Miami was nice.

I had a birthday, which wasn’t so nice.  Mainly because I don’t like celebrating my birthday.  AND SOMEONE ORDERED ME HOUSE SEASION 2 BUT IT HAS YET TO ARRIVE.  POSSIBLY BECAUSE THAT SOMEONE IS AN ASS.

Ahem.

I’ve been fairly stressed, but desparate to get out of this funk.  This no-money-no-condo-buyer-I’m-too-old-to-be-fucking-up-these-kinds-of-decisions-and-when-did-I-get-this-fat-again funk.

All in all, I’m very aware my life is pretty sweet.  And so I tell myself that.  Time and time again.  When the bills come.  When I step on the scale.  When I apply the umpteenth flea repellent to a dog/cat/sofa.  When I fight with ST because he thinks we eat too many vegetables, despite the fact I haven’t cooked a vegetable in over a week because I’m too busy.  When I’m too busy.

But somehow, the funk persists.  And so I haven’t written, because there this funk-hump I can’t get over so it’s all I’ll write about and I’m trying hard not to dwell on it.

Hi there.  My life is sweet.

I came to the realization this week that one the hardest changes for me in coming back to school is the ever-changing schedule.  I’m not one to fear change in general (hence this whole crazy life I’ve been living for almost a year now), but I also am someone who will schedule themselves to the max.  Now I have to completely re-arrange my scholastic/volunteer/work/personal schedule every few months.  That’s tough.  As soon as I’ve gotten a groove, it’s gone.

This semester I don’t feel like I’ve had a groove at all.  So I’m cautiously looking towards the summer as I time to get it back.

I’m also looking guiltly.  Because come summer, we will definitely be moving back to the condo if it hasn’t sold.  And I can’t wait.

For those around in the beginning, you know how much that condo felt like home to me.  And if you’ve had a real home and then moved back into rental situations, perhaps you know some of my frustrations.  At first, I was excited to be here for the location and to make a home with ST.  And I don’t know if all my stuff were here, if I’d feel different.  (We’ve kept the condo partially furnished so it would show better.)  But I look at this place, and I feel depressed.  I don’t relax here.  I can sometimes drink lots, squint, and pass out.  Not quite the same.

But moving back to the condo means a much harder schedule for ST.  And it will mean a schedule of constantly vacuuming, polishing, and putting away to keep it in show condition.  Being back at the condo won’t be like being at the condo.  Yet it’s still almost all I can think about.

School is going along fairly well.  Vegetable and DVDs aside, ST and I are well.  The sanctuary is going well and perhaps is the source of most of my satsification these days.  Satsification and bruises.

Go figure.

Next week is the infamous spring break.  I never really traveled that much my first time through college.  One year, we took a canoe from the college’s waterfront program, strapped it onto M’s Prism, and drove down to Key West.  One ticket for being in a boat without appropriate lightening after dark, and we were camping on a privately owned, undeveloped island about 2 miles off Key West proper.  (I’d go into more detail, but that would take too long and require changing too much of the truth to protect the guilty.  Namely, me.)

Since college, I have kept a psuedo break of sorts by taking a day or two off for my birthday every year.  But besides the great I’m-29-and-the-divorce-is-not-final LA trip, I’ve still stuck around town.

ST and I have had vague plans to take a cruise.  We’ve looked at a couple of times, but somehow it never comes to fruition.  The only real travel we’ve done together so far is visiting families.  Going to the cabin was close to a vacation together, for we had a day or so on either end of the visit by ourselves, but otherwise we leave town just to make sure our grandparents remember what we look like.

So!  We’re going to the other side of Florida next week.  A little Everglades, a little Miami…a little time to just have fun.

It’s in this planning that I’ve decided spring break is wasted on the colliegate.  College kids have no fiscal independence.  Most don’t have cars!  They spend the week getting drunk, which is exactly what they do every other week of the semester.

I think we should institute spring break for adults.  Everyone, grab your map (if you so choose), your mate (if you so choose), and hit the road!

First off, I purposely withheld certain information about Zulu.  Not sure how much it I’d like to share.  But the truth is, she’s not exactly a normal domestic cat.

She is a bengal cat.  Someone decided to cross-breed a domestic cat with an asian leopard cat (small exotic cat from, well, Asia.)  They wanted to beautiful markings from the wild with a temperment of a domestic.

The reason I haven’t mentioned it is because of what I’m about to say:  it’s bad.  It’s not normal.  It’s humans playing God and I think it’s revolting.

Please don’t tell me about bengals or other hybrids you knew that were perfectly well-adjusted.  I don’t want to hear it.

In order for bengals to be sold as a domestic breed, they must be at least four generations removed from the exotic cat.  That’s four generations, 80 years, of cats that are just thrown away.

It is not normal for a bengal to behave tamely either.  Many are scared, anti-social, and mean.  On top of that, they have mutitudes of genetic issues, usually trouble with their diet.  Cross a meat-eater with what has basically become a herbivore (take a look at the main ingredient of cat chow - wheat, corn, etc.) and you are bound to have problems.

Zulu is lucky I have access to complete carnivore diet.  She eats a little of both and fairs pretty well.

Zulu came to the sanctuary very young.  Other bengals that came with her were adopted out at that time to other volunteers.  She stayed, but came to live with me when she was diagnosed with cancer.  It is difficult sometimes, knowing I opened my home to an animal that is certain to pass away sooner than later.  But she is getting an awesome quality life until that happens.

Maybe a month ago, we started to notice that her right pupil was bigger than her left.  It grew until it almost took over her whole eye.  Then it started to get cloudy.

So, all this background and honesty is so that I can express how difficult these past few weeks have been.  She tolerates us touching her, but not picking her up.  We’ve had to crate her twice, have her examined, have her sedated, and try and put oitments in her eye.

This from a cat I’ve seen bite down a pole so hard that if it were my finger, you’d be calling me stubby right now.

Luckily, tests proved it was a detached lens that we can leave alone for now.  But almost as soon as we put the carrier away and tried to get back to a normal pattern, she seemed to get worse.  She wasn’t eating, wasn’t playing.  Of course she could barely stand to be in the same room as me - I’m the one doing all the mean things to her.

Today was the first day I’ve breathed easy looking in her general direction.  She’s holding that eye completely open.  She’s moving around the apartment a lot.  She’s eating.  And more importantly, she’s energetic enough for a sterile romp on the table with Roark. 

(He’s never shown any sexual interest in another animals - in fact, we always thought he was gay.  But he’ll hump her at the drop of the hat.  Of course, everyone’s fixed so the entire act looks a little silly and Zulu definitely looks confused and pissed off by the end.)

So, we’re still on Zulu watch.  But right now, we’ve downgraded to threat yellow.  Which probably means she’s about to spray on something.  

You hear a crash.  A scream.  You see a little blood, some scrapes.
 
Every adult has a different way to handle it.
 
As soon as they’re walking until, in my case so far 31 and 348/365, children are hurting themselves.  Falling down stairs.  Off the swing.  Into the car door.
 
Of course once they grow up and begin to hurt themselves with drugs, sex, booze, and the Internet, you become a little powerless.  But as a parent or caretaker, you still wield a lot of say in the next few minutes after a trauma and exactly how traumatic it might be.
 
I for one absolutely refuse to make a big fuss over it.  A child could come to me holding one arm completely detached from their body and I’d say, “No biggie.  Let’s get cleaned up!”
 
Maybe it would be different if it was one of my own, but I doubt it.  My reaction comes from my experience growing up and absolutely hating the fuss.  The running over and bending and worried voices would inevitably get my water works started, convinced something worth crying over had been spilled rather than my precious dignity.  Again.

 
And then, as my tears streamed and my toes wiggled, I’d get asked in that chiding tone, “Are you crying because we came over and asked all these questions?”
 
Well, duh.
 
Until I ended up with a debilitating back that was so painful I’d sometimes dream of chewing metal, I never quite learned how to gauge or express my injuries.  (See:  that left ankle that if you put your hands on it and have had a briefing glance at a medical book, you shudder.  Evidently you cannot “walk off” every tendon and ligament tearing without some lasting effects.)
 
In high school, I babysat regularly for several neighborhood families, but the Shapiro’s were my favorite.  The dad was a lawyer who out of the blue one day asked, “You aren’t related to (insert grandpa’s name here), are you?”  The mom was known as one of the strictest history teachers in my school.  They had four well-behaved, imaginative, daughters.  The time I spent with them eats up a large chunk of the precious minutes I’ve spent seriously considering kids of my own.
 
There was one tomboy, but for the life of me I can’t remember her ever getting a serious injury.  Not that I was letting these girls run with scissors, but the youngest two especially were rather accident-prone.  Band-aids and Neosporin were the norm. 
 
As was the, “You’re OK!”  I learned very early on that imaginative girls could be sensitive and dramatic ones (oh, the irony!).  If I wanted to skip the screaming and the dying and the oh-god-the-agonies over a paper cut, I’d have to cut it off at the pass.  This worked exceedingly well.
 
This might make me sound incredibly unfeeling and callous towards hurt children.  I want to be clear that wasn’t the case at all.  I just feel strongly that dramatics don’t have a place in your wellness routine.  Especially with young children, it can be overwhelming to see their caretaker worked up and flustered which in turn leads to their outbursts.
 
One day, the second youngest fell down the last few stairs, anxious to join the hair salon on the couch.
 
“You’re OK!”
 
“…No, I’m not.”
 
It was such a brave, true voice.  I immediately assured her, “You’re right.  You’re not.  Let’s see what’s going on.” 
 
She needed nothing but a band-aid and Neosporin, albeit on her chin. Rather than crying, she just clung to me.  And I let her, as any child has a right to be comforted after a truly scary and painful event.  As any person should have that right.
 
I haven’t seen the Shaprios in years.  My mom used to see the father jogging when she walked the dog in the morning, but she thinks they’ve moved now.  That little girl is in her senior year of college.
 
But I think of that day a lot. 
 
I hope she still feels comfortable saying when she’s not OK.