Story Time With Heather Pasley

“I have never done this before in my life.”

I told myself I wasn’t going to say that.  I sure as hell wasn’t going to lead with it…

The darkness had clearly thrown me. The audience was lost in the black.  A sharp light pointed down at me, causing me to pace restlessly back and forth in front of the iconic brick wall backdrop.  I was trying frantically to connect emotionally with the shadow people. First through a confession or two then with impressions, all the while clutching the mic stand like a safety rail. I thought it might stabilize my nerves and keep me funny till it was safe to depart the stage, but I couldn’t seem to stop manhandling it.  I have held a mic in my hand a thousand times for more musical reasons and never been so attached to the stand itself.

I quickly introduced my go to characters Texas Dance Mom , Ukraine Mom and Delores before being gently nudged off stage by a little musical number they use if you are oblivious to the giant red light, “time is up” signal. I guess I was too busy feeling up the microphone stand to notice.

I have been told there was much laughter, but I could hardly hear it over my howling insecurity. All I could do in the aftermath, was pick myself apart.

Why did I declare myself a novice? Why was I so nervously mobile? Why did I treat the mic stand like a Latin dance partner?  Why did I use the pork chops at a bar mitzvah joke? It’s not good and it’s not even mine.

The head of Four Square Youth Ministry  in the 90’s was a man with a penchant for the theatrical with a scant cache of go to jokes.  My favorite being the one he used whenever he wasn’t getting laughs from the Christian teens he wanted to win over, which was often…

“Well, that went over like pork chops at a Bar Mitzva!” The youth leaders would howl in an effort to  declare their knowledge of contemporary Jewish customs.  The kids never really got it.

It is a solid joke though when used correctly.  Sort of like the Crane.

I did not use it correctly. I used it like a place holder.  A go to that gave me time to think.  It was more like when Daniel Larusso used the crane a second time.  It might work in a regional tournament against Johnny but don’t even think about it if you are fighting someone protecting their honor in Okinawa.

In spite of my uninteresting opening line, the unintended youth pastor plagiarism, the inappropriate touching of the mic stand, the time management problem, and the part where I had too many glasses of wine at the end of the night and ended up crying in the car , I think I would still call it a success. I made some people laugh, mostly family, and I didn’t die trying.  Guess I can knock that one off the bucket list.

Next Challenge:  Date night with Sparky

Fun Fact:  I think I enjoy improv more than  stand up.  It was much lonelier than I thought it would be up there.  Any ideas on where I can test my improv chops?

Question of the Day?  What is something you have always wanted to try? No seriously, I want to know! Tell me all about it.

“I found this on the floor by my bed.”

Chaylee came shuffling down the stairs in her absurd, over sized pajamas carrying a piece of notebook paper with the word SKOR scribbled across the top and a mysterious swirly object in the center. We examined the enigmatic mound and placed our bets on what it might be.  I settled on semi dried acrylic paint of the alizarin crimson variety.  To prove my theory, I gave it a gentle poke.

“That’s not paint!  That’s not paint!”

A trickle of blood poured from the base of the innard.  Whatever organ it was, it was fresh, warm, and licked clean.

I realize that cats are hunters, but this was some next level Dexter nonsense. Not only did Bill drag the carcass of a freshly slain rabbit across the sleeping bags of slumbering children, leaving tufts of fur and bunny blood on their innocent little sleeping bags, but he then set up a coroner station by the shoe bin. I am surprised we didn’t find fava beans and a nice chianti in the toy kitchen.

Bunny, bird and rodent death had become commonplace. Especially throughout the lower levels of the house. So common, in fact, that over time all four of our children had slowly migrated upstairs to avoid accidentally stepping on bird feathers or fur balls with bare feet in the morning.  That’s what made this gruesome discover even more depressing. It was gutting to see the last bastion of bedtime peace be turned into a bunny morgue. Where on earth would the kids sleep? Would their cousins ever want to stay the night again? It was as if Bill was claiming more and more land and raising a creepy fur pelt flag over each room he deemed his.

This was not the first time I had witnessed a hostile take over of humans by an animal.

It was 1985. We were headed to Mount Rainier with Uncle Kenny and his dog, Sport. Mom and I sat in the back of the sedan with his ill behaved black lab, taking in the Bob Ross painting that had come to life outside our windows. Stevie Wonder serenaded us, via cassette tape and all seemed right in the world.  I think we would have figured out alternative travel arrangements though, if we knew Sport was prone to nausea.

We were about a half an hour into our ascent up The Mountain toward Paradise  when Sport begin to slowly thrust his head back and forth rhythmically, as if he were really, really enjoying the music. He wasn’t. Sport was not feeling  well.  A gutteral utterance was followed by a deluge of dog vomit.  Fumes filled the sedan as his quasi digested Alpo sunk into the carpet.  We rolled the windows down and found a place to pull off and problem solve.  We did away with as much of the regurgitated dog food as we could with Sport’s help. Apparently, dogs are down with with snacking on their own vomit.  Who knew?  His appetite was promising, and we did not want to disappoint the rest of the familial caravan, who were farther up the road, so we continued our journey–windows down.

We turned Stevie back on. The sun was shining. Sport seemed okay.

Until he wasn’t.

Once again, he moved his head back and forth like the Jackson 5. This time I knew he wasn’t just into music. The volume of vomit was extraordinary.  It was as if he had consumed an additional meal without our knowledge during the previous pull over. His aim seemed strategic–blanketing the swatch of carpet adjacent to his previous purging. Not very thoughtful Sport. Not very thoughtful.

We looked for a place to pull off, but without a shoulder, our options were limited. It felt like a sick joke, especially when he threw up again on the last stretch of clean carpet in the back seat and then again on the seat above it.

The stench in the car was no longer tenable. Kenny pulled over at a convenience store and threw up in a rusted garbage can outside the very rural mini mart. My mother,who was born with a overly sympathetic gag reflex, dry heaved vociferously along side him.  The hills were alive with the sound of vomit…I looked on with a churning stomach and visible concern.  The adults no longer seemed in control of the situation.

Once the laughter and intermittent purging died down, we bought a green tree car freshener and returned to the contaminated sedan.  We would clean up the car as much as humanly possible and hunker down on the only seat left in car void of vomit. We were gonna get to Paradise to meet up with the family if we had to go through hell to do it.

We arrived over an hour late, looking shattered and smelling like sick dog. Sport, however was suddenly cured. He frolicked through the wild flowers like a wayward teenager on Spring Break, looking surprising agile and alive after a bender.

Although the K-9 used biological warfare and the feline went the traditional route, utilizing senseless violence, both taught me a valuable lesson. Animals are capable of corralling humans for their own nefarious purposes. You’ve been warned.

Fun Facts: A year after Bill’s passing we discovered an abandoned kitten in some shrubs across the street. Her name is Meridah the Brave.  She is kind.  We got her a buddy named Leonard.  He is weird and orange and uncomfortably into humans. We think he might be one. RIP Bill.

An additional fun fact: This is my last cat blog. I felt I owed it to Bill to complete the blog trilogy about his life. I feel  bad that I ended it with a fascist feline overtone, but to be honest….he deserves it.

Challenge of the Day: I don’t want to be a mom blogger. I don’t want to be a cat blogger. I don’t want to be a mom with two cats blogger. I used to only write about moments of humiliation or awkward struggle.  So, perhaps I should seek out more of those.  If you think of a challenge you would like me to take on, please let me know.

Examples:

Go out to dinner as Sparky, the Marvista Mascot.  Yes, it’s true. I am the Orca. I mascot on the side as a service to my children.

Try out for the Seagals as Tonya, my Texas Dance Mom alter ego.

Your turn_______________________________________

I am over it.

I am.

We are in the middle of a hard core renovation and the idea of negotiating dead vermin, night stalking and leg wounds might lead to bad things happening to cats and kids. I am at capacity. Capable of little more than what is currently required of me. But, I keep my promises, and I promised myself and others that I would tell Bill’s story.

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She approached me while I was juggling a baby and a toddler in the shallow end of the pool and fielding “Mom watch me!” requests from multiple directions.  I was clearly vulnerable.

“You look like a nice family.”

Dang it. I needed a compliment at that very moment. I should have known she was just grooming me.

“We just got this ADORABLE kitten and my daughter appears to be allergic to him.”  The kids began pleading immediately and out came the pictures.  This woman was good. He was curled up in a ball on a lovely little girl’s lap. It was like a high end cat card.  He looked annoyingly adorable and in need of a home.

It didn’t help that the kids have been pushing hard to get a dog for some time now.  You know, because it is such a good idea to get a dog shortly after you have your fourth child.  The pressure to adopt a K-9 had recently intensified.  “Why we need a Dog” presentations were becoming fairly regular. Typically these presentations included facts, breed comparisons and powerful dog photos with the occasional testimonial and sometimes crying. The pressure was getting to me, but there was no way in hell I was getting a dog anytime soon. But I had not ruled out a cat.  They seemed easier.  Moody and stand offish, but less likely to prevent me from going on vacation.

I told the nice lady we would think about it and we exchanged numbers and niceties.She immediately texted me some sensitive shots of Billy the kitten.

I sent them to Mike.

Bad idea. He replied.

Usually when Mike says something is a bad idea, it is.  In fact, this has been a theme in many of my previous posts.

-I can’t handle a dog. We have kept the goldfish alive for over a year. I think we are ready for a intermediate pet. The lady said we look like a nice family.

You fell for the “nice family” trick?

-Yes.

I am going on record, that this is a bad idea. But if you want to take on a cat, go for it. But you will own this decision. It will be your cat not mine.

I took his naysaying as a sort of challenge. A Marlee and Me, Turner and Hooch  — can you bond with an animal in a cinematic, heart warming sort of way– challenge. In hindsight, it is clear to me that those movies are about dogs and not cats. In fact, I cannot think of a movie about feline bonding…can you?

Bill arrived concerned and skiddish, with a bin of fancy toys, a plush bed,expensive food and name brand kitty litter. The hand-off was awkward. They didn’t seem as sad as I thought they should be.

When they left, so did Bill, down the stairs and to God knows what nook. I had pictured us snuggling with our new little bundle of kitten like the girl in the picture. Maybe some yarn play would go down. Instead, the clearly unstable kitten took off before we could even lay a loving hand on him.   Later, I learned this was my fault.  Apparently, kittens are supposed to be put in a very small room for a week or two to acclimate to their new surroundings.  Being claustrophobic myself, this idea never entered my mind.

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The screams came around 2 am.  Startled, I rolled out of bed and smacked my head against the wall.  Mike snored on.  I ran downstairs to assess the danger and discovered Chaylee and Kenna hiding under their covers with the light on.

“What happened?!” I said holding my throbbing head.

“Mom, look out!” They screamed in tandem.

I turned around and there was Billy, crazed, hair on end, back arched, paws pointed, tail erect, side-winding toward me and break neck speed! I ran to the bed and jumped under the covers.

What have I done?,

We peeked out and he was gone. I began my advance toward the door and THERE HE WAS AGAIN!  Halloween cat from hell flying at us sideways!

I was back in bed with the girls.

After several attempts, I was finally able to wrangle Billy, not without injury, and place him in the bathroom with the door shut.  I stayed with the girls till they fell asleep, for they were no longer excited about the cat but terrified.

This event was foreshadowing. Billy continued to terrorize the house utilizing the cat and dog doors that came with the property.  He would attack the children and guests. He was not warm but fearsome. We stopped calling him Billy, for the cutesy, do-gooder name did not suit him. He became Bill, William, and sometimes Chunky the Death Cat (Ki’s favorite).

He would do strange things too, like drink the fish water but not eat the fish. He would just drink their water down  enough to make them uncomfortable and then stare at the poor bastards.

He was weird and maniacal.

Once, we took a little jaunt down to The Cove for some family fun.  As we headed down the hill at approximately 15-20 miles an hour, a neighbor frantically flagged me down.  I slowed to a stop and rolled down the window assuming there was something wrong with my vehicle.

“Your cat is on the roof!”   And he was.  His claws dug into the metal like an Alabama tick.

“Never seen that before.” Said the neighbor.

Bill loved the car. But, usually he only rode on the inside. He frequently accompanied me on trips to the grocery store. He would perch on my shoulders and only relax once I turned up the music. It would have been sort of endearing if it wasn’t so creepy.

My mom had a particularly troubling night with Bill whilst babysitting.  He would not stop leaping onto the bed and attacking her while she slept, so she locked him in the garage and put suitcases in front of the boxy little exit the previous owners cunningly added to the house. He breached the barricade and continued his assault.  She locked him in the bathroom. He scratched and batted at the door all night long.

We arrived home to a shattered and exhausted Grandma, not because of the four children, but because of the cat.  Her calves looked like she had gone traipsing through the brambles.  And she was not the only one to have this experience. After spending a night with Bill, Aunt Leslie simply said, “Fuck that Cat!”

The most frightening incident however is one so unbelievable that it may bring into question my integrity as a story-teller. But, I assure you this is not feline folklore.

Abel was bathing and I was watching a documentary on netflix so as to make the folding of clothes more palatable. Bill liked to sit on the computer sometimes, perhaps to warm his undercarriage.  This was annoying, but not atypical behavior for a cat. I took a break from the laundry and peeked in on Abel, who was joyfully playing with measuring cups in a couple inches of warm water, then returned to my domestic responsibility which included, once more removing Bill from the keyboard.

This time however, netflix had been mysteriously replaced by a google tool bar…and within that toolbar was the text:

@&#@(@%$^&*^killing mice***

W…T…F  Just sit with that for a minute.

Bill googled killing mice.

I looked at the screen in absolute horror and called Mike at work.

He was unavailable.

I left a message.

He heeded my cry for help by circulating my message throughout the trading floor at Russell Investments.

Bill listened to my phone call then turned away slowly and hit up the fish tank for a drank like a G. He had busted a cap in my sanity.

Google had no response to my repeated request for an explanation.

In the words of Spinal Tap, “Some mysteries, are just best left unsolved really.”

Next up:  Bill Starts “Killing Mice”.

All we wanted was one last Australian road trip.  We never meant to deceive anyone. Is it even possible to lie to an inanimate object anyway?  A website has no soul.   It knows not the  difference between a lie and an omission. The book now button doesn’t care if we exceed occupancy requirements?  So, the Tree Motel only accepts parties of 5 or less.   Babies can’t party.  Nor should they.  And should babies even  be considered occupants?  At four months, Kiama doesn’t occupy more than a onesie.  She is more like a growth than an occupant.  And so it was decided.  We would book the Tree Motel and declare our most diminutive family member at check in.

We arrived under the cover of darkness and realized quickly that the Tree Motel may have occupancy requirements for a reason.  It was a linear rambler with no more then 10 small units surrounded by gum trees and a subsequently compromised pool.

Mike lost a round of scissor, paper, stone and headed into the lobby to pick up the key.  I gladly stayed in the car with the ladies, grateful that I would not have to be the one to break the news about the size of our party.

Mike looked bewildered as he reentered the vehicle after check in.

“What happened?”  I asked.  “Did you tell them about the baby?”

He laughed nervously and shrugged.

‘It never came up.”

We parked in front of our humble unit and quietly came to terms with our dilemma.  We would either need to come clean right away or hide the baby for the duration of our stay.  Ethel and Stevo, the motel managers sat in rocking chairs outside the lobby which  doubled as their living quarters.  And since the lobby itself was a central and unavoidable  feature of the motel they had a birds eye view of our comings and goings.   It was as if the hotel itself was designed for surveillance.   This would make camouflaging the babe decidedly more difficult.  But just as we decided to live in the light and confess our omission, management called it a night and headed indoors.  Our decision was made.  Kiama would remain undeclared for the night.

The room was narrow and filled to capacity with deteriorating furniture, leaving little room for free movement…or luggage. Three beds were juxtaposed against the walls like Tetris pieces.   I could practically hear the catchy electronica theme song as we snuggled into bed.  In fact, the Slavic rhythms plagued me all night, reminding me of our deception.  There are five of us!  Tetris.

I was haunted. What if Ki woke up and was inconsolable?  Would our cover be blown?  Would we get a knock on the door? Would Stevo get cross?  Would Ethel never trust Americans again? It was unlikely that they would send us packing but dirty looks were a real possibility, as was a “you lied about the infant” tax.

I knew my anxiety was a bit excessive but, I  live to avoid awkward moments and I could feel one coming.  Also, I had recently lived through a bad experience with a disgruntled property manager (See When Harry Met Pasley) and did not wish to create anymore ill will amongst the villagers.  It was still a goal of mine to add America to Australia’s Most Favored Nation list.  Not that we could ever beat out the Canadians.  (They absolutely LOVE Canadians in this country.  What is that all aboot?)

The next day, we decided to get an early start.  We wanted to see as much of Narooma as possible,  whilst avoiding any unplanned run ins with management.  But, our efforts were thwarted by the unbearable kindness of our hosts.  They came out to meet the family when they heard us preparing to leave.  I stayed inside the room with the baby, unsure of what had been revealed.

Ten minutes…20 minutes…it seemed like an eternity. It was almost as if they were toying with us.  Trying to break us down. Finally, they gave up and headed back to their porch… or as I liked to call it….the observatory.

Mike stood in the doorway.

“Did you mention the baby?”  I asked.  He looked at me somberly.

“It never came up.”

And thus, our mission became clear.  We would hide the baby for the duration of our stay.

It was like the  Born Identity.  Our entries and exits had to be carefully executed.  One of us would create a diversion, while the other rushed the car seat to and from the Pajero.  Coughing fits accompanied crying spells. And since Ethel doubled as the cleaning lady, we  had to carefully conceal our cache of infant paraphernalia. The baby capsule was obscured  by “personal items”. The box of diapers became a  suitcase stand. The suspense was constant–palpable.  We could never be certain of what they knew or did not know.

As our stay at the Tree Motel came to a close we were tempted to reveal the child in some regal display as if it were all just a grand illusion intended to entertain the motel guests.  But, there would be be no climactic end to this sordid tale.  Instead, the kindly couple we double crossed came out to wish us well.  They never mentioned the clearly visible baby sleeping in the back seat. Neither did we.   I felt like we had been playing spy games with innocent civilians.

Awkward.

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Poll

Should a baby be considered an “occupant”?

Family Factoid

We also visited the nation’s capitol, Canberra (pronounced Can-bra) . We did not mention the baby on that leg of the trip either, but the size of the hotel we stayed in made that omission less controversial.  Canberra is absolutely beautiful.  A bit contrived, but glorious nonetheless. I even got to have my picture taken in front of Parliament House with the SIGNED John Howard book Mike got me for Christmas. (Picture coming soon)

Family Factoids Continued…

We spent Easter in an RSL Club (think local casino meets Dennys). Might be time to come home.

Australian Trivia

It is next to impossible to find white eggs in an Aussie grocery store. Hence, dying eggs is not an Aussie tradition.  Instead, Australians eat OBSCENE amounts of chocolate eggs, chicks and bunnies.  Not sure how the chocolate ties into the resurrection–or bunnies and chicks for that matter.  Your thoughts?

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