Transitions

I broke off a relationship recently.

Actually, "relationship" isn't really the best word for it. For the longest time, although the young woman involved knew it was me every time I called, I didn't know her name for months. I just called her up on Monday nights to let her know I was coming, she did what I needed her to do and I left.

My wife knew about the whole thing, and as many of these things do, the whole thing started because of being wronged by another woman ... in this case, the one who gave me pizza order to someone else.

What ... you thought I was talking about something other than the girl at the local pizza parlor? When her partner messed up my order, she kind of gave my wife and me a "Yeah, I'm with stupid" look, and we got a good laugh out of it eventually.

I ended things at the pizza place because my wife and I moved out of the area. When you live somewhere for eight years, like we did before moving, you develop habits and routines that you don't realize you have to change until the time comes.

Not only do we need to find a new pizza place (we tried our first one in our new home the other night; it's a solid contender), we need to find other local restaurants, figure out where to go grocery shopping, find a new dentist (which stinks in this case, because the dentist we were going to is one of the few I've ever liked), get a new vet for the cat and a whole bunch of other things.

We got the cable and Internet set up, and I made the arrangements for garbage pickup. I can also report that junk mail has already found us.

And, oh yeah, we need to figure out where everything is.

* * * * *

I spent most of my moving day ... at my old house.

We were closing on our old house and closing on our new one the same day, shuttling between offices while dealing with the moving crew our agent helped us pull together at the last minute when our orignal mover no-showed. Our new mover had to make two trips, and I got the duty of waiting back at the old house for the mover to come back.

I walked around the neighborhood a lot, charged my phone in the car and waited ... and waited. Finally, I knocked on the door and asked, "Do you mind if I come in for a while?"

He was OK with it, so I spent more than an hour in a living room that less than 24 hours earlier, had been my living room, watching movies on his DVD player and playing with his adorable dog. (Seriously, I'm not a big dog person, but I fell in love with his dog. He was so sweet.)

And it was weird as hell. Our buyer got his stuff moved in pretty quickly, so it didn't take long for him to make it his house, even before I hadn't gotten all my stuff moved off the lawn and out of the garage yet. At one point, I was stumbling around looking for a light switch or something, and actually had to remind myself, "This was just your house! This shouldn't be that hard to find!"

It wound up being a very long day, and the movers and I didn't get back to our new house until after midnight, meaning I didn't spend a second in my new house on my moving day.

* * * * *

We aren't done moving in yet, but we're getting there. Lots of stuff is in, and we're not far from the point where we'll be working on decorations.

It should be nice, and it'll be nice when all these transitions are done.

The years ... they go so quickly

When I was a kid, we used to get a newsletter from my school district every month. It had the standard things you might expect: lunch menus, news about the district, announcements and lots of other stuff you can probably find on a school website now.

One month, and I don't remember how old I was, I read an announcement that my high school was starting a hall of fame. In later years, they put plaques of the enshrinees on the walls at the entrance to the high school, although I don't know if it still exists and I haven't done nearly enough to gain admission even if it does.

But what I remember in particular was that to be eligible, you had to have graduated 25 years earlier. As I read that, I did some quick math, knowing that I would be 18 when I graduated, so even if I went on to a fabulous career doing something or other, I wouldn't even be eligible until I was 43.

At that point, I remember thinking two things:

1. 43 was old.

2. 43 was a long way away.

Today is my birthday. I'm 43. Next month, my high school's graduation will mark 25 years since I graduated.

Since then, I've gone to college and graduate school, gotten married, moved to Massachusetts and spent 17 years in my field.

And I'm not entirely sure where the time went.

Looking into Paul Blart's future

My wife and I were leaving the mall last night when we came across a sign promoting "Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2," which, if this plot summary on Wikipedia is true, may be just about the most-convoluted story I've ever seen.

But I'm still a little worried about our man Blart, because malls aren't what they used to be. You hardly ever hear of any new ones, and while plenty of them are plugging along, others are struggling to stay relevant.

So that got me to thinking, "What kinds of things could Paul Blart do if the mall security thing didn't work out, and how can they be turned into movies?" After all, Kevin James seems like a decent fellow, and why not let him have his own meal ticket?

I came up with a few ideas.

"Paul Blart: Strip Mall Cop" -- This one's the most obvious, since the strip mall has basically replaced the mall in a lot of places. And after all, someone has to keep order at Michaels, right?

"Paul Blart: Mixed-Use Development Cop" -- When business is slow, he can ride his Segway to where the housing was supposed to be built, but never was. Or, if he's at the development near where I live, once he makes sure all the kids are safely home, he can gaze upon the business that never showed up, at least until he runs out of space on the road that never got finished.

"Paul Blart: Campus Security" -- If the college is anything like where I went to grad school, that Segway will come in handy for seemingly doing nothing but handing out parking tickets all day.

"Paul Blart: Boston" -- The "Blart" franchise delves into the psychological thriller genre, as Paul has an interview for a new job in Boston after the mall closes, but is confronted by an potentially unbeatable foe ... bumper-to-bumper traffic for miles around with no apparent reason or end in sight.

"Paul Blart: Transit Police" -- In this sequel to "Paul Blart: Boston," the good news is that he got a job with the MBTA. The bad news is that he's in danger of being fired for not shepherding a train through seven feet of snow by himself, forcing him to find redemption.

"Paul Blart: London" -- After a half-hour of driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road gags, the entire United Kingdom holds its breath as Blart tries to foil a plot to kidnap the beautiful princess and her Manchester United and English team star husband known to his legions of fans as "Q," whose story dating back to his birth in United States to a rakish English father and glamorous American mother is known nearly as well as the princess'.

"Paul Blart: London 2" -- A Norwegian stalker is targeting an English actor of stage and screen, and Blart partners with an American superfan to foil her nefarious efforts. Featuring a cameo by Benedict Cumberbatch because ... Cumberbatch.

I was planning a Blart/"Ocean's 14" combo reboot, but "Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2" was set in Vegas and looks like a worse movie than "Ocean's 12" was. (Seriously, how could so many talented people make a sequel to a movie as good as "Ocean's 11" and screw it up that badly?)

However, my suggestions should be enough to make "Blart" the "Hunger Games" franchise for the food-court set. Now as long as we never see any photos of Kevin James wearing nothing but a snake, everything will be fine.

I'm fine, but I really don't want to hear that word

I had a dentist appointment today, just a routine cleaning, although my dentist likes for me to come every three to four months because calcium builds quickly on my teeth.

Unlike my previous dentist, who not only inflicted a lot of pain, but seemed to like it, trips to my current dentist are usually pleasant. Everyone is very friendly, and they do their best to make it as painless as possible. Plus, when I've had problems, they've taken me right away and solved it quickly.

I even had a wisdom tooth removed without pain!

Today, the usual hygienist cleaned my teeth; I've gotten used to her calling me "my friend" (which she did on my first visit), or "honey," since I think she calls everyone one or both of those. We talked about her recent skiing-related injury, and how the main thing she was worried about when someone came to her aid at the bottom of the mountain was that he'd call her "ma'am."

After the X-rays and the cleaning, she said she wanted to look at my tongue, my lips and my cheeks. I  was pretty sure why, and sure enough, when she was done, she informed me that I was clear of oral cancer.

That's not a surprise, since I've never used tobacco in my life, but still ... she said cancer during my exam.

Cancer

Cancer killed my best friend. Cancer killed at least two of my cats. And now someone was checking me for cancer.

To be honest, I'm at the age where today shouldn't have been the first time I talked with someone about cancer, but I haven't been to a doctor for a few years. (I know, I know ...)

And even though I was fine, talking about it was a little unnerving.

Let's all celebrate the Golden Globes, shall we?

Tonight, the Hollywood Foreign Press Association will hand out its awards for excellence in television and movies during a little shindig called the Golden Globes.

Also, from what I understand, there will be drinking. And with drinking comes tomfoolery.

Sounds like a perfectly good excuse to have a little party of our own on this here blog, although it's a strictly BYOB affair, and as always, if you come to my metaphorical house, don't pee in my metaphorical pool. (Also, if you come to my real house without permission, I will call the cops.)

There are a few things I'm hoping for this year. Of course, I want things I've seen and people I like to win awards and those I don't to not win. But I also would love, just once, for one of the hosts during the exercise in killing brain cells known as the red carpet show to ask an interviewee, "Did you dress yourself in the dark?" or "Were you on crack when you picked that out?" or "Where is that slow boat I assume you put your stylist on headed?"

I also hope, that in this year of all years, especially in this week of all weeks, the rich and famous who generally spend their lives being told by everyone they meet how wonderful they are will understand that it's not the end of the world if they're the butt of a few jokes.

I'll probably open the chat sometime between 6 and 6:30 EST, and although familial obligations will probably take me away between 7 and 8, feel free to sign in with any social media account and get the party going in my stead.

So tell your friends. The party is open to all who want to share some awards-show laughs.

Farewell to the Big Dude

Silly, in one of his favorite spots, on his futon.

My wife and I both knew it was going to end this way, ever since we met with the oncologist.

He told us that treating cancer in cats isn't the same as in humans, explaining that one of the reasons why people get so sick during chemo is that the treatment is intended to kill the cancer. It's milder for cats, but that's because the intent is only to hold the tumor back as much as possible. 

In the most-aggressive treatment, which is surgery and chemo -- which Silly couldn't have because the doctor also thought he saw cancer in his lung along with his pancreas, so it was only going to be chemo -- he said maybe you get a year.

We got 11 months ... 11 mostly great months.

* * * * *

Between the two of us, my wife and I had three cats when we moved in together 13 years ago. She had Silly and Skippy, and I had Scrapper. (Even though it was unintentional, we kept the naming tradition going with our little one, Sasha.)

Of the three, Silly was by far the most laid-back, which came in handy when he was diagnosed with diabetes more than 10 years ago. It meant he required two shots daily, and he never gave us a problem. When it was time for a shot, he'd let us grab the skin on the back of his neck, lift it up and give him his insulin. Then he would go back to whatever he was doing. We're not sure it would have been nearly as easy with Skippy or Scrapper.

Silly was just relaxed about everything. He was never in a hurry, and just liked to hang out in his favorite spots: the futon in our TV room (pictured above, and behind me as I type this), one of the beds upstairs, the cat bed in the window is Sasha wasn't too pesky, out on the deck in the nice weather and the middle cushion of our couch.

But in the last months of his life, Silly added one more spot ... my lap.

Silly always liked people once he got used to them (he would hide if strangers or my brother's dog would come), but he was never big on being held for very long, and while he spent hours sitting next to me on the couch on his middle cushion, he never liked to sit with me until a few months ago. All of a sudden, he couldn't get enough of my lap, to the point where sometimes he'd stand with his paws on my stomach and climb my chest to get face-to-face.

Maybe he was trying to tell me something, trying to get as close a possible before he was gone.

* * * * *

Like the diabetes, not to mention the growth on his liver that caused us to get him checked for cancer in the first place, Silly handled cancer like a champ. Because of the diabetes, we and our oncologist (who was fantastic, by the way) had to be very careful about making sure he ate, and at one point he did go into shock so badly that they kept him overnight in the hospital as a precaution. 

But other than that, he did great, so much so that after a couple months, his treatments were cut from once every three weeks to once every four. The cancer wasn't spreading, his weight was fairly stable, he was eating reasonably well (although he would have stretches where he decided he didn't like his food anymore and we had to change) and while he was a bit slower, he got around well enough to where he wanted to go.

I generally get up in the morning before my wife, especially during the week, and each day, the first thing I would do was look for Silly. I'd usually find him downstairs in one of his favorite spots, and he'd start coming around when he knew it was time to be fed. After mostly alternating before, Sasha took on more of the nagging us to wake us up on the weekend duty, but every now and then he'd wander upstairs to get in one of our faces.

* * * * *

The beginning of the end for Skippy came in January 2013 (Scrapper had died a few years before), when he fell down the stairs. I saw him tumble down the steps, and it was terrifying. He didn't last much longer after that, dying a couple days later.

I heard Silly land awkwardly after he jumped off our bed on one of his rare forays upstairs a few weeks ago, but he got away before I could grab him, and the next thing I heard was the frightening sound of him bouncing down the stairs.

When I got to the bottom of the steps, he was crying, his legs were splayed out underneath him and he had trouble standing up. He eventually settled down, and then it happened again -- the same tumble down the stairs, the same crying.

We brought one of our litter boxes up from the basement and shut the basement door -- one of the things that slowed his fall down the stairs was the wall and rail on one side, which didn't exist going to the basement, and the drop was to a concrete floor -- and I slept downstairs with him for a couple nights just to keep tabs on him.

The first night, he slept with me all night. The second, he kept trying to get away from me and walk around.

Because, you see, Silly was going to give us one last rally.

* * * * *

One thing I hope to never have to do is have a pet put to sleep. So far, it hasn't happened. Scrapper died on our deck after my wife discovered her cowering in the basement, and Skippy died while I held him to my chest in bed.

My brother had to do it with his dog, and my in-laws with one of their cats earlier, and I know it happens all the time, but I would feel incredibly guilty, like I had given up. 

Instead, I hope for the miracle, and after Silly fell down the stairs, it looked like he was going to give us one. He was slower than ever, but legs that had been unsteady were firmly back underneath him. He wasn't eating a lot, to the point where we stopped giving him shots, but he would eat. He was even back to sitting on my lap.

We knew better than to get our hopes up too much, but maybe the falling was a temporary problem and that he wasn't anywhere near done yet.

Then, a few Sunday mornings ago, my wife and I were in the living room, reading the paper, when we heard a thump, followed by a cry. We went into the TV room, and there was Silly on the floor. He had tried to get down from the futon and landed badly. We tried to put him on his feet, but he couldn't stay upright.

We brought him out to the living room, and eventually after we laid him down on the ottoman, the crying got so bad that we wondered how long we should wait before we took him to the hospital to ... you know ...

But whatever pain he was in, it only last for about another hour. My wife and I sat with him, and I repeated what I told him when we first heard his diagnosis, "Fight as hard as you can't, but when you can't fight any more, it's OK to stop."

And so, at age 17, he finally stopped.

He's with his brother and sister now, under a tree in our yard.

RIP, Silly. We miss you tons.

When did I enter 2014?

A co-worker made a request yesterday that left me so flummoxed, I actually inquired why she would do such a thing.

She asked for my phone number.

I don't mind using the phone -- unlike my wife, who prefers to do just about anything else -- but I don't actually do it all that often. Most of my phone calls consist of these four activities:

1. Talking to my parents and grandmother Sunday nights.

2. Calling for pizza Tuesday nights.

3. Yelling at customer service reps.

4. Taking calls from the guys who work for me when I work at home.

And ever since my wife and I ditched our land lines last year in favor of iPhones (I previously had a flip-phone that I pretty much only used for emergencies, but the phone number is the same), not that many people even have my number, which is awesome since I rarely get interrupted at dinner.

However, that's not the reason her request threw me off, to the point where I was worried she was asking because she had some horrible news about work that she could only share on the phone.

It was because there are so many other ways she could reach me. We're friends on Facebook and follow each other on Twitter; in fact, she follows me on personal and work accounts. Why did she need my phone? It seemed so, dare I say ... retro.

As it turned out, she was on a Facebook group message I sent out about work to some of my co-workers earlier in the day, but she doesn't like those, so she wanted, not to talk to me, but to text me about it ... another relatively modern contrivance (at least by my standards) that I never did until I got the new phone and my wife showed me how easy it was.

Instead, she sent me an individual message on Facebook ...

... and I did eventually give her my number.