We own three cats.  Each one sports an oddity.

Roy is a paranoid female shaped like a 10-pound deer, only gray, black and stripey.  She hates me and runs from me as if I’m Jack Nicholson in “The Shining” chasing her with an ax.

Chestnut’s back legs twist in slightly and she has only half a tail which ends in a hook.

Only Smokey has long hair, including tufts between all her toes.  She weighs fourteen pounds and if you attempt to lift her, she squeaks.

We adopted them from a neighbor down the street whose pets obviously did not practice safe sex.

Despite my pleas, I am usually the only one who cleans the litter box.

So, now that you know the cast of characters, let me tell you about last Friday.

Last Friday I was upstairs in my bathroom when I heard the horrifying sounds of a cat fight.  I ran downstairs to find Smokey and Chestnut tangled under the kitchen table in a cloud of hissing fur.  I began screaming like a lunatic, waving my hands, moving kitchen chairs away from the table.  They stopped mid-attack and hunched into defensive poses, making scary cats noises.  Chestnut had her back against the wall, emitting a low growl.

Smokey sprang back onto Chestnut and I screamed so loud that one of my impossible-to-wake teenagers emerged from his room.

Chestnut ran for safety with Smokey in hot, hissing pursuit.

I continued my ineffective screaming (STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!) and waved my arms.  Chestnut escaped and ran upstairs to Zach’s room.

Smokey followed.  So did I.

Chestnut hid under the bed and Smokey leered at all of us, ready to rip us into bloody ribbons.

By this time, both teenagers were on the scene.  We hid Chestnut from view with blankets and shooed Smokey out of the room.

You’d think that would be enough drama for one day but you’d be wrong.

Later in the afternoon, another attack.  Smokey was definitely targeting Chestnut while ignoring Roy entirely.  So I called the vet.

The vet couldn’t see Smokey until Monday, so all weekend, we kept the cats separated through an elaborate system of open and closed doors.  We’d enclose Chestnut in the laundry room (home to the food, water and litter box).  Then we’d take her back upstairs and close her into a bedroom.

Why the vet?  Well, I wanted to make sure that Smokey wasn’t ill.  I wondered if maybe Smokey’s aggression was caused by . . . . I don’t know, cancer?  a broken leg?  schizophrenia?

So, at the appointed hour, I retrieved the animal crate from the storage room.  I placed it on a chair, sneaked up on Smokey and tried to stuff her into the crate.  However, the crate slid backward and Smokey suddenly caught on and made herself enormous by extending all her legs.

As you may know, you only get one chance to shove a cat into a crate.  But, being hopelessly optimistic at the worst times, I tried again.  Twice.

Then I grabbed my  head with both hands and yelled, “WHAT DO I DO?  WHAT DO I DO?”  I circled the storage room looking for a solution.  None appeared.

So, like a crazy woman, I declared my hatred of the cats and then my teenager informed me that I was hateful and I retorted that I was stressed out and seriously, these cats have been nothing but trouble!  Because I am mature in times of trouble.

I needed to get that cat to the vet.

Fortunately, brilliant ideas come to me even when I am out of control.

The picnic basket.

I grabbed it, had one teenager handle the cat and the other slam the lid closed.  I sealed it with duct tape while the cat began to howl.  Then I worried the whole way to the vet’s office that the cat would suffocate–which would both solve my current problem and present a whole new problem.  (“Sorry kids, I killed the cat.”)

My daughter, Smokey in the picnic basket and I waited in the vet’s office for almost an hour past our appointed time.  An hour!  Finally, we were shuffled into a room and at long last the veterinarian arrived.

I backed away from the basket, fully expecting Smokey to spring from the basket like a Tasmanian Devil as soon as the lid lifted.  But she did not.  She just peered up with wide eyes and flattened herself into the basket.

Bottom line?  The cat is fine.  The vet launched into a gory story about his own cats who once fought bloody fights for supremacy.

I said, “Even after six years?  They are fighting for dominance after six years?”

And he said yes.

That cost me $38.  But at least now I know that Smokey doesn’t have a physical excuse for her behavior.

Yesterday while I was on a telephone call for work, the cats ran under my desk, Smokey in pursuit of Chestnut.  I instinctively jumped up and blurted, “CAT FIGHT!” which is always an awesome interjection on a business call.

I highly recommend getting two bickering cats to liven up your life if things have become boring and listless.  Nothing gets your heart racing like a pair of snarling, growling, screaming, meowing, hissing, freaked out cats pouncing and circling and attacking.

It’s just as fun as it sounds.

My lilacs have embryonic blossoms and emerging green leaves.  The daffodils are in bloom.  The crocuses have begun to fade.  The forsythia I planted last year is still alive.  The reddish leaves of the Bleeding Heart are unfolding.  Spring.  I love spring.

But I am alarmed at how fast the seasons come and go.  I know, I know!  That’s the theme that runs through this blog, my constant disbelief at how life slips through my fingers.  I can’t grip it, can’t turn it over in my hands, can’t examine it at length. Christmas turned into Valentine’s Day and Easter will pop up for a split second before summer pushes its way to the front of the line.

The worst of it all is that if you miss an opportunity, it’s gone.   That little kid who wanted a piggy-back ride now needs a shave.  The baby boy you rocked on those sleepy early mornings now sets his own alarm and gets ready without any interference from you.  Your baby girl doesn’t let you dress her like a doll–she has her own opinions about clothes and in fact, has a few things she’d like to tell you about your personal style–or lack of it.  And she’s only seven.

No one sits on my lap anymore.  We’ve all moved on.  Only they are moving on and I’m standing still, looking at their backs.

When I left home, I was eighteen.  I boarded a Greyhound bus for a three-day journey to college.  I didn’t look back.  I’d waited my whole life to board that bus and start my life . . . my childhood had seemed an eternity to me, so it never occurred to me that it had flown by faster than the speed of sound for my parents.

So, March marches on like those African ants you’ve heard about that ravage everything in their path.  Look closely before it’s all gone.  Gather up the stuff that matters.  Read the little kids a storybook while they still clamor for your attention.  All too soon they’ll be counting the days until they can get away from you.

Blink.  They’re gone.

I can’t sleep.

I’ve used to pride myself on my ability to sleep soundly.  I once slept through a hurricane in the Outer Banks.  The girls in my college dormitory never kept me awake.  My husband’s snores never bothered me.

And now?  I go to bed at 1:30 a.m., arrange myself carefully in my nest of pillows, close my eyes and lie awake.  Sometimes a parade of unhelpful thoughts march through my mind.  Oh yes, I do need to send off the paperwork to the tax guy.  I mustn’t forget to make that phone call.  Why haven’t I scheduled my mammogram and dental cleanings?

Then I put a halt to those thoughts.  I roll over, carefully so I don’t disturb my slumbering husband.  I have to lug my body pillow to the left of me, so my roll is something of a three-point-turn.  Finally, back in the pillows, this time facing the left and my clock radio which emits a yellowish light.

I rotate the clock radio away so the light isn’t in my eyes.  I tuck the covers under my chin.  I must breathe fresh cool air all night.  Feet must be under covers, nose must be free.

At that point, if I’m very lucky, I sleep.

But this week, at that point, I begin to hack up a lung.  I try to muffle the sounds so the snores continue their rhythm.  I settle back down and begin to cough again.

Lather, rinse, repeat, every ten minutes.

Finally, I wonder if the DayQuil will help and I stagger to the bathroom to swallow those gigantic orange capsules.  (We have no Nyquil.  The cough syrup I found in the cabinet expired last November.  I am doomed.)  It’s past 3 a.m.

Then I wake up and it’s 7 a.m.  so I must have slept.

Tonight–soon–when I crawl into bed, I will remind myself that tomorrow I should buy some cough medicine . . . and then I’ll remember that I forgot to schedule my mammogram . . . and then I’ll decide lying on my right side is what is keeping me awake, so I’ll make a quarter-turn, lug my body pillow to the left, make another quarter-turn, nestle my head on my down pillow, make a final quarter-turn and start coughing.  And so the adventure that used to be Sleep begins.

I just can’t wait.

You would think that by a particular age (say, forty-five), you might have found your niche.  You’d have People, a circle of friends that would open and admit you without question and understand you without cross-examination.  You’d look into faces that would reflect your own age, your own story, your own world.

I mean, it seems like other people have found their tribes.  They know how they fit in.  They don’t stare at themselves in the mirror and wonder if they’ll ever really, truly fit in.  They aren’t too old or too young or too fat or too quiet or too busy to have friends like them.  They find themselves in a crowd of people and they blend in . They don’t have to explain or wonder.

Or maybe I’ve idealized other people’s realities.  Am I making stuff up?  Is everyone having parties that I’m not welcome to join?  Has everyone joined hands in a wide-ranging network that excludes me?

Furthermore, will I ever stop thinking I’m the only one who isn’t invited?

Do I have a group?

When I was young, I was pretty grown up.  I didn’t have time for frivolity.  I couldn’t see the point in dances and football games and gossiping about boys.  I found safety in the school library.  I was just biding my time until I could be an adult.

When I was a bride, all I wanted was to be a mother like my peers.  Instead, I buried my 47-year old father.  Infertility blocked the door to motherhood for years.

When I finally became a mother, I was an old mother.  The oldest kindergarten mother . . . all the other mothers were so young.  And that was when my now-16-year old boys were five.  I am definitely the old mom now, finding myself around mothers who are young enough to be my daughters.  It’s weird.  I forget that they must think I’m ancient.

My peers have children in college and I have a daughter in first grade.

I just never quite fit in.  I’ve always been out of sync, out of step.  I’ve never had any rhythm, really.

I’m funny.  I’m a good listener.  I can make small talk.

So why does it bother me that I don’t have an entourage . . . a posse . . . a group of my own?

I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out.  Meanwhile, I’m just going to assume this post was written by  my inner-ten-year-old.

You may or may not know this about me, but I love “The View”.  I remember watching it when it first aired.  My son (who turns 12 next week) was a baby and so I would be awake in the dark hours of the super early morning (like 3 a.m.) with a newborn when “The View” appeared on television in northern Michigan.  I loved it from the start and I have been a loyal watcher through all the changes throughout the years.  (Even the Rosie years, when to watch was to cringe.)

I haven’t watched every episode, but now that I have a DVR, I record them and watch when I can.  Which rocks.  Because, honestly, I love to be in the loop.  I love to watch celebrities (and people whose main claim to fame is reality television or tabloids) interact with the women on The View.  I love Hot Topics.

So, somehow, I’ve found myself acting as an Ambassador for The View (thanks, MomCentral!).  I entered a sweepstakes to win a trip to NYC and you can enter, too.  (Go here to MomCentral and enter.)   From time to time, I’ll be talking about The View.  (I’ll be totally watching on February 23.  The Octomom will be on . . . and mainly, I will watch because I love to see Whoopi’s face when she has to talk to various people and discuss topics she finds pointless.  Oh!  She makes me laugh!)

And now, for the disclaimer:

“I am a participant in a Mom Central campaign for ABC Daytime and will receive a tote bag or other The View branded items to facilitate my review.”

Watching the Olympic games leads me to believe that I could totally land a triple toe loop.  I could glide around that short track without crashing into the cushioned walls.  But my real strength would be snowboarding the half-pipe.  How do I know?  I have snowboarding hair, that’s how.  Plus, I could never appear in public wearing a white shiny skin-tight leotard, but the snowboarding baggy outfits would be perfect for me.

In other news, I believe I have caught the cold my two youngest children have been harboring under their grimy fingernails.  Why?  Why on a Thursday night, only a day away from some blessed time off?

*

I have never been a morning person.  Never.  Even though once in college I registered for a 7:30 a.m. class (Old Testament–and believe me, if you are going to take an early morning class, I do not recommend Old Testament . . . a better choice would be, oh, Coffee Drinking 101 or Advanced Square Dancing).

Even when my infant twins insisted on a morning wake-up call of 5:30 a.m., I was not a morning person.  My husband–my hero–would get up early with them so I could sleep a little longer and then shower before facing a long day of baby care.

Somehow, I’ve reached that lovely time of life when all the children in my house understand “sleeping in.”  (In fact, the twins, now teenagers, have turned “sleeping” into an all-day sport.  They do school at home, lucky for them.)

And now, I’ve truly turned into a night-owl with a job that ends at midnight.  I can easily stay awake until 2:30 a.m., sleep a few hours, wake up to take my daughter to school and then go right back to sleep.  I basically nap in the morning, just like the babies used to do.

But yesterday, I showered and left my house by 9:30 a.m., because at 7:30 a.m. I received a text message announcing the birth of a baby girl.  We hadn’t known if it would be a boy or girl, so I had to shop for girl clothes.  After the girl-clothes shopping frenzy, I stopped at Target for wrapping paper and then dropped by Barnes & Noble to buy some algebra study helps.  (Because, lucky me, I am revisiting algebra all over again as my teenagers take it.)

All of this and I was early to meet my friend at her apartment.  We then went together to meet our friend’s new baby–she’d been almost two weeks past her due date and the very night before she was to be induced, she went into labor.  And seven hours later, her baby daughter was born.  Perfection.

Is there anything more lovely then a brand new human being?  (I am torn whether it is more lovely if the newborn belongs to someone else or if it’s more lovely if the newborn is yours . . . because I have grown very fond of sleep.  I have had my own newborns . . . and now they fight with each other and tattle on each other.)

Anyway, I did all that and was at my computer ready to work by 1 p.m.

Today, however, all I did was take my daughter to school, take a morning nap, and work.

Then I realized I am getting a cold.  Fun.  But not as much fun as landing a triple toe loop.

Reading now:  Eat, Pray Love
Listening to:  Television late-night Olympic coverage

*

Every night when I clock out from the website where I work, I think, “Oh, I should blog.”  That is immediately followed by, “Oh, I’ll blog tomorrow.”

And tomorrow?  No time.  I sleep.  I run errands.  I start working.  Split shifts kind of manage to make you feel like you’re working all the time.  I start at noon, I end at midnight . . . and the hours between shifts are consumed by cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, exercising (on very disciplined days), hanging out with my husband, reading and that sort of thing.  Never blogging though.

So tonight, I’m here even though it’s 1:30 a.m.  For your reading pleasure, I offer a haphazard  bunch of paragraphs.

My husband didn’t work today and the kids were home.  We slept in, then he stayed home with the kids while I went shopping.  I went in this order to my favorite stores:  Bed, Bath & Beyond (to see if Yankee candles were put on 75% clearance–they were not), Marshall’s (to buy a cheap Yankee candle for the master bathroom), Target (to buy a cable for my new computer and  a bunch of other stuff I didn’t know I needed until I saw it) and then Fred Meyer (only the Best Grocery Store Ever).

At Fred Meyer, I picked up eight pansies, a lupine, a columbine, mini-daffodils about to bloom and four “Steppables”, some kind of plant resistant to kids stepping on them.  After I put the groceries away, my daughter and I ripped the dead petunias from the pots and replaced them with the assortment of new flowers.

While this sounded  like a fun project, it wasn’t all that much fun because I realized that most of my garden tools have disappeared yet again.  It’s a seasonable problem I have.  I buy hand-tools and rakes and shovels and by the next season, they have vanished.  My husband suggested that perhaps the raccoons are to blame.  Maybe they have a well-stocked tool-shed somewhere nearby.

Soon, I will new tools because it’s practically spring!   The big question is this:  will my lilacs bloom this year?  I pruned them last spring and then some guys we hired to clean up our yard pruned them again.  A little too viciously, if you ask me.  I’m just hoping for blooms this year.

*

Yesterday, my husband and I went to the local independent theater to see a movie.  I worried out loud that we were running late and he said, “It’s Valentine’s Day.  Who’s going to be seeing a depressing movie like ‘The Messenger’ today?”   Well, I’d tell you but I am busy snagging the only two adjacent seats left in the theater.

The movie itself was good–rated R for good reason though (sex, nudity, language).  It’s about the men in the military who notify the next of kin that their soldier has been killed in action.  (I liked “The Hurt Locker” more, but that’s neither here nor there.)  This movie’s screenplay was nominated for Best Screenplay and Woody Harrelson was nominated for Best Supporting Actor.

And the popcorn at this independent theater has real butter.  I know.  I KNOW!

*

On Saturday, my 11-year old participated in lacrosse  camp all day.  While he and my husband were gone I decided to clean the 11-year old’s room.  While he has “cleaned” it himself recently, it had been awhile since I’d sorted through his clothes and toys and books.  It was time to purge, sort and organize.  Bonus:  I found several missing teaspoons covered in lint.

I worked for three grueling hours.  I was grimy and exhausted when I finished.

He came home from the camp, appeared in his doorway and said, “Did I give you permission to clean my room?”

Now that is gratitude.

Fortunately for him, I cleaned it for my own sake and not his.  Plus, I think he was kidding.  I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt because he’s such a good kid.

*

Do you ever wish you could give unsolicited advice to people who need to hear what you think?  But it would be completely inappropriate so you can’t say anything?

*

When I watch the Olympics, I am pretty sure I could do that.  I could totally skate the short track.  And a triple toe loop?  No problem.  What is it about the Olympics that makes me utterly delusional?  My back is sore from planting flowers in a few pots.

*

I haven’t forgotten that I promised to talk memoirs.  That will involve a lot of links, so maybe tomorrow.  (Ha ha!  See how I lie to myself?)  Really, though, maybe tomorrow I’ll get to that.

In the meantime, tell me this.

Do you read memoirs?

If so, what’s your favorite?

p.s.  We had only a light dusting of snow this year.  Some blame a particular weather pattern but I know the real reason.  For the first year in our twelve years here, I bought two snow shovels.  Sorry.  And you’re welcome.

On Saturday, I saw two movies.

Crazy Heart is the story of a washed up country star played by Jeff Bridges.  He is nominated for an Academy Award.  It was not showing in the regular theater, but at the downtown independent theater.

It was well-worth seeking out.  I like a story of a character who finds redemption.

Then, I watched a movie at home on DVD.   I saw The Hurt Locker. Now, unlike Crazy Heart, The Hurt Locker did appear at the local multiplex last summer.  In fact, I suggested it to my husband, telling him it was getting really good reviews.  He rejected my suggestion and we saw some other forgettable film.  I have been mocking his choice in movies and harassing him about this ever since.

But now The Hurt Locker has been nominated for a bunch of Academy Awards.  So, I rented it to watch at home.

I hate watching movies on DVD at home.  Some people prefer watching movies at home, but those people apparently do not have teenagers prowling the house all night in search of snacks.  Those people do not have a 7-year old who gets out of bed to ask some inane question you’ve already answered three times.  Those people are not interrupted four or five times while watching a movie at home.

Or maybe they are but they just don’t mind.

I mind.  I mind a lot.

But I suffered through the experience because I just had to see this movie before the Academy Awards.  And it was excellent, I’m happy to report.  While rated R for violence (hello, it’s a war movie) and language (very strong, not appropriate for my teenagers, at least), it was a gripping, non-partisan depiction of a soldier who loves his job defusing bombs.  Great movie.  I’ll even go see it in the theater if it appears there again (sometimes movies open again in theaters after Academy Award nominations or awards).

I’m on my quest to see all the movies nominated for Best Picture (I’ve seen almost all of them) and the performances by actors nominated for Best Actor and Best Actress.

Hey, a girl’s got to have a hobby.

Tomorrow (or maybe the next day), I’m going to tell you about some memoirs I’ve been reading.  I know.  You can hardly wait.

Calm down.  I’ll be back.

Yesterday I went to Costco.  I had only a few things to pick up, only a vague idea, really, of what I needed to buy.  That’s how I ended up with a fancy-schmancy showerhead, among other things.

After I’d wandered the store, I pushed my heavy cart into line.  That’s when I spotted a lady I used to chat with at the pool when I was pregnant with Grace eight years ago.  She was so nice.  She had two sons about the age of my youngest son.  When my daughter was born, she presented me with a hand-painted watercolor of a bear with balloons spelling out Grace’s name.  It’s adorable and hangs on Grace’s bedroom wall.

I can’t remember the lady’s name.

But that’s not why I turned my head and angled my body away from hers so she wouldn’t be able to tell it was me.  I wasn’t sure she’d recognize me anyway–I feel like a completely different person than I was eight years ago.  I probably don’t look much different, though.  It’s not like I’ve grown a full beard and and dyed my hair black or anything crazy.  So I hid behind my hair, head down, face blocked by the curtain of hair.

I have an aversion to making small talk with people in public.  I hate to run into people I know.  Every molecule of my introversion stands up to form a wall to protect me from unwanted conversation and attention.

It’s bizarre, inexplicable to those of you who scan a room for people you might know as my husband does.  He will seek out people he recognizes while I actively avoid looking around just in case I might catch the eye of someone who might know me.  I will dart down aisles in the grocery store to avoid running into someone I saw by the dairy case.  It’s like I’m suddenly a spy, trying to avoid capture by the enemy.

So, at Costco, I successfully avoided notice while paying for my items.  She was still in line, so I looked to the wall as I hurried past.

However, when I parked my cart so I could buy two salads and a turkey wrap and a Diet Coke at the snack bar, she appeared.  Luckily, I remained undetected and scrammed out of there.

The moral of this story?  If you ever see me, I’ll pretend I don’t see you just so I don’t have to say an awkward hello and pretend that I’m friendly in public.  If I don’t see you first, though, and you sneak up on me, I’ll pretend that I’m extroverted and happy to see you and then afterward, I’ll review all the stupid things I said and did and wonder if you thought my hair looked terrible and if you’ve noticed that I gained weight.

But if I see you first, that will never happen.  Especially if I can’t remember your name.

I rush to the school to pick her up at 3:30 p.m.  She bounces out of the school and climbs into the car, words rushing out of her before the door even closes.

“I was just talking to my friend.  We have so much in common!  We both like the color purple.  My favorite number is eighty-eight.  Her favorite number is eighty-eight.  I like polka dots.  She likes polka dots!  I have a brother.  She has a brother!   I’m getting a dog in one year . . . she already has a dog!”

Is there anything more delightful than a daughter in the first grade?

(I ask you because you will smile and agree that, yes, she is a delight.  If I ask my sixth-grade son, he will make a throwing up noise and express disgust aimed in his sister’s general direction.  I hope he outgrows this generalized hatred of his sister.)