So How Was YOUR Weekend?

Friday

Cristina left for Tucson last Thursday night. Her JSJ training started Friday morning. The morning went well for me. Sofia rode to school with Peter, and I got the other two to DMS on time (early, actually). Alex helped set the chairs up in Bella’s classroom. Valerie showed up (she would be Cristina’s replacement) and I headed to work.

I had an ambitious plan for the afternoon. Our cats and dog are overdue for their shots, but I’m trying to save as much money as possible. Our vet charges about $300 for all the shots needed for all three animals. A low-cost vaccine clinic at the Humane Society will cost $119 for the same shots. Here’s the catch: they only have the low-cost shot clinics on Fridays, and they close at 5. And it’s walk-in only. And the clinic is 12 miles away (through the heart of the city). But I decided to try it.

Just to save myself a potentially-futile trip, I called the Humane Society to get a feel for my chances of getting there in time for shots if I didn’t make it until, say, 4:30. I only got a recording, saying they were so busy on Fridays that I needed to call back on Tuesday. Not a good sign, but I decided to chance it.

It went off like clockwork. 2:47: the final bell rang. 3:00: I was home, putting the cats in their carriers and the leash on the dog. 3:15: I arrived at DMS to get Alex and Bella (who were surprised to find all 3 of our animals in the car). 3:47: We arrived at ASA to get Sofia, who would be done at 4. I considered checking her out early, but I figured it would take just as long to go through that process as it would to just wait for her. And I was right. She came out at 3:55.

I had googled and printed directions to the clinic from ASA (like clockwork, I tell you) since Cristina had the GPS with her. We hit some nasty rush hour traffic, but I evaded it as best I could and we got to the clinic at 4:20. Not bad at all.

As I retrieved the cat carriers from the back of the car, I smelled poop. I opened each box to see who did it. It was Ling Ling. The poor thing had pooped in her carrier. I’m not sure if it was nerves, or if she’d needed to go before I put her in the box. It didn’t matter. I now had a cat with poop on her fur.

This created a new dilemma, of course. How do you clean a cat covered with poop? We’ve never had our cats bathed since we’ve had them. Cats are, for the most part, self-cleaning. But I’ll be hanged if I’m going to have a poopy cat running around our house, lying on our couch, sleeping on our bed. They clean themselves, but they don’t clean themselves that well.

Not a big surprise, but we were too late for shots. The lady said they stopped taking animals at 2 pm. Nice. Why couldn’t they have said that on the recording?

We loaded into the car and headed home. On the way, I used the "poor man’s iPhone." I called someone I knew would be in front of a computer to get a phone number.

“Hey, Dom. You in front of a computer?”
“Yes I am. What’s up?”
“I need the number for PetSmart on Baseline and 24th Street.”

According to the grooming lady at PetSmart on Baseline and 24th, that store does not bathe cats. The number one animal people would take somewhere to get bathed instead of doing it themselves, and they don’t do it. The PetSmart in Tempe bathes cats, she said, but by appointment only. I turned off the phone and prepped the kids: we would be bathing a cat ourselves when we got home.

I quickly laid out the battle plan. I would be in charge of holding Ling Ling’s legs. That would be my only job, but a vital one. Sofia was in charge of the water. And Alex would be in charge of shampoo and fur lathering. Bella would be in charge of staying out of the way, and maybe handing us the towel.

I carried Ling Ling in her carrier right up into the bathroom and shut the door. It was a tight fit in there with all 4 of us. We got the water to an adequate temperature. I opened the box and gripped Ling Ling’s legs as tight as I thought I could without breaking them. As I picked her up and moved her into the tub, however, she summoned that magic cat superpower that allows cats to overcome the grip of a grown man. She got a front leg free almost immediately. The next 5 seconds were a blur, but I remember getting her legs wrangled back in before she broke free again. The next time I tried to bring in her front legs I fumbled a bit and she sunk her claws into my forearm. This was not just a scratch, this was full-on penetration, like a meat hook thwacked into a side of beef. I’m not ashamed to admit that I screamed, a full-throated scream that lasted several seconds before I was able to manually pry her claws out of my arm. Bella started crying.

And then, her superpower expended, she resigned herself to her fate. It was amazing. As blood trickled from my arm, I pinned her down to the bottom of the tub. I no longer had her arms, just hands on her back, holding her down firmly. She had no more fight in her. Sofia and Alex just stared. Stunned.

I snapped Sofia into action by telling her to aim the water instead of just letting it spray willy-nilly. Alex struggled with the shampoo cap but finally got some shampoo on her back and worked it into a lather. We rinsed her well and wrapped a towel around her. She was perturbed, but not too angry. The dark water and excessive hair left in the tub was strong evidence that she had been long overdue for a bath anyway. I pointed at Cash, who had wandered by to check on the commotion, and told him “you’re next.”

Ling Ling slinked off to lick her wet fur and nurse her pride. I looked at the clock. 5:30. We had probably just experienced enough excitement for the whole weekend, and it was only 5:30 on Friday. And we still had an hour before our dinner plans with Roben and Peter.

At 6:30 we arrived at the Hand house for a dinner and devotional, which went well. Back home, the two younger kids got to bed late, around 9. In fact, Bella fell asleep beside me while I talked to my mom on the phone.

I checked on Ling Ling to see if she harbored any resentment. She rubbed against me with affection. So we’re good.

Saturday

My ambitions continued. Sofia had a thing to go to at her school Saturday morning. ASA holds an annual orientation/open house kind of thing for prospective parents and students. Sofia was asked to speak as a student representative for the band program, as well as the academic department (golf clap for Sofie). Since the Phoenix Children’s Museum is just a mile or so from ASA, I decided I’d take Alex and Bella there while Sofia did her thing. We have annual passes. The last time we went, Alex took a friend. So this time it was Bella’s turn. Her friend Kassandra lives in Mesa, so we had to leave the house early enough to drive out to Mesa and pick up Kassandra and then get Sofia to ASA by 8:45. The Museum opened at 9. I managed to do all this and even squeezed a trip to Krispy Kreme in for good measure. The Krispy Kreme near ASA has 25 cent coffee. A brilliant ploy to lure you in and tempt you to buy their way-overpriced donuts, which I did.

At the entrance of the Museum, an employee told us that Saturday was a free day, sponsored by Shamrock Farms. Not a big deal, since we have passes, but it meant we would contend with larger-than-usual crowds.

Along with Shamrock’s mascot, Roxie the Cow, Elmo and Grover were on hand for pictures and hugs. Bonus.

We spent several hours at the museum, then headed over to Burton Barr library, where the kids looked at books. Kassandra didn’t remember ever being at that library before, so a ride on the glass elevators was required.

Sofia called and asked if she could go to a friend’s house (an old friend from DMS who is thinking about going to ASA next year). No longer waiting for Sofia, we drove to Marjon’s Ceramics to buy more clay for my ceramics class. It was past lunch time, so I stopped at a little diner called “Tony’s Original Hamburger Factory.” The burger Alex got was tasty, but I tried the homemade burrito (on the recommendation of a seasoned patron who saw me mulling over the massive menu board). The burrito was disappointing. Yes, it was a lot of food, but it reminded me of a tortilla filled with beef stew. I felt kind of gross afterward. The girls weren’t that hungry and shared some French fries.

From Tony’s Burgers to Kassandra’s house was a long distance, but almost all freeway, so we were there in about 20 minutes. After dropping her off, we went home. I left the two kids at home while I picked up Sofia. It was close to dinner time by then, and even though my burrito was still lingering, the kids were ready for something. I reheated some pizza from Thursday night and supplemented it with a few homemade pita pizzas.

After Alex and Bella were in bed, Sofia and I watched 5 handpicked episodes of The Twilight Zone. Even though I had shown her a few episodes before, I was hoping that this would be the exposure that would make her a true fan. She thought they were interesting, and a little creepy, but I don’t think she’s much of a fan. Oh well. I tried. Maybe they just need some time to simmer in her imagination.

Sunday

Compared to the previous 2 days, Sunday was boring. Slept in, made blueberry pancakes, then puttered about the house. I worked on making a DVD slideshow of our trip to the museum, mainly to gain some iPhoto and iDVD experience.

Sofia worked on homework while I took Alex and Bella shopping. We ate at Subway. At Costco I picked up hummus and falafel, so we had that for dinner. Cristina got home right after Alex and Bella went to bed.

I had bought a Boston butt several days ago and it needed to be used, so I found a recipe online for Southern-style pulled pork and got that going. It’ll take the bulk of the next 24 hours in the slow cooker, but at least Monday’s dinner is basically done. Disgusted with the limp, too-sweet stuff they call cole slaw in the grocery store, I made a big batch of homemade cole slaw to go with the barbecue. All we need now is some sweet tea and hush puppies.

Getting the pulled pork ready kept me up too late, and I didn’t hit the sack till after midnight. I knew I’d feel the effects of that Monday at work, which I did.

The Great Mystery that Binds Us

Guess what I figured out. Money is not the root of all evil. I think fear is. Fear of what? Fear of death? Fear of life? No, my friends. I’m speaking of something much more insidious. Fear of other opinions.

Differences in religious opinion, for example, have caused so much war, death, and misery throughout history. Faith is a funny thing. The existence of a human soul and the thing that happens to that soul after death…it can’t be proven, in the conventional sense. It’s all theoretical (at least until we die). Our beliefs about the soul are based on what we’ve been told by others (feel free to capitalize that word if you like) or on personal reflection. Or a combination of the two. We can have strong beliefs that what we have heard is true (that’s faith) but let’s be honest: none of us really knows. It’s as impossible to know for sure what happens when we die as it is for a fetus to know what awaits him/her after birth.

So here’s my point. Even though a vast majority of people on Earth are fairly confident that they know what happens after death, isn’t there enough of a mystery about the event to give us pause when we start to pass judgment on what someone else believes? To paraphrase Rodney King, can’t we all just accept our collective ignorance and get along?

I feel confident that what I’ve been taught in my religion is the way it’s going to be when I die. But the Jewish guy next to me on the bus feels the same way. And the Muslim African thousands of miles away is confident too. How can we all have a different-but-heartfelt belief about what happens after death? Who’s right? Or are we all wrong?

I’ve noticed in my own family how some branches of the family tree don’t even know each other well, largely due to discomfort with others’ beliefs. That’s crazy! How smug we are to think that we know, without a doubt, that someone else’s beliefs are wrong. Are we so insecure in our own beliefs that we keep ourselves distant from others (even blood relatives) who believe differently? Are we afraid their ideas will rub off on us? Is their kooky church-ness contagious? Will I get infected by their Baha’i-itis? What are we afraid of?

What courage, to go to a friend’s church with him one Sunday, not because you aim to spread your own beliefs, but as a way of honoring him and his attempts to be a better person. What courage, to give a visiting family member the opportunity to say a prayer in your home, not necessarily because you want to promote her faith, but because you want to celebrate the sincerity of her inner life. These kinds of gestures are not hard to do. I can’t imagine a single person refusing you if you asked to go to church with them. And would you like to say a prayer? is just seven little words that might open up a gigantic space of warmth and acceptance. But these are not trivial actions. This kind of behavior is not routine.

Perhaps, as Tom Cruise might say, I’m glib. I’m oversimplifying these serious issues. How can you invite, say, a heathen to say a prayer in your home when your own soul hangs in the balance of damnation or salvation? It all comes back to the mystery. If we accept the mystery--the truth that it’s impossible to know the truth right now--then inviting a "heathen" to pray is a wonderful idea.

And by the way, this sentiment applies to the atheists and agnostics, too. They like to think they’re different than most God-worshiping folk, but they’re not so different. They have a belief about what happens after death just like the devout Muslim, or the evangelical Christian, or the Buddhist does. Every person on earth, in fact, is united by one universal truth about what happens after death:

We won’t truly know until it happens.

The Meaningless Grammys

We love our awards in this country, don’t we?

From the “Best Penmenship in 2^nd grade” certificate (which I won, thank you very much) to the “Employee of the Month” parking space outside many office buildings, to our glorious Oscars. Ah, the Oscars. Good grief.

The Oscar ceremony is such an overblown, revered annual event that you’d think they were handing out something important, like Nobel Peace Prizes. (When was the last time you stayed up late watching the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony?)

And sometimes, in retrospect, we realize how meaningless these awards are. The esteemed Academy often drops the ball. Citizen Kane, widely regarded as one of the best movies of all time, lost the Best Picture Oscar (just the fact that I capitalized that galls me) to the melodramatic How Green was My Valley. Raging Bull lost to Ordinary People. And I know we all loved Forrest Gump, but was it really a better movie than The Shawshank Redemption and Pulp Fiction? And the list of oversights goes on and on.

Hindsight is 20/20. I know. But sometimes, let’s be honest, there are other forces at work. Big time awards mean big time money, which makes them political. Sometimes awards reflect the values of the ruling class. Sometimes they reflect the prevailing snobbery or self-righteousness. Sometimes they're given to make up for previous slights (Scorsese's The Departed Oscar... who knew there would be two awards for "make up" that year?)

And then there are the Grammys. If you thought the Oscars were bad…

You may or may not remember the brouhaha that resulted in 1989. Iron Maiden and Metallica both lost the Best Hard Rock/Metal Album award to…Jethro Tull. Jethro Tull? Okay, maybe you’re not convinced yet. I stumbled upon one recently that nearly took my breath away. Check this out:

1966. The Grammy for Best Contemporary Recording. The Beatles’s “Eleanor Rigby,” The Beach Boys’s “Good Vibrations” and the Mamas and the Papas’s “Monday Monday” all lost …to “Winchester Cathedral” by the New Vaudeville Band. Huh?!

Is it any wonder that some artists use their awards as bookends or sell them on eBay?

Woody Allen rarely attends the Oscar ceremony because he prefers to play his clarinet every Monday night at Manhattan's Carlyle Hotel. Woody's a man with his priorities straight.