Day of Rest

I love Sunday evenings. I find that those last few precious hours of the wekend set the tone for my whole week. Get it right and I retain a modicum of calm organization through Wednesday at least. Get it wrong, and my life goes to hell in a handbasket by 6am Monday morning.

This week does not look good.

Sunday started out pretty well. Realigned my disgruntled chakras at yoga. Got kids out biking and running for familial fresh air and exercise. Planned menu for the week, got groceries, and tidied bills and paperwork into a neat pile (thereby continuing the self-delusion that I am On Top Of It).

The evening continued in a similar vein -- boys persuaded into shower/hairwash/nail clipping routine with only their usual degree of recalcitrance. Older son made dinner. Wrangled boys into bed at a reasonable hour.

How did it all go so wrong?

I was contemplating a leisurely bath and glass of wine, when Mr. Berman noticed that one of our cats was missing. Worse still, we realized that we had not set eyes on her since Saturday morning. Wracked with guilt, I tried not to panic. I persuaded myself that since she was a stray we had taken in, she was used to the mean streets of New York, where god knows there is plenty of vermin for her to go at if she gets peckish.

Mr Berman reacted more productively. He wandered outside at regular intervals, calling her name, each time coming back looking more concerned. I decided to skip the bath in a show of solidarity, but forged ahead with the glass of wine. One needs sustenance in times of stress, I find.

As midnight approached, there was still no sign of the cat. Mr Berman was in a tailspin of guilt by this juncture. He pointed out, in an accusatory fashion, that since she is My cat, she responds best to My voice, so would I get My ass out of the door to help look for her please. Reluctantly, I dragged on some flip flops, and headed off into the night.

I walked around 3 square blocks in my pyjamas, calling her name and muttering angrily. My personal safety did cross my mind at one point, but I looked way too crazy for anyone to mess with.

As I neared home, I passed our neighbors' house, and called the cat's name one last time. In response, I heard a plaintive mew. I tried it again -- and again, she answered back. I'd found her...but where the hell was she?

I tore into the house, and grabbed Mr Berman. We tiptoed into our neighbors' yard, and realized that the mewing was coming from their basement, where it appeared the cat had been stuck for 2 days without food or water. We would have to ring the bell and wake them up.

At this point, I should mention that my neighbors are a lovely family, new to the neighborhood. They are most likely not used to having crazy, barely-dressed, foul-mouthed people ringing their bell at midnight. They are most certainly not used to living next door to us.

They were incredibly gracious, and showed us into their partially-renovated basement. The cat was stuck in a 2-foot high crawl space under the kitchen, so Mrs Neighbor fetched a can of tuna with which to tempt her out. 

The cat was not tempted. 

There was nothing for it -- I had to crawl in after her. It involved a fair amount of wriggling through dirt, and I ended up hanging ass-first out of the crawl space, calling "Here kitty kitty" through gritted teeth.

The cat crawled over to sniff at the tuna. I made a grab for her but missed, hurling the entire can of tuna all over Mrs Neighbor in the process. The cat followed with a yowl, embedding all 10 claws firmly into Mrs Neighbor's back. Mrs Neighbor, quite understandably, started to scream. After a mad chase around the basement, we caught the terrified animal, apologized profusely, and slunk back home, leaving Mrs Neighbor to pick the tuna out of her hair while Mr Neighbor cleaned the blood off her back.

We are awash in shame.

And this was Sunday evening. My lovely, peaceful, organized Sunday evening.

Roll on Monday. I'm ready.

Cat pee

I am no longer distressed by the fact that I tear through life in a state of partial undress smelling of dirty laundry. But when one of my children suffers similar indignity, I am forced to question our perpetually dramatic life.

This morning, as usual, there was panic. My youngest went running out for the bus without his backpack, so Mr Berman, in hot pursuit, picked it up.

"It's wet...ugh...it stinks...Jesus (insert colorful expletive) Christ, the (repeat expletive) cat peed all over the (repeat expletive) backpack!"

Mr Berman dropped the backpack rather quickly.

I sprang into panic management mode.

"Find new backpack. Hurry. Homework out of backpack. Into new backpack. You don't have time to smell your hand. Go. Go. GO."

Mr Berman ran gagging out of the house with the replacement backpack, leaving me with the antibac wipes. I gingerly mopped the floor, and soon forgot the incident.

Until this afternoon, when I received a plaintive phone message from my son.

"Mummy, I need to tell you something. When I got to school, all my homework was wet. And my books. They were wet too. The teacher made me throw it all away. She made me wash my hands. Everything smells."

The shame is overwhelming.

We are the family that sends our children to school awash in cat urine.

There is, however, an upside.

We now have an original excuse that I can reprise as necessary. "The dog ate my homework" is so overused.

Bridal Galleria

I am staying with dear old friends, and have been reminded about an incident that occurred about 13 years ago. I am not sure what the moral is, I am only sure that there must be one. If something washes you anew in shame more than a decade later, there is something to be learned.

It was my final fitting for my bridal gown, and I needed to pick a suitably-glamorous-but-not-too-beauty-queen tiara and veil. My friend Kate was coming with me, to restrain any extreme diamanté impulses I might have.

Unfortunately, we had both been Out the night before. Out, as in a dozen or so greyhounds apiece (the fashionable drink du jour), which left us on fairly shaky feet that Saturday morning, as we shambled towards the Bridal Galleria.

As we came within view of their dark, mirrored windows, I realized that there was no way on god's earth I could keep down the egg sandwich I had optimistically forced myself to ingest an hour earlier. Sure enough, most of the egg sandwich, a whole lot of vodka, and more grapefruit juice than I ever hope to see again in my life made their sudden reappearance. Kate, bless her heart, gamely held my hair back, and encouraged me to aim forward towards the windows, rather than downward towards my open-toed shoes.

After this bilious ordeal, we brushed ourselves off and headed into the store. We were shown into its hushed recesses, and my gown was brought out, reverently wrapped in crisp layers of white tissue. I was forced to make a quick detour to the bathroom at this point (the egg sandwich was not coming quietly), but Kate was able to zip me in, and the attendant then began to attach a variety of headpieces for me to choose from. I chose rather more quickly than I am led to believe brides usually do ("That one will do. Get. it. off. my. head. NOW.")

The staff were very understanding and unfailingly polite, even though I must have smelt like a sewer. I put it down to the fact that they were used to dealing with fainting, tizzicky brides, albeit caused by high emotions rather than high jinks.

However, as we were leaving the store, Kate nudged me urgently in the ribs.

"Look at the windows."
"Can't. look. at. anything."
"Look at the bloody windows."

I looked up, and realized with horror that they were not made of dark, mirrored glass. They were made of one-way glass. I hadn't been able to see the store's inhabitants, but they had sure as hell been able to see me, depositing the remnants of my night out all over their nice, shiny windows.

So, what's the moral?

I can think of two:

1. Choose your mixer carefully. Grapefruit does not sit easily on the stomach.

2. Always, always, be kind and respectful to your clients. Even when they vomit on your windows. Until death do you part.

The new walk of shame

We were late for school this morning.

It's Ted's birthday. There were gifts to be opened, games to be played, plans to be made. Which left me 7 minutes to get them dressed, fed, and driven to school.

As I pulled up to the entrance, Will announced that I would need to sign them in, as they were more than 10 minutes late.

"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm wearing pyjamas."

Silence.

Then, "What do you have on your feet?"
"Boots."
"That's OK then. You can sign us in. As long as you're not wearing slippers."

Which explains why, at 8:15 am, I was wandering the halls of PS 193 in pyjamas, a ski jacket, gardening gloves, and snow boots. You'll notice that my kids were not alarmed by this -- this is what they expect from me. As long as the slippers stay home. Slippers cross the line.

I still haven't brushed my teeth.