Wellness

Cooking food has never been a strong suit of mine, as evidenced by the fact that I have never cooked a meal for myself or for anyone else. This almost certainly has to do with my picky appetite and a tendency towards processed, pre-made meals with colorful boxes (or does that stem from being unable to cook?). I can almost bake; by that I mean, if I were given a recipe, I could certainly make something and it would be decent, because every year at Christmas I help my mom make dozens and dozens of different cookies. But I have no real intuition around a stove. I once made myself a piece of baked chicken breast, a process that took an hour, and it was so horrifying and nerve-wracking that I couldn't taste it afterwards and gagged when eating chicken for months.

Starting in October, I have no choice but to cook. No matter where I end up living next year, Trinity does not have dining services the way BC does. If I plan on staying alive, I will need to provide for myself. Part of me is so tempted to just buy 100 cans of Spaghetti-O's, a loaf of bread, some peanut butter, and just wing it, but my health is questionable and I really don't think I can keep going in this direction. Working at an integrative medicine newsletter, I have been exposed to some interesting ideas, some of which I was already practicing (melatonin before bed), some that I will never touch (fish oil as a liquid instead of a pill--gag me), and some that I am really intrigued by (anti-inflammatory diet).

Nothing in my body seems to stay still, I never feel too well, and "inflamed" is a very appropriate term for how I react to things. I have this sense that the reason my eyes cannot take contacts for more than five hours is intricately related to what I consume. I also attribute this to my shallow breathing, the weakness in my shoulders after shooting a basket, and oh yeah, the fact that today at H&M I was a SIZE TEN. In addition, because my summer has gotten off to a much rockier start than I was prepared for, my anxiety is through the roof. A new phenomenon has begun: whenever I get outrageously angry or upset, my optical migraines kick in and I taste bile in the back of my throat, and my instances of clawing and screaming have returned with surprising force. With an increasing number of customers coming into the cafe bent on making me feel incompetent, the reality of never seeing or talking to friends for weeks at a time, and a dead cat whose memory just won't leave, only some sort of cleansing makes sense. I don't know yet how I am going to introduce the anti-inflammatory diet into my system, but I have plenty of time at work to research it.

The mental aspect of my body's sad state can sink to debilitating depths, but I seem to recover the fastest and the best when I have something productive to do. Today, I spent two hours rolling coins from tips, ending up with about $140. Then I cooked--spaghetti and meatballs, nothing fancy, but I got water to boil so I'm pleased as punch. Last week I hung up a new net on our basketball hoop and played for a half-hour, making in approximately 1.5 baskets. A whistle is in the mail. Before the summer started, I had a lot of goals. Silly ones, mostly, but goals nonetheless. Wasn't I going to teach myself a new instrument? And go on a ghost tour? Wasn't I going to have a delightful balance of work and fun? My trajectory has changed--things are not so sunny and possible anymore--but it's probably for the better, because now I can arrange a list of practical things to attempt this summer, now that June is nearly over. Having things to do, my nerves drip right out of my fingertips. For now.

1. Go on an anti-inflammatory diet.
   
2. Learn to cook for each meal of the day.
   
3. Make ginger snapsssss!
   
4. Teach myself a new instrument.
   
5. Go on a ghost tour.
   
6. Go to Six Flags at night.
   
7. Go to a drive-in movie.
   
8. Complete a jigsaw puzzle.
   
9. Buy new luggage and air-compressing bags.
   
10. Have an occasion to wear a bathing suit; feel comfortable.
    
11. Shoot hoops before or after work, at least three times a week.
    
12. Wear a dress.
    

-- 08:27 PM

Power of prayer

I have not been handling Moses's loss well at all. This weekend has been a whole bundle of crying where crying should not be done, perimeter walks to spy a body, and terror during all the thunderstorms (Mo hates the rain). I gave up on taking my daily pictures for a while because they felt like such black holes anyway. Whenever I came close to having a good day, it would be ruined by nightfall. Monday night, my mom gave me a call to see how my day went, and all I could come up with was, "I can't stop thinking about him." We talked and cried for a few minutes, mostly about how we don't understand how this happened.

This could be a potentially controversial thing to say (if anyone ever read past the first sentence), but as there are two medical professionals in this family who have agreed, Mo acted as though he had some form of feline autism, if such a thing existed, which makes this all the more tragic. He was my baby boy who I desperately wanted to protect because something about him was just so unusual. We have had many cats, each with a perfectly distinct personality, but none quite so odd as Moses. He couldn't stand being held and would hold people out at arm's length (I will forever bear the scars he left on my boob the first time I discovered this tidbit); the slightest bend of a toe caused by the slightest breeze would send him flying off the bed; his interactions with the other animals were some of the most awkward run-ins ever witnessed, and they either avoided him because of his tendency to make uncomfortable or taunted him because of his exaggerated responses; he never left the yard, and you were almost always guaranteed to find him in one of his many nests he built around the house. A running joke was that he frequently disappeared into alternate dimensions because he could move as fast as lightning--one moment you were looking at him, the next he had slipped back through the smoke and would only emerge later when he knew I was going to bed. He was meticulously clean, with the prettiest, thickest fur, and was obsessed with sleeping nose-to-wet-nose, at least with me. Every now and then there would be a break in his social anxiety and he would sleep with others, but for the most part, he was my boy. Once an indoor cat, we were very reluctant ten years ago to allow him outdoors, but he was so timid that we knew he would never wander too far, particularly when he always had the spot behind my knees to sleep in. None of my descriptions probably seem unusual for a cat, but I know cats, okay? We all agreed that something was a little off with him, more so than usual.

Thus, it just absolutely breaks my heart that he has fallen victim to the outside world. I feel like I've failed him. He was my little buddy, and I was his protector, and I couldn't do it. We still have no idea what happened to him, but he simply has never been gone this long. I don't want to officially announce "ACCEPTANCE," in case he is shivering out there, wondering why I haven't found him yet, but personally I know I will feel better once I've accepted it. Today was the first day I didn't cry. I did expect him to skip across the driveway when I pulled in, or to be on his throne when I went into my bedroom, but I didn't cry when I realized he wasn't there. I've gotten used to referring to him in the past tense. This is always a horrible transitioning point when someone dies, being able to go from present to past. I am just going to assume that he knew it was coming and went to pass away in the woods, as cats are known to do. It doesn't stop me from puh-puh-puhing out the door when the thunder rolls in, but it does make it a little bit easier to get through the day. It kills me, because I always pictured him in the future--I was going to bring him to Ireland with me. He was going to be the key feature in my apartment, my house, my home. His green eyes went with my green eyes went with all of my furniture. Two green beans in a pod. But I am doing better right now. Not great--when there's not much else to think about, I think about him--but better.

I will say, I am horribly offended at the lack of sympathy from my friends, who have instead made cruel jokes about him being eaten, but on the other hand, I am foolish to expect any more than that. Wasn't it only four years ago that they were writing thank you notes from the foxes on our Lost Cat signs? Wasn't it the year or two before that that Kibby's final journey outside was featured in others' Spanish vocabulary sentences, like a source of comedy instead of tragedy? There are the kind people, the ones who call because they think they may have seen a cat that sort of looks like that, but I just always seem to surround myself with the ones who could give two shits. I know, I'm sure they think I'm being silly and overreacting. If that's the case, then add that to the list of how so few people know me very well.

In cases like these, I would wrap myself around Moses and wish someone would care about me the way he does. Without him around anymore, I don't know where to turn. No where but up.

-- 12:50 AM

Lost cat

Every couple of years I seem to have a streak of bad luck that ranges from a few months to the whole damn thing. I've had a good two years, which means that I've been long overdue for getting smacked in the head with a righteous hammer. It wasn't the perfect school year, especially with my body rejecting nearly everything it once tolerated, so perhaps this stretches back to October, but at any rate, I certainly see no end in sight.

I just feel so sad lately. I'm working seven days a week, and I am tired of being on the train and bus, especially when I always seem to be there when something ridiculous happens (no, no, Bus 554, don't worry about showing up for an hour and a half, where could I possibly have to be on a workday morning?). I am off of contacts for the next two weeks, at which point I'll have to switch to dailies, which will cost me so much more money, and my glasses make me feel ugly. Never mind being ugly every second of the day, having to feel it resting on the sides of my big red nose just hurts me in my chest. I had a procedure recently that was more embarrassing than it was painful, so I have talked to literally no one about it and don't plan to because there will not be the right reaction. I don't see many people anymore, anyway; most of the times this doesn't bother me because when I am this morose, the last thing I want is people, but I have this crazy idea that every person should have a Someone they can always talk to. I am also sad because I may have missed my opportunity at a Someone by a day and a half, even though probably nothing would have happened (why would it? guys don't make passes at girls with glasses), but the almost-there possibility is driving me crazy inside--I'd talk to someone about it if there were a Someone, but if there were a Someone then there'd be little else to talk about on the subject. My haircut did not turn out the way I wanted it. I've been having a lot of trouble dealing with my brother's gradual exeunt from my life, becoming no longer my brother but someone else's husband. I'm more upset by Tim Russert's death than I thought I would be and was so moved that his book about his father sold out by noon today. I fell for every possible trap lain for me on Friday the 13th, and it was also the day that I realized that Moses hadn't been seen in several days.

I already feel like saying a big fuck you to everyone, because I already know that no one quite understands my love for my cat. It's just, when I'm feeling like this, like I am the ugliest, stupidest, most unlikeable broad on the planet, and it's a consistent feeling I've had since October, then Cozmo is just about the only one who knows what to do. He knows to just sit with me without projecting any vibes like he would rather be somewhere else, or that he maybe agrees with some of it, or tries to give me advice on how best to handle it; he just sits with me, falls asleep with me, and that's all I need. When you're as lonely as I am, you gravitate towards the things that love you the most. When the thing that loves you the most is a cat, well, then it's a cat.

And still, the last time I remember seeing him, I was in a sleepless Sunday night rage, the type where I try to knock myself out, and I kicked him in the face for putting his wet nose against my ticklish feet. No one else has seen him since about Tuesday. He never leaves the yard, at least not more than an hour. I can't imagine him getting eaten by a coyote because he's faster than a speeding bullet, nor can I picture him getting lost because he's lived here for 12 years, yet here we are. I sobbed this morning, calling for him out in the woods; I sobbed on my lunch break, holding my breath whenever someone walked in to grab a radio; I sobbed on the drive home, because the signs I had made in a fit this morning had actually been hung up around the neighborhood, in the mailboxes, on the golf course. When I came home, my mom said, "You got a haircut, I see."

"It's not the way I want it to be. Few things are." I sobbed instead of eating dinner.

All the tears are coming from more places than this, simply because inconvenience after inconvenience has been building up for months, but they're absolutely heightened because Moses isn't here. Even with Kittum Bits sleeping on my feet and Gretty in my lap, I have never felt more alone. I deal with at least a hundred people everyday, and I have never felt more ugly and alone.

-- 08:48 PM

Russert

Rest in peace, Tim Russert. I truly enjoyed Meet the Press, and can remember my dad saying on a Sunday morning, "Who knew I would come home from golf to find my kids watching Tim Russert talk about the state of the economy with analysts?" You were not only a terrific journalist, but you also reminded me eerily of my father, who also cried this afternoon at the news. My thoughts are with your family, especially your son on this Father's Day, and thanks for always joining us at Boston College rallies.

PS. Thank you for THIS. "Oh, snap! It's Tom Brokaw from the Nightly News!"

-- 10:49 PM

Character Profiles, Part II: What is it good for?

In a thick Italian accent, with a wonderfully playful smile. "You say if I have any questions, I ask you?"

"Yessir."

"Why did George Bush go to war with Iraq? Ha ha ha!"

-- 07:25 PM

Character Profiles, Part I: Mr. Right

Welcome, one and all, to a new segment called Character Profiles. My fictional writing has always suffered from an inability to be creative-creative, the kind where you, you know, make things up. Instead, very now and then, I meet someone who says or does something that sticks in my mind, and next thing I know there is a single sentence repeating over and over, and I spend the night writing thirty pages. This happens rarely and never amounts to much, as I reach the end with neither a very good short story nor a very good long story. Not that I'm scrambling to write the next great American novel, but would it kill me to try now and then? To invent a main character who isn't me? Who knows if this new effort is going to pay off in the least, but for the time being, let's pretend that these character profiles will be a memorable depository for daily dialogues. Some are hilarious, some are heartbreaking, and some are so stupid I could just about smack my face into the nearest doorframe and I still wouldn't be the stupidest person in the room.

"I wanna beeee a papi, toooo! Dooon't you seeee, papiiiiiii. Is that guy paying with pennies? Are those fucking pennies?"

"I think he is."

"You gotta be kidding me. Hey, you look familiar. Do I know you?"

"No."

"Where you from?"

"Plymouth."

"Plymouth! Ohhh! Yeah, I know some girls from Plymouth. I'm from Lynn. Way different place. You look familiar, though. How old are you, if that's okay that I ask?"

"I'm 20."

"You are not."

"...Yep."

"You look older than 20. Do I look older than 20? I feel so old, I'm going on 35. Do I look like I'm going on 35?"

"You don't."

"Some people tell me I look 40."

"Well, you do not look 40."

"Aww. You're a sweet girl. I wouldn't hurt you."

Drunkard carrying a pizza box, stumbling into a bus seat. "Hey! It's--it's you! It is the funniest thing in the world that you are on this bus! Hey, I know this girl! She's--she's--I know this girl! I know her like a someone I know."

-- 02:09 PM