Does how we say good-bye make us better pet owners?

So yah, the fricken turkey gift basket.

Because of budget cuts, there almost wasn’t one for the marketing committee to give away. But after much debate, the Marketing Head decided to make a cut in another area: office supplies.

Whew.

This year, the turkey toss-up was between a male employee, Steve, and female employee, Kathy, who have dedicated their lives to saving cats. Not as a cat-saving duo but in their own respective corners of southeastern Connecticut. The committee didn’t spend much time vacillating between the two. Steve, a middle-aged man who lost both his father and his wife in the last two months, was the clear winner.

What we did spend time on was the wording of the congratulatory card. Let’s listen in:

Co-worker #1: “We should keep it simple. Like, wishing you a happy holiday.”

Co-worker #2: “No, no. We should say, we hope you have a happy holiday.”

Co-worker #3: “Is that even possible? The man is grieving.”

Co-worker #2: “Fine. In this time of loss, we still hope you have a nice holiday.”

Marketing Head: “Closer, but no.”

Co-worker #2: “Take time this holiday to reflect on happier times?”

Co-worker #3: “Now is the time to think about happier times?”

Marketing Head: “Let’s not talk him off the ledge, people.”

Co-worker #3: “I heard he has 17 cats in his house. Are we sure he’ll even cook the turkey?”

Co-worker #2: “Take pause to reflect?”

Co-worker #1: “I heard it was only 11. How about, enjoy your turkey?”

Co-worker #2: “Wishing you the best?”

Co-worker #1: “From us to you, with warm holiday wishes?”

Marketing Head: “People. The man is now alone with his cats. A card might not be enough. What we need is someone to say something in the spirit of warmth. What we need is a personal touch. Co-worker #1 and Mrs. Mullet, you will give him the basket and say something warm from the committee."

Co-worker #2: “What about the card?”

Marketing Head: “No card. We mailed him two condolence cards. That’s enough postage.”

Co-worker #3: “But the card is in the gift basket.”

Marketing Head: “That’s besides the point. The man has gotten enough cards from us.”

So it was. Last Tuesday, after I ate my 5,987,678 salad, my co-worker and I wheeled the gift basket on a mail trolley down to Steve’s office.

Not only did he not want our "charity", he didn’t want to hear our warm wishes. Steve told us flat out that he joined a support group for grieving spouses, and that no one had any business feeling sorry for themselves, including him.

He told us that he buried his wife—he didn’t divorce her—and that after 18 years of marriage, he and his wife should be considered a success story. Tears were unnecessary. People should be happy for him.

Then he tried to tell us a story about his favorite cat, Fang.

Co-worker #1: “So you don’t want the gift basket?”

“NO.”

As we wheeled the gift basket back to the boardroom, I had a Carrie Bradshaw moment. Did Steve have a point? Is seeing your spouse in a casket preferable to seeing him/her in the court room? If something happened to Chuck, would I take solace in the fact that we’d been separated by the universe, not by marital discord?

My initial thought was no, feeling like a marital success doesn’t ease the pain of losing someone you love. Still, I kind of admire Steve's outlook. After spending almost 20 years with someone, seeing your time together as an achievement, and not something lost, is kind of sweet.

Unless he was sick as all hell with her. That also could explain the ease of his acceptance.

What do you think?

Random Tuesday thoughts

Why do I like this meme so much? And how the hell does Tuesday keep coming up so fast?

I played Jesus in a church play when I was 11. I didn’t want to. I was the new girl at church and someone else got the part I wanted: the bush. At the time I thought Pontius Pilate flew airplanes.

What happened to the man who always wanted to shovel our driveway? Chuck bitched all yesterday morning about his aching back so we wrote “yes” on an index card, but he never showed up. I hope his crooked, wobbly leg didn’t cave in underneath him. You’d think Chuck wouldn’t want someone with a gimpy leg shoveling, but he likes it when other people do his yard work—especially the old Polish guy who mows the lawn and prunes the bushes. Chuck looks out the window and says, “I hope he doesn’t croak” but then tells him to come back in a few weeks. What’s up with Chuck? When we bought the house he said he loved yard work. And why when I wrote “yes” on the index card did I feel like at any moment someone might knock and ask me how much I charge?

Why did I dream last night that I was in a horror movie and that I was the only one who knew it? No one listened when I said that all the classic elements were there: a pool party, teenage chicks in bikinis, blaring music, someone walking around with a knife. For once, I was actually glad the cat woke me up with his meowing. Chuck wasn’t glad when I dug my nails into his thigh and told him if the cat didn’t stop I’d remove his vocal chords with my bare hands.

Speaking of cats, when did Chuck become the Cat Whisperer? No sooner had we brought the first stray he’d been feeding to the shelter than another three show up at our door. I don’t want to be the cat people. Maybe that’s why the shovel man didn’t come over—maybe he couldn’t see the index card over the tops of all the stray cats my husband is feeding. Or maybe he saw all the cats and didn’t think he could climb over them with his gimpy leg to get the shovel. Maybe I should write “the shovel’s by the road” on the next card.

On behalf of the 50,000 people participating in this brilliant meme, thank you Keely.

This town blows

I didn’t really need any more reasons to loathe this depressing town. The downtown blight and infestation of 99s and WalMarts get the job done. But just in case my antipathy was wavering, a nice young crystal meth addict helped sway me by robbing our house in the middle of the afternoon.

Yup. Last week said drug addict made his way up the street from downtown, kicked in our back door and stole all my jewelry. Thankfully Junior and I were out of the house. Thankfully my collection of jewels consisted of sterling silver, Diamonique earrings, and bangles, but the bastard did get a piece of jewelry that belonged to my great-great grandparents.

I was pleasantly surprised by the three police officers who pulled up to my house about 30 seconds after I called 911. They were polite, concerned, and surprisingly attractive (hey, it took my mind off the crime).

After examining each room, I noticed that they kept going back to the dining room. Curious, I wandered over to see what had their attention, which is when I overheard:

“Shit that’s a big cat.”

“Hell ya.”

“Did you see the other one? It’s even bigger.”

The officers were ogling my poor kitties! It’s not uncommon for people to come over and remark on the pleasant plumpness of our pets but these were people of the law. Shouldn’t they have been dusting for fingerprints? Snapping pictures? Calling the crime lab??

The officer noticed me in the doorway and asked, “What is that?”

“It’s a rag doll Coon Calico cat,” I lied. (I have no idea what breed our cats are. Someone gave them to me for free for Pete’s sake.)

“That’s a big cat.” He let out a low whistle.

“Are we done here?” I asked.

After they left I sat on the couch surrounded by my 25 pound son and two, 25 pound cats. It was 75 pounds of feeling better (for personal reasons I'm not factoring myself into that equation). For this piece of shit town, I'll take that. For now.

(I highly recommend Brink's if you need a security system. We just had one installed. Aside from the tech's commentary on Junior's inability to hold his own bottle—he can, he just doesn't want to—the experience was relatively painless.)