Psycho Kitty - Qu'est-ce que c'est?

I think my beloved cat Sabina may slowly be going insane. And it's all my fault.

I've mentioned her before -- a petite Domestic Shorthair (veterinarian speak for "cat mutt"), I adopted her at just two months old from the local Humane Society. Here we are, coming up now on 13 years later, my most stable and longest-lasting relationship (in person).

And during all these years, "Bina," has been an inside cat. I'm not really into the whole outside cat thing for various reasons. For one, an outside cat kills copious amounts of prey, and apparently it has been becoming a problem in various communities across the nation since various bird populations are thinning or dying out. Secondly, I just don't like the danger of it. Have you ever seen an outdoor cat that didn't bear its own Lord of the Flies scars? A chewed ear, blind eye, missing fang? Thirdly, I usually live in apartments anyway, and it's just not practical (especially now being on the third floor). And finally, pure selfishness. An outside cat is the epitome of independence. They seem to have that "fuck you, I don't need you" attitude, some of them only showing up for some easy Friskies from a bowl on the back porch. I like the forced socialization of the inside cat -- you become fast friends. You cuddle each other and have a real relationship.

Ever since she was that two month old kitten, Bina has shown a real distaste of anything smacking of "out there." To this day, if she is in your arms and you near a door or open window, she immediately begins to twitch which rapidly evolves into a violent fit accompanied by a very loud, as Beau would say, "squall." On rare occasions, usually only when I am actually moving from one residence to the next, Bina will have to suffer a car ride, something that gives her an enormous amount of initial stress. With luck, she will settle down, but after entering her new home will spend a fretful few hours to days contemplating all the hateful changes. And don't even get me started on the unimaginable (in her mind) suffering she has endured on her few plane rides. When I took her with me to Thailand, I truly feared she might die. She didn't.

So, in the past year, Bina has endured five very long road trips (NYC to Milwaukee, Milwaukee to Missouri, Auckland, New Zealand to Te Kaha, (New Zealand), Te Kaha back to Auckland, and just recently Milwaukee to Montana). Worst of all, she was flown from Missouri to Los Angeles, had one day of rest in a hotel, then flew from Los Angeles to Auckland, promptly put into quarantine (where she remained for one month), and then several months later, flown BACK from Auckland to Los Angeles and then Los Angeles to Milwaukee (where the Milwaukee to Montana road trip commenced two weeks later).

Phew! Poor kitty. You can imagine the stress.

And so, here we have been in our Montana residence for a good 6-7 weeks. I was hoping by now she would be feeling her environment was stable and safe. No such luck.

Starting back in New Zealand, Bina began...licking herself. Sure, all cats are lickers, they're clean! That's something we all like about cats. But Bina took her licking to a whole new, tenacious level. Now, she LICKS herself! Arms, legs, tummy, genitals, you name it! And back in New Zealand toward the end of our stay, patches started to appear. At first we weren't sure what they were, but soon figured out they were bare patches of skin where she had licked the hair all away. They were just small patches, nothing big.

But now here we are back in America, she's endured all her instability and travel, and has acquired quite a few more patches. She's licking herself so much she will occasionally barf up a soddy mess of hair puke. Luckily, it matches almost exactly our brownish-speckled carpet (oh god, the HUGE pet deposit we paid!), but it's disturbing, nonetheless.

And now, every time I see her dive into her body for another intense licking session - you can actually HEAR her slurping away - I start scolding and yelling at her, waving my arms at her to stop. Of course, it's confusing to her, but I have no idea what to do. I suggested wiping a little cayenne peppered-water over her fur, but Beau finds that unusually cruel *cough*

I know, I should take her to the vet, though what s/he would do is beyond me. Kitty Psychologist anyone? The problem is, Beau and I are in SERIOUS trouble about making our rent in a few days and the idea of taking Bina to the vet is sadly out of the question right now. Shameful, but true.

Otherwise, Bina is in good health, seems happy and healthy. She cuddles with us and purrs a lot. She has a good appetite, and plays frequently with Beau in their crazy games.

And in the end, I know... *I* did this to my poor cat. I gave her so much stress over the past year that she's turned into a neurotic mess! Beau and I are feeling so much stress ourselves from our failing job searches and money issues that it's hard to blame the cat, and yet I want her to STOP! Poor kitty.

Don't suppose you have any suggestions before Sabina turns into Mr. Wiggles?

Cruel Cruel Missoula - Part I

We’re surrounded by lumber and dead bodies.

Beau and I have an apartment which sits in a sort of bowl surrounded by large hills and mountains, with I-90 up above us, two pieces of a cemetery on two sides of us, and various lumber yards and mills on the other sides. On a good day, you can walk outside and smell the pine wood being processed. And unfortunately, now when I smell that lumber, I just get pissed off, as you’ll soon discover…

Anyway, though Beau and I are happy to be in Missoula, we have been facing a harsh, HARSH realty since we got here – there are NO FUCKING JOBS! Here we are: him a certified teacher, now with savvy international experience, and me with my master’s degree and fairly impressive resume in the educational and non-profit fields. And yet, we are drinking from the dregs of what this “big” city has to offer.

The truth is, Missoula is only a big city to Montanans. To anyone you talk to who has come from out of state (which is a good many people), it’s a pretty small place. I find it to be a strange, somewhat cool, somewhat unappealing combination of small, hardcore industrial town and growing, quirky university town.

Since we moved here six weeks ago, Beau has only been able to secure seven substitute teaching jobs (one that doesn’t come up ‘til early March). This is some scary shit for us, struggling to pay for rent, credit card bills, and the dreaded student loans.

It doesn’t stop there. At this moment, I am registered with FOUR, count ‘em, uno, dos, tres, QUATRO temp agencies. How depressing is that! Temp agencies are always such an catch-22. You need them to get you some quick and dirty work when you come to a new city, but then you are tied to them like an indentured servant if you do get a good job. They provide you with weekly wages, but since your employer is paying them several dollars an hour on TOP of what they pay you, you get less money than you would if you were hired from them directly.

And sometimes, the whole thing can just be humiliating…

One of my first temp jobs was a clerical one at a lumber yard of sorts. More like a processing plant that receives wooden boards and then cuts them to order. Naturally, this wasn’t my dream job, but I needed work bad, and it seemed okay. I got there the first day and was greeted by a man with an ear-to-ear smile and a laid back attitude. At lunch, I told Beau he reminded me of Mr. Rogers. The woman who had given her two weeks notice, “Jill,” was not there to train me, which made it somewhat awkward, but Mr. Rogers did his best to train me to do a few things. He was actually a bit freaked out, since the office seemed to be going through a time of chaos. There was the woman who I was replacing, and the other woman in the office was moving into another position, and had just started training her replacement (whom they were not sure would stick around since the woman got the job by being demoted from another department). Mr. Rogers was obviously uneasy about the transitions.

Nevertheless, he began to train me. There were actually some duties I had never done before, but it wasn’t rocket science, and I picked it up fine. I continued working hard all day, and the woman I was to replace finally showed up (she had had some problems at home), and I sat with her for the rest of the day filling out paperwork and such. People there seemed nice, and I thought the job would do for awhile.

Jill and I chatted during the day and were astounded to find out we both came from the same city in Arizona. She told me how she was quitting to start school as a Speech Therapist, which I thought was very cool and told her so. I told her how Beau and I had been having such a tough time finding work and how I was happy to working there. I opened up to her a lot. I liked her and we really seemed to bond.

At the end of the day, Mr. Rogers came up to the both of us and solemnly asked Jill if he could speak to her alone for a bit and for me to wait. My heart stopped. The only thing I could think of was that Mr. Rogers would tell her I was doing such a good job that she didn’t have to fulfill her two weeks notice. He had been telling me all day how I’d been picking up the job quickly and competently. I felt sorry for her, since that probably would be an awkward conversation, but would probably release her as well.

I could see them in the other room, since there was a large window stretching across the wall. After about five minutes of my standing there, Mr. Rogers got up from the table, left the room, and came over to me, his face slightly twisted. Jill remained in the other room, motionless, her back to me. Suddenly, I had an ominous feeling.

Once again I got his broad smile, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Do you have your timesheet from the temp agency?” Aw hell, now I KNEW this was trouble. After a moment’s shocked hesitation, I told him no, since I thought I’d be working for awhile and he wouldn’t need to sign my timesheet until the end of the week.

And so then began his schpiel, and that’s all it was, a big schpiel of horseshit. He went on and on about how he knew Jill had been having second thoughts of quitting, and so that’s why he had wanted to take her aside and talk to her about it and see what she really wanted to do. And yes, it seems she DID want to stay (so much for wanting to be a speech therapist), and you know what that means, I was out on my ass. After ONE day! Mr. Rogers blabbed on, saying how I had done such a great job, and he kept crowing, “But J., you are at the TOP of the list, the TOP of the list!” as he explained that the office was still in flux and maybe just MAYBE I could be called back *wink nudge* to replace the recently-demoted woman if she chose to quit.

He had to be fucking kidding me.

I have had plenty of jobs in my life, and have always strongly believed in working hard and doing a good job. And I have never been fired. At that moment, I felt like I had just been fired for the first time.

I nodded, turned, and left, where Beau was waiting in the parking lot in the car. “Go, just go!” I said, and poor confused him put the car in reverse and drove off to our home, just on the other side of the cemetery.

I spent the next several hours cussing and cursing the name of Mr. Rogers and his whole big stupid lumber yard. Even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, I felt humiliated. The worst part was, I would have to RETURN there the next day so he could sign my timesheet. There was no way I was going to walk away without being paid for the day.

And what was also so depressing, was that once again, I was back at square one – unemployed with no prospects. It just killed me.

The next day I got up, showered and styled myself into a state of professional hotness. Wearing my sharp black suit and high-heeled boots, I drove over to the lumber yard, and with timesheet in hand, I marched in. I immediately zeroed in on Mr. Rogers and headed straight for him like a heat-seeking missile. The other woman smiled sweetly and greeted me and I did the same. Jill barely whispered a “Hi” and studied her desk intently. Mr. Rogers, seeing me, boomed out an over-dramatic “HI J!” that shook the walls and just pissed me off further. I tried to give him a polite smile, but it felt more like a grimace, as I handed over my timesheet like I was handing him a summons. He quickly signed it, mumbling pleasantries, to which I didn’t reply. I snatched the timesheet back, turned, and walked out with as much dignity as I could pull off. Really, the whole thing just made me feel blech inside. I got back in the car and drove off; at least it was over and I would never have to see these people again.

But damn it, sometimes I still SMELL them.

Friendly Baby Boom

Today I received a Valentine's Email from a one-month old baby. My good friend Stanna, whom I've known since the first grade, had little baby Ava at the end of the year. A real cutie, eh?

I mentioned it in passing previously, but there seems to be an unusual baby boom going on around me. Not literally, thankfully.

The fact that I have lived in so many different places, has meant that I have also had friends in different places, of all types and ages. Yet, they seem to all have gotten together and agreed to get knocked up around the same 18 month period. Just now, off the top of my head, I'm counting seven babies, either just recently expelled, or getting close to it. I didn't know I still knew seven people. Just last night I got an email from a co-worker back in NYC who I haven't talked to in awhile -- quite obviously since she's due to give birth in two weeks! One of my closest friends from the same job just got back from her own maternity leave this past Monday.

Most of these pregnancies were planned, some not-so-much, as in my own sister, who just a few months shy of graduating from college (from a school, no less, that has put my mother "in the poorhouse" for my sister to attend), is getting ready for her own birth. I have to hand it to her though, she has celebrated her own pregnancy with more gusto than many of my friends, which is really saying something. I don't know anyone else who got their swollen stomach painted in festive colors and then took artistic photos (which were pretty cool looking, actually).

I hope I don't sound callous. I've been a teacher, and loved it, so I do like children. But I also have a lot of weird, uncomfortable feelings toward other people's children and their excitement in regards to them. And don't get me started AGAIN on my boiling rage toward a woman wielding a baby stroller!

I guess I just don't know how to process it, so I'm writing, cause that usually helps me out. In this case, it doesn't seem to be. What am I feeling? Jealous? Hmm, no doesn't feel like that. Annoyance? Only sometimes. I really am happy for my friends' happy packages. Longing? I only get that every once in awhile after a vivid dream or stray pensive moment.

Hmm, I don't know. I'm 34 and still don't feel rushed about babies, though I admit to thinking about it more than when I was 24. It's still basically the same thought though, "Yeah, I want to, just NOT NOW." And if my aunt (who is 3 years older than I with 3 boys, spaced far apart), tells me ONE more time "You better hurry, J, TICK TOCK!" I am going to put my hands through the phone and strangle her.

I still want another cat though.

So, I'll just try to be "happy with the question" instead of reaching for the answer. I guess it's like one of those things where you see everyone going in one direction and even though you're not going that way, you think, "Well, it must be SOMETHING important if they're all going there."

And of course, I am happy for all of you who have recently or are getting ready to give birth (YIKES!). CONGRATULATIONS! I do admire those who make the conscious decision to go ahead and completely change their lives, forever. There's no more sleeping in, no more wild sex in the living room, no more selfish vacations, no more ME ME ME!

When in New Zealand, I went with Beau to a end-of-semester drink fest at the local bar with several other teachers (all women, all Maori). At one point, two of the younger ones I was sitting near began an interesting, deeply emphatic, conversation on their views of giving birth. They described it in terms I had never heard of before.
- "It was great! You feel like you're superwoman!"
- "You feel like a goddess! You are so strong and amazing!"

Had to be the first time I ever heard a woman describing the birthing process as "great."

They continued on to talk about their profound love for their children and the overwhelming honor and love they felt in being a mother, as well as the utmost security they got from living in a small "family" village, where they knew their children would always be cared for, and always loved. One woman showed me a beautiful bracelet she wore of three, intertwined silver bands. She said they represented her three children, that she never took it off, and she never wore any other jewelery. Despite the fact that raising children in a small village was completely NOT what I was interested in, I still was deeply touched by their feelings, and it has stuck with me today.

So, go on with your bad selves, Superwomen! Goddess of Maternity! Hooray!

Just one request, please please please do NOT send me a photo of the ultrasound. I don't mean to offend, but i have ZERO interest in that blurry, warped picture. I'm sure YOU can see the fingers and toes (and penis!) and all that. To me, it's a fuzzy mess. I don't even know how to comment on it when I get it. "Ooooh, loooook. Um."

Instead, just send me a pretty K-Mart photo after the baby is born. Put yourself in it too! I find YOU just as interesting as your baby and love the parent-child pics. Now THAT'S something I can really ooh and ahhh.

Update on Dell

Though I do this with somewhat mixed feelings, I thought it only fair to give an update on my "DELL COMPUTERS SUCK!" situation from a previous post.

One of the Dell Computers Customer Advocates found my angry blog entry. Oh happy search engine! I wonder if he typed in "Dell Sucks" ? Anyway, he wrote me to try to rectify the situation with my computer. At that time, I also informed him about my equally-pissed off mother, whom also bought a Dell less than a year before and tried repeatedly to get her Dell rebate to no avail. After about 10,000 emails back and forth, the results are in:

- My mother was finally sent her rebate somewhere in the ballpark of $130, so definitely worth the effort on my part. She is quite happy now. Her desktop Dell makes me nuts though. You can't use it for 5 minutes without it slowing down to a madness-inducing crawl. Considering the thing is less than a year old, I'm surprised it could get bogged down with spy/adware so fast, but oh well.

- My own happiness is mixed. Dell quickly replaced my crappy keyboard for free (and it arrived in like a day), but would not just replace the whole damn laptop itself. I wanted to do that despite the fact that I may lose a few valuable programs i no longer have the software for, because i just don't trust this laptop. The fact that my "new" laptop has just had so many problems and quirks from the very first time I pushed the power button has left me somewhat dissastisfied. Now everytime something happens, I don't know if it's the laptop or just me. I am no computer techie, but I also have a pretty good knowledge of computers that surpasses most people, and know that this laptop did not come to me in good shape.

My new problem is that DVD's don't play so well. The picture is nice and clear, but it tends to skip and trip. Not fun for movie-watching. Dell has a download to fix this, but only for Sonic, a program i don't even use, and have no plans on downloading just so I can download the file to fix it.

Dell does have a live chat helpline which I appreciate, but as with any tech help, it can be slow and tedious. They then called me up (um, HELLO?) to further fix things. Though I appreciate their tenacity, it's kind of a "don't call me, I'll call you" situation.

Until then, let's hope this thing doesn't blow up. I don't have one of those recall batteries, do I???

Humane Society Groupie

I love love love cats and dogs, and if I had a bit less restraint, would probably be one of those weird women with 10 dogs and 15 cats roaming around. I’ve also felt somewhat cheated in that regard. As a child, I was constantly given one story after another as to why I wasn’t allowed my own pet (despite the fact that the older siblings had been allowed their own). My favorite was, “We’re allergic,” which is funny if you think that they didn’t seem all that allergic the 20 previous years.

When I was in college, of course, pets are not allowed in dorm rooms. I didn’t have my own apartment until my senior year when I got married. I was pretty heartbroken when I found out that the apartment only allowed cats. At the time I considered myself a dog person and thought getting a cat was a consolation prize. Nevertheless, the day after my wedding I went to the Humane Society and promptly adopted two kittens, one who is still with me today, 12½ years later. (The husband only lasted 2 years).

In grad school, I purposefully only viewed apartments that would allow dogs, and in a college town such as Madison, that left me with the dregs of the city. I still ended up in a decent place and made a beeline to the local humane society where I adopted an 8 month old dog. I was so excited to get a dog, I didn’t really pay attention. I just knew she was cute, short-haired, medium-sized, and playful, which was what I wanted. At the time it didn’t click in my dumb head that being the 4^th owner in 8 months is probably not a good sign. I could regale you with both funny and utterly puke-inducing stories about that dog, but needless to say, it didn’t work out. I still carry a bit of shame about that, because I feel that when it comes to animals, you are making a serious commitment, and it breaks my heart that so many people do not take that commitment seriously. Dogs and cats can live up to 20 years and you have to take that into consideration. When I finally gave that dog, “Scully,” away, I felt like I had failed, even though I knew I wasn’t capable of taking care of her and her move to a large farm was a much better place than my tiny apartment. When the Madison Humane Society called shortly thereafter to follow up, I returned the call, got the woman’s voicemail, and crying, asked her to call me back so we could talk about it. I wanted to understand all that happened. She never returned my call, and I was too embarrassed to follow-through.

And of course, though dog ownership thrives in New York City, I never felt my tiny apartment would be fair to a dog, not to mention taking poor me and the dog down three flights of stairs in the middle of winter to ‘go potty’ on the sidewalk where I’d have to pick it up with my hands and carry it around in a baggie ‘til I got back home.

And again, getting a dog in New Zealand wasn’t realistic since we were living in a house the school provided us which didn’t have a yard for an animal, not to mention that an array of dogs already ran around half-wild which concerned me. In fact, the cute Corgi/Lab (I think) mix that lived next door to us was hit by a car on the 2-lane highway that separated our unfenced yard from the ocean. That dog was never the same after that, and I'm not just talking about his newly-acquired limp.

Okay, so now we’re back, and I’ve got dog and cat #2 on the brain again. It never really goes away, and once in awhile I do something to try and soothe me, although at the same time, it makes me a bit ansy – I go to the local Humane Society. We went in New Zealand, during my brief time in Milwaukee over Christmas (nice HS!), and here in Missoula, we went just yesterday.

I love going to the Humane Society, and I think anyone looking for a pet should do the same. Sure, purebreeds are fun (though those teeny tiny furry yappy breeds make me want to projectile vomit), but I find them utterly unnecessary. They’re inbred, riddled with medical problems (in relation to the inbreeding), tend to have extremely neurotic and difficult personalities, and are ridiculously overpriced. There are so many animals sitting in shelters who need homes desperately, not to mention that mutts tend to be much smarter and have better behaviors than purebreds.

Nowadays, humane societies are run in a very responsible way. Instead of just handing pets over to you, now there is a process to ensure that you are matched to a pet that is ideal not only for you, but anyone/thing else in your household (family members, other pets, etc.). Saying that, Madison’s Humane Society was a bit over-militant in their pre-screening for my tastes, but at least they’re careful.

So, we went to the facility here and walked around. As much as I love to see the animals, a part of me feels ashamed to do it as well. You’re walking through the hallway, looking in each cage, and most of the animals will instantly respond. Pet me! Love me! Take me home! It’s just so degrading to the poor animal, but what else is there to do? As we were walking through, one of the saddest things we saw were two old poodles, a male and female, wearing little knit sweaters. The sign introduced them and gave their names, and told how their owner had recently passed away and how the poodles were very scared and confused. Right after I finished reading that I heard the male dog start to whimper. Oh geez!

I really really want to get another cat though, somewhat soon. My cat, Sabina, that I mentioned (and is pictured) above I’ve had for 12½ years, usually has a companion. I’d like to see her have one once again, especially when Beau and I FINALLY get full-time jobs. I’d like to find an adult, male cat at the Humane Society, maybe one that has some sort of problem (missing an ear, etc.), that would make him less adoptable. And to be honest, I don’t want a long-haired cat. As cute as they are, they’re a mess, and I already have enough long, shedding hair for everyone in the house.

But, I have to wait. I'm sure we'll have to pay ANOTHER deposit for another cat, and there's the Humane Society's reasonable, yet currently inconvenient fees. I'll keep lobbying Beau ( I think he's softening!). It'll be nice to have another heartbeat in the house.

Welcome to Montana! Ow! Ow! Ow!

FINALLY we got to move into our new apartment. It was a bit touch and go for awhile, seeing as how both Beau and I are unemployed and have just arrived into the state. Would you rent to us? I understood the apartment offices' hesitation, but it still really pissed off Beau when they suggested his elderly parents co-sign for us just in case.

We had done quite a bit of looking, were interested in one, put down a deposit, and then finally relaxed. Apartment hunting blows. Still, we had to wait for our final approval. Two unemployed and homeless people who have just arrived into town don’t make the best tenants, no matter how good our rental history is. And then, horrors, the apartment fell through! The surly lady in the apartment office had failed to notice that the apartment we wanted wasn't available for another three weeks! Not an option for us, who were living in Motel 6 on the edge of town. After she apologized profusely and gave us our deposit back, we went to another complex with nice apartments, and a location I wasn't totally pleased with, but could live with. We paid the deposit and for about 24 hours we bit our nails as they checked up on us (seriously, the FIRST time my past landlord has ever been called!). And then finally they said yes, and we were no longer homeless!!!! HOORAY! Too bad we had to cough up the GDP of a tiny country to move in.

Sadly, on moving day, the temperature was about 12 degrees Fahrenheit with one of the most wicked winds I have ever felt -- the kind of wind that will literally push your car a couple inches to the side when driving down the highway. I tried to spend as little time outside as possible, and wore my warm clothes against the cold. Since all our possessions fit inside the little Honda, it didn’t take us too long to move it all in, despite the fact that we live on the third floor. It was literally the easiest move of my life, though that’s cold comfort when you don’t have one stick of furniture, namely, a BED.

After a few hours, it became clear that something was wrong with my face. In a very short amount of time, I seem to have acquired a wind burn. As a child I’d gotten one a couple of times when downhill skiing, though it was always something that was more comical than problematic. I guess you could say this one was comical, to Beau. Certainly not to me.

Now, I’m a VERY fair-skinned gal and have had about a half dozen really scary burns in my life. The last one I had in while in Phuket, Thailand (a beach resort town) was so bad, that I had a bubble on my forehead and my nose swelled up. It scared the crap out of me, especially since I’d only been in the water for about an hour (and walking around for about two).

But this wind burn was in a different league. It’s about a week later now, and I’m still suffering. When it first happened, it felt like someone had covered my face in an itchy, leather mask and pulled it as tight as they could across my face. I felt like Hannibal Lecter. Despite this haphazard facelift, I also gained an immediate set of wrinkles that hadn’t existed before, particularly bunched around my eyes, which succeeded in instantly aging me about ten years. But the worst part was just the pain. Just like a sunburn, my face was bright red and BURNING. I felt like I had a full-on fever and spent quite a bit of time placing a cold compress to different parts of my face, though it would heat up the compress within a couple minutes. Beau, whose face was completely unharmed, could only stare in disbelief as he kept repeating, “How did you do that?” He never received a cheerful response in return.

So here I am, about a week later, and though my face is no longer painfully hot, or as tight as before, it still is giving me quite a bit of discomfort. Oh, and bonus! Now I get to enter the ‘slowly peeling’ stage! Hooray! Nothing like going in for an interview with teeny flecks of skin dotting your face, especially those attractive ones hanging around the edges of your nostrils. Yes! Oh yeah, and every lavish application of face cream results in about 30 seconds of intense burning akin to squeezing lemon juice into a paper cut. JUST FUCKING GREAT!

I just hope I get a job REAL soon so I can focus on something else besides my stupid face.