The Concept of Home

Last week, I had a meltdown. While this isn’t entirely unusual for me, this one was a little on the odd side. Here’s the skinny:

We’re selling my maternal grandparents’ house in Los Gatos. After my grandfather moved into an assisted living facility a few years ago, the house was rented out as an extra source of income for him. When he passed away last August my mother elected to keep renting it out. That continued until she got sick and tired of getting bills for electricians to change light bulbs and plumbers to unclog toilets. (Seriously, it’s like these people do a Chicken Little routine for every little thing. How many tenants does it take to change a light bulb? One. Instead of trying to change the bulb themselves they call the property managers and say “The light isn’t working,” and the property managers, instead of going over — literally next door — to take a look, call out an electrician. IT’S A FUCKING LIGHT BULB, PEOPLE. EXERCISE SOME COMMON SENSE.)

Anyway, a multitude of unnecessary plumbing and electrical invoices later, my mother decided that she’d had it. The tenants have had their notice and the house is in the throes of being prepared to go on the market. I was consulted, and gave my blessing to the sale because I’m not in a place in my life to be able to drop everything and move rightnowthisinstant and nobody wants to keep renting it out until I am, so the house was going and that was that.

And then I got sentimental.

It wasn’t immediate. It was a couple of months after the original decision was made. I blame my therapist. (She won’t mind.) I honestly don’t really remember how we got onto the subject of the Los Gatos house anyway, but we did, and I ended up down the emotional rabbit-hole of memory.

I spent a lot of time in that house when I was little. My grandmother used to have me one or two days a week when my mother was still teaching part-time in San Jose. At the risk of repeating a story, I was in that house during the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. My grandmother fell on me. I remember it very clearly.

My grandfather hung one of those yellow and blue plastic Fisher-Price swings from a beam on the covered patio for me. They had a water feature in the corner of the yard for years until I came along, but they got rid of it because my grandmother (bless her soul) was neurotic and convinced I was going to fall into it and die. Before the construction of a deck at the front of the house, there was a pittosporum shrub of epic proportions along the driveway, with a shorter row of star jasmine in front of it, and to this day I get nostalgic whenever I smell either of those flowers. My mother’s old bedroom had been turned into a guest room after she moved out, and it became a repository for photos of me. I was the only grandchild, and with that came an inherent level of blind adoration on my grandparents' part, but at a certain point my mother and I began to refer to that room as The Shrine. I counted once. There were over three hundred photos of me in that room.

In any case, I was suddenly faced with the reality of that house ceasing to be a place I could realistically visit, and I lost my shit. Suddenly I was desperate to cling to the memories — wallow in them, even — and I started to think up ways to hold onto the house for the sake of sentiment. I’d sell my condo! I’d find another job down there somewhere! I’d make it work!

Long story short I got hysterical, called my mother, and asked “How badly would it fuck up everyone’s lives if I said ‘Don’t sell Los Gatos, I’m dropping everything and moving in’?”

Well, okay, what I said was, "::insert hysterical sobbing and mumbling here::"

She said, "What are you saying? You know I can't understand you when you're hysterical!"

And then I said, "How badly would it fuck up everyone’s lives if I said ‘Don’t sell Los Gatos, I’m dropping everything and moving in’?”

And then she said, “You know it doesn’t look like the house you remember anymore. Besides, home is where your people are; it’s not a physical place.”

I said, “But, but, but!”

She said, “Okay, how about the fact that both bathrooms need to be gutted and redone, all the pipes are the originals from 1956 and need replacing, and so does the main water line out to the street, and that’s going to be a very expensive set of projects?”

I said, “... … …”

She said, “Well?”

I said, “Fuck that shit, I’m not made of money. Sell that son of a bitch!”

And suddenly, miraculously, I felt fine again.

The Delicate Art of Procrastination

***Shout-out to my good buddy, D., who inspired this post. You're fab, D. Now go set up your fucking 401(k) before I beat you to death with a stick!***

Hello, That Thing I Should Be Doing. I still have time before you need to be done, and you’re not the most interesting of things to do, so I’m just going to not do you for the moment, okay? Okay. I’d much rather read this book. Have you read this book? This book is amazing! It is the best book, and I can’t possibly do anything else until I have finished reading it.

::amount of time it takes to read a book later::

Gee, that book was great. Well, time to do That Thing. Ooh, but wait a minute! Do you know what that book made me think of? It made me think about that one historical thing, and now I can’t stop thinking about that one historical thing, so I’m going to put you on hold, Thing I Should Be Doing, while I do an internet deep-dive into the historical thing and everything surrounding it.

::amount of time it takes to go down an internet rabbit hole later::

Wow! Who knew that starting with that one historical thing would get me all the way to this really awesome new band! I’m going to have to listen to their entire discography and sign up for their newsletter and check their concert and tour schedule. Oh, neat! They’re going to be at that theatre near me next month! I’d better go push out an invite on social media to see if anyone wants to go with me.

::amount of time it takes to properly indulge a new musical obsession later::

I’m glad I talked to my friends about going to that concert, because one of them reminded me that I borrowed their popsicle molds last month and I still have them. I should go looking for those. I have no idea where I put them!

::amount of time it takes to ransack the kitchen in search of popsicle molds later::

Whew! Glad I found these. I should really go return them while I’m thinking about it. Better go fire up the car. Uh-oh, I need to get gas. And this vehicle is filthy! Better run through the car wash while I’m out.

::amount of time it takes to gas up a car and have it washed and drive to a friend’s house later::

“Hey! Here are your popsicle molds. Thanks for letting me borrow them. What? Pictures from your vacation to Tahiti? Yeah, sure, I’ll take a look”

::amount of time it takes to look at 3,762 photos of fruity drinks with little parasols in them and your friend’s feet in the sand later::

I should really consider a vacation. Those drinks looked awesome. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m out of fruit at home. Better stop at the grocery store. Hmm, do I need milk? How about bread? I can’t remember, so I should probably buy some anyway. Ooh! Buy one get one free on pickles!

::amount of time it takes to turn a quick pick-up of one item into a full-blown grocery shopping trip later::

Sheesh, I bought a lot of stuff. Better get it put away. Actually, there’s a lot of things around here that could do with picking up. And cleaning. I don’t think I can possibly sit down to do That Thing I Should Be Doing without spit-shining this place first. I’ll be too distracted by the mess.

::amount of time it takes to deep-clean an entire house later::

You know, I think I’ll do laundry while I’m at it.

::amount of time it takes to wash, dry, iron, fold, and put away several loads of laundry later::

Whew! I’m bushed. I deserve a break. I think I’ll make some food and watch a couple of episodes of something. Ooh! I could make that recipe I’ve been wanting to try, I have all of the ingredients now.

::amount of time it takes to make a new recipe later::

OMG this is amazing! I need to tell everyone about it!

::amount of time it takes to update all social media accounts with photos and a description of and a link to the recipe for your dinner later::

That was super yummy. I should go do That Thing, but I’m in the middle of an episode. I’ll just finish it first.

::amount of time it takes to finish the episode later::

What a cliffhanger! Just one more episode.

::amount of time it takes to watch ‘just one more episode’ later::

Just one more.

::amount of time it takes to watch ‘just one more episode’ later::

Just one more.

::amount of time it takes to watch ‘just one more episode’ later::

Aww, man, that’s the end of the season and the next one doesn’t come out for months! What time is it anyway? Oh, crap. Bedtime. That Thing is going to have to wait until tomorrow.

::amount of time it takes to sleep through the night::

I don’t think I’ve slept that well in months. Looks like it’s a beautiful day outside. I’ll make coffee and then see what I need to do tod— oh, yeah. Hello, That Thing I Should Be Doing. I didn’t do you, did I.

Well, shit.

An empty corner

I lost my last furbaby this week.

Anyone who has critters will tell you that losing them can be just as painful as losing a human friend or family member — even more so when you have to make the decision to let them go as opposed to them going on their own. These are little beings you have chosen, or in some instances who have chosen you, and you spend time and energy and love on and with them, and they never stay with you as long as you’d like. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard someone lament the fact that our pets don’t live as long as we do, I’d be a very rich woman.

I suppose the obvious solution would be to have a notoriously long-lived pet, like a parrot or a tortoise. They can be just as delightful as any other sort of animal companion, and when cared for properly, you’ll probably need to make provisions for them in your will because it’s entirely possible that they’ll outlive you. Of course, tortoises aren’t exactly snuggly, so if that’s the kind of animal companionship you’re looking for (and let’s face it, most of us are), a reptilian friend might not quite fit your needs. Hand-raised birds can be very touch-friendly, but they’re not for everyone.

If neither of those options sound particularly exciting to you, you’re left with the furrier types, none of which are as long-lived. You can get 20-ish years with some dogs and cats, absolutely, but as I understand it, that’s not terribly common. Incidentally, you can get similar longevity with a horse, but I’m pretty sure your homeowners’ association won’t appreciate you stabling it on your balcony and grazing it on the communal lawn. If dogs, cats, and horses are out, you’ve still got plenty to choose from, but you’re going to have to reconcile yourself to a shorter lifespan. That’s just how the cookie crumbles.

For those of you who don’t already know, I have a dander allergy. I can hang out with furry animals for a few hours, even a few days, but beyond that I start having issues in the breathing department. I found this out when I took a foster puppy for a friend who works in rescues — after a month, I was sucking down Benadryl like it was candy. It was something of a shock, really, because I had previously done pet-sitting stints of up to two weeks with very fluffy pups, though when I thought about it, I realized that I had always had allergy attacks after a few days in their space. At the time, I somehow hadn’t put two and two together — mostly because I’m also allergic to new places (which sounds odd, but I always have to adjust my sinuses when I move or visit somewhere for a long period of time), and season changes, and abrupt changes in weather and temperature, and… the list goes on. In any case, this was a crushing blow to my lifetime dream of owning a dog, and I had to improvise.

For the last few years, I have kept rats as pets. “Rats?!” I hear you say. Yes, rats. They are social, smart, cuddly, and because they live primarily in a cage, their already minimal dander stays in one easy to clean place. I started with a pair of females, Tiny Tina (named for the NPC in Borderlands 2) and Gabby Rat (so named because she had A LOT to say.) After about four months, Tina had a catastrophic respiratory episode and I had to put her down. It was unexpected and, obviously, very upsetting. Gabby was an only-rat for a while after that, because shortly after I lost her sister, she developed her own set of health issues. She had so much personality, and we bonded so strongly after Tina was gone, that I ended up spending far more time, money, and energy trying to keep her going that I expect most people would. But I loved her. And so did everyone who met her. Of course, eventually the guilt of ‘she’s a social animal, they’re not supposed to be on their own’ caught up with me, and I adopted a bonded pair from a rodent rescue in the area — North Star Rescue, you can find them on Facebook and Twitter at the moment because their website is undergoing a complete re-do. Penny and Big Dutch (formerly Betty and Thomas) came home to be bonded with Gabby.

It didn’t go too well.

We were a two-cage family until I had to face the fact that my Gabby girl wasn’t living her best little rat life anymore. Letting her go was… awful. Especially after everything I went through to try to keep her healthy. I still miss her shenanigans. My food was her food. My coffee was her coffee. I was a jungle gym, my sleeves and hood were a labyrinth to be explored, my shirts were for chewing through, and underneath the kitchen hutch I use as a bar was the coolest place ever. I was with someone at the time, and if he had her out when I came home from work she would skitter across the top of the sofa to greet me when I came in the door.

She was my girl.

Penny and Big Dutch (who was a neutered male, by the way) were left behind, and though they were both quite sweet in their own ways, neither of them really had the same gregarious personality Gabby had. However, we got on very nicely, and they were just as spoiled as they could have been. Eventually Penny developed a tumor similar to the one I tried so hard to rid Gabby of, and having been through it once before I decided that it would be better for both Penny’s and my sanity if we just kept her happy and monitored her condition closely, and when the time came, we would deal with things. I lost her this past February.

That left Dutch. He developed bilateral rear-limb neuropathy, his appetite tanked, and he lost a bunch of the weight he had originally been named for. (He was such a chunk when I adopted him!) He was on a daily dose of Meloxicam and the longer it went on, he ended up being fed whatever he would eat, which was basically a diet of yogurt treats. And he got so many snuggles.

Last Saturday, Big Dutch’s breathing was very, very labored, and I knew it was time. I had known it was coming, but you’re never really prepared for this kind of thing. He’s buried next to Penny. The cage is cleaned and broken down, ready to be put into storage. The leftover food and supplies are ready to be donated to the rescue. My house is too quiet at night. I keep thinking I see movement in the corner where the cage was, hearing those familiar little scuffling and snuffling noises.
 
But there’s no more critter crunching on kibble or chewing on anything he can get his teeth on or popping up to see what I’m doing.

I miss him.

You do some weird sh*t in drama school

This would be prime real estate for one of those Perception vs Reality memes, but I couldn’t find a subject-specific one* so I’ll just have to use my words instead. (Words? In a blog?! Heaven forbid!) Let’s start at the beginning, which is that both of my degrees are in the theatre arts. My BA is in drama, and my MA is in — wait for it — puppetry.

Pick yourselves up off of the floor, darlings, and stop laughing. It’s unbecoming.

Now that you’ve gotten that out of your systems, let’s get on with the startling realizations. The first thing you will do when you get into any drama program is lie down. No, really. You will do A LOT of lying on the floor with your eyes closed. The floor-lying will have different purposes at different times and in different classes — sometimes it will be about focus, or breath control, or as a relaxed way to work through character development — but it will be a constant in your life and you get used to being covered in stage dust pretty quickly. In fact, it will become second nature by halfway through your first semester and you’ll start to feel strange when you’re not doing it. You’ll also learn to do it in cramped spaces, in places where theatre technicians are walking around you trying to do their jobs, and wherever you happen to be working on a part or monologue — though I don’t recommend you do it in public places outside of the arts department, because the employees at Starbucks get really confused.

In one of my acting classes my senior year of undergrad, we were expected to be lying down when the professor, Dr. Fowler, came into the theatre. One delightful day a classmate was late. This was not unusual for this particular person, but what was unusual was that on this occasion, even though he was late, he had still managed to beat our professor. Something to note about this classmate was his ability to mimic voices. Naturally, when he walked in and saw us all lying on the stage as we were supposed to be, he put on his best Dr. Fowler voice and started into the doc’s usual opening spiel. We were convinced until he started laughing, at which point the jig was up and we managed to get our giggles under control before the REAL Dr. Fowler showed up. Of course, when he did, and he started in his big, booming, old-man voice with his traditional, “Breathing easily…” we all lost our shit. I’m pretty sure no one ever told him why.

One of my floor-lyingest classes was a Fitzmaurice class, also my senior year. If you click through the link you’ll get a much more comprehensive description of the technique and its uses, but the basics are that it promotes breath/body cooperation and can help you tap into emotion more easily once you find your groove in the connection between your breathing and the rest of you. Sounds hippie-dippy, I know, but it’s kind of incredible. In any case, the study of this technique involves a lot of lying on the floor, breathing and warping yourself into odd positions to stimulate your golgi tendons into a tremor, then allowing the tremor to affect your breathing, et-mind/body-cetera. So, one day in class I was lying on the floor (what a surprise) with my legs in butterfly stretch — soles of the feet together, knees splayed out. It is worth noting at this point that I am incredibly bendy, especially in my hips, so my legs tend to go much further towards the floor in this position than other people’s might. I was copying the position our instructor (a grad student in the MFA acting program) had demonstrated, which did not call for having your legs spread-eagled. As a result, there was some tension in my abdominal muscles as I had to engage them to keep my legs where they were supposed to be. Ben, our grad student, was making the rounds, checking in on everyone, and when he got to me he put his hand on my belly and said, “Okay, good, but let those go and relax.” So I did my best impression of a frog that was run over by a car mid-jump.

“Eeeaaaugh!”
 
Ben jumped about four feet back. I looked at him and said, “Yeah, that’s why.” He was still looking at me like he expected me to start screaming in pain any second, but when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen he gave himself a shake and said, “Jesus. Yeah, okay, never mind. As you were!”

Poor guy.

One more, and this one actually has nothing to do with lying down! Remember a couple of weeks ago when I made mention of one of my Shakespeare acting professors hitting me, and how in context it made sense? Here’s the context! Picture it: Dr. Cohen’s Shakespeare acting class, one afternoon in early spring. We’re working on the first scene in Hamlet where the guards on the castle walls first see the ghost of Hamlet’s dear old daddy. Dr. Cohen (or Coco, as he was affectionately known) was fond of using the members of the class who weren’t actually participating at that moment as a sort of Greek chorus, so as I’m pacing back and forth imagining fog and shadows, everyone else is making cricket and owl and wind-whistling noises. It did lend an ambiance, of course, but Coco wasn’t satisfied with my delivery of a certain line — apparently I wasn’t startled-sounding enough — so he started playing against me. He kept himself in my blind spot so no matter which way I turned I never really caught him, and he whispered ghostly things, and then, out of nowhere, he hauled off and smacked me bang between my shoulder blades.

It worked.



*Seriously, meme-making people, WTF? I don’t know how no one has made this yet.