Looking For You
Just half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
I nearly went with you that night,
Sometimes I hope that I still might.
Five months ago I was alone,
Left here without you, on my own.
You'd come to see when I'd dream,
To comfort me, or so it'd seem.
Four months ago I traveled North
to see two friends your life brought forth.
Among your angels, I did start
to see a future for my heart.
Three months ago I knew despair.
I dreamed but did not feel you there.
Then back you came to see me through,
and give my soul a taste of you.
Two months ago I looked for light,
But you had gone beyond my sight.
And so, with heart and dreams bereft,
I wondered if your spirit left.
One month ago you came to me.
You said you were not sad, but free.
Insisting that you felt my love,
but soon would be too far above.
This month I waited for your voice,
your touch, your taste, your scent so choice.
I caught them in the morning's mist
A fog around me, coolness kissed.
Today I look around and live,
and try to share what I can give.
Sometimes I do and feel your soul,
and for a moment, I am whole.
But half a year ago today,
You broke your bonds and slipped away.
And one of those was in my heart,
It's simply called "the missing part."
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The biggest kitty heartache ever
Seamus's ailments and mishaps continued over the years. There was, of course, his vacation/anniversary-ending urinary tract infection. There was also a problem with his weight, which was solved with a change to soft food.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
There was the development of his magic ear (his left ear in the pictures below), which was the result of a hematoma from scratching himself. Marcie was convinced that it was cancer, but it turned out to be a flood of blood into his ear that "cauliflowered" it afterward.
But the worst of all was the series of dark weeks in which we believed him to be a doomed kitty. I have never seen Marcie cry so much and so often.
I'll post the whole of the story later. For now, enjoy these pictures of Seamus illicitly enjoying a pot of pasta, and showing off his magic ear for me from last night... As usual, click to enlarge them if you want to see them in detail.
The Feasting Cat of The Magic Ear
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Marcie's kitty heartaches
Seamus is not in the best of health, but he is doing well enough. It was not always so, and Marcie and I both had serious scares over his condition. The first once came early on.
"Frank! FRANK!" she screamed from the passage between the buildings. "Frank, please come help me! Seamus is under the main house and his paw is huge. I think he's hurt!"
Seamus was just out of reach under the house, avoiding us because he knew it was a no-no. He walked, limping on his left front paw, then holding it up.
It looked like he was wearing a big pink catcher's mitt with claws. He wandered just close enough that I was able to catch him and drag him out, complaining in low growls. Marcie snatched him away immediately.
"Oh, my god, he got bitten by something," she said. "Look at how red his little paw is. I can see his skin it's so swollen."
I had seen this before, at the egg ranch my grandfather owned in Campo. Cats would get bitten by spiders, stung by bees, even bitten by rattlesnakes. Whatever part was hit, if they lived, would swell up.
But this looked bad, and I knew we had everything from wasps to widows under the rickety old house in front of us. We also had no idea what his allergies were yet.
"God, this is why you should have let me buy a car," I said. "How are we going to get him to a vet, honey?"
Marcie looked up at me and handed Seamus, who was either enjoying the attention and had begun to relax, or was falling more ill as we spoke. He was almost limp and only murmured as I took him.
"I'll call my mom, she can come pick me up," she said. "You'll have to help me get him in his little cardboard carrier then hide until we leave."
I was still hiding my presence from Marcie's parents. I nodded. I put Seamus in the house while she made the call. It was Saturday. The ritual day-long shopping had already begun.
"Honey, what are we going to do?" she asked.
I looked at Seamus closely, searching for a stinger or bite mark."He seems fine," I said.
Just then, he chose to retch and vomit his entire breakfast onto my arm. Marcie covered her mouth as i went to get a towel. Seamus sat, his eyes looking a little glazed.
"Oh my god, he's going to die," she said. "Honey, should we ask the neighbors?"
I nodded, more worried about her than the cat. I knocked on doors, checking with the neighbors one by one. No one was home.
I was about to give up and call cab we could ill afford when an unlikely savior arrived. Andy, a cheerful gay man whose late-night romps in the apartment above us sounded more like fights than anything else, was walking down the stairs.
"Oh, god, pleeease," he said. "I'll give you two a ride, just stop pounding on everyone's doors and making such a fuss!"
And he did. Marcie clutched Seamus in her arms the whole way, I later learned, refusing to let me take him in the carrier and piling into the little Miata before I could offer to go.
She came home an hour later, having been dismissed from the veterinary hospital with a cursory exam, a shot of benadryl and a $50 bill from Dr. Dixon, which included a cardboard carrier.
"Oh, my god, what a production," Andy said. "It's a bee sting or a spider bite, and he'll be fine, the doctor said. Stop already, Marcie."
"I know, I know, I know," she said, carrying Seamus in her arms, squeezed against her until his little cries were muffled by her envelopment.
Andy followed behind, and I thanked him.
"Oh, you're welcome, but next time let's call the vet first so we can be calm and let our neighbor's guests sleep in peace, okay?" he said.
I nodded and Marcie brushed past wordlessly. Marcie was still upset and fawned over Seamus the whole night.
When the next day came and the swelling was gone, she alternated between castigating him and scooping him up in her arms near tears.
It was to be the mildest scare and only the first of a few heartaches for both of us.
"Frank! FRANK!" she screamed from the passage between the buildings. "Frank, please come help me! Seamus is under the main house and his paw is huge. I think he's hurt!"
Seamus was just out of reach under the house, avoiding us because he knew it was a no-no. He walked, limping on his left front paw, then holding it up.
It looked like he was wearing a big pink catcher's mitt with claws. He wandered just close enough that I was able to catch him and drag him out, complaining in low growls. Marcie snatched him away immediately.
"Oh, my god, he got bitten by something," she said. "Look at how red his little paw is. I can see his skin it's so swollen."
I had seen this before, at the egg ranch my grandfather owned in Campo. Cats would get bitten by spiders, stung by bees, even bitten by rattlesnakes. Whatever part was hit, if they lived, would swell up.
But this looked bad, and I knew we had everything from wasps to widows under the rickety old house in front of us. We also had no idea what his allergies were yet.
"God, this is why you should have let me buy a car," I said. "How are we going to get him to a vet, honey?"
Marcie looked up at me and handed Seamus, who was either enjoying the attention and had begun to relax, or was falling more ill as we spoke. He was almost limp and only murmured as I took him.
"I'll call my mom, she can come pick me up," she said. "You'll have to help me get him in his little cardboard carrier then hide until we leave."
I was still hiding my presence from Marcie's parents. I nodded. I put Seamus in the house while she made the call. It was Saturday. The ritual day-long shopping had already begun.
"Honey, what are we going to do?" she asked.
I looked at Seamus closely, searching for a stinger or bite mark."He seems fine," I said.
Just then, he chose to retch and vomit his entire breakfast onto my arm. Marcie covered her mouth as i went to get a towel. Seamus sat, his eyes looking a little glazed.
"Oh my god, he's going to die," she said. "Honey, should we ask the neighbors?"
I nodded, more worried about her than the cat. I knocked on doors, checking with the neighbors one by one. No one was home.
I was about to give up and call cab we could ill afford when an unlikely savior arrived. Andy, a cheerful gay man whose late-night romps in the apartment above us sounded more like fights than anything else, was walking down the stairs.
"Oh, god, pleeease," he said. "I'll give you two a ride, just stop pounding on everyone's doors and making such a fuss!"
And he did. Marcie clutched Seamus in her arms the whole way, I later learned, refusing to let me take him in the carrier and piling into the little Miata before I could offer to go.
She came home an hour later, having been dismissed from the veterinary hospital with a cursory exam, a shot of benadryl and a $50 bill from Dr. Dixon, which included a cardboard carrier.
"Oh, my god, what a production," Andy said. "It's a bee sting or a spider bite, and he'll be fine, the doctor said. Stop already, Marcie."
"I know, I know, I know," she said, carrying Seamus in her arms, squeezed against her until his little cries were muffled by her envelopment.
Andy followed behind, and I thanked him.
"Oh, you're welcome, but next time let's call the vet first so we can be calm and let our neighbor's guests sleep in peace, okay?" he said.
I nodded and Marcie brushed past wordlessly. Marcie was still upset and fawned over Seamus the whole night.
When the next day came and the swelling was gone, she alternated between castigating him and scooping him up in her arms near tears.
It was to be the mildest scare and only the first of a few heartaches for both of us.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.5) An Unkind Cut (Conclusion)
The howling and caterwauling began daily at sunset. Female cats wandered up to our door, as did older males spoiling for a fight.
If I tried to pull Seamus away and close the door or even the back window where he sometimes called, I found myself holding an angry ball of spitting, gyrating, clawed fur.
A few days of angry silence and howling cat psychosis after the whole mess began, I found myself nursing a seriously slashed forearm as Seamus walked around the house hissing.
I had corralled him and brought him in just as he tried to make an escape, and gotten my arm both clung onto and bunny-kicked for my efforts.
"Fucking shit, that burns," I said, watching four ragged red lines explode into foam as I poured hydrogen peroxide over them.
"Uh huh," Marcie said, startling me a bit.
She stood with her purse slung over her shoulders, looking smug and smiling, biting her lower lip. "What are we going to do about this, Frank? Do you understand now? He's a beast and he'll just get meaner and crazier until he gets neutered or he runs off."
I shook my head and wiped my arm with a towel, cleaning the wound carefully. "Marcie, that's not my point."
"What's your point, that you want him to live a shitty, short life and die of disease or by getting hit by a car as he wanders around?"
"I would just like to see him have a litter of kittens, which I know Cammy is going to have Kazi have before she fixes her."
"Oh, really?" she asked, glaring. "So you and Cammy are breeding kittens now? Is that it? Well, why don't you just go sleep with Cammy, then, since you two are living out your lust for each other through the cats, Frank. Asshole!"
I watched her leave, bewildered. I shook my head and heard something at my feet. Seamus was crouched there, licking up blood dripping through the towel. When I tried to clean it up, he hissed.
I decided it had gone far enough and when she came back from the store, I brought it up to arrange terms of surrender.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking in and sitting on the bed. "You can get him fixed. I think I can find a place that will do it for a low cost or even free..."
"Frank! You are NOT going to have me be the one he associates this with! You have to go with me!" she demanded, yelling and fuming.
I put my hand on her lap. "I don't really need to," I said. "Why does this have to be about me going with you now?"
Really, I felt I had been jumped on enough over my admittedly foolish response. But where I had not associated my personal masculinity with the situation before, it was now firmly in play and I was determined to get my way.
"I am the disciplinarian, I am the responsible one, and I am the one taking away his food all the time," she said. "I am tired of being the one he has to watch out for. You need to be the bad one with me once in a while."
I considered it and then I considered the operation. Though called minor and referred to casually, cats and dogs do not get vasectomies when they are neutered, castrated. But she was right. I agreed.
On the day she took him in, though, I had school and exams. She let me off the hook. When they got home, he ran into a corner, then under the bed, then eventually ventured out, avoiding us both.
When Marcie and I made love that night, I had to admit a little sense of guilt and a creepiness to it as he watched, I imagined accusingly, from atop a pile of warm clothes.
Seamus was sedentary and already overeating by the end of the first week. It took him days not to avoid us or hiss. The other cats stop coming around. I was worried his personality would change drastically.
But one night, as the sun set, he began caterwauling out of our back window. It was music to my ears.
"Seamus! Shut up! Jesus!" Marcie screamed, cutting him off for all of three seconds.
All was well. And there was a bonus. Cammy moved out, confiding in me before she did that Kazi's first litter was coming. She also seemed to think that she had only had that one tryst.
I neglected to say anything to Marcie, of course.
If I tried to pull Seamus away and close the door or even the back window where he sometimes called, I found myself holding an angry ball of spitting, gyrating, clawed fur.
A few days of angry silence and howling cat psychosis after the whole mess began, I found myself nursing a seriously slashed forearm as Seamus walked around the house hissing.
I had corralled him and brought him in just as he tried to make an escape, and gotten my arm both clung onto and bunny-kicked for my efforts.
"Fucking shit, that burns," I said, watching four ragged red lines explode into foam as I poured hydrogen peroxide over them.
"Uh huh," Marcie said, startling me a bit.
She stood with her purse slung over her shoulders, looking smug and smiling, biting her lower lip. "What are we going to do about this, Frank? Do you understand now? He's a beast and he'll just get meaner and crazier until he gets neutered or he runs off."
I shook my head and wiped my arm with a towel, cleaning the wound carefully. "Marcie, that's not my point."
"What's your point, that you want him to live a shitty, short life and die of disease or by getting hit by a car as he wanders around?"
"I would just like to see him have a litter of kittens, which I know Cammy is going to have Kazi have before she fixes her."
"Oh, really?" she asked, glaring. "So you and Cammy are breeding kittens now? Is that it? Well, why don't you just go sleep with Cammy, then, since you two are living out your lust for each other through the cats, Frank. Asshole!"
I watched her leave, bewildered. I shook my head and heard something at my feet. Seamus was crouched there, licking up blood dripping through the towel. When I tried to clean it up, he hissed.
I decided it had gone far enough and when she came back from the store, I brought it up to arrange terms of surrender.
"Okay, honey," I said, walking in and sitting on the bed. "You can get him fixed. I think I can find a place that will do it for a low cost or even free..."
"Frank! You are NOT going to have me be the one he associates this with! You have to go with me!" she demanded, yelling and fuming.
I put my hand on her lap. "I don't really need to," I said. "Why does this have to be about me going with you now?"
Really, I felt I had been jumped on enough over my admittedly foolish response. But where I had not associated my personal masculinity with the situation before, it was now firmly in play and I was determined to get my way.
"I am the disciplinarian, I am the responsible one, and I am the one taking away his food all the time," she said. "I am tired of being the one he has to watch out for. You need to be the bad one with me once in a while."
I considered it and then I considered the operation. Though called minor and referred to casually, cats and dogs do not get vasectomies when they are neutered, castrated. But she was right. I agreed.
On the day she took him in, though, I had school and exams. She let me off the hook. When they got home, he ran into a corner, then under the bed, then eventually ventured out, avoiding us both.
When Marcie and I made love that night, I had to admit a little sense of guilt and a creepiness to it as he watched, I imagined accusingly, from atop a pile of warm clothes.
Seamus was sedentary and already overeating by the end of the first week. It took him days not to avoid us or hiss. The other cats stop coming around. I was worried his personality would change drastically.
But one night, as the sun set, he began caterwauling out of our back window. It was music to my ears.
"Seamus! Shut up! Jesus!" Marcie screamed, cutting him off for all of three seconds.
All was well. And there was a bonus. Cammy moved out, confiding in me before she did that Kazi's first litter was coming. She also seemed to think that she had only had that one tryst.
I neglected to say anything to Marcie, of course.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Five days
Five days from now will mean one half year from losing her. My weight is down over 50 pounds, but I feel the heaviness of my heart increasing.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
I feel it as I run into the night, hoping to outpace my sorrows with steps and heartbeats.
I feel it as I ponder my work and the meaningless struggle to procure money for children who are sneered at by selfish gray people who would see them imprisoned before they were educated.
I feel it as I consider the future with women ahead of me, in all their sadness or greed or heartless demand for comforting falsity.
I feel it as I gaze into a picture of beautiful blue eyes and know that a great and perfect love is gone from me, perhaps forever.
I feel it as I try to gather the courage and the motivation to pour out her life in verse and chapter as I know it, and her memorial as I realize it.
I feel it as I listen to my body for the little signs that say I will not live to honor her, to immortalize her, and to be known to have been hers at all, except as a rumor that dies with the last that have heard it from some reverent voice.
And I cannot feel so much so often and so deeply anymore without someone, and I feel my greatest grief when I admit I know she was right, and I must love to live, and I must live to love again.
And I wish she could live, so all of that, all of these weights, could feel so much less of a burden and a stone in me, and so much more a matter of my grateful love for her, as it always had been.
But at least my shoulders are broad and my back is unbowed, and much of that is her, alive in me and insistent that I carry her, and it, on.
F.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
That last week comes back
Every once in a while, sitting here so close to where she left us and the great pain of those last hours behind, I am overwhelmed in my memories by her prsence. This is one of those overwhelming nights.
We are in the half-year anniversary of the last week I had with Marcie, and though i have had some joy in my life and made plans to honor her, I have been stricken this evening and am having a hard time with it all. No posts about cats and arguments tonight, folks.
Though I see that there is a possibility of happiness without her alive and near me, it is at times like these that the loss of her feels like a gaping wound that will never quite heal, but simply close up and open once in a while. I'll be back when it closes again.
F.
We are in the half-year anniversary of the last week I had with Marcie, and though i have had some joy in my life and made plans to honor her, I have been stricken this evening and am having a hard time with it all. No posts about cats and arguments tonight, folks.
Though I see that there is a possibility of happiness without her alive and near me, it is at times like these that the loss of her feels like a gaping wound that will never quite heal, but simply close up and open once in a while. I'll be back when it closes again.
F.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.4) An Unkind Cut (R RATED!)
Some arguments are just not winnable, and further more are fraught with potential wounds. Marcie and I locked horns over Seamus's neutering, and it got ugly fast.
"Honey, we need to get someone to take us to the vet so he can be neutered," Marcie said. "He's getting aggressive with us, he's running off and now he's, well... he's fucking Cammy's kitten!"
Now, I knew that Seamus should be neutered, but I had hoped to see him father one litter of kittens first. He is a beautiful cat and quite clever for a feline, in my admittedly doting opinion.
"Honey, I agree but let's just make sure he has one set with Kazi and then we can..." I was stopped cold as her hands snapped to her hips, she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip, nodding.
"This is some macho bullshit from you, isn't it?" she asked, smiling as she went right for the rhetorical jugular. "Well, well, well. It looks like Mr. Politically Correct wants to protect the right of males everywhere to father kids."
"That's not it, I just think he's a smart and a cute cat and they would have..." I was interrupted again.
"Oh, you know, this makes so much sense now," she said. "You asking me last month if I wanted kids and then not saying anything when I said I didn't know," she bit her lip, hips still cocked, then leaned back and flipped her hair, crossing her arms.
"So Seamus is your dick now?" she asked, her eyes lit up a little as she mocked me.
"No, that has nothing to do with it," I said. "If he has one set of kittens, what's the problem? He has one set and he losses his rocks and he lives a long life. Why should we have the right to not let his genes stay in the species?"
"The species?" she asked, shaking her head. "You are such an ass, Frank. Such! An ASS! He's a fucking cat, he's not an endangered species. Just admit you see him as a metaphor for your own manhood. I can accept that."
I was getting a little angry, so I finally wallowed into the mud. "Sure, if you'll admit that that's what he is for you."
"What? I have no idea what you mean," she said. "He is my manhood? That doesn't make any sense at all. It's stupid."
"Is it?" I asked "Isn't Seamus just a proxy for all the men you hate and don't trust, whose balls you want to cut off because you've been hurt? Will his little kitty balls getting scooped out before he breeds make you feel better about your mistakes?"
Her eyes went wide with fury and she shook her head as she went beet red. I stuck my tongue out at her and she stepped in close. She jabbed her finger at me "You need to get over it and help me get this done, Frank. I am not arguing with you."
She shouldered past me and slammed the bathroom door. Seamus looked on wild-eyed from the door, hoping I would err and he could escape again. I did not, and I realized he didn't care about all of these off-point arguments.
He just wanted to get laid.
Despite my regret, I had pride and stubbornness to serve, so the argument was not over. We had just set up our initial positions, actually.
But as Seamus began howling and caterwauling at the door and the world of cat ass he imagined beyond it, scratching at it incessantly, I already regretted digging in.
"Honey, we need to get someone to take us to the vet so he can be neutered," Marcie said. "He's getting aggressive with us, he's running off and now he's, well... he's fucking Cammy's kitten!"
Now, I knew that Seamus should be neutered, but I had hoped to see him father one litter of kittens first. He is a beautiful cat and quite clever for a feline, in my admittedly doting opinion.
"Honey, I agree but let's just make sure he has one set with Kazi and then we can..." I was stopped cold as her hands snapped to her hips, she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed and she bit her lower lip, nodding.
"This is some macho bullshit from you, isn't it?" she asked, smiling as she went right for the rhetorical jugular. "Well, well, well. It looks like Mr. Politically Correct wants to protect the right of males everywhere to father kids."
"That's not it, I just think he's a smart and a cute cat and they would have..." I was interrupted again.
"Oh, you know, this makes so much sense now," she said. "You asking me last month if I wanted kids and then not saying anything when I said I didn't know," she bit her lip, hips still cocked, then leaned back and flipped her hair, crossing her arms.
"So Seamus is your dick now?" she asked, her eyes lit up a little as she mocked me.
"No, that has nothing to do with it," I said. "If he has one set of kittens, what's the problem? He has one set and he losses his rocks and he lives a long life. Why should we have the right to not let his genes stay in the species?"
"The species?" she asked, shaking her head. "You are such an ass, Frank. Such! An ASS! He's a fucking cat, he's not an endangered species. Just admit you see him as a metaphor for your own manhood. I can accept that."
I was getting a little angry, so I finally wallowed into the mud. "Sure, if you'll admit that that's what he is for you."
"What? I have no idea what you mean," she said. "He is my manhood? That doesn't make any sense at all. It's stupid."
"Is it?" I asked "Isn't Seamus just a proxy for all the men you hate and don't trust, whose balls you want to cut off because you've been hurt? Will his little kitty balls getting scooped out before he breeds make you feel better about your mistakes?"
Her eyes went wide with fury and she shook her head as she went beet red. I stuck my tongue out at her and she stepped in close. She jabbed her finger at me "You need to get over it and help me get this done, Frank. I am not arguing with you."
She shouldered past me and slammed the bathroom door. Seamus looked on wild-eyed from the door, hoping I would err and he could escape again. I did not, and I realized he didn't care about all of these off-point arguments.
He just wanted to get laid.
Despite my regret, I had pride and stubbornness to serve, so the argument was not over. We had just set up our initial positions, actually.
But as Seamus began howling and caterwauling at the door and the world of cat ass he imagined beyond it, scratching at it incessantly, I already regretted digging in.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.3) Kazi changes everything
For several months the most entertaining event in our world and the complex denizens' was the Cat Races. Kazi and Seamus raced around the yards, pouncing, tackling, frolicking and generally being kittens.
But at the end of the day, a curious ritual was performed. The kittens would stop chasing each other and hop the fence (or clamber through its portholes), joining Dodger and Tatiana in the vacant lot beyond.
Usually sitting in a loose formation and watching the sun set over the decrepit El Cortez parking structure, or perhaps the tantalizing shadows of the fat pigeons walking its edge, the cats would sit silently as the dark crept in.
It was usually the time to get Seamus inside, because if night fell, he was uncatchable and wild.
"Frank, get Seamus in before it gets dark," Marcie would call out from the doorway. "I don't want to have to chase him with you."
But Marcie understood the importance of what she called "the catting hour," and simply made sure he came in after making his appearance among his pals, which, as a crew, she referred to as "The Meadow Cats."
Seamus had a habit of slipping under buildings, sometimes coming out with a huge, bloated paw from a sting or bite, sometimes with an unidentified rodent, occasionally one half-dessicated or putrid.
It was not a good scene to have him loose at night.
On occasion he would disappear as we pulled down laundry or tinkered with dinner in the house. Hours of searching later, we would find him going back and forth between the meadow and another yard, or the back houses.
But when that disappearing act became all too common, at about 8 months, Cammy joined the search. Kazi was disappearing, too, and long before the sunset approached.
We did not put two and two together because of all the kitten-like play. But we didn't have to. One afternoon, in the middle of the day, I went looking for Seamus iin the yard. I found him by following a growl.
"Oh, geez," I said. "Seamus! what the hell! knock it off!"
He had Kazi's head pinned and it appeared he was doing the natural thing, which is, of course, to mate with her. Marcie came around the corner, saw it, and ran away.
No way was I going to interfere. I just waited for nature to take its (inter)course.
Not Marcie. She came back and dumped a bucket of water on them, eliciting hisses and a rapid separation.
"Nice, Frank, just stand there," she said. "Catch him before he screws her again! God!"
Seamus turned on me as I tried to catch him, gashing me deeply. Three hours later, with Kazi safe in her house from her initial flight, we caught Seamus, who growled and fought the whole way home.
"Alright," Marcie fumedd. "That is enough. He is wandering, he is getting more aggressive, and now he is trying to impregnate Kazi. He's getting neutered."
Kazi had changed everything. What a fight this one was, though I knew Marcie was right and Seamus should be fixed.
But at the end of the day, a curious ritual was performed. The kittens would stop chasing each other and hop the fence (or clamber through its portholes), joining Dodger and Tatiana in the vacant lot beyond.
Usually sitting in a loose formation and watching the sun set over the decrepit El Cortez parking structure, or perhaps the tantalizing shadows of the fat pigeons walking its edge, the cats would sit silently as the dark crept in.
It was usually the time to get Seamus inside, because if night fell, he was uncatchable and wild.
"Frank, get Seamus in before it gets dark," Marcie would call out from the doorway. "I don't want to have to chase him with you."
But Marcie understood the importance of what she called "the catting hour," and simply made sure he came in after making his appearance among his pals, which, as a crew, she referred to as "The Meadow Cats."
Seamus had a habit of slipping under buildings, sometimes coming out with a huge, bloated paw from a sting or bite, sometimes with an unidentified rodent, occasionally one half-dessicated or putrid.
It was not a good scene to have him loose at night.
On occasion he would disappear as we pulled down laundry or tinkered with dinner in the house. Hours of searching later, we would find him going back and forth between the meadow and another yard, or the back houses.
But when that disappearing act became all too common, at about 8 months, Cammy joined the search. Kazi was disappearing, too, and long before the sunset approached.
We did not put two and two together because of all the kitten-like play. But we didn't have to. One afternoon, in the middle of the day, I went looking for Seamus iin the yard. I found him by following a growl.
"Oh, geez," I said. "Seamus! what the hell! knock it off!"
He had Kazi's head pinned and it appeared he was doing the natural thing, which is, of course, to mate with her. Marcie came around the corner, saw it, and ran away.
No way was I going to interfere. I just waited for nature to take its (inter)course.
Not Marcie. She came back and dumped a bucket of water on them, eliciting hisses and a rapid separation.
"Nice, Frank, just stand there," she said. "Catch him before he screws her again! God!"
Seamus turned on me as I tried to catch him, gashing me deeply. Three hours later, with Kazi safe in her house from her initial flight, we caught Seamus, who growled and fought the whole way home.
"Alright," Marcie fumedd. "That is enough. He is wandering, he is getting more aggressive, and now he is trying to impregnate Kazi. He's getting neutered."
Kazi had changed everything. What a fight this one was, though I knew Marcie was right and Seamus should be fixed.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.2) Meeting Kazi
After meeting his closest neighbors, life was good for Seamus. He went out for an hour or so several times a week, usually with Marcie and the laundry, jumping around and attempting to climb the sheets.
There were wrinkles, such as his obstinacy about slipping off any collar, flea or otherwise, causing us havoc with pest control. Otherwise everything was working out well. He was a happy kitten and he had Dodger and Tatiana for company at times.
He had begun settling into being a mixed outside-inside kitty and he had even gotten his own territory, a stairwell to our neighbor, Cammy's, front door. It was prime real estate. It was high up and came with a treat source.
Cammy, a cat lover, had no cat of her own. She spoiled Seamus endlessly with snacks and tuna. Marcie was immediately suspicious of her.
"She's going to steal him, honey, I know it," she said. "She is totally in love with him and he is going to disappear when she moves away."
As irrational and over the top as that thought was, it was not unheard of for cats to adopt multiple families or households that chose to favor them with food. So, it was a great relief to us when Cammy appeared one afternoon to introduce a new friend.
It was a great moment for Seamus, too.
We are told that cats do not have romance in their relations. Cats, we are told, have a simple range of instinctual reactions only loosely analogous to our own feelings.
But Seamus, I assert nonetheless, fell instantly in love with Kazi, Cammy's new girl, a little calico kitten.
When Cammy opened her door that day, Seamus ran up the steps with his usual aplomb. But when he saw another kitten up there, he froze and slinked upward slowly.
"Mow!" said the little puff of spit and vinegar, landing a spread paw on his nose and making him back off, one paw off the ground as if pointing.
There was a tense, tail-twitching standoff on the porch as I came up the steps. Kazi kept batting at Seamus as he came close, Seamus swatted back. Cammy looked on.
As I pet him, Kazi became curious at his purring. He raised a paw and she rolled onto her back on one of the steps. He instantly darted in.
"Seamus!" I shouted, catching his attention only a bit.
He sniffed Kazi's foot, then pawed at her, rolling her aside a bit, sniffing her back and ribs a bit as she tried to push him away. Then he licked her, just as I tried to pick him up.
"Mow!" she protested, both her paws pushing on his head and driving his face effectively into her belly.he continued to clean her.
I tried to pick him up but when I did, I noted he was purring and let him be, stroking his head and smiling.
"He likes her!" Cammy said. "Oh, that's adorable."
Marcie came up the steps and watched. "Cuuuuuute," she said, kneeling down in her skirt and petting him.
I decided the scene was entirely too "fluffy bunny" for me and walked down. I was not alone long.
Seamus flew down the steps, hair raised and tail puffed, skidding in a turning stop as Kazi pursued in a hopping gait. He turned his head a little excitedly, then tore off the other way. Kazi tried to follow and lost her footing.
Seamus returned and tackled her, then rolled away and darted off again, ears fully forward. It was the beginning of an hour-long frolic.
For the first time ever, we slept in peace that night. Seamus was too exhausted to attack our feet or yell at us on the bed. He simply plopped at the end of it and, I imagine, considered his boon, a lively playmate up a favorite set of stairs.
Later, she was much more, to Marcie and my chagrin.
There were wrinkles, such as his obstinacy about slipping off any collar, flea or otherwise, causing us havoc with pest control. Otherwise everything was working out well. He was a happy kitten and he had Dodger and Tatiana for company at times.
He had begun settling into being a mixed outside-inside kitty and he had even gotten his own territory, a stairwell to our neighbor, Cammy's, front door. It was prime real estate. It was high up and came with a treat source.
Cammy, a cat lover, had no cat of her own. She spoiled Seamus endlessly with snacks and tuna. Marcie was immediately suspicious of her.
"She's going to steal him, honey, I know it," she said. "She is totally in love with him and he is going to disappear when she moves away."
As irrational and over the top as that thought was, it was not unheard of for cats to adopt multiple families or households that chose to favor them with food. So, it was a great relief to us when Cammy appeared one afternoon to introduce a new friend.
It was a great moment for Seamus, too.
We are told that cats do not have romance in their relations. Cats, we are told, have a simple range of instinctual reactions only loosely analogous to our own feelings.
But Seamus, I assert nonetheless, fell instantly in love with Kazi, Cammy's new girl, a little calico kitten.
When Cammy opened her door that day, Seamus ran up the steps with his usual aplomb. But when he saw another kitten up there, he froze and slinked upward slowly.
"Mow!" said the little puff of spit and vinegar, landing a spread paw on his nose and making him back off, one paw off the ground as if pointing.
There was a tense, tail-twitching standoff on the porch as I came up the steps. Kazi kept batting at Seamus as he came close, Seamus swatted back. Cammy looked on.
As I pet him, Kazi became curious at his purring. He raised a paw and she rolled onto her back on one of the steps. He instantly darted in.
"Seamus!" I shouted, catching his attention only a bit.
He sniffed Kazi's foot, then pawed at her, rolling her aside a bit, sniffing her back and ribs a bit as she tried to push him away. Then he licked her, just as I tried to pick him up.
"Mow!" she protested, both her paws pushing on his head and driving his face effectively into her belly.he continued to clean her.
I tried to pick him up but when I did, I noted he was purring and let him be, stroking his head and smiling.
"He likes her!" Cammy said. "Oh, that's adorable."
Marcie came up the steps and watched. "Cuuuuuute," she said, kneeling down in her skirt and petting him.
I decided the scene was entirely too "fluffy bunny" for me and walked down. I was not alone long.
Seamus flew down the steps, hair raised and tail puffed, skidding in a turning stop as Kazi pursued in a hopping gait. He turned his head a little excitedly, then tore off the other way. Kazi tried to follow and lost her footing.
Seamus returned and tackled her, then rolled away and darted off again, ears fully forward. It was the beginning of an hour-long frolic.
For the first time ever, we slept in peace that night. Seamus was too exhausted to attack our feet or yell at us on the bed. He simply plopped at the end of it and, I imagine, considered his boon, a lively playmate up a favorite set of stairs.
Later, she was much more, to Marcie and my chagrin.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Don Juan Seamus De Marco, or Mr. Personality (Pt.1) Artful Dodger and Tatiana
Seamus has almost always been a solo kitty, but he has had a number of pals over the years via neighbors and strays, as well as his share of enemies, both imagined and somewhat real. For Marcie and me, his interaction in the various communities of cats was like a window into a rather structured feline society.
But the specialness of Seamus for us is and was in his distinct and strong individuality. It was on display from the moment he entered our world.
Marcie had known Seamus for about a week when I met him. She had found him at a Petco adoption cage, where non-bred cats are put on display for adoption She did not want to adopt from a store, but he won her over. From a note card to me:
“He was full of the devil,” she said. “He pranced and pounced all over the cage and bossed his brothers and sisters around, climbed up to the top and swatted at my hand through the roof when I took his favorite mouse on a string. He was just Mr. Personality, and I knew he was the one. He’s your total kitty match.”
So, the next day she plunked down $40 and adopted him. She did not name him, preferring that I did those honors, as he would be a gift. She had one problem: my birthday was two weeks away. So, she left him with her parents, where Seamus met his first adult cat, Samantha.
“Oh, he was too rambunctious for Sammie,” Marcie told me when she explained his appearance a week ahead of my birthday. “He had to be separated from her.”
He had apparently inspired numerous swats and hisses, and had not limited his wild interactions to Samantha. He had, in fact, even entered pitched battle with Mr. Stoddard’s shoelaces. Unfortunately, this protracted, multiple-episode melee took place while Bob was wearing the shoes in question. There were unintended casualties among the local toe population.
The decision to evacuate him was made posthaste.
It did not take long for Seamus to meet some new friends, though. We had a lot of cat people as neighbors. But he almost blew his first pair of pals and, I am proud to say, bad lunch food saved the day.
When he was first taken outside, he met “Dodger,” a large neutered male with long fur and a sweet disposition, and “Tatiana,” a beautiful long-furred calico. Both were companions to Chip, our neighbor and law student, who was more than willing to introduce his cats to the newbie.
It was a difficult debut. Upon seeing the two very large (if wonderfully gentle) cats emerge from the other apartment, his head went down and fur puffed out, his back arched high and his tail went ramrod stiff and bottlebrush puffy. The longest hiss I have ever heard leaked out of him for almost 10 seconds, impressing both Chip and Dodger, who sat back and watched nervously. Tatiana hissed back and ducked low.
Seamus strutted and walked slowly, growling and spitting whenever someone tried to pet or pick him up, a tiny little kitten doing his best to emulate a whirling, noisy, furry cactus. However, a trick brought everything to a calmer level. I placed a place of fried hot dog bits between the cats. Dodger and Tatiana sniffed at the food and started eating. Seamus became curious.
He very gingerly worked his way to the plate, snaking his paw inside and snagging a piece from between the two larger cats, then hopping off with a hiss from behind it as he carried it in his jaws. I took another piece and rubbed his face and head, as well as his ears, then put it back on the plate.
When Seamus came back for another piece, still puff-furred, Dodger caught a whiff of his head and sniffed. Seamus slipped in and started licking the plate, as Tatiana had gotten the last piece. Dodger started licking him, to low complaining growls as Seamus cleaned the dish. Tatiana soon hooked a paw around Seamus and sat down, grooming him. Seamus complained and focused on the food, less vociferous in his protests. Dodger reclined and watched calmly.
Then we had a breakthrough. I heard the little motor kick over and Seamus purred as Tatiana licked him. Then, as he grew tired of the plate, he tried to walk away. Tatiana corralled him and pulled him in close as he mewed a bit. His head was suddenly in her fur, though, as she held him. He tried to nurse instinctively on her belly and she groomed him more.
He had made two friends in much less time than most said it could happen, and they would remain his companions until we moved. But he had the love of his life to meet yet, and other cats awaited him in the calm byways of Cortez Hill.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Seamus-The short feature film!
I will be posting a film of Seamus when I get a chance to record, edit and compose a little video properly. For tonight, you might see a post later on all of his cat friends from years past, including Kazi the love-muppet kitten, his first (and only) girlfriend. We’ll see.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Heart attacks and sneaky cat tricks (pt. 2)
Of course, after consoling Marcie and sitting her on the couch, I went about replicating her work. She was not pleased.
"I checked there already," she said. "I checked there, too. Frank, I'm not stupid, I looked there."
I kissed her. "But he could have been moving from place to place like a little ninja, so I wanted to check back again," I said.
She rolled her eyes and picked up a book to read by Anaïs Nin. She was upset, but decided to leave me to my devices.
I checked every cupboard, cabinet, under the bed, out in the yard, behind every bit of furniture, on top of our bookshelves and behind the rows of shoe boxes in Marcie's closet. I removed the bottom drawer from our shared dresser and looked there, since Seamus had learned that an open drawer was an easy path into the little space beneath the dresser, a fittingly snug, dark and quiet den to inhabit.
No dice. No cat. Not even a swatch of telltale fuzz to track him, or that powdery kitten smell.
She bit her lower lip and tucked her chin down on her chest, tears beginning again. "I think he may have gotten outside. Maybe someone stole him."
It was plausible. Seamus, at the ripe age of four months, had developed an array of escape tactics. For a month or so, he had gotten into the mail slot and been able to squirm up through the wall and out to freedom. We took to leaving a book in it, denying his little paws purchase. Eventually, he was too big to pull it off.
After that, he figured out how to swat at the handle until the screen door opened. This was trouble, as we were in the hottest part of summer and closing the door was no option for us. We fixed the latch. He figured out that he could hook the loose latch and unlock that, as well.
When we tightened the hydraulic that kept the door closed, he took to barely unlatching it, then using a running start to slam into the door, clinging to the screen as it swung open, finally leaping off and flying down the stairs with his ears back and fur raised as the screen slammed behind him.
He was also slick. If he knew we were watching, he would not open the door. It was impressive to watch when i finally observed the sequence. He would let out an occasional meow as he worked, look around a bit and keep batting at the mechanism. When he had the door a bit ajar, he would start chattering and seize on the carpet excitedly before turning and charging.
A naughty genius, he was. I quite enjoyed that.
But it was hard to reconcile my admiration for the little mischievous guy as Marcie's furrowed brow and bit lip persisted. I ventured outside a little miffed. I checked the field and looked for him all over the neighborhood, including under the love shacks in the back of the property with a flashlight, as they were favorite dirty dens for him when he was on the kitty lam.
When I came home at dusk empty-handed an hour after I began my search, Marcie was crestfallen.
"What if he got out onto the freeway?" she asked, holding her head in a hand, the other across her stomach.
I just hugged her and said "He'll come home when he's hungry." I was not sure but I knew I had to pretend that he was fine, doubts be damned.
There would be two more full house searches, the use of his food box as a shaker to lure him as we called, and finally Marcie, at 10:30, decided to go to bed. I joined her a bit later after designing a missing poster on my Atari, which I did not share with her.
She woke me at 2 a.m.
"Honey," she said. "I hear Seamus crying outside."
I heard a light, muffled mewing, too. I grabbed my mag light and walked out in the nude before I realized I should be dressed and went back in. She was laughing, a beautiful sound after a long evening, despite being awoken so late. I slipped on some shorts and slippers and off I went again. I looked everywhere, and had no luck. But when I went back inside, we heard him again.
I had an epiphany and looked under the bed, up into the box springs. There was no Seamus there, but I heard him behind me. I looked at the dresser and pulled out each drawer, one by one, starting with the bottom one. The third one up revealed a disheveled kitty who staggered out from the tiny space behind the drawer.
"Ohhhh, baby, oh my god are you okay?" she coosed, picking him up and cuddling him against her bosom as he squirmed and complained. "Oh you are such a bad boy to scare me like that."
I chuckled in relief and we watched him as he led us into the kitchen, where he demanded his food loudly. We stayed and she sat in my lap as he ate, sighing a bit and looking at me with a mix of relief and resolve.
"He's never getting out of my sight again," she said. "I nearly had a heart attack. I was sick, Frank. SICK! With worry and just fear. No more. And no more outside play time, either."
I nodded and did not comment on the practicality of that pronouncement. Luckily, she did not stick to it, and Seamus was not imprisoned. But we learned eventually that he might not care much what we thought of his need to be hidden and away from us, a lesson he reinforced quite often...
"I checked there already," she said. "I checked there, too. Frank, I'm not stupid, I looked there."
I kissed her. "But he could have been moving from place to place like a little ninja, so I wanted to check back again," I said.
She rolled her eyes and picked up a book to read by Anaïs Nin. She was upset, but decided to leave me to my devices.
I checked every cupboard, cabinet, under the bed, out in the yard, behind every bit of furniture, on top of our bookshelves and behind the rows of shoe boxes in Marcie's closet. I removed the bottom drawer from our shared dresser and looked there, since Seamus had learned that an open drawer was an easy path into the little space beneath the dresser, a fittingly snug, dark and quiet den to inhabit.
No dice. No cat. Not even a swatch of telltale fuzz to track him, or that powdery kitten smell.
She bit her lower lip and tucked her chin down on her chest, tears beginning again. "I think he may have gotten outside. Maybe someone stole him."
It was plausible. Seamus, at the ripe age of four months, had developed an array of escape tactics. For a month or so, he had gotten into the mail slot and been able to squirm up through the wall and out to freedom. We took to leaving a book in it, denying his little paws purchase. Eventually, he was too big to pull it off.
After that, he figured out how to swat at the handle until the screen door opened. This was trouble, as we were in the hottest part of summer and closing the door was no option for us. We fixed the latch. He figured out that he could hook the loose latch and unlock that, as well.
When we tightened the hydraulic that kept the door closed, he took to barely unlatching it, then using a running start to slam into the door, clinging to the screen as it swung open, finally leaping off and flying down the stairs with his ears back and fur raised as the screen slammed behind him.
He was also slick. If he knew we were watching, he would not open the door. It was impressive to watch when i finally observed the sequence. He would let out an occasional meow as he worked, look around a bit and keep batting at the mechanism. When he had the door a bit ajar, he would start chattering and seize on the carpet excitedly before turning and charging.
A naughty genius, he was. I quite enjoyed that.
But it was hard to reconcile my admiration for the little mischievous guy as Marcie's furrowed brow and bit lip persisted. I ventured outside a little miffed. I checked the field and looked for him all over the neighborhood, including under the love shacks in the back of the property with a flashlight, as they were favorite dirty dens for him when he was on the kitty lam.
When I came home at dusk empty-handed an hour after I began my search, Marcie was crestfallen.
"What if he got out onto the freeway?" she asked, holding her head in a hand, the other across her stomach.
I just hugged her and said "He'll come home when he's hungry." I was not sure but I knew I had to pretend that he was fine, doubts be damned.
There would be two more full house searches, the use of his food box as a shaker to lure him as we called, and finally Marcie, at 10:30, decided to go to bed. I joined her a bit later after designing a missing poster on my Atari, which I did not share with her.
She woke me at 2 a.m.
"Honey," she said. "I hear Seamus crying outside."
I heard a light, muffled mewing, too. I grabbed my mag light and walked out in the nude before I realized I should be dressed and went back in. She was laughing, a beautiful sound after a long evening, despite being awoken so late. I slipped on some shorts and slippers and off I went again. I looked everywhere, and had no luck. But when I went back inside, we heard him again.
I had an epiphany and looked under the bed, up into the box springs. There was no Seamus there, but I heard him behind me. I looked at the dresser and pulled out each drawer, one by one, starting with the bottom one. The third one up revealed a disheveled kitty who staggered out from the tiny space behind the drawer.
"Ohhhh, baby, oh my god are you okay?" she coosed, picking him up and cuddling him against her bosom as he squirmed and complained. "Oh you are such a bad boy to scare me like that."
I chuckled in relief and we watched him as he led us into the kitchen, where he demanded his food loudly. We stayed and she sat in my lap as he ate, sighing a bit and looking at me with a mix of relief and resolve.
"He's never getting out of my sight again," she said. "I nearly had a heart attack. I was sick, Frank. SICK! With worry and just fear. No more. And no more outside play time, either."
I nodded and did not comment on the practicality of that pronouncement. Luckily, she did not stick to it, and Seamus was not imprisoned. But we learned eventually that he might not care much what we thought of his need to be hidden and away from us, a lesson he reinforced quite often...
A Thought On Love and Hate
A thought for the day, formulated as I ran last night (and before a delightful evening at a wine bar as my reward):
"All good things can be found in the wake of love, but hatred is only followed by sorrow."
Last night's part 2 about Seamus did not get posted somehow, so I have to rewrite it. That will happen later this afternoon.
F.
"All good things can be found in the wake of love, but hatred is only followed by sorrow."
Last night's part 2 about Seamus did not get posted somehow, so I have to rewrite it. That will happen later this afternoon.
F.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Heart attacks and sneaky cat tricks (pt. 1)
Seamus has personality. Seamus’s personality is often cranky, but he’s also occasionally wonderfully sweet and he is a clever, if mercurial, little grumpling. His abilities to stress us out, however, started when he was extremely small.
Seamus was known to hide in little nooks and crannies throughout the house when he was but a wee puff of feisty fur. He could secrete himself into anything and fall asleep. When Seamus was a kitten, I would often find him sleeping in my shoes, in my backpack, in my watch caps and even in Marcie’ purse .
But his worst combination of the hidey-hole habit was his proclivity to “hide-and-go-sleep.”
We would usually find him under the bed, behind the couch, or in his “sock pile of under-the-television-stand comfort.” But one Saturday, after a long stretch in the sun watching people’s runts bound about on a bouncy jump, I was greeted at the door by a tearful Marcie.
“Honey?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, my god, Frank, I am so sorry,” she moaned, hugging me. “I think Seamus got out and someone snatched him. I can’t find him anywhere, and I tore apart the house twice already.”
I knew it was going to be a long night as I stroked her back and hugged her into my chest.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Getting back to Seamus
At first glance, the idea of Seamus and Marcie and my marriage being related might seem a little bit of a stretch. However, aside from Seamus sometimes being the fluffy glue of our relationship, there is a very direct connection to our first anniversary and Seamus.
When Marcie suggested we re-honeymoon in Vegas, staying at the Luxor, I was quick to agree. I wanted to make up for my illness and hopefully enjoy myself and my wife a bit more. Everything was set, and Barbara had volunteered to keep an eye on Seamus, as opposed to having him stay in a kitty kennel for our trip.
We arrived in Vegas and soon checked in at the Luxor. We had gotten a room in the Pyramid, which was a terrible mistake, as it would turn out. The space was cramped, the bedclothes were somewhat uncomfortable, and the place was just... subpar. We began agitating for a suite in one of the towers after a tryst in the scratchy sheets.
As Marcie hammered the front desk for better accomodations in which to get her satisfaction, I contacted my coworkers from Pavia-Volpe, including my buddy Ruben Gonzalez, and made arrangements to pop in for a minute at his party. But it was not to be.
The phone rang as Marcie worked on her war paint and I finished repacking us for our move to the suite we'd been offered. I grabbed it, assuming it was Ruben or the front desk.
"Hello, room 2417 here," I said. "Can we go someplace else and stain a new set of sheets now?
"Fraaaank? Helloooo?" Barbara said.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, and how. I recovered without missing a beat, though.
"Um, hello, Barbara," I said, recognizing the whine and near-panic she laced her non-routine calls with. "Are you okay? You sound upset."
"No, we're not okay," she said. "Seamus is sick and he's crying a lot."
Marcie had heard "Barbara" and "Upset" and came out, gorgeous and beautiful, dressed to the nines and maximally painted for effect. Even worried, she looked so hot. She took the phone.
"Oh, no," she said, holding her forehead and looking away from me as I gestured, "What is it?"
"Well, mom, you have to take him to the vet, and you have to get him into the cage, so just please try," she said. "Don't worry if he pees in it, in fact, that would be good if he did. Just call the vet number I left you."
Marcie hanged up the phone and looked at me.
"Honey, Seamus hasn't peed and he is howling at her," she said. "We have to go home as soon as possible because she's freaking out and she doesn't know what to do. Why don't you go downstairs and wait for me by the Chinese restaurant? I'll be down soon, I promise."
When she came down, about a half hour later, she had smeared makeup and was back in her sweats. "Honey, I am so sorry, but I had to spend every last dime on a flight home. My mom refuses to put Seamus in her car while he is howling and she is very upset."
Home we went, flying only two hours later. When we got there, Barbara picked us up and we packed Seamus into the car. A urinary tract infection meant not only a $1,000 veterinary bill filled with things we did not ask for, but a change of veterinarian, soft food forever, and a cat that lost weight rapidly for a few years afterward.
But our little family was intact, and Seamus was safe at home with us again, regardless our aborted Vegas debauch and bacchanalian. There would be other trips to Vegas, but there would only be one Seamus, and Marcie and I both agreed over more modest anniversary activities that our bed was better than the Luxor's by far.
When Marcie suggested we re-honeymoon in Vegas, staying at the Luxor, I was quick to agree. I wanted to make up for my illness and hopefully enjoy myself and my wife a bit more. Everything was set, and Barbara had volunteered to keep an eye on Seamus, as opposed to having him stay in a kitty kennel for our trip.
We arrived in Vegas and soon checked in at the Luxor. We had gotten a room in the Pyramid, which was a terrible mistake, as it would turn out. The space was cramped, the bedclothes were somewhat uncomfortable, and the place was just... subpar. We began agitating for a suite in one of the towers after a tryst in the scratchy sheets.
As Marcie hammered the front desk for better accomodations in which to get her satisfaction, I contacted my coworkers from Pavia-Volpe, including my buddy Ruben Gonzalez, and made arrangements to pop in for a minute at his party. But it was not to be.
The phone rang as Marcie worked on her war paint and I finished repacking us for our move to the suite we'd been offered. I grabbed it, assuming it was Ruben or the front desk.
"Hello, room 2417 here," I said. "Can we go someplace else and stain a new set of sheets now?
"Fraaaank? Helloooo?" Barbara said.
Uncomfortable? Yeah, and how. I recovered without missing a beat, though.
"Um, hello, Barbara," I said, recognizing the whine and near-panic she laced her non-routine calls with. "Are you okay? You sound upset."
"No, we're not okay," she said. "Seamus is sick and he's crying a lot."
Marcie had heard "Barbara" and "Upset" and came out, gorgeous and beautiful, dressed to the nines and maximally painted for effect. Even worried, she looked so hot. She took the phone.
"Oh, no," she said, holding her forehead and looking away from me as I gestured, "What is it?"
"Well, mom, you have to take him to the vet, and you have to get him into the cage, so just please try," she said. "Don't worry if he pees in it, in fact, that would be good if he did. Just call the vet number I left you."
Marcie hanged up the phone and looked at me.
"Honey, Seamus hasn't peed and he is howling at her," she said. "We have to go home as soon as possible because she's freaking out and she doesn't know what to do. Why don't you go downstairs and wait for me by the Chinese restaurant? I'll be down soon, I promise."
When she came down, about a half hour later, she had smeared makeup and was back in her sweats. "Honey, I am so sorry, but I had to spend every last dime on a flight home. My mom refuses to put Seamus in her car while he is howling and she is very upset."
Home we went, flying only two hours later. When we got there, Barbara picked us up and we packed Seamus into the car. A urinary tract infection meant not only a $1,000 veterinary bill filled with things we did not ask for, but a change of veterinarian, soft food forever, and a cat that lost weight rapidly for a few years afterward.
But our little family was intact, and Seamus was safe at home with us again, regardless our aborted Vegas debauch and bacchanalian. There would be other trips to Vegas, but there would only be one Seamus, and Marcie and I both agreed over more modest anniversary activities that our bed was better than the Luxor's by far.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
A Tough Time to Wed (Conclusion-R)
As I had said before, I was ill the whole time during our wedding trip. This did not end with wedding day.
After the wedding, Marcie decided we should walk to the Stratosphere. On the way there, Reverend Paged by His Cellphone pulled over and offered a ride, which we took.
We started toward the doors. "I can't wait to try the ride," Marcie said.
"I can't wait to have a drink and relax," I said, pinching her butt.
"Honey, can we take the ride first?" she asked, pushing up against my arm with one of my favorite parts of her. It was a surefire tactic.
"Yes, we can," I said.
We hit the ride. It was not much of a roller coaster, far too short and not very fast, but it was high above the valley and we saw for miles and miles.
"Oh, that was fun," she said to the attendant. "Thank you."
But as we cleared the door into the Top of The World Lounge, she leaned in close and whispered, "Honey, did you think that ride was kind of short?"
"Yes," I said. "Mercifully short. I'll meet you at the bar?"
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" she said. "Oh, geez. I'll be at the end of the bar."
And so another dash to the restroom ensued, this one without anything but a lot of horrible cramps and loud gas. I felt pretty greenish when it subsided.
We enjoyed our drink and I kissed her as she looked out on the view of the valley. She commented that I felt hot and I made a lame joke.
It was time to go. "Let's do the roller coaster at New York New York next," she said, excitedly charging down Las Vegas Boulevard.
I stopped and she looked at me. I waited for her to put it together. She refused to budge, and I realized that she was working her list. Lists were like inviolable plans from which nothing shall stray in Marcie's world.
"Honey, it will be so fast, and if you get sick, you get sick," she said.
"How about I rest and try to not get sick anymore on my honeymoon?" I asked.
"Fine," she said. "But don't expect to wait on you and baby you. You're sick, you have a little stomach ache. You're not dying."
She worked on me for a half hour. Finally she called, got a reservation and left the room, snarling "Fine, if you want to be such a big fucking baby, I'll go by myself."
When she came back, she brought me some Pepto from the4 Osco or Sav-on down the street. She apologized and then let me cuddle up with her while she described her roller coaster adventure.
"Well, it is totally fun," she said. "You go through loops and barrel-rolls, you're like 150 feet off the ground, and people are screaming the whole time."
She had sat in the front with "a nice young man," as she put it. I knew it was a jab at me, but i just kissed her as she described the roller coaster car, which was a cross between "an old New York cab and a hot rod."
I enjoyed her happy banter as I drifted off a little. She woke me up and kissed me, and after a very sweet first-time-as-a-married-couple lovemaking session, we took a bath.
When she got out and started to dress for later, I closed the doors and rejoiced that my stomach had held out with the pepto, though its disquiet was coming back with a vengeance.
We went out for a nice bite at the Monte Carlo's steakhouse, where I ordered a meal I thought my stomach had settled enough for the next day. It had, until I got back to the room and lost it.
That night, we saw George Carlin at Bally's, and his act became a part of our ritual visits. As a side note, I had to get up four times total from the opener through Carlin's act, so some of it seemed fresh the next year, though Marcie did not think so.
Marcie got home, drunk and happy, and passed out in her evening wear. I was awake until some more pepto kicked in.
I thought the last day of our little elopement would be the best. I awoke with a settled and happy stomach. My fever had broken, leaving a spectacular Frank-shaped, wet dent on the bed. I felt great.
We ordered in for breakfast and Marcie crossed off yet another item from her list. We had a tender morning and wandered down to gamble for an hour or so, then off to her next stop: Mandalay Bay.
Mandalay Bay had hosted the Lennox-Tua fight the night before, and the crowd had not completely dispersed. We enjoyed a little walking tour of the grounds first. I was fine.
Then, after a quick peek of the head into a restaurant, a smell kind of hit the wrong nerve and my stomach rumbled audibly.
"Oh, honey," Marcie asked. "Are you hungry again?"
I was not, and I gave her a grim shake of the head. "No, no. I think I am fine."
We walked past a couple of restaurants more, and watched the pretentious wine tower with its rigged bartenders going up and down on wires. My stomach was more sour by the minute. I chugged some pepto.
By the time Marcie tried a little more gambling, my belly was in full revolt. We made it to the shark encounter, then Marcie said we shoudl give the shark exhibit a visit.
I was dubious, and my stomach agreed with that outlook. "Let me ask if they have restrooms in the tour, okay?"
No restrooms.
"Frank! Come on!" she said.
I was not glad that I skipped it, but shortly after she left on her own, instead of waiting a little for me to be sure all was clear, I went into the restroom. I got out when she returned. but she had already written her little note.
As she tucked it away in her purse, she commented, "You know, you are going to regret not petting the sharks with me and not riding the roller coaster. Mark my words."
I do regret those things, of course. I also regret every moment in which I could have gone with her to a movie I did not really want to see, or taken a walk with her in Point Loma instead of surfed mission beach.
I regret working my job when she was sick, not being able to be there every second, and every lost moment that necessity and society and general life kept us apart.
But they did not seem like important things at the time.And these regrets are far outweighed by the times I took the risks she wanted me to so we could have more life together in the time we did get.
After the wedding, Marcie decided we should walk to the Stratosphere. On the way there, Reverend Paged by His Cellphone pulled over and offered a ride, which we took.
We started toward the doors. "I can't wait to try the ride," Marcie said.
"I can't wait to have a drink and relax," I said, pinching her butt.
"Honey, can we take the ride first?" she asked, pushing up against my arm with one of my favorite parts of her. It was a surefire tactic.
"Yes, we can," I said.
We hit the ride. It was not much of a roller coaster, far too short and not very fast, but it was high above the valley and we saw for miles and miles.
"Oh, that was fun," she said to the attendant. "Thank you."
But as we cleared the door into the Top of The World Lounge, she leaned in close and whispered, "Honey, did you think that ride was kind of short?"
"Yes," I said. "Mercifully short. I'll meet you at the bar?"
"Oh, honey, are you okay?" she said. "Oh, geez. I'll be at the end of the bar."
And so another dash to the restroom ensued, this one without anything but a lot of horrible cramps and loud gas. I felt pretty greenish when it subsided.
We enjoyed our drink and I kissed her as she looked out on the view of the valley. She commented that I felt hot and I made a lame joke.
It was time to go. "Let's do the roller coaster at New York New York next," she said, excitedly charging down Las Vegas Boulevard.
I stopped and she looked at me. I waited for her to put it together. She refused to budge, and I realized that she was working her list. Lists were like inviolable plans from which nothing shall stray in Marcie's world.
"Honey, it will be so fast, and if you get sick, you get sick," she said.
"How about I rest and try to not get sick anymore on my honeymoon?" I asked.
"Fine," she said. "But don't expect to wait on you and baby you. You're sick, you have a little stomach ache. You're not dying."
She worked on me for a half hour. Finally she called, got a reservation and left the room, snarling "Fine, if you want to be such a big fucking baby, I'll go by myself."
When she came back, she brought me some Pepto from the4 Osco or Sav-on down the street. She apologized and then let me cuddle up with her while she described her roller coaster adventure.
"Well, it is totally fun," she said. "You go through loops and barrel-rolls, you're like 150 feet off the ground, and people are screaming the whole time."
She had sat in the front with "a nice young man," as she put it. I knew it was a jab at me, but i just kissed her as she described the roller coaster car, which was a cross between "an old New York cab and a hot rod."
I enjoyed her happy banter as I drifted off a little. She woke me up and kissed me, and after a very sweet first-time-as-a-married-couple lovemaking session, we took a bath.
When she got out and started to dress for later, I closed the doors and rejoiced that my stomach had held out with the pepto, though its disquiet was coming back with a vengeance.
We went out for a nice bite at the Monte Carlo's steakhouse, where I ordered a meal I thought my stomach had settled enough for the next day. It had, until I got back to the room and lost it.
That night, we saw George Carlin at Bally's, and his act became a part of our ritual visits. As a side note, I had to get up four times total from the opener through Carlin's act, so some of it seemed fresh the next year, though Marcie did not think so.
Marcie got home, drunk and happy, and passed out in her evening wear. I was awake until some more pepto kicked in.
I thought the last day of our little elopement would be the best. I awoke with a settled and happy stomach. My fever had broken, leaving a spectacular Frank-shaped, wet dent on the bed. I felt great.
We ordered in for breakfast and Marcie crossed off yet another item from her list. We had a tender morning and wandered down to gamble for an hour or so, then off to her next stop: Mandalay Bay.
Mandalay Bay had hosted the Lennox-Tua fight the night before, and the crowd had not completely dispersed. We enjoyed a little walking tour of the grounds first. I was fine.
Then, after a quick peek of the head into a restaurant, a smell kind of hit the wrong nerve and my stomach rumbled audibly.
"Oh, honey," Marcie asked. "Are you hungry again?"
I was not, and I gave her a grim shake of the head. "No, no. I think I am fine."
We walked past a couple of restaurants more, and watched the pretentious wine tower with its rigged bartenders going up and down on wires. My stomach was more sour by the minute. I chugged some pepto.
By the time Marcie tried a little more gambling, my belly was in full revolt. We made it to the shark encounter, then Marcie said we shoudl give the shark exhibit a visit.
I was dubious, and my stomach agreed with that outlook. "Let me ask if they have restrooms in the tour, okay?"
No restrooms.
"Frank! Come on!" she said.
I was not glad that I skipped it, but shortly after she left on her own, instead of waiting a little for me to be sure all was clear, I went into the restroom. I got out when she returned. but she had already written her little note.
As she tucked it away in her purse, she commented, "You know, you are going to regret not petting the sharks with me and not riding the roller coaster. Mark my words."
I do regret those things, of course. I also regret every moment in which I could have gone with her to a movie I did not really want to see, or taken a walk with her in Point Loma instead of surfed mission beach.
I regret working my job when she was sick, not being able to be there every second, and every lost moment that necessity and society and general life kept us apart.
But they did not seem like important things at the time.And these regrets are far outweighed by the times I took the risks she wanted me to so we could have more life together in the time we did get.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Marcie's Own Words
Rather than tell you how Marcie felt about our days in Vegas, i will simply share her joy in a slideshow of some of the notes she made on pieces of paper, postcards and napkins. I'll explain some of them tomorrow.
For now, enjoy this little treasure trove of her person in her own hand and her own words and see if you don't just fall apart seeing how excited and happy she was then.
To see the postcards and notes better, click play and then click on one of the pictures to go to a much larger and clearer view.
I miss the happy lightness you can almost hear in her writing, as I am sure the rest of her family and many of her friends do, too.
For now, enjoy this little treasure trove of her person in her own hand and her own words and see if you don't just fall apart seeing how excited and happy she was then.
To see the postcards and notes better, click play and then click on one of the pictures to go to a much larger and clearer view.
I miss the happy lightness you can almost hear in her writing, as I am sure the rest of her family and many of her friends do, too.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 6)
We were on our way to the land of married respectability in the week before the wedding. Everything was arranged and we were set to travel. Our suite at the Monte Carlo was reserved, plans for entertainment firmed up and our flight was reserved. One last thing before we left was a late lunch the day before our departure.
We chose Indian. We'll call the restaurant "Bombay Barf," as its choice would turn out to be a bad one for me.
Marcie enjoyed a curry dish while I had chicken tandoori. Unfortunately, I took a big bite of the chicken before I realized that it was lmost wholly uncooked in its center. If you have ever had frozen chicken that is tossed into the oven unthawed, then you know the sensation. I tasted cooked goodness then squishy, almost gelatinous inner meat.
I spit it out and sent it back. I was served, some 15 minutes later, a fully cooked tandoori by a scowling and curt subcontinental who seemed to think I was putting him out by demanding properly prepared food. Never mind. I left it on the plate and Marcie accepted that.
The damage had been done.
In the morning, I woke feeling slightly woozy and a little tired. I also had an urgent need. I ended up spending a painful half hour there. I will spare you the details. Nausea was not alone in keeping me company, though. I wanted to stay a bit longer, but was informed that might lead to some worse pain.
"Honey, I am sorry you feel so sick, but you'll feel better when it's all over with and we're married," Marcie said through the door.
"Great!" I thought. She believes I am faking illness or suffering from nerves.
As if to test me, Marcie proceeded to cook a hearty, massive breakfast for us, the last thing I wanted at that point. I poked at my eggs, ate my toast and drank my orange juice, and tried to avoid looking at the bacon, whose usual greasy, salty goodness was vaguely, nauseatingly repellent to me. She noticed.
"Frank," she said, clattering her fork. "Would you eat your goddamn food? I swear, you are being such a baby. This is what you wanted, too, right? Or were you just trying to appease me? No, tell me so I don't get my hopes up and end up left at the altar, because I swear that will be the end for us."
I looked up at her and I croaked, "Honey, I am just sick. I think the chicken did it. I don't want to cancel our wedding, I just don't feel well. I'll be fine, though."
"Yeah, the chicken did it," she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her fork angrily on the plate. "You only had one bite of that fucking chicken, I watched you, so don't tell me you were poisoned from that little bit
But my temperature climbed, reaching 102 that afternoon as I finished packing. I tried a cool shower, adding a good half hour to my considerable time in the facilities for the day. No dice. Later, I even had to invade and take over the kennel's bathroom when we dropped Seamus off, and spent a good 15 minutes there. Things were getting worse.
"Stop it," Marcie said under her breath, her ferocious glare and tight lips showing her at the end of her rope with me. "You need to buck up and be my man, not wimp out and play sick. And if you are sick, you need to try to get it under control."
So it went. Eventually, she realized this was not playing sick. But by that time, we were in the air. She was pleased to be on the way and overwhelmed with giddiness, and that change in her attitude opened her eyes. Maybe I was sick, after all.
As she looked over at me on the plane, she leaned in and whispered, "Oh, honey, you are sweating so much," she said. "Are you okay?"
I squeezed her hand and was more relieved that she realized I was not faking my illness than concerned with telling her I was sick again.
"I'll be okay, honey," I whispered. "I think the sweat is because my body is fighting it off."
The second we were in the terminal, I went into the bathroom. I took time to, after my more urgent need, wash my face and make myself presentable. I was very pale and remained so for the whole trip, as the wedding video shows. But when I came out, she took my hand and squeezed it, kissed me and leaned into my chest, and I knew she understood how sick I was.
We had a wonderful night despite my illness, and gambled a bit to boot. We came out $200 ahead, but I demurred on visiting the steak house we had planned to. She understood. But my illness would interfere with other activities, which her little notes remind me of. Those, I will post tomorrow.
F.
We chose Indian. We'll call the restaurant "Bombay Barf," as its choice would turn out to be a bad one for me.
Marcie enjoyed a curry dish while I had chicken tandoori. Unfortunately, I took a big bite of the chicken before I realized that it was lmost wholly uncooked in its center. If you have ever had frozen chicken that is tossed into the oven unthawed, then you know the sensation. I tasted cooked goodness then squishy, almost gelatinous inner meat.
I spit it out and sent it back. I was served, some 15 minutes later, a fully cooked tandoori by a scowling and curt subcontinental who seemed to think I was putting him out by demanding properly prepared food. Never mind. I left it on the plate and Marcie accepted that.
The damage had been done.
In the morning, I woke feeling slightly woozy and a little tired. I also had an urgent need. I ended up spending a painful half hour there. I will spare you the details. Nausea was not alone in keeping me company, though. I wanted to stay a bit longer, but was informed that might lead to some worse pain.
"Honey, I am sorry you feel so sick, but you'll feel better when it's all over with and we're married," Marcie said through the door.
"Great!" I thought. She believes I am faking illness or suffering from nerves.
As if to test me, Marcie proceeded to cook a hearty, massive breakfast for us, the last thing I wanted at that point. I poked at my eggs, ate my toast and drank my orange juice, and tried to avoid looking at the bacon, whose usual greasy, salty goodness was vaguely, nauseatingly repellent to me. She noticed.
"Frank," she said, clattering her fork. "Would you eat your goddamn food? I swear, you are being such a baby. This is what you wanted, too, right? Or were you just trying to appease me? No, tell me so I don't get my hopes up and end up left at the altar, because I swear that will be the end for us."
I looked up at her and I croaked, "Honey, I am just sick. I think the chicken did it. I don't want to cancel our wedding, I just don't feel well. I'll be fine, though."
"Yeah, the chicken did it," she said, narrowing her eyes and tapping her fork angrily on the plate. "You only had one bite of that fucking chicken, I watched you, so don't tell me you were poisoned from that little bit
But my temperature climbed, reaching 102 that afternoon as I finished packing. I tried a cool shower, adding a good half hour to my considerable time in the facilities for the day. No dice. Later, I even had to invade and take over the kennel's bathroom when we dropped Seamus off, and spent a good 15 minutes there. Things were getting worse.
"Stop it," Marcie said under her breath, her ferocious glare and tight lips showing her at the end of her rope with me. "You need to buck up and be my man, not wimp out and play sick. And if you are sick, you need to try to get it under control."
So it went. Eventually, she realized this was not playing sick. But by that time, we were in the air. She was pleased to be on the way and overwhelmed with giddiness, and that change in her attitude opened her eyes. Maybe I was sick, after all.
As she looked over at me on the plane, she leaned in and whispered, "Oh, honey, you are sweating so much," she said. "Are you okay?"
I squeezed her hand and was more relieved that she realized I was not faking my illness than concerned with telling her I was sick again.
"I'll be okay, honey," I whispered. "I think the sweat is because my body is fighting it off."
The second we were in the terminal, I went into the bathroom. I took time to, after my more urgent need, wash my face and make myself presentable. I was very pale and remained so for the whole trip, as the wedding video shows. But when I came out, she took my hand and squeezed it, kissed me and leaned into my chest, and I knew she understood how sick I was.
We had a wonderful night despite my illness, and gambled a bit to boot. We came out $200 ahead, but I demurred on visiting the steak house we had planned to. She understood. But my illness would interfere with other activities, which her little notes remind me of. Those, I will post tomorrow.
F.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Getting Ready For the Big Sell
Last night with Marcie’s parents was easy and short. I had my visit and conspired with Barbara to get her out of the house one night for a little dinner. On to current events.
I am about to be unemployed if the budget plan does not change here at San Diego Unified. I have options, and I have ideas. That’s all I really need for the moment, and I can always go back to writing the news and blogging more formally. No problemo.
But I need to start cleaning my house out. Everything must go. I will sell the best stuff online, other stuff through Craigslist and a big whopping load through a walk-in-and-make-an-offer sale. Every single penny, will be going into the mega-memorial mission and to (if any cash is left over) subsidize the writing of her book.
I have been putting this off for quite a while. Now it’s time to get it going. I hope that, in two months, I will have cleared the decks of most of our stuff, furnishings and all. Some things will be saved, of course, but most must go. I will begin with the videos, both tape and DVD, and the newer books.
Once I have cleaned out most of that, it will be all about the yard-garage-estate sales. I plan to keep enough cookware, etcetera to take care of myself (saving only the best gear), but to get rid of the extras. When I say everything must go, I mean it. Only the sacred will remain.
I am posting this so that, if her friends see this, or her family, they can tell me what they might be interested in having first. Think about it and let me know if there is something special, folks. Okay, wish me luck and send fundraising ideas.
Much Love,
F.
We return to Marcie and my wedding when my scanner works again. Damn thing is on the fritz… I want to share what she saved and wrote of our trip. After that, we’re back to Seamus and Marcie and I.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Apologies...
I am taking a brief break, perhaps. I don't want to blog myself into a heart attack, after all. Actually, tonight I will have dinner with Marcie's parents. I will continue with the story of our little wedding and such afterward.
I plan to share the video with them, so that will be tough. I may bring a few videos, actaully. Ditto for pictures... Rough night ahead.
I plan to share the video with them, so that will be tough. I may bring a few videos, actaully. Ditto for pictures... Rough night ahead.
Monday, April 7, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 5)
After our long drive in Marcie's little Tercel, I decided to make every effort I could to show my interest in our wedding. Marcie was, happily, amenable.However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload.
I wanted a spa or jacuzzi tub, I jotted to her in a note to her about the wedding. "More to slide around in with you than anything because I don't much like to take baths," I wrote.
Done. The Monte Carlo suite, which we previewed online, had a tub for two... couples. It was damned swimming pool.
"Room service at least once," I asked. Agreed, as it meant more time in the sack for us.
Things finally had hit a nice pace of accommodation and the occasional rough spot was soon smoothed over with negotiation and excited planning.
However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload. When I got home at 10:30 one night and Marcie wanted to talk wedding rings, I snapped. It was not a shining moment, I admit.
"Honey, why the fuck are we even talking about this?" I said, 30 minutes later as the late news came on. "Can't it wait? I don't want a diamond ring, I just want a simple band to show people I am taken."
She nodded and listened, and I stupidly took that to be license to continue.
"What? Do you want us to be paying off rings for the next 10 years?" I asked. I instantly regretted it.
Her face melted into grief and she covered it, wailing through them "I knew you didn't want to get married, Frank. I am such a fool. You just go along with me because you don't want to argue."
She left the catalogs on the kitchen table and ran into the room, closing the door and locking it behind her. I slept on the couch after a half hour of fruitless apologies and admonitions from her to leave her alone.
When we did get the rings, after a tearful reconciliation the next morning, she refused to buy anything but a simple band for herself (of gold) and a silver one for me (as I have always disliked gold).
I have worn my father's gold ring, which she loved when he gave it to me and which includes three small diamond settings. But my simple band, which I still wear, is as beautiful a reminder to me of our love as I need or ever needed.
I would say that Marcie forgave me, but I am not sure that is completely true. She saved the receipt, which I still have, but unlike every other memory from our trip, which have notes for her memoir, it is unadorned by her writing.
In a way, I suppose I did not deserve to be forgiven for that outburst. She, on the other hand, deserved a ring that would take a lifetime to pay off, if that is what she wanted. I wish I had given it to her.
But her pride, nobility, and resolve to never show weakness would have won out over any grand gesture. She would rather carry the wound without comment.
There were other little sins that, in her passing, she noted. These, I know, were long ago resolved and forgiven, or understood to not be sins at all.
But my illness before and during our wedding, because of her fears of my commitment to the event, abounds in her notes, which tear at my heart still when I read them.
I wanted a spa or jacuzzi tub, I jotted to her in a note to her about the wedding. "More to slide around in with you than anything because I don't much like to take baths," I wrote.
Done. The Monte Carlo suite, which we previewed online, had a tub for two... couples. It was damned swimming pool.
"Room service at least once," I asked. Agreed, as it meant more time in the sack for us.
Things finally had hit a nice pace of accommodation and the occasional rough spot was soon smoothed over with negotiation and excited planning.
However, I was till busy and a zombie from my workload. When I got home at 10:30 one night and Marcie wanted to talk wedding rings, I snapped. It was not a shining moment, I admit.
"Honey, why the fuck are we even talking about this?" I said, 30 minutes later as the late news came on. "Can't it wait? I don't want a diamond ring, I just want a simple band to show people I am taken."
She nodded and listened, and I stupidly took that to be license to continue.
"What? Do you want us to be paying off rings for the next 10 years?" I asked. I instantly regretted it.
Her face melted into grief and she covered it, wailing through them "I knew you didn't want to get married, Frank. I am such a fool. You just go along with me because you don't want to argue."
She left the catalogs on the kitchen table and ran into the room, closing the door and locking it behind her. I slept on the couch after a half hour of fruitless apologies and admonitions from her to leave her alone.
When we did get the rings, after a tearful reconciliation the next morning, she refused to buy anything but a simple band for herself (of gold) and a silver one for me (as I have always disliked gold).
I have worn my father's gold ring, which she loved when he gave it to me and which includes three small diamond settings. But my simple band, which I still wear, is as beautiful a reminder to me of our love as I need or ever needed.
I would say that Marcie forgave me, but I am not sure that is completely true. She saved the receipt, which I still have, but unlike every other memory from our trip, which have notes for her memoir, it is unadorned by her writing.
In a way, I suppose I did not deserve to be forgiven for that outburst. She, on the other hand, deserved a ring that would take a lifetime to pay off, if that is what she wanted. I wish I had given it to her.
But her pride, nobility, and resolve to never show weakness would have won out over any grand gesture. She would rather carry the wound without comment.
There were other little sins that, in her passing, she noted. These, I know, were long ago resolved and forgiven, or understood to not be sins at all.
But my illness before and during our wedding, because of her fears of my commitment to the event, abounds in her notes, which tear at my heart still when I read them.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 4)
So, having relinquished my say in the venue, it soon became apparent that Marcie was not sure when and where she wanted to marry. She vacillated between Vegas and the chapel in Hillcrest until the last few days.
"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."
I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.
I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.
"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."
However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.
"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.
She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.
"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."
I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.
"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"
She glared.
"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."
"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."
I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.
"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.
I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.
I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.
"Silver Bells," she said one Sunday morning as we enjoyed roasted potatoes and eggs. "Silver Bells wedding chapel is where we will get married."
I nodded and smiled, continuing my morning repast. "So that's up in Hillcrest?" I asked, casually prodding her to let out some of her excitement.
I looked up when the fork clattered on her plate. She folded her arms across her breasts and bit her lower lip, leaning down onto the table.
"No, Frank," she said, shaking her head. "No, this is the chapel in Las Vegas i was telling you about for the last two weeks."
However, for that last two weeks I had been working at a feverish pace, desperately trying to save some money for some gifts, to gamble with, anything. I was essentially a zombie.
"I'm sorry, honey, I'm just really tired," I offered.
She was very sad and upset looking, and she reached across the table and took my hand. "Do you wanty me to cancel everything, honey?" she asked, biting her lip again, shaking her head.
"I don't want to force you, because you'll just end up hating me," she said. "So, if you're not sure about this, or you're not ready, we can wait."
I pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth, then stood up, bewildered. I had no idea where this could go and did not want to know.
"Honey, that is the second time you offered to call it off," I said. What are you trying to tell me? Are YOU having second thoughts?"
She glared.
"I want to marry you, but I cannot keep up with your changing ideas and you don't tell me anything, or you tell me than I say something you don't like."
"You could show some interest, you know," she said. "God, it's like I am dragging you to the altar, Frank. It's totally humiliating."
I did not hug her this time, but took my plate, dumped it in the trash and left the apartment. As I began walking, she drove up and pulled over in front of me.
"Frank, god damn it, get in the car," she said.
I sighed and hopped in, and that was likely the worst mistake to date. She drove us around the neighborhood as she laid into me for every little thing she thought I was doing wrong by not doing them.
I had no doubt I wanted to marry her, but was beginning to dread what married life might end up like for me.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 3)
An hour or so after we had our argument, Marcie returned and put her foot down on where we would marry and how.
"We are not having anyone at our wedding," she said. "No friends, no family, no reception, no priests and no wedding poo for me to have to do."
I just nodded and listened. She was still pretty fired up.
"We will get our license here and we will get married at a chapel, or we'll get a license in Las Vegas and do it there, whatever works," she said. "Don't complicate it, don't add things to it and don't mess with me, Frank."
"Mess with you?" I asked.
She looked at me as if she knew I was aware of what she meant and glared. "Just don't stress me out! You always have all this... this shit to say about everything! Lay off me and don't pick fights with me."
I just nodded and pulled her into a hug. She thumped me on the chest lightly in the hug and I could hear her voice shake as she added, "If you don't want to get married, just say so, because I don't want you to sabotage everything. Just be honest with me."
I was very hurt, but I wanted to get her back to normal. Still, I had to think clearly about how to make her understand her fear of me not being on board was unfounded. I sighed.
I gently leaned back and looked her in the eye. There were tears, and her chin was wrinkled as she looked down and away. I lifted it a little and kissed her gently as she started to sob.
"Honey, I asked you first, remember?" I said. "Many years ago? You said no, never. It was very hard for me to deal with that. But I always wanted to get married, so you just need to not freak out on me so much and we'll get there."
I held her close again and she moaned her apology into my chest.
"Okay, honey, I love you," she said, her breath hitching. "I am sorry I am such a big mess, and I know I am being difficult. I'll try to calm down."
I chuckled and stroked her back, but she leaned back and looked at me very intensely.
"What's so funny? I'm upset, honey, why would you laugh at me?" she asked, her pout on full display.
Primarily, I had chuckled at the irony of my future wife, who kvetched endlessly over 'Bridezillas,' being so hard to deal with near her own very basic, stripped-down nuptials. But, of course, I was not foolish enough to open that can of worms.
"Oh, honey I am just glad you're home and we're standing here holding each other, and I am relieved it was all a big misunderstanding and not some burning issue to deal with, okay?" I offered.
She nodded and squinted, and whispered, hoarsely, "Okay, honey, thank you."
It was true, I was relieved. It may seem deceitful to have not shared both thoughts, but I rarely have less than three in mind at any given time, so I just chose to share the one most germane to her needs
Not that she believed me completely. She just accepted the premise and moved on... to our next little hitch before the hitching, as it would turn out.
"We are not having anyone at our wedding," she said. "No friends, no family, no reception, no priests and no wedding poo for me to have to do."
I just nodded and listened. She was still pretty fired up.
"We will get our license here and we will get married at a chapel, or we'll get a license in Las Vegas and do it there, whatever works," she said. "Don't complicate it, don't add things to it and don't mess with me, Frank."
"Mess with you?" I asked.
She looked at me as if she knew I was aware of what she meant and glared. "Just don't stress me out! You always have all this... this shit to say about everything! Lay off me and don't pick fights with me."
I just nodded and pulled her into a hug. She thumped me on the chest lightly in the hug and I could hear her voice shake as she added, "If you don't want to get married, just say so, because I don't want you to sabotage everything. Just be honest with me."
I was very hurt, but I wanted to get her back to normal. Still, I had to think clearly about how to make her understand her fear of me not being on board was unfounded. I sighed.
I gently leaned back and looked her in the eye. There were tears, and her chin was wrinkled as she looked down and away. I lifted it a little and kissed her gently as she started to sob.
"Honey, I asked you first, remember?" I said. "Many years ago? You said no, never. It was very hard for me to deal with that. But I always wanted to get married, so you just need to not freak out on me so much and we'll get there."
I held her close again and she moaned her apology into my chest.
"Okay, honey, I love you," she said, her breath hitching. "I am sorry I am such a big mess, and I know I am being difficult. I'll try to calm down."
I chuckled and stroked her back, but she leaned back and looked at me very intensely.
"What's so funny? I'm upset, honey, why would you laugh at me?" she asked, her pout on full display.
Primarily, I had chuckled at the irony of my future wife, who kvetched endlessly over 'Bridezillas,' being so hard to deal with near her own very basic, stripped-down nuptials. But, of course, I was not foolish enough to open that can of worms.
"Oh, honey I am just glad you're home and we're standing here holding each other, and I am relieved it was all a big misunderstanding and not some burning issue to deal with, okay?" I offered.
She nodded and squinted, and whispered, hoarsely, "Okay, honey, thank you."
It was true, I was relieved. It may seem deceitful to have not shared both thoughts, but I rarely have less than three in mind at any given time, so I just chose to share the one most germane to her needs
Not that she believed me completely. She just accepted the premise and moved on... to our next little hitch before the hitching, as it would turn out.
Friday, April 4, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 2)
So we had finally set our plans and picked our date (or rather, Marcie had bought tickets to Vegas and I had been happily ambushed). However, as could be expected, I wanted to protest a bit, modify the plans slightly, imprint the occasion with my own touch... BAD idea. Everything I said was taken wrongly.
"Maybe we should just get married here and then fly off to Vegas," I mused as we talked about the hotel to stay in and the attractions to sample.
"Well, where do you want to get married?" she said, her slightly higher voice sounding more like exasperation with room for compromise than frustration and anxiety.
"I don't know, just someplace local, I guess," I said.
She nodded and typed loudly on the keyboard, slapping it as she huffed. "How about Wedding Bell Chapel, the one my parents were married at?" she asked. "They just need us to have our marriage license and set an appointment. We can be married in San Diego and gone an hour later."
I thought about it and figured she was trying to be low-cost or modest. I wanted her to have a nice wedding, which I thought all girls wanted. As it turns out, I was way off, though I did not know it when I crossed the line and suggested something she was not willing to consider ever, at all: the big church wedding.
"Well, we can probably get into one of those one-day Catholic marriage classes and get married at Sacred Heart, if you want," I offered. "Then we can have a nice wedding. We won't have to pay for much, and everyone will be pretty good to us in my family..."
She glared up with her lips drawn and pressed together, then waited for me to explain myself. I did not know what to say. "What?" I asked.
"FRANK!? Are you stupid? The last thing I want is to talk to a priest about marrying the man i have been living with for seven fucking years," she said. "I don't want a big wedding, I don't want a big reception, I don't want any of that."
"Honey, I just thought you would want this to be special, and," I said, but shut up.
"I HATE weddings! I hate weddings and I will NEVER make anyone go through all the shit I did for my girlfriends' weddings," she said. "Everyone becomes this greedy, selfish monster and just craps all over their friends until they get their stupid day of attention from everyone and collect their loot."
I began to agree with her and put my hands up to calm her down, but she slapped them away before I could hug her.
"I don't know how many times I told you what HELL it was to be everyone's maid of honor, BLAH BLAH!" she said. "Sure, you are the maid of honor, pay out the ass and then 'Whoosh!' off to the honeymoon they go, never to be heard from until they get bored with being someone's wife."
"I'm sorry, I did not think you felt that way about your own wedding, honey," I said.
"Whatever," she said. "If you are so stuck on being in a big wedding and having your herd of family members dropping off their tribute for your father's approval, then we can just not get married. How does that sound?"
She did not wait for me to reply, but stomped out of the room and grabbed her purse. She did not say where she was going, but she drove off as I asked, stamping and cussing me out under her breath.
I was bewildered. But we were just getting started.
"Maybe we should just get married here and then fly off to Vegas," I mused as we talked about the hotel to stay in and the attractions to sample.
"Well, where do you want to get married?" she said, her slightly higher voice sounding more like exasperation with room for compromise than frustration and anxiety.
"I don't know, just someplace local, I guess," I said.
She nodded and typed loudly on the keyboard, slapping it as she huffed. "How about Wedding Bell Chapel, the one my parents were married at?" she asked. "They just need us to have our marriage license and set an appointment. We can be married in San Diego and gone an hour later."
I thought about it and figured she was trying to be low-cost or modest. I wanted her to have a nice wedding, which I thought all girls wanted. As it turns out, I was way off, though I did not know it when I crossed the line and suggested something she was not willing to consider ever, at all: the big church wedding.
"Well, we can probably get into one of those one-day Catholic marriage classes and get married at Sacred Heart, if you want," I offered. "Then we can have a nice wedding. We won't have to pay for much, and everyone will be pretty good to us in my family..."
She glared up with her lips drawn and pressed together, then waited for me to explain myself. I did not know what to say. "What?" I asked.
"FRANK!? Are you stupid? The last thing I want is to talk to a priest about marrying the man i have been living with for seven fucking years," she said. "I don't want a big wedding, I don't want a big reception, I don't want any of that."
"Honey, I just thought you would want this to be special, and," I said, but shut up.
"I HATE weddings! I hate weddings and I will NEVER make anyone go through all the shit I did for my girlfriends' weddings," she said. "Everyone becomes this greedy, selfish monster and just craps all over their friends until they get their stupid day of attention from everyone and collect their loot."
I began to agree with her and put my hands up to calm her down, but she slapped them away before I could hug her.
"I don't know how many times I told you what HELL it was to be everyone's maid of honor, BLAH BLAH!" she said. "Sure, you are the maid of honor, pay out the ass and then 'Whoosh!' off to the honeymoon they go, never to be heard from until they get bored with being someone's wife."
"I'm sorry, I did not think you felt that way about your own wedding, honey," I said.
"Whatever," she said. "If you are so stuck on being in a big wedding and having your herd of family members dropping off their tribute for your father's approval, then we can just not get married. How does that sound?"
She did not wait for me to reply, but stomped out of the room and grabbed her purse. She did not say where she was going, but she drove off as I asked, stamping and cussing me out under her breath.
I was bewildered. But we were just getting started.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
A tough time to wed (Pt. 1)
Everything went off as planned when Marcie and I were married. Except one little element. I was as sick as I think I could ever be. Unfortunately, the run-up to our marriage made this condition completely suspect in Marcie's eyes.
Marcie had always sustained that she would never marry me. I was first to propose, in 1996, before we went to Humboldt for my journalism degree. She immediately rejected me.
"No way, I am not marrying you," she said. "I don't even know if I am ever getting married."
I do not know if I was hurt, offended or both. Whatever the case, I shot right back at her. I cannot remember exactly accurately so far back, but I can approximate. I may have even had a little acid on my tongue, as well as egg on my face, so to speak.
"You've probably got the right idea," I said. "I don't want to be tied down, either. We're happy how we are. Besides, I promised my dad I wouldn't get married, and I planned on keeping that promise until I at least turned 30."
We did not speak for the rest of the night, and I felt distant from her until we moved into our house in Arcata. In the mean time, still smarting from my rejection, I told my father I wouldn't marry her, as much to prepare him in case I left her for a marrying girl as it was to let him know we would be living in (delicious) sin for some time to come.
Time healed that wound over. I put away the idea of marriage, which had been skeptical of despite my Catholic pedigree, and enjoyed my life with my apparently permanent wonderful live-in lover and all of her domestic talents. I thought the issue of matrimony was off the table forever.
But Marcie didn't forget my words, though we never discussed it again. She held me to them, in fact, in a way I never thought she would.
The day after her birthday in 2000, she came to me crying and sat next to me, holding my hand and looking down as she heaved and sniffled. I was completely baffled. "Honey, what's the matter?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Is your family okay?"
She shook her head "no," then "no" again, and then sniffed and wailed in her hoarse, sad, heartbreaking voice. "You're 30 now, why haven't you asked me to marry you? Don't you love me enough to try again, Frank? I think I deserve it."
"Of course you do," I said, feeling the sting of hot tears on my cheek. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't want to marry me?"
She looked up infuriated and shook her head and squinted as she spoke. "I knew you would mention that, you asshole," she spat. "If you don't want to marry me, just say so. You fucking..."
I cut her off and pulled her into a hug. "Shhh, shhh..." I said. "no, no. I love you, honey. I love you. Will you please marry me? Don't be mad."
And after smacking my back and sobbing for a few minutes, we went to bed. Some time later, as she panted in post-coital-making-up exhaustion, she gasped in my ear, "Yes."
"Huh?" I asked, half adrift already under her.
"I'll marry you, stupid," she said. "I love you, Frank. I want to get married."
""Thank you," I said. "When?"
"I got us tickets to Vegas for November," she said. "Next month."
And so that was that. I was pleased, even though I knew I had been very had in the best possible way.
F.
*I am taking a little break from the posts on Seamus to revisit the story of our wedding trip. We resume Seamus Week Sunday with... film!*
Marcie had always sustained that she would never marry me. I was first to propose, in 1996, before we went to Humboldt for my journalism degree. She immediately rejected me.
"No way, I am not marrying you," she said. "I don't even know if I am ever getting married."
I do not know if I was hurt, offended or both. Whatever the case, I shot right back at her. I cannot remember exactly accurately so far back, but I can approximate. I may have even had a little acid on my tongue, as well as egg on my face, so to speak.
"You've probably got the right idea," I said. "I don't want to be tied down, either. We're happy how we are. Besides, I promised my dad I wouldn't get married, and I planned on keeping that promise until I at least turned 30."
We did not speak for the rest of the night, and I felt distant from her until we moved into our house in Arcata. In the mean time, still smarting from my rejection, I told my father I wouldn't marry her, as much to prepare him in case I left her for a marrying girl as it was to let him know we would be living in (delicious) sin for some time to come.
Time healed that wound over. I put away the idea of marriage, which had been skeptical of despite my Catholic pedigree, and enjoyed my life with my apparently permanent wonderful live-in lover and all of her domestic talents. I thought the issue of matrimony was off the table forever.
But Marcie didn't forget my words, though we never discussed it again. She held me to them, in fact, in a way I never thought she would.
The day after her birthday in 2000, she came to me crying and sat next to me, holding my hand and looking down as she heaved and sniffled. I was completely baffled. "Honey, what's the matter?" I asked. "Is everything okay? Is your family okay?"
She shook her head "no," then "no" again, and then sniffed and wailed in her hoarse, sad, heartbreaking voice. "You're 30 now, why haven't you asked me to marry you? Don't you love me enough to try again, Frank? I think I deserve it."
"Of course you do," I said, feeling the sting of hot tears on my cheek. "Are you sure? I thought you didn't want to marry me?"
She looked up infuriated and shook her head and squinted as she spoke. "I knew you would mention that, you asshole," she spat. "If you don't want to marry me, just say so. You fucking..."
I cut her off and pulled her into a hug. "Shhh, shhh..." I said. "no, no. I love you, honey. I love you. Will you please marry me? Don't be mad."
And after smacking my back and sobbing for a few minutes, we went to bed. Some time later, as she panted in post-coital-making-up exhaustion, she gasped in my ear, "Yes."
"Huh?" I asked, half adrift already under her.
"I'll marry you, stupid," she said. "I love you, Frank. I want to get married."
""Thank you," I said. "When?"
"I got us tickets to Vegas for November," she said. "Next month."
And so that was that. I was pleased, even though I knew I had been very had in the best possible way.
F.
*I am taking a little break from the posts on Seamus to revisit the story of our wedding trip. We resume Seamus Week Sunday with... film!*
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Seamus' and Marcie's everyday homecoming ritual
Marcie and Seamus had a huge love affair, with complexities that rivaled Marcie and my own. There were spats and reconciliations, worries and insecurities, and more than a few scares to go around. There was depth there that some of the damaged and cynical might doubt or deride.
Marcie referred to Seamus, as I indicated in another post, by a variety of nicknames. "Little lover," Little Lamb," "Love Bug," "Love Bear," and even cuter names from time to time. He always learned the new monikers dutifully, then responded to them as he did "Seamus" until they passed out of vogue.
When I came home, Seamus was in either of two places. He was in Marcie's presence or locked away in the bedroom for a timeout. Yes, a timeout.
Seamus is a worrier. He watches over his house with a keen eye and expects that within it is maintained a rhythm he can rely on. Marcie provided that for him. If she was a few minutes late and I was already home, he would begin pacing the house and, later, the side yard and back enclosure, letting out low, cautious meows to draw her out, as if he were a lost kitten in the wild. It was adorable, if a bit melancholy.
But the sound of her car pulling up was all he needed to perk up and fly to the door, meows and chattering happiness overwhelming him as his whole body shook and purred. It was very precious to watch. As she would approach, he would start twirling and rubbing, his head waggling to and fro to keep eye contact.
"Oh, helloooo, my little lamb," she would say, the "o" sound raised to a high falsetto.
Seamus, a very prompt-driven chatter, would immediately let out a series of half-meow-mews. Marcie usually stayed outside the screen door as if awaiting an invitation in.
"Did you miss me? Did you wait for me in the window?" she would ask, smiling and totally enjoying his little prancing, punctuated with toe-carpet tugs and the sound of his contented purr-meows, which usually started by the time the ritual questions of greeting had commenced.
"Have you been a good boy?" she would ask, biting her lip or chuckling lightly as his whole body vibrated. "Oh! You want me to come in? Well, I don't know..."
By this time, Seamus would usually have raised hi meows to a fever pitch again, drawing them out over a second or two.
Marcie would relent, opening the door and slipping in, carefully setting her bags down or handing them to me so she could squat and pet him, gingerly avoiding stepping on his toes as he tried to simultaneously rub against her and pull on the carpet.
"I know, baby," she would say. "You had such a hard day, didn't you. You just tell me all about it, that's right."
About the time I started to feel jealous, he would run off to the kitchen, leading her to the pantry, and I would get my kiss from her. I am sure that I had a ritual she assigned to me as well, but to observe the one she played out every day with Seamus was quite a privilege.
Sometimes, I don't know if he has forgotten or just has more hope than me. But he'll stalk the house and the yard, letting out his low meows and mews. He still sleeps under her shrine and sometimes stares at it from the floor. I imagine he recognizes her picture.
I try to greet him at the door like she did, because I know he loves the certainty and the security of it. He seems to enjoy that a lot, even if sometimes I choke up at the memories the act evokes.
When I see him staring at her picture from the floor, I pick him up and put him in my lap so he can purr and sleep, then I gently settle him on his pad under the shrine. Maybe he dreams of her like I do. Maybe she greets him at the doorway to dreams and they play out their little ritual.
That's something I would like to be a witness to again.
F.
Marcie referred to Seamus, as I indicated in another post, by a variety of nicknames. "Little lover," Little Lamb," "Love Bug," "Love Bear," and even cuter names from time to time. He always learned the new monikers dutifully, then responded to them as he did "Seamus" until they passed out of vogue.
When I came home, Seamus was in either of two places. He was in Marcie's presence or locked away in the bedroom for a timeout. Yes, a timeout.
Seamus is a worrier. He watches over his house with a keen eye and expects that within it is maintained a rhythm he can rely on. Marcie provided that for him. If she was a few minutes late and I was already home, he would begin pacing the house and, later, the side yard and back enclosure, letting out low, cautious meows to draw her out, as if he were a lost kitten in the wild. It was adorable, if a bit melancholy.
But the sound of her car pulling up was all he needed to perk up and fly to the door, meows and chattering happiness overwhelming him as his whole body shook and purred. It was very precious to watch. As she would approach, he would start twirling and rubbing, his head waggling to and fro to keep eye contact.
"Oh, helloooo, my little lamb," she would say, the "o" sound raised to a high falsetto.
Seamus, a very prompt-driven chatter, would immediately let out a series of half-meow-mews. Marcie usually stayed outside the screen door as if awaiting an invitation in.
"Did you miss me? Did you wait for me in the window?" she would ask, smiling and totally enjoying his little prancing, punctuated with toe-carpet tugs and the sound of his contented purr-meows, which usually started by the time the ritual questions of greeting had commenced.
"Have you been a good boy?" she would ask, biting her lip or chuckling lightly as his whole body vibrated. "Oh! You want me to come in? Well, I don't know..."
By this time, Seamus would usually have raised hi meows to a fever pitch again, drawing them out over a second or two.
Marcie would relent, opening the door and slipping in, carefully setting her bags down or handing them to me so she could squat and pet him, gingerly avoiding stepping on his toes as he tried to simultaneously rub against her and pull on the carpet.
"I know, baby," she would say. "You had such a hard day, didn't you. You just tell me all about it, that's right."
About the time I started to feel jealous, he would run off to the kitchen, leading her to the pantry, and I would get my kiss from her. I am sure that I had a ritual she assigned to me as well, but to observe the one she played out every day with Seamus was quite a privilege.
Sometimes, I don't know if he has forgotten or just has more hope than me. But he'll stalk the house and the yard, letting out his low meows and mews. He still sleeps under her shrine and sometimes stares at it from the floor. I imagine he recognizes her picture.
I try to greet him at the door like she did, because I know he loves the certainty and the security of it. He seems to enjoy that a lot, even if sometimes I choke up at the memories the act evokes.
When I see him staring at her picture from the floor, I pick him up and put him in my lap so he can purr and sleep, then I gently settle him on his pad under the shrine. Maybe he dreams of her like I do. Maybe she greets him at the doorway to dreams and they play out their little ritual.
That's something I would like to be a witness to again.
F.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Meeting Seamus
Marcie was keen to pay attention to my memories and try to heal me where she could, as I mentioned in previous posts. Seamus is a living example of this trait of hers. When we first moved in together in early 1994, I commented that I missed having a cat.
I had had only one cat of my own. Garfield, named so by my little sister Virginia, was a beautiful part-Siamese, part Burmese with grey-striped points. He was tall and strong, and I got him from a newspaper delivery customer when I was 13. He was like a dog in a lot of ways.
Garfield came to his name being called, and usually with a loud, very Siamese "Miaaaaaaooooowwwww" as he walked, letting me know he was on his way. He would leap onto me when he got into range, into my arms, and either curl onto his back or hang his paws over my shoulder. He simply trusted and loved me absolutely, and I loved him too.
He was amazing.
His life was not ideal. I was not allowed to let him inside. Nonetheless, I sometimes snuck him in through my window when it was frosty or dangerous outside, often getting caught and punished for the effort. His beautiful long fur was always needing brushing and flea control. I tended to it with joy.
When I entered foster care, at 15, I had to leave him behind. I do not know what happened to him. I have been told he ran away by some. By others, I was told that, in a spiteful fit, an uncle drove him onto the freeway and dumped him there. Still another claimed he was sent to my grandfather's ranch but died there. I do not know which is truth, but they have all hurt very badly over the years to contemplate.
Marcie knew how much this wound still sat with me some eight years later. She noted and enjoyed how much I bonded with little Samantha, her family's cat. So, on my first birthday with her (actually a bit before), she decided to conspire with her mother for a very special gift.
When we took Seamus in, he could sit in my palm and clean himself, which he did. He also like to perch on my head, then sleep at Marcie's, his paws and belly straddling her, a furry little insulator.
He was also a little fervid ball of furious fur. He was bright and loved to play fetch, and battled endlessly with his ultimate enemy, a vase full of peacock feathers. Marcie fought with him for her right to decorate, and he advocated heartily for her continued replacement of the savaged plumes. His other apparent enemy was the foe of all kittens: the villainous moving feet of humans under bedclothes. He dispatched them with aplomb regularly for almost a year.
In his kittenhood, Seamus also had a fixation. Socks were collected and secreted into unknown places, never to be seen again.. No sock was safe from his collecting habit. Many a time I wondered where my socks had gone just moments after removing them. For months, the mystery continued.
One night, I removed my socks and left them on my shoes. As I began to tune into the X-files, I saw a little paw snake out from under the coffee table and snag on, dragging it away. Seamus trotted rapidly by with the purloined hosiery in his teeth. With a rustle behind the television styand, he was gone. I peered behind the stand, and no sign of him was visible.
Then, a little pink-brown nose peeked out from the small circular hole in the back of the stand cut for cords by the manufacturer. I wondered how he fit through, then suddenly he burst out from the back of the stand, pushing the flimsy panel open and racing off to some priority destination in another part of the apartment.
I opened the rarely seen interior of the stand and gazed upon a fetid lair lined in socks and a variety of catnip mice (referred to as 'catnip mousies' in Seamish). Here, then, was the mystery unraveled. I removed the most needed socks, my own stock of them being somewhat low, and left the rest, sharing my discovery with Marcie.
Seamus looked on nervously as we sifted through them, and yowled agitatedly as we collected a few for more appropriate use. As soon as we moved on, he crammed himself noisily into the back of the stand and rustled about. We did not see him until bed time.
"You put all those in there for him, didn't you?" Marcie asked. "I mean, it looks like it was all arranged in there like a bed for him."
The socks were three inches deep when I opened the door. It looked designed, not the casual and random collection of footcoverings one might expect of a cat. I was, however, innocent and as bewildered as she was.
"No, honey," I said. "We just have to face the reality that our cat is not only a little crazy, he's also a foot fetishist."
And as it turns out, he had more strange habits and practices to share.
For the moment, we had discovered the first unique item of personality in our new family member. But more importantly, he and Marcie developed a deep and special bond of their own over time that mirrored our own relationship closely, a subject for another post.
F.
I had had only one cat of my own. Garfield, named so by my little sister Virginia, was a beautiful part-Siamese, part Burmese with grey-striped points. He was tall and strong, and I got him from a newspaper delivery customer when I was 13. He was like a dog in a lot of ways.
Garfield came to his name being called, and usually with a loud, very Siamese "Miaaaaaaooooowwwww" as he walked, letting me know he was on his way. He would leap onto me when he got into range, into my arms, and either curl onto his back or hang his paws over my shoulder. He simply trusted and loved me absolutely, and I loved him too.
He was amazing.
His life was not ideal. I was not allowed to let him inside. Nonetheless, I sometimes snuck him in through my window when it was frosty or dangerous outside, often getting caught and punished for the effort. His beautiful long fur was always needing brushing and flea control. I tended to it with joy.
When I entered foster care, at 15, I had to leave him behind. I do not know what happened to him. I have been told he ran away by some. By others, I was told that, in a spiteful fit, an uncle drove him onto the freeway and dumped him there. Still another claimed he was sent to my grandfather's ranch but died there. I do not know which is truth, but they have all hurt very badly over the years to contemplate.
Marcie knew how much this wound still sat with me some eight years later. She noted and enjoyed how much I bonded with little Samantha, her family's cat. So, on my first birthday with her (actually a bit before), she decided to conspire with her mother for a very special gift.
When we took Seamus in, he could sit in my palm and clean himself, which he did. He also like to perch on my head, then sleep at Marcie's, his paws and belly straddling her, a furry little insulator.
He was also a little fervid ball of furious fur. He was bright and loved to play fetch, and battled endlessly with his ultimate enemy, a vase full of peacock feathers. Marcie fought with him for her right to decorate, and he advocated heartily for her continued replacement of the savaged plumes. His other apparent enemy was the foe of all kittens: the villainous moving feet of humans under bedclothes. He dispatched them with aplomb regularly for almost a year.
In his kittenhood, Seamus also had a fixation. Socks were collected and secreted into unknown places, never to be seen again.. No sock was safe from his collecting habit. Many a time I wondered where my socks had gone just moments after removing them. For months, the mystery continued.
One night, I removed my socks and left them on my shoes. As I began to tune into the X-files, I saw a little paw snake out from under the coffee table and snag on, dragging it away. Seamus trotted rapidly by with the purloined hosiery in his teeth. With a rustle behind the television styand, he was gone. I peered behind the stand, and no sign of him was visible.
Then, a little pink-brown nose peeked out from the small circular hole in the back of the stand cut for cords by the manufacturer. I wondered how he fit through, then suddenly he burst out from the back of the stand, pushing the flimsy panel open and racing off to some priority destination in another part of the apartment.
I opened the rarely seen interior of the stand and gazed upon a fetid lair lined in socks and a variety of catnip mice (referred to as 'catnip mousies' in Seamish). Here, then, was the mystery unraveled. I removed the most needed socks, my own stock of them being somewhat low, and left the rest, sharing my discovery with Marcie.
Seamus looked on nervously as we sifted through them, and yowled agitatedly as we collected a few for more appropriate use. As soon as we moved on, he crammed himself noisily into the back of the stand and rustled about. We did not see him until bed time.
"You put all those in there for him, didn't you?" Marcie asked. "I mean, it looks like it was all arranged in there like a bed for him."
The socks were three inches deep when I opened the door. It looked designed, not the casual and random collection of footcoverings one might expect of a cat. I was, however, innocent and as bewildered as she was.
"No, honey," I said. "We just have to face the reality that our cat is not only a little crazy, he's also a foot fetishist."
And as it turns out, he had more strange habits and practices to share.
For the moment, we had discovered the first unique item of personality in our new family member. But more importantly, he and Marcie developed a deep and special bond of their own over time that mirrored our own relationship closely, a subject for another post.
F.
Monday, March 31, 2008
On Our Seamus
He deserves his own post. He deserves a book, in fact (at least a well-illustrated children’s book). He is Seamus, the mix of child and working cat and best friend to me, confidant, sleep-inducing, comforting, living blanket and all-around joy.
There are a number of stories that Seamus touches on, but some of my happiest moments were in being with Marcie and him in various adventures, misadventures and cuddly piles of domesticity. He is getting on in years and turned 14 today, but he is just as spry and game to play as he ever was. This week, read and learn about the little witness to our love that Seamus, a quite atypical kitty, was and is.
Of course, really cute pictures and a film or two may be in the offing as well. I’ll try to restrain myself, though.
F.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Five months today - A letter to Marcie
So, today marks five black months since I lost the one person in my life whose true-heartedness, beauty, intelligence, independence, sweetness and depth could completely enthrall me, and did.
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
To my beloved wife,
I have been trying to open my eyes and wake from this nightmare, now in its sixth month. Perhaps that word seems strong, but after 14 years of you, such a sweet, long dream, the profound absence of you is so very stark.
I hope to share, again, what you gave me. I do not know if you got all of this before you passed, and I now am so grief-wracked that I cannot remember clearly what I shared. All the more reason to do so again, freshly, I guess.
You defined so much about me. You encouraged me to continue in what I did that you loved, and you brought me around on anything you didn't. I could not refuse you, though it was never easy to lead me to change, I know.
Your gentle admonitions, calling me to reflect on my gentler ways, softened and warmed my warrior heart. Your drive to seek goodness before riches, and to appreciate what is free (and to free oneself), directed my work to higher purposes. You inspire me to be a force for good.
Your loving and attentive touch healed so many wounds in me that I cannot begin to list them. You taught me that some of those wounds, once closed, should never be reopened. I will try to uphold that outlook without your constant and sweet reminders. You teach me to forgive, a lesson I will try to not forget.
"Honey, don't cast pearls before swine," you said.
I don't know how many times and in how many situations you used that line to remind me that I should not pour myself into fruitless or unappreciated efforts. I still struggle with that. But even when I do toss them, your voice echoes the maxim.
You used to draw my attention to the simple beauties around me, the leisure and the ease of our life together, no matter how I wanted to build it up more. You teach me that simple pleasures are more lasting and dear in their absence than wealthy indulgences.
Your life affirmed to me how family, though precious, is almost always the source of the worst pain we can experience. The things you put up, and the dignity you showed while doing so, amazed me. You were a noble and strong example I will try to emulate.
I know you said you want me to get out and find my way in a world without you. I don't know if I can.
I do promise to draw on all the strength you have given me, all the lessons we learned together, and all the memories I cherish of you to get through just one more day, or hour, or minute, or second. Maybe something will turn, maybe it will not.
Either way, whether for a happier tomorrow or the last of them, I carry on, still thoroughly in love and absolutely crushed.
Right now? Marcie, I wish I could touch something more of you than a box of your ashes and a picture, because what I need now most is your soothing caress.
Your Husband
Friday, March 28, 2008
Soothing the beast
It has become more and more obvious since Marcie's passing that she served as a check on my wild side. It was most welcome as I am, at times, far too fierce.
When I cam home upset by work, or the world in general, and wanting to go out and take on the whole damn mess, she could almost effortlessly calm me down, soothe me and put my mind on other things. She knew I needed it.
Her calmative effect on me is sorely missed.
I find myself holding my ground and digging in where I may have let things slide. I am also running a bit wild and telling people what's on my mind, regardless how appropriate or not.
It's all "Damn the torpedos!" all the time.
She calmed me with her love, with her simple caring for me and her gentle demeanor overall. I try to reflect on what she would do or how she would react to how I want to deal with situations.
I guess she's still helping, but I feel that hard edge on me sometimes, and I wonder if I am simply supposed to be that way. I hope not.
When I cam home upset by work, or the world in general, and wanting to go out and take on the whole damn mess, she could almost effortlessly calm me down, soothe me and put my mind on other things. She knew I needed it.
Her calmative effect on me is sorely missed.
I find myself holding my ground and digging in where I may have let things slide. I am also running a bit wild and telling people what's on my mind, regardless how appropriate or not.
It's all "Damn the torpedos!" all the time.
She calmed me with her love, with her simple caring for me and her gentle demeanor overall. I try to reflect on what she would do or how she would react to how I want to deal with situations.
I guess she's still helping, but I feel that hard edge on me sometimes, and I wonder if I am simply supposed to be that way. I hope not.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The doves
Marcie and I always had a large assortment of birds that came to expect seeds or nuts or other favors from us. We gladly obliged. The birds not only enthralled Seamus, but also brought us no end of joy.
Our favorites were the mourning doves. Gentle and sweet, their calls haunt the dawn and dusk at times in San Diego. You can hear it here. They whistle when they fly off very prettily.
I had no idea before I posted this that the males were the ones who deliver the sad signature song. I believe they truly do mourn.
Our favorites were the mourning doves. Gentle and sweet, their calls haunt the dawn and dusk at times in San Diego. You can hear it here. They whistle when they fly off very prettily.
I had no idea before I posted this that the males were the ones who deliver the sad signature song. I believe they truly do mourn.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
"Hard Sun" Video Tribute to Marcie
Here it is, Marcie and I getting married, this time with a song that reminds me of the guiding and stabilizing force Marcie was for me. Truly, she was and remains my muse, my lover, my soul mate, my guiding light and, to a degree, my source of hope.
I will try to cut through the pain and write more about this on a deeper level this weekend... I have another video tomorrow to share that tells more of her.
By the way, Eddie Vedder was Marcie's rock crush. She loved the guy. I think he has the best voice of all the grunge rockers and certainly has the most staying power. Anyways, that's the artist singing here.
I will try to cut through the pain and write more about this on a deeper level this weekend... I have another video tomorrow to share that tells more of her.
By the way, Eddie Vedder was Marcie's rock crush. She loved the guy. I think he has the best voice of all the grunge rockers and certainly has the most staying power. Anyways, that's the artist singing here.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Toughest Post Ever
I finally finished a passable digitization of our wedding tape. It has been nothing but tears working on it. I hope you enjoy it, tears or not.
I'll try to post something substantial on our wedding trip some other time. For now, just know Marcie, who wanted nothing to do with a big wedding, got her wish. No "bridezilla" moments and no outrageous spending or gift collecting. All she wanted were love, privacy, and two in defiant testimony of sentiments they held for each other.
I was sick the whole time with flu, my voice cracked at the ceremony, and I was so very deeply in love I thought I would drown. I had no idea that i would be one of the lucky few who never quite surface. I do now, and I am forlorn even more for it.
I will post another version to the tune of "Hard Sun" sometime after I buy a copy of the soundtrack to "Into the Wild." It's the perfect length to match the video.
I'll try to post something substantial on our wedding trip some other time. For now, just know Marcie, who wanted nothing to do with a big wedding, got her wish. No "bridezilla" moments and no outrageous spending or gift collecting. All she wanted were love, privacy, and two in defiant testimony of sentiments they held for each other.
I was sick the whole time with flu, my voice cracked at the ceremony, and I was so very deeply in love I thought I would drown. I had no idea that i would be one of the lucky few who never quite surface. I do now, and I am forlorn even more for it.
I will post another version to the tune of "Hard Sun" sometime after I buy a copy of the soundtrack to "Into the Wild." It's the perfect length to match the video.
Sometimes I don't think I can keep on going. It will be six months on Saturday. I feel as if it was just yesterday that I held her in my arms, or even last night.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter without
Marcie and I had our own reasons for celebrating holidays, and our own rituals. There were presents at Christmas, candy for the neighborhood kids at Halloween, and all of the standard fare of American holidays. But we also had special traditions.
Easter had the advantage of always falling on Sunday. This meant that we had the morning together usually, then the evening was spent with relatives, hers or mine, depending on the year. But the mornings...
Easter morning usually meant a delicious breakfast and some languor. That time of ease always made the holiday tolerable, no matter the evening destination.
We always brought each other cards and candy,usually See's. We would exchange those gifts and others, and generally reflect, sometimes over mimosas or screwdrivers. Oh, yes... drinking a bit sometimes was in the plan, usually well before noon.
Without fail, we spent the balance of the morning of the first holiday of spring in bed every year.
Last year was a little different. We spent the time in bed simply napping. I remember she wanted peeps, the marshmallow candies. I bought her some. She may have just wanted to taste them one more time, but she did not say as much.
I held her, hoping for a better Easter this year, when our languor would be of a more lively sort.
Needless to say, it did not feel like Easter today. I was not good company for my father, who met me for breakfast, though I tried.
I was just caught up in her, dazed all day. No matter the distraction, a pounding workout with probably way too much weight, a vegetarian chili that took hours to prepare and cook, numerous little tasks, they all failed.
All I could think about was kissing her lips from around a chocolate creme egg from See's, something we made into a tradition after she kept half of one on her lips one morning at our little loveshack downtown on Ninth.
We kissed and it went everywhere from there, and Marcie said "Okay, so next year, that will be my signal that I am ready," she said in the afterglow.
Some years in lingerie, some in her skirt or still in pajamas, she would wiggle a piece of her chocolate egg from her lips when she caught my eye. I looked forward to that signal all Easter morning for thirteen years.
Now, it's just another something we won't get to do together again.
Easter had the advantage of always falling on Sunday. This meant that we had the morning together usually, then the evening was spent with relatives, hers or mine, depending on the year. But the mornings...
Easter morning usually meant a delicious breakfast and some languor. That time of ease always made the holiday tolerable, no matter the evening destination.
We always brought each other cards and candy,usually See's. We would exchange those gifts and others, and generally reflect, sometimes over mimosas or screwdrivers. Oh, yes... drinking a bit sometimes was in the plan, usually well before noon.
Without fail, we spent the balance of the morning of the first holiday of spring in bed every year.
Last year was a little different. We spent the time in bed simply napping. I remember she wanted peeps, the marshmallow candies. I bought her some. She may have just wanted to taste them one more time, but she did not say as much.
I held her, hoping for a better Easter this year, when our languor would be of a more lively sort.
Needless to say, it did not feel like Easter today. I was not good company for my father, who met me for breakfast, though I tried.
I was just caught up in her, dazed all day. No matter the distraction, a pounding workout with probably way too much weight, a vegetarian chili that took hours to prepare and cook, numerous little tasks, they all failed.
All I could think about was kissing her lips from around a chocolate creme egg from See's, something we made into a tradition after she kept half of one on her lips one morning at our little loveshack downtown on Ninth.
We kissed and it went everywhere from there, and Marcie said "Okay, so next year, that will be my signal that I am ready," she said in the afterglow.
Some years in lingerie, some in her skirt or still in pajamas, she would wiggle a piece of her chocolate egg from her lips when she caught my eye. I looked forward to that signal all Easter morning for thirteen years.
Now, it's just another something we won't get to do together again.