Swords and a Gargoyle

I'll start with the gargoyle.

My building had a funny yet scary incident involving....what else? This is me, after all...A CAT. A silver tabby somehow got stuck between the cement scaffolding on the front of my building about 25 feet up, roughly near the second and third floor. Poor thing was yowling and howling. Since my entire building is filled with cats, dogs, birds, fish, hamsters, snakes and iguanas it was basically the Zoo Lovers to the rescue!

The fire department wouldn't help. 311 sent us to animal control. Animal control was closed for the evening (It was 8:30 pm) and the ASPCA was closed, as well. My super's wife grabbed the painting ladder from the basement and an enterprising teenager with a talent for climbing fences began to scale the wall. I was hanging out of my third story window with a long stick from my living room shade tapping at kitty to send him over to the side of the building to jump down from a/c to a/c and leap to the ground. After 40 minutes of madness, kitty jumped and FLEW up the block. We broke into cheers and decided if this little bugger comes back, I'll give Dexter and Kashi a new playmate and name him GARGOYLE.

As for the sword, my curiosity regarding St. Michael's statue in the church across the street was happily fulfilled yesterday. Since August 2004, I have wondered exactly how the sword protrudes from his hand. It's not cut in marble, but is made of brass pinned and screwed into his fist. Today is Mike's feast day, the ground workers prepared the space yesterday and...WOW...they took down the sword. The screw was a bit loose due to gravity and tarnish. I got to run my finger across the sword right before they polished it to a gleam. Turns out this statue was there from before World War I, was blessed at the Vatican, and the sword was hammered and shaped specifically to fit into the hand. It's pinned on one side and locked on the other. What I didn't notice was the crescent insignia in red and yellow carved in the back of the sword. One tiny little dragon and one lion are intertwined at the base. I stood there, amazed. It's not often you get to see, let alone, touch something like this. I returned from lunch knowing I had received a real gift.

I might not have caught the cat, but I did touch the sword. A blessing indeed.

And thank you, Meg, for the card. Muffins had so many friends who loved watching her attack the Christmas tree. I wonder if Dexter's up for it this year...

Help, I need Somebody

To get me another cat, and yes, a new job. Hate to play that damn fiddle over, but Pinochet returns in one week. My coworker and I aren’t sitting around waiting for the bullshit. I know Sad Sack won’t listen. Sad Sack is a control freak. No wonder they love each other so much.

All I know is that we will not go back to the voice mail nastiness just because IT spawned. I suggested we go together to HR to put in a formal complaint since, at this point, we need to go past Sad Sack. We are chattel, and not worth being spoken to. We both got a 1% raise, and our lack of Latin language skills (although I am pretty handy with French in a pinch) does not endear us to Sad Sack or the Snake Bastard.

Another weekend of back pain and I basically wanted to fall apart. I took care of my neighbor’s cats and got a paper, but that was about it. Fibromyalgia + change of season = UGH.

Piscean luck must be changing, though. Miraculously, one of my mother’s neighbors handed her a $6,000 check because he and his wife were moving to West Virginia. Out of all the phonies, snobs, and lunatics they’d met, they felt my mother was the most deserving. Talk about a loan coming just in time. Wow. I wonder: if Pisces swim in schools, could I or one of my other March fishies be next? There’s about 10 of you out there that follow this blog. Maybe, just maybe, some niceness will brush by our fins.

I miss Muffins horribly. I’m having guilt over the fact that I kinda took her for granted. Again, it’s that “Butchy” problem: he lived 21 years, I keep thinking all my cats will make it that long. The real problems begin at around 14-17 years of age. I cannot get it through my Butchy Brain that he was an exception, not the norm. Taffy, too—she lived 19 years. La Grande Diva to the end. Kashi and Dexter are playing rough with each other, and won’t leave my side. They know something is not right, but can’t verbalize. Muffins’ ashes sit near the radiator, her favorite spot. She was kittenish and chubby till the end. So cute and loveable, even though she hated being picked up. I really believed she’d come home. Two cats at Christmas just seems so empty. Dex will be 14 on December 19. Now I get into the “what if” years. The day I lose him? There will be a national day of mourning. I don’t think I’ll be able to go on, but I will get another male black cat. It’s a family tradition after 27 years of black cats in our lives. Even my dad had one right before he died. My wacky cat-ness continues.

Halloween’s coming, which is my only joy right now. I have taken to listening to Anonymous 4 at night, which is a female group specializing in polyphonic 13th century chants to the Blessed Mother. It’s gothic, stern, and yet angelic. At this point in my life, I truly identify with the angelic and the demonic. I’m surrounded by demons in the corporate world. No wonder I choose to hear angelic voices calling out to God.

St. Michael’s feast day—and I’ve learned my departed Uncle Vincent’s birthday—is Friday. Someone left Michael a really ugly ficus-looking plant. I’m bringing something colorful, maybe carnations or lilies. Anything but a tiny tree that sheds when you walk by.

Oh, how I want to get out of here. What the hell’s taking so long?

Muffins is coming home

Well, her ashes anyway.

Poor poofsky. Who's going to climb in my Christmas tree this year?

sigh...

Thank God for Project Runway or I'd be in total depression. I can't even find anything to blog about.

Tomorrow's a full moon and an eclipse in Virgo. Should be lively.

(and please god, let them auf Jeffrey. He's obnoxious.)

Miss Muffins 1989-2006

Yup, she's gone.

Renal failure and the beginning of congestive heart failure. She cried on Friday when I visited her and the doctors and I decided it wasn't going to get better. She passed at 9:37 am on Saturday morning. I held her as the needle went in. A fibro attack came on from all the stress and I spent the rest of the day in bed. I took a giant pain pill (for my body, my heart is really broken)and Sunday was only a smidge better, bodywise. I'm a mess.

For the first time in 26 years, I am down to two cats. No trio, just a duo. They know something is wrong, they're looking for her. I took up the towels, bed and blankets, but to no avail. Dex and Kashi are meowing through the apartment as if Muffins will come out from hiding. She's gone and I can't tell them in catspeak. I wish I could. Kashi liked Muffins, although she didn't always return Kash's love. I'll have to see if Dexter's up to playing with her, she's quite the jumper. Dex will be 14 on December 19, one day after Muffins's birthday. She would have been 17. He's getting up there, too. It's off to the vet very soon for him.

I wonder if any of my cats will ever break Butch's or Taffy's record. Butch was 21, Taffy was 19. Pure exceptions, I'm certain. Both tuxedo cats. Gray and black. Naturally, they hated each other.

I took Muffins home in a shoe box in the snow on January 6, 1990. I'll get her ashes back this weekend. Where am I going to find a pastel calico who was half peach and half gray? Muffins was one of a kind. Gorgeous, sweet, fat and funny. All the way to the end.

Laurie Bleier of the Brooklyn Animal Foster Network contacted me today about a rescue benefit. Maybe I'll start checking out what little life will make Kashi happy. Dexter can't jump like he used to.

My poor fuzzers. They're all I have.

And yes, I know it's September 11. I try not to think of 2001. I like to think of 2002 when I brought Kashi home. The city and the country will remember death, but I will remember little feet and yellow eyes.

Tomorrow is never promised.

Change of events for Miss Muffins

Well, needless to say, my bad luck extends to my cat.

I got not one, but THREE phone calls from Dr. Asher yesterday to wake up and get Muffins in there ASAP. Turns out the blood work reveals her kidneys and system was filled with bacteria from her abcessed tooth. That is NOT NOT NOT good.

I woke up in a daze, and prepared to run out in the rain and dropped her off. Saturday is apparently doggie day at the vet, so she was equally shaking and pissed at me for surrounding her with the strange smells of two pit bulls, one corgie, a rottie, and a snappy pomeranian. We were not happy campers.

They admitted her, she'll be there until Tuesday since tomorrow is a holiday. So much for the antibiotic drops I was supposed to give her. Poor pookie. The money will come from somewhere. I'll be begging and aggressively nagging these assholes that I've interviewed with over the last month as to whether ANY of these fuckers will hire me. I am so sick of shoddy treatment myself to think that I can't pay for my beloved kitty? IT MAKES ME SICK.

In other news, I'll be hanging out with one of my coworkers today. She wants to start an eBay shop. She needs money and so do I. PayPal and antiques? Here I come.

My god! Someone who actually wants to HELP me. Gee, what the hell does that feel like.

No word on whether Pinochet's returning. God damn that miserable demon bitch and its spawn to HELL. Let 'em both drown in the Lake of Ice. I'll skate over both of 'em while going into a scratch spin.

Our Miss Brooke (and Miss Muffins!)

Well, the only heartwarming thing I've seen today is that Brooke Astor's son is no longer the guardian of her estate. It's gone to Ms. de la Renta, who has the 104 yr old lady's best interests at heart. The NY Post told the story on page 3 of today's paper.

The judge essentially fired her money-grubbing son and his awful wife from their $2.3 million per year perch while this darling (woman who essentially saved New York's arts and landmarks) sat in filthy clothes, ratty furniture, and ate instant oatmeal every day. Certainly not the type of treatment Miss Brooke deserves. Her beloved dogs Boysie and Girlsie will also have their own caretaker and will be at the foot of "mommy's" lap, where they should be. Her manicures, wardrobe, and heating system will be upgraded so she may live in comfort. I'm happy to say the vaseline and cheap skincare is also gone. Brooke will have her Estee Lauder creams and treatments once again. Befitting of a lady who wears a hat and white gloves everywhere she goes!

As for Miss Muffins? My chubby calico is not doing so well. She's got a tooth extraction (and possibly two more) coming up on Wednesday. In the last week, she's taken a downturn in her grooming and eating. I thought it was an abcess, and it turns out I was right. I gave her the first dose of antibiotics about an hour ago, let's see if I can get her to eat tonight. She's 16 and I don't know whether the anesthesia will be easy, either. Thank god she's a chubster--my hunch was that she was living off her body's fat storage. Once again, I was correct. She lost 5 lbs., but it's going to be ok. She was always a glutton and this might just have saved her life. If she were a skinny supermodel like Taffy or Kashi, she'd have wasted away. So, I'm off to the vet again Wednesday and we'll see how that goes.

I really would do anything for my little fuzzers, they are my life.

Je Reviens

Well, there I sat once again last night to watch the four hour block Spike Lee gave us. I have many things to say, to feel, to think about.

I think I was touched for three main reasons: I was raised on jazz, I have many black friends, and I myself have been pushed aside from those with more money and privilege. I might have gone to good schools, but I will not and cannot forget the way my own color treated me. My parents were educated, but they were union, not corporate Wall Street wonks. They chose professions close to what they believed in. Their jobs were an extension of their personalities, something I have taken with me and copied. And yet, I was treated like white trash. Not so. Working class is not white trash. Not when my father could quote Shakespeare and Moliere off the top of his head. Not when my mother knew every show tune and Streisand song under the sun and could reproduce every note with the touch of a piano or the strum of a guitar. I was not raised with the curse of materialism, I was raised knowing values. Religion. Music. Culture. Books, not television. Hard work, not trust funds. And for this, I was pushed aside. Well, I know the deal. I know the truth. I call it, I see it, and I believe. No one can kill that in me.

It's probably why I see racism and stupidity for what it is. I had a violent reaction earlier this summer with David Whathisface's "Firecrotch" comment on Lindsay Lohan since he never worked a day in his life. She's a millionaire due to hard work. Yes, acting and dealing with a crazy family (I have one of those myself) is hard work. She made her money, she didn't have it handed to her. And not surprisingly, a few black comedians came to her defense! You can find the reactions on YouTube and the internet. Funny stuff, but truth is truth. Grandstanding and telling people "hope and pray" is NOT a plan. And making fun of a teenaged red-head who makes movies is beyond ridiculous.

You're poor? Struggling to stay part of the middle class (whatever the hell that is, I don't know by NY standards anymore) and be 'upwardly mobile'--another phrase I've come to hate--is increasingly difficult in the face of greed, power and political abuse. There's this continual farce I keep hearing about that people supposedly get more mellow as they age. Not me. HELL NO.

I've become more politically active and aware of this country's shift to the right more in the last six years of my life more than ever. Complacency goes hand in had with apathy. Get enough of that, and true evil is born. It's all around us. Have you noticed? I see it every day.

Can't we all get along? is the joke from the Rodney King aftermath, but it's not a joke at all. It's going to take activism--I mean the real militant type from the 60's and 70's--to get people off their asses to see that they're getting fucked. "Well, what can I do?" is the sheepish refrain.

TAKE TO THE STREETS AND YELL. COMPLAIN. VOTE, BITCH, THREATEN, STRIKE, ASSAIL YOUR CONGRESSMEN. Action, not rhetoric. It's the only thing that's going to work. My tax dollars once again might let something like Katrina happen again? We're still dealing with 9/11, and I'm NOT pissed off that Nawlins Mayor Ray Nagin called Ground Zero a "hole in the ground." I've stood there. I've taken the PATH train from there. It's a damn hole, alright. Pure politics and stupidity fucking it up for the rest of us. We are free. To Do. As they Tell us.

UM, sorry. Don't think so. Shut up. Get gone. Here's a quarter, call me when I care.

Thank you, Spike, for telling it like it is. It reminds me I have the right to stay just the way I am. My parents are proud of me. This I know.