Woman On The Verge Of Disaster

Previously posted on September 7, 2011

I’m a woman on the verge because two seven-year-old cats rule my home. In addition, my assertive move to combat this fiasco is to get four fluffy kitten wonders to help shift the power balance, to infuse some clear reasoning on the subject. A few more furry souls to consider in house-rule-voting should break the impasse between the two presiding queens.

I’m a woman on the verge because I’m going to let that feline six-pack thread its way through my whole, albeit quiet, world. I will spend much of my day chasing down their catnip toys and unravelling the ball of yarn and hair they dragged through every chair and table leg, and around three lamps and even my ankles. Still, if those beasts are out of my sight for two minutes, I will moan and wonder, “Just how DID the criminal get in and why would he or she steal my Maine coon family?”

I’m a woman on the verge because usually by that point, it would be snack time so I would shake a little catnip into my spinach dip. I would do this for two reasons: to get my daily allotment of greens and, to research the power of this popular and global vice, which is sending hundreds of cats to CatNippers Anonymous everywhere. Soon AETV will air its first show with a feline subject. Yay to you my co-interventionists. We are all worthy trailblazers.

I’m a woman on the verge because I am a word lover. I am a writer who is enamoured with language. Yet I have had a huge headache from years of never looking up the word ‘assertive.’ The word jumped at me when I literally fell on it via my Webster’s twenty-pound dictionary. How did I know which word tripped me up? That is an easy one. Upon close scrutiny, the fur balls who run my house, guffawed at me loudly. I must say, the lack of respect in today’s pets is so disconcerting to me. Still, I must forge ahead to fulfil my journey.

I’m a woman on the verge because, since making mistakes like bathing my sweeties at the same time, I’m fighting for any scrap of dignity and forgiveness the management will throw at me. What? Only two bits of kibble? I’ll take it. Why not? I’ve been running on fumes for so many years now that even a raised eyebrow of acknowledgment is well worth it. You’re right. I don’t like liver and chicken delight. Never did. What can I say? I don’t like catnip either.

I’m a woman on the verge because I never need the absolute certainty of things to make me act. When I’m tied up trying to unravel all that silly yarn, I do whatever strikes my fancy and do so without apologies. That rule stands even if the object of my intrigue comes as Meow Mix for the queens’ amuse-bouche of the moment. That is, unless I am trying to reassume control of the Bridge, so to speak, from its current squatters. Okay. Okay. Fancy Feast it is then.

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Mary Oliver’s Journey

by Jim Roberts http://www.flickriver.com/photos/jimborobbo/popular-interesting/

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting 
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

© Mary Oliver

 

 

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“You Take My Hand” – Margaret Atwood

You take my hand and
I’m suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and
why am I fascinated

We waltz in slow motion
through an air stale with aphorisms
we meet behind endless potted palms
you climb through the wrong windows

Other people are leaving
but I always stay till the end
I paid my money, I
want to see what happens.

In chance bathtubs I have to
peel you off me
in the form of smoke and melted
celluloid.

Have to face it I’m
finally an addict,
the smell of popcorn and worn plush
lingers for weeks.

Margaret Atwood.

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What I Learned Today

It can be fun to cope with an aging brain.

These days, I find myself distracted by so many interests. It’s a real job to refocus.

I concentrate better by spending less time on Twitter.

However, I’m still a spinning head on a toothbrush.

An elderly friend of mine has been so sick. I hurried to her home yesterday, after picking up Boost, Ensure, Pedialyte, and more at Safeway.

When I arrived, we exchanged several hugs. She draped one arm over me while I set the brown bag on the counter. Ann pulled out the nutritional shakes. “Can you take this back then?”

My mouth fell open. I wasn’t taking anything back. I tried to cover a frustrated sigh, while tears welled at the back of my eyes. Without enough calories and nutrition, she was in big trouble.

Dealing with this stubborn friend is a feat and a half.

“Would you like a cuppa tea, Terry?”

“You bet I would,” I said smiling.

“You know I only have Tetley. I’ve gone off Red Rose completely now.”

She plugged in the kettle, while I opened the cupboard door. There was a soft clanging of saucers against their cups.

A few minutes later, we sat at opposite ends of the lumpy brown sofa. We sipped our hot drinks and chatted. I loved this part, listening intently, connecting lost tangents, and ensuring I spoke loudly enough. I felt the corners of my eyes crease as she told me all the details.

“So finally I asked my doctor, what about a mammogram? Aren’t I due for one by now?”

Ann’s eyes went wild with joy. “He reminded me that I am 80!” She burst out laughing. “Today I learned that when a woman turns 74, there are NO MORE mammograms. Isn’t that wonderful?”

I exaggerated a tantrum and stomped my feet, “I want to be 74 NOW!”

We laughed like school girls.

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