That Damn Cat.
As I sit here counting the red, burny-feeling scratches and nicks all over my ankles and calves, I’m cursing that friggin cat. I don’t care how adorable he is or how loud he purrs. Until Joey grows out of the A.D.D. toddler on Red Bull-phase, he and I are going to have a typical big brother/little brother, love/hate relationship.
He bites my ankles and I hate him.
After my uncle’s interminable funeral on Friday, Mom and I spent our Saturday in Manhattan, or “The City” to those of us from the outer boroughs.
We first hit Port Authority to put my overbearing cousin Mary on a bus home. Since her mom died (Aunt Mary, or Big Mary to her Little Mary), Mary has apparently decided that my mother would now be her mother. This was made clear to me at the funeral Mass, when Mary pushed me into the pew first so she could insert herself between mom and me, and be the one to hand mom tissues when she cried and lay an occasional arm across her shoulders.
Poor Mary has no idea what she’s dealing with. Hell hath no fury as an only child scorned.
After we got rid of her, mom and I impulsively decided to drive down to SoHo to shop. She for furniture for her newly renovated bedrooms, me for pretty things. We strolled the cobblestoned streets, bought some art, lunched at Mercer Kitchen, and just marveled at the wonderful, one of a kind character of SoHo and its architecture.
Sunday we stayed closer to home. We drove down to another cobblestoned neighborhood, DUMBO, where I introduced mom to Brooklyn Bridge Park and Empire-Fulton Ferry State Park, located right on the East River between to the two bridges. She had never seen the parks, so her excitement at discovering them was cute. We strolled and explored, and got misted by one of Olafur Eliasson’s Waterfalls. At one point, we just sat down on a bench to take it all in. We admired the scenery and breathtaking views. We watched kids play on the rocky beach and young hipster couples lounging in the grass with The New York Times. Most importantly, mom and I just... breathed.
For the first time since 2001, my mother had nothing at all on her plate. She had nothing to worry about or do, no one to look after, no medications to purchase, no nursing homes to visit, no doctors to speak with. After seven years and seven deaths, mom finally had time to herself, to do what she wanted, to enjoy life.
It’s about fucking time.
He bites my ankles and I hate him.
After my uncle’s interminable funeral on Friday, Mom and I spent our Saturday in Manhattan, or “The City” to those of us from the outer boroughs.
We first hit Port Authority to put my overbearing cousin Mary on a bus home. Since her mom died (Aunt Mary, or Big Mary to her Little Mary), Mary has apparently decided that my mother would now be her mother. This was made clear to me at the funeral Mass, when Mary pushed me into the pew first so she could insert herself between mom and me, and be the one to hand mom tissues when she cried and lay an occasional arm across her shoulders.
Poor Mary has no idea what she’s dealing with. Hell hath no fury as an only child scorned.
After we got rid of her, mom and I impulsively decided to drive down to SoHo to shop. She for furniture for her newly renovated bedrooms, me for pretty things. We strolled the cobblestoned streets, bought some art, lunched at Mercer Kitchen, and just marveled at the wonderful, one of a kind character of SoHo and its architecture.
Sunday we stayed closer to home. We drove down to another cobblestoned neighborhood, DUMBO, where I introduced mom to Brooklyn Bridge Park and Empire-Fulton Ferry State Park, located right on the East River between to the two bridges. She had never seen the parks, so her excitement at discovering them was cute. We strolled and explored, and got misted by one of Olafur Eliasson’s Waterfalls. At one point, we just sat down on a bench to take it all in. We admired the scenery and breathtaking views. We watched kids play on the rocky beach and young hipster couples lounging in the grass with The New York Times. Most importantly, mom and I just... breathed.
For the first time since 2001, my mother had nothing at all on her plate. She had nothing to worry about or do, no one to look after, no medications to purchase, no nursing homes to visit, no doctors to speak with. After seven years and seven deaths, mom finally had time to herself, to do what she wanted, to enjoy life.
It’s about fucking time.