in this morning. This was a happy coincidence, since I downed half a bottle of wine last night and stayed up until the alarming hour of one a.m.

My remaining brain cells, which presumably are still in mourning for their dead comrades, thank her profusely…

Feline Frets

My cats have no idea what they’re in for tomorrow.

They’ll know as soon as the cat carrier is set in the foyer, though. Yes, it’s time for another traumatic trip to the V-E-T. Never mind the fact that the vet’s office is less than five minutes away. First the required but ineffective hiding will commence. Then, pathetic yowling will prevail when they are forced by their dear Daddy into their roomy pet carrier, destined to be stuck with needles.

Poor kitties.

I admit I’ve been a lousy pet parent these last few years: I only remember to update their shots if we’re about to move. Once in a while, if Violet is in whirling dervish mode, I even neglect to feed them again in the afternoon. I was hours late today when Turbo hopped up on the computer chair and meowed directly in my ear. And, being the freaking genius that I am, I still couldn’t figure out what was bothering her. Another hour later, I finally looked at their empty dishes, and apologized profusely to my furry friends. As if my Rubenesque beauties are under-fed or something…

There are a number of other reasons I feel guilty about Nermal and Turbo. A few years ago, I developed an allergy to cats. Naturally, this makes living in this small, carpeted house an interesting and phlegm-filled experience. I’m not able to pet them or brush them as often as I’d like, because my nose runs, my eyes water, and my hands start to itch. And naturally, I feel bad when I cannot adequately defend them from the affection and curiosity of my child. “Don’t do that to kitty!” is an oft-used phrase in the house as of late, as my daughter pulls, pinches, and points out body parts (“kitty eye,” “kitty ear,” etc.).

Of course, my biggest source of guilt is that these poor creatures, who do not travel well, are going to be forced on a two-to-three day venture to Idaho soon. There, they will be forced to live with the dreaded D-O-G and another, unfamiliar, feline.

I’m not sure they will ever forgive me.

For Her Dad

There is nothing I love more than listening as Violet makes her Daddy laugh. Jerry was an exceedingly loving and devoted father from the moment she was born. In fact, Jerry’s vigilant care for his daughter helped create the funniest story of Violet’s first days. He was cradling her, a naked newborn, in one arm, headed for the changing table. Before he reached the table, she started to pee, and poor sleep-deprived Jerry tried to catch the falling urine with his other hand. I laughed so hard that tears rolled down my face…

When he is across the world from us, every time Violet asks me where he is, it’s going to break my heart.

For My Dad

My dear father was always outnumbered by the women in the house, and so the responsibilities of insect eradication fell primarily on him. One evening in the summer, there was a beetle on the deck so huge that none of us females would dare go near it. Since we kids had a habit of playing pranks with plastic insects around that time, my father assumed the beetle was fake. He kneeled down, stretched his hand toward it, and was on the verge of picking it up before it sensed danger and scurried away. My father leaped backwards like a cat. It was the only time I ever heard him scream like a girl.

We miss you, Dad. Every day.

Topping the Toddler Train of Thought

Since taking Violet to see Thomas the Tank Engine the other day, my husband and I have been bombarded with requests to see him again.

“See Thomas? Ok, go see Thomas.”

“Outside? Go see Thomas?”

“See Topham Hatt?”

“Go car. Go see Topham Hatt.”

Sometimes, she requests to go in a whisper, as if her tone will change our minds.

“Pssst, hey, Mamma,” she says softly. “Go see Thomas?”

Jerry and I have tried our best to explain that seeing Thomas in person is a once-a-year event at best. My husband eventually resorted to telling her that Thomas and Sir Topham Hatt had to go home to the Island of Sodor.

This approach worked for about two days.

This morning, as I was checking my email, Violet was watching one of her Thomas DVDs. She approached me, and looked at me hopefully.

“So-dor?” She said uncertainly. “I-da Sodor? Okay, go I-da Sodor!”

Wish me luck with explaining that the Island of Sodor is an imaginary place…

Limbo (How Low Can You Go)?

It is approximately seven weeks until we move (or so we think). I know where we are going for the year, but my husband still has no official orders, and no indication of a follow-up assignment.

I am about to go absolutely nuts.

Since my daughter and I are not immediately moving to the follow-on base, the bulk of our household goods will be in storage for the year. Until I know where we’re going, I can’t pack or ship anything to my Mom’s house. Because, if by some miracle we are assigned Mountain Home AFB, our stuff will be in storage locally, and the shipping expenses would be a tremendous waste of money.

Arrrrrgggggg.

To make matters worse, our shoddy base house seems to be falling apart lately. I have to make yet another appointment for the shower, which wasn’t really fixed the last time the maintenance man graced us with his presence. He half-assed it and improvised, so now I have to call back and complain like the whiny, bored housewife that I am. The dial on our dishwasher has also taken a crap for some reason. The wash cycle works, but the timer doesn’t, and the dial is very hard to turn. I feel it will break off in my hand every time I run the dishes through.

I’m also not doing so well regarding the lovely prospect of being away from my husband for the year. We recently learned that one of his best friends will be stationed at the other AFB in South Korea, which is good news. At least he’ll have some measure of support a few hours away. And thankfully, Violet and I will have my family. I vow this time to be less of a depressed-hermit-bitch during the separation period, so I am hoping to see a few old friends while we’re in the Boise area.

Speaking of friends, I’m trying to figure out when we’ll have the opportunity to socialize here before we leave. With illness and other obligations lately, we haven’t been very good about keeping up with many people. My bad attitude and crap-I’m-about-to-cry-in-the-grocery-store-for-no-good-reason episodes aren’t helping matters. I pretty much just want to crawl into bed and have Jerry wake me when it’s time to move.

When I look in the mirror lately, I see Tweak from “South Park” shuddering back at me.

Surly 'Bout my Fringe on Top

Armed with the how-to section of a recent edition of Hallmark Magazine, I was determined (possessed?) last night to cut my own bangs. The results were not quite as scary as they were on my first attempt, but the process was more difficult than I’d initially anticipated.

The magazine’s instructions were useful, but incomplete. The article suggested a method of trimming similar to what I saw my stylist use. Yet, the editors of Hallmark should have included a disclaimer for us illogical types, such as: BEWARE, MORON. When you trim your own bangs, the risk of scratching your cornea is approximately 90% higher than if you just fork over fifteen bucks and let a professional do it.

Oddly, when you cut your own bangs as instructed, common sense dictates that a lot of it will fall directly into your eyes. As it turns out, the whole seeing thing is kind of essential when one is holding a sharp pair of scissors so close to one’s face. I’m quite lucky that my eyelashes are still intact. Unlike the smiling, serene woman in the final illustration, I ended up swearing profusely and clawing at my eyes, trying desperately to rid myself of the tiny pieces of hair stuck to the surface of my eyeballs…

All that effort, and I still look like the bastard child of Diablo Cody and Mr. Spock.