(For those unaware, cats are anesthetized for dental cleanings.  That’s probably important info to follow along…)
 
Today was the day I have been dreading for forever.
 
Years ago when I lived in Tallahassee my vet said, “These cats need their teeth cleaned!”  And I said, “Sure!”
 
And Frisco nearly died.
 
I was going to write, “And he nearly killed Frisco.”  But as much as I found the place incompetent in the aftermath, I will agree that Frisco probably freaked out on them when they were not expecting it and caused part of the problem.
 
(Still.  They should be used to cats freaking out on them.  They should be careful with anesthesia dosing.  They should be upfront, calm, and informative when they call you to say your cat has to stay longer due to his bad reaction.)
 
Frisco and Roark have never been anesthetized since.  I believe we agreed once to let the vet we loved, loved, loved (and W had worked for) put Sheba under to do a dental.
 
But I no longer live near the vet we loved, loved, loved.  I no longer live on the property of an exotic cat sanctuary where I am fearful of spreading diseases.  I hadn’t taken the cats to a vet or been current on their shots in two years.
 
Then Frisco had to go and not eat for a day.  When I say Frisco did not eat for a day, imagine, “And the world stopped turning, the locusts came, and lo there was much suffering.”  Because it is a sign of the apocalypse if any animal in my household is not wavering somewhere between, “I could eat a bite” and “CALL THE ASPCA.  SHE HAS NOT FED US IN TWO HOURS.  DEATH IS IMMINENT.”
 
 No one is ever not hungry.  Nothing is inedible.  I pulled Roark off a plate with leftover salsa drips yesterday.
 
So Frisco went off food for a few hours, I freaked out, and wham, bam, thank you ma’am, we were at the vet’s.
 
The vet thought I was a little dotty, and really tried to find something wrong with him because hi, I decided to come to the vet’s.  No dice.  There was nothing wrong except his teeth needed cleaning.
 
La, la, la I can’t hear you.
 
The vet thought I was a little dottier when told about “The Bad Experience” from so long ago and I was against an important procedure that would increase Frisco’s life span.
 
I hate it when someone else is right.  Especially when it’s going to cost me a butt load of money.
 
I wrangled Sheba and Roark in there for checkups as well, because I was sure they needed it too.  This also gave me a little more time to fall in love with the vet and, more importantly, for him to fall in love with the cats. 
 
(I think he’s also a tad smitten with me, but that’s neither here nor there.  He just needs to adore my babies as much as possible so he does not leave them lifeless on the surgery table.)
 
We had to schedule far in advance because I really wanted them all done on the same day so there would be no beating up of the groggy cat(s) by the happy cat(s).  Now everyone will be groggy and puking on Mommy’s bed at the same time.  Whee.
 
We scheduled so far in advance it didn’t seem real to me.  And then wham, bam, thank you ma’am, it’s here.  I withheld breakfast (NOOOOOOOOO!  WHY DON’T YOU LOVE US??  Or, more accurately, “Meow?  Meow?  Meow!  Meow?  Meow!  Meow!  Meow!  Meow?  Meow?  Me…ow?  Meow! Meow!), lugged three carriers down to the car, and signed their lives away. 
 
(Do not rationalize with me.  These cats have had two “daddies”, more “uncles” than I should ever admit to, and have soaked up an ocean of tears in their fur.  They deserve me freaking out over a medical procedure.)
 
But first?  I found the lump.
 
I was curled up in my reading chair last night petting Sheba when I rubbed her belly and felt something.
 
A lump.  Right next to her left, middle, nipple.
 
GAH!
 
But also, whew.  What better time to find this than before a day she’s scheduled to be at the vet’s?
 
Despite the few hundred dollars in price difference, the vet really didn’t have to convince me to have it biopsied versus just doing an aspirate.  More like I called him and demanded he tell me anything less than a biopsy was unpatriotic.  (“Yes, it is best…your dottiness.”)  Aspirates are not as accurate, and (more importantly) the lump might have to come out anyway, which would mean a second surgery.
 
Funny thing is that before bringing her in this morning, I wasn’t concerned about the lump at all.  I told myself it was a fatty deposit, cyst or something like that.  But now that the dental is over?  Well, now I have the room to worry about something else.  Why hello lump!  How are you?  Cancer you say?  Awesome.

To end on a positive note, we are all home and well enough for now.  Frisco did have to have different sedation meds to calm him in the beginning which means he’s a bit loopier than the rest.  He’s back legs aren’t communicating with the rest of him and he’s listing to the left.  But he’s definitely hungry.  Right now he’s walking from bowl to bowl (Sheba and Roark aren’t as interested) like it was a buffet.  I’ve tried to get pictures for you guys but I had to quit.  Every time he heard the camera chime on, he would immediately bolt (hind legs following five minutes after) for the next bowl.  Like people who think a picture will steal their soul, he’s afraid it will take away his appetite.

Remember I mentioned some things coming up in the next few weeks to mess with my schedule?  I worked a twelve-hour day yesterday, I’m taking today off to support the sanctuary in a re-zoning meeting, and my cats all get their dentals tomorrow.

Recently I saw this play again.  It reminded me I had this in the archives somewhere.  It’s dated August 11, 2004, which means it was created prior and that’s when it was transferred to my laptop.  I have a strange feeling, despite my great filing process, that I might have shared it already.  If so, please consider me in re-runs. 

“I love you, you’re perfect, now change.”
 
Somewhere, there’s a compromise.  Isn’t there?
 
Between falling for blue eyes or brown, between asking for love-making to be more attentive or the afterwards to be shorter.  It isn’t always about him calling too frequently, is it?  Or her not reaching over to unlock the car door?
 
At some point, you really do think someone’s perfect, don’t you?  And you don’t want them to change. 
 
I always thought falling in love with someone for their faults as much as their strengths was bullshit.  Perhaps because I couldn’t love W for his, and he almost relished his distaste for mine (I believe, in part, because he was ecstatic to have something to complain about). 
 
Certainly I’ve been called cute for my eccentricities and neuroses from time to time.  But I don’t think anyone’s ever cuddled up due to my feet-skin picking habit. 
 
I’m starting to realize I’ll never be perfect. 
 
I’m always going to overstep the boundaries of “too much mothering” (Do you have enough money for lunch?  Please stop mixing pills and liqueur.  What did the doctor say?).
 
I’m never going to be able to put me before him one hundred percent of the time.  Nor will I always put us before others.
 
Maybe it’s less about finding someone who opens doors and more about someone who doesn’t care if you forget to do the same.  If someone’s going to love me because I’m not perfect, the one big thing they’ll have to accept is that not being perfect drives me absolutely insane.
 
This has all been brought on not so much by the play, but by Love, Actually.
 
The little boy, running through the airport.  In tandem with the crowd seeking the Portuguese woman at the restaurant so the Englishman can ask her hand in marriage right there in front of everyone.
 
Can they really be the same?  Can an adult really love as open and pure as a little kid? 
 
Can you really resign yourself to the possibility of total, utter heartbreak?  Can you really believe that love is worth it?  Another person?  Yourself?
 
I want someone to love me like that.  But can I request it when I’m unsure of my ability to reciprocate? 

Tuesday was ST’s birthday.  I had to leave work early for a doctor’s appointment anyway (I took an entire novel of scripts to the pharmacy – stocking up while I still have insurance) so it was not too difficult to drive up to take him to dinner (Texas Cattle Company).  But I am not used to being out on a school night.  It’s thrown me off all week. Not necessarily in a bad way, unless you count the fact that I am attempting to replace my entire cell count with Mike and Ike Original Fruits. 

Wednesday I announced my leaving to my team.  My manager had already spilled the beans to a few.  I honestly don’t think anyone’s too surprised, if only because I’ve been working this project for less than a year so they haven’t gotten to know me well enough to know if they should be surprised or not.
 
My best friend T returned my phone call from Tuesday night.  Here’s an excerpt of our conversation:
 
T:  Yeah, you were breaking up a lot.  I could barely hear you.
 
Me: Well maybe if I didn’t stop to stifle sobs every five seconds I would have gotten the message out in less than three minutes.
 
T:  Hmm…I guess maybe that was the breaking up.
 
Me: I’m kind of glad you didn’t figure it out – I imagined you being upset all day when you got the message and heard me crying.
 
T:  Nope.
 
Heh.
 
Leaving or no, work still exists.  I stayed late Wednesday, worked through lunch Thursday.  I’m stressed about a meeting I’ve set up for Monday.  And for some reason I am stressed over the idea that people don’t understand how much I don’t give a crap.  I am dreading this meeting in part because I believe arguments will arise and people will expect me to have an opinion or lay the smack down and I am just so fucking done.  I have three weeks left.  They can come to a decision right quick and have me finish the work, or they can argue for three weeks.  All the same to me.  But I refuse to get blamed for it not being finished if they cannot play nice.
 
I believe people going to Costa Rica with me are finding this website.  TG assures me I come off very much like myself which HI THAT IS NOT ASSURING.  If you are going to Costa Rica through Earth Expeditions, yes I am the Jessica on the trip.  No, I don’t need to yell and curse quite so much in real life.  I do however require much wine.  Please feel free to comment or email.  No one has responded to my greeting on the forum yet.  Obviously I am being picked last for kickball.  (You should totally pick me last for kickball as my foot-eye coordination sucks.  I am awesome at Red Rover though.)  Also, everyone seems very concerned about snakes and spiders.  I haven’t given these animals a second thought but I am terrified a frog will jump on me.  No, not a poisonous frog.  Just any frog.
 
I shared two old pieces of writing with ST.  (This and this.)  It made me kind of sad how this blog has gone recently.  I’ve been way too busy to concentrate on real stories.  I’ve told myself that at least I’m writing and there will come a time I can work on it more.  But it’s getting me down.  I’m thinking of taking another course this summer.  (FYI - I don’t take writing classes because I believe I can be taught to write.  I like classes for the discipline of having to write on a deadline.  The right class fuels the fire.  And maybe someday with enough critique I might even learn to carry a tense through a paragraph.)  I’m just concerned because hi, totally stressed and overwhelmed?  Let’s cure that with MORE, HARDER, FASTER.  And yet, what else can I do?  I’m not quite sure I have a different setting.
 
(Why the hell I am stressed when I’m planning such fabulous stuff for my life and should be ecstatic?  People are asking me this a lot and I have no good answer except to beat them senseless with the nearest cat.  Doesn’t anyone remember how difficult large life changes are?  It’s all very easy to put on your to-do list:  Quit Job, Apply to School, Go to Ireland, Volunteer, etc.  But there are a million details to each one and juggling it is getting a bit much.  I also have other things coming up in the next few weeks which will throw my schedule off even more so I can’t even calm myself with my creature-of-habit after-work routine.  Which come May 1^st I will completely have to change since there will be no “after-work”.  Is it getting hot in here?)
 
It’s Friday night I have nothing to do but clean the house.  I love Friday nights like this.  As long as I have other plans during the weekend to make me feel less like a social leper.  ST and I will be seeing The Goat or Who Is Sylvia? tomorrow night.  It’s the first time in almost a year I’ll have managed to make it to a Jobsite Theater production.  Obviously I suck.  (FYI – blog of The Artistic Director of Jobsite.)  And H and I will be hitting the outlet mall in Ellenton Sunday.  So tonight I can feel completely smug in my huge plans of devising a way to get Sheba to shit elsewhere than the den corner.  And baking low-fat lemon cupcakes.  And drinking wine.  I’m fairly sure if you found a book on how to get Sheba to shit elsewhere than the den corner, cupcakes and wine would be the first two instructions.

That’s what I told people I’m writing about from now on.

And the cats are helping.  Evidently they tried to write the great American novel with magnetic poetry.

This was in the water bowl:

Can you read that?  Blood.  Of.  Puppy.

So less a novel and more a death threat.  I’m still proud they can use a preposition.

I have been so torn about explaining my relationship with TG here for many reasons.
 
1)       To do so isn’t fair to TG. 
2)       To do so isn’t fair to ST.
3)       To give into the feeling that I owed an explanation meant I was no longer writing, but journaling.  And I am uncomfortable with that idea.
4)       In order to explain the entire situation, I would have to delve into TG’s privacy.  I won’t do that period.
 
However, since I’ve made this place very much about my romantic life, it seems some sort of something is in order.
 
If I had my way a long time ago, TG and I would have been an exclusive couple and I never would have met ST.
 
TG and I work so well together that I ignored this little glitch and have been very happy with our relationship.  While I didn’t necessarily want to date other people, it seemed the healthiest thing to do.  I knew that unless he changed his mind, things would eventually end.  It wouldn’t be right to deny myself meeting other people who felt differently.
 
I haven’t written about most dates I’ve had this past year.  They never lasted past one.  (TG in part has set the bar pretty damn high.)  It seemed cruel to use them as fodder for my blog.
 
Enter ST.  He made it to the second, third, fourth…
 
Though it was obvious he wanted it, there was no way ST would bring up exclusivity with all the issues he would be asking me to accept.  But it was hindering us.  He wasn’t going to be able to open up and trust me without it.  And the same went for me; feeling I had to hide parts of my life made me close up about everything else.
 
So, I’m taking a chance.  This is what I think is best for me.  However unhappy TG is with this turn of events, he admits, “it’s essentially a situation of my own making.”
 
One thing ST will have to accept is that TG is still a part of my life.  I will not let such a great friend go without a fight.  TG has indicated he wants that as well.  Yet another reason why he is one my most favorite people on earth. 
 
TG, thank you so much.  For your humor, patience, strength, and support.  Thank you for being careful with my heart.  I am so lucky that you came into my life.

“Something you said Saturday night confused me.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“You mentioned how I am different from other women because I do not demand 10,001 commitments.  And you made it sounds like a compliment.”
 
“Maybe demand is the wrong word.  I have been trapped before.”
 
“Trapped?”
 
“Yeah, like when one day it’s going to the movies and the next she’s asking what I want for our 50^th wedding anniversary.  What we want to name the second kid.”
 
“I see.  Because I had been thinking yesterday.  I was thinking that maybe…I…didn’t want to…date…(cough)…other people.  And I was thinking that you would like that.  But then I remembered what you said and I wasn’t sure anymore.”
 
“I would like that.  I would like that a lot.  I just don’t feel I have a right to ask that because I can’t offer anything more right now.”  *
 
“But you’re never going to be able offer anything more.  This is it.”
 
“True.”
 
“So…it seems either we can make it work the way things are or we can’t.”
 
“A fair assessment.  It would be nice to know you only want to spend time with me.  It would be a relief that you were saving your time for me.”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“….”
 
“…I’m trying to say something.  The commitmentphobe in me is holding back.”
 
“I figured.  I heard the cough.”  **
 
“So I think…maybe that’s what I want to do.”
 
“I’ve got a warm fuzzy feeling right now.”
 
“Are you sure that’s not a pit in your stomach?”
 
“No.  It’s definitely higher.”
 
“Good.”
 
*He works insane hours, and shift to boot.  He has mentioned several times that he thinks it might lighten up after this or that, but finally on Saturday I cut through the bullshit and got him to admit he loves his job so much there will always be something.
 
**I get this throat tickle when talking about relationships.  I call it my commitment phobic cough.  I also flap my hands around like a penguin attempting flight; you just can’t see it over the phone.

I have been back at the sanctuary for a month now.  It has been wonderful.  I have been anxious and cautious at times; things change, people change.  I feel it is a careful balance between respecting the now (what I’m allowed to do, when I should ask for help/direction/guidance) but also not shirking responsibility I’m aware of from the then.

One thing several volunteers asked me after the meeting today was if I was going to be promoted quickly, go back to my old status, etc.  It amazes me how little I’m interested in that.  Not that I don’t want to be out there that much, but that I feel I can do so much just as I am right now.

Why do I think you’ve been waiting for this post?  Pictures.

First, I got home yesterday with an hour to get all purty for a date.  This is how dirty I was:

See the sock line?  That’s the color the rest of me was supposed to be.  I did not snap an after photo because when you are that dirty and have an hour to get date-presentable, you don’t have time to take more than one picture.

Then, today after our monthly meeting, I grabbed my camera and begged an old friend to walk me around a bit.  (As a LL, I shouldn’t be wandering by myself in certain areas.)

Cougar cub, roughly seven months old.  Rescued with his two siblings from Idaho after a hunter shot his mother in late fall.

All three siblings, peeking out from their den.

Lioness seized in a drug bust in Tennessee.  The Nashville zoo could not keep her for many reasons, one being she was declawed.  Her elbows had huge growths on them when she arrived years ago.  They had grown to protect her joints from the concrete on which she was kept.  A few months of a natural enclosure and good diet did wonders.  (You can see one still a bit knobby although it is a poor picture of it.)