Dear Maxwell

How did you become mine, little man?  I guess we should thank your lovely first mom Samantha, who intuited that I needed for her kitty to become my kitty when I moved out of the house on Ridgefield Road.  Or we could back up and say it was Sasha, who decided I should to be roommates with her childhood friend Samantha when I came back down south after six years in New York.  Or we could give credit to the New York City Teaching Fellows, who realized I would be a great teacher and put me in a program with the wonder that is Sasha.  Or we could say it was that poster on the downtown A train, because without that, I wouldn’t have even known about the existence of the NYCTF program.

Let’s do that.  Let’s say it was the poster.  I feel like you were a long time coming to me.

What a handsome devil.  Blue eyes and white feet.  A pink nose with a splotch of black that spilled over onto your lip.  Did you flinch when Mother Nature was daubing at your face?

And the most non-discriminating lover there ever was.  If Burt Bacharach had a code, you lived by it.  If a lap was created, you’d climb into it.  You were clear that everybody could use some of what you had to give.  When Dad came stay with me, he’d call, “Amy!  Come here and take a look at this!”  I’d head into the living room to find Dad supine on the pull-out couch and you lying square on his chest, your face in his face.  “This cat LOVES me,” he’d say.  And you did.  You loved my dad.  Just so happens you loved everybody.

You even loved Boonie.  And then Redford.  And they both kinda tried to eat you.  What a mensch.

When I got you, at 12 years old, you were…well, let’s just say you would have shopped in the Big & Tall department.  You lumbered.  Over the next four years, you lost seven pounds and started to slink around like a German shepherd.  A nine-pound German shepherd.

It’s not like I didn’t know it was coming.  You were my Renal Failure Kitty.  But coming home to your cold corpse was harsh.  I wish I could say you were curled serenely in your spot on the back of the easy chair, but you weren’t.  You were on the couch, stiff, with a look on your face like in the last moment you had glimpsed Death and wished you could turn around.  I feel guilty I wasn’t there for you in your final moments, but I kinda get the feeling you waited until I left on purpose.  You probably knew I couldn’t handle it.

So now.  Well, now there’s no more scooping litter.  I won’t miss that.  No more sprinting, dripping, out of the shower to rescue you from Redford’s adoring maw.  No more cleaning up piss off the floor, the bathmat, the kitchen table, Redford’s face.  No more having to erase your attempts to update my facebook status.

Hm.  I miss you, buddy.  I mean, my lap’s so cold.

Love,

Amy

Blink, and You Might Miss It

I absolutely LOVE “Friday Night Lights”.  I mean, it’s not “The Wire” or anything, but I find the premise compelling, the writing tight, and a lot of the acting heart-breakingly organic.  The show provides some of the most drool-worthy cleavage on network television.  And, as I may have mentioned, Tim Riggins makes me feel all tingly in my lady bits.

Now.  Some of the story lines are pat.  There’s the occasional stinker of a performance (yeah, you, little neighbor kid from Season 2—just because you’re, like, 7 doesn’t mean you can stink up the joint).  And many episodes include Important Lessons about Teamwork, Asking for Help, and The Dangers of Alcohol Consumption.

But look closer!  Here’s a list of other lessons I’m gleaning from the show:

  • If you light a girl’s hair on fire in science class and your parents are called in for a meeting, and then they find out you’ve been playing football without their permission (because, after all, you’re not a football family), all will be resolved when they come to one of your games.  They will be inspired enough to forget about your bad behavior and the fact that you forged their signatures on the athletics permission slip.
  • If you kill a dude and dump the body in a river, the police will drop all charges.  Just make sure you tell ’em you really felt threatened.  Most importantly, make sure he’s a serial-rapist.
  • If you spend two school years as a guidance counselor after fifteen years of being out of the workforce, you can be hired as principal of a high school.  It doesn’t matter that you have no experience in school administration.  You have a whole lot of heart and an amazing rack.

Setting the Bar Low

I’m inspired to write down some New Year’s resolutions…primarily by my friend Dan, who has resolved not to miss an episode of “The Jersey Shore”.  But also by an e-crush who grew an ironic mustache for his friend’s New Year’s Eve wedding, and resolved to shave off his ironic mustache.

Here goes:

  1. I’ll wear clothes to work.  What I slept in the night before can still count.
  2. I’ll water my plants when (a) I remember, (b) they turn yellow, or (c) they grow a pair and ask for what they need.

Feel free to make suggestions or add your own resolutions in the comments section.