She’ll Be Waiting In Istanbul

A couple of weeks ago, Sweetpea had what I characterized at the time as “a poopsplosion.” In my defense, I found myself standing in the middle of a floor peppered with little dabs of liquid cat poop, and that was before the sudden spray of cat yak, when I surrendered, mopped up various bodily fluids and prostrated myself before the veterinarian. The vet gave her a shot and essentially said, “Poop happens.” Life went on until this morning, when symptoms returned. Sweetpea was in a cat carrier and waiting for the vet by 10:30, which made today a nail-biter. In the COVID environment, I have to drop off my cats and can’t comfort them, for which I will never forgive no-mask-wearing assholes.

Mama, where are my dinners?

Turns out Sweetpea needed an enema. I’ve never typed those words in that order before, so that’s exciting. The vet explained all sorts of things to me, like that after an enema, cats leak liquids and it can make a big mess and nobody wants that! I laughed nervously about everything I’d mopped up this morning, and said something stupid like, “Not this cowgirl!” Under no circumstances am I a cowgirl. Every boot I have is rubber.

New parents of infants spend lots of time discussing poop. It goes with the territory and often comes as a surprise to adults who, mere months before, discussed current events, interest rates and movie times. But no. New parents will discuss the contents of a full diaper like they’re making lists for the auto parts store. My daughter Miss Sasha is nearly forty and has two children, so it’s been a long time since I discussed poop with anyone as I now find myself doing with the vet. He’s a lot better adjusted about this than I am. Maybe he has young grandchildren and changes their diapers.

Years Since It’s Been Here

Happy New Year! Every year, Pete and I celebrate by going for a walk with our cameras. Sure, it’s sedate, but this year, going for a walk may turn super exciting due to encounters with no-mask-wearing assholes. Yes, they’re jogging through the park, sometimes running the wrong way on the bike path, huffing and puffing where other no-mask-wearing assholes will suck up their used air in a minute. When you see three or four of these jerks in a row, it makes you get off the path and stick by the road, where the worst thing your lungs suck up is carcinogenic traffic fumes.

We didn’t so much flee the park near our house as change course abruptly to cross a parking lot and skirt the pond full of seagulls and ducks. This is the New Jersey version of a bucolic scene, so I was fully surprised when this big blue heron cleared its throat and announced that we were seeing some NATURE. You remember NATURE. I’ve seen a lot of it on TV since March, but anyway, we were looking at little brown ducks when this giant blue bird we hadn’t seen a second before took off out of the water and landed on the distant bank. Hello!

I’m not saying my icy heart melted, but it was sufficiently warmed that the next maskless assholes didn’t inspire me think the murdery thoughts. Here at home, Pete is brewing beer. The cats snore on the couch. Pete found a $10 bill on Drusy’s grave so DrusyClaus is still bringing us presents. Happy New Year to you, whoever and wherever you are. Mask up when you go out. I hope you see blue birds.