I Miss The Rats.

All of New York's animal kingdom, really.

They seemed to be, at least for the most part, self-sufficient. There are the apartment mice that don't care for being rained on who will finagle their way indoors -- in one instance, into my closet door -- on less than pleasant days. Of course there are the Madison Square Park squirrels that will literally walk up and tap you on the shoulder, should you happen to be enjoying your Shake Shack burger on an afternoon when they've not yet lunched. And the pigeons. Don't even get me started on the pigeons.

But still, city critters are more or less on their own. I don't go out of my way to step on them or anything, but I don't feel any obligation to look after them.  I certainly don't feel obligated to let one of them live in my closet. 

Here, however, it's a different story. Things just appear furrier and snugglier and more in need of a sympathetic sucker here.

Late last night, I pulled out of my sister's driveway in the lovely burg of Lebanon, and cranked up the country for the 35 minute drive home. I got about 18 seconds into that drive when I had to screech on the brakes to avoid hitting the wild street gang of (I'm guesstimating) eight week old kittens. Smack in the middle of the road. On a very cold night -- we'd just moments ago listened to the local weather buffoon talk about taking care of your plants because of the frost warning. He mentioned nothing about small wayward cats, but weighing in at around an ounce a piece I was guessing they weren't going to fare any better than someone's petunias could.

So I called my sister, who reminded me that she just recently had to get rid of her beloved cat, because of the new baby. So I called my mom, who refused to answer her phone, but I'm guessing would have reminded me that she is already tending to my darling cat, has been for years now, and that asking her to house three more for a night would be, as we say in this neck of the woods, "pushing my luck." But I wasn't leaving them there. No way. Too cute and tiny and shivery; besides, one of them had already climbed up the back of my sweater and burrowed, claws first, into the warmth of my bra strap. I was hooked. (Sorry.)

Into the back of dad's car they went -- more specifically, into Cokie's dog crate. She would not be thrilled or particularly hospitable about it, I knew, but I was more worried about my allergy-ridden stepmother's reaction. Can you bring a litter of kittens home undetected? Not when you walk in the front door and immediately burst into tears, begging for compassion and forgiveness at your weak, animal-loving heart. They got kitten kibbles, some water, and spent a generally cozy night curled up together inside a dog's crate. I only went out to the garage two times to check on them. Okay, three. One per cat.

This morning dad was even kind enough to drive all the way back down to Lebanon with me to drop them off at the Humane Society, where I am certain (or certainly telling myself) that their distraught owners -- probably a pig-tailed and freckle-faced little girl and her gruff-yet-gentle farmer father  -- will come to claim them amidst tears of joy and relief and gratitude.  I bet they even give the little girl a lollipop. Heck, maybe even the farmer.

Home again, smiling happily at the mere thought of the child-kitten reunion about to take place. Just in time for the bunnies.

My parents have an eight year old Welsh Springer Spaniel whom I am sure will make countless future posts, for her overall cuteness and total lack of self control. Her name is Cokie, she is beautiful and smart and certifiably nuts. So much so that there's nothing unusual about her barking madly at the back door, even when there's nothing out there. We'll open the screen, watch her go tearing down the steps and out to the fence, and we'll laugh that she doesn't even seem to have the sense to be embarrassed at creating such a ruckus over something invented in her little dog brain.

Except for when it's real. Like, for instance, a real nest of five baby rabbits. As soon as we saw the mommy shoot across the backyard and Cokie NOT chase her, dad was out there in a flash. Cokie flashed just a bit faster and one of the little day-old runts is happily hopping through bunny heaven. I had to stay inside because the entire massacre was too much to take and, while he didn't come out and say it, I think dad was worried about having to pay my out-of-pocket therapy bills. The squeaking -- oh God, the squeaking -- will haunt me. The survivors got shoveled up and redeposited safely outside the fence, while momma watched from the neighbor's yard. Now I can't get anything done because I'm just staring out the window and waiting for her to come back.

You win some, you lose some in this rough life. But there's never a dull moment out here, protecting the Midwestern landscape from dangerous predators like Honda Pilots and maniacal dogs. It's exhausting. I feel like a pioneer.

All The Single Ladies

This is a quickie.  It is also a call for help.  Or at least sympathy.
Tonight (that would be Friday night, for anyone paying attention) my dad decided to surprise my stepmom by bumping up the movie she just keeps talking and talking (and talking and fucking talking) about so it's number one on the Netflix queue.  We settled in, a pizza for everyone (like, a pizza a piece I mean - my rant on obesity soon to follow), and pressed play.
Which means tonight (still Friday.  Friday night people) I am sitting here watching The Squeakquel.  With my parents.  As my stepmother dances along with the rodent rendition of All the Single Ladies. 
There is not enough beer in the world.



(dad's advice upon seeing my glassy-eyed expression and knowing an obnoxiously snarky comment was on its way?  "just go blog it out honey." i've said it before and i'll say it again: smart, smart daddy.)

Assimilation Setback

I’ve been in a bit of a jam for the last few days, and I’ll tell you why.

See, I am generally a bit of an idiot. Seriously. And I happily share my state of idiocy with you, because I figure if you keep coming back to read this stuff you’re probably a little bit like me. And at least if I’m going to be an idiot, I want to be a funny one, because being a boring idiot is a little like being... stupid, I guess.

A few days ago, though, I wrote something not to make anyone laugh, but to make everyone smile. My extended family of sisters lost one of our own, and it seemed really important to put aside the dumb stuff long enough to give a tiny little tribute, best I could, to someone who is important to so many people, has touched so many lives, and will always be missed and remembered.

The problem then, is where to go from there. It always feels awkward, a bit jarring, to switch gears. I’ve been unsure about how to go back to my normally frivolous ramblings. What should I write about? Will I disappoint? What if now that I’ve written something serious I can’t ever write anything funny again?

Lucky for me, for all of us, I went right ahead and did something ridiculous today. It’s like God was gently reminding me, “Not to worry, my child. You’re still an idiot.”

As you know, I’m back in Ohio for awhile. It’s been a fantastic respite from the hustle and bustle of nine years in New York, and I’m loving all the fresh air, the warm spring days, and the generally slower pace. I’ve had more people say “hello/good morning/how are ya” in the past two weeks than in the previous two years. I’ve chatted with my neighbors, waved at the mailman, and told the dude behind the counter where I buy my beer to have a great weekend. (If I’d done that in Hoboken he either wouldn’t have understood what I was saying or would have stared blankly at me until I flicked him off and chucked an f-bomb at him.) But the best part? I can drive. Everywhere. Anywhere. Ask any Midwesterner who’s made the move to Manhattan what they miss most, and they won’t say their families. They won’t say common courtesy. They won’t say being able to take a deep breath outdoors without smelling urine. They will say how much they miss their cars. The freedom that comes from being able to hop in, crank the radio, and hit the open road at a moment’s notice. (Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you I don’t really have all that going for me exactly quite yet. Because I don’t actually have a car. I have to drive my dad’s. It’s a lot like being seventeen again, only without as many stickers on the back window.)

So it was in my dad’s car today that I pulled off my little street onto the main road, drove about a half a mile or so, and pulled up behind a monstrous black Cadillac in the left turn lane, waiting for the red light and seemingly driverless. And when the light changed, giving us the green left turn arrow, I gave that tiny old woman about an eighth of a second before I laid on the horn. I mean, laaaaaaid on the horn. Because that’s how you do it in Jersey. We don’t really say fuggedaboudit, we don’t all live by the GTL credo, and we don’t all have fake nails, big hair, and horrible accents. But we all honk. People, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that about twenty cars came to a screeching halt. Loud, skidding, tires burning rubber kind of stoppage. Because, apparently, the only reason you would ever lay on your horn like that around here is if some kind of imminent, life-threatening danger was upon us. Like an ambulance coming through, perhaps. Or the apocalypse. But no, in Jersey, you just do that when the light turns green (the second the light turns green) to alert the driver in front of you that you know they are slow, and stupid, and not paying attention, and that you’re just generally more important and off to someplace infinitely better than wherever they are headed.

I think I might have given that poor old shriveled up little Cadillac driver a bit of a heart attack. It was mortifying. Naturally, I just did what everyone else was doing, and looked around frantically to see who was responsible for the chaos. They probably all knew it was me, and were just too nice to make me feel bad. At least next time they see me coming they’ll just get their slow Ohio asses the hell out of my way, if they know what’s good for them.

And at least I didn’t flick her off?

She Was A DG. Still Is.

Did I ever tell you the story about how I ended up a sorority girl? Might seem like an obvious fit to those of you who know and love me for the cheerleading, pink wearing, glossy lipped girly girl that I am, but it actually was a bit of a tough sell.

I went away to college my freshman year at BGSU with my high school boyfriend back at Ohio State, and my high school best friend as a roommate. The idea of rushing a sorority never really crossed my mind. Didn’t need it. I knew my parents had both been Greek, and had good experiences, but neither of them are really “glory days” kind of people so I never heard much about it.

By the end of my freshman year, I was clinging desperately to that high school boyfriend and my high school best friend was staying home to have what would become one of the most beautiful little baby girls you could ever hope to see. And my father, my quiet, unassuming, not really all that bossy father, made a decision. He was sending me back to school -- a week early, no less -- to go through Rush. I was flabbergasted, to say the least. I think my dad’s only “made” me do like six things in my life, if you count stuff like homework and bathing as a collective whole. I was piiiiiissed. Going back to school a week early meant another week away from Scott, another week away from Lee, another week longer at a school I wasn’t really all that connected to in the first place. (Smart, smart daddy.) So we had our third fight ever, he promised me he didn’t care at all if I actually pledged as long as I gave the experience and myself a chance, and I went.

My memories of the week are a little vague (it was a long time ago, and a fuzzy time at that). I remember meeting a lot of girls, some I really liked, some not so much, and neither of those seemed determined by which house they were in. Of course the sororities had reputations, stereotypes attached, and most of those were actually pretty right on. Like the insecure eighteen year old I was, I liked the popular houses, full of pretty girls. I was fascinated by the girl who walked in front of me to “Formal Desserts” one afternoon, who was the tiniest little person I’d ever seen with the biggest mess of beautiful blond curls. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how her frame held all that up. I felt intimidated by the most idealistic sorority girl you could ever conjure up, who led me through my favorite house: petite, very blonde, huge blue eyes, sweet demeanor and just plain perky. That wasn’t really the part that intimidated me though -- it was looking at this sweet little person and realizing she was smart as hell. I mean, seriously smarter than me. And I promise, she’s smarter than you. I listened to stories about how Rush meant looking for your roommate, your best friend, your bridesmaid, and that’s how you’d know you were in the right place. (Side note: both of those girls stood beside me at my own wedding a few years later.) I was feeling a strange pull toward this particular house, but still very unsure about the whole thing.

And then I met Tara.

Should you be picturing an entire sorority house full of skinny towheads -- of which I am neither -- let me introduce you to Tara as I met her. It was one of the final days of Rush, meaning the girls were making decisions on both sides. I really liked this sorority. It was big, and popular on campus (for the right reasons), seemed to have an incredibly diverse group of sickeningly gorgeous women who also happened to be brainy, sporty, artistic, involved and funny. But I still for the life of me couldn’t imagine myself in this scenario. Tara took me through the last party, and I was hooked. She was like a secret weapon -- there was no meeting her, spending time with her, without wanting to be a part of whatever she was doing. She had this crazy, wild dark curly hair, all the way down her back. She was small (of course) but somehow managed to take up the whole room. Huge grin covered in dark red lipstick. And you could just tell she was trouble. I mean, like, the best kind of trouble. She laughed, all the time and always out loud. She sang and danced and moved constantly, even if it was a “formal” event and she was the only one doing it. No one seemed to mind. And just as I left the house, feeling really frightened because all of a sudden I wanted something really badly and had no idea if the feeling was mutual, she grabbed me by the shoulders, gave me a huge bear hug, and whispered, “I better fucking see you here tomorrow!” in my ear.

And just like that, I was a Delta Gamma.

That meant, for the next three years, I always had a party to go to, always had people to smile at and talk to on campus and in classes, had a level of prestige that just came with being part of a very elite little club. It wasn’t perfect, come on. I never lived in the house, because I struggled with some major body issues and worried what would happen to me if I was living with fifty girls who were way too skinny and were struggling, oftentimes in the least healthy of ways, with their own body images. You can’t collect over a hundred girls together and expect them all to be best friends. Some of my sisters I adored, some I barely knew, and some really got on my fucking nerves. Sisters. We sang goofy songs and went on spring breaks and fell in love and out and in and out and plopped anchors on every flat surface and gossiped and graduated. Most of them I didn’t talk to for years, and the beauty of Facebook is that I got to find so many of them again, hear what adventures they’d found, see their children, discover that these amazing girls had become the most fascinating of women.

A few months ago, our little social media world started buzzing with talk that Tara was ill. She’d lived the hard life of an artist -- an unbelievably, take-your-breath away kind of talented artist -- and it had taken its toll on her. Her organs were shutting down and she was fighting for her life. And more so than since the day I put that silly, stupid sailor hat on my head, I learned what it means to be in a sorority. Laugh if you want, don’t get it if you can’t, but this is serious stuff. This band of women has, without blinking, without questioning or hesitating or stalling, joined together in prayer and story-telling and love of one another in a way that has brought me to tears in the past two weeks more times than I can count. We’ve posted old pictures of our best days and our worst fashion choices. We’ve reconnected. I won’t pretend that Tara and I stayed close; that would be a disservice to those women who have been with her all this time, watching her, living with her, coping with the impossible task of having someone they love give in to addiction. But Tara and I stayed sisters. We all did.

I wish this had a happier, more sororityish ending. But it doesn’t. Tomorrow I’ll see a lot of my sisters for the first time since I graduated at Tara’s funeral. It doesn’t seem real and it’s certainly not right. I’ll hug my friends and cry for their loss and be reminded that, even as an insecure eighteen year old, I made exactly the right decision.

I am a Delta Gamma. Love in the Bonds of Sisterhood.



Tara Lynne Scare, 10/23/74 - 04/03/10