lancieblog

No More Riding the Wave

2011-05-03T21:07:00.011-05:00

Is it possible to end breast cancer?

That’s the question more than 800 advocates addressed this weekend at the annual meeting of the National Breast Cancer Coalition in Washington, DC. NBCC has set an aggressive—some say impossible—goal of ending breast cancer by January 1, 2020.

Attending this conference has always been a highlight of my year. After almost ten years at Living Beyond Breast Cancer, it’s pretty easy to get lost in paperwork and office politics. This conference reminds me of one of the major reasons I got into breast cancer advocacy in the first place: to speak for those who have no voice.

It’s shocking, but many more women have been silenced by breast cancer than you might think. It is easy to be lulled into complacency by the ocean of pink, riding the wave of good feeling that comes from buying products that support breast cancer. Even I succumb to it from time to time, although I see and talk and write about the ravages of this disease every day. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t take issue with people who wear or buy pink to show their support to women with breast cancer. I just don’t think doing that alone is enough.

Why? Because according to NBCC’s research:

In 2008, 1.4 million women worldwide were diagnosed with breast cancer. Nearly half a million died.

In 1991, an estimated 119 U.S. women died of breast cancer every day. In 2010, it was 110.

In 1975, about 10 out of every 100,000 U.S. women were diagnosed with stage IV (metastatic) breast cancer. That number is the same today.

In 1975, women with metastatic disease had an estimated 0 percent chance of living five years after diagnosis. Today, the chances have grown—to around 35 percent.

I don’t know about you, but this representation of “progress” simply isn’t good enough for me. It’s not good enough for the strong, talented, beautiful, intelligent women I meet every day at my job. They deserve so much better than 35 percent.

NBCC launched its campaign, called The Breast Cancer Deadline 2020, in September 2010. At the conference, I got a copy of the baseline status report, which explains how NBCC will measure its success each year until 2020. The twin goals are to uncover methods of preventing first-time breast cancer, and to halt the recurrence of already diagnosed disease. If I could, I would add a third goal, to find cures for women facing breast cancer now.

I was extremely skeptical when I first heard about this campaign. Breast cancer is an incredibly complex disease. In fact, it’s not one disease; it’s a family of diseases related by their origination in the breast. They grow for different reasons and along different pathways. Some go away and never come back; others attack with relentlessness until they overwhelm the body. How can we set a goal when we have no idea what we’re facing?

I think Fran Visco, NBCC’s president, said it best. “What if we fail? We have already failed.

I don’t know whether it’s possible to meet this deadline. But I believe it is possible to see a problem differently. To step back for a moment, to give the problem a fresh look. To ask the math teacher for her perspective on history. To spend hours composing a piece of music, only to throw it away and start afresh. It is possible to hear the same words a thousand times but to understand their meaning only when spoken by a different voice. To change the conversation.

I am on board. Are you with us?

Adopt this Cat!

2008-08-04T12:49:00.004-05:00

I am urgently looking for someone to adopt a stray cat from my South Philly neighborhood. If you aren’t interested in a cat for yourself, please pass this message along to other cat lovers you know!

The cat is less than a year old and my neighbors have named him “Alley.” (They thought Ali, with the double meaning, because they believed the cat was female, but I’ve pretty much confirmed he’s male!) He’s affectionate, well fed and likes to play. He has been around other cats and seen Nanuq and Tug through my storm door. If I thought I could handle another cat, I would definitely take in this little guy. He was born outside in the alley behind my house, and a sweet Italian lady was taking care of him until about a week ago, when she passed away.

I am hoping to get the cat adopted by Thursday. If that’s not possible, I may still be able to get the cat to you late the following week. I’m willing to drive him about an hour any direction from Philadelphia either tonight or Wednesday night or next week. He will need to go to a vet for tests and shots, and you will have to say some prayers for me that I can catch him.

If you’re interested yourself, drop me an email and we can talk about him. If you pass this along to friends I don’t know, they should mention they know YOU so I know they are legitimate. If you are a friend of a friend, I will ask you to provide a vet or personal reference and pay a $25 adoption fee so that I know this cat isn’t going to a testing facility or will meet some other nefarious end.

My First Day Working from Home

2008-07-20T20:15:00.004-05:00

On Friday I (officially) worked from home for the first time. Through the end of the summer, my boss at Living Beyond Breast Cancer has given her blessing for me to spend one blissful day each week writing and editing from the solitude of my house.

I woke up at 7:30 a.m., an hour later than usual, and showered, moisturized and dressed. Instead of rushing through a hastily prepared breakfast, I sat at my table and tasted my food. Then I walked to Dunkin' Donuts for a large iced coffee, which I drank quickly in order to pump some energy into my system.

I worked for four-and-a-half hours without interruption, writing three stories, answering a dozen e-mails, approving two designs. I even interviewed one of our consitituents. Instead of rushing the woman through our conversation--the norm lately, since I have no time to think--I listened to her. She is a 14-year breast cancer survivor, a woman retiring from our Helpline after eight years, and she shared her philosophy of volunteerism as an act of both giving and self-care. I was surprised to find myself wiping away tears.

I took a break at 1:00 p.m. and stuck a veggie burger in the toaster oven. Then I went for a short walk on the square surrounding the Girard Estate, the namesake of this neighborhood. As I wandered narrow streets, I saw cat after cat curled into a ball in the front window. During the day, our pets slumber. I had witnessed this miracle in my own home. Nanuq, who just two nights before had frightened the cable guy by knocking over the box he was repairing, lay on his back beneath the kitchen window, stomach exposed, paws in the air. Tug was in the front window, tucked into the only corner not shaded by an oak tree.

In the afternoon I interviewed another volunteer and edited three stories. The cats woke up once, when my neighbor and his young daughter tapped on the window. I stopped my work for a moment to toss them a ball and give treats. Poking my head out front, I saw two of my neighbors, house-husbands who walked back and forth with babies swaddled against them.

I worked until 5:30, resisting the urge to get "just" a little more done. I put away the laptop and headed to the yard to do some weeding. After an hour I stopped to make dinner, finishing in time to see the Phillies win a tight one. All in all, a pretty perfect day.

Eau de Bacon

2008-05-12T20:46:00.007-05:00

With baseball in full swing and the TV season almost at its end, I'm spending more than my fair share of time parked in front of the television. Yesterday I saw two commercials within 10 minutes that promoted the virtues of bacon.

The first, for Taco Bell's bacon club chalupa, shows a lovely blonde and brunette in a bar. The brunette has tucked a bacon club chalupa into her tiny handbag. "Guys love bacon," she says. The blonde doesn't believe the bacon will attract men, but as soon as the brunette opens her purse, three hot guys make a beeline for them. "What is that you're wearing?" one man asks. Sniff, sniff, noses in the air. "It's...intoxicating!"

The second, for Purina's Beggin' strips, features a handsome golden retriever. He awakens from a nap to the smell of bacon. Sniff, sniff, nose in the air. The dog bolts through the house, knocking over toys, disturbing Dad and generally running roughshod through every room in his singleminded quest. Finally, he finds Mom, who bestows the bacon. After swallowing it whole, the retriever jumps up, licks her on the face and says, "I love you."

These commercials have given me some ideas. Perhaps for my next date I should fry some bacon and dab the fat behind my ears. Or carry some in my pocketbook so I can slip it into my date's sandwich if things aren't looking promising. These methods are sure to get a male of some species panting.

Happy New Year

2007-12-31T13:42:00.000-05:00

My time in Rockport is almost at an end. I head back tomorrow via Amtrak to the crazy-busy streets of Philadelphia. Broad Street will be filled with Mummers and New Years Day revellers. But I'm most looking forward to curling up with Nanuq and Tug and getting my house in order.

I love coming here, and not just because I get to see my parents. Only about 7,000 people live in Rockport in the winter, and I enjoy walking the Old Garden Path along the Atlantic Ocean. The trail leads through bramble brush to overlooks for quiet contemplation, where regardless of the time of year you can hear the water splashing against the rocks and inhale the fishy, salty smell of the sea. A walk down Bearskin Neck off Main Street rewards with good views of Motif No. 1 (above), one of the most painted and photographed sites in the world.

The goal is to hold the ocean in my mind once I return to my life, to remember how it centers and feeds me. I hope you have a place that does the same for you, and that you will carry it in your mind in 2008. Happy New Year.

My New Boyfriend

2007-12-30T12:40:00.000-05:00

When visiting one's parents as an adult, one expects to endure some indignities: sleeping on the couch, being spoken to and, therefore, responding like a 13-year-old, etc. Getting humped by a dog, however, is not one of them.

My new boyfriend is a 14-month-old cockapoo. Alfie is a little hairer and a lot blonder than I usually like my men. I do, however, admire his aggressive approach, which echoes the human dating game.

Last night as I warmed myself by the fire, Alfie approached with his favorite toy, a purple ball stuffed inside a sock-like yellow packet. As I threw the toy across the room, we began the mating dance: he feigning interest and then, when I showed some, retreating to the other side of the room. Then, suddenly, with no preparation, he got on his hind legs. At first I thought he was trying to be cute, but then he thrust himself upon my right arm. I pushed him away, but he persisted. This continued for several minutes, as my mother put forth a torrent of inappropriate comments about what her grandchild might look like. Lessons I learned from this experience:

If you are not interested, do not stoop to his level
Do not mistake cute looks for innocent intentions
Do not engage in cat and mouse unless you can back the game with actions

I worried about his feelings, but Alfie has moved on. Just this morning he was shut into the bedroom with me. He stared at the door and refused to look at me. He cried and cried, until my mother opened the door and released him.

Turtle No. 21

2007-12-28T11:46:00.000-05:00

After sleeping off our night walk, we had a lunch of rice, beans and pickled vegetables prepared by a local mother-daughter team. Then Chau and I built nests for the hatchery. These consist of sheets of chicken wire sown into cylinders with plastic fly line, then draped over one end with wire netting. The nests are placed over man-made turtle nests to keep out birds and other animals.

My elaborate stitching won me the award for most perfectionistic. Even on vacation I couldn't help but undertake my responsibilities with utmost seriousness. It took me three times as long as Chau to finish my nests. Afterward, he and I used silvery paint to cover the metal grates on the windows and doors of the project site. Then a group of us went to the hatchery to dig holes and check on the turtle eggs, a responsibility each group undertook every few hours.

No change. For several hours we read and played cards. Then someone ran back from the hatchery: a group of baby olive ridleys had been born.

We rushed to the hatchery, where the turtles clambered over each other in an effort to flee the nest. They looked like a cuter version of squirming earthworms. We donned plastic gloves to protect us and the ridleys from species-specific germs, and each person took turns counting out five turtles and putting them in a plastic bucket. I picked up Turtle No. 21 between my thumb and forefinger as he flailed. He measured about 2 centimeters but felt strong.

We continued in this fashion until we got to Turtle No. 102. As we gathered our things to treck to the ocean, Tammy and Roxanna noticed a tiny squirming head deep in the sand. I plucked Turtle No. 103 from his coocoon, and we headed for the beach.

Our entire GAP Adventures group joined us, as did seven newcomers from Great Britain. We stood about 20 feet from the water. Tammy tipped over the plastic pail holding the turtles, and they began their journey to the sea. Over the next 15 minutes, in a light, refreshing rain, we watched them flop over the sand, making light tracks in their wait. They approached the water one by one, and as the tide came in, it gently swept them away.

Top 10 SPAM Subject Lines of the Week

2007-12-28T11:38:00.000-05:00

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and the top SPAM subject line for this week…

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A Christmas Present

2007-12-27T16:15:00.000-05:00

Among my favorite presents this year was a donation my parents made on my behalf to Caribbean Conservation Corporation, a nonprofit organization dedicated to the conservation of sea turtles using research, training, advocacy, education, and environmental protection.

On Christmas morning, I became the proud "mother" of Jamur, a 1,000-pound leatherback sea turtle who gave birth on Chiriqui Beach, Panama (on the Atlantic side), on May 29, 2007. I weigh a lot less than Jamur, but we're about the same length: 60 inches. CCC's caretakers tagged Jamur with a portable satellite in Panama, so now we can track the movements of this critically endangered turtle. As of last week, Jamur (yes, that's her in the photo!) was on her way to Spain. I'm a proud parent!

Leatherbacks are the world's largest, most striking sea turtles, traveling thousands of miles on only their powerful front flippers and an insatiable appetite for jellyfish. I didn't see any leatherbacks in Costa Rica, which isn't surprising: according to the Sea Turtle Conservation Project, the population of leatherbacks in and around the Pacific coastline has decreased by 95 percent since 1980.

Far more populous (but still endangered) are olive ridleys, the type of turtle we tracked at Playa Matapalo (photo from NOAA). The name comes from the color of the shell, or carapace, which can grow up to 30 inches. Like the other six remaining sea turtles, olive ridleys have been on earth far longer than we have: 150 million years. They precede the dinosaurs.

Still, we're doing our best to obliterate these ancient species by abusing the environment, neglecting people. Sea turtles are threatened by ocean pollution and seaside development. They drown in shrimp nets and in tuna and swordfish fisheries. Along the beaches where sea turtles lay their eggs live thousands of people who cannot make a living wage or get decent health care. The poor and marginalized take grown turtles for meat, shells and leather, to maintain their homes and health or to feed a drug habit. They remove sea turtle eggs from nests and sell them to willing buyers.

It was possible, perhaps likely, we would not see a baby olive ridley during our six-day stay at Playa Matapalo. So many things must go right to bring a baby turtle into the world. A female turtle must lay her eggs at the site where she was born. Already, she will have swum thousands of miles to return to her birth beach. She approaches shore in darkness, traveling slowly over the sand until finding a comfortable spot--the sand the correct consistency, the temperature right--to dig a nest several feet deep. She lays about 100 eggs, then covers them with sand before returning soundlessly to the sea.

The eggs incubate for 45 to 65 days before hatching, if the weather cooperates, if bacteria, ants or other insects do not discover them. The one- to one-and-a-half inch turtles flail, pushing sand out of their way to reach the top of the nest. Once they arrive, they swing their small fins toward the sea, moving faster than you might imagine, a good thing since predators as varied as birds, dogs, pigs and people stalk them along the way. Those that reach the water float for miles, dodging sea birds and fish. The males never return to shore, the sea forever their home. Females begin returning to lay eggs about two decades later. The cycle begins again.

Fleas and Flowers

2007-12-19T17:37:00.000-05:00

After my first night tracking poachers, I felt old. Not like an old soul. Just plain old.

I took the 3 a.m. shift with Chau, Corina, Helena, Arella and Kirsten, a young woman from Germany who with a local man oversees the turtle project. I missed high tide, the hardest time to walk (shown to the right), but knew what I was in for. Roxanna, Monica and Tammy had returned several hours earlier from their shift, groaning and sighing that I was "in for a hike."

Things didn't start out well. I awoke to blackness. Groping for something to steady me, I fell from the bunk and landed on my ass. Humiliating and painful, but once I got outside in the damp air and drank a cup of coffee, I felt better.

We walked about 24 kilometers (around 15 miles). Hiking on wet sand takes considerable strength because the moisture seems to suck you into the earth. I wanted to free my feet from the confines of their hiking boots so they could feel the cool abrasiveness of the sand. Instead, I focused on staying upright. After the moon sank below the horizon, we walked under a blanket of darkness, together but apart. My eyeglasses fogged and I struggled to see just a few feet in front of me. I tried to center myself and my thoughts: who I am, where I am, why I am. If nothing else, I thought, I can say I have seen the Pacific Ocean from the shores of Costa Rica.

I felt self-conscious because I had trouble keeping up, but Chau and Corina looped back from time to time to keep me company. We also had a constant companion in Pulga ("Flea" in Spanish), who sometimes walked the beach for all three shifts. Corina and I sat on a huge piece of driftwood as the sun emerged from the clouds, mist smokily rising from the ocean. She told me about her boyfriend in Peru and reassured me I would enjoy the trip even though I don't run marathons or do triathalons, like many of our companions.

Instead of walking back by beach, we took an interior path through the trees and saw white-faced monkeys. We stopped to look until they stared back and we feared they would pelt us with poop. Farther along the path, a sloth with a baby on her belly hung lazily from a tree. Along the way we saw grasshoppers, spiders curled in delicate lace webs and a dragonfly-like insect with luminescent wings. Orange and yellow irises bloomed along the trail, and tiny daisies dotted the forest floor. Near a home I saw a large, bell-shaped plant with tiny hanging red flowers.

By the time we returned to camp, I had forgotten about my fall and the glasses. I sat down to a pancake with honey and fresh pineapple, and then rushed back to our room to write. But just in case, I popped in a couple of Ibuprofen.

I Wish They Would Eat Bananas

2007-12-16T10:54:00.001-05:00

The Mitchell Report released this week on steroid use in baseball offered little new information. We had heard the rumors about--and witnessed the bulging muscles of--Gary Sheffield, Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi before. Lenny Dykstra, one of my favorites, had long ago winked at a reporter and told him "powerful vitamins" helped him morph from scrawny to solid. Still, my heart fell a bit when I read parts of Mitchell's 409-page tome. I had no problems when I had heard that players I disliked or didn't care about had used steroids. But I wasn't too happy to learn some of my childhood heroes might have taken them.

A major source for the investigation was Kirk Radomski, a former ballboy and clubhouse attendant for the New York Mets. Randomski joined the team a year before the Amazins' remarkable run to the 1986 World Series, a year when the team won 108 games and dominated with three 15-win pitchers and some of the most aggressive hitting in major league baseball. More than half the players on the 36-man roster weighed less than 200 pounds, and the highest salary was $2.8 million. (For comparison, 26 of 40 men on the 2007 Mets weighed more than 200 pounds, and the highest salary paid was $14.5 million.)

Everyone hated the Mets, which made me love them more. In summer 1986 our family moved from New Jersey to Massachusetts, putting us in the eye of the (baseball) storm. At a time when I could barely communicate with my parents--because they "made" us move, because they were adults, because, essentially, they existed--the Mets were our common denominator. Regardless of my mood on any particular day, my defenses fell away when our family met at the television to watch our Mets. The voices of Tim McCarver and Ralph Kiner soothed my adolescent soul, and for nine blissful innings our family found a shared language. My heroes: Gary Carter, Mookie Wilson and Keith Hernandez.

While other teenagers rebelled by smoking weed or drinking and staying out late, I rebelled by wearing my Mets cap to school. My appalled parents worried I would never fit in, but I loved my blue-and-orange hat and how it prompted disgusted looks from my New England peers. I dared them to accept me and, if they didn't, my fandom gave me a reasonable excuse for the rejection. My clearest memory of pure happiness: howling and rising stickily from our leather sofa as a tiny white ball sailed through Bill Buckner's legs to drive home Ray Knight in the bottom of the 10th of Game 6 of the World Series. Writing about it, even now, still brings tears to my eyes. (Thanks for the pictures, Sports Encyclopedia.)

Now, I wonder, were these guys on the juice? Was that year the beginning of the end for Darryl Strawberry, whose swing remains the most beautiful I've ever seen? Were brawls with other teams born of competitive spirit or mood swings?

Steroids won't take my memories away from me. They also won't make me stop loving baseball. Like most fans, I've accepted "performance-enhancing drugs" as part of the modern game, and I blame the owners, the union and Major League Baseball for their prevalence, not the players. If any of them really cared about steroids, then we wouldn't have this problem. But as with most things today, making money is more important than the health of people or the "integrity" of the game (which I'm not sure ever existed, anyway). The goverment investigation of steroids in baseball is based on a disengenious premise anyway--that drug use among professional athletes matters in our "war against drugs." Does anyone believe the actions of this small group of wealthy men impact the violence and drug use in our communities? If so, I've got a bridge to sell you.

Much has changed in 21 years, in baseball and in life. I now cheer for my hometown Phils, and I accept that my heroes sometimes look like they just stepped off the World Wrestling Foundation stage. If I had a child, I would warn her against idealizing professional athletes and advise her to model herself after her grandparents and her teachers. But I'd still take her to a baseball game to experience the same pure joy and excitement I did more than two decades ago. And I'll continue to hope that my heroes today--Chase Utley, Ryan Howard, Jimmy Rollins--won't let me down. I'm crossing my fingers that these guys and a few others still like doing things the old-fashioned way: with grit, determination and training. I paraphrase a favorite quote I read in the Inquirer from Phils pitcher Ryan Madson: "Who needs steroids? Eat a banana."

Top 10 SPAM Subject Lines of the Week

2007-12-14T14:17:00.000-05:00

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and the top SPAM subject line for this week…

1. With your new big rod you will easily spend 365 hot nights in a new year!

The Hatchery

2007-12-10T18:14:00.000-05:00

The vegetation in Costa Rica is both familiar and unfamiliar--familiar in that I had seen most of the plants and fruits before; unfamilar in that I recognized them from the garden center or grocery store. I saw a croton similar to the one I keep by my desk, as well as the same purple-green striped vine my friend Christa rooted for me two years ago that unfurls Rapunzel-like down the side of my file cabinet. We passed plants with elephant ear-shaped leaves, unfamiliar ivies and small bursts of yellow, red and orange flowers.

Homes are squat but painted lovely pastels: teal, pink, yellow. As we traveled over the pock-marked road, children and adults rode bicycles beside us, and dogs ran barking toward the bus, dogs of all sizes and shapes but rarely an identifiable breed. I quickly learned these dogs have their own parallel society, patrolling the roads and visiting their friends and eating dinner out of the compost bin. Cows grazed in soccer fields and in palm groves, and chickens wandered from yard to street to dinner table.

Tammy, Roxanna, Monica and I headed to the hatchery as soon as we arrived in Playa Matapalo. It wasn't as large or ornate as I had imagined. Twenty "nests," each about two to three feet across, had been set in sand inside what looked like a small tennis court. Each nest was covered in netting to protect the baby turtles from predators. I took my first assignment: patroling the beach from 3:00 to 6:00 a.m. to scare away poachers.

While I enthusiastically accepted the assignment, I worried I wouldn't be able to walk the miles required. In preparation for the trip, I had begun hiking the nature trail at Haverford College, a level path of less than 3 miles. The walks reawakened my love of nature but reminded me how long it had been since I had taken time for myself, time to exercise and reflect and breathe. Time to look myself in the eye again. I felt apart--older than most of the group but young enough to have no excuses and, seemingly, no limitations.

Our home base was not as rustic as I had imagined: we had a shower (cold water only), running water and serviceable bunks. We giggled as we hung the mosquito nets that would protect us from being eaten alive. I chose a top bunk, thinking I would enjoy looking out the window at the trees and flowers.

Day at the Museum

2007-11-24T12:12:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we headed to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for Renoir Landscapes, a show of the Impressionist master's scenes of nature.

I knew my parents would enjoy the exhibit, but I was dubious. As a teenager I spent hours at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston admiring Impressionist works, but I lost interest during college. There I discovered a passion for art history, and I took seven classes at Bryn Mawr College, mostly on Medieval and early Renaissance art. I fell in love with the stark and fearful look of saints' faces, the precise brushstrokes of Northern artists, the intricate stonework of churches. A far cry from the colorful work of the Impressionists, whom I began to despise because of popular interest in their works over the last couple of decades. Who among us hasn't either owned or seen a mug, t-shirt or other tchotche of Monet's garden?

Yesterday I fell in love again. The exhibit reminded me that the Impressionists created the modern idea of nature. Their artwork continues to inform our beliefs about and approach to the natural environment, even if most of us don’t realize it.

The exhibit began with photographs of Paris and its environs in the mid-1850’s. Just as we are today, people 150 years ago were obsessed with the latest technology, and at that time it was the railroads. Trains made Impressionism possible, the curator of the exhibit said on a recorded message, because it made remote locations accessible to urbanites. For the first time Parisians saw the countryside, and they brought their ideas back to the city. City dwellers began planting gardens, and planners established public parks for the first time.

Dad most enjoyed watching Renoir grow and change through the years. Renoir hit his artistic prime in his mid-30s to early-40s, although he continued to paint until he died. He completed the last painting in the exhibit only a few years before he died. His family taped brushes to his hands so he could continue to paint despite debilitating rheumatoid arthritis.

Among my favorite paintings in the show were The Wave (top) and Claude Monet Painting in His Garden at Argenteuil (right, c. 1873). Renoir also painted when he traveled: he visited Venice, Naples and the French colony of Algeria. The Jardin d’Essai, Algiers (1881) reminded me of Costa Rica.

Of Sausages, Block Cheese and Family

2007-11-22T11:42:00.000-05:00

It's 11:45 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, and I'm hiding in the living room while my parents stuff the turkey. A disagreement appears to be ensuing over the amount, type and consistency of butter to be used to bronze the bird.

"You need softened butter, not melted butter!"
"I've been baking turkeys for 20 years. When's the last time you baked a turkey?"
"Oh my God. I'm going to have to kill your father now."
"Don't do it that way! Stuff it in harder! You need more room to stuff it in!"

As my mother observed, if it weren't Thanksgiving, the neighbors might wonder about these exchanges.

Not that my neighbors care. I awoke at 7 to an argument approximately three houses down. In typical holiday fashion, a couple flung names so completely inappropriate for this family-oriented blog that I cannot repeat them. Happy Thanksgiving!

Mom and Dad arrived Tuesday night with most of the ingredients I'd told them previously I would purchase myself. This included several links of pork sausage, unwhipped heavy cream with bourbon and a large block of cheese. Have I mentioned my fear of consuming produce that has traveled via an unrefrigerated cooler for hundreds of miles and crossed several state lines?

Joke as I will, I'm thrilled to have my parents here. I bought orange Gerbera daisies for their room and filled the cupboards with things they like but that I don't eat: bagged popcorn, almond biscotti, canned vegetables. I like hearing conversation on the other side of the wall when I fall asleep at night, and it's nice to have someone who understands my insanity as well as I do.

Voter #2

2007-11-06T08:52:00.000-05:00

That's my nickname for today. Ever since I moved to South Philly, I've made it a goal to be the first voter in the neighborhood. Today I came close, but one lady beat me. She wasn't very happy. As she left the school that serves as our polling place, she opened the door for me and said, "Ay, Madonna, what a mess." (Check out this page from about.com for more Italian curse words!)

Voting in South Philly follows a pattern, I've noticed. Four or five frail-looking Italian grannies with books of voter's names before them. One middle-aged man running from booth to booth trying to figure out why the electricity has failed. Men attached to oxygen tanks, dragging walkers down steps and asking for help because they can't see the candidates' names. Animated confusion about who's who and what's what. A good, old fashioned Italian mess.

I wouldn't have it any other way. I've always been grateful for the right to vote, all the more since I moved to Pennsylvania from Washington, DC, where residents have no voting rights. Right before I left, DC Council passed legislation allowing us to get licence plates that say "Taxation Without Representation." Now that I'm here, I take as many opportunities as I can to use my vote, even when it's a fait accompli, as it is today. We all know hell would freeze over before Philly elected a Republican mayor.

So if you haven't voted yet today, please get out there and do it. It's one of the last ways you can make your voice heard.

Magic Turquoise Bus

2007-11-05T17:22:00.000-05:00

After midnight my second evening in Costa Rica, my roommate, Monica (right), arrived. I was awoken by a knock about an hour after going to bed. It wasn't hard to wake up, since I hadn't been able to find the switch to turn off the overhead light.

I wiped the sand from my eyes and opened the door. A beautiful young woman walked in, trailed by a man with a large backpack. He dropped the pack heavily on her bed, and in my sleep-deprived condition I started to think I'd be spending my vacation with a couple. GAP had warned us singles could be rooming with members of the opposite sex. Great, I thought. Just what I need! But the man left, leaving Monica behind.

We talked for about an hour, and it turned out we were a great roommate match. Monica told me she's a biologist from Belgium, and she'd been stuck in Panama because of bad weather. She'd traveled through Miami and was very laid back about her whole situation, even though she would have had to take public buses on her own to Playa Matapalo had she not made it to our hotel that night. I looked at the clothes I had put on our nightstand, carefully folded in preparation for the morning--along with suntan lotion, bug spray and a first aid kit--and thought our different personalities would be a perfect fit.

In the morning, we got on the Magic Turquoise Bus and headed southwest to Playa Matapalo. The bus climbed up and down roads winding along the coast, passing families and dogs and oil palm plantations. Attached to the trees were large, lychee-like red fruit (thanks to ASD Costa Rica for the photo). Local people pick them on behalf of corporations, which convert the fruit to palm oil. Corina told us the oil is extremely high in cholesterol, so companies use it only for machinery and manufacturing--except for McDonald's. One of my fellow travelers asked whether palm oil could be used for biofuel; Corina said she'd never heard of Costa Ricans doing so, although according to the Web a market seems to exist for it.

We stopped in Quepos, about 25 kilometers from our destination. Quepos is a compact, busy city with a grocery store, restaurants, souvenir shops and outdoor stands selling colorful textiles and balloons in the shape of whales and crocodiles. I bought dried fruit at the grocery but skipped the bottled water, since Costa Rica has a clean and plentiful water supply.

That's What She Said

2007-11-02T12:13:00.001-05:00

Last weekend I had the pleasure of hacking up my lungs in Scranton, Pennsylvania, at the first (of what I hope will be) annual Office Convention, a celebration of all things OFFICE!

I went with my friends Jessie "from the block" Betts and Erin "Ernie" Nash, after months of planning. Sadly, our other comrades were unable to attend because of grown-up things like conferences and work obligations. P-shah, I say!

My most sincere desire was to illustrate this entry with an image of Erin and Angela Kinsey (Angela), but alas Erin has not released that precious commodity into my grubby hands (probably because she knows where it will end up). The photo was taken after the two emerged, with Jessie and Ed Helms (Andy), from the elevator, where Angela told Erin, "Thank you for coming from freakin' Ohio!"

I did not witness this exchange, as I spent most of the weekend mute and prostrate in our hotel room. We stayed at the Radisson Lackawanna Station Hotel in downtown Scranton, which, by the way, is a lovely and friendly small city. Jessie and Erin put up with me while I spewed up phlegm the color of the rainbow and did my best to sound like James Earl Jones.

My companions ran into Craig Robinson (Darrell from the warehouse), who took over the hotel's piano Friday night. He played a mean "Piano Man" before an unfortunate hotel worker asked him to stop because the sound was disturbing guests. Then came the chorus of "boos" more familiar to Philadelphians than Scrantonians.

My future husband, John Krasinski (Jim), didn't make the convention, but I still had a blast. My brush with fame came Sunday morning, when we discovered Bobby Rae Shafer (Bob Vance, Vance Refrigeration) was afflicted with the same disease as I. Erin dared me to throw him a roll of lozenges. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but I did walk up to his table and roll him a bunch. It's a testament to the down-to-earth nature of this group of actors that Bobby thanked me and popped a lozenge in his mouth (as opposed to assuming I was attempting to poisin him).

Spooky

2007-11-01T16:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I celebrated the traditional South Philadelphia Halloween. I rushed home and tore open six bags of candy, reserving two peanut butter cups for myself. I flipped on the porch light to signal "open" to trick-or-treaters and waited on my front stoop with the goodies.

As usual for Halloween, my street was quiet. That's because my neighbors had already celebrated what I like to call "White Residents Halloween." This is the second year I received a note the week of Halloween letting me know the "neighborhood children" would come around on a specified, non-holiday night.

But last night I got to give candy to the "other" neighborhood children. While most of my neighbors hid in their houses, lights off, a few of us emerged with bags of candy and the spirit of the season. The children came in all ages and sizes, many with homemade costumes. My favorites were a ballerina and a ladybug. One tiny girl in a stroller put out her hand, but she burst into tears when I tried to hand her candy. "She's afraid of the kitty," her mother said, looking at Tug in the doorway. Not something I would have thought possible about a 7-pound gray tabby cat. Then again, I get scared from realizing I live in a neighborhood where people appear to prefer a segregated Halloween. It's kind of spooky.

Steadying Myself

2007-10-19T17:17:00.000-05:00

By 3:00 I was back in my room, exhausted. I had gone to lunch at a touristy place where Juan Carlos, my waiter, poured the mango juice fast and loose. I ate the first of many servings of arroz con pollo (rice and chicken). Then I climbed a steep street and found myself in the Plaza de las Artes. (Note: plazas are as popular in San Jose as squares in Philadelphia.) I listened to musicians play in an outdoor tunnel and watched bored- and annoyed-looking Ticos wait for a bus.

The streets were steep, and I ran out of breath several times. I wondered whether my life would be different were I not burdened by extra pounds. Yet I felt healthy and tried to push those feelings away. I climbed a hill with the goal of capturing an interesting photograph of the city. As I shot away, a taxi driver pulled up and warned me not to stop for photos--that it made me a target for pickpockets. Away the camera went.

I had hoped to spend the afternoon at the Museo Nacionale to learn more about Costa Rican history. The museum is housed in the city's old army headquarters, adjoined to the Plaza de la Democracia. But I got so turned around that I ultimately got in a taxi and headed back to the hotel. I felt lonely but knew it would be only a few hours until I met my travel mates.

Already I liked the rythmn of life in Costa Rica, or at least the rythmn of my life on vacation in Costa Rica. With the sun setting so early, I had no reason to stay up late. I awoke when the sun filtered light through the small window across my bed. I got up and stretched like a cat, then curled up again under the covers. Now, as I sat in the hotel room, I listened to the afternoon rains of "green season," the clever moniker travel agents use to market Costa Rica during the rainy months. There are benefits to traveling then, however: fewer crowds, lower costs and, I had been told, lots of baby turtles. I couldn't wait to get to Playa Matapalo and the sea turtles.

At 6:00 I met my new friends under the covered terrace at the hotel. Our tour leader, Corina, screamed introductions over the clatter of the rain. Corina, originally from Germany, lives in Peru and conducts tours for GAP in Central and South America. Tammy and her roommate, Roxanna, hail from San Diego; they hadn't known each other before the trip but became fast friends. Tammy broke the ice by telling us one of her gay friends says she's a "Crasian," or Crazy Asian, and that every gay guy should have one. Now every time I hear the name Tammy, I imagine a wrinkled-up cranberry raisin...although the real Tammy is the opposite: open, adventurous, healthy, alive.

Two older women--well, older than me--came from England and Israel. Hellela and Arella sat quietly and revealed little, but we later learned they are sisters. Dustan and Lanita, a young couple on their honeymoon, came from Washington State, and our representative single guy, Chau, traveled from Canada. He chose Costa Rica over the Rocky Mountains because, he said, he "wanted to meet new people." Three of us were missing: two women from the U.K., and the Belgian who would be my roommate.

Between the pelting rain and the awkwardness of a first meeting, Corina told us about the"rustic" and "remote" accommodations of Matapalo. She prepared us for night shifts patroling the beach, requiring a walk of about 6 kilometers each night (about 10 miles). Looking around at my marathon-running, Olympic pool-swimming and rock-climbing friends, I wondered whether I could keep up with them. Still, I couldn't wait to go. No TVs, no phones, no modern accoutrements outside of electricity and plumbing. Maybe I could get back into, or out of, myself. Even though I had "survived" a day without my cell phone, computer or e-mail, my mind was still racing, racing, racing. Living in the moment seemed so hard, let alone thinking about what happens at the core. Sometimes it seems like steading myself can be too much to bear.

Nevertheless, I felt hopeful and excited for the real adventure to begin. After a dinner with the group, I returned to my room, shut my eyes and calmed myself with thoughts of the cat I'd seen in the window of a nearby house that looked very much like Tug.

Three Mistakes in San Jose

2007-10-17T16:25:00.000-05:00

The Hotel Aranjuez has a lush courtyard with palms and other tropical trees and plants. My first morning in Costa Rica, I sat alone at a table covered in red cloth and drank three cups of rich, dark coffee. The breakfast buffet was impressive: fresh juices; papaya, pineapple and banana; and a variety of sweet, custardy breads and mild cheeses. I watched couples and families and friends come and go, but I saw few others like me. I couldn't wait for the 6:00 p.m. orientation.

San Jose has a confounding system of avenidas (avenues) and calles (streets), whose numbers start at central boulevards. They are either odd- or even-numbered, depending on whether you're walking east, west, north or south of the central streets. For example, it's three blocks from avenida 1 (to 3) to 5, but if you want to go from avenida 5 to avenida 2, you must walk several blocks in the opposite direction to the other side of the boulevard.

I walked several steep blocks from the hotel before I realized I was lost. Haltingly, I spoke in Spanish to a woman with a baby, who smiled and pointed me in the opposite direction. Mistake #1. Since I wasn't feeling confident, I hailed a cab. The friendly driver took me a few blocks. When I asked the cost, he said, "Give me what you think is fair." Mistake #2. Believing the cost would be equivalent to what I'd spend in Philly, I handed over 4,000 colones, roughly $8. (Corina told me later that 1,000 colones, or $2, would have been more appropriate.)

In any case, since most of our trip would be outdoors, I had decided to spend my one day in the city visiting museums. My first stop would the Museo de Oro. But I got distracted along the way. The museum, which belongs to the Central Bank of Costa Rica, is beneath the Plaza de la Cultura, a great place to people-watch. Pedestrians of all ages gathered: families, couples, children, a clown with a red nose selling balloons. Young people, old people, tourists like me. A teenager shimmied across the plaza, lip synching a song in Spanish as a video camera captured her moves. A woman sold bags of dried corn to children who hoped to attract pigeons.

When I tired of the Urban Bird Parade, I descended into the museum, which contains the bank's pre-Columbian gold collection. The pieces ranged from barely an inch in diameter to several feet wide. Figurines of frogs, spiders, alligators and butterflies glittered alongside gold-copper alloy earrings, bracelets, chokers and breast plates, designed to enhance the power of warriors. The gold had been crafted by indigenous peoples from 500 b.c. to 1500 a.c.e., before the Spanish and their diseases arrived, wiping out much of the population. Perhaps I should have known better, but I was surprised to learn that slavery existed in Central America: the Spaniards traded machetes and other armaments in exchange for indigenous people.

I had hoped to take a tour of the Teatro Nacionale, built in 1897 after a European opera singer refused to perform in Costa Rica because of the lack of "suitable" performance space. Local growers paid for the building with a voluntary export tax on coffee. Unfortunately, a performance had already begun. The ticket-taker tried hard to explain in Spanish but eventually gave up and told me in English, "It's closed." I wandered away for a few minutes, but decided I'd create an educational opportunity out of my misfortune. I walked back and asked, "Como se dice 'closed' en espanol?"

"Cerrado," she said.

"Cerveza?" I repeated.

She and the man next to her burst out laughing. Mistake #3. After I stepped outside the building, I realized the word I had said back to her means "beer."

Traveling Alone

2007-10-15T12:34:00.000-05:00

I haven't traveled by myself for several years, so I approached this adventure with trepidation. I flew American Airlines from Philly to Miami and onward to San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica. The flight went smoothly, but I was chagrined to learn American would charge $2 for water. A bargain, I suppose, to the $3 for an oatmeal raisin cookie or a granola bar. Soon we'll be charged to get our seats cleaned, or to remove a used barf bag.

I arrived in darkness. Costa Rica is close to the equator: the sun goes down at 5:30 p.m. and rises about 12 hours later. I nervously tried out my Spanish at the money exchange, where the young boys behind the counter appeared to be laughing at me. It's possible, but I'll never know since I couldn't understand a word they said.

I sat in the back of the cab on the way to the Hotel Aranjuez, palms sweating and wondering whether I'd made a mistake. We drove through some rough-looking neighborhoods, with young people dressed in tight, black clothes, and trash strewn along the streets. Dogs ran up to the cars and barked. Was I crazy traveling alone outside the United States? I decided to focus on the squat homes, painted in teal and pink and ochre. As we passed through the city center, I thought about the murder rate in Philadelphia. I'm probably safer here, I thought.

My room was simple but beautiful. Pine floors and furniture, with bed linens a burnt orange and walls adorned with paintings of Ticos, the word Costa Ricans use to describe themselves. Some believe this diminuative comes from a colonial expression, "We are all hermaniticos (little brothers." I ran the overhead fan to cool and calm myself. The focus and energy it took for me to reach the hotel had exhausted me. I looked forward to meeting my roommate, said to be from Belgium. Her plane had been unable to land, so she was spending the night in Panama.

I listened to the dogs bark outside my window and thought about the cat that had raced past me after I had checked in. I wondered whether my travel mates would like me and whether I could find some of the self I'd lost in the craziness of the past year.

Pura Vida!

2007-10-12T13:44:00.000-05:00

Before I got my house last year, I read a book, Buying Solo, that recommended I set one-, two-, and five-year goals. Compulsive soul that I am, I seized the opportunity to establish structure where none exists. Three lists were born.

The one-year list included several admirable goals: buy a house, be a better friend and daughter, create more "work-life balance" (i.e., any). I also wrote, "Take a 'real' vacation," but I didn't define what that meant.

Fortunately, several months ago I discovered GAP Adventures, the travel company of my dreams. It offers small outdoor group adventures, promotes sustainable travel and encourages giving back to the host community. I was relieved to find that many of the company's vacationers travel alone. I was even more relieved to find that people over age 30 often used GAP's services.

After much hemming and hawing, pep talks from my extremely supportive boss and ever-patient friends, and several seemingly unnecessary panic attacks, I signed up for a 13-day volunteer trip to Costa Rica, the "Rich Coast." My itinerary: a week at a sea turtle project, plus trips to a cloud-forest reserve and an active volcano. I knew I'd ride by horseback, hike through the forest canopy and walk along the beach looking for turtles. I didn't yet know that I'd fly hundreds of feet through the air on a cable, get thrown from a boat while rafting on a class III-IV river or jump from a platform using a thin rope.

Over the next few weeks, I'll share my adventures with you. It was the trip of a lifetime, thanks to my adventures and my travel mates (above, l. to r.): Hellela, Chau, Dustin (whose wife, Lanita, is sadly missing from this image), me, Tammy, Arella, Roxanna, Monica, and Corina. (Thanks, Corina, for the photo!). Visit my Facebook page for the photos.

Goodnight, Sweet Nikki

2007-10-10T19:44:00.000-05:00

This evening I planned to write my first post about my recent trip to Costa Rica, but something more important came up: the loss of our beloved family pet, Nikki.

If you regularly read this blog, you may recognize Nikki as the "Interloper" who captured my parents' hearts after the death of my childhood dog. Nikki came into our lives eighteen years ago, when I was a first-year student at Haverford. My parents purchased him from a store, something they had never done before. But Nikki was unlike any dog we'd had before, either.

First off, he was smart. He barked on the "speak" command. He understood "sit," "stay" and "down," and he halfway learned "roll over," although he rarely bothered to get back on his feet. His American Eskimo blood made him a terrible retriever: he'd catch a thrown ball, run away, and chew it for hours.

Second, Nikki was loyal. He and my father were great pals and took walks together several times a day. When Nikki was young, Mom played the role of disciplinarian. Still, she never denied Nikki a piece of cheese, his morning toast or, in the last few months of his life, boiled chicken and white rice.

Third, Nikki was flexible. Mom and Dad moved three times in the last two decades, not counting their annual trek to Florida and Massachusetts and back. Nikki never complained. As long as he had Mom and Dad, he was happy. When he was young, he'd get so excited at the site of my Aunt Midge that he'd urinate on the spot. When I came home from college, I'd chase him so I could watch him run in circles.

Over the years Nikki slowed down, grew more affectionate, barked less often at the sounds of everyday life. Yet even when I saw him several months ago--blind, deaf, barely walking--he magically reawakened at the opening of a refrigerator door. Like all Guglielminos, he never lost his taste for food.

When I close my eyes, I remember Nikki as a young dog, the silky feel of his fluffy white hair, his winsome face propped on my knee, looking up at me during dinner with those penetrant eyes that seemed to ask, "Can't you drop a little for me?"

I wish I could find the words to comfort my parents, but I know from experience that everything sounds empty. All I can say is, I love them, the pain will lessen with time and, when they're ready, they can love again.

How I Spent My Thanksgiving Vacation, by Nanuq

2007-01-29T17:54:00.000-05:00

My mom is too busy to play with me right now, so I decided to post a note on her blog. That is no problem, of course, since I have super-sensory cat powers.

This is a picture of me from Thanksgiving Day. I look pretty handsome, if I must say so myself. I had a great holiday, but I'm only remembering it now because I've been so sad about my little brother Mookie. He used to follow me around the house and curl up with me against the cold. We sat on the windowsill together and waited for mom to come home. Then she'd put down treats for us and give us hugs. It's not the same without him.

Anyway, the house smelled great on Thanksgiving. Erika and Nick came over, and they smelled like a couple of girl cats. Hubba hubba. Then Mrs. Crosson came and gave me lots of pats on the head. I kept watch over the birds out the window in the kitchen, but mom kept picking me up putting me on the floor. I know she loves me, but I have a job to do! After my requisite 500 attempts, I decided to explore the living room.

I saw the table. Wow! Look at all the shiny things they put out for me! Glasses and plates and bowls and silverware and linens everywhere! The curioius cat I am, I knew it was imperative I explore every nook and crannie. And all was well, until I looked up to see Mrs. Crosson's lips moving.

"Uh-oh," she said, and I read.

Mom came out. I read: "What happened?"

"I think I knocked over the cranberry sauce," Mrs. Crosson said, and I read.

Mom looked at the sauce for a moment. Then, slowly, she looked across the table at me. "You didn't knock over the cranberry sauce," she said, and I read. "A very bad kitty did."

But she was smiling. Soon, bright lights were flashing from above, and I felt Mommy rubbing my head over and over. Then Mommy put me in the basement. As she lifted me into her arms, I could read her lips saying something about not wanting to see me "walking around with the turkey" on my head.

I wasn't there long, though. I cried and cried until I heard through the door--using my super-sensory cat powers, of course--Mrs. Crosson beg for mercy on my behalf. Soon I rejoined the family, and Mookie and Tug licked my head for many hours into the night.

The End

Happy Holidays!

2006-12-22T20:56:00.000-05:00

Signs of Life

2006-12-19T18:18:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe, but two weeks have passed since I lost my Mookie. Although I'm sad, I am enjoying watching a new relationship bloom between Nanuq and Tug.

The morning after Mookie died, I couldn't get Nanuq to come downstairs. He plopped half-way down the steps, and looked up, then down. Up, then down. This went on for about 15 minutes before I realized he was looking for Mookie. I went up the stairs, gave him a kiss on the head, and then patted his behind to signal he should come down.

Tug seemed more blue. He crawled on top of me and wouldn't leave. He ran across the room or in circles, looking sadly behind him. I walked up to him and said out loud, "I'm sorry, honey. Our Mookie isn't coming back."

I let both cats sleep with me. We went to bed early. I read them (OK, myself) the book Cat Heaven. We were a sorry lot.

A few days later, I saw signs of life. Tug started chasing Nanuq, and I noticed them snuggling, which I'd never seen before. Later I saw Nanuq grooming Tug's fur. They started chasing toys together, and even ganged up on me by jumping on the kitchen counter simultaneously. When I tried to give Tug a treat, Nanuq nosed his way in. A few days later, I captured this image when I woke up on the sofa at 4:00 am.

Grief

2006-12-06T17:26:00.000-05:00

Today marks one year since I kissed goodbye to my Lancelot. And now I am grieving again.

Yesterday I lost my sweet Mookie. He was only seven months old. Readers of this blog know Mookie as the kind-heartened kitten who joined my little family in early July with his brother, Tug. His death was unexpected, an upper respiratory infection gone out of control. One day he was eating and drinking and playing with his brother; the next his nose was stuffed, his third eye protruding and he could barely move from the sofa.

I took him to the vet Monday morning, and we hospitalized him immediately. But within a few hours, Mookie had grown worse. His breathing became labored, and he stopped eating. When I saw him in the evening, he could barely respond to my touch. Still, he let out a tiny meow when I entered his room, and he rubbed his little face against my hand.

By Tuesday morning his temperature had dropped. He spent the night in isolation at VCA Cat Hospital, where the wonderful staff had wrapped him in towels and put a heating pad beneath him. I gave him hugs and kisses and told him I loved him. I was pretty sure it would be the last time I would see him alive, although I didn't want to believe it.

Mookie had beautiful green-blue eyes, soft whiskers and an extremely long tail. Everyone remarked on his lovely markings: long stripes down the back, and poufs of dark and light grey on his chest. When I looked at him, I thought about the cats of ancient Egypt: long, sleek, stately. Warmth and sweetness radiated from his eyes, and he had a soft, sweet meow. He loved to curl up near me on the sofa, and he had a habit of giving me a little lick to say hello, like a dog. Sometimes I'd sit next to him and tap my cheek, so I could get my kiss.

Mookie didn't like to be alone. He needed to be able to see me, Tug or Nanuq at all times. If we walked out of a room without him, he'd meow until I called him to join us. His favorite toy was a little green knit ball, which he carried around the house; when Tug tried to take it away, Mookie would growl at him.

I'd often come home and find Mookie in the window, curled around Nanuq's rump, or spooning on the couch with his littermate. One time I told Mookie the story of his namesake, the man who saved the Mets' 1986 season. A miracle. I wish there had been a miracle for this Mookie.

A few days ago, I was dreading this day for the memories it would bring: watching the life go out of Lancelot's eyes; hearing the bell ring on his collar wrapped around my wrist, and thinking for a second he was there; falling into my ex-boyfriend's arms with a pain I hadn't thought was possible to feel for an animal.

Now I know what's possible, and I will expect to grieve for Mookie and for Lancelot, for a long time. It has been a long year. If there is one lesson I hope I've learned, and that I hope I can remember in the coming days, is that it's possible to love through and in grief.

Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!

2006-10-05T14:10:00.000-05:00

Charges Dismissed Against Phils Pitcher Myers

An abuse charge against Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Brett Myers was dismissed Thursday after his wife said she did not want her husband prosecuted for hitting her in the face during an argument near Fenway Park. More...

South Philly Paint Crew. Yo!

2006-10-03T12:44:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday was painting D-Day on Lambert Street. I spent the previous week patching and priming the walls, covering the furniture and removing cat paraphernalia. By late Friday night I was ready--all the walls were washed and white. (Or as I like to call it, The Night a Liberal Slept in the White House.)

My crew--Erika, Amy, myself, Tai, Nick, Jessie and Ray--arrived in drips and drabs after 9:00 am. I stuffed them with doughnuts and put them to work. Because I'm anal retentive, I organized people into teams with a leader and mascot. Jessie, Erika and I comprised Team Tug, whose assigment was to paint the downstairs yellow. Tai and Amy led Team Mookie, responsible for painting the bedroom blue. And Nick and Ray harnessed their powers on Team Nanuq, which worked on the pale purple guest room. (I will now reveal just how anal retentive I am. The mascots were assigned to rooms based on their coloring.)

My friends are very industrious. By 1:00 p.m, every room but one had its first coat of paint. There were very few mishaps. In one incident, I put the wrong ceiling color--a light green--in the bedroom. Fortunately, Amy picked up the problem before she and Tai got too far. Blue dots also inexplicably appeared on the walls in the guest room. We guessed that a sprinkle from one of the cupcakes somehow got into the paint. I think it may have been some of the magic marker the children of the previous owners used on the walls.

At lunchtime we enjoyed pizza from the local joint, followed by enough candy, cupcakes and cookies to kill a horse. Then it was back to work. By the time 7:00 p.m. rolled around, every room but the office, where I put the cats, had two beautiful, clean coats of paint. All I have left is the trim, which I'm painstakingly painting on the weekends.

To thank my wonderful friends, each got a green-ringed T-shirt that read "South Philly Paint Crew. Yo!" Anthony, my neighbor who paints for a living, found the Ts very amusing.

I am very, very lucky to have such great friends. They not only painted my house, but they did so with enthusiasm, energy and pluck. I couldn't believe how much sweat and labor they put into making my house a home. It's days like Saturday when I know how fortunate I am. It's days like Saturday when I know I have a great life.

See more photos of the painting party here!

Why I Hate October

2006-10-02T11:51:00.000-05:00

A couple of hours ago I got a call from a man in his early 40's. I could hear a television and children in the background. He called to ask if there were other men in the world like him--men whose wives had died of breast cancer.

His wife had been diagnosed about two years ago. She was in her early 30s. She died less than a year later, leaving him to raise three children, all under the age of 10. "The doctors told us she had breast cancer, and within 10 minutes they had us down talking to a surgeon," he said. "We didn't even have time to absorb what they said."

This man, who lives in a rural Southern community, said he's sick of hearing about survivors and hope. "There's so much support out there for women and families dealing with breast cancer," he said. "What about us? It's like they only want to talk about living. It's like they just ignore that anyone dies of breast cancer."

As his children played, the man told me he'd left his job so he could care for them. A former church-goer, he'd had a crisis of faith. It was hard to hear the minister talk about God's love. He was searching for answers. How could this happen to someone so young, someone so healthy, someone who ate and exercised and flossed her teeth every night?

I told him Living Beyond Breast Cancer would find him another man like him, or we'd search through the Young Survival Coalition or Men Against Breast Cancer. I told him he was not alone--even if the heavy curtain of pink during Breast Cancer Awareness Month conspires to cover him and make him seem invisible.

"I hate October," he said. "I hate this month."

Friends: Good. Sanding: Bad

2006-09-22T12:41:00.000-05:00

Erika and Nick came over last weekend to help me get the painting party started.

Nick was especially expert at showing me how to prime the walls, the order to apply the paint, potential pitfalls, etc. He and Erika worked their fingers to the bone priming my bedroom and hallway. Nick even rigged together an instrument for edging the high ceilings. Very creative.

I discovered that it's virtually impossible to prime over magic marker, which the little girl who previously lived in the guest room used in the hallway. I also learned how much I hate sanding. I did the world's crappiest job patching the walls in the living room and man, did I pay. By the time I finished sanding, I was ready to tear my hair out.

The cats now have their own room, the small green back bedroom that eventually will become my office. They enter willingly, then wail and cry until I release them many hours later. Surprisingly, they don't run through the house when I let them out--they just sit there in the room and stare at me. Apparently they don't care that they're trapped; they just want to be where the action is.

After Erika and Nick left on Sunday, I tested the cats by letting them out sooner than I thought I should. Within five minutes, Tug had gotten primer on his nose, and Nanuq jumped on a freshly painted windowsill. So much for freedom.

The Transformation Begins...

2006-09-15T17:57:00.000-05:00

This weekend marks the beginning of the rebirth of the house. At long last, the colors have been chosen, the holes filled and the work begun.

Several weeks ago, Home Depot installed new vinyl windows in the upstairs bedrooms, my first efforts to make the house more environmentally friendly. I chose double-paned, low-E glass, which means the windows meet strict government standards for energy efficiency under Energy Star guidelines. On the other hand, the sanding I must do this weekend will spread particulate matter (tiny particles) all over the house. Guess I have to pick my battles.

I feel good about my paint choices. My primer and paint come from Sherwin-Williams' Harmony Line, which contains no VOCs (volatile organic compounds). VOCs are nasty, carbon-containing chemicals toxic to living things. They evaporate at room temperature, and when warmed by sunlight can interact with other chemicals and turn into a potion that forms ground-level ozone and particulate matter. Not pretty stuff, but we have VOCs all around us--in paint, in aerosol containers, in new flooring and furniture.

On Wednesday Bob, my new handyman, installed molding around several windows and entryways. Bob, a portly, native Philadelphian in his 50s, marched into the house Monday night and gave me his assessment. "Who did this patchwork?" He asked/accused.

"I did," I said, hanging my head. "I have a lot of sanding to do."

"You're telling me!" He said.

I learned the previous owners had patched over my access to the bathroom plumbing, so Bob installed a tiny door. He also fixed my storm door, gratis, which was falling off the hinges.

Thank You

2006-09-13T13:52:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to those who shared their experiences of September 11th. I learned incredible things about you from reading your stories. Please continue to pass along the message. As we know from other horrific events in world history, telling stories is one of the best ways to keep the memory alive.

Where Were You on September 11th?

2006-09-12T06:47:00.000-05:00

I was working in a newsroom on the 7th floor of a building in Northwest Washington, DC. I had already been at my desk for several hours when I heard people talking about a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I thought, "What a horrible accident." I imagined a small prop plane, a confused pilot who had gotten off track.

We crowded into the corner conference room, the one with a television and large windows overlooking the southern end of the city into Virginia. We sat in stunned silence as we watched images of the burning tower. People gasped when they saw the hole in the building, the men and women waving for help out the window. I reached into my mind for my memories of the building, the subway station, the stores below. I remembered being there as a child, surrounded by thousands of busy New Yorkers. Surely planes will come to the roof and save the people, I thought.

Someone said, "Look!" We all turned around. Outside the window, far below, we saw a heavy plume of smoke. It was thick, dark, dense. Someone let out a cry. I turned back toward the television and saw a split screen: the burning tower on one side, and on the other, the Pentagon. Our local newscaster fell silent, and so did we.

Growing Up

2006-09-01T13:20:00.000-05:00

The kittens are growing up.

We went to the vet yesterday, and each now weighs almost five pounds. Both kittens are big enough to jump on the kitchen table and pester me while I try to eat. Mookie's meows now sound cat-like instead of baby-like. And it's getting harder and harder to pick them up simultaneously.

Perhaps the most striking development is their... sexual maturity. Their gender is most definitely no longer a mystery. In fact, the testosterone is flowing a bit too freely. Last night I stood by helplessly as the kittens stalked Nanuq, who is three times their size. They chased him all over the house until he got so upset he slammed his head into a wall. I scolded them, and let Nanuq into the basement so he could have some peace.

I can't really get mad at them, though. I had a tough week, and having them near me made it easier. One day I had real heaviness in my heart. As I sat down to watch TV, Mookie took residence on my neck. Soon Tug was jealous, and he crawled into my lap. After an hour of purring, it's hard to feel as angry, or to think about the unjustness of life, and the world.

Philadelphia received some much-needed rain this week. With it came waves of chill and dampness, the rooty smell of autumn. The trees have their last blast of green, a final explosion of energy before they begin to turn orange and copper and yellow, wilting and falling to earth to start the process of life all over again. I love the fall, but it makes me sad.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

2006-08-04T11:05:00.000-05:00

My parents visited last weekend and brought their 16-year-old American Eskimo. Niki has been an "only dog" his whole life. As a puppy, he wasn't crazy about other dogs (as suits his breed), but he has mellowed with age. Now he hangs out with his dog friends in the Villages and spends most his days sleeping or waiting for a crumb to fall.

Nanuq handled the interloper well. At first, he gave Niki dirty looks, but basically the two stayed out of each other's way. The kittens, however, did not respond as well. The photo to the right accurately portrays their expressions for most of the weekend. When Niki first came into the house, the kittens hid under the couch for several hours. When they emerged, I picked them up and brought them upstairs. This gave them the freedom to venture downstairs when they felt brave. Usually they'd walk gingerly halfway down the stairs, see Niki, and up the stairs they would go.

Tug was the first to conquer his fears of the great white beast. On Sunday he made his way downstairs, keeping a safe distance from Niki. Mookie eventually followed, but he shook terribly. I comforted him. Eventually, Mom, Dad and I went out and left the animals alone. To my surprise, everyone was downstairs when we returned. Not to my surprise, everyone's food had been eaten--by Niki. This theme would be repeated throughout the weekend, as the dog ate the cats' food and the cats tried to eat the dog's food.

By Monday, when my parents left, the animals had developed a delicate peace. At one point Niki went for the kittens' food, and Tug hissed and slapped his nose with his paw. My father, lover of cats that he is, said, "Why is he doing that? Niki didn't do anything."

Nanuq was fearless. He and Niki walked past each other the entire weekend, barely noticing one another's presence. We assumed Nanuq thought Niki was simply a larger version of himself.

Spinning the Color Wheel

2006-07-27T14:07:00.000-05:00

I think I've discovered the greatest copywriting job in the world: naming paint colors.

For the past two weeks I've been exploring the intricacies of the color wheel. Just when I think I've examined every yellow-green, green-yellow, yellow-pink and pink-yellow combination on earth, I change my mind and start all over again.

My path to color enlightenment began at the website of Sherwin-Williams, where I found an affordable paint/primer called "Harmony" that contains no volatile organic compounds (VOCs). Fortunately, "Harmony" is available only in lighter shades, so I could eliminate a bunch of deep colors right away.

The site allows users to select a room and "paint" it in a variety of Sherwin-Williams colors. I have spent hours painting and re-painting rooms, looking at colors next to a variety of wood floors and levels of ambient light.

When I'm hungry, I paint my room Portabello, Butter Cream or Cherry Tomato. If I'm feeling frisky, I try Saucy Gold, Swanky Gray, Ravishing Coral, Heartthrob or Lusty Red. To try to boost my spirits, I work with Free Spirit, Euphoric Lilac, Drama Violet and Dapper Tan. But would anyone ever really choose a paint called Polite White or Vaguely Mauve? Why not just announce, "I am Somewhat Dull because I'm Vaguely Uncertain About My Style"?

Right now I'm struggling between Solaria and Lantern Light for my living room, Atmospheric and Vast Sky for my bedroom, and Jardin and Nurture Green for my office. The emerging theme: Bringing the outside in. My only real toss-up is the guest room, where I tried two colors, Swimming and Teaberry. I painted patches of each color near the window. I felt like I was living in an Easter Egg patch.

Mookie's World

2006-07-25T17:23:00.000-05:00

The kittens are getting big. I see them loping across the living room, trying to make their tiny bodies catch up to their long legs. They still have trouble jumping, but Mookie, the one with stripes on his back and a pink nose, manages to get on the window sill so he can look out onto the world.

Such a little animal, such a big world. Do you ever have days when you feel like the tiniest, most vulnerable thing, trapped inside the house and looking out the window, while the world goes on about its business?

I feel that way today. Suffocating under a pile of papers, drowning in a sea of computer screens. Looking outside at the green, green world, the trees shifting in the wind outside my office window. The earth takes a breath of fresh air, but this room feels stale.

The kittens have taken to sleeping on my neck and chest, so I often feel like I'm wearing a fur coat at night. Nanuq wanders the house, making strange bleating sounds from time to time when he realizes he's alone. I breathe deeply and look at the patterns the curtains make against the wall. They look like snowflakes.

Lunch

2006-07-24T15:39:00.000-05:00

2006-07-24T15:33:00.000-05:00

2006-07-24T15:29:00.000-05:00

2006-07-24T15:21:00.000-05:00

2006-07-24T13:07:00.000-05:00

It Hurts

2006-07-22T12:34:00.000-05:00

I always knew the day would come, but I tried not to think about it. The day he would meet someone else.

On the phone, I could tell something was different. After giving me advice, he said, "Oh, don't listen to me. You should do what you think is best." When I said something self-depracating, he didn't reassure me. He didn't say much when I mentioned a few of our secrets, things only lovers can share. He stopped reading this blog.

Then he said the words. I'm seeing somebody.

He didn't say much, and I didn't ask. I was trying to be an adult. I heard my disembodied voice saying, "That's great. Good, good. I'm glad."

I learned she is 35 years old, so I couldn't hate her because she's young. I learned she is "very different" than me, but I didn't want to know how. Maybe she's thin, I thought. Maybe she doesn't care about a commitment or children. But I learned the most important thing: that he's moving on with his life.

Why does it hurt so much?

My mom said I should be happy for him because he's a good man and he deserves to be happy. That would be the grown-up thing to do, the nice thing to do. But I don't want to be grown-up or nice. This once, I want to be childish. I want to cry to the heavens and stamp my fists into the ground. I want to beat on his chest so he feels the pain I feel. I want him to come back and give me all the things he said he couldn't give me, even though I know he can't.

I want to be happy for him. My mom is right. He is a good man. But I wanted him to be my good man. Now someone else gets to kiss him. Someone else gets to hear his stupid stories and reassure him about his insecurities. Someone else gets to hear his story, and my story, and why I couldn't give him what he wanted.

It hurts. It really, really hurts.

The Boys Are Back in Town

2006-07-20T17:01:00.000-05:00

We had our first visit to the vet last week. I had hoped one of my little ones would turn out to be a girl, but alas, I am awash in males. Must be punishment for always wishing we had a few testicles at my office.

Nanuq was quite unhappy when we left him alone in the house. The kittens were scared, too. They meowed the whole trip. They sounded like babies. When we saw Dr. Bohn, however, they behaved like perfect gentlemen. They even stood fairly still while they had their nails clipped.

Each day brings a new adventure, but the boys get along quite well. Nanuq grooms and chases them around the house. He uses the kitten's litter box, even though he is three times its size. I try not to laugh when his efforts result in mistakes. After all, unlike most men who can't aim accurately, my cat has an excuse: his brain is the size of a walnut.

Brett Myers: Giving New Meaning to "The Fightin' Phils"

2006-07-17T16:42:00.000-05:00

So much has already been said about Brett Myers and his situation that I wonder whether I have anything more to contribute. But after watching him start yesterday's game against the San Francisco Giants, I still can't let his behavior go.

For the many women like me, who feel as much breathless passion for the game of baseball as we do for the discount rack at DSW, we are left in the difficult position of weighing our love for the game against our our loyalty to our gender.

Scratch that. It's not difficult. Because I'm a woman--a human being--before I'm a sports fan.

It's not easy being a female sports fan. For the most part, the games and their marketing aren't designed for me. I won't spend extra so I can sit closer to the Eagles cheerleaders. I don't need to watch a guy smashing beer cans on his head to feel entertained. I grit my teeth through the WIP morning team's exchanges about farting and scantily-clad women (apologies to Rhea Hughes).

I figure my presence is enough to discourage the more misogynistic tendencies of the men around me during a football or baseball game. But now the entire Phillies organization wants me to believe that because a guy can pitch, I should forgive him for dragging his wife by the hair through the streets of Boston. Sorry. No thanks.

In addition to creating a PR fiasco that will serve as the textbook example of bad crisis communications for years to come, the Phillies have alientated any person in this city who cares about the treatment of women and domestic abuse. The solution should have been simple. They should have said: These are serious allegations, and the Phillies organization takes the suggestion of domestic abuse very seriously. This should have been said quickly. Clearly. Decisively. Instead, what they did say, at various times over several weeks: He's a professional, and he needs to pitch today and block out that he was arrested last night. We're sorry people found out about it. He's misunderstood. It's between him and his wife. The fans are crazy. He was trying to help her. (That one's my favorite.)

I'm all for second chances. Brett Myers is 25 years old. He's got a wife and small child, and he's a celebrity in an intense environment. He's also a hothead. I hope he'll get the counseling he needs.

The Phillies organization says it cares. I'm sure many people there do. But I don't think they understand their responsibility as owners. What they do doesn't just matter to them. They are public figures. What they do, and say, makes a statement to the fans and the public. And what I saw was an organization that didn't care about their female fans, didn't care about Brett Myers and his family (until a week of denials went by), and didn't take seriously their role as stewards of our community.

I can't support a team like that. The Phillies won't be seeing my money again anytime soon. They need to do something--and I can't imagine what--that says domestic violence is wrong. In the meantime, I have just three words:

Let's Go Mets.

Nanuq Meets His New Siblings

2006-07-14T17:30:00.000-05:00

Two weeks ago, Nanuq and I welcomed home two gray tabby kittens, gender unknown. Against my better judgment, I let Nanuq meet them nose to nose.

The kittens came from my friends John and Jackie. A mutual friend, Aren, found six kittens in an empty yard in Northern Liberties. Their mother had abandoned them. The mother cat later returned and took one of the kittens; she left the remainder in the grass. Aren and his girlfriend gathered up the furballs and bottle-fed them for a week. John and Jackie offered to take them, with the goal of adopting out most, or perhaps all, of the kittens.

After I moved, I had planned to get a second cat. I thought Nanuq would be happier with a playmate. But it didn't take a whole lot to sucker me into two.

When I arrived at the Maki's house to visit the kittens several weeks ago, Jackie ushered me into the bathroom. The kittens were rolling around in the bathtub, squealing and nipping at each other and looking up at me with tiny blue eyes. Each was small enough to fit in my hand. Fortunately for me, John and Jackie had already decided to keep the black one; just looking at him made me want to cry.

"My" kittens bounced around the tub. One was much fatter than the other; he (or she) never got enough of the bottle. John and Jackie put the five kittens on their bed, and we watched them play. When they got tired, they curled up together and took naps. My two seemed inseparable. I couldn't tear them apart.

Guess cuteness is catching. The Makis kept the other three kittens.

Our first few days were an adventure. My guess is that bottle-feeding cats is about as neat as bottle feeding infants. Nothing like the smell of watered-down cat food first thing in the morning.

The kittens have their own room for now while I clean and renovate the house. They can't jump into the windows yet, but they've learned from Nanuq how to drink water from the bowl, use the litter box (most of the time) and chase after balls of tin foil. I love coming home at night, watching them chase each other as the setting sun casts shadows against the wall in their room.

Nanuq likes the kittens; each morning he sits outside their door and meows until I let them out. He grooms them and chases them back into their room when they try to go down the stairs. The kittens are unafraid, and spend hours swatting at Nanuq's tail. He never bites, but he puts them in their place.

I will chronicle their growth in the coming weeks. I know kittenhood is fleeting. But for now, I'm enjoying my new little family.

She Lives

2006-06-26T16:45:00.000-05:00

Last Friday I moved into my house. My house. My house. I keep whispering that phrase as I walk from room to room and ask myself, Am I in someone else's house or my own?

Nanuq is doing wonderfully. He spent Friday in his second-floor "room," which has a Winnie the Pooh wallpaper border that divides a yellow and turquoise wall. He jumped on the window sill and watched the pigeons overhead, then cried as I went downstairs to help the movers.

But by Saturday he was running up and down the stairs and sniffing in the corners. He loves the front picture window, where he sits and watches the neighborhood dogs walk by. He even met his first children, Kirsten and Deana, who visited me Saturday to play hide and seek. They picked up Nanuq and carried him around the house like a baby, snuggling him until he learned he could escape their clutches only by running from the room.

The last few weeks brought the "unsurprising surprises" of a house closing: last-minute work, a crisis over the closing date, checks arriving late. At times I wondered whether I would get the house. Nevertheless, here I am.

On Sunday I ran errands in my old neighborhood, Washington Square West, and I felt a pang of nostalgia. Among the things I will miss:

The bounty of a Whole Foods and a SuperFresh one block from home
Navi, the gray-and-white cat who lives in the Foodery and seems to bite everyone but me
My wonderful neighbors, particularly Lynn and Sophia, who presented me with a fruitcake as a housewarming gift three years ago and gave me a folder with a pretty blue border as a going-away present on Friday
Cuffs, the orange-and-white cat who lives at the local police station
Gay and straight couples strolling down Pine Street on Saturday afternoons
The occassional kiss from my neighbor's West Highland white terrier, who reminds me of my childhood dog
Knowing the names of the shop-keepers
The short walk to Center City
Nanuq looking through the bars in my window as I leave for work
The diversity of a living, breathing, crazy city just steps from my door
Feeling Lancelot's spirit living in the apartment with me

The things I won't miss:

My upstairs neighbors' air conditioner dripping on my head every time I walk in or out of the apartment
College students vomiting in the alleyway on Saturday nights
Needing 90 minutes to find a parking space Thursdays through Sundays and all summer long
Living without a fan or window in the bathroom, causing the paint to peel and the cat to try and eat it
White walls with cheap paint
Not having a door to shut on Nanuq or anyone else who might be visiting (or irritating) me
The temptation to eat dinner on my couch, since the couch was almost as close to my television as the kitchen table
Strangers ringing my doorbell at 2 am
Cat litter 10 feet from my bed and cat food 5 feet from my kitchen
Paying rent to a landlord

House Tip #1: Everything Costs More Than You Think It Will

2006-05-19T13:04:00.000-05:00

Now that I've chosen a house, the hard work begins: paying for it.

When I first considered looking, I read three books. All discussed the importance of staying organized--keeping your financial house in order, logging your expenses, maintaining records to help keep emotions in check once you found that dream home. I figured house-hunting represented the perfect project for my anal-retentive nature.

But being a rabid organizer can have its drawbacks. Organized people tend to think they have their world under control. We carry around the false belief that we can predict where life will lead us, that we've anticipated the next step. Not so with most important things in life: falling in love, loving family, managing your health, adopting a pet...and buying a home.

For example, when it comes to the "good faith estimate" of the costs to purchase your home, it's just as important to focus on the "estimate" part as the "good faith" part. Because, believe me, you're going to need some great faith to believe you're going to live through the 60 days until you reach settlement.

Right after the sellers accepted my offer, I began the race for the home inspection, termite inspection, homeowners insurance and mortgage approval. My blood pressure rose with every phone call, since the person on the other end of the line would quote me a number several times higher than the estimate. I've looked through the estimate line by line, trying to see where I can save a few dollars here and there. Usually, I can find something. But saving a few bucks doesn't subtract my insecurity over the following unlikely scenarios that have gone through my mind over the past days:

The house is appraised too low, our agreement falls through and I end up homeless and on the streets.
A worldwide computer virus destroys my bank records, preventing me from getting my mortgage.
The president calls a state of emergency and stops all mail, delaying checks by weeks and leaving me unable to settle.
My real estate agent and loan officer talk and decide I'm too nuts to own a house. (OK. I know this won't happen. Jane, my realtor, and Phil, my loan officer, think I'm just another funny and frantic first-time home buyer.)

The take-away message: Be organized. Stay calm. And plan to spend a whole lot more than you estimate.

I Got the House!

2006-05-12T20:21:00.000-05:00

When I started thinking about buying a house last fall, I decided to tour the South Philly neighborhoods. I loved the quaint streets of Whitman, and I liked the convenience of Pennsport. I could sense the heartbeat of the city in the areas near the sports stadiums. But my favorite neighborhood, by far, was the Girard Estates.

I'd heard the area was "hot," that developers were snapping up old homes, flipping them and selling them for 200% of the purchase price. What I liked were the beautiful, tree-lined streets, the historic old homes and the park at the center of the neighborhood where French merchant Stephen Girard had lived in the early 19th century. I especially liked a little street called Lambert, where residents kept Christmas lights strung between their homes throughout the year.

I knew my chances of living in the neighborhood were slim, let alone living on that particular street. But believe it or not, on Tuesday I signed the agreement for my dream home on my dream street.

I got lucky. The sellers are a lovely young couple with two small children, six cats and a dog. They're moving their brood to South Jersey, and they had a deadline. I was the first person to see the house.

The past month has been a roller-coaster ride. I bid on another home near the stadiums and lost out. The house needed thousands of dollars of repairs, but I was in love. No house would be as wonderful as that house; none would be as affordable. My friends told me the deal fell through for a reason. I believe them now.

I haven't had the inspection yet, but I have a good feeling about this house. The sellers took excellent care of it. They renovated the kitchen and the bathroom. The animals and children filled the home with life, whereas the first house felt motionless, stale.

I'll share more of the story over the next few weeks, but in the meantime I hope you will enjoy this tour of the house.

The Kitchen

2006-05-12T20:20:00.000-05:00

I took these photos during my second visit to the house. Amy came with me for moral support. Perhaps the sellers knew something about my psychology: that cute animals would work just as well as fresh-baked bread or fragrant pouppouri to convince me I should buy their home. Amy was very helpful in keeping me focused on the task at hand. "Don't you look at that dog!" she'd warn.

The owner and my realtor were in the living/dining room combo, so I didn't take photographs there. Like the rest of the house, though, the main room has the original hardwood floors.

The kitchen has pergo floors and two windows, one facing the opposite house and one above the sink. I'm hoping the one above the sink will inspire me, for the first time in my life, to do dishes immediately after eating.

I'm very excited about the gas stove and the new counters. The kitchen has a dishwasher, disposal and microwave, which will be a great place to hide food from Nanuq.

You can see the tile backsplash and the back door, which leads to a roomy yard. By the way, Amy is playing with Caspar, the resident white cat. Unlike Nanuq, Caspar can hear. Apparently he also is better behaved, since the owner was able to leave food and valuables on the counter in the presence of the cat.

The Half-Bath and Upstairs Hallway

2006-05-12T20:18:00.000-05:00

I know this sounds ridiculous, but the half-bath on the main floor may be my favorite room in the house. As many of you know, I have a propensity for tiny things: tiny boxes, tiny juice glasses, tiny bowls. Well, this bathroom has a tiny window and the smallest sink I've ever seen. If I gained a few pounds I might not even fit in the room! The owners did such an amazing job with the stenciling that I'm tempted to keep it, although painting the walls a lighter color might make the room look bigger.

Like most South Philly homes, the staircase has a steel railing. The sellers have been working upstairs, so the walls need a paint job. They laid down plywood so the bathroom and hallway would be the same height and recommended I put down carpeting. As you can see, the stairs are the original hardwood.

The Bedrooms & Upstairs Bath

2006-05-12T20:16:00.000-05:00

Sigh. The bedrooms. Bedrooms! It feels so luxurious after years of having my kitchen and living room in my bedroom. I can't wait to shut the door on Nanuq. I know it's rude, but I can't wait!

The master bedroom has two windows facing the east side of the city. For the first time in more than three years, I will have a closet taller than myself. Of course, I won't be able to afford to buy clothes, but at least I'll be able to dream about filling the closet.

The middle bedroom is the little girl's room and has a Winnie the Pooh theme. There's a terrific little window looking out into the yard, and a closet without a door. The children have drawn on the walls with crayons; I look forward to living with their messages for a while.

The back room, which is painted green, is the boy's room. This room probably needs the most work, since it has the plywood floor.

Both both the middle and back rooms are pretty big, especially when your only roommate is a cat. I imagine myself roaming from room to room, trying each one on for size. Nanuq can have the middle room, and maybe I'll get him a friend for the back room.

Sometimes, when I really imagine myself in this house, I feel like a little piglet. Four people and half a dozen animals live there now, and after I move in it will be just me and Devil Cat. Dear friends, I'm going to need visitors!

Anyway, here comes the good part: the bathroom. It actually has a window, not a skylight. This may be the only house I saw that had a window. The owners put in new tile, all neutral colors, which I love.

I tested the toilet and it appeared to be industrial strength. So Dad, come on over!

The Basement

2006-05-12T20:14:00.000-05:00

When I first starting looking online at real estate listings, I'd laugh and laugh at people who posted pictures of their finished basements and new hot water heaters. Now that I may get a house, I can understand why these folks felt so proud. Everything costs a bundle.

The owners told me someone lived in the basement before they moved in. You can see the original floors, which could be very cool if restored. The little window up front has bars, and the washer and dryer are 10 years old. No more hoarding quarters to do laundry. Yay! The basement has a shower, a sink, new electric, and a newer sewer line and hot water heater. To think, only four short weeks ago I didn't even know the definition of a sewer line. Now I can identify cracks and estimate the age.

The Back Yard & The Neighborhood

2006-05-12T19:16:00.000-05:00

This photo doesn't do the backyard justice; however, if you look closely you can see Jake, the family lab, in the left corner. I tried to get him included in the house price, but the buyers wouldn't bite.

The backyard has a concrete patio with a little brick garden around the border. Since bulbs aren't that expensive, I may plant some flowers in the spring. The traditional South Philly green awning protects the doorway from rainwater. Once I get back on my feet financially, I hope to put some container plants and lawn furniture back there.

Girard Park is about a block from my house. When Stephen Girard owned the land, he called it Gentillhommiere. The land surrounding the estate, shown here, looks run down, but the park still has many beautiful, mature trees, a statue of Girard and benches around the perimeter of the square.

Now that I'm a homeowner(!), I might be able to influence others in the community to restore the park. I've rarely seen people there, although I have noticed folks walking dogs on sunny weekends. I would love to plant trees, pull weeds and renovate the building. The park should be a source of pride for neighborhood residents, and I'd love to be a part of it.

The Beginning, Not the End, of the Road

2006-05-12T19:15:00.000-05:00

Now the adventure begins. The house inspectors. The mortgage approval. The packing. The scramble for money. The closing.

The last three days have been a flurry of telephone calls and paperwork. Never in my life have I managed such large sums of money in connection with myself. It's all a little overwhelming and unreal.

I feel lucky, not just because of the house but because of the emotional support I have received from my friends and family. Even on my worst days, I feel very rich for what you bring to my life. Thank you for coming down this road with me.

I'm Not Laughing

2006-05-05T12:19:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday night, Nanuq broke my television set.

You're probably thinking, How is that possible? How could a 10-pound cat knock a 30-pound TV off a stable surface, smashing its internal parts to pieces?

My friends have offered a variety of theories. Erika thinks Nanuq got trapped in the cords and dragged the TV down. Mom suggested he hopped onto the top of the set and pushed it over. Jessie believes he pushed over my Japanese screen divider, applying just enough pressure to push the TV over the edge. Amy suggested he jumped from the window and landed on top of the TV, thrusting it to the floor.

My theory is that when I turn off the lights at night, Nanuq turns green and transforms himself into the Incredible Hulk Cat.

Here's the evidence. I went to bed at 11:00 p.m. Thursday with a 17-inch television in place. At 3:30 a.m. Friday, I was awoken by a short, flat-sounding crash. Thinking Nanuq had knocked over a pot, I crawled out of bed in the dark and walked barefoot into the kitchen. I saw nothing but felt something sharp scrape my foot. I turned on the light to see my television face down on the floor. I observed large pieces of plastic jutting into the air, as well as green and gray computer parts attached to many wires, all spilled onto the carpet like a dropped bowl of spaghetti. About three feet away, I found Nanuq. He looked at me, rolled onto his back and meowed.

I stood in front of the fallen TV for at least three minutes, blinking. Was this really my TV set? Was Nanuq really strong enough to break it?

I surveyed the devastation, collecting the sharpest pieces of plastic. Then I picked up the TV and actually attempted to turn it on. Clearly, I was in a state of shock. How could Nanuq do this to me? And why the night before the Daytime Emmy Awards, when I was to see my idol, Rick Springfield, perform for the first time in a decade? Truly tragic.

I was so devastated I decided to shower and get ready for work. I was ready to leave at 4:30 but couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead, I crawled into bed fully clothed and fell asleep. When I woke up several hours later, I thought the whole night had been a dream. But when I looked around the corner, there was my TV, still flat on the ground.

Nevertheless, I have begun the process of forgiving Nanuq. Maybe he did it because he doesn't like watching baseball games with me. Maybe he wanted a larger TV set. I'll never know.

A Bad Day

2006-04-14T12:55:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday I started down the path to my next great adventure: buying my first home.

For months I've been looking forward to the house search. I've read books and logged hundreds of hours on websites and blogs. Every day I search new home listings, or at least try to read the real estate section. I've picked the brains of my home-owning friends. Renee and Amy accompanied me on several driving tours of South Philadelphia, and I took a Sunday evening drive in my favorite neighborhood, the Girard Estates. I met with three real estate agents, got my finances in order and even launched a new blog to promote my writing and editing services so I could save more for a down payment. (Spread the word!)

Yet so far my search has been frought with uncharacteristic insecurity. Generally, I'm very goal-oriented: once I make a decision, I tend to move toward the object of my desire with the force of a battering ram. This time, however, I find myself asking: What if I buy a house and later realize I made a huge mistake? What if the house doesn't grow in value or I lose money from the sale? What if I can't figure out how to triple park in South Philly? What if the house is infested with rats that will nibble on my toes?

Last Saturday I had an appointment to see homes with a real estate agent. The night before I was so anxious I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, listening to the raindrops falling on my window air conditioner. I felt glum from the gray weather, so I decided to get out of bed and treat myself to a $4 coffee. I doctored it with plenty of sugar and headed home. Sitting at my kitchen table with my legs tucked underneath me, I took one long, satisfying sip and stuck my head behind a pile of work papers.

Next thing I know, Nanuq is licking coffee off the top of the lid. "Stop it!" I yelled, to my very deaf cat.

I sighed, thinking how little this particular cat needs artificial stimulation of any kind. I peeled the lid off the cup and ran it under the sink. As I turned to put the lid back, I saw Nanuq tipping the cup, spilling coffee everywhere.

"Nanuq!" I yelled, to my very deaf, very white cat. He was rolling around in the coffee, quite pleased with himself.

Since the coffee was a bust, I took a hot shower and got dressed. I put on my favorite pants with a tailored shirt and some sexy black boots. I kissed goodbye to my coffee-covered cat, took a deep breath and headed into the rain. The sidewalks felt slick, so I treaded carefully. I pushed my hair behind my ears to keep the wind from blowing it astray. Then, just as I reached the car, I fell. No biggie, until I realized I had mud all over me: my boots, my pants, my jacket. It was even on the grown-up looking bag I'd brought along...mostly so I could look grown-up. So back to the apartment I went. I washed the pants and changed again.

I knew then I should not see houses that day. My attitude was too negative; my fears far too close to the surface. I felt superstitious because of the morning's activities. I also felt pretty disgusting because of the mud. I tried to call Amy so she could reassure me, but I couldn't reach her. So I decided to be a grown-up and go.

My agent showed me three houses. All were beautiful, well maintained and "sure to go off the market right away." They also were way out of my price range. By the third house, I felt overwhelmed.

I hit rock bottom when I returned home and found Nanuq had made mayhem in the kitchen. Maybe it was the coffee. He destroyed four saucers, two cereal bowls and a beautiful salad bowl I had bought in Rockport.

For the first time ever, I yelled at him. I felt like a jerk. I spent several hours rearranging the kitchen, stuffing everything I could into my one kitchen cabinet. I took out canned goods, grains and beans and medications and put them in baskets on my bookshelves. I realized I was starting to lose my sense of humor. Maybe I shouldn't look for a house, I thought. Maybe this whole idea is crazy.

That's about the time I turned to see Nanuq on the top shelf with a package of my birth control pills dangling from his paw.

I sat down at the kitchen table and laughed. Oh well, I thought. Maybe this is life. And maybe I'd just better learn to love it, if I'm really going to live it.

Actual Conversation With My Mother

2006-03-31T17:35:00.000-05:00

Janine to Mom while walking through flea market in Florida: "Wow. I've gotten more looks from men today than I have in months."

Mom: "Do they say hello to you?"

Janine: "Yes. They look me up and down and say hi. And I think, nice to meet you, Grandpa."

Mom: "You know, the old men really like junk in the trunk."

Turning 35

2006-03-31T00:12:00.000-05:00

Thirty-five years ago today, I was born in a hospital in Rochester, NY. I was two weeks late, so my mother had me by Caesarian section. According to my father, I was 9 pounds, 3 ounces and 21 inches long.

Sometimes I'm still amazed I can remember things I did 10, 15, 20 years ago. I had my first crush at age 8, on a tour guide named Pino; I can still remember the sweat of his palm on my hand as he walked me across a crowded cathedral in Italy. I remember the thrill of my first kiss, at age 15, while sitting in a cul-de-sac with an older boy who convinced me he saw a shooting star in the night sky. I remember my parents leaving me at Haverford at age 18, and the strange mix of terror, anger and sadness I felt as they drove away. I remember sitting on the green-and-white sofa in my first apartment in DC, which I shared with Erika (and Nick, most of the time), and feeling overwhelmed by the possibilities before me. I remember, when I got first apartment on my own, at age 23, I couldn't wait to to buy and arrange furniture just the way I wanted. And I remember how, a few months later, I went to the shelter and brought home my very first kitty, my sweet Lancelot.

When I was a little girl, I always imagined I'd be married by now, living in a house with my husband and children. I never remember thinking about building my career, or struggling to pay off debt, or needing to find "work-life balance" so I could find time to exercise or travel or read. It's funny how life gets in the way of our dreams.

So far, my life hasn't turned out the way I hoped it would. On the other hand, I've done things I never imagined I could. I drove thousands of miles across the country. I put myself through grad school. I came to Philadelphia and started over. I fell in love and walked away, which wasn't easy, even if it was right. Through enduring friendships I've loved a lot of people. I found a job that allows me to give a little something back to the world. I started this blog.

So even though I'm feeling a little ambivalent about my birthday, I am looking forward to the next stage of my life. I'd like it to be a great adventure involving love of various sorts, travel to distant lands and maybe a little more of that elusive work-life balance. And another cat. And maybe a nice big dog, too.

Advice on Crazy Kitties

2006-03-30T23:39:00.000-05:00

After yesterday's craziness with Nanuq, I decided to ask for help, and support, from the experts. Gwen Bohenkamp runs a terrific website on dog and cat training, as well as a blog called Puppy & Dog Training Tips, with a special section on cats. I love the way Gwen provides honest, thoughtful answers that address both the needs of our forever friends and the needs of our own psyches. Here's what she advised:

Hi, Gwen,
Thanks for your site. It's so helpful. I'm wondering if you can give me some advice about my cat. Nanuq is about a year old, and I adopted him from an animal shelter about two months ago. He is white and, I'm pretty sure, completely deaf. Before he came to live with me, he lived with another cat in a house. Their owners abandoned them in the house when they moved.

Nanuq is incredibly destructive. He wails every time I leave the house or close the door to go to the bathroom, and I almost always return to at least one broken object. When I get home from work, I play with him for hours, but he still stays up all night and plays. He scratches everything in sight, even though I've tried the spray bottle. I don't think he likes the bottle, but he's pretty stubborn and won't stop misbehaving even after he's drenched with water. I've tried smearing catnip over his two scratching posts, but he shows little interest.

Do you have advice on (1) what other ways I can show a deaf cat that I don't like his behavior and (2) any methods I can use to calm him down during the night? By the way, I'm hoping to move to a large place in a few months and get a second cat; I'm thinking Nanuq might be happier if he had a friend. Thanks!Janine
3/29/2006

Gwen Bohnenkamp said...
Hi Janine, thank you for your kind words about my website. They are very much appreciated. Since Nanuq lived with another cat before, maybe he does need a companion. He's still very young and needs lots of stimulation, play and outlets for his energy. It sounds like you're giving him as much as you can and perhaps only another playful companion will satisfy him. He may be very lonely for a companion of his own species, even tho you provide him with all the love, attention and affection you can.

He's still a young male cat and you are a human. Try to reverse the roles and you may understand. When you get him a companion, make sure it's one who is really compatible with him or you'll have 2 pouting cats to deal with!!! If there's any way to keep him awake during the day it will help with curbing his nocturnal activities. It's normal for cats to be nocturnal and it takes some effort to change their natural sleep/wake pattern. Some cats adapt well, and others don't.The fact that the prior owners abandoned him also speaks for itself. They obviously did not love him and care for him or he would never have been left behind. I'm sure this contributes to his behavior as well - especially the wailing when he thinks he's being left. It will take a while before he trusts anyone and feels completely secure so you're both having to practice patience. The difference is that you understand intellectually and he only has experience and emotion to go on so he's at a major disadvantage. He really needs your loving support but at the same time you have to maintain your own sanity and life. This is probably why he resists the spray bottle. Even tho he may hate it, it's better than being left alone.

Instead of trying to reprimand him for his obnoxious behavior, it might be better to flood him with affection to the point that he rejects it. I know that sounds contrary, but it often works. You might even try some herbal or homeopathic remedies like Bach Flower Rescue Remedy to see if that helps. It may or it may not, but it won't hurt and it's not expensive. Keep in touch and let us know how it's going. Maybe some other readers will have some suggestions. And if you find something that works, please share it with us. thank you.

I also called on another guru, my friend Erika. She has two cats, Scout and Hazie, that she and her husband, Nick, have reared since kittenhood.

J: Nanuq is still a kitten learning his new environments - he will calm down and learn how to manuever his surroundings. Scout had a spree of breakage and then by 1 1/2 she was an expert jumper. Nanuq is a doll baby. He's probably also getting used to being alone as well as he was with other cats before both at his first home and in the shelter. And I think his not being able to hear crashes pribably makes them less scary to him. You are not insane. Also I will check on Nanuq at lunch today and Nick and I will visit him for dinner tomorrow. I will clean as much carnage as I can and maybe try and hide things he can destroy. Don't worry J - everything will be ok - The first couple of months with a new one is an adjustment.
Erika

Many thanks to both Erika and Gwen for cheering me up with more options! By the way, I did not hear from Peter today. Could that mean Nanuq behaved himself? Stay tuned...

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch...

2006-03-29T23:55:00.000-05:00

I got a message this afternoon from Peter, my new cat sitter at PhilaPets. I could be mistaken, but I believe his voice trembled as he described what he'd seen in my home. My little angel cat Nanuq had broken "at least one plate and one glass," he guessed, and newspapers and magazines were strewn everywhere. Peter's professional assessment: "He really did a number on the place."

I was a little suprised by the news. Earlier this week, I moved most of my glasses and mugs into my one kitchen cabinet. I figured the plates would be safe, since they're made of heavy pottery. I obviously underestimated the power of a lonely eight-pound cat.

Things have calmed down considerably since I put away my breakables and gave up on keeping Nanuq off the kitchen table during non-meal times. Nanuq's biggest recent adventure had been a short swim in the toilet. I turned my back for three seconds and heard a splash. Out came Nanuq, happy as could be.

My father went on one of his anti-cat rampages upon hearing of Nanuq's most recent antics. So without even meeting Nanuq, he now seems to dislike my second cat as much as my first. Maybe I'm too patient, but I think Nanuq is just being a kitten. I should have known better than to test his coordination skills by putting fine china on the highest shelves in my apartment. I hope (and pray) he will calm down as he begins to feel more secure in his surroundings.

Things Nanuq and I Have in Common

2006-03-29T10:22:00.000-05:00

I was born in March, and Nanuq was born in March.
I enjoy eating at the kitchen table. Nanuq enjoys trying to eat my food from the kitchen table.
I like petting the neighbors' dogs. Nanuq likes looking at the neighbors' dogs out the window.
I like chasing Nanuq around the apartment. Nanuq likes chasing dust bunnies around the apartment.
I like drinking a tall, cool glass of water. Nanuq likes trying to drink from my tall, cool glass of water.
I like sleeping. Hmmm. Actually, we don't have that in common.
I am clumsy and often trip over Nanuq's toys. Nanuq is clumsy and often breaks my toys.
I like reading the newspaper. Nanuq likes sitting on the newspaper I'm reading.
I like having someone around to cater to my every need. Nanuq likes that I cater to his every need.
I am curious and read as many periodicals as possible. Nanuq is curious and destroys as many periodicals as possible.
I like a nice hot shower. Nanuq likes standing on the shower edge and wetting his head during my nice hot showers.
I like kisses. Nanuq likes my kisses.

Dispatches From the Villages

2006-03-28T23:40:00.000-05:00

About two years ago, my parents decided to move to north-central Florida for half the year. Dad loved the beautiful weather, inexpensive housing and lovingly tended golf courses. Mom initially was doubtful; she prefers living near the ocean. But eventually she came around, and now she, my dad and Niki the dog have a lovely home here in The Villages, dubbed "America's Hometown" by the marketing wizards. Indeed, it looks a lot like "America's Hometown"-- if everyone in your hometown is white, over age 55 and uses a golf cart for transportation.

It took me a while to get used to the idea that my parents were old enough to live in an adult community. (Actually, I prefer the term "retirement community" since it sounds a bit less nefarious.) But I accepted it. And because my parents spend a good seven months here every year, I now do what once seemed impossible: travel to Florida on a regular basis.

As a result, I am re-examining my misconceptions about the state. I have learned, for example, that Florida is not devoid of all natural beauty. The Mexicans brought here to build the Villages used the expertise they learned in their birth country to construct a large lake in one of the "town centers," Fort Sumpter. On one of the shorelines, they even sunk a worn old boat to suggest a shipwreck. It's so authentic I almost thought I was back in Rockport!

As far as culture, the town centers in the Villages provide piped-in music all day long. At about 6:00 p.m. every night, a rock band plays. The last time I visited, the band--whose members were about the same age as the Rolling Stones--entertained the crowd with covers of Who and Queen songs. A couple in their 70s, dressed in red from head to toe, swayed to the music as happy couples strolled along the square.

For the less active, the Villages provide a bevy of shopping opportunities at chain stores like Starbucks, Barnes & Noble and the Gap. The Villages also offer a variety of social clubs, everything from water aerobics to bridge to international film night. There's something for everyone, even for the four other Democrats, besides my parents, who live in town.

One of the highlights of life in the Villages are the town buffalo, who roam freely behind fences near the Arnold Palmer-designed golf course. The Villages run their own elementary schools for the children of people who work here, and residents manage a radio station and newspaper. The newspaper is at least as good, and as objective, as any run by PNI.

My parents are happy here, and they have made many friends. My father's new real estate business is booming. So despite my sarcasm, I am happy they've found a little piece of the "American dream" here in Florida. It's just that I find this American dream a little bit scary.

Dumping eHarmony

2006-03-24T13:46:00.000-05:00

After six long and uneventful months, I've made the heart-wrenching decision to dump eHarmony.

Sorry, babe. It's not about you. It's the Compatibility Matching System.

When I joined last September, I dutifully filled out the 500-question survey, which told me I'm a good friend who likes to be supportive of others, but that some find me undemonstrative and self- controlled. "Because of my lenient and complacent nature," people sometimes take advantage of me. My desire for safety around the house suggested I'd want fire detectors and a security system. I love "peace and harmony," it said.

All true, to a certain extent. But what I want most is a decent boyfriend.

In six months, I went on two dates. Two! The men were pleasant, and I was compatible enough with one of them. Unfortunately, I got the old "I'll call you" line and never heard from him again.

I also corresponded with dozens of men. Unfortunately, eHarmony gives you four or more opportunities to back out. In most cases, you must ask and answer many questions before even communicating with someone. Sometimes that deliberateness was useful; often, it just gives men more excuses to exclude someone who might be a good match.

So last week I dumped eHarmony and called my dependable backup, match.com.

Match.com and I have always had a harmonious relationship. Match helped me meet my last boyfriend, whom I dated for three years. Before him, I made several other friends through Match.com.

But match.com is also letting me down. A few days I ago it matched me with a 25-year-old African-American man who wrote, "I like a mature woman and I love the black-on-white thing." Wow, how romantic. I had a backup, though, a 29-year-old who wrote that he loved his dog. But when I called him, he kept me on the line for five minutes while he had an animated exchange with his sister. After explaining that he lived with his parents and the dog actually belonged to them, he asked if he could call me back. "My credit card company's on the phone," he said flatly. "I'm trying to get them to extend my credit so I can buy a laptop." As my friend Amy observed, I hit the jackpot: a guy living at home, who uses a pet to get dates and who has bad credit.

And Something Funny...

2006-03-21T14:37:00.000-05:00

One night last week I arrived home to the usual chaos. Nanuq had gotten into the trash can, pushed over the room divider and knocked over my cooking spices, which I keep neatly arranged in little glass jars. Everything was reparable except for the ground cloves. From what I could surmise, Nanuq had spilled the contents of the jar and then rolled around in it like a dog in a pile of fresh autumn leaves.

After cleaning up the mess, I started to worry. Could cloves be toxic? I couldn't tell for sure whether Nanuq had eaten any, so I investigated. Fortunately, I learned from my friend Erika that ground c loves aren't poisonous, but cats should not be given clove essential oils. (Apparently enough cats have eaten cloves that literature exists on the subject.)

Several hours later, while watching "American Idol"--let's see, was it Tuesday? Wednesday? Thursday?--my apartment started to smell like pumpkin pie. I couldn't figure it out, so I followed my nose. Straight to the litter box. For the next several days I enjoyed a whiff of Thanksgiving, thanks to my little Devil cat. I'm thinking of getting a patent on clove treats. It's an improvement over the alternative.

Something Scary

2006-03-21T14:16:00.000-05:00

In my efforts to diversify this blog, I'm posting this column from Bruce Schimmel, a terrific journalist at the Philadelphia City Paper. We're fortunate in Philly to have TWO wonderful independent weeklies. If this story doesn't scare you, I don't know what will:

What's in Your File?
By Bruce Schimmel

A quiet crowd of 50 gathered recently in front of the courthouse in Media to protest domestic spying, and I found myself wondering which of these folks were working secretly for the FBI. Maybe the snitch was the middle-aged woman holding the sign that read, "Bush: Don't spy on me." Or the tall, young Asian couple in long dark coats. Hell, maybe the spook was the wizened, white-haired lady yammering about Eleanor Roosevelt from her wheelchair.

Paranoia makes for strange notions. But sometimes fear is the only reasonable response. Especially after hearing what an ACLU spokesperson was telling this crowd as they shivered in the dusk. The FBI is now actively spying on people just like them; the feds are targeting peace activists. The FBI may say that it's on the hunt for terrorists. But here they're pursuing the least likely people to ever pick up a gun.

This week, the ACLU is releasing FBI documents (www.aclu.org/spyfiles) they say confirm that the agency is investigating the Pittsburgh-based Thomas Merton Center for Peace and Justice. The documents, obtained under the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA), strongly suggest that this pacifist group has also been infiltrated by an FBI mole. The ACLU says this is the first time that peaceful political activities are being targeted by the FBI solely because they express an anti-war sentiment.

Actually, it's not the first time. Thirty-five years ago, at the height of Vietnam, local activists snuck into federal offices in Media and purloined cartons of papers (available at http://www.brandywinepeace.com/) that showed how the FBI was infiltrating groups opposed to the war. It was clear evidence that the agency was not being used to protect Americans, but to repress political speech.

In 1971, this revelation caused a major furor, and set off a chain of events that arguably led in 1974 to Richard Nixon's ouster for spying on his political opponents. And if you're hoping, like me, that history will repeat itself, consider this even more terrifying irony: In 1978, an outraged Congress passed legislation that specifically prohibited the president from spying on American citizens without first obtaining a warrant from a special court. This is the very law that George W. Bush continues to defy today, saying he can ignore the law because we're at war.

So how can you stop the feds from peeking at your e-mail and tapping your phones? How can you help George find another job?

File a FOIA on yourself. You've likely checked your credit report. You've probably Googled your name. So why not exercise your right to find out what the federal government has got on you? If you're an environmentalist, an animal rights activist or a social justice organizer, if you write letters to editors or are just in the habit of speaking out, you should file a FOIA. Not just to find out if you've been spied on or not, but to assert your right to do so.

You can do it; the ACLU will help you, free. (Visit their "File a FOIA" workshop on Wed., March 22, 6:30 p.m., at the American Friends Service Committee at 15th and Cherry streets.) Civil rights, like muscles, need to be used regularly. And in the fight against a government that's terrorizing its own, exercising civil rights is the best weapon we have.

Devil Cat Rises Again

2006-03-15T17:54:00.000-05:00

If you're wondering why I've disappeared, it's because I've been exhausted.

The ink had barely dried on my last blog entry (can I use that expression on the Web?) when Nanuq began having what I've dubbed the "night terrors." Life is hard for him, just like it is for Sad Kitty. If I'm lucky, the terrors start at 5 a.m. If I'm unlucky, they begin at 3:30 a.m.

Nanuq taught himself to fly through the air and land on my room divider. One night I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to see him hanging onto it for dear life. Other evenings he barrels into it, knocking it into my CD tower and to the ground. On Monday night he woke me three times until finally I gave up and got up. At least I got to work at 7:30 am, making for a productive day.

I blamed myself for Monday. After a busy work day, I hadn't taken the time to exercise him properly. But yesterday we played for three straight hours. I figured I'd worn him out. No such luck. I moved the CD tower, which at least stopped the tremendous crashes from when he'd knock it over. Instead, he decided to knock over his litter box and destroy a lampshade made of delicate paper. Ah, Ikea. I hardly knew ye.

Since I can't calm him down, I'm considering drugs. For myself, that is.

You're so Vain, You Prob'ly Think This Blog Is About You

2006-03-10T14:10:00.000-05:00

I've noticed lately that Nanuq enjoys his reflection. I can't tell whether it's because he knows he's pretty or because he thinks he sees another cat. Either way, he can't help but look at himself when he walks past a mirror or the glass case that now holds all my breakables.

This morning I went for a walk. When I returned I found Nanuq in the window. At first he was happy to see me. Then he was happier to stare at his reflection.

Yesterday marked Day 2 without incident. It seems too good to be true. My only difficulty is teaching Nanuq to scratch his post rather than the walls.

I'm considering shifting this blog to other topics to avoid becoming the crazy single woman who loves cats. Lancelot would encourage me, I'm sure. Unlike Nanuq, he enjoyed solitude and encouraged my free-thinking ways by ignoring me much of the time. Smart kitty.

Miracles Can Happen

2006-03-09T18:02:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I stayed very late for a board meeting. I feared what I would find after more than 12 hours away from the house. Bad me, I thought the worst of the little guy.

Not only did Nanuq greet me at the door, but he hadn't touched a thing. The curtains were in place. The newspapers on my coffee table remained in a huge pile. Even his food and water remained in his dish. He had knocked over only one thing: a photograph of Lancelot. Every day I find that photo knocked over. I wonder if he's trying to tell me something.

I swept Nanuq up in my arms and gave him hugs and kisses. I told him he was a very good boy, for possibly the first time ever. I went to bed happy.

Only to be awoken at 4:30 by a crash.

Who Says Cats Are Independent?

2006-03-07T13:52:00.000-05:00

Nanuq and I have been living together for almost three weeks now, and I'm starting to learn his cute (and not so cute) habits. This morning I went for a walk. When I returned he had torn down the curtains. At least he was sitting in the window to greet me.

I'm close to giving up on my rule of "no cats in the bathroom." Since I live in a one-bedroom apartment, I figured the bathroom was the closest thing to privacy I could get. Nanuq will have none of it. When I got into the shower, he knocked over his litter box. He meowed and scratched on the door, even though I kept opening it to reassure him.

Nanuq is one of the clumsiest cats I've ever seen. He makes Lancelot look like a ballet dancer. Nanuq loves having his stomach rubbed, and he'll roll onto his back whenever he gets the chance (the whore!), even if he's at the edge of the bed, on a narrow ledge or at the top of a bookcase. Unlike other cats, he seems to have no shame. When he falls, he doesn't jump up and walk in the opposite direction like Lancie did, as if to say, "What silly animal did that? I'm too perfect for such clumsiness." Instead, he walks right on over and rubs against me, like falling on his ass was the most natural thing in the world for any cat to do.

Notes: A Week in the Life of Nanuq

2006-03-02T13:18:00.000-05:00

Thursday 2/23, 8:00 am. I leave for trip to Denver. Nanuq asleep in ball on bed. Has not eaten or pooped since arrived at home; shows no interest in toys. Give him disgusting medication and say my prayers. Hoping I'll return to see some life in the little guy.

Thursday 2/23, 10:00 am. Cat sitter Alexis from PhilaPets visits. She writes: Nanuq is a good name. He was very cute sleeping when I came in. I checked the litter box, but there wasn't anything in it yet.

Thursday 2/23, 2:00 pm. Erika visits. She writes: Nanuq was inquisitive. Seemed interested in food but wouldn't eat. He's a sweetie.

Friday 2/24, 11:00 am. Alexis: Nanuq finally ate some food that I put out--wet only. I sifted through the litter box, but since he hasn't eaten much, there wasn't anything in it.

Friday 2/24, 1:15 pm. Erika: 2nd wet food was gone and drape was down with Nanuq asleep on it--little fiend. Played with mouse when woke up. Loves tummy rubs. Ate some dry food.

Saturday 2/25, 2:00 pm. Erika and Nick: We cleaned litter of poo. All dry and wet food gone. Curtains were down. Divider was down. Amplifiers were down. Put back some stuff. Since feeling better, getting rambunctious, he is.

Saturday 2/25, 3:00 pm. Alexis: I came in as Erika and Nick were leaving. I put some more food out, since he's obviously hungry. I will be back tomorrow and hopefully your belongings will not be knocked over.

Sunday 2/26, 2:30 pm. Alexis: Nanuq was sleeping when I arrived but awoke with an appetite. All of his food bowls and water bowl were empty. He is being very vocal and affectionate. He did unfortunately knock over his litter box. Otherwise the apartment looked in order.

Sunday 2/26, 11:15 pm. I ask Amy to go into the apartment with me because I'm afraid I'll find a dead cat. Walk in and can't figure out what's different. Suddenly realize no curtains on windows. Amy looks at food bowl and says, "Look! He ate!" Stare in stunned silence as I take in full view of apartment. "I can't believe this is the same cat I met on Thursday!" Amy says.

Monday 2/27. Spend day at home recuperating. Nanuq and I play with catnip mice and feather toy. Leave apartment to pick up mail. Hear him meowing all the way down the alleyway. Efforts to eat cereal without cat in face unsuccessful. Vacuum, dust and put pictures back in place. Yell "no" all 50 times Nanuq jumps on kitchen table. Attempt to teach him value of scratching post over apartment walls.

Tuesday 2/28, 7:30 am. Back to work. Give Nanuq medicine. Kiss Lancelot's ashes and give Nanuq kiss goodbye. Feel deep pangs of guilt as I walk down alleyway and hear cat wailing pathetically. Reconsider idea of having children.

Tuesday 2/28, 6:30 pm. Open apartment door and immediately see curtains down, amplifiers down. Find two broken cereal bowls and a damaged wooden figurine from Thailand that belonged to my grandparents. Lancelot's picture and collar on floor. Room divider knocked over and scratched to bits. Nanuq sitting calmly in window. Imagine Lancelot looking down on me and thinking, "And you thought I was bad!"

Tuesday 2/28, 6:45 pm. Call Amy to tell her what happened. Before she says hello, she hears me whispering to Nanuq, "Come here, you devil cat."

Tuesday 2/28, 7:30 pm. Move all breakables into boxes or single display case with glass. Replace with stuffed animals. Remind self am not so superficial that I am tied to objects. Above all that. Love living things. Rub Nanuq's tummy and play with catnip mouse. Replace curtain.

Tuesday 2/28, 8:00 pm. Hear loud smash. Decide pictures were made for walls, not shelving. Spend next hour with hammer and nail.

Tuesday 2/28, 1:30 am. Hear crash. Nanuq knocked over end table with keys on it. Go back to bed.

Tuesday 2/28, 5:00 am. Hear dishes falling. Nanuq attempting to drink water from kitchen sink. Yell no, pick him up and go back to bed.

Wednesday 3/1, 7:30 am. Give Nanuq medicine and kiss goodbye. Open front curtain in hopes he'll look out window instead of taking curtain down. Notice light out in refrigerator; make mental note to get new bulb. Say prayer.

Wednesday 3/1, 6:30 pm. Enter apartment to see curtain in place. Success! Then notice back curtain pulled down and Lancelot's collar thrown upon it. Cable box down. Newspapers strewn everywhere. Take deep breath and leave apartment to get more cat toys and bulb for fridge.

Wednesday 3/1, 7:00 pm. Buy dreaded water bottle. Am evil disciplinarian spoiling cat's fun.

Wednesday 3/1, 7:30 pm. Replace light bulb in fridge, but nothing happens. Have funny feeling. Pull fridge away from wall. Discover Nanuq knocked over cutting board on top of fridge, forcing cord out of wall. Plug in fridge and throw out spoiled food. Find dried lavender shred to bits. Never liked dried flowers anyway.

Wednesday 3/1, 9:30 pm. Spray cat several times as he attempts to scratch wall, room divider, rug.

Wednesday 3/1 10:00 pm. Nanuq scratches post for first time. Praise him like king.

Wednesday 3/1 11:30 pm. Cold night, get in bed. Nanuq crawls in after me. Climbs on stomach and curls into ball. Rolls on back for tummy rub. Purrs. All is forgiven.

And the Winner Is...

2006-02-22T14:00:00.000-05:00

Nanuq!

Nanuq (also spelled Nanook or Nanuk) is an Inuit name meaning "Polar Bear." You may have heard of the children's story Nanuq of the North. Nanuq is a popular name for working dogs in Alaska.

Sadly, I did not choose any of the wonderful names you suggested. So here's my top 10 favorites. Sometime soon, all nominators will receive a small gift from Nanuq thanking you for your suggested name:

1. The Notorius C.A.T. aka Biggie (courtesy Jessie From the Block, Erika and Nick), which plays on my love of the rap/hip-hop music that's all the rage with the kids these days. Check out this hilarious clip, forwarded yesterday from Jessie, to get a sense of what a rapping cat might sound like.
2. Tanuki (courtesy Renee), because nothing's more fun than a drunken, magical Japanese badger.
3. G Squared Kitty (courtesy Carrie), for providing perhaps my only opportunity to pass along the Guglielmino name.
4. Fuzzbutt (courtesy Jessie from South Dakota), an appropriate name since I now have white hair all over my clothing and furniture.
5. Benjamin Franklin (courtesy Jen from Ohio), because we in Philly can't name enough things after our hero!
6. Heathcliff (courtesy Mom), since the idea of naming my cat after Heath Ledger made me laugh for several hours.
7. Mister Winter (courtesy RPS Amy), since it made such sense with his beautiful coat.
8. Lucas (courtesy Maia), because he looks light, like an angel cat.
9. Jack (courtesy Mariya and Christina), because I picked him out the same day as Jack Frost visited Philly for the first time this winter.
and...
10. Blizzard (courtesy Dad, Maureen, Holly and several others), because it just makes sense for a white cat.

Tonight we head to the vet, where I hope to find a solution to the eating quandry. Then I'm to Denver for a business trip, so no blog entries for a few days. Enjoy the rest of your week!

Love,
Janine & Nookie

Signs of Life

2006-02-21T14:27:00.000-05:00

The kitty continues to confound me, but yesterday he drank a whole bunch of water from his kitty bowl. His third eyelid has receeded, and I got my very first cat kiss when I got home from work. For those of you unacquainted: it's when a cat rubs his whiskers across your cheek.

By tomorrow morning, I will announce "Big Boy"'s new moniker so I won't have to go through the embarassment of taking him to the vet without having named him.

When Bad Things Happen to Good Kittens

2006-02-20T14:10:00.000-05:00

I picked up "Big Boy" on Wednesday night. I felt emotional when I went to get him. Leslye, the adoption coordinator, told me Big Boy had caught a kitty cold. She gave me medication for him and told me to expect he'd sneeze and cough for several days. We walked the four blocks from the shelter to his new forever home. Along the way, I heard him meow for the first time.

When I let him out he did two rounds of the apartment. He particularly enjoyed hiding underneath the bed and standing between a Chinese screen and the television set. Then he jumped on the bed, where he's been living pretty much non-stop. No jumping. No playing. No eating. Just a lot of sneezing, watery eyes and running in the opposite direction when he sees me with the medicine.

He's a sweet-natured cat. He enjoys a good brushing. He loves to be petted. When I touch his side, he rolls over onto his back like a dog so I can rub his tummy. He also likes water. For the last two days I've brought him into the bathroom during my shower to help clear out his nasal passages. He jumps right in and meows at me.

Whether he can hear is a mystery. I'm sure having no name doesn't help. I'm starting to think my inability to name him is pathological.

He doesn't eat, and I'm extremely worried. Leslye gave me some high-protein paste to force down his throat so he'll get enough nutrition to survive. I have visions of feeding tubes and thousand-dollar cat bills in my head. Moreover, I don't think I can bear another sick cat. Not after losing my Lancie.

We head to the vet Wednesday. I hope to have a name by then.

Tonight's the Night

2006-02-15T13:44:00.000-05:00

Only three-and-a-half more hours until I can pick up my new kitty! I'm surprisingly anxious about it. Last night I cleaned my apartment top to bottom, as if I were expecting an honored guest. I set up the cat's litter box and food bowl so he'd feel at home. I tried to put everything in places where Lancelot had never been, but that's almost impossible in a one-room apartment.

I had trouble sleeping because of all the questions racing through my head. What if we don't like each other? What if he doesn't use the litter box? Will he be unhappy when I leave for work in the morning? What will be his favorite spots? And most important, what will I name him? The jury is still out. I made a list of everyone's ideas and figured I try them out on him tonight. I'll either pick the one that best suits his personality, or I'll read them off and see which one he responds to.

My Funny Valentine

2006-02-14T18:45:00.000-05:00

Except for New Years, Valentine's Day is my least favorite "holiday." It's one of those times where emotions and expectations run high, but the payoff is never enough. Thanks, Hallmark! Fortunately, animals love you every day of the year, no matter how little you give them.

I always associated Lancelot with the holidays because I brought him home the night before Thanksgiving 1995. I had to work that year, so I stayed in DC instead of visiting my parents in Rochester. I missed them and felt pretty miserable. Lancelot earned his namesake because he was my knight in shining armor, saving me from loneliness.

Last night, as I bought new toys for "Big Boy," I remembered Lancelot's first few nights at home. Since I had only lived with dogs before, I was extremely confused by some of his behaviors. Why does he run across the room for no apparent reason? Why does he suddenly seem insulted by my affection when he was purring just moments ago? Why does run crazily around the apartment in the middle of the night? As my cat expert, Ray was usually the friend to answer these idiotic questions. Her response was always the same.

"Oh, totally normal cat behavior! Don't worry about it," she'd say.

The day after Lancelot came home, I tried to pick him up as he walked over to his food bowl. It was the one and only time he hissed at me. This cat hates me, I thought.

My apartment had a large closet with no doors and shelving up to the ceiling. I would come home from work to find Lancelot, after hours of searching, behind a stack of sweaters on the top shelf. Then there was the time two workmen were doing repairs in my apartment. I walked in the door and heard meowing but saw no cat.

"Where's my cat?" I asked.

They didn't know. I soon determined Lance had been so scared by the commotion that he had squeezed himself under the kitchen cabinets and gotten caught between the dishwasher and the wall. After about 20 minutes of pleading, I started crying. The men made a quick exit. Lancelot only emerged after I had called animal control, begging for help in getting him out.

I became less of a worry wart once I got used to living with a cat. I took it all less personally. I also learned Lancelot was an excellent judge of character. Lancelot loved men, so I looked warily upon any he didn't approve of.

In my last apartment, I had a window seat where Lancelot loved to nap. My former boyfriend said he often felt guilty when he used the bathroom in the middle of the night because Lancelot gave him a dirty look for taking his spot on the bed. In the end the two turned out to be great friends; my ex even drew this beautiful picture just a few days before Lancie died.

Perhaps Lancelot's best judgment was against a guy I was "seeing" right before my 30th birthday. The guy was 22, and I was having my fun. One morning we rushed off to work and I forgot to make the bed. When I got home, I discovered Lancelot had made a mistake. I found a huge pool of urine--on the pillow where the guy had lain. I could still see the indentation where his head had been. Guess Lancie knew better than I did about what was good for me!

So in honor of the day, give your pets a hug. They don't need flowers or candy: they love you anyway. To them, you're always a Valentine.

Big Boy's Snowstorm of Suggestions

2006-02-14T13:25:00.000-05:00

The names are arriving fast and furious! Many thanks to all of you. I'll spend the evening sifting through them, if I make it through this day. (For my work friends, let's put it this way: I won't be naming the cat Kintera.) In addition to the many suggestions I've received on the blog, here are more from others who e-mailed me:

I heard about the new addition. He won’t replace Lance but it will be so nice to have another furball about. He may be a climber so stuff on top shelves may need to go away and prepare for much breakage but you love them so its not so bad. I am unsure what to call him without meeting him. But I know whatever he is named he will be loved and be called by a nickname anyway. Congrats again.
Love,
Erika

How about Sammy for the name? (Samoyeds are white, and big). Or Jack, for Jack Frost? (I always liked human names for pets)
Christina

Best wishes for your new roommate. Since he’s white and playful, how about Frosty for a name?
Michael

Janine: How about Lucas...I believe that name means light…he is a beautiful cat.
Maia

Congratulations. Deirdre and I vote for Gabriel. It’s nice. I kind of thought Sylvester when I first saw him. Not sure why.
Zeth at Philapets.com

I thought of another one since I sent in my blog post: orion (like the constellation, because he is bright like a star). Anything else having to do with stars might be nice. ohh..Tim had one...what was it...Nigel...I think that in French nig means snow or something.
Jessie

What a handsome man. Yes, I like Gabriel too. Talk to you soon Janine!
Angie at Philapets.com

Name That Kitty!

2006-02-13T17:38:00.000-05:00

On Saturday, as the East Coast prepared for snow, I prepared to open my home to a new friend.

After a very tough week without my Lancelot, I suspected it might be time. So while other Philadelphians overran the grocery stores for milk, bread and diapers, I visited Morris Animal Refuge and checked out three cats. This beautiful white cat was in the front window. "Big Boy" is a 10-month-old stray who arrived at the shelter on February 7. He does seem large for his age, but compared to Lancie he's a sliver of a thing. That's why I'm taking nominations for his new name. Post away! If I choose your name, I will give you something (not sure what). So far, I've come up with these:

Valentino (since he's coming home near Valentine's Day)
Klondike
Snowman
Polar Bear (I'm hesitant on this one, since one of my pet names for Lancelot was "Bear." Yes, my pets have pet names.)
Domino
Snickerdoodle
Frosty
Gabriel (because he's white like an angel)

I like the idea of something having to do with light or snow. I like his beautiful white fur, which I will soon enjoy all over my navy blue couch and black clothes.

"Big Boy" is extremely playful. Leslie, the animal caretaker at Morris, told me to watch out for my curtains and to put away the fine China. Above you see him wondering why this strange woman is shooting photographs of him from every angle. I just learned he's FIV-negative and got through the neutering surgery just fine (sorry, kitty!). He can come home Wednesday night.

I have mixed feelings about having a new cat. I know it's time, but I have trouble visualizing a different cat in the same places where Lancelot used to sit, sleep and play. I decided to buy "Big Boy" new toys, food dishes and scratching posts. I don't want any other cat to enjoy my Lancelot's things.

On Friday night I had a vivid dream. I dreamt that I was sleeping and woke up to see Lancelot. He was walking toward me on the bed. I remember thinking, "It can't be Lancelot. He's dead." But he walked right up to me and I could feel him, touch him. I felt so happy. He turned around and jumped off the bed; I heard that familiar thump, thump. I watched him walk around the apartment. He jumped on the sofa and curled up at the end so we could watch TV together. I couldn't believe he was back, that we were together again. I pet him and touched his fur. I gave him little kisses on the head and got "cat kisses" in return.

Then I woke up. I think it was 3 a.m. I was alone in the dark, and I suddenly remembered Lancelot was gone.

I hope this new cat will bring some light into my life. I hope he will honor Lancelot's memory.

Man Bites Dog; Cat Answers Phone

2006-02-10T18:20:00.000-05:00

During J-school, my friend Holly and I talked frequently by phone. Those conversations may be the only thing that got me through the program. We tried various forms of coercion—food, coffee, fantasies of killing professors—to keep each other going.

One night, when we were writing 25-page term papers, Holly called my apartment. The phone rang several times before someone picked up. Then silence.

"Janine?" Holly said. "Hello? Janine?"

"Meow," came the response. "Meow. Meow. Meow."

"Janine? Are you there?" Holly asked. "Janine, are you OK? Are you there?"

"Meeoooowwwww," Lancelot answered.

When I returned home later that evening, I saw the phone off the hook. Huh, I thought. I must have knocked it off the bedside table. Very soon after, however, I received a call from Holly. "Your cat answered the phone," she said, recounting the story. "We had a great conversation. He's quite a talker. Now that I know you're alive, it's all that much funnier."

Holly and I have often laughed about this story, but did you know other cats have made telephone calls? One cat dialed 911 and saved his companion. This story sounds more like my Lancie, though: he just liked to chat. When I'd come home from work, I'd often ask him about his day. He'd always answer the same way (after all, what else is there to say when you sleep all day?). I also asked him every morning whether he wanted his breakfast. And my favorite question: "Do you love your Mommy?" and always, "Meow."

The Perfect Man

2006-02-09T18:11:00.000-05:00

I miss my handsome boy.

I'm having a terrible week at work, so I'm missing Lancelot more than ever. He was a wonderful sounding board and listener. Whenever I had a crappy day, Lance was always there to hear my cries and comfort me. The perfect man: unabashed affection and never talked back. And a full head of hair, too!

Yesterday was particularly bad. In the morning the traffic lights went out on Ben Franklin Parkway, so drivers honked constantly even though no one could move. Stress has taken hold at our office, so every day is a test of perseverance. I couldn't wait to turn around and get home. I felt terrible, and I didn't want to cook, so I stopped at the Whole Foods for a carb-filled dinner.

I cheered up a little when I checked the mail. I got a letter from the Feline Health Center of Cornell University's College of Veterinary Medicine. The folks at VCA Cat Hospital donated money in my Lancelot's name. I gave his ashes an extra kiss and had myself a good cry.

I may visit the animal refuge again this weekend, despite last weekend's disaster. My friend Concetta, who works at the Please Touch Museum, also may have found a stray cat for me. The kitty is living in Memorial Hall, the future home of PTM. Her current name is "Dog," which probably says something about her personality. I'll check her out and find her a home, even if we're not destined for each other. No animal—or person—should be alone!

Pets I Have Known and Loved III

2006-02-09T13:59:00.000-05:00

Dog: Niki
Breed: American Eskimo Dog
Length of time with Guglielminos: 16+ years

Perhaps my mother spoke too soon. A few weeks after Kippy's death, I again called my parents from the basement of Haverford's library. "Guess what?" Mom said. "What?" I asked, feigning interest in typical adolescent fashion. "We got a new dog," she said.

My mouth got dry. Kippy's body was probably still warm in his grave! How could my parents allow this interloper into our house? "I couldn't stand the silence when I walked in the door," Mom said. "I hated not hearing the sound of a dog greeting me."

No consolation to me. I believed my parents were traitors. They said they loved Kippy, but how could they if they could simply replace him with another dog? "I'll never like that dog," I spit into the phone. "I'll be polite, but I'll never love him like I love Kippy."

After meeting Nikki, however, my cold heart melted like an ice cube on a dog's tongue. He was the cutest dog EVER. He learned quickly how to sit, stay and "speak." When he got excited, he'd run in circles, flying past like a shooting star, until he got dizzy and stopped to rest. We'd wrestle with toys for hours, but he'd never bite. Our family has had the pleasure of watching him grow, and today he spends his hours sitting in his "bed" and eating his morning toast. (Yes, you read that right. He doesn't get bread in the morning; he gets toast. Sometimes before others get their breakfast, by the way.)

What lessons have I learned from these dogs? Know what you're getting. Know when to say enough is enough. Love completely. Learn when it's time to love again.

Pets I Have Known and Loved II

2006-02-08T18:00:00.000-05:00

Dog: Whiskey
Breed: Golden Retriever (courtesy the Golden Retriever Club of America)
Length of time with Guglielminos: Several months

When we got Whiskey—who my father insists was male but I think was female—Mom was working as a social worker at a local hospital. Whiskey was young, and she didn't like being alone. We tried everything to placate her, from confining her in my parents' bedroom to leaving her outdoors. These were the old days, before our generation of plush dog crates and pink purses for toy poodles. Anyway, our brilliant solution was to leave her in our tiny pool cabana during the work day. Whiskey cried and barked, ultimately chewing her way through the cabana door. This dog met a particularly bad end, as my mother decided to drop her off near some farmland. Important lesson: Research the breed before getting the dog.

Dog: Coco

Breed: Dauchsand
Length of time with Guglielminos: Several Years

This is an actual picture of Coco on the sofa in our den. At his previous home, he had spent most of his time confined to the basement with a cat. As a result he liked balancing his tiny feet on the backs of couches and rubbing up against our legs. When strangers came to the door, the hair on Coco's back stood on end. Like any self-respecting dauchsand, however, Coco burrowed under the covers at night and ate any food he could get his paws on. The best source of food was our garbage can. So we'd arrive home after an evening out to discover a path of discarded food with a hopping can at the end. Coco once jumped onto the dining room table and ate an entire stick of butter. He loved slipping out the front door and playing "hide and seek"; my mother and I would run after him, but as soon as he slowed up enough for us to catch him, he'd take off again. He was an entertaining little dog, but life changed drastically for him upon the arrival of his archenemy...

Dog: Kippy

Breed: West Highland White Terrier
Length of time with Guglielminos: Many years

Mom and Dad read about Kippy in the newspaper. He lived with elderly people who wanted to give him up. My parents had always wanted to adopt another Westie. When they were first married, they had a Westie named Dilly. He died young after he was diagnosed with epilespy just a few months after my birth. Kippy was jumpy; it was clear he had been abused. He had a number of strange habits, including obsessively licking his nose and chasing his tail. And he hated Coco. The two despised one another, and much barking and growling ensued. Coco fancied himself the alpha dog, and having Kippy in the house allowed him more flexibility in his manipulations. A few months after Kippy's arrival, someone started making mistakes on the carpet in my bedroom. I always suspected Coco, but Kippy always looked guilty.

In another mystery from my childhood, my mother found a young woman who had just divorced and wanted a little dog for her son. She and I took Coco to visit the boy and, as the story goes, the boy fell in love with Coco immediately. I wouldn't want to deny this poor boy a dog, would I? My mother asked. Thus ended Coco's tenure in our home.

I got over it, and Kippy and I became fast friends. I loved feeding him his awful-smelling pink dog food, which was supposed to look like chunks of raw meat. We went for walks, and I forgave him on the few occassions when he caught birds in the back yard and tried to bring them in the house. When I was 15, we moved from New Jersey to Massachusetts. In the confusion of moving, Kippy got lost in our new neighborhood. Mom and I drove all over the place, not knowing where we were going, but eventually we found the poor thing. He was as scared as I was, and after that he was always by my side. Kippy was a huge comfort at a time when I resented my parents and hated my new life.

Kippy was a mainstay of my high school years. He lived through the stresses of the New York Mets 1986 World Series Season, my on-and-off relationship with a crappy boyfriend, college applications and giggling teenagers, and more. When I went off to college at Haverford, I missed him terribly. During my first year, I couldn't wait for the holiday break so I could see him. I gave him lots of hugs and kisses. And then, a few weeks after I returned to school, Kippy died.

My parents were devastated. They had gone on a well-deserved vacation, and Kippy died at the kennel while they were away. I learned about it when I called home from a pay phone in the basement of Haverford's library. Mom couldn't stop crying, and she swore she'd never get another dog again.

Pets I Have Known and Loved

2006-02-07T18:07:00.000-05:00

In the months since I lost Lancelot, I've spent a lot of time thinking about the many animals I've loved. Most were dogs, since my dad hates cats. And honestly, we had as many dogs as my parents had cars. We always seemed to be trading up for the next best thing. Over the holidays, I asked my parents what they remembered about these dogs. In some cases, we remember little. In others, I'd rather forget.

Dog: Snowball
Breed: Samoyed
Length of time with Guglielminos: Several weeks/months

Snowball came to live with us when I was a little girl, sometime before my eighth birthday. He was a huge, sweet, gregarious ball of fur. (This photograph, by the way, is not the actual "Snowball" but one of his compatriots, courtesy of the Westminster Kennel Club.) Snowball would bound out of the house at the sight of anything that looked fun, including the arrival of our neighbors, who found his boundless enthusiasm a bit frightening. He knocked over objects and people unable to contain his Herculean energy: Dad remembers edging his way up the stairs in our split-level house so he wouldn't trip over the dog. Mom and Dad soon concluded Snowball was too much dog for our little suburban house.

Dog: Lady
Breed: Collie
Length of time with Guglielminos: Very brief

I can't remember whether Lady or Snowball came first, but whose bright idea was it to get two huge dogs? I have few memories of Lady, but my mother alleges the dog (thanks again to the Westminster Kennel Club for the photo) herded me around the house and refused to let my mother touch me. Mom complained to Dad, who (again, allegedly) told my mother not to worry about it—what could happen? As the family legend goes, Dad came home from work one night and tried to pick me up, but Lady herded me into the corner. That was the end of Lady.

Dog: Muttsey (aka Muttley)
Breed: Mutt
Length of time with Guglielminos: Several years

I consider Muttsey our first dog success—though his story ended unhappily. Muttsey came from an ad in the newspaper. We managed to mangle/forget his given name within 10 minutes of picking him up. Years later my mother saw the old owner, who asked after Muttley. I guess it didn't matter, since the dog didn't seem to mind what we called him.

Muttley/Muttsey remind me of Benji, which is why I picked out this photo from The Pet Press. We never knew about Muttsey's ancestry, but Benji was believed to have been part Llasa apso/part Shit Tzu. Muttsey had orangish hair, and he was kind of a mess of a dog but very cute. He was a good small size for our little family. Muttsey's only problem was that he was jumpy. The previous owner warned us not to surprise him.

Muttsey was the first dog I truly loved. We had a back yard with a fence, but sometimes I took him for walks. I'd throw him tennis balls and try to convince him to swim with me in the pool.

One summer my mother needed gall bladder surgery. Muttsey became my security blanket. I decided he and I would get "married." I wore my communion dress and veil, wrote vows and arranged the lawn furniture in aisles in the back yard. My grandfather performed the ceremony while my father and grandmothers looked on. Like most grooms, Muttsey had little to do with the ceremony. I did gave him a bone afterward, which seemed to please him. I'll leave the rest of the jokes to your imagination...

Muttsey was the central player in our most famous family Thanksgiving, the last holiday in which both my grandmothers and my Grandpa Ross were still alive. Every year Dad set up a reel-to-reel tape to record our festivities. In Thanksgiving 1979, Muttsey disappeared just as we got ready to sit down for turkey. In the confusion, Dad forgot to turn off the reel-to-reel. We caught the entire fiasco on tape. Grandma Betty thought Muttsey had drowned in the pool; Mom and I called out to him; Dad cursed and yelled at everyone to sit down and eat the turkey before it got dry. The tape captured my grandmother yelling at my grandfather to get out of the kitchen—something that could have happened at any number of family holidays. Happiness ensued when we discovered Muttsey in the attic and finally sat down for dinner.

The kids in the neighborhood loved torturing Muttsey. I never understood why. But with Muttsey's nerves, he was an accident waiting to happen. One day our neighbor, "little John," kept harassing Muttsey. I told John, "Better leave Muttsey alone, or he'll bite you." But he didn't, and Muttsey did. Little John's parents sued my parents in small claims court, and in the end my parents said we couldn't keep Muttsey. I was in the 4th grade. I remember crying at my desk and my teacher, Mrs. Marshall, came to comfort me. I was afraid of her because she made the "bad kids" stand in the corner. But when I told her about Muttsey, she was compassionate. It was my first lesson in how animals bring out the best in people.

Black Cats Banished Again

2006-02-06T14:14:00.000-05:00

This weekend I decided I would do it, I would adopt a cat. On Saturday I went to Morris Animal Refuge. Usually, they have a ton of cats, but this week many of the cages were empty. Some of the cats looked sick; others didn't seem to care what was going on around them. I only connected with one cat--a black kitty named Jones. I liked the idea I could pretend he was named after Keith Jones or Jonesy, the ridiculous ex-Flyer who farts on Comcast SportsNet and still comes out looking like a Philadelphia hero (maybe that's what makes him a hero in some people's eyes). Anyway, Jones was about a year old, and he followed my finger with his eyes, just like a player would follow a hockey puck. I knew I shouldn't even consider a black cat, but I decided to ask to try him out anyway.

The first thing I noticed was how healthy and fat he felt, not at all like Lancie toward the end. His hair was so thick and shiny. He purred when I pet him. The poor kitty was pretty scared, though. I don't think he realized where he was. When I pulled him out of the cage, he suddenly saw the other cats and promptly had a hissy fit. I tried to comfort him, but I started crying myself. He looked like Lancelot, but he wasn't Lancelot. He felt like a big blob of a cat, not like my "cat baby."

The moral of the story? No black cats for me. I'm thinking white, orange, gray, tabby, whatever. Hopefully, I'll find a female. I'd also like a young cat, something so cute and cuddly I'll have no choice but to love it immediately. I'll try again next weekend.

My Little Vacuum

2006-02-02T14:33:00.001-05:00

It's such a beautiful day. I wish Lancelot could see it.

A few days before Lance died, I walked to a park near my office and watched as the people went about their business. It was unusually warm, just like today. A group of children tossed a ball, and some little girls danced to the sounds of music in their heads. Several women walked their dogs. I leaned down to touch the ground. I liked the feeling of the grass between my fingers. I thought about bringing Lancelot there so he could see, smell, feel the outside. I had never allowed him out of the house, so he had never experienced the outside. He was so out of it at that point that I knew I could bring him there and he wouldn't run away. I wish I could have given him that experience, but I worried he would be upset by the commotion.

Some of my friends think it's time for me to get a new cat. I'm worried. What if I can't love it? What if I bring it home and feel nothing? Will I feel guilty for loving a new cat?

On the other hand, I feel terribly lonely. I would be saving a life, which is never a bad thing. I would have a new warm body to curl against at night. I got home late yesterday after a horrible day. For just a moment I forgot Lancelot was gone. I was ready for a kitty hug. I would come in the apartment and say, "Lancelot, I had a bad day. I need a kitty hug!" And then I'd get it, at least until he got sick of me.

I've lost some important things over the past year--a serious boyfriend, a beloved pet. Lancelot was a member of my support system. I have many wonderful and supportive human friends, but sometimes I just want that purrrrrrrrr, that mysterious vibration that means unconditional love. I called Lance my "little vacuum" because that's what his purr reminded me of. Sometimes I would just look at Lancelot and he'd start purring, even if I wasn't touching him. It made me feel warm, safe, secure. It made me feel loved.

That Little Prick, and the Reasons I Love Him Anyway

2006-01-30T18:24:00.000-05:00

I can't believe how lonely I feel without Lancelot. This weekend I felt so sad, so alone.

Sometimes it feels ridiculous to miss a cat so much. But then I think about how much of my "real life" I spent with him. I petted him every morning and gave him a kiss every night. He slept beside me after every bad relationship, every argument with a friend, every bad day at work, every Eagle s and Phillies loss. (Poor cat. I should have at least protected him from that misery.)

It's been almost two months since Lancie died, and I'm used to the quiet now. Sometimes I ring the bell on his collar so I can remember how he sounded. I rearranged the furniture and bought new curtains. It's nice not having to vacuum up hair every day and burn candles to mask the smell of fresh cat poop. No more litter bits between my toes or interruptions to my sleep because of a moth in the apartment.

I've been reading over my blog entries, and I realize I make Lancelot sound like an angel. He was a bit of a troublemaker, actually. As a younger cat, he enjoyed nipping at my bare ankles, usually without provocation. Lancelot didn't enjoy being alone, and he didn't like it when I was around and paying attention to something or someone else. My friend Jessie enjoys reminding me that I'd suddenly stop talking during telephone calls and whisper, "He sees me!" and run for my cup filled with pennies, my cheap device to scare Lance off.

He loved running under the sheets while I made the bed. We played a game where I'd lift the top sheet to form a parachute and he'd run under and roll on his back. Then I'd rub his tummy while he tried to scratch and bite me through the sheet.

Since spring 2000, my father (who hates cats but is a terrific real estate agent!) has referred to Lancelot as "that little prick" because of an incident before my grad school graduation party. I was trying to cover my kitchen table with a paper tablecloth. Lance wouldn't leave me alone; he kept jumping on the table and poking the paper with his paw. In frustration, I grabbed him up and threw him in my bedroom behind a set of French doors, so he could continue to watch the action. As my father remembers it, Lancelot fixed his eyes on my work and waited until the precise moment I had the table perfectly set. Then he bounded from the bedroom and flew atop the table, scratching nefariously until the table cloth looked like a grass skirt.

"You little prick!" Dad yelled. As my mother tried to calm him, Dad explained, "He was just waiting there, planning his attack so he could mess up that table. That conniving little beast."

My friend Carrie was terrified of Lancelot. Carrie, of course, also fears squirrels and bunny rabbits--but generally she's a good judge of character. During our first few years together, Lance and I got into some pretty bad scuffles. I wasn't really accustomed to the ways of The Cat; I didn't understand they sometimes need space and Alone Time.

Carrie often told me she feared for my safety. I remember the ring of excitement in her voice during a short period when I considered giving up Lancelot. Most of my friends felt the same. Only Maia and my friend Renee, who has been dubbed "The Cat Whisperer" because all cats gravitate to her, seemed to understand our loving, sometimes dysfunctional, bond.

Lancelot mellowed substantially with age. In his later years he spent much of his time sleeping. I learned when to leave him alone, and accepted that rubbing his tummy was asking for trouble. He often slept peacefully on my lap while I knitted or watched TV. The biting stopped for the most part, and we settled into the relationship of married people who know each other's habits and faults so well they know how to avoid triggering conflict, and when it's worth the fight.

Lucky

2006-01-25T19:37:00.000-05:00

I got up early on Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday to run errands. It was about 25 degrees outside, one of the first cold weekends of this unseasonably warm winter.

My first stop was the Goodwill in South Philly. The back entrance looked like a bomb had exploded. Piles of torn clothes of every size, shape, color and condition. Damaged furniture and discarded comic books. Cracked dishware and dirty comforters. Damn, I thought. If it's too shitty for you, why would you give it to somebody else?

I turned away in disgust. That's when I saw him: a black cat curled inside a tire. He’d gotten himself halfway into a plastic grocery bag and given up. He stood upright with his eyes partially shut, trying to get just a little bit of sun.

I smiled and walked toward him, but he didn't move. And when I leaned down to pet him, I could see he was gone. Frozen. Someone had obviously dumped him here like so much garbage.

"Poor kitty," I said, as my tears involuntarily fell. "Poor, poor kitty."

"Oh, that cat's been there for days," said a man. He looked to be in his 40s. He was walking a Pomeranian that certainly didn’t look cold and certainly didn’t look hungry.

"Didn't anyone call to have him picked up?" I asked, as the dog circled around me. "Did he belong to anyone?"

"Don't know," said the man, as he picked through the garbage/donations. The dog also looked quite pleased with himself.

I went into the Goodwill and talked to the woman manning the door. “Everybody’s been telling me about that cat. It’s been there for four days,” she said. “I’m not touching that thing.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I picked up a sweater from the pile. I walked over to the cat and placed it gently over him. “I’m so sorry, kitty,” I said. Then I called animal control to have him picked up.

I’m not naïve. I know animals die on the streets—and in shelters—every day. According to the Humane Society of the United States, up to 8 million unwanted cats and dogs enter shelters each year, and up to 4 million of those animals die there. The reasons for abandoning animals are varied, from allergies to moving to house soiling.

I've even seen hurt cats and dogs before, but something about this one got to me. I’m sure it was partially because he looked like Lancelot. But I also think it was the way this cat died—hungry, alone, unloved, anonymous—very unlike my Lancie.

Lancelot was one lucky cat. Except for 11 months of his life, he lived in a warm, safe, loving environment. For whatever reason, he was among the less than one-third of shelter cats who find a home; the remaining 71 percent are euthanized.

Later that day I walked past Morris Animal Refuge. It wasn’t open. But for the first time since Lancie died, I thought it might be time to go inside.

Letter to Lancelot

2006-01-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Lancelot,

How are you, my sweet kitty? Is there a lot of tuna and catnip in Heaven? I hope so. The crematorium sent a card with your ashes. The message said good cats and dogs travel to Heaven on the Rainbow Bridge. I hope that means someday we will meet again on the other side.

The apartment isn't the same without you. It feels so sterile and cold. I still look for you when I walk in the door. I often sit down as soon as I get in, just so I can get used to the idea you're not there. Sometimes I say, "Lancelot, I love you. I'm home." Do you hear me? I no longer hear the little creaks and noises I noticed when you first went away. Maybe that means you're at peace where you are.

Every morning I visit Ruby and Purl, the mom and daughter duo at Sophie's Yarns. I feel a little less guilty now when I tell them how cute they are. Last weekend I hung out with them at the store. Purl sat on my shoulder while I shopped. Ruby, the mellower one, sat in my lap for a while. I shut my eyes and pretended it was you. But there's no kitty in the world like you.

I miss you so much, my little Lancie. I would do anything to hold you once more, to put my face against you and hear you purr. I wish I could take back all the times I scolded you or shook a coin-filled cup to keep you from misbehaving. I would do anything to have you jump on the kitchen table or groom my curly hair when I'm trying to sleep.

It seems so strange that all I have left of you now are some ashes in a box. When I held you in a blanket on the way to the vet, did you know where you were going? I hope not. But I hope you understood when I told you I loved you and that your pain was going to end.

I love you, Lancelot, and I always will. Be peaceful, my sweetheart.

Love,
Mommy

The Choice

2006-01-04T17:36:00.000-05:00

Five months after Lancelot came home with me, we took our first trip to the emergency room.

It was an unusually warm April day. I rolled aluminum foil into a ball and tossed it over to him. He looked bored so I pulled out his favorite toy, the cat dancer. Off he went, chasing imaginary mice. Soon he was panting. He looked cute with his tiny pink tongue hanging out. But when the panting didn't stop, I got worried. I rushed him to the emergency room, where the vet told me Lance had "overheated."

This minor incident was followed by a litany of health problems: respiratory infections, colds, dehydration, fleas, obesity, kidney stones and "inappropriate elimination." He got frequent urinary tract infections. As a first-time cat owner, I was unfamiliar with the tell-tale signs of UTI. Over the years I learned about the dangers of his spending extra time in the litter box or drinking extra water. But I was pretty naive in those early days. One morning, as I stretched in bed, I felt a warm sensation on my leg. It felt good at first, like ocean waves lapping at my thigh. Then I realized Lancelot had urinated on me.

Poor litte guy. He wasn't a healthy boy. His worst health crisis came in 1999, when he was diagnosed with hepatic lipidosis, also known as fatty liver disease. This condition, which occurs in overweight cats who stop eating, causes fat cells to attack the liver. If left untreated, the cats become jaundiced, go into liver failure and die.

At the time, I was studying journalism part-time and working 40 hours a week at American Forests. One of my closest friends, Maia, was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was doing what I could to help her, but I often felt scared for her and inadequate as a friend.

When the vet told me Lancelot might die, I didn't think I could stand it. I had a choice to make, she said. We could treat his pain or he could have surgery and several months of medical treatment. Treatment would be expensive, but if Lancelot recovered he probably would live a normal, happy life.

I felt confused and uncertain. Would choosing surgery be selfish? Or was it more selfish to put Lancelot to sleep when medicine could help him live? I also held an uncomfortable (and irrational) question in the back of my mind. If I gave up on Lancelot, would I be showing Maia I was capable of giving up on her?

In the end, I decided I needed Lancelot as much as he needed me. He had surgery, and the vet inserted a temporary feeding tube in his gut. She instructed me to feed him through the tube three to four times per day, then flush it out with water. I was also to tempt Lance into eating on his own by giving him fresh tuna, sirloin steak, ground liver and the like. The tube would be removed as soon as Lance started eating, which could take two weeks, two months...or longer.

For more than two months, "the tube" ruled my life. I woke up at 5:30 a.m. so I could feed Lancelot before going to the gym. At noon, I rode the 42 bus home, filled his tube, and hopped back on the bus so I could return to work on time. I arranged visits to Maia and evenings with friends around tube feedings.

In the meantime, I tried to get Lancelot to eat real food. I warmed it. Added water. Cut it up. Left it whole. Sang to him. Pet him near his food. Left him alone. Begged. Pleaded. Finally, I cried.

To keep the tube in place, the vet outfitted Lancelot in a kitty t-shirt. She wrote messages on it to keep my spirits high, things like "Feed Me" and "Love Me, Love My Tube." But I was miserable, and Lancelot wasn't real happy either. One morning I heard a loud pop, like a cork springing off a Champagne bottle. I saw Lancelot, but I saw no tube. Back to the vet we went for yet another surgical procedure.

As frustrated as I felt, I never questioned my decision. My friends supported me, although some must have thought I was nuts. Maia, who had her own health to worry about, comforted me like I was a mother with a sick child. She nicknamed Lancelot the "Million Dollar Cat" in honor of his healthcare costs. She assured me I had made the right decision, that my love for Lancelot left no other choice.

Maia recovered, and she continues to be my wise and knowing friend to this day, more than five years later. Lancelot got better too. I realize now that I had no other choice in his treatment, not just because I loved him, but because I needed him at that moment in my life. His recovery gave me hope that anything is possible and that maybe, with a little luck and a lot of love, everybody I loved would be OK.

Ashes to Ashes

2005-12-16T18:52:00.000-05:00

I had a jolt today when my colleague April said my vet was on hold. For a moment I forgot Lancie was gone. Then I realized she was calling to tell me I could pick up his ashes.

After I learned Lancelot was terminally ill, I struggled for weeks over whether to keep his ashes. I didn't like the idea of his spirit being trapped in a box. How would he feel, I wondered, if I stuck his box in a closet or under the bed? Should his ashes be placed high on the bookshelf, so he could spend eternity looking down upon lesser souls, as most cats prefer? I considered spreading his ashes in Rockport, but that wouldn't work: cats don't like water. And he never spent time outside, so releasing his ashes in a park or athletic field didn't make sense either.

I'm thinking I will put his ashes on a bookshelf near where his litter box used to be and hang some pictures above it. My friend John Maki, who runs a wonderful graphic design firm called Acquire, blew up Lancelot's photograph for me. Michael also sketched Lancelot just a few nights before his death. You can see how well Michael knew him by the way he captured Lancelot's features.

In the days and weeks before his death, Lancelot no longer looked like himself. Once a gut-busting 25 pounds, he had lost nearly 75 percent of his body weight. Still, he continued to do the things that gave him pleasure: curling up on my periwinkle chair, sneaking into the bathroom (he was never allowed there before—I called it my "cat-free zone"), sitting next to me in the kitchen while I paid my bills or talked on the phone. I filled his cat scratcher with fresh catnip, hoping to numb his pain with the feline equivalent of medical marijuana.

Lancelot became so small that I could put him on my shoulder and carry him around the apartment. In those last few weeks, I'd scoop him up and hold him like a baby, then put him on my shoulder while I went about my business. He purred when I rubbed his chin, even during those last days when he could barely move. When I took him to the vet for the last time, I wrapped him in a pink blanket and held his face close to mine. I told him I loved him and asked him for a "cat kiss." He made an attempt but was too weak.

There's something peaceful about the moment a soul passes from the world, whether human or animal. There is a sense of relief, an inaudible sigh; then they're gone, and the anguish begins for those left behind.

If Heaven exists, I imagine my Grandfather and his dog, Musetta, are up there hanging out with Lancelot. I imagine them with all the other loved ones we've lost—grandparents, uncles, friends, and many, many animals. They probably look down at us and think we're fools for spending time grieving when we should be living. But I think grief is a part of life, and we miss out if we don't experience that pain too.

Ghost Cat

2005-12-13T19:44:00.000-05:00

Today marks one week since Lancelot's death. It seems so much longer.

Right after Lancelot passed away, I left for a business trip. I was relieved to be away from home. My friend Michael suggested I bring a keepsake on the road. I tucked a small photo of Lancelot and Santa into a frame. (Yes, he is wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey.)

The three nights I was away, I was pretty proud of myself. This isn't so bad, I thought. I'm not crying that much. I don't miss his big, black, furry body against my feet at night, and I don't miss the 6 a.m. breakfast "cat call."

Then I came back. I started dreading it the moment I got on the plane in San Antonio. When I walked in the door, no one would be there to greet me. By the time I got in the taxi in Philadelphia, I was crying. I called Michael so he could listen to me babble. He said, "Lancelot's spirit will always be with you. He's probably looking down at you right now. But it's daytime, so he's sleeping. He'll get up tonight while you're asleep."

I turned off the phone and looked at the driver's mirror. He was, of course, staring blankly at me. He looked to be about 75 years old, and he asked me if the radio bothered me. I blathered no. I don't think he knew what to do. So he said, "In my 50 years of driving taxis, you're the nicest lady I ever drove. Just the nicest." Then he regaled me with stories about his life and his family and their pets.

But when I got home I felt empty. The apartment never looked so lonely. All my careful decorating did little to hide the empty spaces, the spot where his food dish used to be, the indentation in the down comforter where he'd lain all day. I picked up his collar and rang the bell. I was inconsolable.

I was sitting at home watching TV a few nights later when I heard a clang. I looked up and saw a fork on the floor. Somehow it had gotten dislodged from the dish drainer. Later I heard other unfamiliar sounds—quiet shuffling and squeaking, little movements from corner to corner. I checked, but there was nothing there. I started to wonder whether Lancelot's spirit was there, trying to get my attention. It's OK with me, as long as he's happy where he is. His spirit is welcome to stay in the apartment; after all, it is his home.

In the meantime, I'm learning not to get up during the TV commercials so I can give him a kiss and a scratch on the chin. I'm getting into the habit of curling myself around a pillow at night instead of spooning with a big mound of fur. And I'm trying to train myself not to look at my feet as I enter and exit the apartment, blocking a ghost cat from sneaking through my legs and out into the world.

Welcome to lancieblog

2005-12-12T20:13:00.000-05:00

If you would like to help save other animals like Lancelot, please make a donation in his name to the Washington Humane Society.

On Tuesday night, I lost my little kitty.

I never knew it was possible to love a pet so deeply and completely until I met Lancelot. We always had "used" dogs when I was growing up—animals from local shelters, or from families that lost interest in their pets. I fawned over them all. But I never had a cat, and I'd certainly never been solely responsible for the feeding, caring, cleaning and pooper-scooping of any animal.

In November 1995 I was living in Washington, DC, in my first apartment. I'd moved out of a group house with my friends a couple months earlier. I wanted a dog but knew I could never handle one with my lifestyle. So I'd "settle" for a cat.

I visualized myself curling up with a tabby kitten. And when I went to the New York Avenue branch of the Washington (DC) Humane Society, that's exactly what I picked: a tiny tabby with big eyes, tiny white paws and a clumsy gate. I filled out the paperwork and paid the application fee. I dusted and scrubbed my small apartment for the in-home interview so I'd pass inspection. When the adoption officer visited, she gave me a warm smile. My kitten was on the way, she said.

I was devastated when she called the next day to say the kitten had gone to another family. How would I ever find a cat as cute as that one? The woman invited me down again: plenty of abandoned, lonely cats here, she said. She was sure I'd find one I liked.

The shelter was a pretty depressing place. The cats sat in rows and stacks of cages, some alone and some in pairs. I saw newborn kittens and very old cats. Some had been there for weeks, and I learned they might not be there much longer. I remembered a few cats from my first visit, including a white cat with one eye. I also remembered a funny-looking black cat that hadn't been of much interest to me.

"Kitty," a 10-month old black cat, was a victim of neglect. His former owners had put on his flea collar so tightly it had grown into his skin. After Kitty was removed from his home, the shelter surgically removed his collar. He had been in the shelter for almost three months; I was told the Humane Society would not adopt out black cats before Halloween. Kitty had enormous black and yellow eyes. Unlike many of the other cats, when I went to his cage he sat up and looked me square in the eye. He had an inordinately large head, and when he sat far enough away and moved his head around, he resembled a bobblehead doll. I noticed he also had pretty big paws, so I figured he might turn out big.

I was reticent to adopt a black cat. I thought a black cat might bring bad luck or, at the least, mess up my apartment with his black hair. But Kitty kept staring at me, and every time I visited I was a little more charmed. Then one day the woman at the shelter asked if I'd like to pet him. She opened the cage. When I awkwardly put out my hands—I had no clue how to hold a cat!—Kitty jumped into my arms. He put a giant paw on either side of my neck, like he was hugging a long lost friend, and started to purr. Deeply, evenly, with strong conviction. I felt my heart fill with warmth, and the longer he purred, the warmer I felt. I was hooked.