Yup, My Lip Bump is Cancerous

By Karen

Last week my dermatologist biopsied a small white dot on my upper lip he couldn’t even see until I insisted it existed. That procedure left a crater in my lip that’s been filling back in nicely, thank you.

Yesterday afternoon, a nurse called me with the result. Basal cell carcinoma.

Since I heard that news less than 24 hours ago, Christie Brinkley announced she had one on her forehead, and Richard Simmons had one one under his eye.

It’s funny to have this happening just now, because last month when I spoke about my parents at their Celebration of Life, I opened with how we used to go to Salisbury Beach in the ‘50s when I was a toddler and Daddy would dig huge holes where I would play house…

If you’re wondering about the patch, I had/have a lazy eye. But it’s the left one, so…?

My punchline was: “Today, if any teenage boy dug a hole that deep and left a little girl in it, I’d be in foster care faster than you could say ‘Child Protective Services.’”

[Sad aside: I recently read about a 7-year-old girl in Ft. Lauderdale who tragically died in a hole she’d dug with her brother when the sand dried and the hole collapsed. Now I know how lucky I was.]

The part of that story I didn’t tell was the aftermath, where I’d be dumped in the bathtub to wash off the sand, and then slathered with disgusting Noxzema skin cream because I was burnt all over. Sunscreen wasn’t a thing, and suntan lotion was only for tanning, which I never did, so why waste it on me?

In the ‘60s, I spent summers in Massachusetts at my grandparents’, mostly playing outside and always with a peeling, scabby nose from constant sunburn on my face.

In the ‘70s, I’d go to Virginia Beach with my girlfriends. They’d grease up with a mixture of iodine and baby oil and bake while and I’d sit there sweating in a big hat, wrapped in towels, and I’d still come away with a bad burn.

It was after one of these field trips in my early 20s that I got sun poisoning. My face swelled like Frankenstein’s monster, and the doctor said as he was sticking a needle in my ass, “You have to stop doing this or you’re going to get skin cancer.”

I listened to him and have spent the rest of my life fanatically in search of shade. My medicine cabinet is fully stocked with nothing lower than 50 SPF sunscreen.

I’ve been 98% successful. During my 30s-50s, after 45 cruises mostly in the Caribbean, I can count my sunburns on one hand, usually from the chest up from chatting with people too long in the ship’s pool.

In my 60s, I’ve had four rough patches called actinic keratoses frozen off my chest, face and leg. But this lip bump is my first actual cancer.

The doctor said it’s tiny and we caught it early, so that’s good.

When my lip heals a bit more, I’ll be scheduled for Mohs surgery, which doesn’t sound too bad, albeit time-consuming. They shave off layers and then analyze the skin to see if they removed all the cancerous cells. It has a very high cure rate.

I’ve always wondered when all my sunburns would catch up with me, and now they have. It’s almost a relief to know my skin is finally getting its revenge for all the pain and peeling I put it through and I can’t trust it anymore.

I’m not freaking out about this because it’s tiny, it’s early, and it could have been in a worse place, like that freckle my OB/GYN once biopsied “down there” that turned out to be nothing.

We’ll just have to see how the Mohs goes.

If It Weren’t for Bad Luck, I’d Have No Luck at All

By Karen

We skipped Christmas. I ended up dumping the stockings into an Easter basket, which Tater and Roc wasted no time raiding and scattering around. They even punctured a tube of lickable treats and chewed it dry (Tony helped with that).

I’m still mired in estate stuff, but the end of the tunnel is near. We held a Celebration of Life for my parents February 18. Turnout at a posh clubhouse was better than expected, and the caterer did a lovely job with the food and flowers.

I spoke lightly about my parents’ teenage marriage and pre-Virginia years because none of the attendees knew them then. Afterward, people told me I have great comic timing and that I “should have a special on HBO.”

Wow! Who knew?

Next up was emptying my parents’ house. My sister Keri, a professional theater director, has retired from teaching and so shifted full-time into Cecil B. DeMille mode to direct a cast of many dozens on that project. She created a marketplace for their possessions on Google Drive, sharing it only with people in her vast network, and it worked beautifully. She initially tried Facebook Marketplace, but it had a fee and attracted mostly creeps and probable burglars.

With direct sales for pennies on the dollar, a bit of consignment, and donations to many charities, Keri managed to find next lives for virtually all the furniture, clothing, jewelry and myriad other stuff. We kept a few things and put them in storage for later (a new plot to come).

She hired painters, cleaners and repairmen, and yesterday the house hit MLS looking like nobody’s ever lived there.

Meanwhile, I’ve been handling all the financial matters, and this week pulled the plug on the phone number they had for 52 years.

I got physically sidelined one mid-January afternoon when I stood up from my computer and couldn’t bend my right leg because my knee had gone wonky. After doctor visits, X-rays, MRI, and physical therapy, I’m told it’s osteoarthritis.

But there’s no pain unless this still-unexplained thing moves UNDER my kneecap. It was in place for the X-rays and MRI, so nothing showed, but when it shifts you can touch it.

Wearing a brace has helped a lot. But all it takes is one false step, the thing pops out and I’m back to square one.

And it didn’t stop there.

I had my annual skin check this week and the dermatologist carved a hunk out of my top lip to biopsy a little white bump that won’t go away. Now I’m waiting to hear if it’s a basal cell carcinoma.

Switching to cat news…

Tater’s peeing outside the box became chronic, so she went to the vet to rule out any medical issues and ended up on Prozac.

The upside is that she immediately remembered litter box etiquette. The downside is that she hates the bitter liquid just less than me shooting it into her mouth with a syringe. We do it every other day, but she knows the 48-hour schedule and on P-Day won’t come near me. It takes hours to catch her.

Although Tater is calmer, Tony still hates her.

Tony’s update is that he’s reclaimed his full-house privilege. He seems to follow Roc’s lead in how to slo-mo tippy-toe around Tater. But she can be a passive-aggressive mean girl. She loves blocking Tony and lurking around corners just to hear him scream.

Tony’s newest refuge is a Chewy box with a bed inside we call Fort Tony…

He lets Roc enter, but NO GIRLS ALLOWED. Tony stays in there for hours, while Tater waits outside…

When Tony and Tater aren’t having stare-downs, they can be near each other without a problem, but I’m afraid this might be as cordial as they ever get…

Keri saved my mother’s last bathrobe, which Tater laid on the day my mother died. It still smells like my mother’s perfume. I put it on my bed and, although Tater didn’t see me do it, she immediately found and claimed it. How do they know? She’s been sleeping on it most nights ever since…

Juggling Cats

By Karen

STATUS REPORT: We haven’t done Christmas yet. Now I’m saving it for February. The mantle’s still decorated but everyone’s ignoring it, so it will be a nice surprise for the kitties.

February 6 marks four months since Tater Tot came. But first, I should back up to how I decatified before she arrived to make Tony stop chasing Max. I had this long Amazon umbrella box and used it to cover the bookcases and close the cats’ route downstairs via 1^st Beam > bookcases > mantle > living room…

Max still uses the beam to leap to the kitty perch, but for Tony it’s a dead end.

Unfortunately, the force of Max’s leaps SNAPPED OFF the perch’s cheap particle board top. Here it was whole…

This is how it looks now…

I had to move it and reinstate the tatty old wooden beige perch because Max needed his landing pad.

You know Tony rejected Tater utterly, causing Tony to spend the rest of 2023 in my bedroom, much to Max’s relief.

Tony would shriek whenever he saw Tater, causing Tater to scream back. Their caterwauling made things sound much worse than they physically were.

There’s been only one bloody brawl, but it was over with one swipe. Tony punctured Tater’s leg and it bled a lot. But once I got the bleeding stopped, Tater the former street kitty acted like it was no big deal.

Tony did seem pleased with himself, even though he’s not supposed to hit girls.

In search of peace, I tried zoning off the house at night. First, Tater had everywhere but my bedroom, where Roc and Tony were confined with me. That didn’t work because Roc kept waking me up, wanting in and out.

Then I tried putting Tater in my office, giving Tony and Roc the house. This boosted Tony’s confidence, but Tater destroyed the carpet at the office doors trying to dig out…

We’ve had spraying and peeing, mostly around my bedroom. I initially blamed Tony, but it turned out Tater was trying to frame him. I caught her in the act, another street kitty trick. Other than that, she’s settled in, even hanging out in Max’s Man Cave with Roc…

All this choreography and cleanup has been exhausting, and at times it’s felt hopeless. But Tater’s been through so much, rehoming her was my last resort. She’s always been a sweet, docile kitty until Tony.

Tony must have made a New Year’s resolution to get out more. He started venturing into the kitchen, but Tater was usually lurking behind the pantry door…

A turning point came when Tater got her teeth cleaned in mid-January. She had gingivitis and a painful decaying molar that needed to come out. She was a real trouper about it, and seemed to mellow because she started sitting on my lap.

Tony kept trying and now comes into the kitchen when he hears me there, and Tater lets him…

Once in the kitchen, the next breakthrough was mealtimes. Tony started off eating on the counter, just in case…

Then he came down…

And got even closer…

Tater hasn’t attacked him, but Tony doesn’t stick around for Tater to get piggy, either, and finishes his meal in the bedroom.

But the major breakthrough happened over the weekend.

My bed has been Tater’s final frontier. She used to sleep on my parents’ bed occasionally, so it wasn’t a ritual. But she sees Roc and Tony, and sometimes Max, sleep with me. So, her daily forays into the bedroom seemed to be asking, “Me, Too?”

I was doing morning Calm meditations on the bed with Tony when Tater sauntered in and I invited her hop up. And she did!

Tony stayed because I was between them. That lasted 30 minutes, and then I replaced myself with a body pillow between them and ran out to do some errands.

They must have spent the whole afternoon on the bed, or in the bedroom together, because when I got home, they both came from there to greet me.

That night Tater slept beside me on the bed, but Tony went under the bed. Roc slept in his usual cat bed at the foot.

Next day, we did the Calm exercise again, and that night both Tater and Tony slept on the bed with me between them.

Tater’s now addicted to my bed, which Tony is not happy about, but he’s not screaming or leaving, either.

Tony and Tater still have issues. Tony won’t relax in the living room, but he’ll roll over, exposing his belly, within a foot of Tater and she’s fine. It’s all progress, and I feel optimistic that Tony and Tater can work it out.

LATEST UPDATE: As I was writing this, they seemed to regress and today has been particularly rough with constant smack-talk and bickering. But when I came upstairs after lunch, Tony scampered after me for the first time and now we’re all chilling in my office. Wonders with cats never cease!

Having Ourselves a Teeny-Tiny Christmas

By Karen

The cats and I have yet to celebrate Christmas in our usual way because I’m still working on Tater Tot–Tony logistics. We can’t risk any catnip-fueled brawls breaking out during the annual showing of Video Catnip.

(Details will be in my next post, “Juggling Cats,” so stay tuned.)

That’s why here it is, New Year’s Day, and the stockings are still hanging on the chimney with care, full of toys and treats to be enjoyed when everyone can stand to be in the same room together. But it’s probably just as well.

After losing three family members in 2023 (the third was my last uncle, unexpectedly in October), I just wasn’t into Christmas. The media and retailers did their best to hurl me into it like a bug against a windshield, but our new 8’ white iridescent tree bought last year and all our cat ornaments never left the closet.

Christmas 2023 at Cats Working was just this…

On Christmas Eve, my sister and her now-husband came over for spaghetti and meatballs. Before they arrived, Tony gave me a little Christmas miracle. He made one of his first brave, brief ventures into the living room with Tater there (see upper left corner)…

When the guests arrived, he disappeared under the bed for the duration.

But I digress. Back to our decorations. Tater got her first stocking, and it even looks like her…

The ornament hanging from it was one I made for my parents in 2018, the year they adopted Tater. I found it in my father’s desk.

I also took the portrait of Tater I gave to my parents in 2020. It was painted by the same artist who did Tony’s portrait for the 2021 Richmond Animal League Calendar, in which he appeared as Mr. July. I don’t think Tater’s likeness is good at all—but art…

The cats are no longer allowed on the mantle (how/why coming up in “Juggling Cats”), so their stuffed doppelgangers sat in. On the left is Tony and the late Adele…

Max is in the middle…

Tony and Max are both sporting necklaces I brought home during my Caribbean cruising days.

And finally, here’s Roc, wearing his first kitten collar he outgrew…

The Fancy Feast ornament arrived before Christmas, which doesn’t always happen. Fancy Feast outdid themselves for quality this year. This cat sitting in an herb garden terrarium is very heavy, but it’s one of the most beautiful ornaments yet…

Although our little Christmas celebration is still ahead on some unspecified date, we hope you and yours had happy and safe holidays and will keep reading in 2024.

Santa Paws Comes Early

By Karen

As you may imagine, things have been a hot mess since my father died on November 14. (And no, no cremation joke intended.) I have an exhausting to-do list to wrap up his affairs, but after about two weeks, I can’t do diddly without a death certificate and proof of my executorship. But that’s a story for another time; just giving you an update.

One night recently, a mysterious box thudded on the doorstep while everyone but Tony (still in my bedroom, avoiding Tater) was watching TV. I had no idea what it was nor who sent it, so I brought it in and let it sit.

Roc and Tater were all over that mystery — with their teeth — as you can see from the orange tape. Tater shows a tendency to return to the scene of her crimes (yet another story)…

With such gnawing interest, it had to be cat-related. When I finally decided to deal with it, Roc and I opened the box to find this beautiful bag wrapped in white tissue paper…

Naturally, Roc had to have a romp in the box…

Tony’s curiosity got the best of him when he heard the crinkle of tissue and came as far as the kitchen doorway…

When Roc and I opened the bag and there was ANOTHER box inside, Tony was intrigued…

Now Tony couldn’t resist joining us to find out what was going on…

Tony quickly retreated to the hallway, but you can’t keep a curious kitty down. He was soon back to check out the bag for himself. It was just his size!…

Tony popped out when Roc came up behind him and stomped on the bag, being a wise-ass. But Tony stayed for the full reveal, and inside the second box was a Fancy Feast Advent Calendar for Cats, containing 24 days of gourmet food and treats…

Tony looks uneasy because he knows he’s being watched from the kitchen.

Roc took the opportunity to play inside EVERY BIT of the extensive packaging, which made me realize that Purina packed the calendar in an irresistible-to-cats way: Two boxes, sturdy bag, tissue paper, tunnel cover…

For the record, Roc is never allowed to play with razor blades.

Here’s what it looks like…

On Friday, December 1, we’ll begin our countdown to Christmas by opening each of the little doors and splitting whatever we find four ways. Maybe there’s SOMETHING in there that Max will like. His preferences seem to highlight the “ick” in “finicky.” But we always offer.

(In case you’re wondering, Tater stayed up on the kitchen table the whole time, which was actually a thoughtful gesture to Tony. Max was upstairs doing his thing.)

Thank you, Santa Paws, whoever you are, from all the kitties at Cats Working! Every day until Christmas, we look forward to enjoying “the good stuff” you brought us. (Sorry, Friskies!)

It’s Official: I’m an Orphan

By Karen

None of us saw this coming now.

My father was discharged from the hospital to home hospice on Wednesday, November 8. He had beaten sepsis and the cellulitis in his legs. We chose hospice because sending him back to that Dickensian rehab was out of the question. He could get physical therapy at home.

We had a hospital bed and various accoutrement he might need delivered to make sure he was comfortable under any circumstances.

His caregivers Mimi and Isabel picked up right where they left off, and made him a delicious dinner that night.

Marilyn, my mother’s hospice nurse for eight months, returned and took over his medications. She was able to provide stronger painkillers than the doctors would.

We expected him to rest up, get his strength back with good food, and be raring to hit the walker again to regain his mobility.

He caught up with a few friends on the phone, and Thursday night he dined on salmon and mashed potatoes, his favorite meal.

But then arthritic pain developed in both arms and he couldn’t hold a phone or a fork, so Marilyn upped his pain meds.

I’m not sure exactly when he gave up, but it was probably Friday night or early Saturday when his catheter clogged and he had a new pain. We got the catheter fixed as soon as we could, but he didn’t seem relieved.

I never had a conversation with him after that. He would occasionally open his blue eyes and look at me, but he didn’t speak and I wasn’t sure if he knew it was me.

Every day, I expected to find him better, sitting up, channel surfing and griping about Trump, but it never happened.

By Tuesday I was lost, so I asked to speak to the hospice chaplain about I’m not sure what. I’m not a churchgoer and I don’t pray, but I do believe something created all this, and may or may not be paying any attention to it.

While the chaplain and I were upstairs talking, Isabel told us my father’s breaths were coming 10 seconds apart. We didn’t go downstairs immediately because we prayed first; I welcomed all the help we could get. By the time we did go down, my father had slipped away.

He went much more peacefully than my mother, and exactly five months (November 14) to the day after her (June 14).

We expected him to live into his 90s. But I know it’s a mercy he went downhill relatively fast. I think the pain simply became too big a battle and he checked out because the world he’d be in wasn’t worth it. He was extremely bitter about Trump and Republicans tearing the country to shreds with hate and crime.

He’s being cremated, and his ashes will be scattered off the Cape Henry Lighthouse at Virginia Beach with my mother’s. Ironically, since we haven’t been notified that she’s out there yet, they may take the same boat ride to that final destination.

I know it’s rare to reach my age and still have parents. I haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that I’m a totally free agent now. This has HUGE implications for my writing. People have been telling me how proud my father was of me and my sister. It would have been nice if he’d told us once in a while, but that wasn’t his style.

OK, now I’ve turned on the waterworks, so I need to stop. I’m his executor, and the process is on track to turn my life and the cats’ completely inside out, but more on that later after I run the numbers.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case I get too busy to post.

PS: Wells F-U didn’t waste a minute slamming his checking account shut so I have to pay bills and expenses out of pocket. But at least I found the key to the safety deposit box holding vital original documents so the fuckers won’t charge me $125 to “blow off the lock.”

PPS: Tony still hasn’t come out of my bedroom; Tater’s on the case.

Francis Alan Wormald, 1937 – 2023

Roc Makes a Big Announcement

By Roc

I’ll cut right to the chase…

I’M SHACKING UP WITH MY GIRLFRIEND.

It wasn’t my idea. Karen came home with Tater and her stuff October 6 after Grumpy (her father) went to the hospital. We were stunned.

Tater and I have been an item since 2018 when Granny (Karen’s mother) and Grumpy made her respectable after she’d been running Richmond’s mean streets with her lover. Tater had gotten pregnant and the tomcat disappeared, so Karen’s sister Keri kept Tater until Tater delivered three girls and a tom. Keri took one girl, and we know the other three are doing well.

Despite her rough life, Tater was an impeccable mother who weaned good kids.

I met Tater when Karen and I visited G&G’s every Saturday until the pandemic. Tater inherited my litter box and bowls there, but that was cool because they were my spares.

So, when Tater showed up here an orphan, I was surprised, but not shocked.

Tater’s been through a lot. First, being cooped up alone with G&G the whole pandemic must have been B.O.R.I.N.G. Then Granny, Tater’s best friend, slowly wasted away. Toward the end, Granny would scream at Tater for meowing and getting underfoot.

Tater has licked a bald spot on her belly, probably from nerves.

Grumpy never really wanted her because he got vet and litter box duty, but after Granny died, Tater had to win him over. She didn’t get too far before HE got sick, too.

Tater was helpless the night Grumpy fell — twice — puking, bleeding and dragging himself across the house to call the rescue squad. Then they took him away like Granny (but still alive). I wouldn’t wish that experience on a dog.

By the time she got here, Tater was freaked out and exhausted. Karen gave her the office, adjoining Max’s Man Cave, and allowed no visitors. Only the bathroom door separated Tater from Max at night, but they didn’t seem to care.

Once I was allowed in, Tater and I picked up where we left off. I nose-booped, but she hissed so I gave her space.

Tater recuperated for a week, even sleeping in the bed she refused to use at G&G’s…

Karen was gone most days doing Grumpy stuff, so we were all bored and sleeping a lot.

Then one morning when Karen served her breakfast, Tater was ready to mingle and wasn’t letting that office door close again. She marched downstairs and never looked back.

Max let her share the gray perch, one of his favorite hangouts…

That evening, she found herself a spot front and center…

(You’ll notice someone is missing. More on him in a minute.)

We all watched some tube while Tater worked on her mani…

The next day, Tater was into the routine and Tony retreated to Karen’s bedroom. When he refused to come out after several days, Karen set him up so he wouldn’t starve or start having accidents.

Tater settled right in. She eats breakfast with me and shares the window Karen opens for us every morning, both things I always do with Tony…

There’s nothing Tater loves more than an open window…

Granny used to complain, “Tater never plays with toys!” before putting all her toys away where Tater could never find them again. Here, Tater wasted no time ransacking our toy boxes and ripping into a bag of my toys Karen retrieved from G&G’s. And Tater loves brown paper, just like Tony…

In fact, another new Tater hangout is the couch — where Tony usually sits after breakfast…

Of course, holed up in the bedroom, Tony doesn’t realize any of this yet. But maybe he’s clashing with Tater because they’re so much alike.

Tater knows Tony hates her. He screams like a hellcat if she gets too close. But Tater is naturally affectionate and only lashes out in self-defense. She visits the bedroom several times a day, just to sit around Tony and let him get used to her. She seems to think staying here depends on winning Tony over.

In the weeks Tater’s been here, she’s blossomed from a bored meatloaf into the playful kitty she was meant to be. She loves using our abundant amenities and seems truly happy to be here.

Karen asked me to write this post because I’m Switzerland. If Tony and Tater start screaming, I step in and defuse the situation. I love Tony and want to help him accept Tater so we can all live in peace together.

Bad as this seems for Tony right now, he’s being consistent. We don’t know his past. Maybe he remembers something terrible about his mom because he came to the shelter at only six weeks old and very sick. Whenever a new human comes into the house, he goes under the bed.

Now, he does venture into the bathroom and hall and peeks into the kitchen. Karen has him sit with her in the living room. We’re giving whatever time he needs to regain his confidence.

Tater’s been through so much upheaval and loss, she deserves some peace and stability, so we’ll work it out.

Last week, Karen was at G&G’s and found another unused Tater bed, so she brought it home and tossed it on the living room floor next to the gray perch. Now it’s Tater’s FAVORITE and Karen can’t move it an inch (she’s tried) because Tater insists it’s in the PERFECT spot…

“The sky is falling. I am learning to live with it.”

By Karen

If you’re one of my Bourdain readers, you’ll recognize the title of this painting Tony bought shortly before his death from musician and artist John Lurie…

It’s been the perfect metaphor for my life lately, which is why I’ve been absent since going gray.

I should be completely white after what’s been happening…

My father unexpectedly began to decline in August or September (my mother died in June). His chronic heart failure caused fluid retention that exacerbated cellulitis in his legs until they looked like stiff, boiled, peeling sausages. His doctors were just throwing diuretics at him and telling him to weigh himself more.

When he inadvertently backed his car onto the neighbor’s lawn, where it became wedged and had to be winched out, he had to stop driving and I stepped in to chauffeur as needed.

Then on October 6 at 3 a.m., I got the dreaded phone call from his medical alert provider.

He’d fallen and the rescue squad was on its way.

I’ll spare you the details, but there was bloodstains, vomit, flashing ambulance lights, and one traumatized little witness to it all named Tater Tot.

He spent a week in the hospital on IV antibiotics and diuretics that made him incontinent. Then two and a half weeks in rehab, which didn’t do as much good as we’d hoped for.

Meanwhile, my power of attorney kicked in and the ongoing maintenance of his life descended upon my own like the sky falling. Full of black clouds.

In addition to getting his bills paid and fielding inquiries from his many friends, I had to arrange 24/7 home care because my family doesn’t do facilities. Thanks to a tip from my mother’s hospice nurse Marilyn, I found two lovely, capable angels named Mimi and Isabel to step in.

This doesn’t sound like much, but my parents still lived/live entirely by paper and check, so I had to drag his accounts into the 21^st century from scratch for my own sanity.

[Shoutout to Wells Fargo for being the WORST bank ever, taking THREE WEEKS to get his checking account online.]

My father came home from rehab October 30, seemingly on the mend while using a walker and the toilet with assistance.

That bliss lasted exactly four days.

On November 3, he had a fever, shakes, and was hallucinating, which resulted in this past week back in another hospital for sepsis. [I’m going to omit my suspicions about the role a home health nurse visit and how she dressed his wounds may have played in this.]

Throughout, he has complained of constant pain in his legs and feet from neuropathy, cellulitis, plantar fasciitis and God-knows-what.

Fortunately, intravenous antibiotics seem to have beaten the bacterial infections and the swelling is under control for now.

During this second hospital stay, they were talking about more rehab, but that was a nonstarter. He hated every minute of it — for the most part, justifiably so. That place was grim.

The best alternative was hospice and Marilyn. We quickly got a hospital bed and all the accoutrements delivered and he returned home November 8.

Did you know it takes a village to care for one man? My sister and her partner have been tremendous helps with logistics like supplemental food, laundry, furniture moving, modifying the shower stall, fixing house stuff, ordering supplies.

I’ve been the coordinator of everything. It’s involved driving about 800 miles in a month, which is more like 6-8 months of travel in my usual work-at-home routine. Lately, I’ve been living off Chinese takeout leftovers because I’m too exhausted to cook.

To top it off, the Cats Working household has been totally upended since October 6, but I’ll let Roc fill in those deets from his feline perspective.

Anyway, just as I had the best intentions of getting back on track, the track was dynamited and I’m still picking up the pieces.

Hospice allows my father stronger pain meds, so that’s a plus. His legs look much better, but he’s weak and has bedsores on his backside and heels. All we can do is wait and see how much he does — or doesn’t — want to recover from this and take it one day at a time.

Gone Gray

By Karen

“I got it all this time. You’re done.”

I looked on the floor around the stylist’s chair at the last wisps in this life of my brown hair.

I’m officially an old woman.

Knowing I’ll never be brunette again makes me sadder than losing my mother.

Speaking of my mother, she put me on the hair-dye hamster wheel when I was 30. I had a few grays, but no plans for them until my mother insisted, “You have to color your hair. You’re making me feel old.”

Once you start, you can’t pull out because as time goes on, you can’t tell what horror lurks underneath.

But dying becomes increasingly futile because the grayer you get, the less any color sticks. By your 60s, within days of your dye job, you look like Paulie Walnuts from the Sopranos.

Nancy Pelosi must get hers colored weekly because I never see any grays. It’s a wonder all that processing hasn’t made her bald.

A few years ago, L’Oreal Paris launched a dye for “mature” hair called Age Perfect. I think Diane Keaton starred in ads as a vibrant, wrinkled-but-still-fuckable blonde.

So, I tried it, but then Age Perfect disappeared. Amazon says it still exists (at exorbitant prices), but it’s no great loss if it doesn’t. Despite all the claims, it wasn’t a bit better in any way than the rest.

During the pandemic, I stopped coloring AND cutting my hair. I kept it in a bun, so my face was framed in gray as the roots grew out. I looked terrible, but at least I could wear a mask in public.

Then a freak bout of scalp psoriasis forced me to cut it, and the stylist talked me into dying and highlighting it — coincidentally, so it looked just like her hair.

Now I was an over-the-hill brunette with a short, poofy, yellow-streaked bob.

It was cuter than my Granny Clampett ‘do, but salon color and highlights turn that simple hamster wheel into a pricey figure 8.

And it was incredibly painful. The stylist would bake my head under a Steel Magnolias dryer to sear in the chemicals until I wanted to scream.

The backlash was that I quit dying cold turkey, but didn’t go so far as to shave my head, so I had to let the color fade/grow out as my hair got to chin length.

I lived through a two-tone hump (gray on top, brunette on bottom), but the dye eventually faded enough that it looked like I was streaking brown in my gray on purpose.

Now that I’m totally gray, I’m on a new plane of existence with other gray-hairs, who strike up conversations with me like we’re members of a club.

Much younger women call me “Dearie,” “Honey” and “Sweetie.” I’m working on a snappy comeback. Do you think “Sugar Tits” is equally demeaning yet playful?

Meeting new people, I notice they talk slowly like I’m senile until give them a few reasonable and appropriate answers. I can see their relief, and then we converse as if my hair were brown.

And people hold doors for me, even if I’m halfway across the parking lot. When I see them looking back at me expectantly, I sprint to not keep them waiting. They’re trying to be nice, so we should all encourage more of that.

True story: In a restaurant recently, I noticed an old woman across the room who kept staring at me. It wasn’t until I’d almost finished my lunch that I realized the opposite wall was a mirror and I was seeing myself! I’m not kidding.

Mentally, I think I’ll always be brunette. But at least my gray is OK. It has the nuanced shading and (white) highlights Clairol and Garnier claim to have but don’t. Not to mention it’s cheaper and no more brown stains on the bathroom vanity.

But still.

Sorry We’ve Been MIA: Update

By Karen

Tony says hello with what he calls “Lying at Attention”…

My mother’s been gone two months today, but rest assured I’m not in mourning. Not having to deal with her anymore has no downside.

I keep seeing people on TV who have lost mothers (it’s like cosmic messages). They always say things like, “She was my best friend,” or “I miss her every day,” with misty eyes.

I wrack my brain for something similar to say. But for me, a good time with her was any occasion she didn’t ruin by throwing a tantrum, getting drunk and ranting like a moron, or picking a fight.

I really think it’s more the brutal heat and seven years without a good vacation that dried up my well of creativity.

Our local meteorologist has a newspaper column where he consistently downplays the heat by saying we’ve hardly had any days that hit 100°.

Bullshit. Humidity has caused WEEKS and WEEKS of 100+°. Step outside and you’re instantly drenched in sweat.

Even with A/C (mine’s at 77° so I won’t need a new heat pump every year), I run fans everywhere. If I’m out of breeze range, sweat’s dripping down my face.

I can’t even imagine how the cats in their fur coats feel. They aren’t eating as much, and Roc soaks his face in the cool kitty fountain a lot.

Meanwhile, life has just been work and never-ending house projects. I had a major Verizon encounter. My bill went up substantially, so they upgraded all my equipment. I thought it would improve internet and TV. It didn’t, but that’s another post.

Last week I got my eyes checked. My ophthalmologist retired and they’ve had trouble replacing him. This time I got a physician assistant who could be my grandson. He casually dropped that I’ve got a cataract in my right eye and I’ve been a glaucoma risk for years. The past three ophthalmologists downplayed the cataract as tiny and nobody has ever mentioned glaucoma.

I felt like I was getting still-fresh textbook content dumped on me by someone who missed the class on bedside manner.

As always, the bright spot in all this tedium is the cats — mostly.

Tony has a bad habit of chasing and pestering Max. Tony’s playful where Max’s previous nemesis, the late Adele, was homicidal, but Max doesn’t differentiate.

The other morning, Max came downstairs to hang with me in the fluffy bed on the couch when Tony poked at Max until he frayed Max’s last nerve.

So, Max emptied his bladder. In the bed. On the couch.

I was right there and rushed the bed to the kitchen sink. Pee had seeped onto the couch coverings but not to the couch, thank God.

I didn’t realize the totality of the mess until after I tossed the bed and couch covers into the washer. Back in the kitchen, I stepped in a big puddle that had cascaded down the front of the dishwasher.

Then I noticed the trail across the kitchen floor.

Max only “goes” once a day, so I’m talking a lot of pee.

Cat pee is initially odorless, but in minutes, the stench becomes worse than acid.

After I scrubbed the floor and carpet with Nature’s Miracle, I could still smell pee everywhere I went, so I knew it was me. I had to wash every stitch I had on and take a shower. What a morning.

Did I mention it was hot as hell and I was dripping with sweat?

But everything’s back under control and Max has had no further accidents. I notice he’s been peeing and pooping downstairs instead of in his Man Cave box. It’s like he’s making a statement to Roc and Tony. This isn’t lost on Tony, who tinkles upstairs in Max’s box faithfully every afternoon. It’s kit for cat, I guess.

So, we’re back and that’s how our summer has been going.

Tony wants me to wrap with this pose he calls “At Ease”…