I just had such an urge to subscribe to a parenting magazine. Wondertime, to be exact, because one of my favorite mama writers, Catherine Newman, writes for them and recommends it. So it must be good. But subscribing to too many magazines stresses me out. I don't like how they pile up, waiting to be read. And (speaking of mental illness) I'm the kind who must read one from cover to cover, so the pressure is excruciating. Right now, we have subscriptions to Rolling Stone, Orion, and my new-agey unchurch mag Science of Mind. One of my bestest, loveliest friends also gave us a sub to Paste last year, but it is too stressful to be believed. Every page has a short article on it, so reading it from cover to cover is truly daunting. I need long narrative threads. Paste is not long narrative threads. I also get the feeling, like with Bust, that I really am not cool enough or young enough to be reading that shit.
Eric gets Scientific American, but I do not believe he reads it. I could be wrong.
Speaking of Eric, here is something you should know about him: he performs heroic deeds on an almost daily basis, including putting up with yours truly. Here's an example:
The night before I left for the Idaho debacle, the weather report suggested it was going to get freezy and breezy, as Addie might say, with a chance for snow. E had a migraine and had gone to bed at 8:30. Actually, he always goes to bed at 8:30, but that's beside the point. I also had tried to tuck in early so I could get up for the early morning flight.
Anyhoo, at about 10:30, I hear a big old thump right outside our sliding glass door, and the tinkling of kitty-collar bells. Turns out Mei-Mei, the family serial-killer, had escaped to the great outdoors, no doubt to catch and kill as many birds and small rodents as she possibly could in a two-hour period. Being an extraordinary climber, she managed to vault herself from one of our trees onto the master balcony. I got up to let her in, and when I did, I heard other kitty cries, way off in the distance. I recognized them instantly as the nails-on-chalkboard meowhines of Sadie, our fat, slightly-retarded old cat.
For some reason, I started to call her to come, Sadie, Sadie. Of course, Sadie is not an extraordinary climber, so who knows why I was calling her to come in from the balcony. I finally figured this out and headed downstairs in my jammies to open the back door. It was freeeeeeezing outside and I forgot to put my glasses on and so could see nothing and was so cold. Calling Sadie, Sadie. Still she wouldn't come.
Finally I ventured into the blurry night calling Sadie, Sadie, and she's still going with that awful meow of hers and I get all the way to the back fence and notice, oddly enough, that the meowing is now coming from above me.
Sadie, the cat who has trouble climbing the freaking stairs, had actually climbed to the near-top of a fifty-foot tree. My guess is she got scared up there by our friend's dog, who had paid us a visit earlier in the evening. Either that, or she got air-lifted up there by a giant crane. Either one.
I still didn't have glasses on, so all I could see was a giant mewing blob up there in that tree. Still calling Sadie, Sadie. Bitch WILL NOT come down. Tramp back inside, cursing, cursing, wake up poor Eric with the migraine, tell him you're not going to believe this. Poor Eric gets out gigantic extension ladder, cursing, cursing, climbs to the top of that ladder, stands on tippy-toe, wrests Sadie from the tree (she had completely sunk her claws into the branch) and brings her back down to safety.
"You owe me big-time," he says.
He hates that cat.
He is my hero.
But I still don't think he reads Scientific American.
Eric gets Scientific American, but I do not believe he reads it. I could be wrong.
Speaking of Eric, here is something you should know about him: he performs heroic deeds on an almost daily basis, including putting up with yours truly. Here's an example:
The night before I left for the Idaho debacle, the weather report suggested it was going to get freezy and breezy, as Addie might say, with a chance for snow. E had a migraine and had gone to bed at 8:30. Actually, he always goes to bed at 8:30, but that's beside the point. I also had tried to tuck in early so I could get up for the early morning flight.
Anyhoo, at about 10:30, I hear a big old thump right outside our sliding glass door, and the tinkling of kitty-collar bells. Turns out Mei-Mei, the family serial-killer, had escaped to the great outdoors, no doubt to catch and kill as many birds and small rodents as she possibly could in a two-hour period. Being an extraordinary climber, she managed to vault herself from one of our trees onto the master balcony. I got up to let her in, and when I did, I heard other kitty cries, way off in the distance. I recognized them instantly as the nails-on-chalkboard meowhines of Sadie, our fat, slightly-retarded old cat.
For some reason, I started to call her to come, Sadie, Sadie. Of course, Sadie is not an extraordinary climber, so who knows why I was calling her to come in from the balcony. I finally figured this out and headed downstairs in my jammies to open the back door. It was freeeeeeezing outside and I forgot to put my glasses on and so could see nothing and was so cold. Calling Sadie, Sadie. Still she wouldn't come.
Finally I ventured into the blurry night calling Sadie, Sadie, and she's still going with that awful meow of hers and I get all the way to the back fence and notice, oddly enough, that the meowing is now coming from above me.
Sadie, the cat who has trouble climbing the freaking stairs, had actually climbed to the near-top of a fifty-foot tree. My guess is she got scared up there by our friend's dog, who had paid us a visit earlier in the evening. Either that, or she got air-lifted up there by a giant crane. Either one.
I still didn't have glasses on, so all I could see was a giant mewing blob up there in that tree. Still calling Sadie, Sadie. Bitch WILL NOT come down. Tramp back inside, cursing, cursing, wake up poor Eric with the migraine, tell him you're not going to believe this. Poor Eric gets out gigantic extension ladder, cursing, cursing, climbs to the top of that ladder, stands on tippy-toe, wrests Sadie from the tree (she had completely sunk her claws into the branch) and brings her back down to safety.
"You owe me big-time," he says.
He hates that cat.
He is my hero.
But I still don't think he reads Scientific American.
Hilarious post, Juj. Believe it or not, back when Paco was younger he used to climb to the top of trees and then cry pathetically for rescue--on a regular basis. One day, though, someone shared the most sage insight with me: "You ever see a cat corpse in a tree? That's what I thought. They'll always find a way to get down, eventually."
ReplyDeleteThe next time I came home to Paco pleading for a crane intervention from the top of the freaking forest canopy, I looked up and told him it was over, he could stay up there for days, for all I cared. Not 10 minutes later he showed up at the back door looking sheepish, and he never got "stuck" after that.
Of course, Eric is a total hero. But you're pretty amazing yourself.
n
I think i just had a light bulb appear over my head thanks to your blog. lol good job.
ReplyDelete