Side note…This is a picture of Doug and Eva, not me. I don’t call him “Daddy.”
When the world outside is crumbling, it’s always safe in Daddy’s arms.
Positivity training
Toward the end of a string of a dreary and gray Connecticut December mornings, our birthday boy trudged downstairs, head buried under a hooded sweatshirt, arms folded. He positioned himself directly in front of me and stared.
“Happy Birthday!” I sprang up and engulfed Doug in a birthday hug. “What do you want to do today? Do you want to go on a hike?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Sun’s out. Let’s go!”
For those of you who remember, Doug, who’s been retired from the police force for the past seven years, has been campaigning to move down South. He is counting down every day of the nine years I have left before my own retirement so that we can leave the Connecticut winters and taxes behind–and he reminds me every single day just how painfully he waits.
“It might be kind of nice out later,” I assuaged. “Give me a second….let me click on the weather.”
“Give me a second,” he said, “Let me click on the window.”
With that, he strode over to our kitchen window and tapped on the glass. Behind it, dark clouds amassed in the sky. “Why does it always have to be sh*tty on my birthday?” he lamented.
“That’s not very positive,” I said. “Every morning, if you wake up with a positive thought, it can change the course of your whole day. Go ahead…try to say something nice. I’ll post it on Facebook, and everyone will be inspired.”
He thought for a moment and said, “Let’s see…nice…nice…nice. Here’s something nice. Nothing’s nice, and nothing will ever be nice again. Now get off your computers and go f*cking do something, you a$$holes!”
You’d have to know Doug’s humor to find this even remotely funny and non-offensive. But Doug has made me laugh every single day that we’ve been married, and sometimes it feels greedy keeping his “couple two-tree” liners to myself.
He then drifted into a random monologue about how his seventh-grade homeroom teacher cleared his desk with a single swipe and declared, “You’re the biggest bunch of a$$holes I’ve ever had!” (“If Mr. Capalupo can say it, why can’t I?” he mused.)
I don’t think I’m going to proceed with my positivity training. Sometimes, attention deficit-riddled negativity can be fun.
There’s gotta be a way in here somewhere…
Anna has been dying for hamsters all year. She pored over books, articles, and videos. She shared her research dissertation with me on Google Docs. She begged. She negotiated. She pestered. She saved up all her money for chew toys. She received her Master’s Degree in Rodent Nutrition.
By day two, she was bored of her new nocturnal friends. The cats, on the other hand, now have their very own entertainment system.
Just one more thing on her plate
They say the first year of a cat’s life is approximately 15 human years. As Millie approaches a year and a half, it has occurred to me that I am raising yet one more teenager.
So it probably should’ve come as no surprise when a wellness trip to the vet revealed that she is afflicted with cat acne. Apparently, it develops when a cat’s hair follicles become plugged up with too much keratin. Avoid popping or picking at the cat’s pimples, my vet cautioned (quite unnecessarily). The cure is in topical shampoo or wipes and switching to stainless steel food bowls.
There’s just one problem left. Even Maybelline’s “classic ivory” concealer doesn’t match her skin tone.
The weight of the world rests heavily upon all our shoulders. Evan Millie the Cat is feeling it.
