Yeah, It's Pretty Wonderful, Actually

Renaissance Festival, 2017. Only Eleanor and Bruce had
actual costumes. Betty and I just sort of randomly
over-accessorized and called it a day.

It's actually been a pretty wonderful year, all things considered. Not, of course, from a macro view--I'm sure the angels above are weeping with the war, famine, and general meanness of the world today. But in my little corner of it, most days, I'm content.

Granted, life has its share of irritations. There is a rhythmic noise coming from the living room that suggests Bob Cat is destroying something. I can still smell the acrid smell from when I got a little too close to our overly assertive fireplace the other night and my hairspray-encrusted hair got singed. I don't get to see the kids until Tuesday, which isn't too far away, but still just far enough to remind me that the day is coming in a few years when they will grow up and leave home (or--heaven forbid--move away).

And, WOW, the busy-ness! I knew it would be a busy year, with the reorg at work, working on the novel, and kids in every school level...but this fall has left me gasping for breath and wondering where all the time (and sleep) has gone. I can hyperventilate just thinking about my to-do list.

February, 2008. Probably the last time either Bruce or
Eleanor still thought Betty was adorable. And even then,
given her expression, it's likely Eleanor was whispering
some sort of threat in Betty's ears, probably beginning with,
"And, once you learn to walk, if I ever catch you in my room..."

And, yet--I'm appreciative. I remember where I was--physically, emotionally, mentally--not too many years ago. It's kind of hard to forget, actually. I have a super supportive friend who has metaphorically wagged a finger at me and said, "Remember how far you've come!!!!" every time I've gotten frustrated or discouraged to the point where my inner cheerleader now has that friend's voice.

So it probably shouldn't be too surprising that my favorite Christmas movie is "It's a Wonderful Life."

Conces Christmas Party, 2011. Eleanor's really getting into
the whole staged fratricide gag picture thing. 

I mean, okay, it does bother me that, at the end, all these poor people are giving George Bailey their money and they didn't actually need to because Sam Wainwright authorized a loan that would have covered Uncle Billy's deficit three times over. I hope he made them take it all back after they got through with Auld Lang Syne, although they were just dumping it on the table and singing, and it's pretty clear nobody knows who gave what. And, even if they knew when they started out, Mary was yelling at Martini to bring on the wine (even though Uncle Billy has a problem and George has been drinking heavily in two realities), so after the next few carols, I'm pretty sure Zuzu was gonna be fertilizing her flower with twenties. Which, if you think about it, shows some pretty irresponsible business skills, George. I'd like my $242 back, please.

But, aside from the ethically questionable Money Blizzard, I love that movie. I watch it every few years, and I cry every time at George Bailey's joy at appreciating the simple beauty of home and family. It is all too easy to get overwhelmed by all that doesn't go right. And some of those things (like George's looming threat of jail and bankruptcy) are real and big and serious. Big enough to get lost in.

And that's why we have each other--to find our way out of the dark places. The same friend who has cheered me on for so long is having a rough Christmas, and it's my turn to say, HEY, YOU! REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE AND HOW FAR YOU'VE COME! In other words, to do what I can to shine a light into the dark places and hope it illumines a path, as so many friends and family have done for me over the years.

Canada, 2016. There is a special place in heaven for tour guides who volunteer to take pictures of a single mom and her kids so that she can actually be in the picture with the most important people in the world.

So, Merry Christmas, or however you celebrate the season, and remember, in the immortal words of Clarence Oddbody, "no man is a failure who has friends."

Bounty: The Other Kleenex

Even Hermione cries on a regular
basis, and she's the queen
of logical reasoning.

I do not like to cry in front of people. I suppose very few people do, really, other than professional mourners and the heroines of YA Romance novels. And maybe that's my problem--when I was supposed to be learning how to be comfortable expressing myself through tears as a teenager, I was awkwardly trying to shut off all brain activity to avoid crying in front of people.

In fact, when I can feel the tears welling up, it's like somebody just powered up the shields on the USS Enterprise...I stop listening, lose track of conversation, basically divert all systems into ensuring that no tears fall--or, as a fallback position, that no one sees them fall.

Sort of like cat logic: So long as we can both pretend you can't see me, it's like I'm perfectly camouflaged.

So today I cried in my boss's office. I honestly can't explain why. He's not a mean person, and nothing especially bad happened. I wasn't in trouble, I'm still employed, I actually like my job, and we both agree I do it reasonably well. I think it was a combination of sleep deprivation, hormones, and general change fatigue: in my three years on the job, I've had five bosses, four offices, three mail codes, two phone numbers, and I'm still looking for the partridge in the pear tree (it probably got accidentally surplused in an office move).  Probably, in fact, the afternoon's unexpected indoor rain shower was precipitated (har, har) by the exercise of trying to get packets ready for my new employees who are starting on Monday and wanting to give them a current, accurate business card:

An optimist would point out that at least the building hasn't moved, but that would not account for the fact that I've moved to a different building and then moved back to this one. A particularly snarky optimist would then mention that I haven't changed names, which is true. My last name change was a whole five years ago. It is still true that this is Texas and I am still a manager, so FINE, Mr. Snarky Optimist, you WIN. Happy?

So, yeah. Change fatigue was definitely a factor. I think the boss's exact words were, "So, do you think that maybe we could try..."

I wish I could remember what it was I am supposed to be trying, but at that point, the USS Enterprise went on full alert and I spent the next few minutes behind my shields, doodling frantically in my notebook (which probably did not achieve the impression of attentive listening I was going for), trying to keep the tears in check. This awkward silence triggers the boss to talk, offering more new ideas, which triggers more silence, which triggers more new ideas. Must. Keep. Shields. Powered. Lights are flickering on the bridge, and even Captain Kirk is getting concerned.

Like this one.

Now, the boss knows his limitations, and has been trying conscientiously to overcome them. In particular, he fully admits to not being comfortable with emotions, but, being basically a good guy, he actually used the f-word (feelings) twice and made a point of emphasizing that my feelings are valid.

So Scotty's diverting all power to the shields, and then the Klingons try to beam in some chocolates and a funny cat meme.

You know what happens next. Yeap. The shields come down.

Now, the boss is, and I say this with love, a policy wonk. There's less crying in policy than there is in baseball, probably because there are twice as many rules. This whole supervising trainers thing is new to him, and he is not prepared. I've been in training three years now, and I've learned two things: (1) as a group, trainers are comfortable expressing emotions, and (2) never, ever run out of Kleenex. The boss has only been over our area for three months, and after frantically scanning his office, he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a giant roll of paper towels. Not the pick-a-size sheets, either...the ginormous, heavy duty, clean up after hairballs and/or violent crime kind.

Awkward.

I think machete skills in an author are
extremely underrated. Yes, she honed those
skills chopping coconuts for tourists, but
think of the practical applications in
dealing with agents, editors, and people at
book signings who want her opinion on Putin.

Because one square of Bounty means that neither of us can pretend I'm not crying anymore. I think about covering my face like Bob Cat, but there's not a point really. So I do my best attempt at professionally dabbing my eyes with a paper towel and work diligently to bring the conversation to a dignified end. I probably would've done just as well with Bob's approach.

In an ideal world, we would avoid each other for another few weeks until I could safely pretend this never happened, but somehow that seems unlikely to succeed. So, I took myself out to a nice margarita and went to Katherine Arden's book signing (The Girl in the Tower--sequel to The Bear and the Nightingale) at Book People. Spending half an hour listening to her adventures in Russia and Hawaii and her experiences as a new writer was funny, inspiring, and just what I needed to reset.

And not all of the changes of the last few years have been bad, not by a long shot. In addition to whatever change the boss was proposing while I was hiding behind my anti-crying shields, I've had some poetry success, lots of love from family and friends, and, yes, written a novel of my own. Sometime in 2018, that could be me behind that podium, telling the story of how The Golden Feather came to be. Just this week, I sent my novel to the copy editor for proofing and received some draft illustrations from my friend, Steve.

So, I'll get some rest, regroup, and set the USS Enterprise out on a scouting expedition to navigate all these new places and new people, shields down, ready to explore. But I'll also bring the boss a box of Kleenex for his office. Just in case.

Bob Slays Christmas

Yo, Bob here.

They also call me Bib, Bibbidy, Robert, Bob Cat, Mr. Bubbles, El Bob, the Murderous Marshmallow, Captain Fluffy Butt, Bubby, Turdbucket, Tut, and some other things that I probably shouldn't repeat (usually right after I help them get rid of excess breakables--I'm considerate that way).

Anyway, I'm here to tell you why this is my favorite time of the year.

Boxes, amiright?
Those Amazon people are so thoughtful about putting random stuff inside the boxes to help them hold their shape. Then my peeps take out all the random stuff so I can sit in them. Even in July, it always seems like just when I get bored with one box, another one's on its way...but Christmastime? I can't hardly shred one box before another arrives.

Most of the year, I just don't get my peeps. Well, Nana I get perfectly. We both like naps and cuddling in front of the TV and she always slips me people food. But mostly my peeps are just plain weird. They don't understand why running around and breaking things at night makes me need to eat at precisely 4:45 a.m. They don't get the importance of running outside for approximately 30 seconds to check on whether the outside world is still big and scary (it is, but I keep hoping it'll turn back into the living room someday--you have to stay optimistic). The older two kids have awesome velvet-lined boxes where they keep these wooden screech demons called violas but every time I try to go in there for a nap, the lid falls down on me and I roll over and wind up on the floor. Embarrassing. Also, whenever I try to express my feelings by breaking glassware, I get yelled at. MY FEELINGS ARE VALID, PEOPLE! (And much more important than that figurine.)

They even put a nice, soft
rug under it, just for me.

But, Christmas, now, that's a time when they do their best to make it up to me for a year's worth of Stop it, Bob! and No, Bob! and Bad kitty! and I'm gonna put your furry butt outside, Bob! 

First, as I said, is the constant parade of boxes, big and small, all arriving just for my sitting pleasure. Also for my shredding pleasure, because there's nothing so glorious on the claws as corrugated cardboard, except possibly human hands as the silly peeps unwittingly get their mitts too close to my box fortress. That box is mine, peeps.

Second is the tree. Now, as I said, outdoors is all big and scary. I think there's a goldendoodle next door that might eat my soul. So it's really thoughtful of them to bring me a tree inside. 

They do kinda suck at picking trees, though, because this one doesn't reach the ceiling, and there's no bark to dig into. And after I kept trying to climb it last year, all of the bottom branches bend permanently down, which is downright pathetic. It's like the tree is calling me fat. IT'S FUR, DAMMIT! Stupid wimpy tree.

Anyway, they try to make up for the pathetic tree by hanging it full of shiny, colorful cat toys. Boxes and boxes full of cat toys. Unfortunately, they really cheaped out last year and hung all these glass cat toys that broke after a single WHAP across the floors. Then, of course, they got all dramatic and spoiled the holiday buzz by yelling at me, as though it's my fault they went disposable. Seriously? You call that an heirloom? If I can't fling it up in the air with one paw, bounce it off the wall, and send it flying to the floor to knock against the desk without it breaking, it really wasn't worth keeping anyway. They should be thanking me.

So after a few weeks of that, they wised up and invested in some non-breakable cat toys. Jingle bells--that make a cool ringing sound when you bat them across the floor and whack them into a bedroom door at 3 a.m. Shiny glitter balls--that bounce and roll under furniture, where they will be discovered well into spring. (Note--the peeps were all proud of themselves and said these were unbreakable, which I sort of took as a challenge. Turns out you can break them, just takes a little more effort.)

You have to sneak up on the shiny glitter ball.
First, you walk away, look elsewhere, make it think
you've given up. Then, when Mom puts the camera
away, POUNCE! Those things can bounce two feet up!

Now, we get to play this exciting game for the next month. I systematically strip the bottom half of the tree of cat toys, often at 3 a.m., then, after the tree is nice and bare, the peeps go around the house and collect all the cat toys (the ones they can find, anyway) every weekend to hang them back on the tree just for me. It's like they're constantly restocking my personal hunting preserve!

Observe the tree in the semi-barren part of its life cycle. I seem to have missed a few, gotta get on that.

Speaking of stocking--they hang these stocking things from the mantle. They sort of dangle, and they're made of this furry yarn stuff (mine is the blue and green striped one--yay, catnip!). The stockings are just at the perfect height where I can launch myself up and latch on. If they were only attached by something stronger than Command Strips, I could then climb them, ultimately achieving my lifelong dream of breaking all the stuff on the mantle. But, bummer--Command Strips won't hold me AND the stocking (I SAID IT'S JUST FUR!). 

The empty space between Bruce's stocking and my so-called sister Daisy's stocking? Nothing to see there!
(Because that's where the purple stocking was that I just pulled off the mantle and have my nose in.
Mom's kinda rude--she didn't even give Betty catnip last year, evidently.)

On Christmas morning, my stocking usually gets filled with a cat toy and some drugs (catnip is my drug of choice). Then, for whatever reason, the peeps pack it all away and things get back to normal.

Joke's on them, though--I know where I hid all the shiny glitter balls. Christmas is gonna last a long, long time.