Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

Ah, how I’ve missed most of you, too.

Hmmm. Let me clarify: I’d have missed you all, but I’ve managed to see a few of you and therefore cannot “miss” what I’ve seen or have been seeing.

Just a few important things:

• Dearest Amy, who I’ve never met, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU GOTTEN YOURSELF INTO?
• I prefer “Accompaniroooo.” I feel that it’s the appropriately deferential title.
• Let me just say it ONE LAST TIME: My posterior is OFF LIMITS. That is rehearsal rule numero uno.

Thank you, that is all

All My Love,
Crazy Heathen Aunt Cake Kate

Yesterday I received this email from one of the original Monkey Cats:

Subject: solo and ensemble and ze new monkey cats

Hello crazy heathen aunt cake, sorry, Kate. If you have not been informed by your forget ful neice [sic], saria we need you to accompany us, maybe. Respond as quickly as possible or call Nessa at: [number omitted OF COURSE]

I called Sarah, and, yes, indeedy, she’d neglected to mention it, “because all of our lives are different and crazy” and that they needed someone to play for them on “the thirty-somethingth.” Or was it “the thirtieth or thirty-somethingth” – and they were rehearsing “for the last time (?) tomorrow.” She also said that it was an “easy song so they just needed someone to play” (as opposed to coaching). We’ll see. I’ve witnessed their rehearsal techniques.

I asked who was singing, and it seems that with this slightly different array of Monkey Cats I shall even meet a NEW one. I also inquired as to WHAT they were singing. Evidently, this “easy” piece is entitled “False Prophet”. “False Prophet?” Oh yes, “False Prophet.”

“Who wrote it?” I asked. Sarah did not know. She did, however, explain that “False Prophet” is “about a daisy who tells a lie.” Yes, daisy. As in the flower.

Terry, can I PLEASE say that I’m waiting with “bated breath?” It’s a song about A FLOWER THAT TELLS A LIE!

I will say this: NO ONE – let me repeat – NO ONE is going to poke at my substantial tookus this time. My butt is OFF LIMITS. That will be rehearsal rule numero uno.

Shirleen, of course, former Dog and Animal Groomer Extraordinaire (still pretty extraordinaire at it, when her fused back and her busy schedule allow her to occasionally coif the wee doggies), knew just what to do with the Greasy Kitten Children. I asked her yesterday, in a falteringly hopeful voice, “Won’t the oil just eventually soak in?” She rolled her eyes (subtly – YES MY MOTHER TAUGHT US TO ROLL OUR EYES AND SHE CAN ONLY TRY AND DENY IT) and in a patient voice explained that they’d have to be bathed again because the oil would just stick in the undercoats. I don’t think it had even absorbed that far.

Shirleen also suggested a particular method to use. So the Kitten Children are now luxuriously clean by everyone’s standards (if you’ve ever bathed a cat you’ll know that they lick themselves NON-STOP for two or three days afterwards). I only have a few panicked feline Velcro claw marks. And they EVEN have forgiven me (or they’re lulling me into a sense of complacency to plot my untimely demise).

Here is my only complaint: Shirleen HELPED you bathe Truman, Jennette. She conveniently “ran an errand” yesterday as I was bathing the cats. And no one else was qualified (or could be bothered) to answer my cries for help when BeBe was ATTACHED FIRMLY TO MY SHOULDER AND WAS WORKING HER WAY DOWN MY BACK. Wait – Sarah came and asked if she could help, but by then I had BeBe pinned down in the Kitchen Sink WITH MY ENTIRE BODY so I couldn’t really think of something for her to do. Shirleen DID turn Lark (my Parents’ wee geriatric dog) into a clean and lovely semblance of a poodle which is only a little odd because she is a Maltese.

I suck. So?

Ah. Strike New Year’s resolution about being less defensive and self-deprecating otherwise it will snowball over the one about feeling like less of a failure and lay it FLAT. So to the gist:

Happy Birthday on THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY, Lovely Terry! I’m thinking about you and wishing you and yours the very, very best.

Happy Birthday YESTERDAY, Erik. Please know that I knew yesterday was your birthday (while it still WAS yesterday and corrected Mom who was thinking it was – some other day, I guess). Also, I’ll keep this entry DELIBERATELY SHORT so that you will deign to read it. LOVE YOU!

Anders, Erik, Janet & Leif

And lastly, but certainly not LEASTLY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TODAY, LITTLE JANET, MY LITTLE, WEE SISTER!!! Tu est une petite fleur! Moreover, I will say in front of you and the WORLD, you never “8” New York. Not even once. May all your dreams come true (speaking of which, how’s the fifty-three member all-male fire rescue choir coming?)!!! I love you!

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: My Mother receives almost every catalog available in the known Universe. As some of you know, last holiday season I had grand aspirations of using her vast library as fodder for clever and thoughtful gift ideas. I look back on what I compiled, and I find it rather VERBOSE and consisting mostly of English foods with names that I find amusing. This notion was corroborated by the fact that last year Grettir AND The Blobby Farm both trumped me with cleverness and brevity. And what’s more, each accomplished this in a single entry (well, two for Grettir if you want to count this golden oldie).

Nonetheless, if you want to browse through last years “prime” gift picks (there’s a link in the sidebar as well), please do so. NO – I will not guarantee that any of the links are current. If they are broken, please just look at the pretty pictures.

Despite what I’ve just said, I can guarantee two things:

1. Blobbies STILL and forevermore make people happy. I promise. Cross my heart and all that jazz.
2. I think perhaps the “Twelve Dickies of Christmas” was mildly amusing. Well – at least the fact that I FOUND twelve separate assorted dickies is a little funny in and of itself.

That said, notwithstanding the fact that I bagged the idea of “Kate’s Holiday Gift Ideas du Jour 2006” several months ago, I still browsed through stacks and piles and heaps of catalogs. This is, more often than not, an amusing pastime. Occasionally, though, one finds reason to be quite terrified.

This holiday season I was genuinely alarmed by the profusion of Nativities (Crèches – call them what you prefer) featuring – hmmm, let’s say “non-human” characters. Yes, indeed – I found teddy bears (fuzzy), snowmen, teddy bears (poly-resin), frogs and a few others that must have scared me so much that I’ve blocked them out completely. I would always show them to my Mother and tell her that I’d found the PERFECT Christmas gift just for her.

I should probably put this in context: In case you do not know, I am very hard to offend. And kitschy, tacky catalog items ordinarily amuse me. Moreover, to put this an even clearer perspective: I LOVE Life of Brian. I think it’s uproariously funny and don’t consider it the least bit blasphemous. In short, I am about as far from a right-wing religious conservative as you can get.

Yet I find the representations of the “Holy Family” as reptile or canine or ursine creatures to be CREEPY. This, apparently, brought out my Mother’s devious side.

One day there was a notice about a package that they wouldn’t deliver without someone home to accept it. Says she, “Oh no – they wouldn’t leave your ‘Get ready for Christmas’ present!” My Mother is the Queen of All Holidays, so it’s not strange that there were “Get ready for Christmas” gifts this year.

I did not have to wait very long to find out what festive surprise lay in store for me. The next evening I came home to found the following collection artfully arrayed on the dining room table:

It’s scary, yes, but I must admit that it’s hysterically amusing, too. I was going to try and take a picture of my ACTUAL Cat Nativity (my “Cativity”), but Fiona wanted to lounge voluptuously on the box behind it, which I’d wanted to artistically drape with black fabric (okay, with a jacket – it’s not like I’m Annie Freakin’ Leibovitz). So I stole the image from the merchant.

I cannot say I’m sorry, though, because when I searched for the picture I also found this description of the Cativity:

Sweetly sculpted of polyresin, each of these 9 figures is beautifully hand painted and delightfully detailed. Set includes Mary, Joseph, the 3 wise cats, shepherd cat, little drummer cat, angel cat and, of course, the baby kitten curled up in his makeshift crib. Largest figurine measures 4 3/4″H x 2 1/2″W x 2 1/2″D. Stable not included.

That’s right, no stable (and if you don’t know already, cats LOVE containers). I’m considering a surreptitious removal of my Mother’s LLadro Crèche figures from its satin underpinning and dazzling backdrop and replacing them with my Feline “Holy Family” and ensemble.

Last but not least, a disclaimer: If you like or worse, hold dear, any of these things I’ve just ridiculed, bear in mind I adore many things that others would find worthy of ridicule. I do not scoff at YOU – I’m mocking your STUFF. Everyone to their own tastes. Right?

*Hah! You thought I meant “cavity.” Coincidentally, I did have a cavity filled last week, but this was a very deliberate “CATIVITY.”

Happy Birthday, Dearest Shirleen, Happy Birthday, You YOU. I’m truly sorry about your esophagus and your lungs and the pleurisy and the hiatal hernia and the special test cards whose purpose I shan’t mention here and the work turkeys. I chose them all ESPECIALLY as surprises for your Birthday, but you haven’t seemed to be very excited about them…

Shirleen, Janet & Kate

I believe this picture is circa 1972. Yes, Shirleen was the “pretty” one and I was the “cute” one. Therefore (in my literal child’s mind), she was beautiful and I was ugly. OH, THE BAGGAGE!

My Mom STILL feels bad if we tease her about that one, because OF COURSE she didn’t mean it the way we interpreted it. Oh yes – and Janet somehow construed that she was ugly AND stupid. I don’t even know the origins of that. I suppose we could just go with the proverbial, “Girls, GIRLS – you were ALL pretty!” OR, we could just decide that we were ALL brainless and unattractive in order to be, perhaps, more egalitarian.

If it were not Shirleen’s Birthday I would tell you all about the mischief with which she got away because of her that angelic countenance. She could be very mean and oh-so-sneaky (in a fairly innocuous child’s way) to me and then her innocent appearance usually got her off the hook. Do not – DO NOT – trust her beatific exterior. It belies the fact that she is actually Miss Sneaky MacSneakster!

Wait – that was twenty to thirty years ago. Now she is by far one of the most generous and honorable people I know. Damn.

Oh – imagine that – I DIGRESS. What I wanted to say (again), was HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIG SISTER! I especially like the last part because it reminds me (and you) that I’ll never, EVER be older than you. But in a nice way… I LOVE YOU!

P.S. Dearest Lil’ Chris, A Hipy Papy Bthuthdth to you, too!

I just thought give you an update on my first day teaching music hour for Leif’s Kindergarten class (from which he was ABSENT today – Janet claims strep throat, but I think she just wants him to have as little of my influence as possible). As I’d mentioned in the comments to the previous entry, I couldn’t “WAIT to terrify a bunch of five-year-olds with slightly tenuous control of their bladders.”

Fortuitously, several friends came through with some excellent suggestions. Zina suggested:

You should tell the kids that that’s what happens to you when you do drugs.

Yes, INDEED. Though I’m not sure I’d know how to explain dangerous TOPICAL chemicals, such as thioglycolate, to that age group (even though I also ended up with the more (theoretically) sophisticated first-grade class as well – only TEN kids – private school ROCKS).

Jenny was MOST helpful:

Just wear a neckerchief over the lower half of your face and sing cowboy songs or “She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” or something like that. Use the little sand-paper blocks for the train sounds, and dowels to make the horsey clip-clop noises and let them gallop around the room. And ALWAYS pass out some sort of sweets at the end. The point is to draw as much attention away from your grossly, appallingly disfigured visage as possible.

…I’m afraid that if you don’t create a major distraction the entire class will spend all of “music time” staring at your big ol’ sores with their mouths hanging open and glazed, half-horrified/ half-fascinated looks on their faces.

NOTE: I have expurgated her self-deprecating remarks (here, anyway) because she has not SEEN my current facial situation, and she has the visage of an angel, damn it.

Here’s an irony: I’d actually considered (okay – WISHFULLY imagined) using some kind of stereotypical “far east” face veil. You know – those mysterious ones that obscure the bottom of your face. AND, as in the movies, you must make bedroom eyes while wearing one and cast ostensibly bashful sidelong glances (surreptitiously imbued with unadulterated LUST and SEX) at attractive males. Oh – and you have to wear “harem” pants.

While I do have zils, I do NOT have a face veil nor harem pants. Moreover, I don’t know any old Turkish music (circa the Ottoman Empire). Okay – I don’t know any NEW Turkish music either. Nor do I have any ancient Persian songs in my repertoire.

I do, however, own a bandanna, as well as an instrument that makes a train whistle sound, claves, AND sandpaper and wooden blocks and I can ACTUALLY REMEMBER THE LYRICS to She’s Comin’ Around the Mountain. I can also gallop. So why didn’t this much more LOGICAL option occur to me?

Well, it’s because, as I recently explained to someone, “Kate Logic” has half the fat of “regular” logic. And logic “lite” (I’m not especially fond of that spelling/term, but it seemed apropos here) has all the TASTE of “regular” logic, but substitutions have been made in the ingredients for the sake of the health-conscious. OR, the product has been whipped and whipped so that it contains many tiny air pockets, therefore rendering a serving lower in calories. “Kate Logic” is like that, too.

But, getting back to the music class, playing “cowgirl” today would have been a rather inappropriate choice, as it turns out that today was “Native American” day. They’d been learning all about Native American culture and history, and when I arrived they were all decked out in headbands, “leather” vests made of brown grocery sacks, and strings of beads. Their endeavor to be multicultural and P.C. might have made “Kate the Cowgirl” seem insensitive.

In the end, I started the class by introducing myself, and then promptly acknowledging that that they were probably curious about my face, as I would have been, and that I’d had an allergic reaction to some cream I’d used and it had made sores on my face. I added that it was NOT contagious, no one could “catch it” from me.

Their response was less than “Ho Hum,” it was non-existent; they couldn’t have cared less. Instead, someone immediately wanted to know if I could do magic tricks (alas, not in my skill set) and said something to the effect of “wouldn’t it be cool if I could make something disappear.” (OOOOH! Like my HIDEOUS FACIAL LESIONS or my PERSONAL DEBT or my DEBILITATING DEPRESSION or – even better – WARFARE, POVERTY AND DISEASE THROUGHOUT THE WORLD? Of course he meant like a coin or a rhythm shaker…) And they ALL were desperate to know what was in the egg shakers I’d brought. For those who have not seen me perform with breathtaking skill utilizing my vast rhythm egg collection, they usually look something like this:

I made them patiently wait to find out. You’d have thought their little lives depended on knowing about those silly eggs. Ah – that age before you are jaded, cynical and world-weary; I long for the time in my life when simple pleasures were enjoyed so effortlessly.

Oh – P.S. We had a great deal of fun. The children were delightful.

Okay – it’s not ALL ABOUT SARAH’S HAIR; I’m not obsessed. However, I feel that there is something to the idea that all the changes to that crazy head of hair do, in some very small way, symbolize her journey this past couple of years. And like I said yesterday:

But somehow, it’s as though one can admire the wonderment of healing and nature through something that most people take for granted – the seemingly mundane – the tresses of a young lady. And a wonderful young lady she is.

No mincing words here; I’m a geek. I just quoted MYSELF, and, what’s more, it was something I wrote YESTERDAY. Ugh.

Let’s go back to Sarah instead. It’s possible I may have already mentioned this: She has had what they define as a “complete response” to chemo and radiation. She tolerated the chemo very well (considering that’s on the scale of how WRETCHED it can make you feel). And the Hazmat Emergency Responders only had to come and evacuate everyone ONCE, and it wasn’t Sarah’s fault (I do love the irony that it takes a suited-up Hazmat crew to clean up fluid that they are INJECTING INTO THE BODIES OF CHILDREN).

After she finished her rounds of chemo, Sarah opted to have her broviac catheter removed (I think she really, REALLY wanted to shower ALL AT ONCE). And after chemo her hair started growing in earnest – in CRAZY, wild, swift earnest (until a stalk reached the sky and Jack climbed up it, and there was a GIANT – wait, that’s a different story). The effects of each radiation treatment made her feel progressively worse as they went along, but it was over soon enough to be bearable. Moreover, during THAT time she didn’t have to have anyone ask if she’d “flushed” that day (heparinized her line and injected saline into it). She was also able to go off the cortisone (that accompanies chemo and all its meds) and start to lose the resultant “moon face.”

I may not have mentioned before (and should have) that Sarah’s last set of scans looked great. She still has some extra lymphatic tissue, but the doctors seem quite certain that it’s just, essentially, scare tissue. Her Hodgkin’s Lymphoma was of the “bulky” variety. That means that tumor cells can actually inhabit a “framework” of non-cancerous cells (making already large tumors even more pronounced). The tumors are gone, but some of that “framework” has remained as a kind of residual scarring. At least that’s how I understand it.

I still cannot get over seeing some of her initial scans. The tremendous extent to which the largest tumor was pushing her trachea out of line was appalling. I honestly don’t know how she breathed and sang and spoke as well as she did. To say she was a trooper is an understatement of gargantuan proportions.

And NOW, don’t you think we should put the follicular journey in PICTURES?

As you probably know, click on an image to see a bigger version. And it’s TRUE (and obvious); I do not know how to make a pretty “gallery.” Please notice, though, that I made each and every thumbnail the same WIDTH. And it is an interesting mosaic…

Sarah Writes a Missive to Her Man
Amidst the Detritus (lovin’ that word) of Her Birthday Party

As it is not EVERYDAY you accuse one’s child of being a possible cugine, especially one of your SISTER’S children, so I sent Janet the following email:

Okay, first of all, don’t be offended because I said on my blog that Anders might have mob ties. It’s really funny – I PROMISE.

Also, even if I’m a very bad sister, I think you should share ALL your Costco albums with me so I can see all the cute pictures of your family. Please? Especially since of every 50 or so pictures Dad takes, 47 are blurry.

Your Bad Sister,
Who you should love ANYWAY because she is a Child of God,
Kate

P.S. No guilt trip or anything. 🙂

Okay, I was ALSO trying to wrangle a bunch of photos from her…

Do you think I twisted the knife just a little too far with the “because she is a Child of God?” Hmmm. Nothing like exploiting someone’s obligations to benevolence.

Her response follows. I think she has a rather lilting à la Virginia Woolf stream-of-consciousness style. Moreover, she didn’t write this email in all SHOUTING CAPS, as she is sometimes wont to do (I tell you, it’s GENETIC):

I am so offended. Not because you insinuated he had ties but because you failed to recognize him as the mod [sic] boss which is what he really is. That is funny that you referred to him as that because mom bought him a somewhat unattractive baby outfit last year. It was basically a velour jogging suit with a bear on it and it zipped up. My friend Amy would always call him boss and tell me to buy him some gold chains. I’ll send you the albums when I get a chance.

Well, there you have it. My suspicions were very well founded.

Hereafter, forever, please refer to Anders as “The Boss.” Now, as he grows up, we can patiently wait for the day when he becomes Capo di tutti capi. I know Janet and Erik will be so proud.

*Yes, I stole this from Terry, as it was just too good. Oh – please call her “Cougar.”

Anders is just over twenty-two months old. He embodies the innocence of childhood; His angelic visage, his adorable “chattiness,” the delicate way he holds a pretzel stick…

But, alas, under that charming exterior lurks something…darker. “What?” you may ask. Well, to be honest, I think it’s MOB TIES. This may sound ridiculous, but reports of several recent incidents have raised my suspicions. The first sounds fairly innocent.

My Mom is in their favourite local gift store with Janet, Anders and Leif. Anders, sitting in a shopping cart, spies a ball. My Mom hands it to him (which, as a Grandparent, is pretty much a signed-and-sealed contract to purchase the thing, whatever it may be – so good thing it wasn’t a LIVE PONY – NOTE: That dream was dashed last holiday season. Click here and see “Holiday Gift Idea #3). Anders looks adoringly at the ball and says, “I LIKE-A da ball!” Ah. Small blond children often do stereotypical New York Italian pizza joint proprietor impressions, don’t they? “I LIKE-a da ball!” he says again. “I LIKE-A da BALL!” He continues with this mantra even after said ball has been purchased (like I said – Grandparents – they cannot resist when the grandchild “like-a’s” something). True, taken ALONE, this all seems fairly innocuous (cute, but innocuous).

But consider THIS evidence: Janet, Erick, Leif and Anders were eating at the local family-run burger/shake/sandwich/soda-fountain/taco/cookie/deli-fare/ tamales-in-corn-husks/EVERYTHING joint. Erik and Janet were chatting, not noticing everything the boys were doing. Leif suddenly complains, “Hey! Anders is drinking my drink!” Indeed, Anders had stolen Leif’s fruit punch and was going to town with it. By the time Janet looked over, Erik was cracking up. Evidently, Anders had narrowed his eyes, pointed his little index finger right at Leif, and menacingly was whispering, “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Yes, it’s funny. However, if that’s not the toddler equivalent of “You’d better shut you pie hole* or you’ll be sleeping with the FISHES,” then I don’t know what is.

Granted, since he still drinks from a sippy cup and isn’t potty-trained, I suppose we’re not in real danger of him packing heat or anything. But, if he starts saying things like, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,” or “…you’re my older brother, and I love you. But don’t ever take sides with anyone against the Family again. Ever.” – OR, worst of all, “It’s not personal, Sonny. It’s strictly business,” then perhaps we should be concerned. I’m just sayin’…

*Yes, “pie hole.” Very Mafioso, I’m sure.