I Have to Get This off My (Puny) Chest

After watching John McCain's speech the other night, and hearing yet another blatant rip-off of an Obama slogan (it was bad enough that Hillary turned "Yes We Can" into "Yes We Will" after accusing him of lifting speeches from another politician) I feel I must speak. It is my duty both as an American citizen and as a professor of the English language.

I love Senator Obama. I truly do. I think he's just the kick in the ass this political system, and this country, needs. I think that right now, Ghandi, Thurgood Marshall, and Martin Luther King are doing some serious cosmic fist-bumping. (Though, I confess, the thought of Abraham Lincoln doing the "cabbage-patch" is a little frightening.) However, every time I see or hear his slogan I have to physically stop myself from grinding my teeth and correcting his campaign officers aloud. Or at least his press officers. Another generation of voters--used, misled, brainwashed.

There. I've said it. His slogan makes me crazy. Because it is wrong. 

On the other hand, I'm thinking "Change In Which We Can Believe" probably wouldn't sell as many votes.

My Dream of You

(Following is an excerpt from an interview the Irish Independent did with the late Nuala O'Faolain, who died this month of cancer. Read the whole interview here. The title of this post is that of O'Faolain's second book. With thanks to Minnesota Matron.)

"The two things that keep me from the worst of self-pity are that everyone's done it so that ordinary people are as brave as I could ever be or as less brave as I could ever be.

The second thing that really matters to me is that in my time, which is mostly the 20th century, people have died horribly, billions of people have died horribly, in Auschwitz, in Darfur, or dying of starvation or dying multiply raped in the Congo or dying horribly like that.

I think look how comfortably I am dying, I have friends and family, I am in this wonderful country, I have money, there is nothing much wrong with me except dying.

When I think of how privileged I am. I had two brothers who died of drink and they died miserably and under- privileged and here I am as usual the lucky one in the family."

Think on that, on your sunny, breezy, glorious Memorial Day.

Political Correctness Does Not Grow on Trees

Nor, in fact, does it run in families. Two nights ago, my dad wondered aloud if poor Ted Kennedy's brain tumour was what had caused him in recent months to endorse Barack Obama. Then, being a sensical man, he ducked. Because he knew something was going to come flying at him from my end of the table.

Yesterday, on my way to the local hippie-crunch food store for more organic kale and carrots to juice (seriously), I saw a bumper sticker: I MISS RONALD REAGAN.

Is it wrong that my first instinct was to roll down the window and yell, "Hinckley didn't!" ?

Jonas Einstein, 1997-2008

You fought a good fight, Mr. Man, and in the end I'm sorry I wasn't home to tell you it was okay to go. You were a friend and a companion to me, and to my beloved husband, in some very dark times. Like the Native American legends of Coyote, you were also a jester, often a klutz, and occasionally too dumb to be believed (like all those times you fell into the bathwater with me because you slipped on my washcloth). You drove me crazy by shitting in the bathtub whenever my parents or my in-laws came over, your unerring ability to search and destroy freshly clean laundry (pictured here refusing to give Asia her sweatshirt back), and let's not even mention that time you looked squarely at us to make sure we were watching, and then peed into my new leather briefcase, all over my journal.

In the last month, you'd made it pretty clear that the end of our time together was approaching. You did this in various ways, not limited to chronic constipation, refusal of all food except liverwurst and cooked bacon, severe dehydration requiring daily fluid replacement, utter incontinence, inability to jump onto furniture or ultimately even climb stairs, and a seizure brought on by low blood sugar. Still, each time I brought you to the vet for what I thought was a date with euthanasia, you perked up and pulled another life out of your furry bag of tricks--Coyote strikes again. This morning, you reached in and found that bag finally empty.

You will be sorely missed, little dude. Thanks for taking care of us all these years. I can only hope we returned the favour when it was most needed.

Random Thought #482 (from the Insomnia Files)

One of the most annoying things about living in the country (one of the few, in fact) is that animals having sex in the middle of the night? Really, really loud. And not even vaguely erotic.

She-Ra, Princess of Stupid (and her cat, Mega-Paw)

This time last week Jonas, the oldest of my three cats, was receiving his second enema (the details of which are just about as horrifying as you're imagining right now, for both the recipient and the administrator) and about to begin a course of subcutaneous fluids to attempt to forestall permanent kidney failure.

Without going into too many of the gory details, suffice it to say that it wasn't a good week for either of us. Jo spent two days too weak to do anything but sleep--unable to walk, eat, drink, or protest when forced to suffer the various indignities of kitty rehydration, which sadly included peeing on himself where he lay. Hey, I said I wouldn't go into too many of the details. I didn't say I wouldn't mention any of them.  My dad and I discussed possible locations of interment relative to our groundwater source, and I went so far as to get the shovel out of the barn.

Then, mysteriously, Saturday evening at 6:00 he staggered upright and lurched across the kitchen--straight through his unused food dish, scattering kibble everywhere--to a patch of sunlight near where my dad was cooking. Sunday morning he started to eat. And, true to his normal self, hasn't really stopped since.

Yesterday morning, right after my alarm went off, he looked at me next to him on the bed and promptly fell over into a seizure. Yipes. Off to the vet we went (again) for more violations from behind (him, not me). He stayed the afternoon this time, and came home with a diagnosis of vastly improved kidney function but mysteriously low blood sugar. Since it's really hard to feed a cat jelly beans, he's got a dextrose solution made for cattle that now goes into his drip line in the evening. He's also got a bizarre blue IV catheter port on one of his front paws and a whopping edema in the other paw, making it look like a Muppet paw or something. Thus, his superhero immortal nickname: Mega-Paw.

A moment ago, I just switched out a fresh bag of Ringer's and managed not to contaminate anything, explode a bag of sticky fluids all over myself, or stab myself with an errant needle. As I've not worked at a vet's office since early 2001, I was quite proud of myself, and as victory surged through me, I shot both arms up in the air and hooted, "I have the power of Greyskull!"

My dad, walking through the kitchen at this particular moment and unfamiliar with pop culture cartoon series of the mid-eighties, is now under the impression that I have the power of numbskull, and isn't sure I should be advertising it quite so proudly.

What a Crock

My poor mom thinks she's losing her mind. Any other time we might agree with her--she's a very good candidate--but this time, there's a reason.

All morning I have been struggling to retain my composure. This is quite a feat for me. I do not have the world's best poker face. I love being in on a secret, and letting people know that I'm in on it. Fortunately, my mom is (as mentioned above) often oblivious to the subtext in interactions. so I'm working this to my advantage.

Several weeks ago, my mom fell in love with a red kitchen compost crock. At the time, it wasn't an immediate issue, because our interim container is safely out on the screen porch. It is, in fact, the old diaper pail, which actually functions quite well when you think about it. The problem is it's on the screen porch, which shortly will become the primary gathering place for meals and other times. There won't be enough room for a diaper pail, let alone the inconvenience of a day's worth of decaying vegetation at someone's feet while they're eating.

This morning, my mom decided she was going to order said compost crock, and began to tear the kitchen apart for the catalogue. It has been driving her practically batshit that she can't find it. She's been down to the cellar recycling pile, she's been through each catalogue three times, to make sure it's not in there. She's on the verge of a major obsession.

My dad and I are watching this with a great deal of sidelong amusement and exploding-cheek faces over her crouched figure on the floor.  Because the catalogue has been up on my desk for three weeks; about ten minutes after my mom announced that she liked the red one best, I emailed my sister and offered to split the price for Mother's Day.

I really don't know how much more of this frantic catalogue-digging I can handle before I have pity on my poor mom. One thing's for certain: if she doesn't get sidetracked by something soon, when she opens her gift a few Sundays from now, it will be rendered utterly useless immediately, from her cracking it over the top of my stubborn head.