Mr. Tibbs is Hot

Maisie and Shadow

Maisie has always been Dean’s favorite of the two new kitties because “she likes Shadow more than Sophie does.”  

And he “knows” this because Maisie will walk back and forth and around Shadow rubbing her body up against her.  Shadow, on the other hand, neither likes nor dislikes the cats.  She could care less if a cat is rubbing up against her or sleeping on her pillow or drinking out of her water bowl or crunching on her dog food.  Shadow only cares about, or has any interest in, Dean.  They are joined at the hip.  

Sophie

Obviously, when you are joined at hips with a two and a half or three foot difference in height it can make walking anywhere difficult.  It’s a comedy of errors really.  Just imagine a human crouched down in a kind of duck-walk position.  Now add to that a furry black dog hooked loosely to the human’s hip making small upward leaps.  And then imagine the crouching duck-walking human and the leaping black furry dog trying to make any kind of forward progress.  Waddle, waddle, leap, waddle, leap.  The forward motion of the leaping dog pulls the human to the right.  Yikes! They’re close to the curb.  Human waddles left, pulling the dog while in mid-leap which causes the human to fall forward and to the left.  Oh, no, there’s a pile of fur and flailing human arms and spinning dog legs and some whining and some howling and …  I’m serious.  They’re that close.  Really.

The new friendlier Maisie

Well, anyway, Maisie and Sophie and I are very close also; we just respect each other’s need for “space.”  That’s not to say I don’t enjoy having a kitty sleeping on my lap or curled up next to me while I’m sleeping.  I do.  And it’s usually been Sophie who has been the cuddler.  Sophie was the one who asked for attention.  Maisie has always been a bit shy and nervous.  She only appeared when it was quiet.  She’d get in my lap but only if it was her idea.  She’d sleep on the bed but there was no cuddling. That is, until we got home from Ecuador in June.  When we walked in the door after 12 days away, it was like she’d attended “Timid Kitty Therapy” and graduated as Miss Brazen.   She rubbed up against us.  She demanded to be pet.  She jumped into our laps and forced her head under our hands.  She followed us wherever we went and rolled around on the floor.  She meowed and meowed and meowed.  “Pet me.  Pet me.  Don’t stop.  More.  I need more pets.  No!  That’s not enough petting!!  More!  More!  More!”  

“Wow!” I said to Dean.  “She really missed us.  Maybe we should have left a long time ago.  She’s become a whole new cat!  She’s so friendly!”  And then that night, our first night home, she peed on Dean.  He jumped up out of bed yelling “your cat peed on me!  She peed on me!  I have to take a shower.  I stink!  I need a shower!”  I came up out of a post-vacation deep sleep in half a second.  As Dean ran for the shower I checked the bed.  No pee on the sheets.  It couldn’t have been much.  “There’s no pee on the bed,” I yelled.  “She must not have peed much.  I think she just missed you so much she was marking you.  Telling you she missed you.”  That didn’t make him feel any better.

The next day the meowing progressed to “YEOWLING”!  Remember I complained about that back here?  Miss Used To Be Quiet and Retiring Maisie who had become Miss Please Pet Me I Missed You So Much Maisie had now evolved into Miss Insistent Demanding Earsplitting I Will NOT Leave You Alone Maisie.  That went on for two solid weeks.  Seriously.  Two solid weeks.  Yeowling and rubbing and rolling and  yeowling and rolling and rubbing.  And then, all at once – quiet.  Miss Crazy Yeowling I’m On Psychedelic Drugs Maisie had become Miss Serene Nearly Comatose Maisie.  

I was a little worried about her.  Two weeks of crazy and then a cat that seemed to be drugged on Valium.  So I did what any good cat mother would do.  I took her to the vet.  

Maisie hasn't lost her mittens.

The Dr. examined her.  She wasn’t sick.  But guess what?  Maisie thought she was in heat.  Yup.  She only has one kidney and they only found one ovary when she was spayed, but all of her “symptoms” sounded like a cat in heat.  The vet told me it was possible there was still an ovary in her body and the hormones were flowing and making her crazy.  Really nutso crazy.  Oh....uh .... gosh ... now that I think about it ... kind of like I used to be ... before the change.  Well, not exactly.  I didn't roll around on the floor and well, there was more hissing than begging for attention, you know ... then ... and .. crazy ... I could definitely seem cra  ... oh, heck ... you know what I mean, right?  Oh boy ... Sorry, Dean.  Thanks for not spaying me.

 I’ve never had a cat in heat before because we’ve always spayed or neutered our animals.  I innocently asked the vet if I should watch for the same crazy symptoms in about six months.  Don't animals go into heat about twice per year?  I was pretty sure it worked that way for dogs.  Ha!  Did you know female cats, once they go into heat, are in heat perpetually unless they are bred or spayed?  Yes.  They are.  And they are C * R * A * Z * Y while they are in heat.  I know that now.

Don't worry.  Your fur will grow back.

But, not wanting to rush into any unnecessary surgery I marked her “crazy time” on the calendar and watched and waited.  It wasn’t long til the same pattern of rubbing and rolling and meowing and attention-demanding began again.  And even though she didn’t pee on Dean again, when she began to leave her mark in other places I decided enough was enough.  I took her in for a “re-do.”  And then I held my breath and crossed my fingers they would find that other ovary.  And I worried.  I had no idea what I was going to do with a yeowling, frantic, pacing, rubbing, rolling, marking cat if a remaining ovary HADN'T been the cause of her lunacy.  How much IS kitty psychotherapy anyway?  Do you pay by the hour?  What if she decides to nap through therapy?  Do I still need to pay?

I waited.  And a few hours later my phone rang.  It was the vet.  And she did have another ovary!  A tiny, tiny little ovary.  An ovary floating around out there all by itself.  An ovary about half the size of the nail on your little finger.  And they took it out.  And they promised me there would be no third ovary.   

Haii yaaah !!

So now little Maisie has had her do-over and is much more like herself only better.  She still hides from strangers but she’s much more willing to be picked up and spends more time in our laps.  She cuddles with us and plays with Sophie and we are all very close.  

 

 But we are not joined at the hip.  Cats have too much dignity to be found bouncing against the hip of a waddling human no matter how much they love that human.  They do, however, find it amusing to watch dogs humiliate themselves.

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Mr. Tibbs is Hot

Turtles Are Musical

Imagination.  Remember when you had it?  Remember when the bus that drove down your street was an enemy tank and your rifle was a stick that had blown off the oak tree in your backyard?  Remember how you hid behind the fence with your friends and shot at that “tank” with your “rifle” screaming at each other over the deafening noise of zooming bullets until the crippled tank drove on to the next bus stop?  No?  I’ll bet not one of you doesn’t remember lying in the grass with a friend watching clouds float above.   

• “That’s a fire-breathing dragon.  See?  Over there is the fire.  And it’s just about to burn up the knight on his horse.  Now the horse is rearing up and the knight is pointing his spear at the dragon.  The fire is making the spear so hot the knight's hand is burning but he doesn't care.  He’s making his horse rush even closer.”   
• “No.  That’s Barbie’s hair.  That’s not a dragon’s fire.  Ken picked her up in his convertible and her hair is blowing out behind her.  And now the car is going faster and faster.”

Do any of you still have that imagination?  I seem to have lost a lot of mine.  Maybe it’s because I just don’t feel like I have the time to call it up.  There are too many other “important” things demanding my time.  Vital things like cleaning the house, or doing laundry or sitting in a chair in a cubicle staring at a computer monitor eight hours a day.  Or even this – writing a blog post.  READING this blog post, however, could be not be considered vital; but if you have spare time to read trivial musings, I not only salute you, I envy you. 

Dean’s the crazy, weird, eccentric one with the “Seriously?  You want to do what with that?” imagination – not me.  I, of course, say that lovingly.  I do occasionally allow myself to imagine but it’s much more mundane.  It’s actually really more like I’m dreaming.  “I see them … Dean’s treasures ... 

 flying out of the house like they had little fairy wings.  There they go … off into the sunset … glittering and sparkling … happy … not here …”

But, if it weren’t for Dean’s imagination (and that ever-swelling supply of “treasures”) we would not have provided the neighbors with multiple topics for their dinner conversation – like Rudolph.

 I call him Rudolph anyway because after he’d been “skinned” and sanded and polished and varnished Dean gave him this nose. 

 It was initially bright red but it’s greyed over time as he’s aged, just like me.  I felt really bad for him recently when Dean felt he needed to accessorize him. Poor Rudolph.  I just hope it wasn’t as painful as a naval piercing.

I doubt Dean imagined the multiple colors his finger would turn ...

 

 

 

 

when he was pounding on some of his other treasures 

 

to create this garden hose holder.  I know he’s been imagining tangle-free loops of garden hose, lying peacefully on the rocks ever since he pounded those two metal objects in the ground.  I just hope, when he faces the tangled mess of hose after I’ve been the one to pull the hose back through the openings, he believes me when I tell him I “really did try hard”.

Nobody has commented about Rudolph or the hose holder (not to our face anyway) but one of our neighbors did finally walk over one day and ask Dean what he was doing with the stump in our front yard.  I guess over two years of watching intermittent work on a tree stump with no discernible progress was just too much for him.  He obviously had no imagination at all if he was unable to recognize a “fairy door.”

If Emerson, Myra and Pierce had been there they would have explained to him that Papa has been making a “fairy door” for a very, very, very long time.  We all call it the “fairy door” but it’s much more than a fairy door.  The door leads to a whole fairy house.  We don’t know how many fairies live there but Emerson discovered a secret fairy tunnel at the base of the fairy house.  Maybe the tunnel leads to the whole fairy city in the rocks that Myra discovered.  Maybe there are lots and lots of fairies! 

We all know the fairies must be very, very beautiful but nobody has seen one yet.

Once there were feathers in the fairy house and Emerson thought the fairies were using them for a bed.  Sometimes the fairies leave some of their own special treasures in the fairy house.  Nobody is sure if the fairies are storing their treasures in the fairy house or if they are bringing them as presents for others to take.  If only they could talk to fairy and ask them.

I wondered why the fairies would need stairs if they can fly everywhere. But Emerson told me sometimes they just like to walk  on the stairs, or sit on them. 

I think they need to talk to their fairy cleaning lady though.  Because they have been leaving fairy dust everywhere.

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Turtles Are Musical

The Devil's In The Sandwich

I hope since I left you all hanging back there in Ecuador you haven't been been frantic with worry about Dean.  Did he lick a poisonous rock?  Was he at death’s door?  No.  He may have inhaled some volcanic dust in his excitement but I’m pretty sure none of the rocks he “tasted” were poisonous.  He probably thought he was at death’s door for a while, and he did pass through a lot of doors, but they led to rooms of porcelain, not the grim reaper.

The next day, after Dean had recovered enough that we could drive without worrying about how many bathroom opportunities would be along the way, we headed to the Tungurahua volcano.

  

See it?

We didn’t either. 

It’s possible I might have been able to catch a glimpse if I would have given this swing a try.  I thought about it.  I could have gotten on it and swung out over a deep, deep ravine; a ravine so deep and hidden in mist that it appeared bottomless.  I could have. 

Especially if I had a chance to drink a sandwich before I got on it.  A sandwich is sugar cane juice and alcohol (aguardiente), made from sugar cane.  They squeeze the cane in a machine to make the juice as you watch and wait.  The alcohol is in those plastic soda bottles.



  

 

 
So none of us saw a magnificent volcano but it didn’t mean we didn’t see beauty.

As well as observing Dean’s nasty bug, we also saw a lot of stunning bugs.

Abby found most of them but even though she loves bugs, studies bugs, pins bugs, and knows all about bugs, she did not want her father’s bug.  So he tried to give it to me.  I, however, do not get sick and I refused to accept it.  Unfortunately, as we were watching this woman prepare fish for a tourist group, 
 

I began to suspect my body had another plan.  Later, when I was more interested in scoping out vomiting areas than the beauty of the waterfall we’d hiked to, I had to face the fact that, without my permission, my body had mutinied.  Fortunately for me, all that plastic utensil-licking paid off and I recovered quickly; unlike Dean whose bug came and went intermittently over a period of four-five days, causing a minor crisis early one morning when he asked me for  “that last Imodium, please.”  “um, well, uh, I took it yesterday.”  “What?!  I need it.”  “Mom.  Why didn’t you tell us you took it?  We could have gotten Dad more yesterday when we were near a pharmacy.”  “Uh, because I didn’t want you to know I was still a little gurgly.  Because I never get sick.”  I did feel a little bad when I saw a fleeting look of panic in Dean’s eyes. 

But, on the bright side it was just one more unexpected opportunity.  We got to watch Abby go to a pharmacy and buy drugs for her dad – in Spanish.

 

In between bouts of illnesses we stopped at a monkey rescue center.   Even though we took off all of our necklaces and bracelets and earrings and watches, the monkeys still found something shiny to play with.   

We were heading from Banos toward Riobamba when we had to wait 60 minutes for road construction. 

 


Some of the lava from the 1999 eruption of Tungurahua slid down and had taken out some of the road.  

As we waited, Dean offered gifts of thanks to the Angels of Imodium.  Okay, I made that up.  But I’m sure he was happy to know he didn’t have to search for the perfect bush in his still somewhat weakened state

The next day we drove to see Chimborazo.  I wouldn’t want to sound like I was bragging, but some people say Chimborazo is the highest spot in the world and I am the only one who made it past the little building where you could get tea or cocoa. 

  









I am the only one who made it up to the monument and the memorial markers placed in honor of the climbers who died.  I did not get an altitude headache.  I’m not bragging.  Really.   

 The visit to Chimborazo  was a bit of a devilish day for the lowlanders and the sickie, but the next day was a real devil – devil’s nose that is.  

Did you go to the link?  Did you read about the derailing and the bird’s eye view of the steep and dangerous cliffs you can see while you squat on top of the box cars?  

 That was not our train.  Well, it WAS our train but now it’s a tourist attraction with plush seats inside beautiful old carriages.  

A couple of years ago a couple of tourists from Japan were standing on top and were killed when they were just a little too tall to pass under a wire so there’s no more sitting on top.  But the views were still spectacular. 

At the Devil's Nose

And the Ecuadorian government is beginning the process of replacing the tracks so one day the train will go further and will be back in business as a commuter train.  I’m kind of thinkin’ the days of sitting on top are over forever though.  Too bad.  Because I know I could have done it.  I know I could have sat on the top of that train with my feet dangling off the side, and looked down – way, way down.  I just know I could have.

 For a country close to the same size as Colorado, Ecuador is incredibly diverse.  I don’t think I could come close to deciding which part of the country I liked the best.  But I can tell you that the best part of every trip we’ve taken there has been seeing these two.  

 And the worst part of every trip we’ve taken there has been saying goodbye to these two.

If you think the best part of this post is that it’s ending, you’re in luck.  And if you think the worst part of this post is that it’s ending, you’re in luck too!  Because if you are still actually sitting upright, haven’t knocked yourself unconscious when your head hit the keyboard, or shorted out your laptop from the drool that dripped down when you fell asleep, you can test your stamina and go here to see more pictures of volcanoes, here to see more waterfalls, here for monkeys, here for the train ride, here for people and here for food and markets.  But be careful if you open the food album.  Drool can dribble even if you’re not sleeping.

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The Devil's In The Sandwich

Put Da Lime In Da Coconut

Yesterday Leslie and I were commiserating with each other about the poor quality of products we are forced to buy.  You know what I’m talking about – the appliances that don’t live up to your expectations.  The products that break the day after the warranty expires even though you’d done your homework and spent hours of valuable time researching the product before you bought it.  Valuable time you could have spent on the phone with Qwest (who commented!) or writing letters to Optimum/Bresnan after you spent eight hours waiting for a repair/reinstall guy who never showed up.**  

I was complaining about our GE stove which has required the same part to be replaced twice in 3 ½ years.  And then I moved on to our Electrolux refrigerator and how the automatic in-the-door-ice-maker-dispenser had stopped working only two years after we bought it and cannot be replaced or repaired.  Okay, we didn’t research that one.  Dean really, really liked the LED lights in the freezer drawer.  Heck, why should I care?  In my many, many, many, many years on this earth, until two years ago, I’d never had an ice-in-the-door-dispenser.  I’d never had any kind of automatic ice maker – let-alone one with an in-the-door-dispenser – unless you count me automatically refilling the ice tray every time I saw it on the counter.  So what if I don’t have a working in-the-door-automatic-ice-maker-dispenser – what’s the big deal?  Here’s the big deal.  There’s a honkin’ lot of space taken up by a broken ice maker that doesn’t even stay cold so it’s not like I can throw in the ice I keep buying and pretend like it works.   

 

And it’s HOT outside.  

And if it’s hot outside, that means it’s hot inside my house because even though my box fan says it has a “cool/warm” setting I’ve yet to feel any cool air coming out of it. 

 

 So we’re buying a LOT of ice.  Because we’re drinking a LOT of icy cold gin & tonics … I mean water.

Anyway, when I had to stop to breathe, Leslie complained about not being able to find an iron that would actually take out the wrinkles – not just flatten them.  As we were bitching discussing our frustrations, I looked around and realized I HAD purchased one item that DID live up to its promises.  It’s not an appliance and it doesn’t have any moveable parts to break but it’s an item I’ve been searching for pretty much all of my married life.  And that means I've been searching for a very, very, very long time.  I've been searching for the perfect rug.  Sounds silly doesn’t it, but think about it.   

Have YOU found the perfect rug?  The rug that doesn’t fall apart 

or lose its rubber backing after multiple washings? 

 

The rug that is so attractive it’s not only an accessory but also so functional and durable it does what a rug was designed to do – protect your maple floors from your husband's cooking, collect the dirt he drags in from the garden, and soak up the dog water bowl slobbers.

Have you actually gone rug shopping?  It’s not fun.  I’ve bought a lot of rugs.  And I wash them a lot.  And they fall apart.  And then I buy another one.  And the whole cycle starts over.  I’ve spent way too much money on rugs and I didn’t even like most of them.  But guess what?  I have found the perfect rug.  And you can get one here.  

I’ll be honest with you.  I believed that webbing from my sandals (okay, not MY sandals, the rugs are made from  new webbing) could actually be woven into a rug, but I wasn’t really convinced it would be an attractive addition to my kitchen.  Come on, sandal webbing as a rug?  How attractive can that really be?  Maybe as a door mat in front of my tent but in my kitchen … or my living room?  But I was hoping it would at least hold up to dog toenails and grandkids with popsicles, and husbands with muddy shoes.  I was willing to put up with “eh, it’s okay” in the pretty department if it would just last more than a year.

I was alone in the kitchen when I opened the box containing these rugs and as soon as I saw them I started talking.  Out loud.  To nobody.  Now that in itself is not out of character.  I talk to the gas pump – “are you kidding me?  I already swiped my card twice.  If you want to read it quit telling me to remove it quickly.”

I talk to the radio, “you're an idiot Senator/Representative _______” (fill in a name ... any name ... you have lots to choose from).  And I most especially swear at talk to my computer.  But when I peeked into the box of rugs there was no whining or back-talking or swearing.  I was marveling.  HO ~ LY COW – these rugs are a work of art.  They are be ~ u ~ ti ~ ful.  And substantial.  And reversible!  I was so in love with them I ordered two more.

   And then the second two came in the mail.  Geezo peezo.  I love them even more.

 

But even though the colors were so bright they seemed to sparkle, and the workmanship was exceptional, I was still a little worried about how they would survive being washed.  So I put that off for a while because I didn’t want to be disappointed.  If they fell apart or the colors bled or they didn't hold their shape I just didn’t want to begin the quest for the perfect rug all over again.  However, I can only put off washing rugs in my house for so long.  Apparently it's impossible to cook creative meals, or complicated meals or simple meals or actually any kind of meal in our house without alot of mess and spills and dribbles – many of which fall to the rug.  And Shadow DOES seem to need to eat every day which then leads to slobbery drinking.  So … yesterday I threw one of the rugs into the washing machine and held my breath.  Only one, though.  I didn’t want to risk ruining all of them … just in case.  It looked good coming out of the washing machine but there was still the dryer to go so I threw it in and crossed my fingers.  Figuratively of course.  It takes too long to squeeze a lime … I mean add ice to my water, with crossed fingers.  When I pulled it out later it was P E R F E C T.

So, I still don’t have an in-the-door-ice-maker-dispenser and my stove is probably due for another part any day now, and Ryan's still wearing shirts with flat wrinkles, but my quest for the perfect rug has ended.   If you've been on the same quest, your search can end too.  They will be restocking their shop soon so you will be able to see lots more pictures their rugs. (I know because I couldn't wait any longer to tell you about these rugs so I asked.)  But if you can't wait, you can do what I did. Get in touch with them by clicking on the "contact" button and give them an idea of your color scheme.  I even sent photos of my kitchen.  And then clear some space in your house.  Because when you open that box you're going to be doing the happy dance.  Oh, and do yourself a favor.  Throw out your old rugs before you start dancing.  I'd feel really bad if you caught your toe in that hole in your ragged braid rug and then fell and broke your wrist because it'd make it really hard for you to squeeze the limes.  Just sayin'.

I only offer one warning to any of you who may think you want to buy one for yourself. 

Beware.  Once you see one on your floor you will want more.  

 

**They did come -- five days later. 

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Put Da Lime In Da Coconut