Ah, the world of large appliances.

Since we moved into This Old House in October 2001, we have lost:

• The furnace
• The hot water heater
• The oven
• The innards of the downstairs toilet
• The plumbing in the shower
• The dishwasher

And now, for our next trick:  The refrigerator.

A week ago, we noticed most of the freezer had defrosted.  My beloved accused me of leaving the freezer door open.  As with most of his baseless accusations, I let it slide in one ear and out the other.

Tonight, it happened again.

Then that little fan sound stopped.  And the comforting ticking of a refrigerator that, oh, works.

We called a bunch of 24 hour places.  We told them the little angel's milk was in jeopardy. They said they'd come right away.  That means "between ten and two" the next day.  That means "after all the meat you bought at Costco spoils and makes the entire house reek like the arid Sahara after a big kill."

We went and got ice to put in the cooler so the little angel's morning milk will be some semblance of cold.  We pretended we lived on the prairie.  I poured myself a glass of warming Pinot Grigio and thought well, hell, at least our house isn't drowning up to the eaves in toxic floodwater.

Shit, man. Good thing FEMA isn't in charge. 

The last two days have brought cooler weather to Kansas City.  It has even been light-jacket worthy at 7:30 in the morning when we prepare the little angel for her trip down the yellow brick road.  Thanks to the wonders of Ebay, the little angel has a vast wardrobe of light jackets:  two jean jackets, three fleece jackets and a lovely leopard-print number.

Choosing jackets has proved an interesting exercise. 

First, she tried to combine a jean jacket with actual jeans.  I tried to explain that this is simply not done.  She protested, so I was forced to haul out my back issues of US Weekly, People and Star.  We observed L'il Kim, Britney Spears (isn't she a mama herself now?  Good luck with that, Brit.  Bet Kevin's doing an AWESOME job with third-baby daddyhood) and Paris Hilton.  I pointed out the errors of Christina Aguilera in the Sketchers ad.  She studied Paris for a particularly long time. 

"Meow, meow, meow," she said, indicating Paris.

She is a good judge of character at seventeen months, no?

The diagnosis is in:  it's the thyroid. Apparently a normal level is 0-4, or something along those lines, and Sybil's level is at 6.  So, we get to try pilling her twice a day indefinitely.  It is better than having to give her mouth-to-mouth, but only slightly.

My vet does not have a good bedside manner.  I think she and Judgmental Pediatrician may have attended medical school together. 

Me:  Do you have the results of Sybil's blood test yet?

Vet:  No.  You know, that should've been back yesterday.  Hmm.  Let me call the lab.  I'll call you back...sometime.

(three hours later)

Vet:  Well, it looks like it may be the thyroid.

(long discussion on pilling techniques)

Me:  Will giving her a half-pill twice a day for the rest of her life be productive?

Vet: Excuse me?

Me:  Will she live longer if I do this?

(long silence punctuated by breathing)

Me:  I read on the Internet that thyroid problems can cause kidney failure.  Is there any way to know how long this has been going on?  Will the pills help?

(no response)

Me:  My husband told me she also has a heart murmur.

Vet:  Yes.

Me:  Is there anything we should be doing about that?

Vet:  Well, she is sixteen.

(implication of certain death hangs in the air)

Me:  Hmm.  Well, thanks.  I guess.

click

Why do vets not have to take psychology classes?

I've had my cat, Sybil Louise, for seven years.  I got her when she was nine. 

Her previous owner had all of her claws removed (this is bad, don't ever do it), so she walks duck-footed, like her hind end is a reincarnated Charlie Chaplin.  When she was heavier, you would swear her belly even brushed the ground.  She is the only swaybacked cat I have ever known.

Sybil came to me when I lived in Chicago.  I was very, very lonely.  I could only afford to feed her Meow Mix, and she coughed up hairballs all over the floor incessantly, causing my Evil Former Roommate to curse her.  At night, I would whistle from my bed so she would come into my room and spoon with me.  Her purring could make any boy trouble vanish.

On my way to Kansas City, Sybil lived with me in my parent's basement in Iowa for three months.  My parents wouldn't allow her upstairs, so she would sit at the door at the bottom of the staircase, meowing plaintively and throwing her furry body against the door.  After three or four body slams, I would take pity on her and go downstairs to hang out with her.

Once here, we landed one apartment on our own, then we moved in with my beloved in a new apartment.  My beloved claimed he hated cats.  Everyone says they hate cats, and then they meet Sybil.  He adopted her formally when we got engaged.

We bought This Old House four years ago next month.  She loved the space, loved the staircase, loved the snags in the carpet upstairs.  She owns the staircase landing and often uses it to survey her kingdom. 

I adore this cat.  She was my only friend in Kansas City for some time when I first moved here.

The vet told us last week that she needed some tests.  Her heart rate is elevated, and they think she might have a heart murmur.  It might be her thyroid, which is apparently not unusual in sixteen-year-old cats.  Honestly, though I try not to think about it, death from old age is not unusual in sixteen-year-old cats.

I can't think about that.

I hope it's just her thyroid - we can control that with medication, even if it does mean pilling a cat every day for the rest of her life.  If it's not, she needs a chest x-ray.

I've been waiting for this damn vet to call me back since Friday.  She said maybe today she'll know if it's the thyroid.

Sybil is looking at me now.  She says it will all be okay.

Many times I have walked through This Old House taking in its many flaws.  The window seat we never varnished, the very boring antique white half-bath on the first floor, the really bad linoleum in the kitchen.  I could go on for hours, giving special credence to the stained and ratty decades-old upstairs Berber so snagged it's become a cat's dreamland.  I remember when we were trying to sell This Old House earlier this year.  I thought nobody would every possibly want a house with no garage, no landscaping to speak of, a Silence of the Lambs basement, small, 80-year-old bedrooms that could never, ever fit a Pottery Barn bedroom set, EVER. 

Tonight I walked through it again thinking how very dry and stocked it seems.  There is so much food in this house.  We could probably not buy anything but produce and milk for a month and be fine.  Yet we went to Costco and bought things like Lysol wipes and laundry detergent and toothpaste.  We bought the little angel a fuzzy pair of pink sweatpants for this winter.  We bought wine.

I sent two big boxes of the little angel's and my clothes down to my cousin in Houston on Tuesday.  She has direct access to the newly homeless through her church, by walking down the street.  They are everywhere.  My beloved and I talked about how people will go on to rebuild their lives from scratch, just like my sister did when the house in which she rented a room in college burned to the ground.  I remember the smell of her photo album.  She clung to it, even though it smelled like shit.  She tried to get the smell out of her teddy bear, the one she'd had since we lived together in my parent's house - Molly.  She walked out of that house with the clothes on her back and a laptop containing her poems.  It took her five years to build back her wardrobe, her books, her reality.  How long does it take to build back an entire life?

I will never again curse the stuck-shut windows, the creaking floorboards, the doors that hang at crazy angles, never to shut properly. The thresholds that defy any modern baby gate, no matter how much money you spend.  Those thresholds house doors that close at night against weather, danger, noise and the troubles of the outside world.  How comforting it is to close those doors and just focus on my own life.

Maybe sometimes it takes a strong wind to knock down the walls we've built. 

We have a new teacher in Waddler B. She seems to be very nice, and she's having a profound effect on the little angel's attitude (it's either that, or the return of her beloved S. from vacation).

On the flip side, the Emerald City has begun it's apparently yearly drive (we missed it last year, since the little angel didn't crawl down the yellow brick road until February or March) to RAISE MONEY.  Which means all of the kids get to sell stuff. This time, it's magazines.

I explained to the little angel that what she would need to do is walk up to the neighbor's door, explain the magazine selection, ask them which one they'd like, then write down all the order information.  She looked at my blankly.  "Bubble?" she said.

Last night about half of the students came to my class. So far, none of them have missed enough times to be administratively withdrawn, although quite a few just never handed in the first essay, despite my repeated admonishments about taking a "0" when you could have a "56."  There's an "F," folks, and then there's a "0."  It's all about the spreadsheet.  Do they care?  No.

After much grousing about how much they hate position essays and my grading system, I had to level with them.  "Look," I said.  "I am a tough teacher because so is life.  There are no effort points in the real world, guys...the commas go where the commas go."  (groan, moan)  Then we talked about how writing is the great equalizer, and no one need know if they are male, female, black, white or brown when they are writing.  All their audience will know is whether or not they are well educated.

That one seemed to have more impact on this group than it has had on my past classes.  Their sleepy eyes opened a little wider.  Most of the students in this class are what state universities would call "nontraditional."  They are not eighteen.  They are not living on campus.  They are working full-time in banks, hospitals and preschools.  They have kids ranging in age from five months to 22 years.  They say there is nothing in their lives that they need that they can't get in Kansas City, Kansas.  But they, like everyone else, want people to think they are smart. 

I like teaching these guys because they don't think they world owes them anything.  They understand the rules.  Despite all this, however, I know damn well most of them won't turn in their essays next time.  And that's their choice - I know deep down they understand what the consequences are - most of them are trying out community college for the second or third time by now.  It's a totally different world than I lived in at the University of Iowa.

Yesterday we drove to the ends of the earth (okay, it was Belton, MO, but it was like 232nd Street or something - I mean, really, shouldn't cities cut off the street-naming system at 100?  Doesn't it get a little ridiculous?) to buy a pint-sized swingset-like-thing for $40.  I say "swingset-like-thing" because "swingset" to me conjures up images of something large, which this is not, and something that has multiple swings, which this one does not.  This one stands, including its little roof, about four feet high.  The platform for the slide is about a foot and a half off the ground.  The little angel's feet touch the ground when she sits in the tiny red swing.  It is just her size, and it will remain just her size for about three days.

But she loved it.

As my beloved and I sat in lawn chairs and watched the little angel digging in the dirt with her shovel, climbing up the platform and going down the slide and yeah, even swinging by herself, we were sort of amazed.  When she crawled into her Baby Sun Cabana (we have never used it to keep the sun off of her, but it does make a handy tent), my beloved mentioned getting out the real tent, just to blow her mind.  I hoped he did not mean to prepare her for the oodles of camping trips we as a family would be taking, because sometimes you just have to put your foot down.  Camping might be a better daddy-daughter activity, in my mind. I'll take her to book signings, then out to lunch at somewhere that cuts the crusts off sandwiches.

She seemed pretty proud of herself for all that climbing and swinging, as well. So proud that afterward she promptly taught herself to climb on the futon in my office.  So far she's had the right idea about climbing, but hasn't had the height.  I could see the wheels turning as she sized up the furniture in the house, though.  "Must climb.  Must conquer.  Must find that damn remote control that does have batteries and actually changes the channel."

I know she thought this, because she loves television, despite my pleas she please not watch it so Mama and Daddy don't have to feel guilty for rotting her brain.  See example in the following scenario:

Time:  4 p.m.

Total daytime hours little angel has been awake:  8

Number of toys used during waking hours:  143.3

Number of crayon marks on the hardwood floors:  17

Number of times the cat has threatened to move to Jamaica:  3

Total daytime awake hours spent with little angel in a moving car while driving to Iowa for Labor Day family festivities:  10.5

Total amount of remaining entertainment value of parents:  10%

Return on television-watching investment: 210%

We dialed up Bill Maher on HBO On-Demand to see what he'd done with the recent hurricane response.  As the tub-thumping "too cool for a white guy" music came on, the little angel started dancing.  She started bending her knees and moving up and down to the music.  Then Bill Maher walked on stage...AND THE LITTLE ANGEL BROKE INTO APPLAUSE.  It is scary - we are already molding her to our own views.  This is how it happens, folks.   Better start working on those Republican children.

Tonight the little angel had trouble falling asleep. I have a feeling I will, too.  This time feels like another time when we as a country faced an unspeakable sadness, and it was not so long ago.  Despite my intense disregard for our president, I do respect the fact that he has been dealt more than most.  This thing that has happened is rapidly unraveling the citizenry of New Orleans into an uglier America.  Who can blame them for wondering where the clean water is?  As I did my laundry and washed my dishes tonight, I couldn't help but think of all that other, dirtier water that has seeped into the homes and lives of so many Americans.  I usually (as most Lutherans do) refuse to wear my religion on my shirtsleeve.  However, tonight I can't help but think sometimes there is no one to turn to but a higher power. 

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings as eagles. They shall run, and not be weary. They shall walk, and not faint.  Isaiah 40:31

God be with you all.

Now I lay me down to sleep...

Dear God,

Please be with all the little angels and their parents tonight who go to bed not knowing where the next clean diaper or cold glass of milk might be.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep...

Please grant them peace and wisdom to know where to turn, who to trust, and what next step might be the safest and best choice for their families.

Keep me safe through all the night...

Please help them find their loved ones, even without sound communication. Please grant the soldiers and police who strive to rescue those without hope the time and energy they need to get the job done. Strengthen their resolve and guide their lights as they look for the lost among the floodwaters. 

And wake me with the morning light...

Please show those whose lives have been disassembled that there is always still hope, there is always the next morning, there are always those who will willingly open their hearts and homes to provide shelter to their fellow man.  Please let us not forget that we are the country who offer hope to the weak, the weary, the lost, the homeless.  Please guide our leaders to accept the help of a world offering us its shoulder, whatever shoulder that may be.  Pardon our arrogance and bend our pride, so that we might help those who sleep without hope tonight.

Amen.