A strange criteria for love

This phrase kept going through my head during my last visit to see my father. The house always smells of cigars, not a scent I particularly relish, and it's dirty as an older person's house is. And yet, I found myself breathe a sigh of relief or resignation or both upon arriving at his brick townhouse in Washington DC. My relationship with him is complicated to say the least, but for a long time I've called where my parents live "home". I sat on the patio our first night there and read my murder mystery by P.D. James, watching the swallows chase each other in the stormy, late-Spring, DC sky. It was humid and clouds roiled above, threatening rain, but never delivering. It was gusty, cool, humid, and completely unlike NYC.

My father would come upstairs occasionally to refill his drink and rustle around in the kitchen for a few moments. I was so still on the patio, watching his cat "Mittens" walk in and out of the house, perfectly content to come and go as many times as her little fickle, cat-heart wanted. My husband was asleep upstairs in what we refer to as my room. Mittens is, in fact, not Mittens. The real Mittens died a couple of years after my mother passed away and Dad didn't want another cat. My brothers and I schemed on how to get one into the house without my father being able to veto it immediately. He hates any kind of change, no matter how small or large. Then one pre-Christmas day my oldest brother, Byron, and I were walking with family in Alexandria, VA and saw a sign for shelter adoption. Byron in his funny and wise way said, "Ho hooo!" and pointed to the sign.

An hour later we brought home "Faith" - a white and black cat that is as luscious as a cat is allowed to be. She is calm, self-assured, flirty, and knows what she wants. She's smart, loyal, and has an air about her that lets one be who they are without worrying she will bite or run away. My father eventually informed all of us that he would call her Mittens as well, as he couldn't "learn a new name". After four years of stubbornness, I finally have agreed to call her "Mitzy" despite my gritted teeth when I do so. I was very close to the original Mitzy, you see, and this cat, whom I adore, is not her. After many years of referring to her as Faith or "Not-Mitts" I feel it is time to embrace what is and stop obsessing on what was - advice I have given my father many times which he has not taken.

My father was a minister for many years, so it's funny to me that he rejects the name Faith for Mittens (a name I bestowed upon our loving, wonderful family cat of 20-years at the age of 8). But that is a small gesture which demonstrates where he is in his life. (I just noticed that 'demon' is part of 'demonstrate'.)

I don't believe in demons. I don't really care about them as a concept. I am far more afraid of the living than the dead. I watch my father struggle with his life, his loss, his anger at the world that betrayed what he and my mother believed existed. They lived their lives in a certain way in order to be something, to get something ultimately that neither of them have gotten. My mother wanted years to herself to do what she wanted after years of doing what was expected of her for my father's career, and to enjoy watching her little girl (me) grow up into a woman, marry, and have children. She referred to my cat, Remmy, who has lived with me for 12 years as her "little grand-kitty". She did not survive long enough to do much of that.

So visiting my father's house, particularly on Mother's Day weekend, was a difficult thing to do. It was filled with joyous visits with friends and family and painful sad moments of dealing with my father when he can barely stand or when he is silent after I tell him of my recent modest achievements.

The silence of the house combined with the fact that NOTHING changes in between my visits makes it feel like a grandparents house - filled to the brim with memories hanging in the air with the cobwebs. You disturb things by your mere presence.

There is something comforting about being in a house where my mother has lived. A few years ago I was obsessed with getting my father to move out, into a smaller, more manageable place that doesn't have as many stairs or rooms to keep clean. He, in keeping with his character, when presented with this idea was horrified at the suggestion and proceeded to act like an abusive jerk for several days after we had a family pow-wow to discuss it. My brothers and I got the "FUCK NO" message and have backed off that idea for the past couple of years.

I still think there would be many pluses for my father moving out of his house, but this visit, almost 8 years after Mom passed away I began to realize, to allow myself to see, why he doesn't leave. She is there, in the shadows, in the living room having her Chardonnay and reading her book. And while we all know she in our hearts and is as much everywhere as in that living room where she spent so much time and ultimately died, it is easier to see her there with her delicate hands, the bow in her hair, throwing her mouth wide open when she really let out a belly laugh.

For the first time in 8 years I was able not to drink myself into oblivion just to deal with going to sleep there. A lot of credit I give to my husband, who is so supportive of me that when I burst into tears on the morning of Mother's Day in "my room" he simply held onto me and murmured in my ear as I sobbed.

I was the one who suggested we go down that weekend to plant flowers at Mom's grave as we haven't had time in several months. I know she is not located at that grave, that I could put out flowers anywhere in my apartment and tell her they are for her with the same amount of success in communicating as I would have in the cemetery. But I still drive 4 1/2 hours to get to her grave on a certain weekend.

I still long to go down to visit my father despite his difficult personality and place in life now. What is it that allows us to love our family as much as we do when they annoy the shit out of us? It's not just familiarity, let me tell you. There isn't enough familiarity in this world to put up with some of the stuff he's pulled, and yet I am pleased when he smiles for a few moments in between beats in a conversation with me and my husband. I am pleased when we arrive at the graveside and three lavender plants have survived the Winter and are beginning to grow and bloom.

As we planted a rose bush and African daisies and more lavender my husband and I dove into the task of "making things better". See? It's pretty, it smells good. I said as we were leaving, "It looks like somebody cares." And my husband quietly replied next to me, "Somebody does."

One hot day Sunday with Window Boxes

I am the type of person who wakes up one day and says to herself, "I want to plant an herb garden in window boxes on the front of our 3 large windows off of our living room!". So I think it's just a matter of going to the hardware store or garden center and buying window boxes, then going to the nursery and buying some plants and plopping them in there. What's the problem? By that evening, I should have a luscious garden that readers of BH&G would drool over.

Ahem... no.

Years ago when I lived in Manhattan with a good friend from college I woke up one day and decided to sculpt. I opened the yellow pages (yes, those were the earlier days of the internet when I still referred to the Yellow Pages for information) and found a sculpting studio, called them, went down there and picked up the basics including a large rock of soapstone. I decided to start with something simple: Sisyphus rolling the boulder up the mountain.

I worked on it for a while, discovered that [gasp!] sculpting was much harder than it seemed, and carried a shitty, half-finished Sisyphus around with me to three apartments (including one cross-country move) before admitting that I would probably not finish him.

I have never put up window boxes before. So I went to the hardware store in Park Slope to see some window boxes that were entirely ordinary and made me sigh with mediocrity. So I went online (see, now I'm savvy) and found three, cedar, scalloped window boxes that were cheap and exactly what I had pictured for our lovely 'suburban' Brooklyn apartment.

Our landlords are incredibly cool people and are very supportive of my attempt to grow an herb garden outside of our windows, with some flowers as well, of course, and said we had artistic license.

So I ordered the window boxes from HERE. I told my husband about my purchase and showed him the photo and he agreed, they were cool. Duh. I KNOW THAT. I picked them out!

So when we got them he looked at them and said, "We'll probably need to put sealant on them, and caulk them, and put plastic liner in them and do you want to paint them?"

I sighed. WHY was he making things so complicated? You get a box, and you plop plants in there! Voila! I thought, "He doesn't know what he's talking about" feeling SURE that I knew what I talking about having done no research and never even approached a window box before in my life.

He did some online research to find that yes, one should put sealant on bare wood boxes if you don't want it to rot immediately, and caulking is a good idea too as well as a plastic liner. FINE. So we went to Home Depot to get supplies where I almost lost my mind. I am very patient sometimes in life: in crisis, I am a good person to have around. I think quickly on my feet and am able to make quick, informed decisions. At a place like Home Depot, I am your worst nightmare. I sigh a lot and look bored as hell and shift my weight back and forth between my feet every 30 seconds. It's too big, with too many options and men don't ask questions. My tactic in a place like that is to corner an employee with my list and make them show me where everything is before I thank them profusely and go on my way.

My husband knows about wood planks and sealants and saws and brushes and shit. So he does it on his own. Who knew there were certain brushes for paint and others for sealant? It's a BRUSH.

We made it out of there with everything. I am going to paint the window boxes white. I am so excited.

While Jon was sawing in the driveway, I was putting the first of THREE coats on the window boxes and enjoying the evening of what was a very hot day and now is a warm, breezy entry into night.

My cats spent the day lounging in poses that resembled melting clocks by Dali in the heat. And, of course, I had to take photos.

NEXT weekend I will get to walk up the block to the garden center and buy herbs and plop them in sealed, caulked, painted, and lined window boxes. Harumph.

Emmet Otter's Jug Band!!!!!!!!!

My husband just showed me this because otters are my favorite animals in the world. (Don't tell my cats.)

SOoooooooooooooooooo cute!

Emmet Otter's Jug Band.

NYC Photos

Weight loss... what a bitch.

So I have decided to partially document the diet I have begun... again.

I have struggled with my weight for a long, long, long time. Even when I was thin/skinny/svelt I struggled and felt fat. I now look back at those photos of myself and think, "Holy crap, I would KILL to be that weight again". Getting older and having a slower metabolism doesn't help.

This is not reflective of my general feeling of attractiveness, sexiness, hotness etc. But I do want to lose a fairly significant amount of weight and since I have struggled with this for a while I thought I would write down some thoughts, choices, experiences as I go along. Maybe someone else will find them useful.

I have given up sugar until my birthday which is in July. I am allowed to have cake on my husband's birthday which is June and then will have a shit-ton of sugar on my birthday and make myself sick doing so. I LOVE cake. Love love love love love. I was not allowed to eat sugar growing up, or really eat a lot of anything, so now I feel immense pleasure when I get to gorge on desserts. So we'll see how that goes. I'm already (3 days in) psychotic with sugar cravings. I am allowing myself sugar in my tea and a little on my oatmeal. If you've ever eaten plain oatmeal then you know why.

No desserts, no sugary cereals, no chocolate milk etc. I'm also trying to work out 3-5 times/week (cardio & weights at the gym, yoga, kickboxing, pilates at home). And, of course, I am watching my fat, salt, and carb intake. I eat a lot of low fat meats, vegetables and fruits. The grains I do eat I try to make whole and keep them on the lighter side (Weight Watchers bread etc.). I will be doing Weight Watchers online which I have done before and it's really helped me.

I love all kinds of food passionately. I love to bake, to cook, to go out to eat. I grew up with a mother who enjoyed abstaining from foods in order to preserve her lovely figure - as a result this behavior is repugnant to me so dieting brings out a lot of negative feelings. I am trying to balance all these feelings with the feelings of wanting to feel good about my body, especially as I get older, and watch my health.

I'm 3 days into the no-sugar thing and I want to drown myself in a vat of melted chocolate. I literally moaned out loud at the deli today looking at my favorite chocolate bar. I think the woman behind the counter probably thought, "No wonder she's fat... she's moaning out loud at the mere SIGHT of chocolate." I was on my way home from the gym and was ravenous.

Ok! Off to shower and get back to my day. [Big, forced smile.]

Insomnia... and a bit of Titus

Titus Andronicus is a serious play. If you haven't read it, or seen the movie with Anthony Hopkins and Jessica Lange, I highly suggest you do. Don't do it in a fragile state of mind - it's intense and filled with violence. Perhaps my favorite dramatic monologue of all time belongs to Tamora of "Titus" fame. And for some reason, when I woke up at 4am and discovered I couldn't get back to sleep, I decided to look it up.

TAMORA: Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?

These two have ticed me hither to this place,

A barren detested vale you see it is;

The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,

Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe.

Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,

Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven:

And when they showed me this abhorrèd pit,

They told me, here, at dead time of the night,

A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes,

Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,

Would make such fearful and confusèd cries

As any mortal body hearing it

Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.

No sooner had they told this hellish tale

But straight they told me they would bind me here

Unto the body of a dismal yew

And leave me to this miserable death.

And then they called me foul adulteress,

Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms

That ever ear did hear to such effect;

And had you not by wondrous fortune come,

This vengeance on me had they executed.

Revenge it, as you love your mother's life,

Or be ye not henceforth called my children.