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17 Nov 2009 08:04
The Potty List
Monday, November 16th, 2009I’m starting to worry about the health of those I consider some of my closest friends. They seem to all be coming down with the same malady of late. No, it’s not H1N1, or any other type of flu for that matter.
I call it the inability-to-return-a-phone-call-itis. Though similar in some respects to the more common phone-tag-arrhea and failure-to-reply-to-email-osis, this strain is far more insidious.
The symptoms are easy to spot: a seeming paralysis of the digits normally used for dialing, temporary nerve deafness which prevents one from hearing the precise frequency at which a phone rings and a general befuddlement which causes address books or cell phones to be misplaced and numbers forgotten.
As far as I know there is no inoculation or vaccine which can protect you from it, but if identified early and treated promptly those who contract it are not likely to suffer any long term affects.
If, however, it is not treated with a healthy dose of catching up in a timely manner, the sufferer may experience temporary placement on the Potty List.
If symptoms are allowed persist, it can lead to permanent demotion of friend status.
Sometimes, in the most extreme cases, the sufferer doesn’t even realize the true extent of their illness. They may try to substitute a simple text message in lieu of undergoing full treatment, but while this may temporarily relieve the symptoms, the underlying condition will persist.
Intervention has not proven successful in these cases, largely because the very nature of the disease makes them difficult to organize. No, in these instances the only recourse is to completely starve the poor person of further attention until they come to their senses, as painful as that may be to their (soon to be) former friends and loved ones.
Because it is the friends and loved ones who suffer most through all of this, what with their pointless waiting by the phone for those stricken with this horrible wasting disease to recover from their malady and actually return a phone call now and then.
In fact, medical experts now say that those exposed to people with inability-to-return-a-phone-call-itis for long periods of time are prone to bouts of irritability and crankiness. And that can be a sign of early on-set I’m-Crossing-You-Off-My-Christmas-List-ism.
And trust me, no one wants that. Especially this time of year.
Follow me on Twitter … @evesunmelissa
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16 Nov 2009 01:20
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14 Nov 2009 16:56
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14 Nov 2009 00:18
If the shoe fits
Friday, November 13th, 2009One look is probably all you’d need to determine that I’m hardly a fashionista. My closet could easily be one of the befores featured on any one of TLC’s makeover shows.
But sometimes, looks can be deceiving. Sure my daily footwear choices usually are more about function but fashion, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a pair of truly fabulous shoes as much as the next girl.
I know, I know, you’d never know it by looking at the plain Jane numbers that I wear to work most days, the back of my closet tells a different story.
I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, with a closet full of Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks. But, God, I’d love to be.I’m usually able to resist my urge to splurge in the shoe department (by necessity – my shoe budget for the year wouldn’t stretch to cover one Ferragamo, let alone a pair.) But I have been known to give into my baser impulses on special occasions.
Because who needs scrap books to memorialize momentous events in your life, when you’ve got the shoes to remember them by. Like the strappy gold platform shoes I wore to my college graduation, the little kitten-healed mules I trekked through Paris in, the sexy beaded Carlos Santana sandals I wore to my cousin Elizabeth’s wedding, or the black stilettos that complimented my Sarah Palin Halloween costume so well last year. Ooh, and don’t forget my cute little winter boots with the fur trim. Cold weather has never been so much fun.
In some cases, the shoes may be gone, but the memories remain. Oh, how I miss the black, knee high go-go boots that carried me out on many a night during my DC years. They coordinated with everything from the cute little black dress I commandeered from my roommate Melissa to the pleather hot pants I nicked from our other roommie, Bridget.
Now that I think about it, I miss having their closets to pilfer through almost as much as I miss the boots.
I’ve been feeling a bit blah lately, which I’d chalked up to the days getting shorter. In retrospect, that lackluster aura had just as much to do with the shoes I’ve been wearing – which are just as bleak as a typical Upstate New York weather forecast.
Never fear, though, because on a shopping excursion with my mother last weekend, I discovered the fix: a pair of faux-leopard flats, with black patent trim.
The result? Instant rejuvenation.
Add in some slightly blonder highlights, a new lip gloss and a flashy new Miche handbag, and I’m starting to feel like the real me again.
Aahhh. It feels good to be back.
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13 Nov 2009 07:11
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12 Nov 2009 13:39
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11 Nov 2009 19:01
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11 Nov 2009 01:27
Here, kitty kitty…
Tuesday, November 10th, 2009Although my father tries hard to hide it, he’s a bit of a softy when it comes to animals. Oh, he talks and walks a good tough-guy game, but those who know him can see right through his charade.
A case in point is the veritable herd of feral cats he feeds on a daily basis.
[Please note: This is not, and I repeat, NOT an open invitation for you to deposit any unwanted cats on our doorstep.]
It’s an embarrassing little habit of his, but for the most part we indulge him when it comes to his following of felines. We try not to roll our eyes when he constructs a new “kitty condo;” make every effort to keep a straight face when he specifies the exact quantity of food which should be put out in his absence; and barely bat an eye when he is followed around the yard by the current contingent of untamed critters, all with their tails pointed straight up in the air.
Seriously, he’s like the pied piper.
I thought he was alone in his preoccupation, until I made a new acquaintance recently. What Jane Goodall was to chimpanzees, this woman is to feral felines. I immediately vowed that I could never introduce her to my father. I’m afraid she’d give him ideas. You see, the five-star accommodations she provides for the strays lucky enough to know her make my father’s ministrations look like the services of a marginal homeless shelter.
You’d never know it by looking at her, either. She’s a young professional who hardly fits the profile of someone who collects stray cats and caters to their every whim. That’s right, she’s not anything like my dad. Nor is she a doddering old woman. I was, in the words of Maggie Dorsey, flabbergasted to discover her dirty kitty-litter secret in the course of an otherwise unsurprising conversation.
I can’t remember what little tidbit she or one of her coworkers, who were also present, let slip first. I think it started when she made a comment in passing about the upcoming winter and her concerns about the health and welfare of an outdoor cat.
At the time, I didn’t realize she was talking about one of many. I was clued into this, however, when one of the coworkers in question asked her to specify which cat. Was it such-and-such, the person asked. No, that one was currently staying in one of the guest rooms so it could receive aromatherapy treatments, Cat Lady replied.
Obviously the names have been changed to protect the marginally, although entirely well-meaning, obsessed.
No, on this occasion, she was concerned about Tiger-Kitty. Apparently this intrepid feline had only barely struggled through last winter, despite the fact that our cat-loving friend provided heating pads and heated water dishes for its convenience. Located, not out in the bitter cold, but in a detached two car garage she reserves for this purpose. Because apparently the separate dog house, also heated for their comfort, wasn’t enough.
Approximately 11 neighborhood strays call her little corner of Norwich home, she told me. A number which had been higher, she explained, before she discontinued canned-food Sundays. Where as a treat, she fed them canned cat food instead of their typical dry kibble.
The details of why exactly she stopped this practice are a little sketchy. There are rumors that her sister may have staged an intervention.
There seems to be nothing that this kind-hearted woman won’t do for the feral felines in her environs. On one occasion she reportedly climbed a tree to offer solace (and first aid) to one of the kitties after it had a fight with one of its kin.
And then, there was the time she gave mouth to mouth while performing kitty-CPR. Unfortunately, the kitten who’s live she saved in this Corky Romano-esque rescue attempt later perished in a tragic caulk accident.
It’s best not to ask, her coworker told me, as the incident is still a little too painful for her to talk about.
After that tragedy, our cat lover tried to draw the line. And when she returned from out of town last winter to find that another kitten had found its way into her garage (the one she actually parks her car in) while she was away, she attempted to bring him to the local animal shelter. They have a policy about taking animals with pre-existing medical conditions, however, and turned the small cat away. Why, you ask? Because it had what they called “frozen testicles.”
Yes, that’s right. The poor little guy’s balls had frozen.
But don’t worry. She got him the medical attention he needed at her regular vet. (Where she is no doubt a VIP.) They fixed him up, and adopted him themselves. I believe they even named him in her honor. When they add a new wing, that will probably be in her honor, too.
By the time my new friends were through sharing all these cat tales, my belly ached from laughing, tears were streaming down my cheeks and I was searching for a pen and a scrap of paper to jot it all down. Because I don’t know about you, but with all the doom and gloom in our world right now, my spirit welcomed the reminder that there are still plenty of big-hearted people out there, making their mark on the world in all kinds of interesting ways.
Believe me when I tell you, my cat-loving friend, I’m laughing with you, not at you, when I share this story.
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07 Nov 2009 10:33
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05 Nov 2009 20:32
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