Today was the first day in ages that I believed winter would, at some point, end. Every year, I reach a breaking point: sick of cold, of wet, of soggy earth, of layers and bundling, of chapped noses, dead grass, and that dreadful gray-white shroud covering the sky. I feel bleak and enervated.
It continues to be revoltingly soggy today- our yard is but a sponge. But after lunch, the sun showed itself and the temperature crept well north of “this just sucks,” and I was able to do some yard work and listen to the birds, and uncover tulip shoots and various other evidences of life, and it felt good. We probably have three or four weeks left of definite chill, but in spotting so many tiny buds today, and that green that only means and rejoices that spring is coming, I was replenished with faith.
After I forced myself in, exhausted from transplanting a large azalea and filling three bins with yard debris, I sat in my library working and looking out front. The kids and Tom were showering, and I was catching up on a bit of work. Out of one window, I saw someone tinkering with the dog-poop bag bin I’d hung from a yield sign in our yard. In all honesty, I assumed the worst: that someone was peevish about my desire to stop neighbors from leaving their dog crap in my gardens and planned to make a statement. Such reactions seem disturbingly common these days. Ugliness, entitlement, rampant examples of “the rules don’t apply to me.” It’s like watching the social contract break down on a daily basis.
So it was the most wonderful surprise when I realized that a neighbor I don’t know terribly well but whose family I am deeply fond of and feel we take care of each other when need be (they checked in so lovingly when Nut was hit; we always talk when they’re out walking their hound; they borrowed our Corn Hole set; I hire their daughter to check in with Nut during days no one is here with him) was repairing my dog waste bag bin and rewriting the message to please clean up which has faded in the past few months. My heart nearly burst with this kindness. An acquaintance noticed that my attempt at hosting a poop-bag station needed tending and took it upon himself to do so. Yes, he and his family always clean up after their dog and they have mentioned being irritated by poop left in their yard, but still. They live several streets down, and I am just so very touched by their attention to community and people with whom they have some connection. It’s lovely to the nth.
Experiences like this are good things, because the news in America is beyond heinous and I feel extremely dismayed on the regular. Sometimes I think all we can do is try and make our immediate communities better: our childrens’ schools, our neighborhood, our workplace friends, our personal friends, the things we value within all that like animals and the environment.
Perhaps because of winter, perhaps the news, perhaps the ascent into my 40s, perhaps having seen some really ugly behavior this year at the macro and micro levels, I find myself more carefully considering with whom and how I spend my time. I have zero interest in competition of any kind; I simply want to keep learning, encourage kindness, laugh, and try to take life’s pace down a notch or ten.
I’ve been using our Instant Pot (y’all try Melissa Clark’s turkey meatloaf with sriracha), loved celebrating Mardi Gras with the kids, and on one of the many recent school days off took the kids and one of Ol’s best pals to R&R in the cat cafe in Georgetown (Crumbs & Whiskers) and its new pop-up, the Kitten Lounge. I am telling you, lounging on plush futons with purring, playful, soft animals is legitimately therapeutic.
I fell in love with a diminutive slate gray lady cat nestled in a basket. So many of the kittens and cats were darling and tugged at our hearts, but this little cha cha really caught me. I said to Jack, “What’s her name?” As he flipped over her tag, I gasped: RBG. Her flipping name is RBG.
People, is there more of a cat for me (other than the one I already have)? There is not. Jack was like, “Mom, start texting Dad.” Obviously, I already was. He actually wore down pretty quickly; I think he knew objecting was a lost cause. Plus, Tom is a sucker for attractive animals, and, as you can see, RBG is a looker.
We put in an application and headed home, hopeful that Ruth’s adoption would be as simple as was Nutmeg’s.
It really hasn’t been, y’all. We still don’t have the cat. We met her more than a week and a half ago. We have subjected Nut to a blood test to prove that he doesn’t have feline leukemia (even though he is totally current on his vaccines), we have bought everything needed to get ready for Roux (we’re actually naming her Roux Bader Grossi, keeping the RBG but making it our own), and I have done every bit of research I can on introducing new cats to each other. I would not feel so rushed if spring break weren’t approaching and we were leaving. I do not want our poor house sitter to have feline mayhem on her hands.
I know this is ridiculously small-fry, but can we just have our cat?! This bespoke collar, a gift of talent and love from my friend Dakota, awaits.
I am thrilled to pay for and adopt the cat. OMG, don’t shelter cats need good homes by the millions? I deeply appreciate the thorough placement and thoughtfulness, but I just want my darling girl. We were supposed to get her today, but now it’s Tuesday. Keep your fingers crossed.
In the meantime, be kind. Be generous. Send vibes of warmth and life and goodness.