A Proper Bostonian

Conversation Seldom Heard in a Four-Cat Household

2009-12-11T14:48:00.001-05:00

At least in my four-cat household:

Husband: There's a piece of cat fur on the floor!

Me: Oh, my god! Pick it up!

This is a quick example of how dramatically things have changed in this formerly slovenly apartment since the Great Ringworm Plague of 2009 hath smote us.

Be Fruitful and Multiply?

2009-12-11T08:26:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time, there was Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice Cocktail. It was pretty good.

Years later, a new flavor came along, Ocean Spray Cran-Apple. This, too, was tasty. Then there was Ocean Spray Cran-Raspberry — best of all. It became very popular. Cheap, sensible people, like me, add a splash of it to water or seltzer for a refreshing pinkish beverage that lacks the heavy after-taste of filtered tap water. A bottle lasts a long time.

But, unfortunately, things went all to pieces in the Ocean Spray marketing department, where people must incessantly develop new products to hold onto their jobs. Understandable for them; annoying for us. And a confusing mess for the re-stocking teams at supermarkets, like my local Shaw's.

Because now there are Ocean Spray Cran-Strawberry, Cran-Grape, Cran-Tangerine, Cran-Cherry, Cran-Pomegranate, Cran-Potato, Cran-Banana, Cran-Broccoli, and Cran-Tomato.

At any rate, those are the flavors I remember seeing on the shelves last week.

Then there are 100% juice versions: Ocean Spray Cranberry, Cranberry-Blueberry, Cranberry-Pacific Raspberry (never try an Atlantic raspberry, just don't do it), Cranberry-Pomegranate, and Cranberry-Concord Grape.

In a strange bid to appeal to racial purists, I suppose, Ocean Spray created White Cranberry, White Cranberry-Strawberry, White Cranberry-Peach, and so on. This information comes from the Ocean Spray website, an exhaustively complex survey of all things cran-juicical. Personally, I find this unethical and loathesome. I hope I have misjudged their motives, but I don't see any other reason to remove the color from the juice. Ease of stain-removal, you say? Even I, who spills things spectacularly all the time, wouldn't stoop to buying these pallid excuses for a beverage. I own a comprehensive arsenal of Carbona stain removers; I can freely drink juices of color. (And it makes sense for stain removers to come in many, many varieties. After all, people like me find new things to spill on ourselves all the time.)

And then practically all of these Ocean Spray varieties appeared in "Diet" versions. And then in "Light" versions.

And then lots of other name brands, and store generic brands piled juice clones upon the shelves. In similar-looking bottles, with similar label designs.

And suddenly, a line of scary Ocean Spray "Cranergy" drinks appeared, full of Splenda, vitamins, other weird chemicals, and a splash of green tea to make it seem wholesome and permit drinkers to imagine it would help them live forever: Cranberry Lift, Cranberry-Pomegranate Lift, and Cranberry-Raspberry Lift.

"Oh, who cares?" you say. "Chacun à son goût," you trill, in your best Julia Child accent. Let everyone have their choice.

Well, I care. I like plain old Cran-Raspberry, and it takes me 10 damn minutes to locate it on the shelves these days because there are 37 other cran-varieties stinking up the joint. And because each of those pathetic mutations requires its own square-footage of shelf real estate, that means that the popular flavors, the ones people seek out and buy — like Cran-Raspberry and Cran-Apple — are always sold out. Leaving the rest of stuck with Super-Light White Cranergy-Carrot.

Can we get back to basics, please? I'm thirsty, and all I've got is a stupid bottle of Cran-Strawberry, which I had to buy in defeat on my second trip to the story to find Cran-Raspberry. Buying juice shouldn't be so exhausting and time-consuming. Isn't that what the cereal aisle is for?

Wreath-Making, Day 2

2009-12-09T18:55:00.004-05:00

Here are a couple of the wreaths I decorated yesterday for the Garden Club of the Back Bay. I was assigned to work on a few of the large, "fully decorated" wreaths that we offer for $125.

This one will be displayed in a gallery on Newbury Street and I plan to visit it:

They requested a gold bow and gold accents, so I got to go wild with a spray-paint can in the alley, which I enjoyed way too much. I sprayed juniper, lotus pods, baby's breath, my right hand, and a couple of plant species I can't identify. I came back inside light-headed and dazed from fumes. The giant feathers sticking out of the bow are genuine, glittery gold plastic.

The wreath below is perhaps my all-time favorite. It will hang on a door on Louisburg Square:

Someone brought the Garden Club a few bags of the most gorgeous holly I've ever seen: the leaves were huge and perfect; the berries big, bright, and abundant. I christened it "Hollywood Holly," because it looks cosmetically enhanced. Using it in this wreath still hurt like crazy, however, and I wired up a ton of it, along with juniper, pine, and pinecones. I usually decorate only one wreath with holly each year because of the puncture wounds, and I'm glad this one turned out so well. I designed it to be extra lush and three-dimensional, with more holly, boughs, and pinecones filling in the perimeter of the wreath, which is usually left bare.

This is the only wreath photo I've seen that captures much of the beauty of the real thing. In all of our other photos, the wreaths look disappointingly flattened, gaudy, and weird — when they are actually stunning in person.

My third wreath featured a "bordello" burgundy and gold bow — very big and over-the-top. The buyer had requested "feathers," and all we had were peacock and pheasant. I chose pheasant and created a base of gold-dusted pincones, the rust-colored backs of magnolia leaves, gold-sprayed juniper, and tiny matte-burgundy and shiny tan glass balls. The result was moody but strangely appealing and the ladies insisted on documenting it with a photo. My own photos were dreadful, so you'll have to imagine the effect, or take a stroll down the shady-side of Marlborough Street, because that's where it will be.

I had to take care of a back-log of housecleaning today, because of the Cat Plague, so I didn't get to the wreath workshop. But I will go tomorrow — the final day — when it's crunch time.

Wendy

2009-12-08T21:40:00.002-05:00

Every day, our feral kitten Wendy becomes a bit braver. She's been with us for 10 weeks, and she has been a perfect, if elusive, lady the entire time. She is polite no matter how frightened or unhappy she is — and because of her ringworm and other illnesses, she's had to endure many weeks of nasty medicines and car trips to the groomer, where she is covered with a gallon of liquid that reeks of rotten eggs and turns her yellow.

Imagine how you'd react if you were soaked with a gallon of bright yellow liquid that stank to high heaven every Friday. Wendelina Pantherina, the feral rescue, seems to have had the upbringing of a pedigreed princess.

Which I find interesting. Here is a photo of her mother, which the nice woman at her shelter took for me:

A very nice-looking alley cat, certainly. But an aristocat? It's hard to say. But I can tell that Wendy will be a big cat, like her mom. And she is a beautiful kitten, with her deep amber eyes, sweet expression, and that bustle of a tail. I'm glad her mom taught her good manners to match her elegant looks.

We noticed that Wendy was warming up to us, verrrry slowly, about a month ago. She was always happy to see us and be cuddled when she was living in her crate, when she first arrived. But when we let her have the run of the apartment, she began to run from us and hide. For the first few weeks, we almost never saw her. If we had to catch her, to give her medication or some socializing attention, it took both of us awhile to corner her. When we did, she surrendered without hissing, growling, scratching, or biting. As the weeks went by, she began making herself at home on the bed instead of underneath it. And she became easier to catch, in the most minute increments. She also spent a lot of time playing and wrestling with Possum, so we saw a lot more of her, with him.

When we would catch her to cuddle, she'd melt into a loudly purring "sausage" as my husband refers to her, lying contentedly in our arms. But 10 seconds after she'd get down, she'd run from us in pseudo-fear. If she was lying on the bed, napping with the other three cats, she'd be the only one to dash under the bed as we'd enter the room. Eventually she stopped doing that. Then she'd watch us pet the other cats and only dash off if we reached over toward her. Now she occasionally lets us pet her, briefly, before leaving the bed. She watches us stroke and talk to the other cats as they purr — and it's finally sinking in for her that she's safe with us, just like them.

Today she wandered out of my husband's arms and then back onto his lap and into them. She also played with my fingers this morning while I was bed. She's progressed from attacking my toes to getting close enough to bite my thumb under the coverlet (actually it's our old shower curtain, to protect the rest of the bed from the lime-sulfur residue).

Catching her is much easier these days. She makes a token run for it, then crouches under the bed or table and lets us pick her up. She remains in that same crouchy ball shape as we dose her with medicine and put cream on her ears. Then she runs away and comes back in a few seconds to eat her breakfast.

When Possum and I play with a mouse on a string, Wendy will join us on the couch now, and get within a couple of feet of me. The other day, I felt someone paw my backside as I sat here at my laptop, and it was Wendy. She will occasionally swat at my toe if I'm wearing a sock. She's slowly, slowly melting out of her fear and reserve. Will she ever be a lapcat? I'm still hopeful.

Her favorite fluffy ball got stuck on her toe yesterday, and I had to follow her around the living as she limped away from me, to help her remove it. I think she's beginning to realize we weirdo humans are essentially harmless despite the car trips and the cherry-flavored liquid we shoot into her mouth every morning.

I often notice her watching me intently. I talk to her all the time and sing her little songs, which she doesn't seem to mind. I've also started speaking to her in a high-pitched, bogus French accent, because I read in My Life in France that Julia Child's cat responded powerfully to the phrase, "Oui, Oui, j'ecoute!" Wendy is definitely interested when I talk like this, but so far she has not jumped on my and started licking me, as Minette did to Julia. But I am not giving up. Maybe I can find the right phrase that will send Wendy leaping into my lap.

Getting All Christmasy

2009-12-07T23:49:00.002-05:00

My fingernails are black. It must be Christmastime.

Today, the Garden Club of the Back Bay began its annual holiday wreath-making event. Headquarters is the basement of the Lutheran Church on Marlborough and Berkeley Streets. We take orders through the fall for scores of fresh wreaths — plain, with just a bow, or decorated to the point where even Martha Stewart would fling up her hands and cry for mercy — to people of taste and good cheer all over the Boston area. Sales support the care of Back Bay's trees, many of which need help.

Many members of the Garden Club have second homes, where they gather everything from holly, pods, pine boughs, and pinecones to dried hydrangea, roses and moss to decorate the wreaths. Exciting purchases at the Flower Market supplement the natural materials with shiny balls, fake birds and berries, and glittery branches. Boxes fills with dozens of rolls of beautiful ribbons sit in one corner, waiting for one of the designated bow-makers. The tables are covered with pine needles, clippers, wire cutters, and baskets of materials.

The designs are generally elaborate and inspired. Since the large, fully decorated wreaths cost $150, it's not unusual for a wreath artist to spend most of a day working on just one.

The club's president pressed me into service as a volunteer even before I joined the club. I am praised less for my good eye and decorating skills than for my remarkable speed. I decorated seven wreaths yesterday, which is viewed as impressive.

I do have one talent: I can pick two messy, leggy wreaths out of a stack, hang them side by side, and clip and shape them into an elegant set of twins, ready for bows or an elaborate decorating scheme. I am the Frederic Fekkai of the holiday wreath.

I also love spraying. There's nothing more exciting than hanging around in a freezing Back Bay alley, waving a can of spray paint and inhaling the fumes from a tray of glittering pinecones and pods.

The other members think I'm nuts, but I come from a different background.

Everyone oohs and aahs at the creations of the most experienced designers. We all learn from each other.

Everyone (and we had our first, and highly skilled, male wreath-maker yesterday) wears an apron, brings pruning shears and wire cutters from home, and expects to have black, pitch-covered hands by the end of her first wreath. At lunchtime, everyone cleans up with a glob of Crisco, which is the best thing for removing pine tar. And there is good food: coffee, scones, and mini cinnamon buns in the morning; a catered lunch; and tea breads, biscotti, and cookies in the afternoon. I eat all of it: decorating is surprisingly hard work. Standing over a hot wreath makes me hungry. Jabbing florist picks into a tight wreath sometimes requires pliers and both arms. My hands are sore and scratched at the end of the day.

Here are a couple of my efforts from the morning. The first order requested a red-and-gold bow with gold accents; the second one let my choose my own bow and materials.

I'll be there again tomorrow — there are three more days of fun and pincones ahead.

Boot Theory

2009-12-05T22:03:00.006-05:00

We're getting the first snow of the season tonight — lovely! But I have a date to meet some friends for brunch and head over to the SoWa Antiques Fair tomorrow. And I don't have decent snow boots. I am in the habit of wiping out on Boston's icy brick sidewalks even when I'm wearing snow boots, and I've been hunting for some with better traction. But it seems to be impossible to find a good-looking pair of waterproof boots with a warm lining and gripping soles.

I still see a lot of Uggs out there, and they do look better with jeans than with shorts these days. But I think you need to be no older than high-school age for those.

There are rubber boots that have equestrian style, like these Hunters, but they aren't warm:

There are stylish leather waterproof "snow boots" with high heels, like those from La Canadienne and Sudini, but I have something like these and they are terrifying on the icy bricks of Marlborough Street:

Then there are Uggs. But most of them are wicked ugly and I can't help but think they belong on the high school and college set. And anyway, for optimum walking, I like a bit of a heel:

A lot of boots should come with a sled and a team of huskies:

Then there are boots that only belong on Santa:

Or grandma (or possibly Frau Frankenstein):

Or an astronaut:

Or a retired astronaut who still likes to dress for après-ski on Mars:

But nothing much for me. I challenge you to find a pair of great snow boots that doesn't fit into one of the above categories. By the time you succeed, I predict that we'll all be ready for the grandma genre.

The Burger King

2009-12-04T10:14:00.001-05:00

The teenaged son of an Egyptian friend of ours, T., was in Boston last weekend, during his prep school's holiday, to look at colleges. We invited him to lunch at the Warren Tavern, one of our favorite Lunch Spots Where You Can Park. We like the antique charm of the small front room and the cozy fireplace in the back room. We also like the burgers and sandwiches, which come with excellent fries (or homemade potato chips, if you like that sort of thing). Since T. was staying in the Seaport Hotel by the Convention Center, he hadn't seen much of Quaint Olde Boston. He said the winding, gaslit streets of Charlestown reminded him of villages in Germany, where he'd grown up before moving to back to Egypt with his family.

Quiet but confident —and smart, curious, articulate, charming, and handsome — T. is full of promise. I'll bet Obama was a lot like him at that age. T. speaks English and Arabic well, but is most fluent in German. He doesn't know if he wants to study medicine, engineering, acting, or archaeology. We told him to ignore whatever anyone — parents, teachers — might push him toward, and to follow his heart. He said his older brother had been telling him the same thing for years. He just wasn't sure yet.

T. asked us to explain the Boston Tea Party and we did our best. We also stumbled over the history of the Bunker Hill Monument, an Egyptian obelisk that he found puzzling. As we perused the menu options, we all agreed on the illogic of putting Swiss cheese on the Paul Revere burger. Only American cheese belongs on a patriot's sandwich.

Speaking of Patriots, T. is an ardent fan. My husband, who shares this malady, gets a kick out of talking about Wes Welker with an Egyptian.

Our sandwiches arrived, and T. told us he was going to have the "best burger in Boston" for dinner, at a restaurant that had been exhaustively researched by some of his fellow students. "Where?" I asked. He said he couldn't remember the name, but that it was unequivocally "the best!" and he would let us know afterward. I mentioned Abe and Louis, where at lunchtime you can get burgers that rival their steaks. But Uburger would fit better in a high-schooler's budget.

T. was planning to explore several in-town colleges and was curious to also see Tufts, so we drove there after lunch. It was a sunny, very windy day and the deserted campus looked romantic. T. said it reminded him of Hogwarts, and decided he would apply. We tried to assure him that, as a bright, English-speaking foreign student, he may have more opportunities for admission and scholarships —which he'll need — than he might expect. I hope we're right. It would be great to treat him to more burgers as an undergraduate in Boston.

And where was Boston's Best Burger? Bartley's Burger Cottage. I dunno. But T. said it was "like butter!"

Worry and Wonder List

2009-12-03T17:38:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, it just helps to get it all down in one list:

1. Will the ringworm ever go away?

2. Will Peter finally get the job of his dreams?

3. Will I ever get any job?

4. What is this weird rash on both sides of my neck, which broke out while I sweating at the gym today?

5. Why is Possum coughing? (Coughing can be a serious symptom in cats. He's had three spells in three days, which isn't enough to concern the vet yet, she says, although she has permitted me to freak out. But one or two more fits, Possy, and you're on the exam table for X-rays and blood work.)

6. Why does Wendy breathe so fast sometimes? Does she have heart trouble? Are both of my kittens going to drop dead on me? (Not on me exactly, but you get the idea.)

7. What is this weird rash on my neck? Could it be something other than what I think it is?

8. Why does Snalbert stick one foot up in the air when he sits down? He is neither a gymnast nor a dancing Cossack. (And while I'm at it, I've convinced myself that Snicky has something fatal, too.)

9. Were there typos in the thank-you notes I just sent after the job interview? This occurred to me after I sent them.... I did check them but you should always check twice. Can't bear to look now.

10. Why did I refer to the Pyramids as "slag heaps with edges" during my interview, after one woman said she's always wanted to see them? This and other bizarre utterances of mine kept me up through the wee hours last night. At least I didn't mention ringworm.

11. How will I screw up during the Garden Club's annual wreath decorating next week? I offered to help make bows or do deliveries but I'm being compelled to decorate. The pressure is so intense.

12. Then there's this rash, or something, on my neck.

13. Is the triclosan, which I've been spraying around the house on every surface and putting into every load of laundry for the past month, going to kill the ringworm — or us?

14. Will the Dementors ever move out? If they sell their place, won't it be attractive only to someone with equally poor taste, someone who might therefore be equally crass and mean?

15. What does everyone in my family want for Christmas? And how do I ship it all to them since we'll be in exile up here?

16. Are we going to live without a working doorbell for the rest of our lives? I guess that depends on how long we live.

17. Why do my friends put up with me?

18. If the neck rash is ringworm and if it eventually makes all my hair fall out, can I get a thin, stringy wig with gray roots and a crooked part, so no one can tell?

19. Why do I worry so much? Is this normal? Is something wrong with my brain beyond all the stuff I already know about?

20. Does triclosan cause neck rashes?

My Greatest Weakness....

2009-12-01T23:33:00.003-05:00

I have a job interview tomorrow morning. I can't remember the last time I had one, but I think it was more than three years ago. At that one, I reminded the woman interviewing me that she had received and ignored a cover letter and resume I'd sent her for a position at another organization several years earlier. I had noticed her name in an old Word document of cover letters as I was writing the one for this job. Startled, she said, "Honey, I'm sure I was just trying to protect you from that place." Then she hired me and we became great pals.

I hope I'm as lucky this time. I've scrutinized the company Web site and blog, and Googled a couple of the principals. I became a fan of their Facebook page. I've printed extra copies of my resume, pulled out my weighty portfolio of writing samples, re-familiarized myself with my own experience, and made sure my elegant brown riding boots aren't scuffed. I plan to be myself, so I haven't been wearing myself out with composing bogus answers about my greatest weakness (which, as we all know, is layer cake) or strength (which, as we all know, is finding four-leaf clovers).

The woman who is interviewing me confessed on the phone that she is hoping to clone herself. In looks and experience, we couldn't be more different. She's smart, professional, crisp, and tailored, with cropped curly hair, and has loads of interesting work, life, and travel experience. I can probably fake the smart part, but not the crisp, cropped, curly, tailored stuff. I'm incorrigibly limp, rumpled, and long and stringy. Maybe she won't notice.

The posting said they are looking for a "grown-up," meaning someone over 25, I suppose. This is the first time I've evers seen the word "grown-up" in a job description, and I'm not sure it isn't discriminatory. But it's a welcome reversal of the usual "fresh, recent grad" kind of discriminatory language I find every time I search the job postings.

I'm not sure what experience they want most because they haven't been specific about what the the new person will be doing. There isn't a job description, in other words. So I expect our conversation will be more exploratory, to figure out how my experience and skills might fit in with their various needs.

But we all know that the most important aspect of a job interview is to see if we will hit it off as congenial colleagues. Do I seem normal and nice — or neurotic and weird? Skills and experience often don't matter as much as being generally bright, capable, and pleasant to be around. And everyone they've chosen to interview (out of more than 100 applications) clearly has some kind of desirable experience and skills, so I suspect we'll both really be hoping for "chemistry" tomorrow.

When she asks me what I've been up to lately, I wonder if I'll be inclined to say, "Oh, vacuuming up spores, preparing force-feeding syringes, and misting a deadly chemical on my entire apartment," or, "Finishing up a portion of a symptom assessor for a very rare disease for a major pharmaceutical company." If we're a good match, I'll probably tell her the latter plus a tamer version of former. Might as well go for full disclosure. It's a very small company and if, by some crazy stroke of fortune, they hire me, they're going to get to know me quickly.

A Journal of the Plague Year, 5

2009-11-28T20:03:00.003-05:00

We all survived another round of lime-sulfur dips yesterday. Returning to the cat hospital in Brookline after a quick burrito lunch and some errands, we were hit by the stench of rotten eggs, only partially masked by the nauseatingly sweet, pie-scented candles they always burn at the reception desk, which are marketed to mask "pet odors." Why you'd want to mask pet odors with blueberry pie is beyond me; I think cleaning and airing the place out would do a better job. But even wet, stinky dog and bogus apple cobbler smell better together than lime-sulfur all by itself.

The cats were very happy to be home, and took long, restorative naps, stinking up the washable cover I put over the washable cover on our bed.

This Friday, we are going to take the cats for their first cultures before their trip to the dip. (We won't be seeing our regular vet, but this way, the cats have only one stressful car trip and our favorite vet doesn't risk getting felled by ringworm.)

Then we'll need to wait at least three weeks to see who's negative and who isn't. We'll do more cultures a week and two weeks after the first one. We should start getting the first results right after Christmas.

Which means we will still be in cleaning-and-treatment mode through the holidays. Which means the holiday decorating is going to be unusually sparse this year. I can't vacuum a Christmas tree. Plus, despite the fact that I've had both Christmas trees and cats for almost 30 years (yeah, ancient), I've been reading about the hazards of trees for cats and now I'm nervous about ever having one again.

Every year, in the second week of December, we bring in a huge, fresh tree, set it up in the Mother of All Tree Stands, and tie it to the window-frame with fishing line in case anyone decides to climb it. Then we wait for Snalbert and Snicky to eat needles and throw up. That always happens within the first hour we have the tree. It must be the feline traditional equivalent of kissing under the mistletoe. You don't necessarily want to do it, but you sort of have to.

Then it's just a matter of waiting to see how soon they get tired of eating needles and throwing up. Three or four days is typical. But recently I read that tree needles are very poisonous, as is the water in the tree stand. I knew that; we take precautions with the water. But dry or tough needles can puncture a cat's digestive organs. And then there are the light strings: they can strangle themselves, or swallow them, or electrocute themselves by chewing on them. If they break a glass ornament: lacerations, internal injuries, blah, blah, blah. Don't even think about tinsel. Some people can also get worked up about the hazards of ribbons and other decorations on wrapped presents. And, of course, we have two kittens who would certainly want to climb it and wrestle in its branches.

All in all, a Christmas tree is a deadly weapon. I should have just returned that tree last year and gotten a refund. All these years we've had magical trees and were unknowingly dancing with disaster.

But even this doesn't make me feel any better about not having a tree. No: I don't feel good about having a tree or not having a tree. I'm under stress, so I think I'm entitled to be ambivalent and childish about this. And even if I'm not entitled, that's just how it's going to be.

The Gratitude List

2009-11-26T14:21:00.000-05:00

There's plenty this year:

1. Practically everyone we know is healthy and surviving, with a roof over his/her head.

2. Good friends, old and new. This year, Facebook reconnected me to a lot of favorite people from my past. It's the reason I actually know how well everyone is doing for a change.

3. Two fabulous kittens. Plus a very clean house, and lots of weekly face time with our friends at two vet hospitals. (Do I know how to put a positive spin on ringworm now, or what?)

4. Bills are paid, there's money in the bank, we have no credit card debt, and there'll even be an IRA contribution at year's end.

5. I had some useful, interesting work projects. And there's finally a job prospect: a long shot, but something.

6. Spouse has had a rough time with work issues, but still loves what he does. Which is inspiring. And he's so good at it all. Plus, he finished volume 1 of a massive book he started back in 1925. Amazing!

7. We didn't give a penny to Bernard Madoff or know the Craigslist killer.

8. We ate a lot of cake. Really excellent cake. And cupcakes. Too bad we don't have any right now.

9. Two happy trips to Mt. Desert Island to hang out with our "other family."

10. The Dementors downstairs haven't yet succeeded in taking our souls or destroying our happiness forever. Cats and chocolate are effective antidotes. (So are are local architectural commission's regulations.)

11. October baseball. At least the Red Sox got that far.

12. Strength class at the gym. A year ago, I couldn't do a military push-up. Now I can do 14, and that's after I've been worn out by lifting a barbell. I'm in decent shape for an old lady.

13. There are still lunatics reading this boring blog. I promise to do my best to make 2010 more exciting than 2009. No skin diseases if I can help it, I swear! Thank you for your sympathy and support.

A Journal of the Plague Year, 4

2009-11-25T23:25:00.002-05:00

We met with our vet today. Seeing her these days is exciting, liking meeting with an oracle; usually I call and relay my questions through an assistant and then get a call back from the same person, repeating our vet's wisdom. When we actually see her, I come prepared, strive to communicate clearly, and listen intently. We discussed when to culture the cats, and how often. Ideally, all four cats are supposed to have three negative cultures in a row, done at intervals of one to three weeks. But cultures are $92 each, not including the office visit. (I comparison shopped and got a price of $127 per culture at another vet.)

Our vet had previously suggested lowering expenses by keeping the cultures in-house instead of sending them to a lab. Today she said, "But we can't, because we don't have an incubator. The cultures have to be kept between 75 and 85 degrees in a water bath."

"So we'll buy you an incubator," I said. She was startled: "How much are they?" "I don't know," I said, "but a small one can't cost $1,200!" (Later I found out that we could get one for about $300.)

Instead, our vet suggested culturing only the two kittens, twice. She had discussed this with the other two vets in the practice, who agreed. The older cats have no lesions, have been on oral medication, and are gettiing dips. They should be negative.

You'd think we'd be jumping for joy at this news. My husband brightened considerably. But I was troubled. I've read too many horror stories, related in real time, by people who stopped treatment too early, only to have the ringworm come back — worse — weeks or months later. That means treating everyone with the whole regimen, back to Square One.

Our vet's reasoning was that the treatment protocol was designed for shelters with rampant ringworm infestations. We're not so overwhelmed with it. But we are still dealing with four cats who aren't isolated from each other and who share everything. And the two adults are Persians, who are said to be more susceptible to ringworm than the general cat population.

Half of my brain was hollering, "What's WRONG with you? Do you WANT your cats STINKING for extra weeks and MONTHS, into 2010? Are YOU INSANE?" The quiet, reasonable half was saying, "This is very nice. But dead wrong."

For one thing, I pointed out, the lime-sulfur dips are ideally supposed to be given twice a week, and double the strength we're doing. We're only doing them once because we can't bear — or afford — to do them twice weekly. Also, the older cats are on a much lower dose of oral medication than is recommended (the vet seemed a bit stunned that I knew this) but, I continued, after all, they're elderly, fragile, and have no lesions. The vet nodded, a tad relieved, I think. So I suggested that we culture all four cats once, to be sure the older cats are negative. Then we'll do just the kittens twice more, to be sure — assuming the cultures are all negative. Our pet insurance should pay for all of the kittens' cultures. But we can't be sure until we get a reimbursement; with all the fine print in the policy, anything is possible.

I was hoping we could do the cultures during the same Friday car trip as the lime-sulfur dips. But we want our vet to do them herself, and that's her day off. So we'll probably be shlepping everyone to her office next Thursday night. I also suggested that she come to our apartment so they wouldn't have to decontaminate the exam room and waiting area, but they never do housecalls, even if it's more convenient for them!

* * *

Big triumph today: Wendy let me pet her tail. She was curled up on a chair and didn't run away as I slowly approached. The next time I tried it, she ran. But I finally got to touch her without corraling her or making her cringe in fear, and that's a first, at least since she's been outside of her nursery-crate.

I wonder if she realizes her tail belongs to her, and is not a separate animal that's always following her too closely.

Wendy's favorite toy is her "birdiemouse," a leopard-print mouse that had a long feathered tail; now it has a feather stump. She carries it everywhere, singing in her delightful voice. When she loses it, as she did today, I hunt everywhere. I thought I'd find it when I did my daily vacuuming, but even when I took a flashlight and peered under radiators and bookcases (previously filthy spots but recently cleaned), I couldn't find it. I felt bad because, if I don't turn up the full inventory of lost toys daily, I'm missing areas I'm supposed to be cleaning and we'll continue to have the Plague.

But about an hour ago, I heard singing, and found Wendy curled on the bed, with her birdiemouse in her mouth. I wonder where it was; she must have put it in a safe place. A few minutes later, I heard her singing more passionately, and saw Possum leap onto the sofa with her birdiemouse in his mouth. Thief! Typical brotherly behavior. I stole it from him, gave him his favorite mouse (recently under a bookcase), and gave Wendy her toy.

We have a new bedspread, as you can see. All the cats tested it today and found it sleep-worthy:

One of the most depressing aspects of Ringworm Plague is living with furniture covered in old bed sheets, especially the PeptoBismol-hued flannel one on the couch. I broke down and ordered some inexpensive Indian bedspreads online and found this one in a shop in Coolidge Corner. These will add hippie charm, or bohemian je-ne-sais-what, to our rooms, which has to be an improvement on bedsheet decor. They will also absorb the scent of the lime sulfur, which rubs off wherever the cats sit or sleep. (Washing never fully eliminates the smell.) If they fade from thrice-weekly washing in the next few months, so be it. I will probably never want to see them again when this is over.

Will it ever be over?

Picky Eating: The Food Lists

2009-11-25T21:14:00.003-05:00

The farmer's market at Copley officially closed yesterday, leaving me wistfully wondering why I didn't take better advantage of all that homegrown bounty while I had the chance. One reason: I get nervous when confronted with cooking a strange, new vegetable. Another reason: my husband doesn't like a lot of those vegetables and fruits, and I tend to cook and buy for two. So while taking a cooking class might help me with the former, I'm still cooped-up by the latter.

I'm thinking that it is time to list all the things the spouse and I won't eat, and try to conquer at least a few of them. I'm glad he eats mushrooms; that would be a deal-breaker, given everything else that he's wary about. He will offer to try things on his list if I beg him, but he likes it about as much as cats like pills.

As for me, since I got IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) eight years ago, there are many foods I love that I now cannot eat. When those gustatory avenues closed, I decided it was time to open new ones. So I resolved to be adventurous and try to eat, or at least taste, anything and everything that I can eat.

This proved to be an exciting experience on our trips to Italy last year, where I vowed to eat anything that was put in front of me. I had superb octopus and squid, and batter-fried fruit.

Just because I have to be a careful eater doesn't mean I need to be a fussy eater. We live in an unprecedented time of abundance, and while we don't have to love all of it, I feel we should at least try it before we reject it. Sampling foods should be an adventure; it should not turn an adult into a panicking, distraught 5-year-old. I ate my octopus like a man. And found it yummy.

Here are the everyday, ordinary foods I don't like:

Green peppers (they taste soapy to me)
Raw onions, except red or sweet ones, ones in teeny amounts (they burn my mouth)
Liver, brains, sweetbreads, pig's feet, and other stray parts of the pig or cow
Cilantro (tastes like soap suds)
Mint ice cream (unless it's quality sorbet or gelato, otherwise, it's just frozen toothpaste)
Gummy candy, including licorice, jelly beans, and Dots
Anything soy; it strikes me as more of a craft material than a food
Half-cooked bacon; it has to be brown and crisp
Cherry Coke, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi
Coffee
Spicy-hot food
Salmon and swordfish

Here's what I can't eat because it triggers IBS:

Alcohol (except prosecco in Italy and French champagne. I don't know why, but I'm grateful)
Cream (Alfredo and other cream-based sauces, Indian kormas, cream cheese, cheesecake, crème brûlée, bread pudding, ice cream, whipped cream.... are you weeping in sympathy yet?)
Spicy food
Greasy, oily, or fried food, except in small quantities. Olive oil is okay. Asian food usually isn't.

Here are the everyday foods my husband doesn't like. I hope you'll agree that his list limits a farmer's market–loving cook. It features many foods I love: namely all the produce, olives, goat cheese, and grains:

Sweet potatoes
Whole grains, served with a meal, including wild rice
Sundried tomatoes
Roasted garlic
Autumn root vegetables, except for carrots, but including red beets and parsnips
Fish (except canned tuna)
Shellfish, except for clam chowder and lobster
Raw and cooked onions, except onion rings and French onion soup
Eggplant and squash
Polenta
Goat cheese
Many fruits, including peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums, mangoes, and figs
Cabbage and sauerkraut
Leafy greens, except for lettuce and spinach
Liver, brains, sweetbreads, pig's feet, and other "weird" parts of the pig or cow
Cilantro (tastes like soap suds)
Mustard
Rye, pumpernickel, sourdough breads, and onion rolls
Olives

In the past year or so, here's what I've eaten experimentally (I limit this list to meat and fish; I don't consider eating any vegetable, fruit or grain a challenge. Except for molokhiya, a slimy green cooked vegetable dish that's popular in Egypt. It's scary):

Squid
Octopus
Goat
Wild boar
Venison (this was a while ago; I've sampled brains, liver, and pig's feet in the past, too)
Mussels
Shrimp (the teeny ones are really good!)
Chilean sea bass (food of the gods)
Every type of cured meat from the Emilia-Romagna region (more god-food)
Oysters

Here are tasty but unhealthy things we like but limit:

Deli ham with nitrates (we'll buy Italian pepper ham every couple of months)
Fried chicken (once a year of less)
Pepperoni pizza (once a year)
Hot dogs (Parisian-style from Petit Robert, once a month at most)
Potato chips (twice a year in a restaurant for me; spouse eats them more often)
Bacon and breakfast sausage (on vacation in Maine)
Donuts (almost never)
Red meat (one steak, steak burrito, or cheeseburger per month, or so)
Onion rings and French fries (with the burger or hot dog, once or twice a month)
Double- or triple-cream cheeses (two or three times a year)

And finally, here's what I never (or almost never) buy because it's unhealthy or better made from scratch:

Movie popcorn
Snack foods that come in noisy plastic bags (Doritos, Fritos, chips, Little Debbie's, Tastycakes, etc.) My husband sometimes buys pretzels; they're low-fat, at least. I buy low-fat baked tortilla chips when I make guacamole a few times a year. Chocolate-covered pretzels are an unfortunate victim of this rule and are really more like candy than food, IMO, so I'll get them once or twice a year.... Oreo cookies are another exception; I wish they sold them in tubs
White bread
Pop-Tarts, breakfast bars, and cereals that aren't high in fiber and protein
Frozen entrées, pizza, dinners, and desserts
Canned and dried soups; I love making soup
Most packaged cookies (except for those Oreos). Healthier exceptions include Trader Joe's Triple Ginger Snaps and their all-natural Florentines
Frozen or refrigerated cookie doughs, pie crusts, breakfast and dinner rolls, biscuits
Bottled salad dressings
Non-diet drinks, except orange juice and cider
Crackers, except for multigrain varieties with fiber. Crackers are surprisingly fat-laden
Energy bars. I used to live on these until I realized that they aren't exactly.... food

You'll notice that this list doesn't mention cake, cupcakes, homemade cookies and brownies, or candy. We figure that by cutting out the other junk, there's room on the top of our alleged food pyramid for a modest dose of one (or two) those. Chocolate is non-negotiable.

What is your list like? I'd love to know!

Craving Peace

2009-11-24T09:36:00.003-05:00

I had to do errands yesterday, but as I was putting on my coat, I heard screaming from the bedroom. Our senior male cat, Snalbert, was attacking our fragile little Snicky on the bed.

He had also done this last Thursday, for the first time in many years, and it was horrible. She'd peed all over the floor that time and, because she has chronic renal failure, there was a LOT of it. (Fortunately, for the same reason, it's very dilute and hardly smells. And even more more luckily, there was a full spray bottle of Nature's Miracle on the dresser next to where the attack had occurred. Calling this product a "Miracle" is not an exaggeration.)

Snicky didn't pee on the bed this time, thank god, and she wasn't hurt either time, but this was still very troubling. I was afraid to leave the cats alone. What if Snalbert attacked the kittens next? They'd be terrified, and it only takes one traumatic event to turn a happy-go-lucky kitten into a cowering scaredy-cat for a long time. When it happened last week, I called the vet, asking if ringworm pills can cause aggression. She said no, but pointed out that Snicky smells like lime sulfur (Snalbert hadn't been dipped himself yet), so that he may not be able to recognize her, a likely reason for his attack. Dipping all four cats would either eliminate the problem or make all hell break lose.

Yesterday, I spoke sternly to my sulfurous Snalbert, peeled him off Snicky, and, as he tried to fight with me, tossed him (rather harder than I intended) into the bathroom for a "time out." He howled behind the door; the kittens came running in alarm. They like him. I wondered what he was saying. I moved Snicky to a high perch that she likes, so she'd feel secure, and let Snalbert out, with another lecture. He knew he was bad. He had not been acting like himself all day: he wasn't sociable with my husband as he showered and shaved, wasn't interested in breakfast, didn't howl conversationally, and didn't start to purr when I'd ask him if he was a nice pussycat — which always elicits an instant response. What was wrong?

I was on the way to the vet's office with insurance forms anyway, so I reported this. My vet wasn't there, but the assistant recommended Feliway, one of those pheromone-releasing oil diffusers you plug into an outlet. It calms cats down about half the time, they charge $38 for it, and it would probably aggravate my allergies as much as lime sulfur dips. I said I'd think about it.

I did my errands, including a visit to J. Crew, where they had none of the styles I liked in colors I liked. I was still able to see that the cinnamon is all wrong, burgundy is a bit drab, and "vintage forest" is beautiful. Their turtlenecks are extremely long again this year; they make me look short. So my craving is focused on a forest V-necked cardigan, which is sold out online and way too expensive at $168 anyway. But as I was leaving, I spotted a cotton, tissue-weight turtleneck in that color, at the bottom of a stack of black ones, in my size, for $29.50. Perfect.

I paid with my $25 gift card but stupidly forgot to show my husband's school ID. If I had, I think I would have had to pay about 7 cents. Oh, for dumb. I just might go back... it's the principle of the thing.

I returned home, with many bags of groceries, to find all four cats unscathed and hungry. They all eat canned food, about five or six times a day. We also do a lot of bowl-washing and lugging home of cans. Oh, for the many past years of blithely pouring kibble into bowls twice a day and being done. Now we're force-feeding, mixing lysine into food, and opening lots of extra cans when a flavor turns out to be dud. But it's fun to occasionally see them all eating at once, when I've picked a flavor they are in the mood for. The kittens get fed whenever they want, and so do our fragile, finicky older cats.

Usually, I hit the pillow these days and sleep like a log, but I was awake much of last night, worrying about Snalbert. Then it hit me: along with his ringworm pill, we've been including a tiny quarter of Snicky's cyproheptadine pills, at the vet's suggestion. It's an appetite stimulant, and when he was sick for a month with a virus, he hadn't been eating enough. He's been getting it for weeks now. Aha!

First thing this morning, I looked up the side effects — agitation and aggression are among them. Problem solved. I can't wait for Snalbert to go back to being his old self. But how had I, my husband, and the vet all forgotten about those cypro pills? Live and learn.

Craving Cashmere

2009-11-23T11:41:00.001-05:00

It's that time of year again. Despite a giant sweater drawer that's packed to the gills, I'm longing for new sweaters, even though I can't wear them in the house. We wear fleece, and wash it every day, because of the cat plague.

But J. Crew has my favorite styles in some beautiful colors right now:

I have a lot of sweaters in black, gray, off-white, and bright red. I don't have much in these jewel-tones, which suit me. A soft, cozy, richly hued sweater would cheer me up right now. The blue-green is my favorite color of all-time. They are already selling out of these colors, so I can't wait for the January sale, even if I can't wear it with abandon until later in the winter, when the plague, God willing, has let up.

I think I'll go take a look at them on my way to the supermarket today. Maybe these colors won't look nearly as enticing in person... that often happens. I do get a teacher's discount because I carry one of my husband's university IDs. And I do have a $25 gift card from last Christmas. And they might be having an in-store promotion.

But I'm also spending a small fortune on the plague and I'm exceptionally cheap. Will keep you posted.

Not Again....

2009-11-22T17:52:00.000-05:00

Both male cats are meowing hoarsely again today, which makes us worry that the terrible calicivirus, which they suffered with for a month and just recovered from last week, is already making a return appearance and inflaming their throats. It's possible, because one or both of them may be a permanent carrier, and the stress of their visit to the groomer on Friday was certainly enough to weaken their immune systems.

But they simply have to get those lime sulfur dips every week, or we can't even hope to get back to a normal life a couple of months from now. We are only two weeks along in the treatment and we are anxious to get to the point where we can stop giving them dangerous, expensive medication. And stop cleaning for hours a day. And quit waiting for more ugly spots to appear on their cute little faces. Or on us. We're very tired of washing our hands 30 times a day, too. I'm not exaggerating.

I've resigned myself to expecting the worst and preparing for it, but all one can do against the calicivirus is give the cats twice-daily doses of L-lysine to boost their immune systems, and pray. If they get sick again, we'll have to return to all the nursing chores we gladly gave up so recently: force-feeding, hydration, pain shots, nose drops, dosing with antibiotics, and running the vaporizer.

At least we're skilled at cat nursing now, but we really don't need any additional practice.

Yesterday, we walked to the North End, had a pizza at Regina's and shopped at Pace's, the Salumeria, and the Haymarket. It was a nice, mild day for November, and it felt good to be out of the apartment and not medicating some cat or running the vacuum cleaner. It felt good to breathe clean air, untainted by lime sulfur, which irritates my nose and makes me sneeze.

It felt too good, in fact, because now we've got two hoarse cats. I'm beginning to suspect that we aren't supposed to have any fun. I think the gods are punishing us for something. I wish I knew what.

Mellow Yellow

2009-11-21T10:22:00.001-05:00

The aftermath of yesterday's lime-sulfur dip-a-thon wasn't as bad as I feared. We didn't asphyxiate in the car while bringing them home, in their four identical, collapsible carriers. The groomer reported that everyone was polite and well-behaved, although.... "What?! Tell me!" I demanded. "Snalbert, um, had an awful lot to say," she replied. "He talked the whole time. He's very loud." This I knew. He would think nothing of speaking his mind for two hours while dripping with lime sulfur. He drove us nuts with his complaints the second we put him in his carrier and all the way to the groomer. He compensates for his limited vocabulary with extra volume.

When Wendy is unhappy, she curls up into a ball, like a snail. You can pick her up, hold her, or set her down at any angle and she stays rolled up. My husband has started referring to her as "the sausage," but I think she is more like a bracciole, the Italian stuffed beef roast that the butcher rolls into a string bag to keep the stuffing inside, but I digress. When Wendy is dipped, she becomes a ball and doesn't air dry as quickly as the others. This increases everyone's waiting time to go home, but there's nothing to be done.

When we walked into the vet hospital's reception area, the fruit-scented candles they are always burning did nothing to mask the powerful odor of rotten eggs. The groomer needed to prepare four gallons of solution, one for each cat; we were grossed out by just one cup of the stuff here at home.

This adventure cost us $160. Worth it, as long as the ringworm goes away for good.

They were very glad to come home, although Possum jumped right back into his carrier. (What else might you expect from a feral who was trapped twice before he was 10 weeks old? He likes to be trapped.)

Snicky and Snalbert look more bedraggled than the kittens, who have shorter fur. Snicky seems to smell the worst but that may be because she parks herself under our chins on the bed at night. Phew. I woke up in the middle of the night with a stuffed nose and have been itching and sneezing all morning. I suspect I'm allergic to the dip. Sudafed and Allegra.

The kittens do not look very yellow. Everyone feels dusty and weird, and our hands reek of gunpowder when we touch them. But that's the worst of it. We touch them anyway.

The groomer reported that Possum and Snalbert were the hardest to soak, because their coats are so thick. Snalbert, being a full-grown Persian, has a long coat that's thick enough for two cats. But I was surprised about Possum, who is just a little guy with only medium-length, silky fluff. Someone told me he looks like a Norwegian Forest Cat. They have long, shaggy coats and huge ruffs. Could be.

I calculate that we'll be having them dipped every Friday at least through Christmas and probably into January. It seems one can get used to anything, even the smell of rotten eggs and gunpowder.

A Journal of the Plague Year, 3

2009-11-20T12:26:00.005-05:00

Today, we're taking all four cats to the groomer for their lime-sulfur dips. They will come home reeking of gunpowder, or fireworks if you are of a more pacifistic persuasion. Their lovely white fur will be yellowed and they will feel dusty and dry. We have to put them through this every Friday for the next couple of months, and I feel terrible about it. But it's supposed to be the best thing for treating ringworm, along with their oral medication.

I held the little Possum today, enjoying his silken kitten coat, which may never be the same again. In two months, when we're hoping all this will be over, he should have the beginnings of his grown-up coat, which won't be so baby-fine and soft.

Wendy and Snicky survived one dipping already, so we know the smell dissipates, but the dip that remains of their coats isn't pleasant, and there's sure to be build-up if they're getting more every week.

I couldn't resist taking a few last photos of the kittens before they turn yellow and weird. Here's one....

Getting Into Med School!

2009-11-19T20:18:00.007-05:00

Through the summer and early fall, I helped the son of a former client with his medical school application essays. I hadn't done anything like this before, but because I'm a writer and editor with a persuasive, marketing bent, his mother thought I might be able to help M. out. He hadn't been accepted to any schools the previous year despite good grades and test scores, and pre-med experience. While many similar applicants are accepted right out of college, this fellow got only a couple of interviews and didn't handle them as well as he'd have liked.

M. and his parents chalked up his situation to not taking the applications seriously enough. So they asked me to meet with him. I liked M. on the spot: he's smart, charming, articulate, modest, thoughtful, and dedicated to his goal of becoming a doctor. (He's also movie-star cute, not that it matters.) Since graduation, he's been doing full-time research in a hospital lab and has published a few papers of the results. That would help him, too.

We began a long, late-night email correspondence. He'd send me essays and I'd mark them up, add comments, and send them back. The first essay med-school applicants have to submit is a personal statement, discussing their background and their interest in medicine. It gets sent from a central office to all the schools the applicants choose. If their statement is acceptable, those schools send a secondary application with more essays.

M's challenge, of course, was to write an essay that was informative, sincere, and — most important — interesting and original. Imagine all the admissions committees reading thousands of these things every year. How many of them say "I want to help people!" M. began his essay with a sort of free-verse listing of various medicine-related experiences he'd had throughout his life, from hearing one of his bones snap on a playing field to watching a patient receive a brain cancer diagnosis in an ER. It was catchy, dramatic, and unique. He got secondary applications from more than 20 schools. They each had two to six essay questions.

Applying to med school is not for the faint of heart or the disorganized.

M. is a good storyteller as well as a good writer. There were times when I'd rephrase a sentence or correct grammar, but I tried to be judicious so his essays still sounded like him, not me. There were a couple of rare times when I completely reworked an essay because he had all the ideas down on paper, but they needed reorganizing and polish. Instead of covering the file with MS Word "red ink" and "yellow stickies," I just edited it. I asked myself if this was going too far, but I decided it wasn't. I tried to never put words in his mouth; his essays were his thoughts, not mine — although I sometimes managed to persuade him to take my approach. And as I read more of his writing, and learned about his past, I was able to ask him the right questions and make suggestions that guided him well, I think.

It's not easy for most people to write about themselves, but that's what med school applications are about. There were times when M.'s essays seemed too modest and other times when they seemed almost bombastic or self-aggrandizing. My job was to temper both of those, gently. The more I learned about M., the more convinced I was that he'd be a fine doctor. Helping him get there was an inspiring goal. I felt lucky to have this opportunity to help him. (Yes, I was paid well, too.)

The best thing about this work was that all I really had to do was help M. write honestly and eloquently about himself. He had wonderful "material" to work with, and it was a pleasure to help him shape his essays to the point where they were winners because they presented his character, thoughts, and experiences clearly and truly.

Sometimes, my most important guidance was to help M. focus on addressing the actual essay questions. Often he'd get sidetracked, writing things he wanted them to know about him, but not providing the information they wanted. The questions lend themselves to that; and when you're suddenly in the habit of writing about yourself, it's easy to go off on tangents. He was asked, for example, to describe how he'd handled the most significant moral dilemma in his life — but one that didn't involve academic dishonesty. He sent me a gripping little tale about how he dealt with a competitive girl in his lab who'd deliberately ruined one of his experiments when he was elsewhere in the lab. It was terrific, but it was about academic dishonesty, so it couldn't be used.

Many schools ask similar questions, and the temptation is to recycle essays from one school to another. There were often times when portions of his "stories" could be repurposed for another essay, but we had to be careful to ensure that the new essay addressed every point the admissions committee was looking for.

The toughest essay questions were Duke's, which is said to be the best medical school in the country. Judging from the complex, thoughtful, psychologically revealing questions they ask of their applicants, it's clear that they are far more interested in really knowing their applicants than any other top school (and M. applied to them all). M. struggled for months over a couple of Duke essays, dropping them for awhile to work on those of other schools. In the end, he got an interview. Fingers crossed.

Harvard's application had two essays (4,000 characters max), and in M.'s case, we were stumped. For applicants in his situation — who had also applied the previous year, and did so shortly after graduation — the application is truly confusing. Here are the topics:

1. Briefly summarize your activities since your last application
2. Briefly summarize your activities since graduation.

What’s a candidate like M. supposed to do, since those time periods are identical in his case? Write the same essay twice? After mulling this over, I called Harvard's admissions office and spent 10 minutes explaining the problem to a dim but imperious assistant who eventually got it. She told me I should ask the director. So I called the director of Harvard Medical School's admissions team. Her response was a squeaky, surprised, “Oh!”

Harvard is getting 7,500 applications annually, and this is news? She told me that applicants like M. should complete just the “reapplication” essay. She also told me to keep it to 1,000 characters or so. She said, ”I don’t know who came up with that ‘4,000 characters’ business! Nobody here is going to read much past 1,000 characters.”

I was amazed. This is the toughest school to get into — they accept only 162 people per class and half are always minorities — and they don’t even bother reading to the end of the longers essays? I was appalled. I bet they throw all the applications down a flight of stairs and accept the ones that fly the farthest. I am much more impressed with Duke’s admissions team; they ask very insightful questions and I bet they even read the essays. The heck with Harvard!

M. has been keeping me posted as he gets interview invitations. He's received about seven so far, which is very good, and more may be coming. He's also been wait-listed for one of his preferred schools. But today he told me he was accepted to one of his top schools. I'm thrilled. We did it!

The Art of War

2009-11-19T11:34:00.006-05:00

One excellent reason to adopt two kittens together:

This reminds me of a Japanese netsuke toggle.

Note the ferocious red gleam in Possum's eye.

Wendy's extra-long tail gives her ballast as she vanquishes Possum.

A Little Good News

2009-11-18T14:04:00.001-05:00

Yesterday Snalbert remembered that he is a cat and began eating food from a bowl again. He appears to have fully recovered from the calicivirus that was plaguing him for a month. Last night, we didn't need to force-feed him, although we did a little of it anyway, just to make sure he got his lysine dose. It is supposed to protect him against viruses, so it's important.

His voice has also returned, and he is making up for all the time he didn't have it. He lectured me all day yesterday at high volume, and has been very chatty today, too. He joined us for dinner, practically jumping into my plate. I even sawing him eyeing my laptop last night, probably wondering what new updates he can install for me.

It's wonderful to watch him eat, and it's great to be able to stop jabbing that big needle into him for the subcutaneous hydration he'd been needing daily for a couple of weeks.

He doesn't know it yet, but his recovery also means he can have the stinky lime-sulfur dips everyone (except us humans) will be getting every Friday for the next month, or two, or three. Here's hoping the stress of it doesn't trigger another virus attack; it's essential to do this to rid them of ringworm spores, so we have no choice.

Mr Maquoddy, aka Possum, is also going to get his first dip on Friday. He is still taking an antibiotic, and has an occasional cough, but I think he's safely on the mend, too. Knowing him, he'll probably like his lime-sulfur spa treatment.

Possum

2009-11-18T11:29:00.002-05:00

Even with a big spot of ringworm on his nose, Possumus Passamaquoddy is the sweetest kitten ever. Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to photograph him with his spotty nose. This is a memory I don't want to capture for posterity. I plan to forget all this — but remember it just in time before I do anything foolhardly, years from now, like adopt another feral kitten.

Possy is a lap cat, meaning he chooses my lap and curls up, purring. He tries to crawl into my long sleeves, climbs up to rest his head on my shoulder, burrows into my elbow — he is as endearingly affectionate as a cat can be. He and Wendy also make trouble by ripping dust jackets off books and knocking over my last remaining plant, etc., but they are kittens and we don't really care if they wreck the place. It's their job, in fact.

Possum likes getting pills. He's nice about getting his Soft Paws glued on. He eats everything we put in front of him, and then some. He is interested in my cooking. He sits up and begs for cheese or deli turkey, and holds my hand with both little paws, so I won't take his treat away. He has bewitched our older cats. He is once again singing tender arias about food, now that he's over his virus. He spends 99.9% of his life in some adorable, photogenic pose. I'm madly in love with him, can't you tell? I can't wait to come home to him, Dementors be damned.

Here are a few photos of Possy from a couple of weeks ago. Surely you agree that he's worth all the fuss.

I'm crazy about Wendy, as well, but she still keeps her distance from us, and doesn't photograph so well with my zoom lens and flash. But she's gorgeous and funny, and we love her, too. We try to cuddle with her every day, and her purrs are surprisingly loud for such a tiny cat. She's letting us get closer now before she runs off. Winning over Wendy will be a triumph to anticipate for the future, but in the meantime, we've got Possy in our arms.

Mammogram News, Too Late for Me

2009-11-17T11:06:00.005-05:00

You may have seen the latest headlines in the mammogram controversy, which says that annual breast cancer screenings should begin at age 50, not 40 as previously recommended (perfect bad timing for me, darn it!)

I added the boldface for emphasis:

In Reversal, Panel Urges Mammograms at 50, Not 40

According to the story in the New York Times:

The new recommendations, which do not apply to a small group of women with unusual risk factors for breast cancer, reverse longstanding guidelines and are aimed at reducing harm from overtreatment, the group says. It also says women age 50 to 74 should have mammograms less frequently — every two years, rather than every year.... While many women do not think a screening test can be harmful, medical experts say the risks are real. A test can trigger unnecessary further tests, like biopsies, that can create extreme anxiety. And mammograms can find cancers that grow so slowly that they never would be noticed in a woman’s lifetime, resulting in unnecessary treatment.

Thanks, docs, for making me endure 10 years of annual and twice-annual screenings that left me bruised, sore, faint, and even bloody. If men needed annual mammograms, the equipment and techniques would have been refined by now to make them painless. For me, a mammogram is excruciating, unless I am in very capable hands. I've actually followed C., my favorite mammogram technician, from one hospital to another, even though that involves a complicated, multi-step process to transfer all my X-ray films and reports.

I once waited more than eight hours to have a mammogram with C., who is a part-time contractor who works only occasional shifts in several hospitals. I've spent hours, over the years, trying to track her down to schedule a mammogram with her via a confused, unwilling receptionist — because C, never causes any pain, and always manages to get very clear images in just the usual six or eight shots. I've sometimes had to endure more that 20 agonizing films with other technicians, which is probably also giving me a hazardous dose of radiation. It wasn't C.'s fault that I spent the entire day in the B-I mammogram clinic; she was scheduled to perform ultrasounds that day, and I had to wait for her shift to end.

As I sat in the waiting room, doing sudoku puzzles, reading, and shivering in my flimsy, faded hospital johnny, I had to periodically fight off the B-I's head mammogram technician, who is the worst I've ever had. She repeatedly tried to cajole, and then bully me into letting her do my mammogram. It was an exhausting day, but worth the time to finally see gentle, reassuring, skilled C. that evening.

I know exactly what the new recommendations refer to as "extreme anxiety." Waiting for any kind of medical test, and then the results, is my worst nightmare — except for actually getting bad news, of course. I don't have a tumor; I have clusters of microcalicifications, a relatively common issue that sometimes turns cancerous. It proved impossible to do a biopsy on them without surgery. But I was spared that: I was sent to the Faulkner Sagoff Breast Care Center, where I was first assigned to C. There, they do special "time-lapse" mammograms, which showed that the microcalcifications seem normal, sparing me from stitches and scars. No wonder I worship her.

Another marvelous thing about the Faulkner is that you get your mammogram report while you're still there. (There's nothing quite like hearing this on your voicemail when you come home at night, after offices are closed: "Hello, this is Beth Israel Radiology. We need to talk to you about your recent mammogram. Can you please call us at your earliest convenience?") I spent that night in shock, wandering the apartment saying, "Oh my god!" about a thousand times. Never again.

With microcalcifications, the standard practice is to "watch" them every six months with more mammography. So for a few years, I went been through weeks and months of continuous, life-ruining anxiety. When retests are scheduled every six months, that's not enough time for me to relax between them for more than a few weeks. Anxiety kept me up at night and greeted me every the morning. It ruined vacations. There was no escape; I didn't see the point of taking an anti-anxiety medication when it wasn't going to make the mammograms go away. When the Faulkner's radiologist told me I didn't need to come back there for a year, I was euphoric for about a month.

I hope these new recommendations spare thousands of 40-something women from similar anxiety and unnecessary testing. But a number of women won't be so lucky: their developing cancers are going to be missed until they are large enough to be palpable. (But the new recommendations no longer advocate month breast self-examinations, either. Go figure.)

In spite of everything I had to go through, I was unbelievably lucky: I didn't have cancer. That's all that mattered. But I can't help wishing that getting there hadn't been so hard.

When I go for my next mammogram in May (by the way, I've actually burned out on long-term dread about these now, and just get nervous a few weeks beforehand now), I wonder if they will tell me to come back in two years. Heck, I wonder if I should call them to reschedule for 2011 right now!

Garnet Hill Wins Me Over, and Over

2009-11-16T20:07:00.000-05:00

Back in the middle of August, I ordered a skirt and a raincoat from Garnet Hill. They're based in New Hampshire and carry chic but generally sensible clothing, shoes, sleepwear, and bedding. You won't find cage heels or anything else you'd find in a fashion magazine — which is a relief, if you ask me. Instead there are thoughtfully designed items you can imagine yourself wearing every day. They specialize in luxurious natural fibers in a range of colors, and simple styling.

The raincoat arrived in early September; the skirt arrived last week. I knew these items were backordered when I ordered them. But I'd been hunting for a simple coat like this for years:

I already own a raincoat with a belt, but I HATE belts. What was I thinking? Yes, it was black, sleek, and subtly sexy in a PI sort of way. But I can't stand having to tie and untie a belt all the time (say I'm shopping in a cold downpour and going in and out of several warm shops) and I hate having the damn belt trailing behind me untied even more. Worse, this particular belt is slippery, so several nice passersby have stopped me over the years and proudly handed me my belt, which landed on the sidewalk. I was always sorry to see it. If it wanted to escape, like that boa constrictor in the first Harry Potter film, that was fine by me. A good excuse for a new coat.

My new "Travel Coat" has a fitted shape. NO belt. (It's strange how 9 out of 10 raincoats are belted trenches or totally shapeless.) It's waterproof, lined but not bulky, and it squashes up into a travel pouch, which would fit into my Longchamp bag if I bothered to bring it. I can just roll up the coat and stuff it in the bag instead. The collar conceals a hood. It's 3/4-length so I won't get drenched above the knee. (It's also strange how short many raincoats are — and what is the point of the ones with 3/4-length sleeves? What's next, a sleeveless raincoat?) I can tuck it in a small suitcase or use it as a pillow on a plane. It meets every requirement. I am a satisfied customer. In fact, I'm thrilled.

I ordered the skirt because they were offering 20% off purchases of $100 or more, and the coat was a bit less than that. Called the "Flamenco Skirt," it's made of gray cotton knit that falls in a half-dozen ruffles to about the knee. I like quirky skirts; with a simple tee or a turtleneck, they give me a semblance of style. But this one does nothing for me. It's clingy and quickly turns into a wrinkly mess. It's also too big, so it looks frumpy. It's going back. Win some, lose some. I already have a quirky gray skirt, anyway, and one is all I need.

At Garnet Hill, you get free shipping (to and fro) if you exchange an item for something else. I have my eye on one of their reasonably priced, lightweight cotton turtlenecks in fine gray and black stripes, which might look good under a cardigan with jeans or a quirky skirt. They also sell cashmere socks, which I like wear around the house instead of slippers in winter. (I hate slippers almost as much as belts.)

I planned to exchange the skirt today but housecleaning intervened with the trip to the PO; instead, I washed a quilt at the laundromat down the street because it's too bulky for my machine. When I picked up the mail, I found a card from Garnet Hill, entitled, "Good Things Come to Those Who Wait," with an apology for the delay in shipping the skirt. They included a $20 coupon that's good on any purchase until Christmas.

Consider me an even more satisfied customer, who will definitely shop at Garnet Hill again soon. I covet their $200 riding boots, which would be ideal for stomping around the neighborhood, but I can't afford to splurge right now. (The cat plague is costing us a small fortune every week and it will get more expensive later.) But if I can save $20 on that turtleneck or some socks, I'll be a happy shopper indeed.

What Would Martha Do?

2009-11-15T09:13:00.002-05:00

Thanks to yesterday's downpour, we never left the apartment. What an excellent, soaking, dreary November day! I really enjoy bad weather when I can stay indoors and make decadent grilled cheese sandwiches (not the bogus kind, for a change).

It was a perfect day for napping, medicating felines, and going through stacks of magazines. Eliminating excess stuff is part of my new housecleaning routine, and I will be glad to stop wiping down my overloaded magazine basket, topped with a slippery stack of mostly unread "Martha Stewart Living, " "Real Simple," and "O." (I also get "The New Yorker," which accumulates by itself on the coffee table. And because they are cheap, I subscribe to "Elle" and "Marie Claire," which I usually toss the same month they arrive. I'm not renewing those; I've seen enough slick spreads of trendy clothing and weird shoes that cost 20 times more than I'd ever spend to last me a lifetime. I'm either getting older, smarter, more jaded, or all three. I hope it's the latter.)

Yesterday I started on a stack of "Marthas" because they seemed to be the most irrelevant in terms of my life these days. I've been a fan of Martha since the '80s, when she was just creating cookbooks. My introduction was her Pies and Tarts book, still my go-to source on those rare occasions when I'm in the mood to make pastry crust (thanks to Martha, I will never use store-bought). Nearly 25 years later, the book doesn't seem dated; it's still beautiful, too. When I page through it, I see just how pure and unchanging Martha's message (or her "brand") has remained all these years.

This book not only taught me to make piecrust, it inspired me to collect antique silver and china — items from Martha's own collections are used in many of the photos. I sometimes think that my 19th-century Whiting and Gorham collections are the wisest investment I've made. I began by buying one fork or spoon at a time, at antique shows. When eBay came along, I went a little crazy for a couple of years. But I have no regrets.

From Martha's books and magazines, I've learned plenty over the years about cooking, housekeeping, collecting, painting (blue ceilings!), and decorating. I don't watch Martha's TV shows but I've seen a couple of segments at the gym or in a waiting room, and I'm not sure if I like that big-sister lecturing tone she uses whenever she's describing how to do something. Still I usually find something to learn or enjoy in every issue of "Living;" I tear out the articles I want to keep and stuff them into a huge folder with the plan to organize them in binders someday.

But, yesterday, the thought of constructing an elaborate meringue dessert, decorating my lampshades, or cutting out little butterflies to découpage on blown-out Easter eggs was silly enough to cheer me up. I'd almost rather Swiffer my walls than braise a pork roast with all those ingredients and steps. With my furniture covered in ratty old sheets and the rooms bare of carpets, curtains, pillows, and throws, this is no longer a Martha-style apartment. And I have a cheap polyester fleece blanket on our bed instead of the luxurious European-white-goose-down baffled comforter she would have recommended. And we miss it. We're slumming in Martha land nowadays.

As I read, Possum napped next to me on the couch. When he woke up, he eyed the magazines suspiciously; I guess he'd rather I used my reading time for more serious, improving literature. But then he curled up on my lap, gazed adoringly into my eyes, and purred away. Reading anything with a cat on your lap is improving.

I began to wonder how Martha would handle an outbreak of ringworm at her estate in Bedford Hills. I've seen her place because our friend K. lives down the road. She has several longhaired, purebred cats, as well as dogs and horses. Ringworm is a recurring problem in many professional catteries; horses can get it, too. Imagine paying thousands of dollars for your ringwormy, pedigreed kitten or colt. At least I got mine on sale for $25.

It seems to me that Martha's first step for treating ringworm would be to set fire to the house. Her house is too big to clean from stem to stern every day the way you're supposed to, and she has a lot of outbuildings, too. Arson is an extreme step, but it would certainly kill all the ringworm, and then you could stop cleaning and focus your energy on treating the cats. Medically, I'm sure she'd follow her vet's advice and also try to add some holistic supplements, as I keep trying to do, to counteract the toxic medicines and dips. She'd probably also burn woodsy-scented candles to mask the smell of gunpowder, which is how the cats smell after they get their lime-sulfur dips.

Burning down the house really does seem like a smart idea. While Martha would have the resources to start again from scratch, I can imagine the six of us moving to a well-insulated tent or trailer down by the Charles, which I could easily hose down daily with river water — it probably has enough pollutants to be antifungal. We could get fresh, free blankets from Pine Street Inn every week, so I could burn the old ones, too. And we'd eat a lot more takeout. The cats' litter box would be the great outdoors. What more would we need? I'm really starting to like this plan.