Dove è il Mio Ombelico

Chris and I spent this past Saturday driving around in teeny, tiny blue Fiat which is a 1971 (or 72) Fiat 500L, in Italy known as a Cinquecento. The 'L' stands for Luxury. Luxury means I can fit inside the car. Oh, and it has windshield wipers and carpeting.

This little Fiat car has a name, Pepino (given to the car by it's owner) (who is not Chris). Pepino means "I don't give a damn" or cucumber in Spanish. But because this an Italian car, Pepino is the Italian word for pepper or a little mouse. (Me? I'm sticking with that first Spanish translation). Chris said that the Italians have also referred to the car as a belly button. Those Italians ...what imagination!? (Side note: Chris has a name for one of his Fiats. He endearingly refers to his car as "pezzo di caca verde.")

If Chrysler and Fiat get married as (I hope) they'll do, the car that Chrysler will make in the U.S. will be a car very similar to Pepino. Can't you see all of us driving around in teeny, tiny cars (once again) (saving gas) (we don't have anyway) (though if we all die of the swine flu, none of this will matter) (the few of us that are left can use what remains of the gas we have saved by killing off everyone with swine flu) (you know this is a plausible conspiracy theory) (admit it) (I wonder if See's will still make candy after the pandemic) (OMG! no more carnitas!?)?

Of course if Chrysler goes into bankruptcy you'll have to forget about Fiat (again) and (continue to) live vicariously through Chris and his hobby as I do.

Desperation of a Young Child

Hannah wanted to make sure you saw her melamine flavored mints. (Oh, yeah, and my bad hair day.)

Your Tax Dollars at Work

Last year I didn't do my taxes. I have never *not* done my taxes. What that means is I have always been a responsible tax payer (or towed the line). My friend David introduced me to some tax nut who does taxes (the year right after Greg died. Prior to death, Greg did our taxes which just goes to show...). I have visited the tax nut every year since Greg's death to have my taxes done. And it costs a chunk of change to have my taxes done by a nut. And The Nut has a creepy lazy eye and makes bad jokes about the government, taxes, repossessions, real estate, and other customers.

But I don't do well with money, taxes, math, numbers, an abacus etc.

I leave numbers to the experts. I can spell the word "numbers."

Last year with chemo and cancer, my fantasy death looming large, I didn't have the strength to do my taxes. I made an appointment with The Nut to have them done. Then I spoke with David who said, "Tell [The Nut] to file an extension." I called The Nut and asked him to file an extension, explaining my cancery circumstances. The Nut said he was sorry for my situation and expressed sadness about the cancer, and never filed an extension to my knowledge. So I just let everything go. I wasn't in a very practical state of mind. I figured the worst that could happen is that I'd have to pay a fine -- that I'd pay the fine and everything would go back to some sense of normalcy. My friend Kathy also said, "Just do your taxes later." She has had two different kinds of cancer so she ought to know.

This year I visited The Nut in at the end of March. I paid him double to do my taxes for 2007 & 2008, enduring his nutty chatter and his lazy eye. An eye so incredibly lazy, I could have stayed home and he would have still seen me. The Nut sent in my 2008 return electronically that day, 2007 had to be done by paper which I mailed the following day. By this date I had already received one notification letter from the Franchise Tax Board asking for my 2007 return.

Since March 2009 when I filed my taxes for 2007 & 2008, I have received numerous letters from both agencies telling me that they have not received my return for 2007. Yet by now they have received both returns. The notices they send out also state that once they receive my return, they will process the return and this could take "6 to 12 weeks." 

I received a letter from the IRS saying that they are holding my tax refund for 2008 and they will decide what I owe tax-wise, if any for 2007 (when I send in my return which I already have) and when they figure out how much I owe, they will deduct what I owe out of the 2008 tax money that they are holding. Each notice says I am to call them immediately to resolve the issue. I am afraid to call them immediately or at all because I am afraid to get anymore than the 20 employees already hard at work on on my case, involved. With the amount of letters I have received both from the IRS and the Franchise Tax Board, there must be at least 20 people dedicated to getting me to file my 2007 tax return (which I filed at the end of March 2009). 

Part of me feels I'm doing my part keeping people employed but part of me feels sad that our tax money goes for this nonsense. I wish I'd filed my taxes last year. I wonder how many people would be out of a job? Maybe more people need to be out of a job at these agencies. They obviously don't talk to each other. One section is writing and sending me my refund while the other is sending out a letter saying they've not received my return yet. But if not, why are they sending me money?

Since I filed and sent my taxes for both years, I've received two checks from the Franchise Tax Board -- one for my refund for 2007 and one for the refund for 2008. This means that they have received both of my returns for both years. Yesterday along with my refund for 2007, I received a letter from the state (again) saying they estimate my taxes for 2007 at $971.27 and that I should be prepared to pay this amount or send them a protest letter by June 20th 2009. Even though the state has already sent me back both tax refunds, they have guesstimated that I owe taxes (which have already been paid) and since one hand doesn't know what the other is doing, if I don't want to pay $971.27, I must send in a protest letter by June 20th, 2009 or be brought up in against a tribunal I guess. *shrug* I'm trying to decide what I should protest? Government waste? Postage rates going up? The price of good quality chocolate? The fact that I need one more cup of coffee? Should I add more fiber to my diet?

While I'm Away

True Love

Over the weekend Chris and I went to our fave restaurant in Pacific Grove - Zocalo's. I ordered a wine margarita (they don't serve hard liquor - dammit!) and Chris ordered his favorite drink, the chevela preparada. As you can see in the photo, the drink is the size of a human head.

The first time we went to Zocalo's, it was still relatively early in our relationship. We were at some random car event in Monterey, staying at a hotel, doing the Fiat thang (willingly).

One night we found the restaurant by accident, (walking down the street in search of dinner). When we made the discovery of this place we fell even more in love. Bathed in soft candlelight, we each ordered wine margaritas, gazed into each other's eyes over beans and rice. I had lobster tacos (home-made corn tortillas!) We became one with the chilies. Later in the evening, we both became one - once again with the beans. We both love Mexican food. We were so totally infatuated with each other back then. Everything was glossy, wondrous and amazing, nary a wrinkle in site (and certainly no tumors!). Of course our love is still wondrous though very well-seasoned and refined. The biggest difference being the chevela.

At lunch I ordered the (red) pozole which is an ideal winter soup and because it was 90 degrees outside, thought a bowl of hot soup would be perfect. The soup was perfect. Fresh cabbage, onion, radishes, with a dash of oregano. And of course, the tender chunks of pork. The soup has lots of hominy in it which is such a weird invention. The last time I saw hominy on a plate was at Quito Elementary cafeteria. I think the government used to give schools enormous cans of free hominy. This was way before the days of GMO and Monsanto. And no one in the U.S. made pozole back in those days.

On the way back home we stopped to visit the sea lions all piled on top of each other. We miss this kind of piling on top of each other.  Now we live vicariously through salt-water drenched, sun-soaked, layers of flubbery barking sea lions, the smell of the harbor and rotting fish.

We're preparing to leave for a quick trip on Tuesday and Wednesday. We are pre-running a Fiat tour that will be 1000 miles over three days on Memorial Day weekend. This two-day trip it will be just Chris and I. Alone. Over a stick shift. No candlelight. In the 100 degree heat of Northern California. Chris covered in poison oak. Me in my compression bandages. True Love. 

Temporary Stay

I don't seem to have much to say today though that does not keep me silent on an ordinary day.

I have a busy afternoon. I am going for physical therapy for the knee which stopped hurting. I've got to get the nails done. I'm going to pick up a salad for dinner. Then off to the cancer support group to see how people are coping and if they are coping. Then to Chris's house later tonight. 

We had a brief, lovely reunion. I'm glad he's home. He seems to be glad to be home though he is right back into the schwing of things including work-related issues, bookkeeping issues, employee issues, daughter issues and health issues. Makes me appreciate my life that much more.

The picture is a view out my window. I'm only on the planet temporarily though it's worth every penny of my mortgage to be allowed this view each day.

Last One In

Easter was relatively uneventful. Chris and I went to my niece's house to see Hannah in all her little girl Easter splendor. The visit was more of an excuse to get a cup of coffee at Peet's than take part in Easter celebrations. (My favorite coffee place was closed along with my mind.)

When we arrived at Hannah's, we watched the kids take part in an Easter egg hunt where the eggs where those of the plastic, goodie-filled kind. Some eggs even had "moneys" as Hannah exclaimed, the sound of glee in her voice only a three year old could comprehend.

Does anyone hard-boil and colors Easter eggs anymore? I remember as a child, hiding dozens of colored chicken eggs, and being forced to eat them for every meal for months afterward to get rid of them. My mom once found a rotten egg that had been hidden in the depths of Aunt Cecile's ole piano some months later most likely because with five kids, and our combined kid stink, the rotting smell of ancient Easter egg blended so that it took mom that much longer to notice. By comparison to five smelly kids, the scent of rotting egg was most likely an improvement. A very early (and non-cancer causing) version of a air freshener.

During yesterday's hunt, Hannah was very generous, attempting to give all the eggs she found away to anyone who'd take them. She tried to give several to this little boy who, by the way he held onto himself throughout the hunt, wanted to pee more than he wanted anything else. 

Free Lunch

While I'm waiting on the phone for the next available receptionist, (my call is very important to them) I was reading an article by a man who has an advanced prostate cancer.

It's his blog post out of the NYT.

He writes: "Cancer, like faith, urges us toward the essential in our lives, toward love and kindness and paying attention to the smallest, smallest detail."

Read the whole thing. It's beautifully written. I'm not sure about faith as much as I'm sure about cancer "urged [urging] toward the essential in our lives."

Now, you know there's no such thing as a free lunch? (I knew if I entitled this post using the word cancer, no one would want to read though you should.)

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

My son said, "Don't take that picture. You'll only get your eyebrow!"

Then he complained that I never listen.

Take a Chance on Me

Chris misses me! He admitted it in a message he left (after I left him a message telling him that if he did not admit to missing me, I was going to punch him in the 'bleepin' nose when he got home.) He also admitted that he didn't want to get punched in the nose.

Chris and I spoke via phone earlier this morning. He told me he was really tired and tired of being away. He and Brunhilda Thomas are in Essen, Germany for the remainder of the trip at Die Klassik - Weltmesse (translation: huge hall filled with cars, car junk and old men). I attended one year when he first took me to Europe, and it was days of pretending I was having a great time while really being tortured. The car show was filled with crumply old men, dirty car parts and droopy testicles. But the remainder of the trip totally made up for the occasional drooping parts.

During that first trip our German hosts had arranged for all of us to see a live show of a group impersonating Abba. They had gone to so much effort on our behalf. They were so excited (almost as if they were going to see the REAL Abba - duh!).  A lot of Germans smoke, and that night at the fake Abba concert, the hall was filled with smoking Germans who prided themselves on knowing (and singing aloud) every lyric to every Abba song ever sung. 

Inside that hazy, smoke-filled room, I could barely see Chris who was sitting next to me. We held hands, our relationship still new. We couldn't really talk much though. We strained to see the "entertainers" on stage through the smoke. We coughed, choked and sputtered with our hosts between songs. (I wonder if the group are all dead of emphysema now?)

Around midnight, we were seated in a German Mexican-style restaurant ordering pitchers of margaritas. It was happy hour. We drank tons of  cheap margaritas and ate wanna-be Mexican food. I doubt the cooks were Mexican. They were Germans impersonating Mexicans. The restaurant was filled with ciggie smoke.

Poor Chris isn't doing much partying during this trip though he said that tonight he would be going to a Hooters authentic Italian restaurant with some Alfa Romeo folks. He doesn't understand much German though food speaks a universal language -- the evening should be fun. The best meal I ate while traveling there was a simple tuna salad while visiting Monterroso al Mare in the Cinque Terre. There was nothing fake about that salad except the chef was a expat from California. Maybe that's why the salad was so good. Italians aren't really known for their salads.

On the phone, Chris told me he'd much rather be home by now, and added that Thomas was not that keen about this latest event they had to attend. It's one of those business things you have to do to in order to build more business - that sort of fake it to make it mentality? 

After our phone call, I know Chris really misses me and that feels so great. I was hoping he'd discover that his idea to spend nearly three weeks on a vacation/business trip away from me, was simply too long. I could not tell him. I could only complain at first, and then write a blogpost about his trip with Satan. And then come to find out, Satan was a freakin no-show on the trip. A fake. He didn't even phone to say he wouldn't be there. He had told them he'd be at the Frankfurt airport and asked them to pick him up. Instead, he just didn't show. That's not a friend. That's a poser. That's Satan for ya! Self-centered, self-involved, unavailable, unreliable - certainly not friend material.

But you can't really tell people these things. They have to discover on their own. Chris had to learn about his so called friend. Just like I can't force Chris to spend time with me. He either wants to or he doesn't. Leaving for three weeks was a good lesson. In this case, absence made his heart (and mine) grow fonder. Who knew? Our love and our missing of each other feels authentic and wondrous. I can hardly wait for him to be home. I need him to scratch that one spot on my back that I simply can't reach.

Fat Cat

I had to put my cat to sleep. My diabetic cat, the monster I helped create by pouring batter-sized bowls of kibble, cracking open thousands of Fancy Feast cans until she fancy-feast-ed herself into a freakish fat feline. It wasn't enough that I think about food all the time. Did I have to turn my cat into a food nutcase too? And as a result, have to kill her? (or in vet terms, "put down" or "put to sleep") (phrases invented to protect us, the switch pullers.) The vet told me, "When she whines, show her some love." You can't tell a cat she has to give herself the love she isn't getting from someone else aka me. Though like me, she'll turn to the next best thing in a pinch - food.

A few years ago I set off the bug bomb in a room I use primarily for storage (and a litter box), closed the door, and left for work. Returning home some nine hours later, I opened the door to the room to air it out per package instructions. Mingus, my cat was standing there, just inside the room, dazed and confused. (I should add that the instructions did not say to leave your pet inside the room.) She never was much of a meow-er - you could never tell when she was in a room (until she started squeaking) she was so quiet. She was like Sandburg wrote; fog. I felt awful. I should have immediately called animal control and reported me though I didn't. 

Mingus jumped out of the room, acting as though nothing had happened, as if she'd spent the day at the aquarium. I thought I'd killed her but not that time.

After the gassing episode, she would make this odd squeak of a noise, never a meow. More recently, she developed diabetes, and when the symptoms of the diabetes worsened, she would squeak through the night, standing next to my bed. She had access to both water and food at night though she especially enjoyed freshly opened cans of cat food where she'd lick the disgustingly stinky juice off the pile of "food" and leave the remains sitting on the plate in perfect canned form. In the last 24 hours of her life, I may have opened four to six cans of cat food. I knew one of them would be her last meal - this could not go on forever. I had already made the death appointment at the vet. I was cracking those cans open to assuage my guilt. 

NOTE TO SELF: Opening food packages does not assuage guilt.

The diabetes brought out the worst. She grew fatter, squeakier. She couldn't reach her chubby body to clean her fur. She developed dandruff. She desperately needed a sanitary trim, a bath, scissors, a new owner. I decided to take her to the vet to put me out of my misery -- watching her live a increasingly retched quality of life. And just maybe then I could get a full night's sleep because I am selfish.

My walking in the front door was the first signal. Any movement from me was a sign for her to eat. I was Pavlov while she drooled. If I got up from sitting, that meant time to eat, the phone rings, time to eat, door open = food in [her] belly; every movement accompanied by that weird squeak. If I poured a glass of water, it was her water. My dinner was her dinner. I took a supplement, it was meant for her. That fateful afternoon, I walked into my front door knowing I was going to give her a last meal. I peeled open the last can. She ate the entire contents in a few minutes. I picked her up and put her in the borrowed Kitty Karriage for the last time. 

I arrived at the vet and paid the killer (like taking out a contract on someone's life) fees. The vet asked if I wanted to 'be there' while he carried out his mission and I said, "Yes." I told him I had just fed her. He said "Often when I give them a sedative on top of a full stomach, they will vomit." I secretly hoped she wouldn't barf on me. The vet administered a sedative. I stroked her dandruffy fur. I petted her more that day than the previous week put together. She looked up at me. (Probably wondering when her next meal was being delivered?) She appeared to be relaxing, relinquishing. Then the vet looked at her open eyes and pronounced, "She's out." This is when they administer the drug that will kill her. 

I shouldn't be a pet owner. I make my pets fat though Mingus's sister, Luka isn't fat, really. She doesn't meow for food. Since Ming's been gone, Luka wants more attention. I have been giving her attention although my arms are breaking out with patches of eczema, my eyes itch, my nose runs. I am allergic to cat fur. I am not a cat person. I am a dog person. Maybe I am only a reptile person. (What is Dick Cheney doing now? Can I adopt him?)

Taking Mingus to the vet felt similar to being told I had a cancer diagnosis. She had no control over her situation, I felt I had no control over mine. This was something that was going to happen to her regardless - me too. It was if some great unseen hand pronounce her with an illness and she could do nothing but grow sicker. The difference between people and their animals (or me and my animals) is that I have health insurance and a car. I can drive myself to the doctor and pay for drugs. An animal is at our mercy. With the economy in the toilet, I couldn't afford more vet bills. I couldn't afford insulin. I could not commit to giving her insulin shots day after day. Financially, I could not sustain the amount of food and litter she required. 

Finally I had to make a decision that was really difficult. It wasn't the first time and won't be the last. Right to the end, Mingus held onto her food. Where ever cats go when they die, she went with a full stomach. I was proud of her tenacity, slightly satisfied that food actually brought her some sort of strange comfort though still not very proud of me.