Lilac Colored Glasses

This Flashback Friday is a perfect opportunity to let everyone know how hellish the trip from Brussels to Pittsburgh turned out to be and thusly, why I pretty much stopped reading and writing blogs all week (no, the fact that I was visiting my family all week would not normally be enough to shut me up blog-wise).

Our flight out of Brussels was scheduled to leave at 9:10 am Tuesday morning, March 25th.  CB and I packed up our stuff, drove over to his parents’ house (they had lent us the car the day before to make things easier), spent the night in CB’s old room and then woke up around 5:30 am to make sure we got to the airport in time.  As I stood, half asleep in the front entrance to the house, CB stuck his head in from outside and whispered, “You have to see this.” I stepped outside and saw mounds of fluffy white snow glowing beneath the porchlight (I had a sore throat when we woke up and now figured it probably had something to do with the weather). Yes, the very first snow of the year in Flanders was on the day we were flying out.  The roads were pretty bad and it took us almost 2 hours to get to Zaventem Airport.  We checked in sort of late, but boarded on time.  Not surprisingly, shortly after everyone was seated and ready to go, the pilot anounced that we would have to wait for the de-icing truck to come and spray down the wings and tail of the plane, because, y’know, IT WAS FRIGGIN’ SNOWING, and that we would be waiting for a half hour or so.  Thirty minutes later the pilot spoke up again and informed us that the de-icing truck had a lot of planes to de-ice and that we would be waiting another half hour or so before it got around to de-icing our plane.  After another thirty minutes or so, I saw the pilot come to the cabin and look out the wondow.

“See,” I murmured to CB, “stupid plane probably defrosted while we were waiting.”

CB chuckled and held my hand.  Have I mentioned how much I hate flying? Cause I do.  I really hate flying.

Ten or so minutes later the pilot pipes up and says, “Ladies and gentlemen thank you for your patience.  It seems that while we’ve been waiting for the truck to come, the wings and tail have defrosted on their own and we can now begin taxiing to the runway.”

I shot CB an I told you so look and we settled in for the ten hour flight to Atlanta, under reassurance from the flight crew that, if we missed our connection, Delta would gladly reschedule us on the next flight from Atlanta to Pittsburgh.

Our flight was scheduled to leave Atlanta at 4:30 EST (10:30 pm Belgium time) and we landed in Atlanta around 3:30 (keep in mind that I hadn’t really managed to sleep more than an hour, CB might have got an hour and a half or two).  We got through customs, rechecked our bags (apparently the US doesn’t trust Europe to properly scan and secure your luggage- you have to reclaim it, take it over to a separate area and have it rechecked by American airport employees, and then go through the whole full body x-ray process again.  So we did that and by that time it was about ten after four so we hustled over to the maglev, which, joy! was broken.  We took off running through the terminal but my heart came close to exploding as we neared the end of the first concourse so we had to stop (note to self, DO MORE CARDIO).  Fortunately the maglev started working again and we were able to get to our gate on time.  We boarded the plane, tired but happy, and waited for take off.

Then the pilot gets on the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it seems this plane has to be pulled for maintenance.  I’m being told that it needs a certain part…and they don’t seem to have it, so hold on another few minutes and we’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as we can.”

Now, you’d think, since we were flying Delta and we were in their hub in Atlanta, they would have plenty of spare plane parts to go around.  Well, you’d be wrong, because they made us get off the plane and then after another half hour cancelled the flight, telling us to reschedule over at the Delta Information Desk.  So we headed over there, made a phone call and found out that we’d been automatically rebooked on the very next flight leaving Atlanta at 6:30 pm.  They gave us some meal vouchers (7 USD in an airport foodcourt won’t get you much but we found a Popeye’s that was affordable) and told us to go to the gate for the 6:30 flight (12:30 am Belgium time, just so you realize the condition of our brains at this point).

We got to the gate, sat down and then I heard my name being called to check in.  We approached thecounter and the man there told us that we had been rebooked on an already overbooked flight.  There was room for one of us, but not both.  My stomach started to sink.  They asked for volunteers to stay in Atlanta for the night, but of course nobody felt the need to sacrfice their own plans, and who could blame them.  CB held me while I cried into his shoulder.  I was so close to my family, my cat, my other home, and still so far away.  Finally the plane was boarded withonly that one seat still remaining.  CB told the desk worker that either we both went or neither and that was it.  The desk worker (Jarrol, I think his name was) returned from the breezeway and started tapping on the computer (no, he didn’t bother to look at us or speak to us or explain how we would be compensated for Delta’s incompetence).  After he mumbled “uh-oh” under his breath a couple times I interrupted.

“Sir, I know this isn’t your fault, but I would really like to know what you can do to get us where we need to be.  We’ve been up for a long time, we’re tired and frankly, I’m about to reach the end of my rope here.”

“Ok, well, um, see, I’m trying to rebook you on the 9 pm flight, but it says there are restrictions on you and I can’t book it.  We can set you up with a room though…”

“And where is our luggage?”

“That’s on” tap tap tap “flight 2016″ tap tap tap.

“That would be the one that was cancelled, try again.”

“Oh wait now,” tap tap tap “it’s on flight 2026, yeah, that’s where it is.”

“So you mean our bags are on the plane that just left…the one that we couldn’t fit on…but all of our stuff could…so you’ll send us to a room with nothing.”

“Well, your luggage will be waiting for you in Pittsburgh.  They’ll lock it up and you claim it with photo I.D. when you get in tomorrow.  You can go on over to the Delta help desk and they can get your compensation.”

And keep in mind that I’m paraphrasing to make this story move smoothly, by no means was our gleaning of information actually this organized.  Jarrol was all sorts of bumbling and I was all sorts of trembling with rage.  CB is the only one who kept it together but he let me do a lot of the talking.  We got in line at the help desk and were next in line, waaay down at the entrance sign.  A rotund hispanic woman got in line right behind the couple who were actually at the desk, at the sign that said “exit”.

“Ma’am” I called, pointing to the entrance sign to the line.

“I just need to ask a question,” she huffed.

“Well, we have to ask a question too,” CB started just as I threw my hands up in the air, tossed a venomous expletive at the woman and stormed off to rebook our flight via the Delta phone kiosk.  Apparently while I was rebooking, CB (who was under the impression that I had run away- he didn’t see me slouched inside the kiosk hyperventilating our story to the Delta guy that rebooked us for the second time) went on to explain the value of literacy to the woman and to assert that if she knew how to read, she’d understand that she had to enter at the entrance, not the exit and that she had to wait for people who were there before her to ask a question.  She opted to go ask somewhere else.

Finally, new (and guaranteed) flight number in hand, I approached the desk and CB and I got our hotel voucher, some meal vouchers, and 400 Delta SkyMiles (we only got 400 because one of us had the opportunity to take the flight and chose not to…I could get snarky about this, but what’s the point).  We took the shuttle to the hotel (which was very nice and we got a huge room, for what it’s worth), showered, and got ready for bed.  It was around 9:00 pm EST or 3 am Belgium time.  CB passed out around 10 pm and I fell asleep around 11 or so.  We were both awake before 5:30 am and we successfully got back to the airport and into Pittsburgh around noon on Wednesday.

So, that was the beginning of our trip to Pittsburgh.  We arrived 18 hours late and I had a case of viral laryngitis complete with a painful sinus and head cold.  I didn’t end up getting my ear drained, although I did finally get to the dentist and found out that my toothache is from an absess that apparently probably started when I got that filling in December.  I got some antibiotics for it, which sucks cause the pain is still there, I’ll still likely need a root canal, and it rendered my birth control useless.  But hey, missing a day due to the pill being in Pittsburgh when I wasn’t, and then the six hour time change in when I was taking it brought my period on a week early anyway.

Have I mentioned how much I hate flying? Cause I do.  I really hate flying.

As I recall, the year was 1995. I was 14 and I had my first “real” boyfriend; the kind you actually go places with and hold hands with and who pays for the movie once he has enough allowance saved (14 was still a fairly innocent age back then, at least for me). Yes, after a whole year of torture during homeroom and activity periods in junior high, Elmer* had finally asked me out during German class in the first few weeks of high school (he did this in German class with a note passed across the aisle, clumsily written in German…and no, in case you’re wondering, nothing in my life ever happens normally). I was the late bloomer in my little clique in high school. I was the wallflower, the shy one, the one who typically was sans boyfriend, so it goes without saying that I was trailing behind in the physical exploration department. One of my good friends had recently lost his virginity (oy, remind me to blog about THAT someday soon…what a doozy that whole situation was) and the rest of my friends had pretty much all had their first kiss. All except me. Every day my friends would ask me if Elmer and I had kissed yet, but we were both pretty awkward and shy and there just never seemed to be a good opportunity. I mean, granted he did ask me out with a note and all, but we weren’t the immature type of teens who just made out in the hall between classes. I’m only an exhibitionist in a state of inebriation that I only achieved after I graduated high school.
Sometime in September a friend of mine had a party at his house for his birthday and I was invited, as was Elmer. This friend of mine loved parties. They were never anything too insane, just a group of us hanging out, watching movies, playing music, gossiping, etc. No alcohol or anything like that. It was a nice relaxed atmosphere amongst some close knit groups of friends. So of course everyone knew about the whole not kissing dilemma. After it got dark several couples ended up on the back porch. Elmer and I were sharing a lounge chair while my newly devirginized friend had his girlfriend on his lap and another of my friends was with her boyfriend on the porch swing. Those couples were necking like crazy but Elmer and I just laid next to each other, unsure and nervous, cuddling but that was all.

Elmer was over 6 feet tall and a beanpole and I remember that I could feel his heart thumping through the fabric of his polo shirt. He was wearing Tommy cologne. It was quiet and dark, the light from the living room outlined Elmer’s shoulder in a warm gold. He began to lean towards me and I could hear him breathing louder as our lips nearly touched…

And then the porch light came on, while everyone inside squealed at the sight of the make out session (like they didn’t know what was going on…14 is a drama laden age and my friends were very good at creating drama…a trait in my choice of friends through much of my life, unfortunately). The host of the party stormed outside in a huff and actually sprayed the deck chairs with Lysol. Elmer and I stood off to the side, humiliated by the uproar and ensuing ruckus over something we hadn’t even been doing. Just at that moment my ride arrived (devirginized friend’s dad) and it was time to leave. I turned to Elmer and hugged him goodbye.

And he kissed me.

It was the longest and shortest moment of my teenage life. He held me close and kissed me so sweetly. Then he let me go and I stumbled through the house and down to the car parked in the driveway. My friend and his girlfriend looked at me as I walked into the closed door before fumbling it open and tumbling into the backseat.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he tried to cop a feel from his girlfriend while his dad wasn’t looking.
“Yeah,” I murmured, staring out into the night as the car pulled away from the house.
“So?” his girlfriend pressed, “did you guys…like, kiss finally?”
My forehead was resting against against the cool glass of the car window. My cheeks felt like the surface of the sun.
“Yeah.”
I smiled quietly to myself and kept my eyes focused on the warm summer night as it slipped past the window, promising myself to keep the fabulous, dizzy, excitement I was feeling somewhere safe inside for the rest of my life.

And I have.

*I’m calling him Elmer because, strangely enough, we were in the same second grade elementary school class when we were 7. We both moved away and 6 years later ended up in the homeroom for gifted students in junior high in an entirely different school/town. I call him Elmer because the main thing I remember about him from second grade was that he used to eat Elmers glue.

I’m pretty sure I have mentioned this before, but in case you’re a new reader, I’ll say it again. I was raised Jewish (if you ask me my religion I tend to say I’m an atheistic Buddhist, sorry, can’t say I believe in a god, but I do believe very strongly in many of the ethics taught by Judaism and I do consider myself Jewish in the sense of culture and possibly even ethnicity but that’s a whole separate discussion). Until very recently I followed most holiday requirements, out of respect for my parents more than anything else. This pretty much meant fasting on Yom Kippur and not eating leavened bread products on Passover.

If you don’t know anything about Passover, you can read up on it here, but I’ll give you a brief synopsis: Passover is the celebration of the Hebrew’s exodus from Egypt. If you’ve ever seen The Ten Commandments, The Prince of Egypt, or anything where Moses sends ten plagues down upon Egypt because Pharaoh was being a turd, that’s basically what Passover commemorates. You may notice that Passover tends to fall very close to Easter. This is because The Last Supper was a Passover Seder, so the two holidays are indirectly related. When the Hebrews were finally released by Pharaoh, they were in such a hurry to flee that they did not wait for their bread to rise and the resulting product was unleavened bread that we call matzo. Imagine a very large Saltine only flatter and with no salt. Yeah, I know, what a taste sensation, right? Point is, part of the whole commemoration process is cleaning your house of leavened food products and only eating unleavened bread (this includes most grains although I’ve heard different things about corn meal, potatoes, matzo and matzo meal). Cake, cookies, bread, muffins, noodles…pretty much anything that involves yeast and/or rising dough is forbidden. Which brings us to the next bit of history, which hits a tad closer to home.

My younger brother, Scooter, was born on April 4th; I’d say about 80% of his birthdays have fallen on Passover. Passover birthdays mean no birthday cake. There are some “Passover Cakes” that can be made using matzo meal or potato flour but they fall short of what most kids typically crave in a birthday cake…you know, like taste. Every year while we were growing up, Scooter would always check the calendar, hoping that it would be a birthday friendly year, but more often than not he ended up cakeless on his birthday.

Last November, for my cousin’s third birthday, we had something very common. I don’t particularly like it, but it’s been pretty popular for several years. We had ice cream cake. You know, that block of ice cream and fudgy stuff covered in frosting? I personally don’t like the combination of frosting and ice cream, thus I never requested an ice cream cake nor do I recall ever really having one at my house. That night, however, I noticed my brother taking a sizeable piece of the ice cream cake. And suddenly, it dawned on me…

“Hey, Scoot.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t know you liked ice cream cake.”

“So I do, so what?”

“Heh, there’s no actual cake in an ice cream cake, right?”

“No, it’s pretty much ice cream and frosting. What’s your point?”

“Dude…you can totally eat ice cream during Passover…”

Scooter paused mid-bite and I could see 23 birthdays flash behind his eyes (about 15 of which were cakeless). He opened his mouth, hesitated, hopped to his feet, and then,

“Sonofabitch! I…could’ve…you…that whole time…MOM!”

My routine was destroyed without Scylla and Brutus. It used to work something like this: wake up, check on the ferrets, refill the water bottles, get showered and dressed, go to work, come home, let the ferrets out to play, clean the litter box, refill the food crocks, eat my dinner, play with the ferrets while watching tv, put the ferrets in the cage for the evening, check the corners for stray poop (ferrets poop in corners…it is a weird and annoying habit if they can’t be bothered to make it back to the litter box), play on the computer a while, go to bed. Well, not only was I waking up several times a night to the ghost noises of ferrets where there were none, I was also forgetting simple parts of a routine such as eating dinner. With no ferrets to feed or check it often slipped my mind to have something to eat in the evening. Instead I sat on the computer from the time I got home until the wee morning hours (stress can cause insomnia for me as well) chain smoking and hating my landlords.

Obviously this was not healthy, so a couple weeks after Scylla and Brutus returned home* I decided that I was going to adopt a kitten. Granted my dad had always been allergic to cats and hated coming anywhere near them, but he rarely came to my apartment anyway and I’d always preferred cats to dogs. My life style and personality require a self sufficient pet (which was originally what I thought ferrets were…WRONG, but they’re still worth it) so I’ve never been to crazy about the neediness of dogs, plus my lease said I could own one cat. I called my mom one evening and asked if she’d come with me to the pet store to look for kittens. We went to the local Petsmart because they’re a satellite for the Humane Society and only sell kittens that are homeless (as opposed to overpriced or infullbred kittens/cats). I found a cute little kitten that loved to play and chase things, so I filled out the paperwork and planned on picking him up once my application was approved. Excited, I bought a collar, litter box, food and water dish and a ton of toys. The next day, upon returning home from work there was a message on my machine; the whole litter had contracted eye infections and were no longer available for adoption. The next weekend, hopeful once again, I returned to Petsmart and found another kitten, this one a bit older with a super long tail and beautiful green eyes. I asked to adopt him and, since my paperwork was approved, the salesperson went to find the papers for the cat…but apparently he had already been adopted and someone had forgotten to mark it on his cage. Pissed now, I followed the saleslady into a little back room and said,

“Look, I’m trying to do something good here, ok? I’m trying to be a responsible pet owner and to take care of a little animal that can’t take care of itself, and you people are making it very difficult for me to do so. Tell me where to go to adopt a cat. Today. I’m doing it today and that’s it.”

The lady was very sympathetic.

“I know you’ve been trying hard to adopt a cat Miss Klein and I can tell you’d be a good pet owner, look, I can call down to Animal Protectors and see if they’ll let you come today. We get a lot of kittens from them and I think they’ll be willing to let you adopt today.”

Animal Protectors was closed that day but after they heard the situation they said I could come down and pick a kitten. So I made the half hour drive from Monroeville to New Kensington and walked up to a squat, brown building with chipping paint and an outdoor generator surrounded by a tall chainlink fence. Tentatively I tapped on the dented door and a heavyset older woman squinted out into the bright sunshine.

“We’re closed.”

“Erm, yeah I know…I’m Korie, I was just over at the Monroeville Petsmart…”

“Oh, yeah, okay well come on in then, the adoptable kittens are in the office. You know we’re no-kill correct? And also we ask that you spay or neuter your pet and sign a contract agreeing not to declaw your pet…” and she continued to ramble off the list of does and don’t’s associated with adopting a new pet from an animal shelter while I glanced around the office, trying not to be distracted by the whining, barking dogs or the mewling cats. I have a huge soft spot for animals and it makes me sick to see how many of them are mistreated and abandoned. I think if I had the option to go back 8 years or so I’d choose veterinary school over psychology.

Anyway, there was a large cage at the very end of the row, towards the back of the office and in it were two kittens. Both of them were tiny, a little grey tabby girl and a tuxedo colored boy. A friend of mine had advised me to get a male cat because they “talk” more so I scooped up the little tuxedo kitten and he shakily wriggled out of my arms and sat on my shoulder, just like Scylla used to do.

I was in love.

“This one,” I said without hesitation.

“Oh him, yes, you can have him…are you sure you don’t want his sister too? They’re both available.”

“If I could, I totally would, but my apartment only allows one cat and they already taught me the hard way once…I can’t deal with it again,” and I told her my story. She pretty much reacted the everyone else did, which was extreme sympathy and disdain towards my landlords as she finished filling out all the papers and giving me a little starter kit of litter and kitten food.

I hadn’t really thought of a name at that point, although I thought I might name him after one of my favorite poets, or maybe something mysterious. But for some reason, when I saw him the name Rex came to mind. Granted he did have a little black stripe under his nose, but I’d have to be pretty fucked in the head to name my kitten Adolf or Fuhrer, so I went with the name that kept circling in my head the whole ride home: Rex, my little kitten king.

Since that time my little king has grown into a beautiful, sleek, nine pound cat who plays fetch like a dog and loves snacking on chipped ham with my dad at lunch time. He can entertain himself for hours and once mauled a certain Cabana Boy who insisted on trying to walk him outside on a visit to Pittsburgh. He knows when he’s being a bad boy and runs to the “time out” (bath) room accordingly. He has charmed everyone, especially my father, the notorious cat hater. Not only does my dad seem to have a much less sever allergy than he used to, he is also the one who gets on the floor to play with Rex first and spoils him rotten with toys and bits of ham. After I left for Belgium it was my dad who Rex started sleeping with and playing with and seeking out.

I can’t wait to see him at the end of this month and bring him here to his new home. I know it’ll be a big change for him. It was for me too, but it’s always a little easier when you’re near the one you love the most.

*I included the website of the breeder I got Scylla and Brutus from, in case anyone who reads here is interested. Wolf is a wonderful human being with a kind heart. He cares for his ferrets as though they were children and spares no expense for their care and well being. If anyone reading here lives in driving distance and has an interest in purchasing a healthy, happy, housebroken ferret, I highly recommend going to Wolf.

Cablegirl’s heart breaking post for today inspired me to write about my cat Rex. He’s a year and a half old tuxedo cat and he is currently living with my parents in Pittsburgh until CB and I pick him up in March (less than a month, wheee!). I remember when I adopted Rex; it will be two years this July. But to tell this story, we have to begin at the beginning.

We have to begin with ferrets.

I got my first ferret as a graduation gift, of sorts. I bought her from a breeder in Lancaster and her first act as my pet was to bite me in the face. Thus she was named Scylla and while not an incredibly cuddly pet, she was smart, contrary and bitchy. You had to love her though, once you got to know her…we were actually alike in a lot of ways. If a ferret can be a pet-type soulmate, she certainly was mine. After I’d had Scylla for about a year I decided to buy her a friend. I went back to the breeder and got a big boy ferret that I named Brutus. A fluffy, clumsy brute with acid reflux. Yes, I had a ferret with chronic heartburn. He would wake Scylla and I up almost every night with these weird little gasping noises he made a few hours after eating. The breeder found out later that this was caused by acid reflux and that Brutus’s sire had the same condition.

When I moved out of my hellhole in Mount Oliver and into a nice efficiancy apartment, I was told by the elderly lady who signed the contracts that the clause in the lease that said only one cat allowed wasn’t strictly enforced and I could have Scylla and Brutus as long as they lived in a cage (my parents got them a four floor mansion to celebrate the move). Two months after moving in, the superintendant came to fix my phone jack, saw the ferrets and reported me to the landlords. They said that I had been misinformed and that the only acceptable pet was one cat. If I didn’t get rid of the ferrets I had a month to move out.

I begged and pleaded and offered to pay extra but they wouldn’t budge. Crushed, I called the breeder. Bless the man, he offered to take them back and even gave me a fifty dollar payment for their cage because he felt so bad. So the 15th of June that year, Mom and I loaded my babies into the car with their cage and drove them back to the house they were born in. I hugged them and cuddled them and said goodbye. The breeder offered to give them back if I could get out of my lease within the year, but I knew I was saying goodbye to them forever. They were in the best place for any ferret to be and I wouldn’t take them away from that.

I cried the whole five hour ride home. I fell asleep with the miniblinds and the window open that night and a breeze made the blinds clack together. I sat up and looked over to the corner where the cage used to be, looking for Brutus to be stumbling down to the litter box of Scylla climbing from the hammock to scratch an itch. But it was empty, and so was my heart. I’d had Scylla for almost 2 years and Brutus for about 7 months. I couldn’t sleep without they noises of bickering and dooking and clambering inside the cage. I couldn’t bring myself to wash my comforter because I needed the ferret smell to feel comfortable at night. I waited for a month and then decided that I needed a new pet.

(to be continued next Friday)