Doogie Meowser: Cat M.D.

Over the long Memorial Day weekend, I threw an awesome cookout.  Any party that starts with beer and ends with scotch is a good party.  There was booze, food, and the crowning finish: a cat on a rope.

Wait, what?

Around six or seven in the evening, the next-door neighbors put a cat outside.  It was the world’s fattest cat, and in hopes of fighting the inevitable descent into cat diabetes, they tied the cat to a stake in the front yard.  Periodically, they’d move the stake to another place in the yard.  It was the logical thing to do.

I’d never seen that cat before.  It certainly wasn’t the cat that crashed my house a few days after we moved in.  I was unpacking some boxes in the basement, when I felt something scurry past my leg.  Thinking it was some kind of rodent, I shrieked and ran upstairs, only to find a large orange tabby cat reclining on my sofa.  The cat had a collar, but no tags, so I just put it outside thinking it would go home.  Instead it spent the next six hours meowing on my porch.

My brother-in-law suggested keeping the cat and naming it “Doogie Meowser.”  Unfortunately, the cat left before I could get it to respond to its new name.

Still, if I ever got a cat, I’m totally taking my brother-in-law up on that Doogie Meowser suggestion.  With a name like that, the cat would be OBLIGATED to become the world’s first and youngest cat doctor, and I’ll be able to retire early and mooch off my cat’s millions.  That is, until the cat throws me in the old-folks home.  But that won’t happen for years.

Pull Yourself Together (Wo)man!

This December, I forgot to go to a doctor’s appointment. Then I forgot to go to the follow-up appointment. Then I miraculously found the October cable bill which heretofore resided in and amongst Preschooler’s art supplies instead of the LARGE BINDER CLEARLY LABELED “BILLS.”

Unfortunately, this has been the state of my existence ever since moving back to Wisconsin. Calendars get lost or buried under clutter. Bills get misplaced (ahem), and then paid late. Appointments get missed. Chores go unprioritized and unfinished.

I’ve tried to get it together. I bought a planner. I used it twice and then Preschooler turned it into an art portfolio, which the gnomes who live in my basement stole to use as a rain shelter.

I tried to use iCal, but I’m lucky if I check my e-mail more than twice a week. I only open my laptop on regular basis to use Safari and Pages, enabling my addiction to blogs and writing and crack. Wait, not crack.

It doesn’t help that Husband and I never got the hang of to-do lists. We just sort of did things as they came (usually in one fell swoop), then proudly congratulated ourselves on being adults. Then, we’d stop doing things, then we’d get sad, then anxious, and then we sort of wither away under piles of newspapers and dirty socks.

Strangely enough, I never had this problem prior to being a stay-at-home mom. Franklin Covey Day Planner = my brain. I never missed tests, never missed appointments, never missed meetings. Time-management was my middle name, except for when it was Marie, and later, Pelnar.

My solution to my newfound hole-in-the-brain syndrome? NAIL EVERYTHING TO THE WALL.

I’ve purchased a giant white-board monthly calendar that will be hung on the wall, along with several letter bins. There is also a giant chalkboard to write daily to-do lists, so every one can see whether I’ve completed a task, and shun accordingly.

I know part of the problem (ok, all of it) is me. I have to keep up on using these things, or all the fancy tools in the world won't help me be more organized.

At least by sticking my calendars, bills, and to-do lists, on the wall, they won't get lost. And my walls will look pretty, even if the water bill is currently being used to insulate Preschooler’s doll house.

2010: My Year In Review

January: Broke down.

February: Stopped functioning.

March: Got help.

April: Felt better.

May: Worked my a-- off toward a promotion.

June: Quit my job.

July: Learned how to be a stay-at-home mom.

August: Started this blog.

September: Packed. And packed. And then I packed.

October: Moved back to Wisconsin

November: Had my midlife crisis

December: Wrote this post.

And there you have it. The most boring post in the history of the internets.

Enjoy!

Crazy = Wonderful

October 2006 through October 2007 will forever go down as the year I went crazy.

Now, I don’t use the word “crazy” lightly. But the time line of what happened in those months is as follows:

October 21, 2006: Husband and I got married

Two weeks later: Husband and I find out his graduate advisor is moving from the University of Minnesota to The Ohio State University, and we must move as well.

January 1, 2007: We move from St. Paul, MN to Columbus, OH.

One week later: I start my final semester of law school at an entirely new law school, and Husband resumes his graduate work at an entirely new university.

One week later: I find out SURPRISE! I’m pregnant.

February 2007 - March 2007: I throw up every time I smell coffee, which, at law school, means every day.

May 2007: I graduate law school, and start hunting for a job to support myself, Husband, and the expectant baby.

Two months later: I obtain a job (WHEW!)

Mid-July: I begin said job.

October 16, 2007: Toddler is born.

I think the only thing that could’ve made that year more stressful would be the death of a family member (and I truly thank God I didn’t have to go through that.)

Strangely enough, that year didn’t do a ton to add to my bipolar depression. The postpartum hormones did. And it made Husband and I grow so much closer, because we had no one to depend on except each other. And it brought us the most precious surprise ever, Toddler.

So, was it stressful? Yes.

Was it full of uncertainty? Yes.

Was it lonely? Yes.

Was it wonderful? Yes.

Really, Who Needs To Eat Anyhow?

One thing I hate about moving to a new state is adjusting to a different grocery store.

I arrived at Sentry with high hopes, and pride in my ability to actually do something responsible.

The first thing I did was obtain a cart. Naturally, Toddler spied one of those full-size carts with car at the end of it. This thing had the turning radius of a jumbo jet, and I think I ran down 5 elderly women trying to steer it.

This is a great idea! According to Satan.

After strapping Baby and Toddler into the Satan-mobile shopping cart, we headed towards the produce section. The store had a great selection of fruits and vegetables, but even after combing the aisles 3 times, I still couldn’t find any fresh herbs. I’m pretty certain some fraction of my soul is still wandering the store in search of fresh sage.

At the Deli counter, the clerk was kind enough to give me a taste-test of the ham I wanted to buy. But it wasn’t just a little piece; it was an entire slice. I gave some to Toddler, who likes ham. She ate it, but when I tried to pawn the rest of it off on her, she said, “No, thank you.”

So then I was facing the reality that I had an entire slice of ham on my person. It was good ham. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to throw it away in front of the clerk, but I also didn’t feel like downing all that ham at 10:00 am on a Monday morning.

I did what any reasonable person would do. I put the ham in my pocket.

Then, to my horror, I couldn’t find my favorite flavor of International Delight creamer. Seriously, I’ve checked about 3 different stores in my neck of the woods and they just don’t have it. Sure, they carry other flavors, but not Hershey’s Chocolate Caramel:

No, you can't have International Delight Hershey's Chocolate Caramel Coffee Creamer. Not yours.

Eventually I paid for my groceries, and we headed to the car. The grocery store was on the top of a small hill. There are not many hills in southwestern Ohio, so I didn’t really think of it when I left Baby in the Satan-mobile while I buckled Toddler in her seat.

The slight incline of the hill, plus the heavy load of groceries caused the cart to roll away WITH BABY STILL INSIDE IT. It was like a scene from a cheesy movie, except it was real life, and very little cheese was involved. I ran after the cart, and rescued it and Baby.

All this physical activity made me hungry, so we went to McDonald’s for lunch. Unfortunately, I was so disoriented that I forgot how a McDonald’s worked, and ordered as if I wasn’t 100% certain they would give me food.

Cashier: How can I help you today?

Me: Uhh...cheeseburger? Happy Meal?

Cashier: Ok, one cheeseburger happy meal. Anything else?

Me: ??? Ummm...cheeseburger? Fries?

Cashier: Anything to drink?

Me: Soda? Diet Coke? Do you have it back there?

Cashier: Actually, you fill it yourself over there.

Me: Over there???

Cashier: Yup! Your total is $7.59.

Me: *Blank stare*

I’m asking my family to try to subside on meager rations, but they don’t seem to be listening. Now I’ll have to go grocery shopping again next week. I can’t wait.

Hell, Thy Name Is IKEA

We moved. We’re poor. Some of the furniture we’ve used since college finally fell apart. A trip to IKEA was in order.

I needed to bring my mother with me. When she decorates a room, it looks like this:

Everything coordinates. How odd...

When I decorate a room it looks like this:

Oh good! The carpet, sofa, AND coffee table match the plant! But why is that poor, disturbing
woman reading a book to a doll?

Problem is, no one else could watch after my kids, which meant they had to come with. Packing up the car for any extended journey with Toddler and Baby is like stocking up on supplies for a journey on the Oregon Trail. Who knows how long it might take, or what perils you may encounter? I hope I don’t have to shoot a buffalo; I’d only be able to carry back 200 pounds of meat.

So the four of us piled into the Conestoga wagon minivan, and headed into Schaumberg, IL where we drove in 38 circles and across 4 dimensions before finding the IKEA. Toddler lost a shoe in the minivan. I still don’t know where it is.

Then came the IKEA itself. I’ve been to several IKEA stores across the country, so I’m no stranger to the unique IKEA shopping experience.

They give you a little piece of note paper and a golf pencil to mark the aisles and bins where you can find your furniture. This would be useful if you were playing golf. I am not playing golf; I’m shopping. I brought my own green notebook and carefully wrote down all the details of everything I wanted in MY GIANT HANDWRITING.

I finally found my way through the maze of display rooms. We got nearly all the way to the first floor where they kept the flat boxes of furniture when I realized, I lost the green notebook.

Crap.

My children were threatening atomic warfare. Also, they needed naps. So my mother took them to the minivan, and I started afresh. It was kind of like that joke about Pete and Repeat except instead of falling out of a boat I was falling into one of the giant bins, which may or may not have been a portal to the seventh layer of Hell.

Once again, I found myself on the ground floor staring at a mile-long expanse of shelves. After realizing I could not lift an 80 pound box by myself, I hunted down the only employee on the floor, a very helpful man named Carlos. He helped me lift my first box onto the flat cart, and then quickly retreated.

I soon realized why. By the time I found the next aisle where my next box was located, and found Carlos again, he was faced by a line of approximately 18 patrons clamoring for his strong back.

After he helped me again, he started to leave. WAIT! COME BACK CARLOS! DON’T LEAVE ME!

He left.

Eventually, I had everything I needed and went to check out. After checking out, I was told that there were three loading docks located this way:


There were many doors labeled “Exit.” There were zero doors labeled “Loading Dock.” I took my chances, and went through an exit. It turns out the exits are also the loading docks.

Just as before, I had to track down one employee several times before getting everything in the minivan. But in the end it was worth it. Because instead of looking like this:

Note: This photo is only representative of my living room. All my photos are of
my kids, not my living room.

My living room will look something like this:

It’s amazing how far you can get with an allen wrench and some Swedish design.

Interlude In The Motherland

For the first time in over six years, I will be living in the state I was born and raised, a state I never expected to live in again. Although my profession is pretty flexible, there are very limited job opportunities in Husband’s field of expertise in our home state. Ultimately, we determined that once he graduated, we’d live wherever he’d find the best job.

After college, husband (then fiancee) and I moved to the state-next-door to attend grad school and law school, respectively. It was a “whopping” six hour drive from my hometown. My family was devastated. I might have well have moved to the moon.

After two and a half years, we were abruptly relocated to another state, now a whopping eight hour drive from my hometown and two day drive from my husband’s hometown. This was like ripping a band aid off a fresh wound; me reassuring my family and myself this was the right thing to do.

In the end, my family got used to the distance, and I did too. It was good for me.

No one in my family is shy about voicing an opinion. Always über-sensitive and eager to please, and as the baby of the family, I constantly felt under the thumb of the opinions of those I loved.

The physical distance, as well as a healthy dose of therapy on my part, changed this. I now know that my family never meant to judge, never thought any less of me, loved me any less, when I bucked their opinions.

Now that Husband’s schooling is done, we find ourselves in the position where an opportunity has come his way that would be a boon to his career and happens to be in our home state. It is a temporary position, two years tops.

So, in two weeks we will be packing up our belongings and hauling them back to the Motherland.

I am thrilled that I’ll be closer to my family, that my children will finally have ample opportunity to interact with their grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I’m thrilled to be able to see old friends again.

And I hope that now that I have to ability to love myself more and have more confidence in my life choices, that when others voice their opinions, out of love and concern for me, I’ll have the confidence to believe “That is what you may think. But this is what’s right for me,” instead of feeling that I’m just not good enough for them, a false and hurtful belief to all involved.