Comfort in the Unknown

image by doeth

"I'm excited and nervous about it," I said.

"Why?" James asked.

"Because it's outside of my normal milieu. Outside of my comfort zone."

There's a pause. I know what my husband is about to say next, and I know he's right.

"Yeah, but doing things outside of your comfort zone is part of who you are."

"That doesn't mean they're not still uncomfortable."

It's true. I do push myself to do things outside of my comfort zone, not because I'm an adrenaline junkie with something to prove, but because so often what I want is beyond the boundaries of what I know. I do these things because I know I'd regret not doing them:

• Auditioning for college and community theatre
• Living in a foreign country for a year
• Going out to eat or to a movie by myself
• Signing up for a five-day art seminar retreat
• Putting my private thoughts out there for the world to read
• Planting a garden
• Going to conferences filled with other bloggers and writers
  
• Signing up for a summer watercolor class
• Learning to drive a stick shift
• Mastering the insidious worlds of mortgage lending and credit scores
• Taking a roadtrip by myself
• Calling the mayor's office to ask for an interview
• Going door-to-door to campaign for my candidate of choice
• Starting a business
• Trying scallops
• Admitting that I've struggled with depression
  
• Getting my first pet
• Volunteering to be a Big Sister
• Wearing pantyhose and high heels

I read this list and none of it seems very radical. Nothing on the list is shocking or so far outside of the norm that it would make news. But how many of our daily fears and triumphs do?

I picture my comfort and discomfort zones as slightly intersecting circles with just the tiniest bit overlapping in a shade of grey. But beyond that are more circles. Your circles. And they all intersect. What I fear, you may not think about twice. What I do with ease may send you spiraling into a panic.

What if we could let go of the fear, acknowledge the discomfort and just move on, knowing that our circles' boundaries will change; believing that others will be there to welcome us into their zones?

What if "Feel the fear and do it anyway" was more than a saying that has become trite from extended usage in certain circles? What if it's the only way to live?

I'd love to hear what your comfort zone includes and excludes. I imagine building this giant network of comfort and support, so that no matter what we have to do, we know someone who can tell us all about it and welcome us into our own unknown.

The naming of cats is a difficult matter

Warning: This post is about my cats. And a moose named Eli. And a Winnie the Pooh character. But mostly about my cats. If you are a cat hater, or are just looking for something more meaningful, I invite you to read my long-winded thoughts on building community and leave me a comment there. (But if you are a cat hater, you probably won't want to be part of my circle of friends anyway. In that case, I suggest you head on over to Dooce, a more appropriate blog for your dark and twisty ways.) For those of you who are staying, please note that Nikki's post over at Candybuttons inspired this post. We've both turned into crazy cat ladies against our will and both have fathers who insist on calling our pets the "grandcat."

When Gatwick first came to live with us, he was named George. James and I did not like the name George, nor did the cat look like a George. I don't know what the shelter workers were thinking, but I figure they see a lot of cats and probably run out of good names a few times a year. You have to cut them some slack.

So we set about naming the cat. We considered Avery and Chester, both respectable cat names, if our cat was a butler in a tuxedo. I tried to rally support for Lapsang Souchong, after the smokey-flavored tea, because "George" was a smokey grey color. But my husband wouldn't have it. (He pretended he couldn't say it, butchering it to "Lapsang Singsong" and other variations.) We finally decided on Gatwick because it seemed to suit him and it reminded me of England, one of my favorite grey things.

We named the second cat before we even decided to take her. But once James started referring to her by name instead of as "the kitten," I knew it was a done deal. My family likes to pretend that her name, Cheska, is short for Francesca, but it's not. Her full name is Cheska and she's named after an imaginary alligator.

Once upon a time, before James and I were married and before we had any pets, I had stuffed animals. James has the uncanny ability to imbue any inanimate object with a multi-faceted personality. He's made me laugh at the antics of a salt shaker and nearly cry because a pillow shaped like a fish wanted to come home with us. He applied this talent to my stuffed animals, specifically an orange moose named Eli and a pastel pink and green Piglet from Winnie the Pooh. (There were also two hedgehogs who regularly performed vaudevillian skits, but they're not part of this story.)

A side note on Eli: He was one of three sherbet-colored moose(s) that once lived at Target. He had a raspberry-mauve sister and a moss-green brother. I may have carried all three of them around the store, waiting for James to turn around and see me with an armload of moose(s) and offer to take them all home. He did, but I buckled under the pressure of responsible spending and settled on just one: the orange-creamsicle moose. (I've felt guilty about leaving his siblings behind ever since.)

Eli and Piglet became great friends, despite the weird moose-pig dynamic. Piglet had been lonely and was pleased to have a new friend, especially since he hadn't seen Pooh for awhile. (I think this was when Pooh got stuck in a doorway after too much of a little smackeral.) Piglet and Eli had lots to say and do, and all of it was funneled through the magical storytelling and puppetry of James.

That's how I found out about Lars and Cheska, a married couple with whom Piglet and Eli are friends. (I'm getting back to the cats. Hold your whiskers.) The husband Lars is a frog, and his wife Cheska is an alligator. Some people have wondered at the strange relationship and even feared for little Lars' life, but they're a lovely couple. And they loved to hang out with Piglet and Eli while I was gone at work during the day.

But then one day, Lars and Cheska moved to San Francisco. Piglet and Eli were sad, but perked up when they realized that they could go visit them. Neither one had been to California before, so it was extra exciting. They're still friends today, all these years later.

(You can see why we needed to have pets or children. We weren't ready for kids. So kits it was.)

And that's how we named our second cat after an imaginary alligator who is friends with our stuffed animals. It was all James' doing. The name fit perfectly and stuck with the little kitten. But of course, like all cats, ours go by many names. They even have their own theme songs:

Gatwick the Catwick, for all your Catwick needs! Gatwick the Catwick, he does what he pleases! Gatwick the Catwick! He's the greatest Catwick!

Hey Cheska! You're a little kitty! Hey Cheska! You're so pretty. Oh my little Cheska, yes you are my kitty, yeah! (sung to a bastardized chorus of "Mambo Italiano")

But back to those names:

Gatwick is also affectionately known as:

• Gatarino
• Gatarino Wam-bam-bino
• Buddy
• Big guy
• Gatwickers
• G-W
• G-Dub
• Bucko

Cheska is also affectionately known as:

• Sweet Pea
• Sweetie Peetie
• Little one
• Cheskanator
• Cheskalator (This one has a song too: "Cheska now, Cheska later. Get on the Cheskalator!")
• Cheska Sue
• Chickie Cheska
• Frisky Fresca
• Chicklet
• Francesca or Frannie (all by members of my family)

As far as I know, Gatwick and Cheska have never met Lars and Cheska.

How Cats Relax

Just in under the wire tonight for the fourth day of NaBloPoMo. I'll try to do better in the coming days, folks. But here, for your amusement, is a video of a cat getting a "massage." It really looks like the cat digs it. Just wait until you get to 2:02 on the video.

I sometimes give my 14-pound cat a few hearty taps on the hindquarters. My husband is afraid I'm going to hurt him and says, "He's not a dog!" I tell him that Gatwick likes it. Then I found this video which seems to put me in the running for being right!

Lentil Soup

As friends and regular readers will know, my cats have had some kidney problems since the whole Menu Foods pet food recall. This has required me to collect multiple urine samples for lab tests. (Keep reading. It gets funny. Honest.)

Have you ever tried to get pee from cats? No? Then let me school you.

First you empty out their litter boxes and separate the cats. Hours later, you realize that these cats are no suckers and will not use an empty litter box. They need something to dig in, dammit!

Next you shred some glossy newspaper inserts and put the festive confetti in the litter boxes. It looks pretty. And it works the first time around. Success!

The next time you need a sample you try the same shredded paper trick. Hours later you realize that the cats subscribe to the worldview of: "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." They will not pee on shredded paper. They will, however, nestle down into the litter box, get all com-fer-tuh-buhls and look at you smugly, as if to say: "Ah, this is a nice new place to nap. Look at me. I'm lying down, not peeing."

You also begin to marvel at their ability to hold out for over 12 hours. This is determination, people.

So you decide to try a new vet-approved option: Lentils. Theses little legumes mimic the look and texture of kitty litter but won't absorb the sample. (If you get there in time, that is.)

You put 16 ounces of lentils in the litter box. Your 15-pound cat scoffs at this attempt to fool him. Eventually you add another 64 ounces of lentils to the box and he succumbs to the illusion.

The next time you need a sample, you think, "Hey, no problem. I'm a cat-urine-collecting-pro! All I need are five bags of lentils per cat." So you send your husband to the store to buy 10 bags of lentils.

At the checkout counter the clerk says, "Looks like somebody is making soup!"

Sort of. Lentil and pee soup! Hahahah! (how could I resist?)

You follow protocol: Separate cats; empty litter boxes; fill boxes with lentils. The next morning, Gatwick the Catwick decides that he's really had enough of this and pees in his bed. The boy has never peed anywhere before but in the litter box. But today he decides that he'd rather pee in a cardboard box with a blanket than set foot on your stupid lentils! This act of defiance leaves you both angry. You pick him up to show him the litter box and he scratches your arm tyring to get away from the offending lentils!

Finally, as an act of contrition and in an attempt to make up with his frustrated and exhausted owner, the cat pees in the damn lentils. You use a plastic syringe or eyedropper to collect the sample.

Of course, two cats won't pee at the same time. And samples need to be less than eight hours old. So sometimes you make the 50-minute round trip to the vet's office twice per round of samples.

And you can't bring yourself to make lentil soup for at least a month.

Cat Stats

Let's tally up the last week and a half, shall we?

5: number of packets of cat food involved in the Menu Foods recall that the kits ate last month

1.5: number of hours it took to get a vet appointment for the kits last Tuesday

24: number of hours Gatwick "The Steel Bladder" Catwick held off peeing because he didn't like the idea of using an empty litter box

10: number of minutes it took the kits to pee after I put some shredded glossy newspaper inserts in their litterless litter boxes

36: total number of hours it took to get those two urine samples

12: approximate number of times I marveled at how obsessed I'd become with cat pee

7: number of trips to the vet in last 10 days

5: number of times each kit needs to receive subcutaneous fluids via IV

2: number of times I jabbed Cheska in a supervised attempt to administer said fluids

5: number of minutes it took to agree that I'd rather drive to the vet's office every other day rather than play Nurse McGuiggan at home

3: number of bite and scratch wounds my hands have suffered at the teeth and claws of scared little kits who only wanted to get away from the poking and prodding

1: number of additional vet trips required by end of the week

16 and 14: total number of days that I have to force feed tuna-flavored liquid antibiotics to Gatwick and Cheska, respectively (their response: "Tuna? You're not foolin' me, lady!")

Welcome to my reality, people.