Sweet Old Lady

Tuesday MP and I said goodbye to Jetta. We knew it was coming--God knows that cat has more than her allotted nine lives--but it was still incredibly difficult. We were able to find a veterinarian who would come to the house and help her (and us) let go. Suffice it to say, she didn't go without a fight. In true Jetta spirit, she had to have the last word.

As an homage to a cat who has brought more light and life to me than I ever thought possible, here are a few of our greatest memories. Nine for every extra life she had and one for good measure.

1. The first night I had Jetta home, I tucked her into bed with me. She was about 6 or 8 weeks old. In the middle of the night, I noticed she'd disappeared. I was convinced our really large tuxedo cat, Ernie, had eaten her. I found her curled into a tiny ball under my bedside table.

2. Jetta in her kittenhood climbed my parents' godawful 1970s-era grass wallpaper. She would climb all the way to the ceiling and then be stuck there, mewing her head off for someone to come get her down. She also managed to climb the Christmas tree and various drapes.

3. Jetta has always had a penchant for carrying toys around. From a young age she has preferred either gold strings (like those found on Godiva boxes) or furry things. She liked to carry these around and howl mournfully. She especially liked to leave her "baby" (it looks like a raccoon tail with eyes) in bed next to me.

4. Jetta's perfect meal--in no particular order--would include bacon, a burrito, Haagen-Dazs, and Butterfingers. Chicken, hamburgers, and pork tenderloin aren't too bad either. She mastered the art of swiping food off a plate, and has more than once tipped a cereal bowl from my hand. She and Lena once tag teamed the perfect food scam: Lena chased her tail like an idiot, and while we howled in laughter over Lena's stupidity, Jetta stole sausage off of MP's plate. I don't think Lena got anything out of this deal, which was probably part of the plan all along.

5. While she was still able to jump up on the bed, Jetta liked to wake me in the morning by standing on my hair and chewing on it. If that didn't work, she'd meow (m'row) until I fed her.

6. Five pound, declawed, snaggle-toothed Jetta bitch-slapping our 70 pound Collie-German Shepherd mix, Mattie, into submission. 'Nuff said.

7. Jetta has always thought she was part monkey. She would ride on anyone's shoulders who bent over long enough for her to walk up. The pads of her feet are like soft little hands, and she liked to pat my face when I'd hold her.

8. One day, when I was especially upset with MP and bawling my eyes out, Jetta walked over to me and bit me. It was like "Ok. I've heard enough. Get over yourself." It cracked me up so much I stopped crying. She told me exactly what I needed to hear in that moment.

9. I could never close a door on Jetta without her having a say in it. Jetta has been known to stand and paw at a bedroom door (in particular) for as long as took someone to give in to her. If you've ever heard a cat paw at a door, you know there's nothing quite like the sound of their paws thumping on wood.

10. No one who has met Jetta could ever resist her. Jetta had the innate skill to locate the non-cat person in the room, and sucker him/her into total admiration. I've seen many self-proclaimed cat-dislikers melt after a few moments of the Jetta treatment.

I am grateful every day that I have spent two-thirds of my life with such an amazing soul.

Hard Times

Right now in our household we're dealing with the fact that our beloved cat, Jetta, is quickly fading. She is, in fact, 19 1/2 years old. Pretty spectacular for a cat. It's the equivalent of being about 95 if you're a person.

She walks, or rather hobbles, from one rug in the kitchen to a bed under the buffet. And that's about it. I fear it's time to make a judgment call, but it hurts me to do so.

This post isn't about eulogizing Jetta. That'll be for another day. But for now, I'm trying to keep some perspective about how she must be feeling.

The picture above is about 3 years old, and was taken not too long after Jetta scampered out the front door--only to have it close on her tail. This resulting in sewing her tail back together, thus the shaved tail with a pompom at the end of it. She was still quite active as a 16-year-old cat. And really remained so until about the last year or so, when she's gradually grown frail before our eyes. She looks so...plump in the picture, it's hard to believe she was ever that big. She's probably 9 lbs (actually pretty petite for a cat) in that one. If she weighs 4 lbs now I'd be surprised.

My niece has remarked that she can't believe Jetta's not a kitten because she's so tiny. And indeed sometimes I think of her that way too. It's the same way that old people become like babies in the end of their lives too. Yet instead of having that robust quality that kittens keep underneath their baby facades, Jetta is truly delicate. I feel I need to protect her all the time.

My friend Dorothy said she knew it was time for her cat in the end because she stopped purring, but Jetta hasn't reached that point yet. But I'm afraid it will come. I hold my hand to her ribs to feel her heartbeat, and my finger to her throat to feel her purr. They're still there. But the energy that used to emanate from her grows fainter daily.

Noodle

I love Mortgage Partner, but we cannot really discuss politics. It's not like we're Carville and Matalin, mind you, but I get way too emotional when he beats up on Hillary. And it's not like I even know if I'm going to vote for her. I just don't like confrontation. Those of you who know me know this. I cry in the face of adversity. Unless I'm pissed off. Then I just yell a lot (in a fabulous, articulate way).

Life around here lately has become Indecision 2008. I feel like we eat, sleep, breathe politics. We're even considering letting an Obama staffer sleep here. We don't call it a night without checking up on our friends, Barack, Hillary, and John.

I wonder all the time how I went from being a fairly apathetic Independent to actually giving a damn. When I was in high school, I worked on the newspaper with a guy who's a lot like MP. Opinionated. Pushy. Rabid. (Ok, to be fair, MP is pretty balanced. But he watches political debates like someone else might watch a Packers game, or in fact, how he watches Packers games.) He was in my face all the time about Ralph Nader--a name I can't invoke without smirking, just a little. At the time, I couldn't vote, so I really didn't give two hoots. Two years later, when I could vote, I registered Independent because I figured that's what I was--pragmatic, seeing across party lines, and ultimately, on the fence.

Voting didn't register in my way of life. Not even in 2000 when I attended a Gore rally with my unable-to-vote-in-America German roommate. We took pictures. It was a little like seeing any other celebrity.

Fast forward four years, and my thoughts on politics, and voting, changed dramatically. I saw the error of my apathetic ways. No longer would I worry about someone else to take care of the issues in the country or in my city. Since then, I have voted pretty much every time something comes up. I care about the direction of this country, and being a homeowner in the urban core has made me care even more about my city.

So at this point in the blog, you're all probably wondering why I would call this post "Noodle." Because I'm an English major nerd above all, I'm currently reading Bleak House by Charles Dickens. It's one of the freaking funniest things I've ever read (and I'm not kidding--I think the title is a huge joke on all of us who think the book is going to be dreary).

At one point in the novel, Dickens writes: "What follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces [...] because you can't provide for Noodle!"

In the notes it says: "Noodle: The name for a fool, especially a political one." And I really think that about sums things up. About me. About how MP and I battle over to Clinton or not to Clinton. And while I wouldn't say that we're Noodles, I think we're both fighting against Noodles.

And that's something we can actually agree on.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby (not so much)

Enough with the crying already, people. When I wrote the post the other day about people making a big deal of Hillary crying, I had no idea it would continue for several more days. Really, isn't there other news out there? Good grief.

I will say though, the whole issue raises a few points that I have seen reiterated in the blogosphere lately. Let's call it the anti-Virginia Slim phenomenon. Blondie posted her take on the book Don't Be That Girl. I'm not sure how this book stacks up against others in its niche (Amazon suggests comparable titles like Man Magnet and Why You're Still Single), but books like these aren't new--they've just become increasingly better marketed and more flashy. I loved Blondie's take on the book and her own list of types of guys.

I remember when I was about 21 the dating book du jour was The Rules. This book is a creepy reminder of my early 20s when I hated myself enough as it was. What the hell was I thinking? I wasn't trying to land a husband. Even if I was, I'm pretty sure the rules portrayed in the book wouldn't have helped me net the kind of guy I wanted or needed.

Which also reminds me of a post Dorothy wrote the other day. Which pretty much scared the bejeezus out of me. Purity balls aren't a new idea to me, but that Dorothy wrote about them juxtaposed with Hillary crying on TV seemed to bring a couple of ideas up with alarming synchronicity (and I don't mean in a good Police kind of way). What I mean by this is the disturbing double standard that exists for men and women (and yes, there are other double standards out there that are equally disturbing, but those are for another day, Cranial Midget).

Why don't we care when Mitt Romney cries? (other than that he's a creepy dude we'd rather not think about) Why do we feel the need to "preserve" our girls for marriage? The whole idea of having an intact hymen freaks me out so much I can't even go there. But I will. I think one of the weirdest things I heard when I was a self-loathing adolescent was from one of my friends who said her mom wouldn't let her use tampons because "those are for married women." Huh?!

I guess my point here about Hillary and dating rules and purity balls is that despite all the progress women have made, we still haven't figured out what to do with them. Are we feeble or are we strong, because by God, no one (including some women) knows what to do with us if we show both faces.

Hillary Cried

I have to blog about the attention being paid to Hillary Clinton tearing up on the campaign trail today. I know there are plenty of people who have full-on animosity toward her (and one lives in my house), as well as others who are passionate about her running for president. Me, I'm on the fence about the whole deal. I have to say that a female candidate is extremely appealing to me, but I do have doubts about whether Hillary is the person we need right now.

But back to the crying.

The fact that anyone thinks this is news isn't surprising. The presidential campaigners can hardly breathe under the watchful scrutiny of voters and the media. And that's as it should be. But that one of the candidates has a *human* moment during this scrutiny is apparently newsworthy. I feel for Hillary here. You know she has to be tired and frustrated, and no doubt, just a little mad too. Good lord, people, she really does have feelings!

My worry is that her breakdown (which is not exactly what I would call it) will be misconstrued as her "working" the crowd. I suppose that's possible. She is savvy to political maneuvering. Political candidates can't eat a piece of cherry pie without the act pointing at their patriotism.

On the other hand, maybe she cried because she was moved to do so. How very girly of her! How weak, how pathetic. How typical! The naysayers will have a field day with this one.

As many woman know, crying in moments of duress is part of the hormonal package. I have been accused (more than once) of crying to manipulate something in a situation. Yet, that's rarely the case. More often than not, I've had to fight the tears back, to look strong, to NOT act like a girl. When the tears have flowed it's because I couldn't hold myself together enough to keep them in.

This is probably the situation Hillary found herself in earlier today. Call her calculating or even false (a lot of people do), but I sincerely believe her tears were not a theatrical production today. And while it's refreshing to know that a politician might have a moment of vulnerability, I suspect Hillary will be accused of being weak. (That is, if she's not accused of faking it.)

We Love "The Wire"...and That Ain't No Bunk

Mortgage Partner (aka Cranial Midget) and I are hurriedly catching up on season 4 of "The Wire" so we can hop into bed with the latest and final season that begins tonight. If you're not familiar with the show, go rent the first season and prepare to cringe. A lot. As with many other HBO shows, this stuff is not for the faint of heart.

What it will give you is a glimpse into the world of cops, gangsters, and politicians. As someone who lives in one KC's more historic hoods, I treat "The Wire" as a lesson in living in the big city. This scares me just a little, but I'd rather know what's out there than live in an ivory tower (or a beige box in a 'burb) and not consider what goes on in the rest of the world.

There is something just a little strange about finding reality in scripted television, but I know the little piece of heaven MP and I have scraped together isn't the only way people live. I guess you could call it roadkill fascination--like a mess so bad you can't help but look at it. Which is probably why most of us watch reality TV if you think about it.

Only "The Wire" is better than that. People are nastier, funnier, and more believable than they are in real life. And you will find yourself loving them--even the gun-toting thugs--because you realize even they have a little humanity in them. Most def.

A Caucus Race

I'm so happy to know I'm not the only one who thinks of Lewis Carroll when I see the word caucus. I've included a handy link here for those of you who aren't up on your Alice in Wonderland. Indeed, as it is the day of the Iowa Caucus, there are other bloggers out in the universe making this reference. However, I'm not sure how many of them are considering the etymology of the word.

On this news this morning, the announcer suggested the word has roots in Native American language (Algonquin--I had to look this up). The suggestion is that it comes from caucauasu--one who advises.

However, the dictionaries generally credit Latin caucus or Greek kaukus (hey, if you use a k, it makes it Greek, right?). Both these suggest a cup or vessel and might relate to what the caucus-goers are doing, namely drinking. In Alice in Wonderland, the caucus is used to dry off. And everyone knows that drinkers need an opportunity to dry off, or dry out.

Frankly, I kind of prefer this meaning. I'm not sure how much advising goes on in a caucus. Methinks there is more running around in circles. If the Republicans weren't so worried about turning off their base, they would be cracking more jokes about the Democrats running around in circles a la Lewis Carroll. But that would be WAY too liberal literati. Apparently the Republican caucus is more organized, more 6th-grade class election-like. Everyone places a piece of paper in a box. Democrats run around a room and pile up under signs designating their choice. To me, that is much more in the spirit of a caucus.

In other news, I promise to be a more faithful blog contributer this year. My life is slightly less frantic than it was. And I know you've been waiting with baited breath to read up on word meanings and other random musings.