This is SO not a typical "kitteh" post. Trust me.

So Annie the Wonder Cat has been in our family for about eighteen years. She's old, and she pees on everything. When I say everything, I mean it. She peed on the tall boy's pal while he was petting her. No shit. No shit, just pee, heh. This peeing cat phenomenon is one I have heard about for years, but had never personally encountered before. It has caused our family to re-arrange our household habits in a way that I never thought we would. But -- she's our cat. I mean, . . . .

tangent: My mom had a friend with a four-year-old cat; the youth-cat clawed the curtains once and the next day made a one-way trip to "the farm." That's just cold, isn't it?

We have addressed our litter box problem by moving Annie the Wonder Cat to our deck for the summer; until this week this has been a great solution. Annie has lounged languidly in the sunshine; no furniture has been ruined, no friendships have ended ("Dude. Your cat peed on me. Not cool.").

But in the past couple of days it has become clear that our beloved Annie is failing; her appetite is gone; the probability that her back legs will obey her orders is chancy. There seems to be a little bit of kitty senile dementia as well. We are all saying our good-byes to Annie today.

In our time of kitty grief, rather than bludgeon you with cute "kitteh" pictures (who created this "kitteh" monster? I would like to poke this person with a stick), I will tell you an absolutely true adventure tale about our Annie the Wonder Cat. I have witnesses for much of this, so if it seems far-fetched, I ask Coleen, Lisa, the urchins to back me up.

Annie was a gift from our next-door neighbor, Miss Tina; she was always beautiful in a cat-like way, but really -- just a classic felis catus (formerly felis domesticus). But we had a neighbor who thought a) Annie was the most beautiful cat in the world; and b) we did not deserve to own her. He did not like the fact that we let her outside; often he would wander back and forth behind our house and call her, so that he could take her into his house and keep her "safe."

[I sound insane, don't I? Think about how insane I sounded at the time: "Honey -- our neighbor is trying to kidnap our cat!" "Sweetheart, do you need to get a little job? Are you OK here by yourself all day?"]

Well -- the neighbor put his house on the market, and I just knew that Annie would vanish when he moved. I did everything I could think of to keep her out of his clutches, but sure enough -- he moved (military, so I assumed he moved far away), and Annie disappeared. You do the kitty kidnapping math.

So fast-forward to a year (a year!) later, when Lisa commented about the alleged kitty kidnapper (her co-worker) in such a way as to make me realize that he moved across the county instead of across the country. People, my head just . . . exploded. This loser had my cat. I just knew it. And I wanted more than anything to tell him that he had not "gotten away" with this ridiculous crime. Seriously. I was less interested in getting the fabulous cat back than I was in just looking this guy in the eye and saying, "I know what you did."

So -- that's what I did. I found his new address; I went to his new house; I knocked on his new door, and I said, "I know what you did. You stole my cat -- and you didn't just steal her from me -- you stole her from my kids. I hope you can live with that."

As far as I was concerned that was the end. I really had no expectation of getting my cat back -- but it sincerely pissed me off that this asshole thought he had gotten away with something.

Well. He followed me home. [Cue scary music.]

He followed me home, and he admitted he had my cat, and he begged me not to call the police. And . . . he begged me to let him keep the cat. "She's my life," he said. Creepy, much?

When I clued the husband in to the goings-on, the first thing he said was, "Are you insane? You went to this idiot's house in the middle of nowhere; you confronted him about a cat; and now he's stalking us, begging us to let him keep the kitty because he loves her so. What have you done?"

And yet . . . the cat-kidnapper called, and the husband confronted him: "we just want our cat back," he declared. My hero.

The kitty freak offered us $1,000.00 to let him keep Annie. $1,000.00, y'all. This is where lots of people say, so you took the cash, right? Because really -- a cat is a cat. But this is also where we (the husband and I) both got totally weirded out by the kitty kidnapper. What on earth could make a house cat so valuable to a sad little middle-aged man? We were creeped out, people. We insisted -- just give us our cat back, and leave us alone. It turns out that the reason the pathetic man offered us $1,000.00 was because he had lied to his wife about receiving Annie as a gift. It was worth large American dollars to him to keep this secret from his wife.

Well, we got her back, and she's been our Wonder Cat ever since. How many cats do you know who have lived through such an adventure?!? She's amazing!

We will miss her.

And then my head exploded.

So you know how our family is so lucky because we get to go on our own family reunion beach vacation, and then a month later we get to do it again with our beloved un-family, right?

Some of our happiest memories are of our weeks in Sandbridge, Virginia, with this amazing, loving, welcoming family of dear ones.

And we did join them again this year, and we did have just the swellest time again, too.

It's hard to convey the fabulousness of this week: it's about the food . . .

. . . the quiet time with friends . . .

. . . the running or relaxing by the water . . .

. . . the singing . . . .

Really, this is how a beach week is supposed to be.

But here's what I want to know: If YOU went into to see the hilarious and heart-warming Despicable Me with your urchins, wouldn't you expect that your eight-year-old piece of crap minivan would still be in the parking lot when you came out? Me, too! And yet you and I would be mistaken.

Apparently, while some family vacations are not complete without medical intervention of some sort, it appears that other beach vacations require the theft of the family vehicle to complete the experience.

And can I just say that I absolutely had the complete experience: the police report; the late night phone call to get someone -- anyone -- to come fetch us in the middle of the night; the lovely chat with the nice insurance company lady; the discovery that a rental car is not covered in our plan; it was everything you could want a car theft to be -- and even more!

Because I had even more glamorous excitement on the drive home from our fabulous vacation: the sunny girl and I zig-zagged across the state in order to retrieve the girl in charge, who had been attending Hollinsummer (more on this in an upcoming post, but early reporting indicates: gosh! It was fun!) in Roanoke, Virginia. We were in the zag portion of our journey when we had to stop for necessary re-fueling, by which I mean Chik-Fil-A. A fast food parking lot is the best place to sideswipe another vehicle while driving a rental car, I always say.

Oh, the tooth-gnashing and clamped mouth as I avoided letting loose with a string of self-directed wrothful epithets! Oh, the dread in calling the husband! And oh! oh! But the deep and sincere chagrin at the thought that the husband would be scampering like a bunny as soon as he got off the phone to fill the fabulous neighbors in on my ridiculosity!

I'm not even going to tell you about how the police eventually recovered the stolen "vehicle" but how it was also involved in an armed robbery so it is being held as evidence and they'll get back to us about the part where we actually get the stinking thing back -- like I want it back, after all this drama.

tangent: My friend Tim says it's time to ditch the mom-mobile mentality and get a Mercedes coupe. But I think what should happen is that I will get a very sturdy Vespa. And I will get a big wicker basket to hang on the front. And I will wear a floppy hat with a giant pink flower. And if the girl in charge needs a ride to softball practice, she can grab her equipment bag and climb into the basket.

All in all, it was just the most relaxing vacation ever -- aside from the part where I poked a stick in my eye in frustration and angsty despair. Twice.

Image credits and information:

OK, so since I'm clearly having one of those summers, my tragically beautiful and new camera is missing -- even though it made it home safely from the beach. So:

All the lovely beach photos are courtesy of various members of the Kline/Moran/Pollard/Dixon clan whose Facebooks I have scavenged. Thanks, everyone.

Crappy photos were taken on my iPhone.

Happy birthday, adored one!

Today my fabulous girl in charge turns sixteen, and I am a little freaked out, as usual, by the speed with which the years have flown by since I welcomed this dynamo into my world.

She has always been my dark-eyed beauty, and carries a serious demeanor wherever she goes -- this fools people into thinking that she is not just as big a goofball as the rest of us.

She holds her hugs close, so when I receive one I know she means it, and each hug is doubly dear.

She is brilliant and organized and logical -- a triple threat.

She loves to be on stage (here she and the tall boy ham it up), she loves to argue -- and she loves to win at any game. Good thing for her she usually does!

A natural athlete, she is strong and graceful.

Whether on the softball field . . .

. . . or in the ballet studio, she moves with power and beauty.

Her little sister has always wanted to be like her -- and glows with happiness when they spend quality time together.

She informed me long ago that "it's so hard to be the middle child," and I am sure that she finds it frustrating to be such a swan among us ducks and geese -- but we feel so blessed to have her in our lives.

If you are ever fortunate enough to meet this beautiful, loving, smart young woman -- who can't wait until she is old enough to change the world -- I know you will agree with me:

I'm the luckiest mom.

Beast Barracks

So my nephew the soldier is firmly entrenched at "Beast Barracks" -- the summer boot camp that begins his four years at the United States Military Academy at West Point. On "R Day" last week, he and the rest of the Class of 2014 were received by the Academy and formally sworn in to the United States Army.

I wasn't at the actual ceremony, but I was able to watch a video of it; I got goosebumps when I heard the military march music and saw the regiment march across the Plain.

That's my sister's tall boy -- the soldier -- in the front row at the end on the left. You know -- the tall one.

It's funny to think that just the week before, he and my tall boy were sleeping until noon, heading out to lunch on a whim, and strolling the beach looking for girls in bikinis seashells. Things are a little different now!

During his remarks at the ceremony the Commandant of West Point pointed out that these young men and women volunteered to prepare for military leadership at a time of war; that really made me stop and think how grateful I am for all of them and their willingness to say, "Here I am, Lord. Send me."

I will ask all of you to send all your prayers and positive thoughts and good wishes to the soldier and his companions for the next few weeks. Beast Barracks is hard, man! It calls on inner strength and a positive attitude when the tasks seem grueling and never-ending; when family and friends are far away, the whole endeavor can seem that much more daunting. I am so proud of this young man -- some time I will tell you just how hard he has kicked ass for his whole life -- and I know that he will get through this; I just pray that he continues to know it too!


Image Credit:
All photos courtesy of the United States Military Academy at West Point

Fireworks -- cul-de-sac style!

OK, so it's true that my family lives twenty miles south of Washington, D.C. and we have the opportunity every year to go into the big city and watch some fireworks that are, let's face it, pretty spectacular.

You don't get the chance every day to see a live concert featuring the National Symphony Orchestra, along with famous Hollywood, Broadway, Motown and Nashville types -- and oh have mercy, but the "1812 Overture" with cannons fired by soldiers from the 3rd Infantry Regiment -- The Old Guard.

tangent: Members of The Old Guard are among the most elite soldiers of the U.S. Army -- whose job is to protect the nation's capital, to serve as honor guards at military funerals at Arlington National Cemetery and -- their greatest responsibility and honor -- to stand perpetual vigil at the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington.

Well, I have been to the Capitol to watch the glamorous fireworks, and I'm sure I'll go again some day. But these days I prefer a suburban Independence Day celebration.

Because, really -- it's hard to beat a cul-de-sac filled with neighbors who have all gathered to watch stuff blow up.

About six families all converged in front of our driveway last night, with the fireworks they had purchased from the Marching Band Boosters Club fireworks stand or the Send a Gymnast to Nationals and Use a Ten-Percent Off Coupon booth.

Virginia law prevents us from sending any explode-y stuff up into the air.

We do get to play with sparklers, though!

The tall boy loves the neighborhood festivities because he gets to be the go-to guy for all explosions.

The tall boy's Uncle Godfather came over with his family to watch the fun. And to drink a little wine out of a jam jar, because that's how we roll.

Another beautiful thing about the cul-de-sac fireworks is that somebody always brings a special treat. Sometimes it's margaritas and sometimes it's glo-sticks.

Gotta love it either way!

The grand finale was this monstrosity of a bucket o' fun; how swell is it that this particular one-wick extravaganza is called "These Colors Don't Bleed"?! It tells you everything you need to know about fireworks in the South. Even the wussy Virginia South where you can't fill the skies with "These Colors Don't Bleed" -- you can just fill the cul-de-sac.

Check out the fireworks refuse littering the street as my Teenage Doppelganger lights the monster finale!

Nope! These colors don't bleed at all!

I hope everyone had a fabulous Independence Day!



Image Credits:
"D.C. Fireworks" courtesy of OneTravel.com
"NSO 4th of July" courtesy of A Capitol Fourth
"Guard at the Tomb" courtesy of army.mil

Medicine in Margaritaville

So remember how my sister fell the day before her tall boy graduated from high school?

And how she had to have surgery on her wrist and was completely freaked out because she thought she might have to miss her firstborn's graduation?

And how she was totally stoned on Percocet for the entire commencement experience, and then had surgery first thing the following morning and then hosted a swingin' graduation party that night but doesn't remember a thing about it?

Ah, yes -- good times! As you can see from the look on her face the whole thing has been highly amusing for her -- where amusing = a painful and annoying hindrance to getting anything productive done as well as a complete cramping of her beach-loving style. Tra-la-la!

Well, while we were at the beach the time came for her to have her stitches removed. And here's the beauty part about my family: my step-brother is a doctor. So a text reminding him to bring a suture removal kit to the beach was all I needed to hear about and I was so ready to record the proceedings! Because really -- what's a beach get-away without a minor surgical procedure? And let me just emphasize that the look on my sister's face is so hilarious -- because she has a long history with various doctors for various reasons -- and is perfectly capable of telling Uncle Doctor that he has screwed up. Not that he did. This time. Just kidding, Uncle Doctor!

The process was pretty straight-forward, but what you don't see is the five-year-old counting the sutures as they came out -- because hey! We're a family of educators and we will never pass up a learning moment!

There were actually several cousins leaning over Uncle Doctor because the scene was cool yet gross yet cool -- and we're all about creating memories for our kids in my family. If this hasn't already shown up on some cousin's Facebook I will eat my flip-flips.

The best part was when Uncle Doctor, who is all about the sterile environment (in his swim suit, because that's how we roll) said, "OK, now that the stitches are out we need some hydrogen peroxide to clean this up."

We all stared at him blankly.

"Purell? Oxy-Clean? Anything?"

Then he had an epiphany: "Vodka?"

Aaah! Vodka! Now he was talking our language! (And can I just report that the Bloody Mary's and the Eggs Benedict were fabulous.)

A few steri-strips later . . .

. . . . and some Derma-Bond ( a.k.a. Super-Glue -- who are we kidding?) for good measure . . .

. . . and my sister was good to go. Thank you, Uncle Doctor!