Greatest Compliment

The other weekend, Wolverine (my 10-year-old stepson) and I were engaged in a deep discussion about comic book characters, Wonder Woman in particular. I mentioned that I was worried that if Hollywood makes a movie about Wonder Woman, they will ruin her by not casting the right person.

He asked what I meant, and I told him, "Well, sure Wonder Woman is pretty, but she's so much more than that. She is strong, loyal, honest, has integrity, and believes in doing the right thing."

Wolverine sat back for a moment, then suggested, "You could play Wonder Woman."

Awwww....this is officially one of the best, if not the very best, compliment, I have ever received!

What Would Happen?

Did you know that I am a child abuser, a sexual voyeur, an insatiable slut, a homewrecking whore, a violent criminal, and that I make up words?

Well now, I didn't either, until these beastly traits were pointed out to me in the forms of false accusations, self-serving fabrications, and sympathy-seeking stories that defy logic or truth. For instance, did you know that the allure of my feminine wiles seduced Gary away from his impenetrable, rock-solid, loving marriage? Imagine my own surprise at being told my sensuous trickery worked its magic from almost 300 miles away, since I wasn't even living in the same town or even county when Gary's ex filed for divorce, and I didn't know either one of them existed yet. Yep, that's how one version of this fairy tale goes. I didn't say it was the most rational spin on the tale. It would be merely amusing if it wasn't the version repeatedly spoon-fed to the children in hopes of turning them against me.

What are the possible, earth-shattering, dire consequences of another supposed adult admitting, even begrudgingly, that I am now a part of the kids' lives and Gary's life, and that I am actually (*gasp*) a good person? Let's see, right off the top of my head, I can think of:

* The kids would finally have the freedom to love who they choose and not be made to feel guilty or wrong for enjoying my company or accepting my love (or their father's).

* The adults in this situation could work together with more trust and less hostility, leading to better decisions about the kids, preferably based on the kids for a change instead of immature power struggles and maniacal ego-fluffing.

* It is impossible to release anger and bitterness that is petted and fed each and every day. The kids ultimately pay for this, and they deserve to be relieved of this burden. It isn't theirs to shoulder, and it never was.

Yet, it would also mean:

* Admitting to lies and false accusations that are, frankly, criminal (lying in court and intentional false reports to DCF, just to name a few).

* Admitting to roles played and an equal share of responsibility for the divorce and for the kids' ongoing pain. Foisting it all alternately onto me or onto Gary is convenient...but a lie.

* Facing the unnecessary pain and damage inflicted on the kids for no good reason whatsoever.

* Taking steps to reverse and attone for the poison dripped into the kids' head like a steady I.V., each and every day.

* Saying "I'm sorry." No, not to me. To the kids.

So, am I holding my breath? Sadly, no. The course will likely stay on the same defeating, toxic, downright idiotic path it's been on for years. Why doesn't love for the kids prevail with people who are supposed to care for them?

Sylvester, The Vet, and Trickery

Yesterday was finally Sylvester's turn to be dragged to the vet against his will. I had been dreading this trip because Sylvester, though pushing 3 years old, insists on clinging to perpetual kittenhood, preferably the scatter-brained, wired, semi-insane stage.

Gary stopped at home to see if I needed help herding Sylvester into the carrier. Once his humongous tail was crammed into the carrier, he immediately set to work popping his head through any opening like a Whack-a-Mole while I nearly fainted, trying to push his fool head back into the carrier, scared he was going to choke himself, and in this state of chaos, we set off for the vet.

Sylvester calmed down to angry, "I'm-going-to-get-you-in-your-sleep" glowers by the time we sat in the waiting room. When we were called into the exam room, I warned the vet and the technician that he is a vicious, crazy, blood-thirsty, human-eating killer...

...and Sylvester meekly slinked out of the carrier and into the awaiting arms of the technician, allowing himself to be dangled passively from her arm like a stuffed cat, something that would have gotten my arm shredded to beef jerky if I attempted it at home.

Hmmph. He was a softie the entire time we were with the vet, letting the vet poke, prod, even feel his teeth. I told the vet about a small red mark I had spotted on his chin, but every time I tried to inspect it, Sylvester reeled from me like I had administered a high-voltage shock or prodded him with a cattle iron, stuffing his furball body under the bed until he thought I was long gone or had merely forgotten whatever dastardly torture I had up my sleeve for him.

I warned the vet he wouldn't let her check out his chin...

...and Sylvester gently lifted his chin and held his head up calmly so the vet could look at his chin.

Whatever magic the vet had worked wore off before I even released him from the carrier. He hopped out, gave me a dirty look, and took off to wrestle Rosie, chase the bed, roll himself up in rugs, and climb the blinds.

I gave him treats despite his trickery at the vet, deceiving everyone into petting his soft fur and cooing "What a good boy!" I know better.

My demon cat weighed in at 12 pounds, which makes Rosie the official heftiest cat in our household! Now, when Gary and the kids point to Sylvester, laugh, and proclaim him "fat, not fluffy", I can remind them that Rosie outweighs him by nearly 2 pounds of girth.

Ummm...Why?

While searching online for something that was decidedly NOT a breakfast pasty handbag with icing and sprinkles, I came across this Donut Purse with Handcuff Straps. After blinking a few times in stunned silence, I wondered why anyone would want such a thing, and I moved on...and then found myself maddeningly and obsessively wondering what the hell this is all about.

What is the link between the doughnut and the handcuffs? I'm not aware of Krispy Kreme making regular deliveries to our friendly neighborhood inmates. Of course there is the age-old joke about cops and doughnuts, but to combine the doughnut and the handcuffs into a purse...? Ummm, why?

I can't imagine the handcuffs function terribly well as a strap or that they are the least bit comfortable for carrying the, uh, doughnut.

Okay, I am thinking way too much about this. Maybe I am embarrassingly out of it, and every in-the-know lady has one of these babies tucked in her closet for that special occasion, not that I know what occasion would call for this.

But hey, just in case one such occasion pops up, rest easy knowing that this could be all yours for only $12.

Leave the Kids Alone, Already

There's not much (if anything) about family court that impresses me, particularly the way kids are routinely and mindlessly overlooked and volleyed about like meaningless tools or weapons. Because of my already dismally low opinion, I am not surprised by the media circus surrounding the custody hearing for Michael Jackson's children or the repeated exposure of Jon & Kate Plus 8's kids during their incessant tabloid parade.

It's impossible to miss the pictures of these kids plastered on countless celebrity dirt magazines at every cash register, and clearly they wouldn't be there if such trash didn't sell copies. What entertainment value is held by reading about children who just lost a parent, or kids dealing with a very public parental separation with accusations slung in bold, capital letters pawned as casual reading material while you wait to pay for your Wheaties, bread, and milk?

I don't watch Jon & Kate Plus 8, and I haven't read a single magazine article about them, their impending divorce, or who did what to whom, if anything. Curious how the TLC website was handling this presumably unanticipated turn of events, I skimmed the show's blog, where readers were invited to leave "comments, advice, and words of encouragement" for the family's future.

To date, 2, 472 people have chosen to do just that, a few kind words peppered with insults, accusations, and finger-pointing judgments. Evidentally watching a pre-packaged television show has rendered many people incapable of understanding that they have been spoon-fed what producers want them to see, and that they in no way actually know these people. Comments directed at each parent in turn point out each one's faults and all the reasons they are single-handedly responsible for the current situation, in a typically pompous, all-knowing tone as the visitor dispenses self-proclaimed invaluable insight regarding a situation with which they in fact have no intimate or even passing knowledge.

And, as usual, in the midst of all the insults, accusations, finger-pointing, and "me, me, me", the kids are lost yet again, used as media pin-ups to gather attention and sway public opinion, held up and dangled like money-making carrots while their hearts, souls, and feelings are brushed under the rug as inconvenient collateral items that will be swept up and disposed of later like wadded-up trash.

My disgust reached a new low when I read this at the end of an article about the custody of Michael Jackson's children: "The attorneys were outnumbered only by media outlets jockeying for seats in the hearing."

Since when is it more important to ensure each media outlet has its fair bite of the cash-cow entertainment pie instead of making sure the best decision is made and that the kids' well-being is taken care of? Well, pretty much since always, it seems. I have yet to see a lawyer or judge or even many parents whose priority truly rests with the children. Bring on your horse-and-pony show of lies, accusations, sob stories, and retaliatory filings! Make us laugh, make us cry, make us leap to our feet in a standing ovation for the most dramatic performance in a courtroom, then please exit stage left and do be a dear and kick those bleeding, broken kiddos out of the way as you go, please. We have no damn use for them once court adjourns and the show is over.

Baby Repellent

It's raining babies! After flipping through 90 (yes, 90) pictures of my brother's new baby girl this past week, Gary and I went to visit friends in the hospital and said hola to their one-day old baby girl. I couldn't figure out what was more amazing: the tiny new person wrapped tightly in a blanket, watching us through half-closed, peaceful eyes, or the new parents who couldn't stop looking at her and smiling with unabashed infatuation.

When Gary held the baby, she cuddled into his chest and wound her little hands tight around his thumb, content and complacent, latched on like she'd never let go. When it was finally my turn to hold her, I reached up for her eagerly but nervously...and she cried, fussed, thrashed her arms, and practically filed a police report until I unhanded her and backed away with my hands where she could see them.

Gary leaned into me and said softly, "Don't be so worried. She's not as breakable as you are afraid she is."

Yeah, well, she is tiny and new and sure looked plenty breakable to me.

I wanted to pout and stubbornly ignore her charms after that, but I just couldn't resist leaning over her to whisper to her, watch her, laugh at the way she wiggled her hands next to her cheeks like she was mocking us (or at least me; she was probably taunting "Try to hold me again, baby-repellent lady! I'll spit up on you!")

I refrained from a second attempt at holding her, afraid she would shriek for a SWAT team and K-9 dogs, but before we left, I leaned over her one last time to say good-bye, and she closed her amazingly tiny hand tightly around my fingers. Perhaps it was merely reflex, or maybe a slick self-defense restraint move. Whichever, I'll take it.