This morning, Rissa experiences our friend Leslie's homemade jam for the first time. She has two pieces of toast - each sporting Leslie's gourmet jam. Strawberry balsamic on one, peach bourbon vanilla bean on the other.
She sits for a moment in front of her plate of toast. "I am about to have a jam moment Mummy."
"Excellent. You won't be disappointed."
She takes a bite, and then another, and another...
"This... this..." Rissa's eyes are wide with pleasure. "I have never experienced anything like this in my life. This is the best jam ever. This jam gave me an epiphany - you know what it was? To eat more jam. It was a jampiphany!! You know when the end of the world will be? When we run out of these jams. I am now a jam connoisseur! Eating these jams has opened a whole new world of opportunities! Jamportunities!!! What am I going to do when the jam runs out?!?"
She hyperventilates for a moment.
"What if you make the jam Rissa?"
"...Maybe... But I think maybe I would prefer to receive the jam, rather than make it myself."
"What if you became one of those judges at the county fair and only judged the jam?"
She gasps with excitement. "That would be THE BEST JOB EVER!!"
Toms and Kittens, Strays and Collared, the Curious and the Curiouser... Step right up!!! We welcome you to the Best, the Brightest the most BREATHTAKING of playgrounds! A veritable
CAT CARNIVAL!
Mainzer Cat Circus circa 1950s
Never in your cat lives have you experienced such Magic, such Mayhem, such MAGNIFICENCE!!! Stare for hours at the mouse-sized holes in the floors! Hide in the floor joists! Taunt your furry sibling through the unhemmed wall of curtains in the bedroom! Balance precariously on the standing drywall. We have it all and it can be yours!! Demand food whenever you want - there are no bedroom doors to dampen your yowls. All this, PLUS an unfinished basement that's as close to being outside as you can get!
Channelling Fred Astaire - Steve and Lola sing ...
Heaven
I'm in heaven
And my heart beats
So that I can hardly speak
And I seem to find
The happiness I seek
When we're out together
Playing hide and seek... at 3:00 a.m... In the bedrooom closet curtains That you just hung So that you didn't have to see all the crap, But now you have to put up over Top of the curtain rod because The rustling is so loud when we play That you threaten to decapitate us..
Adding bedroom doors has now become a priority.
Minuit, not quite back to her old self, still prefers to enjoy the Hannibal Lector basement for the most part. Pleased to say though, that last night she came up on her own steam to interact with humanity. It's only taken three weeks.
It didn't really come as a surprise that it's dirty. The basement, I mean. Seeing as its floor is comprised of dirt and gravel. And seeing as the foundation leaks a titch, it should also have come as no suprise that the dirt part of the basement has a tendency towards muddy after a good spring rain storm.
If there were only humans living in our home, it wouldn't be an issue. You know why? Because all three humans residing here are not going to cavort around in the dirty, gravelly, wet basement. Our feline housemates, on the other hand, live for that shit.
Paw prints. Frickin' cat paw prints, all over everything! Seems as if Steve and Lola have discovered the creek that runs through the stone foundation when it rains heavily. (Not Minuit, because she's still mostly just lying on the heated blanket
that David put down 'cause he was worried that she might die while lying
on the cold tarp we have down there because she still refuses to come
upstairs.) Where the creek hits the dirt sides and floor, Steve and Lola had their own Grauman's Chinese Theatre moment and imprinted their way into immortality. Then, with those same wet paws, they danced their way up the basement stairs, all over the new sofa bed, across the living room floor, through the foyer - circling back through the living room, then again through the foyer to eventually end up in the kitchen where they planted themselves on the off-white (now beigey-brown, kinda looked they've wiped their asses on them) stools in the kitchen. I'm so glad that I had washed the slipcovers of the stools two days prior.
It's like they deliberately explore the dirtiest, dustiest, cob-webbiest corners of our cellar and then share their journey with us, usually on the cleanest, close-to-white thing they can find. We basically have dirty dogs - without the unconditional affection and obedience. So we either a) have to find a way to miraculously coat our entire basement in concrete or a near facsimile thereof to eliminate the dirt, or b) we have to move the kitty litter upstairs, so that they won't get dirty in the first place. Option a) will probably run us into the tens of thousands of dollars. Option b) it is!! We just have to find a place where we can carve out some room for three litter boxes. Although if Minuit does kick the bucket, we would be down to two...
I'm going to lose my under-the-stairs closet - I just know it. I'd been so jazzed about having a place for the vacuum and recycling to live... and the shopping bags and shoe racks and extra folding chairs... and cleaning supplies. I just wish that cat shit didn't smell so much like, well, cat shit. If it smelled like lavendar and ylang-ylang it could just go in the 1/2 bath, but with 3 cats doing their business daily? I don't particular relish the idea of sharing that particular olfactory experience in a somewhat public space. I could say that I'd keep the litter pristine so the stink would be manageable - but I'd totally be lying. Cleaning the litter is not at the top of my daily chores list. I hate that job and I hate how the cloud of kitty litter dust coats my very soul after I've done it.
Wait!! WAIT! We build a false floor for under the stairs! The cats go in underneath the false floor and on top of that could still be used for storing other stuff!!! We'll rig up an elaborate trolley system with remote control to get the litter boxes out of the closet for cleaning ease... With a motion-sensor light so that they don't have to crap in the dark... and automagic odor neutralizers! David's a genius at problem solving those kinds of things. Maybe he can somehow Tardis the under-the-stair cupboard and find us that extra space! 'Cause I'm telling you right now that if the muddy footprints aren't dealt with - my tenuous hold on sanity may well leave me. I can't guarantee the cats' safety if that happens.
It's spring. Honest-to-God, grass-greening-up spring. Warmer air, buds on the trees and... cats. The cats are outside once more. Lazing on sidewalks in sunbeams, trotting up to you when you "puss-puss-pussssss...", rolling around on their backs, begging for a tummy rub.
There I am, walking back from the bank - I'd already had my cat fix twice on the way there. Stooping to pet a tabby and some sort of Maine Coon mix. I am a pretty happy kitten myself as I walk home. Whisting off-tune, I spy the same Maine Coon cat on the other side of the street. Maybe I can get a double dose of kitty love.
"Hey sweetie..." He saunters over to me and "prrrrrrrrowls" his enjoyment as I scritch him behind his ears. Poor beast is matted beyond belief. He has a couple of shaved spots where his owner has attempted to rid him of the worst of them. He rolls on his back and I rub his tummy (just the way Steve likes it).
When a cat bites you? Really bites you? They really give no warning. One minute I'm rubbing his tummy the next I have two massive teeth marks in the heel of my hand. Maybe he didn't break the skin... It was probably just... Nope, there's actually torn skin... and blood. I'm bleeding.
Oh crap! Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap! David is going to kill me if I have to get rabies shots again. Shit. Oh shit. The cat doesn't have a tag. He's wandering the neighbourhood - I have no idea where he lives. The cat is winding around my legs and 'prrrrrowling' at me. I absent-mindedly reach down to scratch him... maybe if I don't rub his tummy... will I NEVER learn? I take a breath. I look at him. He's not rabid. He doesn't look rabid. Plus, somebody shaved him, he must belong to someone and if he belongs to someone, they probably got him his shots. Right?
I'm formulating my excuses as I walk home. I sneak in the house - maybe David's not downstairs. I go over to the sink and rinse out the punctures. Still bleeding a bit.
"Ummmm, Rissa?"
"Yes?"
"Could you go upstairs?" I lower my voice. "Up in the white cabinet in one of the cubbies is some hydrogen peroxide..."
"WHAT DID YOU DO!?!"
"Shhhhhhh.... nothing. Nothing's wrong. I just need some..."
"Daddy! Mummy's injured herself again!"
David comes into the room. "What did you do?"
"Nothing!" I hide my hand behind me.
He raised his eyebrows and gives me the look.
I roll my eyes and present my hand. "I'm sure he wasn't rabid. He was shaved in spots - that means he has someone who shaves him!"
David takes a breath to berate me and then closes his mouth. He knows there's no point. He knows that I will never give up touching stray cats. It will never happen.
"Rinse with the peroxide."
"Yes David."
"If you start foaming at the mouth, I'm putting you down myself."
Certain things become apparent only AFTER you have moved into your new home. It comes down to this: Love is blind. When you fall in love with your new place, its character, its quaintness, its nooks and crannies - you have blinders on. With these 'in love' blinders, you can see no faults. It is only upon taking possession of the house that we realize the living room walls are covered in painted, lifting wallpaper - noticeable now, because the walls are empty. No to worry! Quick faux fesco finish and those walls become a 'feature'!
Every single floor in the new house is uneven. I swear to you that, other than the threshhold to the master ensuite, I didn't notice any floor issues the 4 times we were in the house before we took possession. None. And yet... and yet after we own the house, it quickly becomes apparent that we need to buy shims in bulk. "Quick, hand me a shim!"
David and I begin to argue about the relative nature of 'level.'
"Do you want it level to the walls? To the ceiling? To the floor?"
"What I want is to look at a piece of furniture against a wall and not think I'm in a Dali painting!!"
We planned a nice long 2 week overlap between the closing of the new place and the sale of our old place for our very small renovations. We would take March Break and turn it into a family project. WE HAD LOTS OF TIME. (Sorry, I need to stifle hysterical laughter for a moment.)
We didn't have that much to do in the new house before we moved in. We were being conservative in our renovations. We were tackling them ourselves. (With some very generous help from friends and family, and tradespeople to do the tricky bits.) We were taking a 1 bedroom with ensuite and 2nd floor loft family room and turning it into a 2 bedroom with a common bathroom...
... and we thought we'd shift where the master closet is to utilize all the space under the eaves... and we might have decided to move a cellar egress door to create a traditional door to the basement so that the cats would be able to navigate down the non-conforming-to-code stairs... and we were putting up an entire wall of upper cabinets in the kitchen... and we were laying floor... and intended to eliminate the separate 2nd floor laundry to open up a wall so that the common bathroom could have more space... and we needed to bump out a closet on the main floor to house an upright freezer, washer/dryer and treadmill... and we were going to create a wall of repurposed antique windows, which we would then frost/etch/cover with stained glass so that Rissa would have some privacy... and we were going to add custom cut angeled doors to the sloped ceilinged bedrooms, because there weren't any. No problem.
Strangely enough, in that 2 week overlap before we moved in, not one of those jobs was actually completed in full. Go figure.
The bathroom is 'mostly' done. The fixtures are in! And we can shower - so WHOO-HOO for that! We need to finish the drywall, tape and mud and put on the beadboard wainscotting and chair rail and then paint - but at least we can shower! In keeping with no floors in this house being level, the floor of the old laundry room and the floor where the new shower/tub combo resides, has about 4 inches of level disparity. Step between those different floor levels and you're in for a wild ride. It's not quite the beginning of the Leviathan, but if you've had a nightcap (or 6 - you know, to cope with living in a home during renovations), it's close. I'm just going to pretend that we're living on a houseboat. That's why nothing's level. We've even added a waterproof light fixture over the shower so that we can really immerse ourselves in our 'marine' bathroom.
The new closet in the bedroom has clothing rods, but nothing to hide them from view. The flooring in the living room and foyer is done, but not the 1/2 bath. The upper kitchen cupboards are up, but still need a coat of paint... and handles. The closet on the main floor needs to be taped, mudded - and something to cover it. The wall of windows, the privacy doors and the door to the basement? I'm thinking that will happen in the summer.
And yet, with every box that we unpack - the floor space increases. Smaller jobs are getting done. We mostly got the office area settled on Monday night, and last night David made a microwave shelf to get the appliance off the counter. We hung the curtain rod in front of the main floor closet - I have no fucking idea where the curtain rings are, but they'll turn up as soon as I buy new ones.
I'm looking out our kitchen window, towards the back yard and there's some sort of gnarly tree (which I hope will be a flowering apple) and a little group of bushes with our bench and some haphazard flower pots beside it. This morning, there are two blue jays poking around in the mostly-revealed spring grass. I couldn't see this view from our other kitchen window - it was always too high to get a good look at the backyard. I had to get on my tippy-toes to enjoy the green. And now, here I am, typing with a view. It's going to be okay.
So there I was... watching the baby sluts dance... It was not, as might be inferred, the END OF DAYS - nope, that wasn't it. Dance competition season had begun. The last time I endured this was 5 years ago, when Rissa did a couple of group numbers at the age of 9.
I thought we were safe, this time around, I really did. I told David, who came late to the party, that this year the dancers were mostly wearing clothes and weren't too slutty.
Hubris. That's what it was.
No sooner had we sat down in the theatre (waiting for Rissa's group to dance), when pint-sized hip-hoppers clad in next to no clothing, all began shaking their little asses to the delight of their parents. At least, I'm hoping it was their parents who, when these delightful little divas started doing the ass popping move, hooted hollered and cat called. I hope to God that it wasn't some random pedophiles off the street who thought they'd found their own personal Heaven. (Media Alert: ANYBODY can walk into a dance competition.) The booty-poppers were in the mini class - which means that they were 5 - or younger. David and I shared looks of horror. These wee little bits of spandex and sequins danced with this subtext:
"Hey, look at us grind our little asses! See us shake our non-existent boobs! We are A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E!! Doesn't it just make you want to..."
"I swear to you," I said. "This is the first that I've seen of it at the competition."
"My eyes!" David said. "I need to bleach my eyes!!"
Then the Irish Step Dancers came out. They were 15. Their costume: barely there, sparkly mid-torso shirts missing an arm, leatherette booty shorts and, wait for it... fishnet stockings with a seam up the back. 'Cause you know... that's what Irish dancing is all about. Sex. The fishnet stockings are there, I guess, because they were fishing. Fishing for... sailors. The girls were fabulous dancers - very precise, synchronized beautifully... and all I could think was "WHY ARE THEY DRESSED LIKE STRIPPERS?" David turned his head so violently to avoid looking at them (and going straight to hell), that he almost broke his neck.
Dance schools have dress codes. Really fricking serious dress codes. You have to 'bunnify', you have to be covered, no jewelery, you can't look sloppy. At least not until it's competition season and then apparently you're allowed to look like a $25 hooker who gives blow jobs in the drive-thru of an all-night Tim Hortons.
It can't just be us, can it? Please God, tell me that David and I aren't the only parents who don't want our daughter graphically sexualized! Rissa's 13, and if I discovered her doing the choreography that some of these 7 year olds were doing? I'd be bringing up the dance studio on child pornography charges. Over the weekend, I watched young girls performing to these songs:
I'm a Good Girl - A jazz solo by a sassy little 13 year old who basically did a burlesque number. Don't get me wrong - I love a good burlesque number - LOVE them - hell, I'd love to do one myself. What I don't love? Is watching a 13 year old offer her boobs up to the audience as something akin to the dessert section at all-you-can-eat buffet.
Put Your Grafitti On Me danced to by a group of 10 year olds in sequined bras and panties,
splaying their fingers all over their bodies - basically indicating
where they'd like their full-body bukkake.
The topper? Flaunt - danced to by a trio of 13 year olds who did a lot of gesturing to their own tatas and hoohas before they finished the number off by grinding their asses. The lyrics of this song are:
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?
Baby, come a little closer
Come and get to know me
And what I got?
Baby, won’t you come and see me?
Won’t you come and be with me?
See what I got
‘Cause what I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
It’s what you need
It’s what you need, so Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?
"NO!NO, I DON'T!!! You're 13! WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?? Put on some fucking clothes!"
I'm not a prude. Read my posts about sex, you'll see. I love sex. I read tonnes of erotica, I enjoy off-colour smut. Have done, since I was a young adult. My daughter is 13. I am not comfortable with her being thought of as a sex object. I don't want her to become accustomed to receiving applause for popping her booty. I don't want her to think that being clad in next to nothing in public doesn't have consequences. Yes, in a perfect world, we should all be able to run around naked and nothing would happen. Yes, the human body is just skin with hills and valleys defining our primary and secondary sexual organs. It shouldn't cause such riot. But it does. We can pretend that the world has changed, but it hasn't. For millennia men have been schooled to believe that women's clothing and behaviour can warrant a Get Out of Jail Free card... Yes, it's 2014, and yes, it's still happening.
So how about this? Let's just encourage our children to... dance. In clothing that allows them to move without sharing their asses with the world; to music that empowers rather than subjugates. Can we please be vigilant parents, protecting our precious progeny - allowing them the time to grow up? 'Cause here's the hard truth folks: Your little girl, who used to skip around the dance studio in innocent abandon, pretending to be a butterfly? That little girl, when she dances all 'grown up', is going to have random strangers in a crowded theatre wanting to fuck her. And if you're cool with that? You need to re-examine what it means to be a parent.
I'd been holding back the hypervintilation for most of the morning. I'd stepped over and around things - did the Stanley meeting Livingstone in my bedroom as I finally located a pair of tights, pried open the vanity drawer that didn't have its handle, because it STILL needs another coat of paint before the handle can go on and I can't seem to find the time to paint...
Visual chaos makes me mental. The day we moved in I ended up lying on the floor, topless and sobbing. 10 days later the house is still rife with visual chaos. We haven't moved in 8 years. In the last house, I managed to have things behind doors and curtains, hidden in drawers. I had perfected the art of squirrelling things away. In this house (half the size of our other), we have too much crap to squirrel and no place to squirrel it.
David is dropping me at work. I get into the car, take one look at the top of the driveway beside our house and muffle a sob.
"What? What is it?" David's hand on my knee - he's so concerned.
"We're the White Trash."
"What?"
"WE ARE THE WHITE TRASH!!We have old chairs on our lawn and things up against the fence and knocked over things and bags of garbage and random pieces of cardboard..."
"Heather, we just moved in."
"I know that!! Don't you think I know that?!? But your average person driving down this street doesn't know that. 'Look there's an old ratty armchair, just sitting there by the back door. How can they let that happen?' The only thing we're missing is a CAR UP ON BLOCKS!!!"
By this time I am hyperventilating. I've closed my eyes to avoid the mess, but even with my eyes closed I know that it's there, so with my eyes still glued shut, I turn my head to face the side of the house.
David doesn't say anything.
I work a bit later than usual, and then have to run a couple of errands. By the time I get home and walk up the driveway, there is nothing there. Nothing. Not a chair, not a bag of garbage, not a random old bannister... nothing knocked over or piled haphazardly.
I stick my head around the back of the house. David has cleaned off the deck area, leaving only our bistro set and BBQ. All the stuff that still needs to eventually go into the still-to-be-built shed, is stacked neatly against our fence, out of sight from the street. My heart nearly bursts with joy.
