This is the This

(I hope this font is not too annoying. I like it)

Here I get to reference a piece I wrote a good while back, This is Not Our Table. You can read that, or just stick around here and I’ll basically re-tell it. 

The title of this entry of course reminds me of What is the What by Dave Eggers, about the Lost Boys of Sudan. I bought it for Matt as a Christmas present … oh, maybe 8 years ago? because I thought, this is so totally perfect for him, he will love it. And that was correct - he loved it so much that he already had read it and had a copy that I was unaware of. Oh well. Anyway:

There is a church in Asheville NC that does a tremendous job of outreach to people who are homeless. I mean, that’s pretty much why they exist. Matt knows the pastor and has visited there, and this is actually the story he told me (it is really.not.exciting. But it has an excellent point):

So the church serves lunch to folks who need it, I’m not sure if it’s every day or what. On at least some days of the week they have social workers and other similar people there at the church to help link people with the services they need. There is limited space, and so the link-up ends up running over into the sanctuary. In the sanctuary there is a beautiful carved table on the altar, for serving communion and … whatever else altar tables do, like hold rose buds in honor of newborns, and golden crosses and candlesticks and flowers. Anyway, the hand carving that is relevant for this story is, “Do this in remembrance of me.” For those of you who are not followers/worshippers, this is from the Last Supper before Jesus was crucified. After each instance of breaking the bread and serving the wine, Jesus tells his disciples to do this, “as often as you do it, in remembrance of me.” Matt says on the day he visited (and likely frequently), the all the stuff on the table had been taken away. A social worker from DSS had plopped down their laptop on the table, run the power cord to the nearest outlet, and was stationed there to help people get signed up for Food Stamps. One of the homeless clients’ dogs was tied to the leg of the table by its leash.

Now, some people would allege, and I might see where they are coming from, that this is inappropriate and they should’ve found another folding table or whatever. But I think if is perfect. As Matt says, when Jesus says do “this” in remembrance of me, this is the “this.” This is what we are supposed to be doing - welcoming people in, assisting them in concrete ways in addition to spiritual development. We can have nice things in church, and treat them as special or even holy, but let’s not let them become idols (thanks Juliet) - let’s not let the fear of a scratch or smudge stand between us and what we’re supposed to do. I’m not someone who commonly asserts that she knows what God or Jesus would say, but I do think Jesus would say, “Amen. By all means, this table is not doing anything else at the moment. If you can use it to help someone get food, please go ahead.” This is the this.



Brief artwork explanation: awhile back I began these little sketches; I think it started with a bunch of the sanctuary and Matt's office at our previous church in the mountains:

 

 

Then after a family member received some residential substance abuse treatment a couple of years ago, my sister and I attended a multi-family group on their behalf and I dealt with the idea of participating in such a group, rather than running it, by drawing this:

This was simply an idea I had, as far as the Lego characters go (there are also a few Playmobil thrown in). The Hostess chocolate mini-donuts on the table were really what inspired me , though I could not tell you why. Everyone I've shown it to has gotten a big kick out of it. I ask my therapy clients to draw a lot for me, and I show this to them to say, hey, I'll make myself vulnerable and show you that I draw too and obviously you don't have to be very good at it, so go ahead. And the clients have been fantastic about it, though perhaps it's simply pity :) . And recently I ran into someone who works at the residential treatment place at a conference and I shared it with her; I think "blown away" is an accurate description of her reaction. Not that the drawing is that great, but I think she was totally surprised that such a thing would exist. 

Matt and I have this really fun game, Who What Where, in which each person draws three cards (one who, one what, etc) and draws a picture including all the elements. Then the drawings get passed around and you get a point for each element that everyone else guesses. For example, Abraham Lincoln flying a kite in a bathtub. Or a soldier making pancakes at the mall. Probably the reason I love the game so much is, I rock at it. I'm still not claiming to be a great artist, but as Matt says, the reason I'm good at that game is that I'm good at conveying the important elements of each thing.  And I guess that's true, because there's a time limit so you have to get your point across quickly. So some positive reinforcement from Matt helped me to continue to do it, and now it's sort of a habit. So stay tuned ...

A New Fitness Complex

For the past few months I have been taking kickboxing classes at a local gym twice a week. This is completely a new adventure for me, totally out of my comfort zone. I have never taken any sort of exercise class of any kind, and what I knew about mixed martial arts and whatnot, you could fit into a very small container. So that was the point - something new and adventurous and a challenge. And I have loved it. I have purple and white boxing gloves and I’ve added a few pieces of … exercise wear? … to my wardrobe. 

I was a little nervous (but not as much as I would’ve thought) when I showed up for the first class. Like many women/girls I know, I have a nearly crippling level of self-consciousness about my appearance and particularly my weight/body shape. The first class was a good mix of ladies from all across the age and fitness spectrum - several women who appeared to be in their mid- to late 20s, and three that were definitely older than I. The older among us (I am 39) are variously pudgy, chubby, pick your term. Most of the younger girls are much more fit. And there’s one young woman I have described to Matt as my kickboxing hero - she’s likely 30-something, and not skinny, but holy crap she can kick the *&%$ out of that bag. She said she’s been kickboxing off and on for a long time, and in addition to being strong she’s really fast. One day we were doing this “A/B” thing where when there aren’t enough bags to go around, we divide up two to a bag and take turns, one person doing whatever punching and kicking we’re supposed to do, while the other jogs in place a couple feet back. On this day, this particular woman was on the same bag as me and just for kicks (hee hee) I counted my own kicks and then hers, just to see. And she did exactly twice as many as I did, in the same amount of time. I mean, I think I did 30 and she did 60; maybe it was 25 and 50 but whatever, she was twice as fast. 

So I’ve been much less self-conscious, keeping in mind the idea of, “everyone else is too worried about how they look to bother thinking about how you look.” This has been freeing and I’ve been able to concentrate on, you know, kickboxing. Form and strength and speed and whatnot. Even my usual ambition/perfection stuff has been quiet - though sometimes I wish I were further along than I am, I’m generally able to keep in mind, hey I’m just starting out and I’ll get there if I keep at it.

Until last week. 

:)

Last week’s Thursday morning class (I’m still working part-time, M - W) was a little discouraging. There were 3 or 4 young ladies I had never seen at “my” gym before, and maybe they were new to this gym but they were obviously not strangers to either boxing or general fitness. If I were (totally) like this, I might be inclined to characterize them as “archenemies,” as they were mostly blond and slender and cute and young. And the whole point of this post is, I did experience a degree of envy and dislike that was surprising. And I know “dislike” is not even fair because I do not know them, at all, and I’m sure they are perfectly nice people, since most people are, really. And of course it’s not them, it’s me - my lack of confidence, my sudden return of self-consciousness, my issues.  I totally 100% accept that it’s my issue. And while they may have had some genetic predisposition to thinness, obviously they do work at it. 

And, I was kind of glad when none of them showed up for yesterday’s class.  Another of my issues was that they all had good-quality, cute little fitness outfits. So after class I was inspired to go to a sporting goods store to shop for some new workout clothes. That was kind of a mistake, given my already-not-great mood and self-image. This was a huge, chain sporting goods place that supposedly meets all your needs, whatever your sport. The first item of clothing that I noticed, looked at closely, and then checked the price of? A pair of Nike women’s stretchy full-length pants that were $100.00. Not $99.99, but exactly $100. Jeez. So this awoke a whole different set of financial issues - we do okay, and know we’re fortunate to have what we have, but I could never justify spending that much on one pair of pants for myself. I suppose that raises the issue of whether anyone can justify spending $100 on one thing like that, but whatever; at this point I was really not feeling so great about many things. So I got a sports bra for $35 and got the hell out of there. 

So … this has basically been relegated back to a more appropriate percentage of my brain by this point and I can say, This is really not that important in the Grand Scheme of Things. I can focus on the strength that I’ve gained from my short time in class, and go back to my general idea/perception that I am basically “perfectly cute,” though I will admit some days are much better than others. I explained to a guy I know awhile back, if I know 100 women I would say that at least 90 - 95 of them hate their bodies to some degree or another. This is mostly related to weight, and ranges from mild dissatisfaction to pathological eating disorders. And if there were four different skinny women who were new to the class, my statistic means that about 3.9 of them or whatever have issues of their own - maybe they binge and purge or take laxatives or just feel like crap every time they look in the mirror, even when I think they look great. Many women I know are constantly on some sort of diet or another. I know guys have appearance concerns and weight issues as well, but all I can really speak to is a woman’s perspective and I will say, it’s different for women. For a lot of girls/women I know, it’s every day, multiple times per day, that they feel they are not quite measuring up. I don’t really feel like going on about advertising and society and what we learn from our moms and our friends, etc., although I could :). Today I’m just focusing on the results, not the cause, and offering some thoughts on how often this comes up for a lot of women, which I’m not sure is something a lot of guys think about or are aware of. 

(I’m so proud of the title of this post. 

Fitness complex, get it? 

… Boy, I’m glad I at least amuse myself). 

"Whoa!" to the world ...

The following is Matt's Christmas Eve sermon. I did not get to hear it, per se, due to the inability of my youngest to maintain for even 10 minutes in a church service thus far. But Matt basically preached it to me afterward (there was a break between the 7 and 11:00 services, and he came home to help put the boys to bed), and I'm thinking it's pretty good. It is also an excuse to put off any actual writing of my own ... 

What Child Is This Anyway?

Christmas Eve, 11 PM

While I studied for the ministry in Washington DC, I worked as the Youth Minister at a downtown DC church.  A few years before I worked there, the church had gained a measure of fame (or notoriety) for being the Clinton’s church while Bill was in office as president.  The people who were there during the Clinton years loved telling me about the elaborate preparations involved if you care to host the president and his family at your church.  

Secret Service agents would arrive a couple hours early to scour the building.  They set up metal detectors at every entrance.  They put snipers on the roof.  Only after everything had been double- and triple checked would the Clintons arrive at the church.  When you’re the president, even if you’re just going a mile, you never go alone.  The presidential motorcade is typically 20 to 30 vehicles including police cars and motorcycles, an ambulance, and a communications van.  More vehicles hold a counter-assault team.  There’s an SUV with equipment that will scramble the signals of rocket-propelled grenades and anti-tank missiles.  And then, finally, there are several heavily armored limousines all driven by professional drivers.  The one the president rides in has the strongest defenses of all.  It’s called The Beast.

Contrast that if you will with the scene in Bethlehem some 2000 years ago.  We’ve had 43 different presidents, but there’s only one eternally begotten son of our heavenly father, and his protective detail was two unmarried Jewish peasants and their donkey.  If Jesus was so important, where was his motorcade?  

You probably have heard the story before, about how Mary, the young Jewish girl heard the news from the angel Gabriel that she had been chosen by God to bear a son, in spite of the fact that she’d never been intimate with a man.  Her fiancé Joseph wanted to leave her but he got news in a dream to stick it out.  Fast forward nine months and here we are.  Joseph and Mary, pushed around by a Roman decree, have to travel back to Joseph’s ancestral home of Bethlehem.  When they get there, the town’s so jam packed with other travelers that they are forced to spend the night in a stable.  It was there where their baby was born.  He would be given the name “Jesus” – which means God saves.

Bethlehem was an unlikely backdrop for what C.S. Lewis calls “The Grand Miracle.”  It was a place not unlike a rundown home in east Greensboro or a rural village in east Africa, places from which most people wouldn’t expect God to do great things.  But we who have been part of this church for long know better don’t we?  That’s exactly the kind of place where God loves to work.

************************************

We tend to think of that scene in Bethlehem as a moment of hushed majesty, like the picture in the greeting card, but if we’d been there we probably wouldn’t have thought it was so special.  Imagine if you had been there looking at Mary and Joseph getting turned away from the inn and somebody elbowed you in the ribs and said, “Behold! Thus begins God’s plan to rescue and redeem the world, starting with Israel.”  You would have thought he needed his head checked.  

And what if this person went on to tell you that time forever after would be divided into the years before and after this child’s arrival?  What if he told that the baby born that night would never write a book, never command an army, or lead a nation, yet, because of him, over half the world’s population would become monotheists?  What if they told you that people would be crowded into rooms like this one 2000 years later in order to sing carols and light candles as we remember and celebrate this child’s birth?  

You wouldn’t have believed it for a minute and yet here we are.  Whatever brought you here, I want to reiterate how glad we are that you’re here.  Some of us worship every week, maybe some of us are entering a church for the first time.  Some of us are here for the music, some for the candles.  Some are here for the sake of their kids and some are here to please their parents.  Some of us have come here after great feasts while some of us will go home to the wire shelves of an empty pantry.  Some of us are overflowing with joy.  Some of us have almost totally run through our reserve of hope.  

And for once, at least, you may be at an advantage if you are low on church experience, low on food or low on hope.  Those who haven’t had their senses dulled may find it easier to hear how truly astounding message of Christmas is.

*****************************************

I don’t know about you but my days are not just filled with a sense of wonder.  Thankfully, I have two young boys who help me see how special the Christmas season is.  David, the younger of the two has some developmental delays, and as a result doesn’t have a big vocabulary.  But he reminds me 20 times a day how special everything is when we pats me on the arm or leg, points and says, “Whoa!”  It’s whoa when he sees the poinsettias, whoa for the stars and whoa for the Christmas trees.  And when he gets old enough to understand the story about how the God of the universe entered into our world in the form of a helpless infant who had to be fed , burped and changed… well I hope he says “Whoa!” to that, too.  That’s the biggest “Whoa!” of all.

None of us were around to be amazed 2000 years ago, so the angels turned instead to a bunch of shepherds.  That was an interesting choice.  A few centuries before shepherding had been a noble profession.  King David was been a shepherd.  But by Jesus’ time shepherds were just hired hands.  On the night Jesus was born they may have had the smell of booze on their breath and one may have been getting ready to tell the others a dirty joke when – all of a sudden – they got the second biggest surprise of their lives.  They saw a sky full of angels who announced to them that the long-awaited Messiah had finally been born and the shepherds needed to get there pronto.

I say the angels’ announcement was the second-biggest surprise of their lives because the biggest surprise came when they got to the stable and realized they were the only human beings who had been invited.  The angels were in on the celebration, of course, and there was probably some livestock around.  The wise men only came later.  No, on the night Jesus was born God singled out these third-shift shepherds to be the first people to hear the greatest news in the history of the world.  

So, to recap: On that first Christmas, Jesus was born in one of the last places you’d expect… to some of the least likely parents… and was greeted by people you’d think would be the last to know or care.  

I could spend a loooong time waxing on about the significance of that first Christmas and what it means to us today, but you know what?  More than anything else I just want you to hear the story tonight, as if for the first time, and to join me in wonder and awe.  Think of this as me saying “Whoa!” to you.

Sorry, guys ...

Hi, everyone. It has been months since I posted anything and for that I apologize - I have been greatly distracted by a number of life events but hope to get back to doing some writing soon. In the meantime, the little family is doing well and the boys are fabulous. If you need proof:

The soccer ones are from a program called Top Soccer, for kids with special needs. Each kid is matched with 1 or 2 primary "helpers" who all appear to be high-school age, or maybe older-middle-school. There are not games, per se, but lots of running around and kicking the ball, and hey, that's the fun part of soccer anyway, so why not? David really loved it. The other photos are from this past summer (yeah, it's been a long time ... again, sorry) - a quick trip up to Washington DC and another to see friends in Wilmington NC. In David's individual beach picture, in case you can't tell, he's holding back the waves and saying, "no, no, no!" In Simon's beach photo, he is simply looking cool. 

More writing to come .... 

Various Readings - Dead Pets

I mentioned the recent death of our cat, Chicken, in my last post. I've gotten numerous messages of support on facebook - I didn't realize quite how many people had met her over the years, but what with the leg-licking thing I mentioned in the other post, she tended to make an impression - a wet, gross impression, but still (also, she was very sweet and cute and affectionate, so ... ). I also didn't realize how many folks had taken care of her for us, when we were out of town. We will probably get another cat sometime (Simon really wants a dog, but I am simply not up for it), but I think I will enjoy a break from scooping cat litter for awhile, and maybe I'll manage to get rid of some of the Chicken fur that has accumulated on every surface, before we make any moves toward another pet.

This is the first pet death that Simon has been through. We had another cat, Cat Stevens (we usually called him Steven), who died when Simon was about 18 months old, so he doesn't remember that. We've read a number of books and whatnot about it, so I hope this is helpful for other parents:

1. City Dog, Country Frog by Mo Willems. We know Willems from his books about Trixie and Knuffle Bunny, and this is definitely a different tone. This is a wonderful book, and it is about animals but you could use it to talk about any death. It made me cry the first couple of times we read it, when Simon was younger, and I definitely cried when we read it this time around, last week. It does have a good message about death being a part of life, not something to be afraid of, and that we miss people/animals when they're gone, but we go on living. Nice.

Matt is going to loan "our" copy (it's a library book) to another family at David's preschool, because their little boy evidently has had a lot of questions lately. The preschool is the basement of the Quaker meeting house with which it is affiliated, and the cemetery is just on the other side of the small parking lot. One day this kiddo and his mom were coming down the steps behind us, and I heard the boy asking his mom about the cemetery, and who is there, and when people die. His mom replied that most people die when they are quite old, and then the boy asked how "they" (the dead people) get to the cemetery. His mom replied that someone takes them there, and of course the boy then asked who, and his mom replied, "All the people who love them," which sounded just beautiful to me.

2. Goodbye, Mog by Judith Kerr. This is the last (obviously) in a series of books about Mog the Forgetful Cat. We had the original Mog book when we were growing up, I suppose I didn't realize there were any others until (this is one of Joanna's few "la-do-da" moments in life, so listen up) Matt and I were in Blackwell's Books in Oxford (yes, England, not Mississippi) and I saw several of them lined up on display. There's Mog's Bad Thing (which is yes, peeing in places other than the litter box), and Goodbye Mog, and I don't know how many others, but those are the two I bought. I was in the middle of this world-famous bookstore, nearly weeping in the children's section.

So we read this to the boys at bedtime, on the day Chicken died (she passed away early in the morning; she had been really really sick and I kind of thought she would die sometime that night, and ... yeah, she'd been coughing and hacking and making throwing-up sounds and I was trying to comfort her and not succeeding and then she just --- stopped). It is a little confusing, especially from our theological perspective, but I still really like it. The book starts off saying that Mog was old and tired, "dead tired," and that she wanted to go to sleep, so she did. That makes me slightly nervous because when a person dies you're not supposed to say "it's like they're sleeping" and when discussing plans for Chicken the day before, I'd been careful not to say that she might have to be "put to sleep" but used the big word "euthanized" instead. And then, most of Mog (leaves) but "a little bit stayed behind to see what would happen." This was a translucent sketch of Mog, that the family couldn't see, and at first I described it as "like a ghost" but then switched to "like an angel." Mog was really worried that the family would not be able to get along without her, and then when they got a new kitten it appeared to be the "wrong sort of kitten" that would not fit in. But the kitten can see the ghost/angel Mog, and so Mog teaches her what to do, and once the kitten gets the hang of it and Mog is convinced the family will be okay, she goes "up and up and up and straight into the sun."

Which brings us to the third story:

3. Rainbow Bridge - not a book, but a story, that was included with the little carved wooden box that came with Chicken's ashes. I'd never had a pet cremated before, and the whole experience was pretty nice. Now with a name like "Rainbow Bridge" there's no way this is not going to be the cheesiest, sappiest story in the world, and it was sort of, but I liked it. According to this little story, when a pet dies, they go to this sort of place of limbo, where they and all these other pets are frolicking about and having a great time, until their owner dies, and when the owner comes along, s/he and the pet go across this Rainbow Bridge together, to Heaven.

(Isn't that nice? I think it's a sweet idea). In our family I do tend to defer (but not submit, dammit) to Matt on most theological issues, as he is more, uh, learned. But on the subject of, "do pets go to heaven?" I laid down the law to Matt that our answer, when/if that question is asked, will be, "Yes." Because (a) who the hell knows? not me (I think that'a a Holden Caufield-ism), and (b) Simon is six (practically seven) and it is not going to hurt one tiny thing on earth if he (rightly or wrongly) believes that his dead cat is in heaven. Later in life he can make up his own mind, but I'm thinking that for now, this is a totally harmless thing to believe .... look, this kiddo already knows that all the little kids who died at Sandy Hook are in Heaven, and the people who died at the Boston Marathon bombing are in Heaven, etc. If he wants to think the cat is in Heaven, and it brings him some comfort, then by all means the cat is in Heaven.

Someone at our church, after reading my last post, recommended Will I See My Dog in Heaven?, written by a Franciscan friar who appears to believe the answer to that question is a resounding "Yes." My fellow (sister) church member says he backs this up pretty solidly, he's not just saying it because it feels good. I've not had a chance to check it out yet - maybe I'll make Pastor Matt read it first?

So I'm still thinking about Chicken the Cat just about every day, I'm still being reminded of her frequently, and when I do I'm sad and I miss her. She and I were together for a long time, and for a couple of years it was just the two of us. Simon is ready to get a new pet ... a parrot. I have actually always wanted a parrot, but I always had one or more cats, so ... but I am really hesitant to get anything that has a cage, because it stinks. I realize getting another cat means a stinky litter box (believe me, I know), but ... I don't know. We'll just have to see.

One more photo of Chicken. The white curve at the bottom of the photo is my pregnant-with-David belly; she's sitting on my lap and this are my blue pajama pant legs under her. All the Sesame Street figurines are from the Greatest Toy Ever, a Christmas present for Simon

when he was 1, maybe, from Aunt Tara, and either  Simon or David played with it Every.Single.Day for about four years straight.Unbelievable. And we still have just about all the "characters,"

as we have called them, which is even more unbelievable. 

:)

A double referral, of sorts

Steering you to my other blog, and then having almost nothing original to say ... 

http://joannatheexcitedwriter.blogspot.com

you.are.welcome

Surprising Joy, and Chicken

Part 1

I've meant to write this post for quite awhile, just haven't gotten around to much since I started my new job in January. I'm loving the job (part-time outpatient mental health therapist), but ever since I began working there has seemed to be one mini-crisis after another - mainly, lots of missed school days for the boys due to the weather. Pastor Matt has been wonderful in accommodating me being the "new kid" at work and making sure I could work if at all possible, which means he took care of the boys A LOT. Now that Spring finally seems to have really arrived, perhaps our family life will be a little calmer and I can get back to doing some writing - I have missed it, and it occurred to me last week that I've barely touched the "book" idea since we moved last summer.

We recently celebrated David's fourth birthday; I turn 39 (!) this weekend, then Simon will be 7 and Matt, 38, all in the next month. David continues to do quite well in his preschool; we're thinking we'll need to make a change for the summer and/or fall to something that offers a more full-day program, because we love his preschool but the fact that it lets out at 3:15 is a complicating factor for us. Simon will finish up the first grade soon; he has loved attending the after-school program since I started work, and he's signed up for the summer program that is basically 9 - 6 the entire summer, with lots of activities and field trips. I feel a little (   ) bad about having him in camp/school pretty much every day of summer break, but I recall that when we moved last summer and we didn't really have anything lined up for either boy ... it.was.a.nightmare.  I joked that once I found work, we were going to establish the Simon Dean Summer Camp 2014 Savings Fund and that he was going to go to camp Every Single Day, so I suppose I have gotten that wish. It's pricey, but to have it all worked out/arranged is worth it, I think. David will likely attend the summer program at his preschool, and we'll continue to work out picking him up every afternoon, but then maybe for the Fall we'll find a full-day daycare or preschool.

The title of this post comes from something that happened ... awhile back? A couple of months ago, probably? Is that how long I've been meaning to write this? ... There was some sort of mix-up with the child care provider for our Thursday night contemporary service at church, and so I ended up playing with David the whole time in the church nursery. He simply cannot be maintained in a church service, especially one when his Daddy is preaching, so I didn't even try. Normally this would be a stress-inducing experience, but we had so much fun - much more fun than I would've had sitting in the service without him. Here's some of what we did:

And here are some more (semi-) recent photos:

Part 2

One sad note - the cat I've had for about 15 years, Chicken, died a couple of weeks ago. She was old, obviously, and had been slowing down for awhile, slowing down more the past month and much

more so the last week. She seemed to have trouble walking and we were going to take her

to the vet, though I knew what the recommendation would be. But she died at home the 

morning before the appointment and we had her cremated. I've never done that before; growing up 

in the middle of the woods we always buried pets out in the woods, but it was a nice

experience. We got the ashes back in a nice little carved wooden box, and a card with a quote

and a little story professing that pets DO go to heaven, that dead pets exist in some sort of 

really nice pet limbo until their owners die and then you and the pet go to heaven together. 

I know Matt thinks this is total hooey, but it's a nice story.

This is Miss Chicken, as she was also known ("Pretty Girl" was another nickname)

at Christmas at our house in Cashiers. She was a very pretty cat, very soft fur, and her little face

was just always very clean and pretty and white. I got her when I lived alone in graduate

school, and for a couple of years it was she and I against the world, sort of. I've had her longer

than I've had Matt - when Matt & I met he was actually allergic to cats (I had two of them then, Cat 

Stevens died a few years ago) but I apparently made it clear they weren't going anywhere, and 

eventually the dander didn't bother him any more.

This is Chicken and Simon - how old was he, goodness? Maybe 18 months? If you are wondering

what Chicken is doing, she's not doing a routine bath. She was abandoned as a kitten and does

(did, frown) this wool-sucking thing that the vet called "wooling," that is common in kittens who

weren't weaned appropriately. A lot of cats do it to wool sweaters or broom straws, but as this girl

was abandoned near some train tracks there were neither of those things around, so she 

just sort of nursed on her thigh. Or, when she was younger it was her thigh, as you can see in this photo she has gotten on a bit in years, is less flexible, and is sort of doing it to her side. Most

cats outgrow it, but this one did not. She did it pretty much every single day of her life. You could predict that whenever she sat down in your lap and started to purr, she would do it, and

even I have to admit it was kind of ... gross. She'd do it for an hour if you let her

(and no, I never really tried to do much about it), and that's a lot of wet cat thigh

to then brush up against you. Ah, Miss Chicken. You were a wonderful

companion, and I miss you a lot.