Yesterday we sucked it up and took the little angel to church.  I wish I could say we went more often, but the truth of the matter is that church and the little angel's lunch are sort of at the same time.  Oh, sure.  They have an 8:15 service.  But somehow, despite the fact she usually wakes up at 5:30, we can often coax her into lying still while we attempt to recapture that extra hour of sleep.  Then we are so zombie-ridden that getting all three of us clean, ironed and out the door by 7:45 is too much to do six times a week.  So, the 10:30.

We brought along six books, two kinds of snacks, a tippy cup and three small toys.  The little angel looked resplendent in a butterfly dress sent by her auntie from a boutique in Chicago.  She garnered all sorts of compliments and smiled winningly for about thirty minutes. Then, it was lunchtime. 

As I was walking her up and down the back hall, trying to make it to Communion (my internal "it's okay to give up now" point), a helper accosted me to sign up for photos for the church directory.

Now.

First the room mother thing, and now the church directory?  Am I really that old?  The little angel and I finished our walk, and I held my tongue.  As we rushed out of the church IMMEDIATELY following Communion (bless the new vicar, but she is a windy one, and with her tight red curls covering her head, it feels sort of like having the hard-knock life explained by an older Annie), I mentioned the church directory to my beloved.  He raised an eyebrow.

"Do YOU want to do it?" he asked.

"It makes me feel old," I said.

"Do we have to?"

"I don't think so.  We can use the same methods we used for the room-mother thing.  Avoidance."

"Let's skip it this year."

"Agreed."

We glanced in the back seat.  She is awfully cute, and certainly we don't mean to avoid the church community.  We give our offering and hold the little angel out to the old ladies in wheelchairs as we pass them in the Communion line.  I just don't think we're fully ready to commit to church picnics, anything involving potluck, Wednesday-night get-togethers or photos in the directory.  I don't know any good recipes (or I do, but they're not mine, since I can barely make tuna casserole once a week).  Again, I KNOW I'm an adult.  I even KNOW I'm a parent.  But do I really, really have to be a grown-up?  Really?  I still let the little angel dance to "Funky Called Medina" when it comes on the radio.  Eek.

Hello, I'm feeling a little punchy today.  I don't feel bad about any of the following:

• I am still obsessed with this Katrina issue, and yes, I think we should still be talking about it and sending those people some clean underwear. 
• The little angel loves the Emerald City so much that sometimes she doesn't want to leave, and I am happy about it.
• I leave the little angel every Tuesday night with her sports-watching father so that I can go spend four hours teaching people who don't want to learn how to write logical position essays.
• I secretly wish everyone wanted to read all the unpublished garbage loading up my computer hard drive.
• I don't really care that we lost an entire refrigerator and freezer full of food last night because I really didn't want to eat that bison anyway.
• My nails look like shit.
• I can't make my bangs look proper, and so I don't even try.
• Most days, I do not wear any make-up at all and parade around Kansas City in a t-shirt and gym shorts.
• I wish my friends would take better care of their hearts.
• I wish my co-workers would have to do my job for oh, about three hours, while listening to them on the phone with a shitty cell-phone connection and the beginnings of an ulcer.
• I call my mother damn near every day.
• I love it that she called around Kansas City looking for dry ice for my refrigerator, even though that would probably blow our entire house up.
• I think the little angel is cuter than many other children.
• I hope she does not develop an affinity for organized sports.
• Part of me hopes she will develop my husband's sanguine, everything-will-be-all-right personality and not my navel-gazing, let's-overanalyze-the-world's-problems-until-we're-all-depressed-and-shit soul.

Okay.  Enough for one day.  But I don't feel bad.  Not one bit,.

Ah, the world of large appliances.

Since we moved into This Old House in October 2001, we have lost:

• The furnace
• The hot water heater
• The oven
• The innards of the downstairs toilet
• The plumbing in the shower
• The dishwasher

And now, for our next trick:  The refrigerator.

A week ago, we noticed most of the freezer had defrosted.  My beloved accused me of leaving the freezer door open.  As with most of his baseless accusations, I let it slide in one ear and out the other.

Tonight, it happened again.

Then that little fan sound stopped.  And the comforting ticking of a refrigerator that, oh, works.

We called a bunch of 24 hour places.  We told them the little angel's milk was in jeopardy. They said they'd come right away.  That means "between ten and two" the next day.  That means "after all the meat you bought at Costco spoils and makes the entire house reek like the arid Sahara after a big kill."

We went and got ice to put in the cooler so the little angel's morning milk will be some semblance of cold.  We pretended we lived on the prairie.  I poured myself a glass of warming Pinot Grigio and thought well, hell, at least our house isn't drowning up to the eaves in toxic floodwater.

Shit, man. Good thing FEMA isn't in charge. 

The last two days have brought cooler weather to Kansas City.  It has even been light-jacket worthy at 7:30 in the morning when we prepare the little angel for her trip down the yellow brick road.  Thanks to the wonders of Ebay, the little angel has a vast wardrobe of light jackets:  two jean jackets, three fleece jackets and a lovely leopard-print number.

Choosing jackets has proved an interesting exercise. 

First, she tried to combine a jean jacket with actual jeans.  I tried to explain that this is simply not done.  She protested, so I was forced to haul out my back issues of US Weekly, People and Star.  We observed L'il Kim, Britney Spears (isn't she a mama herself now?  Good luck with that, Brit.  Bet Kevin's doing an AWESOME job with third-baby daddyhood) and Paris Hilton.  I pointed out the errors of Christina Aguilera in the Sketchers ad.  She studied Paris for a particularly long time. 

"Meow, meow, meow," she said, indicating Paris.

She is a good judge of character at seventeen months, no?

The diagnosis is in:  it's the thyroid. Apparently a normal level is 0-4, or something along those lines, and Sybil's level is at 6.  So, we get to try pilling her twice a day indefinitely.  It is better than having to give her mouth-to-mouth, but only slightly.

My vet does not have a good bedside manner.  I think she and Judgmental Pediatrician may have attended medical school together. 

Me:  Do you have the results of Sybil's blood test yet?

Vet:  No.  You know, that should've been back yesterday.  Hmm.  Let me call the lab.  I'll call you back...sometime.

(three hours later)

Vet:  Well, it looks like it may be the thyroid.

(long discussion on pilling techniques)

Me:  Will giving her a half-pill twice a day for the rest of her life be productive?

Vet: Excuse me?

Me:  Will she live longer if I do this?

(long silence punctuated by breathing)

Me:  I read on the Internet that thyroid problems can cause kidney failure.  Is there any way to know how long this has been going on?  Will the pills help?

(no response)

Me:  My husband told me she also has a heart murmur.

Vet:  Yes.

Me:  Is there anything we should be doing about that?

Vet:  Well, she is sixteen.

(implication of certain death hangs in the air)

Me:  Hmm.  Well, thanks.  I guess.

click

Why do vets not have to take psychology classes?

I've had my cat, Sybil Louise, for seven years.  I got her when she was nine. 

Her previous owner had all of her claws removed (this is bad, don't ever do it), so she walks duck-footed, like her hind end is a reincarnated Charlie Chaplin.  When she was heavier, you would swear her belly even brushed the ground.  She is the only swaybacked cat I have ever known.

Sybil came to me when I lived in Chicago.  I was very, very lonely.  I could only afford to feed her Meow Mix, and she coughed up hairballs all over the floor incessantly, causing my Evil Former Roommate to curse her.  At night, I would whistle from my bed so she would come into my room and spoon with me.  Her purring could make any boy trouble vanish.

On my way to Kansas City, Sybil lived with me in my parent's basement in Iowa for three months.  My parents wouldn't allow her upstairs, so she would sit at the door at the bottom of the staircase, meowing plaintively and throwing her furry body against the door.  After three or four body slams, I would take pity on her and go downstairs to hang out with her.

Once here, we landed one apartment on our own, then we moved in with my beloved in a new apartment.  My beloved claimed he hated cats.  Everyone says they hate cats, and then they meet Sybil.  He adopted her formally when we got engaged.

We bought This Old House four years ago next month.  She loved the space, loved the staircase, loved the snags in the carpet upstairs.  She owns the staircase landing and often uses it to survey her kingdom. 

I adore this cat.  She was my only friend in Kansas City for some time when I first moved here.

The vet told us last week that she needed some tests.  Her heart rate is elevated, and they think she might have a heart murmur.  It might be her thyroid, which is apparently not unusual in sixteen-year-old cats.  Honestly, though I try not to think about it, death from old age is not unusual in sixteen-year-old cats.

I can't think about that.

I hope it's just her thyroid - we can control that with medication, even if it does mean pilling a cat every day for the rest of her life.  If it's not, she needs a chest x-ray.

I've been waiting for this damn vet to call me back since Friday.  She said maybe today she'll know if it's the thyroid.

Sybil is looking at me now.  She says it will all be okay.

Many times I have walked through This Old House taking in its many flaws.  The window seat we never varnished, the very boring antique white half-bath on the first floor, the really bad linoleum in the kitchen.  I could go on for hours, giving special credence to the stained and ratty decades-old upstairs Berber so snagged it's become a cat's dreamland.  I remember when we were trying to sell This Old House earlier this year.  I thought nobody would every possibly want a house with no garage, no landscaping to speak of, a Silence of the Lambs basement, small, 80-year-old bedrooms that could never, ever fit a Pottery Barn bedroom set, EVER. 

Tonight I walked through it again thinking how very dry and stocked it seems.  There is so much food in this house.  We could probably not buy anything but produce and milk for a month and be fine.  Yet we went to Costco and bought things like Lysol wipes and laundry detergent and toothpaste.  We bought the little angel a fuzzy pair of pink sweatpants for this winter.  We bought wine.

I sent two big boxes of the little angel's and my clothes down to my cousin in Houston on Tuesday.  She has direct access to the newly homeless through her church, by walking down the street.  They are everywhere.  My beloved and I talked about how people will go on to rebuild their lives from scratch, just like my sister did when the house in which she rented a room in college burned to the ground.  I remember the smell of her photo album.  She clung to it, even though it smelled like shit.  She tried to get the smell out of her teddy bear, the one she'd had since we lived together in my parent's house - Molly.  She walked out of that house with the clothes on her back and a laptop containing her poems.  It took her five years to build back her wardrobe, her books, her reality.  How long does it take to build back an entire life?

I will never again curse the stuck-shut windows, the creaking floorboards, the doors that hang at crazy angles, never to shut properly. The thresholds that defy any modern baby gate, no matter how much money you spend.  Those thresholds house doors that close at night against weather, danger, noise and the troubles of the outside world.  How comforting it is to close those doors and just focus on my own life.

Maybe sometimes it takes a strong wind to knock down the walls we've built. 

We have a new teacher in Waddler B. She seems to be very nice, and she's having a profound effect on the little angel's attitude (it's either that, or the return of her beloved S. from vacation).

On the flip side, the Emerald City has begun it's apparently yearly drive (we missed it last year, since the little angel didn't crawl down the yellow brick road until February or March) to RAISE MONEY.  Which means all of the kids get to sell stuff. This time, it's magazines.

I explained to the little angel that what she would need to do is walk up to the neighbor's door, explain the magazine selection, ask them which one they'd like, then write down all the order information.  She looked at my blankly.  "Bubble?" she said.

Last night about half of the students came to my class. So far, none of them have missed enough times to be administratively withdrawn, although quite a few just never handed in the first essay, despite my repeated admonishments about taking a "0" when you could have a "56."  There's an "F," folks, and then there's a "0."  It's all about the spreadsheet.  Do they care?  No.

After much grousing about how much they hate position essays and my grading system, I had to level with them.  "Look," I said.  "I am a tough teacher because so is life.  There are no effort points in the real world, guys...the commas go where the commas go."  (groan, moan)  Then we talked about how writing is the great equalizer, and no one need know if they are male, female, black, white or brown when they are writing.  All their audience will know is whether or not they are well educated.

That one seemed to have more impact on this group than it has had on my past classes.  Their sleepy eyes opened a little wider.  Most of the students in this class are what state universities would call "nontraditional."  They are not eighteen.  They are not living on campus.  They are working full-time in banks, hospitals and preschools.  They have kids ranging in age from five months to 22 years.  They say there is nothing in their lives that they need that they can't get in Kansas City, Kansas.  But they, like everyone else, want people to think they are smart. 

I like teaching these guys because they don't think they world owes them anything.  They understand the rules.  Despite all this, however, I know damn well most of them won't turn in their essays next time.  And that's their choice - I know deep down they understand what the consequences are - most of them are trying out community college for the second or third time by now.  It's a totally different world than I lived in at the University of Iowa.