"Love Triangle", My Ass

If I strolled up to you at this very moment, clad in a disguise after following you across a dark parking lot, and I blasted you in the face with pepper spray yet claimed I just wanted to talk with you, I'm sure you would be sympathetic and understanding and would be perfectly fine if I strolled along with my life with no jail time and merely an order to apologize to you like I mean it, right?

Hey, works for Lisa Marie Nowak! I'm sure you remember the diaper-clad ex-astronaut who traveled 900 miles to attack Colleen Shipman in 2007. Yesterday a grossly irresponsible judge named Lubet dismissed Nowak's clearly malicious and dangerous behavior and sentenced her to a year probation with some community service tossed in, and oh yeah, she has to write a "sincere letter of apology" to Shipman within 10 days.

Well now, I'm sure that scrap of paper will make up for the fear and pain of being stalked and attacked, won't it?

I was infuriated but not surprised by the shrug of the shoulders and the smirkingly casual manner in which this case was handled. Headlines have watered down this attack as a "love triangle", dumbing down and trivializing this heinous attack on another human being. Aww, it's just a lover's quarrel! A cat fight! Let 'em tug each other's hair and slap each other with their high-heel shoes. They won't actually hurt each other. Hell, they're just girls, after all. And anyway, what did Shipman expect, dating this other woman's love interest?

How different would this story have been handled, and how different would the sentence be, if Nowak was a man? Or if Nowak attacked the male love interest instead? Or if Nowak pepper-sprayed a random stranger in that parking lot instead of a woman the media could write off as the other woman?

The condescending attitude appears to be that Nowak actually posed no harm to Shipman because (a) she is merely female, and (b) she was acting like a typical jealous woman, and even worse, that (c) perhaps Shipman deserved it because she entered a relationship with a man with whom Nowak still had romantic interest.

In no other situation could a person travel across the country to hunt someone down, follow that person across a parking lot, physically assault that person, then stand back and smile complacently and swear she was sorry, and can I go home and leave this pesky nonsense behind me now, Your Honor?

Nowak sat in a jail cell for a whole two days. Big deal. Shipman, for her part, was attacked first in the parking lot, then again in the courtroom by a negligent and cowardly judge. Perhaps she should receive a "sincere letter of apology" from Judge Lubet.

Tabloid

If I close my eyes tight, wish upon a star, click my heels together three times and repeat "There's no place like a tabloid-free world! There's no place like a tabloid-free world!" with all the magic my little heart can muster, does that mean I stand even a slim chance of never, ever hearing again about Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, American Idol, Jessica Simpson's current weight, whether Brad and Angelina are sleeping in the same bed or not, Lindsay Lohan's recent illegal substance of choice, the Kardashian brats and who they have conned into marrying them lately, or the Gosselins' race for the most shameful, kid-destroying divorce and custody battle of the year?

Oh, come now...a whiny, bitchy, woe-is-me, victim-playing, bitter and jealous woman with ridiculously bad hair, using the kids as tools to gain leverage to her own benefit...

Hmmm.

Hell, I don't need tabloids to see that!

Her Daddy

I wasn’t there, six years ago today, when Sunflower was born. Six years ago, I had never met Gary, didn’t even know he and the kids existed, and I had no idea that a strong, beautiful baby girl being born that moment would someday challenge me, frustrate me, make me laugh, and ultimately run away with my heart.

Sunflower was 3 years old when I first met the kids. Of all the kids, I found her to be the most challenging; she was Daddy’s girl, through and through. Her life was completely upside down when I met her, too many upsetting changes for such a young child to comprehend or absorb, and here was yet another change, me, someone who was possibly a threat to her close relationship with her daddy.

I remember the first things all the kids said to me. For example, I remember Bear spontaneously bursting out with the excited announcement, “I like ice cream!” And I will always remember the scared yet defiant look in Sunflower’s eyes as she wrapped her arms tightly around Gary’s arm and told me sternly, “This is my Daddy.”

I read between the lines crystal clear. This is her daddy. Don’t take him away. Don’t even think about it.

There is no handbook, rule book, or step-by-step guide for weaving your life into your boyfriend’s kids’ lives, and there is no one-size-fits-all method for all of them. All four of the kids responded to me differently, and I have a unique relationship with each of them, since they are four separate, very different people with their own minds and their own expectations.

Sunflower was not cruel, rude, or even cold. She was simply scared. I understood and tried not to be too frustrated with a distance I felt with her but not with the other kids. I let her be, let her come to me if she wanted, let her keep her distance if she preferred that. I gave her time and space with Gary, reminding myself that I saw him every day; the kids saw him maybe every two weeks. They deserved to be bumped up the totem pole and given his full attention.

One day, we were relaxing at home, and I was curled up in the corner of the couch, watching the kids play on the floor with Gary. Sunflower was tucked into the opposite corner of the couch with her arms wrapped around her pillow, silently regarding me, the wheels turning almost audibly in her head.

She moved slowly, as if detection by me would cause her to self-destruct. One inch. Two inches. All the while, gazing at me with wide, cautious eyes, daring me to do anything to cause her to dash frantically back to her safe corner of the couch.

Then, she gently settled her pillow in my lap. And waited.

When I didn’t react in whatever horrible manner she imagined I may, she went for broke: she crawled into my lap, snuggled up with her pillow, and made herself comfy in my arms.

Gary didn’t say a word, but suddenly he appeared with a camera, snapped a quick shot of the two of us, and then returned to the wrestling match on the floor. Sunflower and I sat quietly, snuggling for the first time. Not for the last time, I was awed by the overwhelming emotion the kids could draw from deep inside of me.

Sorting through pictures not long ago, Gary pointed out that picture to me, Sunflower curled in my lap. Now, three years later, it’s not unusual for Sunflower to climb into my lap (though her strong preference is definitely still Gary’s lap!) One of my favorite sounds has become Sunflower’s wild, free laugh while she plays with her daddy, because her laugh is filled with love and smiles and joy.

Today I wish her a happy birthday. I wish her all the love, smiles, and joy in the world, so she never stops laughing. And I promise her, with all my heart, I will never, ever forget: that is her daddy.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

Pass around the cake and ice cream (and the spiked punch): the Smirking Cat is a strapping, bouncing two years old today!

I haven't been nearly as active on this blog as I was the first year, but I assure you the Smirking Cat is not going anywhere. It's too much fun irking the haters who yowled so ungraciously to shut down my blog (and by "haters" I mean people who feebly claim to find me unpalatable yet still rack up my visitor stats with repeat hits each day, proving what I already knew to be true: they secretly covet me. Oh, and they have far more free time on their hands than any human being ever should).

In some ways I sense a softening of my blog over the past year, a result of several hard-core struggles that tore bits of my life to pieces. In the process of putting it all back together and moving on, I came to the realization that inner strength is sometimes peaceful, quiet, occasionally silent and still, known truly only to yourself; and if someone else wants to mistake that for weakening or faltering, well, it will ultimately be their unpleasant surprise.

I try to take more time now to sit on the floor to play with the kids, to set aside my endless to-do lists and what I imagine must be done in favor of what must be felt and loved, to realize that life is marching on whether everything on the calendar is crossed off or not, and I better embrace it while it's still in my reach. All of it. I am better able to choose my battles and to laugh off those which are not worth pursuing. My eyes have opened to the futility of precious energy poured into combatting others' immaturity and hatefulness. It is their choice to live with rotting hearts. I choose differently.

I don't think it's coincidence that after a year like this past one, I have finally started putting into place changes I have been attempting for years. My dead-end, low-paying job was slayed by the time and effort I put into my job search and into interviewing to land a job I wanted. After years of talk, I finally put my wants into action, because I stopped doubting myself or what I was capable of. And I am much happier for it...and just getting started.

There were many times this past year I questioned why I was writing what I was writing, why I was posting something so personal and close to my heart. It would have been much easier to keep up a steely persona and refuse to admit to fear, to tears, to self-doubt or questions about where the hell things were going, especially on a public blog. But what would be the point? That isn't the truth. That isn't real.

Things change. That is life. My blog has a different tone now, because I am a different person now, with a modified lens through which to view the world. My words will reflect that.

Thanks to everyone reading this, to everyone who has been reading for years or just stumbled across this blog today. But most of all, thanks to the cast of characters -- Gary and the kids and three crazy cats--who color my life, brighten my days, and give me so much to write about!

Nine and a Half Lives

I took Tweetie for a check-up and to re-evaluate his medications yesterday, and when the vet walked into the exam room, he smiled as soon as he saw Tweetie.

My Tweetie wasn't able to lift his head or move a paw just a few months ago, completely paralyzed and helpless. It was scary and heartbreaking. He spent his days under observation with the vet while I was at work, because he couldn't be left alone. He couldn't eat, bathe, get to the litter box, even so much as lift a leg to scratch an itch.

When the vet walked in yesterday, Tweetie was perched on the examination table with his paws draped over my arm, impatiently waiting to go home. A far cry from just a few months ago, he stood up, howled loudly so that everyone in earshot knew he was not pleased to be there, and then took a stroll on the table, scoping an ecape route before the dreaded thermometer could be produced.

The vet placed Tweetie on the floor to watch how he moved, and move he did! He strutted like a peacock, as if aware of his audience, and one of the technicians stopped by to watch. She suddenly recognized him and asked incredulously, "Is that the cat who was with us for so long? The one who couldn't move?"

When the vet said yes, the technician dropped straight to the floor with Tweetie, fussing over him, petting him, and she kept saying how good he looked. Tweetie took the opportunity to offer up to her his silent meow and a meaningful glance at the closed door, but to his disgust, she did not cooperate with his covert demands. Instead, she turned to me to tell me how much better he looks now.

The vet admitted to me, for the first time, that he had had some doubts if Tweetie was going to make it. So had I. I had cried more than once, trying to come to peace with the idea of Tweetie being gone, but not able to do so. Not by a long shot.

And here he was, parading around the room with what the vet laughingly called his swagger, his little rump-shaking way of walking that he has adopted as he recovers, his hind legs swaying side to side like he's wearing spurs and hip holsters. It suits him.

The vet said to me, "I think we can certainly call him a success story."

Or we can call him what Gary does: a grumpy old turd.

No, wait! Something else that Gary calls Tweetie: a tough old cat!

Bribe

Something more than a little odd happens almost every time we drop the kids off after their weekend with us. Before the tires of our car even hit the other household's driveway, the bribes are being wheeled into the driveway, ready to flaunt beneath the kids' noses like red flags: bikes, scooters, toys, water globes (that one was not exactly a hit), gifts and presents of all kinds that apparently simply cannot wait until the kids say good-bye and go into the house. Nope, the bribes must be bestowed immediately, right there in the driveway. (Soon these individuals will probably crawl into the car with us, maniacally shoving cash and prizes into the kids' faces, but so far it hasn't quite escalated to that level of insanity. Yet.)

At first I just thought it was terribly (but not surprisingly) rude, interfering with the kids' time to say good-bye to their father and deal with their uneasy transition from one parent to another household. It struck me as downright obscene if one of the kids was crying, clinging to their father, while the incessant chants of "But look what we bought youuuuuu" never ceased from the sidelines.

Now, however, it makes me feel sorry for any parent who is forced to offer up bribes. It clearly says, "I am not secure in my role as a parent. Therefore I will spend copious amounts of money and meet you at the car with presents in hopes that at least until your father leaves, you seem excited to be here with me instead."

It is a desperate, more than slightly pathetic ploy in a self-fabricated contest, where parenting skills, maturity, and sensitivity to the kids' feelings are mindlessly sacrificed in a one-sided race to be the funnest parent. As Jessica Goldstein put it in her article, 7 Tips From a Child of Divorce: "Parents, do not bribe your kids. ...You want them to come to your house because they want to see you; you don't need to lure them there with fancy video games and lax house rules. It feels desperate, not strong."

One of the most preposterous lies crapped out of certain people's mouths during this ongoing circus was that the children cry when they "have to" go see their father. I laughed out loud at that imaginative piece of wishful thinking. Indeed! I have seen the kids risk life and limb to damn near dash into oncoming traffic to be next to their father NOW, and I have seen them literally and painfully cling to his shirt with all their might when they are not ready to let go at the end of their time with him. I have tried to comfort them during an entire hour-long car ride when they are not ready to leave their father yet. Cry because they are being forced to see him? Get real. Yet another example of the kids' feelings being shoved aside as long as someone else can personally benefit from toying with them and manipulating them like weapons.

One thing I have never witnessed is Gary meeting the kids in the driveway with elaborate presents, shoving them beneath the kids' noses and oohing and ahhing, urging them to come see what else he bought them.

He doesn't have to.

Yesterday, I sat in the car and watched Gary's five-year-old daughter grasp his arm the entire drive back to their other household, even when she briefly fell asleep, holding onto him and nearing tears the closer we got to what she already knew would be good-bye. It is natural for the kids to feel sad when they are going to be involuntarily deprived of a loved parent for two weeks, yet she isn't permitted to share her feelings, isn't allowed to cry openly and show how upset she is about leaving her father once she exits the car. Nah, there are gifts to be crammed into her face, and sweet sentiments like "Good lord, you'll see him again" to be snapped at her impatiently in a disgusted tone.

Three years later, there are raw, unhealed wounds for the kids because their feelings have not been prioritized. What they need has been shoved beneath the thick, suffocating rug of ego, lies, and manipulation.

Each time we drop them off, I watch the parading of presents, gifts, ultimately bribes. Perhaps if children were not lied to, used, twisted, and mangled, it would not be necessary to buy pieces of them back.

*Photo courtesy of videogum.com*

Where Have I Been?

I've been largely AWOL from this blog recently, and also from reading or commenting on anyone else's. Luckily there is a very good reason for this: I have been making some major changes in my life lately.

I have written here before about working at a hospice, and while I have tremendous respect for much of the staff there, unfortunately my most direct supervisors were not among that crowd. With personalities like rotwood and the professionalism of a Stooges brother, my supervisors and I never quite saw eye-to-eye. I did not enjoy showing up there every day, and any reward for working with hospice was clouded by putting up with them.

Long story short, it came to a head a few weeks ago, and I launched a major job search, sending over 50 resumes and applications. In this economy, I didn't expect much, but what I got was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Out of over 160 applicants, I survived a phone interview, an email screening questionnaire, and 2 intense in-person interviews. (My second interview was over 2 hours long!) I really wanted this job, and I put my all into preparing for the interviews, researching the company, practicing how to answer questions, yet still forcing myself to recognize that the odds of landing this job, out of 160 people, were pretty slim.

Well...I beat the odds, and I was offered the job. I felt sad leaving hospice, knowing that things could really be better there with more professional management and oversight, but I didn't anticipate much changing there anytime soon. So I packed up my plants, pictures, and wide array of pens (I have a fetish of sorts with good pens) and moved on.

If you have worked in positions where you don't quite fit, or that doesn't use half the skills you have, then you know the immense relief and feeling of spreading wings that finding something more suited for you brings. I am proud of being chosen from so many applicants, and I am grateful for the position, for the positive change in my life, for great co-workers, and oh yeah, a beautiful, large office. Sayanora, cubicles and cramped, closet-sized offices!

I couldn't wait for the kids to get here this weekend so we can all celebrate as a family. After struggling so hard for so long, I am looking forward to taking everyone out for a nice dinner and enjoying ourselves.

I saved the best for last...my new boss is a hockey fan! Okay, a Red Wings fan, but I will let that slide. For now.

*Photo courtesy of answers.com*

Gary's Fan Club

Not long after the kids arrive home for the weekend, the pleas of "Can we go to the park?" start, now that we live directly across the street from a playground. (It was definitely a selling point in choosing this place.) We headed over to the park Friday evening, and instantly Gary's fame as the Coolest Toy Ever became evident.

Kids all over the park spotted him and started taunting "You can't catch meeeeeeee!" before racing away, whipping glances over their shoulders to see if he was coming after them yet. I cracked up. So Gary has a little posse now, a gang of kids who want him to chase them all over the park.

One little girl in particular was highly amusing. Perched demurely on the see-saw, wearing a dress that looked better suited to a china doll than a little girl on a playground, her Shirley Temple curls adorned with a floppy bow, she smiled charmingly and seemed shy at first glance.

That didn't last long.

Once she spotted Gary, she leaped up, bellowed like a fog horn, "HEY! Na na na na! You can't catch me!" then shrieked and tore off across the park, amazingly agile in her fancy dress and shoes. Whether Gary tagged actually her or not was inconsequential. With a wave of her royal hand, she dismissed the notion that she was, in fact, now "it", and simply restarted the game by yelling "You can't catch me!" and running off again, turning now and then to see where the big fella was.

For a while, Dove played with her on the see saw. I think Dove wanted to pick her up and tote her around like a doll, but I encouraged her to say hello instead. When the little girl told Dove her name, I prodded Dove, "Why don't you tell her your name now?"

Dove turned to her and said, "What's my name?"

A match made in heaven.