Lisa Kern's Open Salon Blog

Catnapping

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 12:01:22 -0500

All I wanted was a nap. I’d been thinking about it all day at work, and now that I was finally home, I was determined to sneak in a nap before I had to make dinner.

I went into my bedroom and was surprised to see the cat curled in a ball on my pillow. Even though he looked adorable and quite comfy, I gently picked him up and moved him to the other side of the bed. Before I’d gotten my glasses off and my body into bed, however, he was back, once again curled up on my pillow.

I picked him up and put him on the floor. I lay down quickly before he had a chance to jump back in my spot. Blissfully, I closed my eyes.

My peaceful moment was soon interrupted by what felt like a sack of socks landing on my chest with a plop. It was the cat with his face about an inch from mine.

I shooed the cat onto the floor and closed my eyes. Closed eyes are apparently an act of aggression in a cat's world. The next thing I knew, he sent my glasses flying off the nightstand and onto the floor with a single swipe of his paw.

Of course, the very fact that I need glasses means that I had a hard time finding my glasses. I felt around with my hand on the floor until I found the landing spot of my glasses which happened to be inside my shoe.

I glared at the cat and lay back down. I was thinking about how comfortable and warm my bed was when I heard a scrinch, scrinch, scrinch sound.

What now? I put on my glasses and jumped out of bed. This time, the cat was munching on a plastic bag inside the waste basket. Evidently those plastic grocery store bags come in a tasty tuna flavor because he was chewing mightily on it.

I put the trash can out in the hall, closed my bedroom door, and tried once more to take my nap. I'd just barely fallen asleep when I was awoken by the sensation of something soft hitting my nose every few seconds.

I opened my eyes but stayed very still. Sure enough, it was the cat, playfully tapping my nose with his paw and then quickly ducking out of my field of vision on the side of the bed.

"OK, cat, that's it. You win. No nap for me today." I put on my glasses and got out of bed.

As I looked back at my bed, there was the cat, curled into a ball on my pillow. I'm pretty sure I saw him smiling.

At least one of us will be well-rested. Too bad it won't be me.

A cheeseburger with a side of karma

Wed, 4 Jan 2012 16:01:49 -0500

Once in a while, I'm not a nice person.

OK, OK...I'm frequently not a nice person. I complain about The Way Things Are (a lot,) I can be cranky and unpleasant, and I totally stink at remembering to be grateful for all that I have.

Lately, it feels as if I've had more than my share to complain about. From money woes to banks behaving badly to politicians who can't seem to do the right thing, life these days is a veritable smorgasbord of suckiness.

The other day, as my son Evan and I were out doing errands, the background noise in my head continued to remind me of How Bad Things Are, as if I might forget. Like a scratched vinyl record, the latest round of unfair events kept repeating, over and over, in spite of my efforts to silence them.

My mental pity party was interrupted by my son's voice: "Can we stop somewhere for lunch, Mom? I'm really hungry." Because we'd left the house in a rush, Evan didn't have a chance to eat breakfast.

I thought about my anemic finances. I had $130 in my wallet which had to last until next pay day, and I still needed gas, groceries, and dog food. We had no business stopping anywhere to eat. Still, Evan was hungry. What sort of mother would I be if I didn't get him something to eat? I decided to stop at a local burger place.

My mood worsened when I saw the manager pull a table apart from two others, leaving only six inches between us and a table of young people. I wanted to be as far away as possible from other people and yet, here we were, forced to practically share a table with three total strangers.

As we looked at the menu, I mentally tabulated our meal, feeling guilty for what seemed an extravagance in a week full of nothing but scarcity.

Our food arrived as the people next to us were given their bill. A young man in the group took a credit card out of his wallet and handed the bill back to the manager to pay it.

"I'm sorry," said the manager, handing the bill and the credit card back to him. "Our credit card machine isn't working today. You'll have to pay with cash." He left the bill on the table and walked away as the three of them began checking purses, pockets, and wallets for enough money to pay the bill.

Since we were sitting so close to one another, I could hear their panicked words at not having enough cash.

And that's when it happened, the granddaddy-of-all-nudges to do something good: You should pay their bill.

Seriously? Me? I can't afford to pay their bill. I'm worried about having to pay my own!

The nudge became more insistent: Pay their bill.

But what if they think I'm crazy if I tell them I'm going to pay their bill?

PAY. THEIR. BILL.

Fine! I'll pay the bill if they don't have enough money.

I took a deep breath and turned toward the table next to ours.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but do you have enough money to pay your bill?"

All three of them looked at each other, unsure how to respond. A young man in the group said, "Well, actually, we don't."

Oh boy. Now I was definitely committed. Remembering the insistence of my do-good nudge, I blurted out, "I'm going to buy your lunch."

"Wait...what?"

"I'll pay for your lunch. How much is it?"

I peered over at the check. $31.02. I felt relief that I had enough cash in my wallet to pay for both our food and theirs.

I grabbed the check, feeling completely certain of my decision.

"I'm totally serious about this. I know this sounds crazy, but something just told me to pay for your lunch, so that's what I'm doing."

They looked at each other in disbelief, then took turns protesting: You can't do that! We'll figure it out. It's OK. One of us will go find an ATM.

I pulled out some cash, put it with their bill, and handed it to the manager, who gave me a puzzled look. "They're a little short of cash so I'm paying for their lunch."

When the group realized that I did, indeed, pay for their lunch, they were relieved and appreciative. One girl said, "I just don't understand why you did that. No one would pay the bill of total strangers!"

"Well, maybe they should," I said. By this point, I was feeling great, as if I'd just received a booster shot of compassion, generosity, and goodwill.

The young man said, "Thank you so much for this. How can we repay you?"

"Just be happy about it, and do something nice for someone else when you have a chance."

They left amid a chorus of thank-yous and promises to do good deeds of their own.

Evan, who had witnessed the whole thing, was blown away. "Wow, that was really nice of you! I can't believe you paid for their lunch."

Suddenly, I was filled with all of the reasons why I HAD to pay for their lunch. I hadn't seen them before, but now they were crystal clear to me, as if I'd just become part of a great knowing. I wasn't about to miss this teachable moment for my son.

"You know, Evan, there's so much in the world that needs our help. I get discouraged a lot of the time because usually, the problems are too big for a person like me to fix. Helping out those people? That was one problem that I could fix."

Driving home, Evan and I continued to talk about good deeds, and how fabulous you feel after doing one, and how you don't need to have tons of money to help others. We imagined all three of those young people doing their own good deeds, spreading positive ripples farther and farther into a world of people starved for a touch of goodness and light.

Honestly, there is nothing that I could have bought for $30.00 that would have given me greater joy.

Absolutely nothing.

^{*photo by Lisa Kern, 2011}

Adventures in Cat Rescuing

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 07:12:18 -0500

For those of you following along at home, we still have FrodoJoseKitty, the stray cat who showed up at our door a couple of weeks ago. We made the decision that no matter how long he stays with us, he needs to be neutered. Concern about pet overpopulation combined with the overwhelming stink of an intact male tomcat made this an easy decision.

Last Thursday night, we had to take him to the veterinarian’s office for his pre-neuter exam.

Everyone in my family conveniently had something else to do that night. Everyone except my youngest son, Evan, that is.

“So, Evan, are you going to help me take FrodoJoseKitty to the vet tonight?”

“I guess so. What do I have to do?”

“Well, for one thing, I need help getting him into the cat carrier.” This was particularly angst-worthy because the carrier was a cardboard one that opened from the top. It would be exactly like putting a cat in a box because we would be, technically, putting a cat in a box. I was not looking forward to it at all.

I could tell that Evan was already regretting his decision to help me. “How are we going to get him in there? Won’t he scratch us?”

“I think if you open the flaps and I lower him in, it will be OK. “ I tried to sound as convincing as possible. I didn’t want Evan skipping out on me.

When the time came to put the cat in the carrier, I put on my heaviest coat and longest gloves so that I’d be fully covered in case he tried to scratch me. I considered wearing one of my husband Dan’s full-face welding helmets but decided that might be a bit excessive.

Evan and I brought the box into the room where the cat was and put it on the floor. FrodoJoseKitty rubbed against it with his chin and meowed. So far, so good.

“Maybe you should put some treats in there,” suggested Evan.

I tossed a few kitty treats inside the box, figuring it couldn’t hurt. Next thing I knew, FrodoJoseKitty leapt into the box and began eating the kitty treats. Evan and I quickly closed the lid and looked at one another in amazement. Putting this cat in a box couldn’t have gone any easier.

We congratulated ourselves on our cat-handling brilliance all the way to the car. Evan got in first and I put FrodoJoseKitty’s box on the floor between his feet for the trip to the vet. “Just keep an eye on him,” I said. “He should be OK but watch in case he tries to come out the top of the box.”

You know the saying, “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?” Well, whoever said that never had to drive an irritated feline in a box to the vet’s office in the dark. If he had, he would realize that an angry cat is much, much worse and way more difficult to contain.

I don’t know if it was the sound of the car engine or the vibration or the dark or what, but FrodoJoseKitty was seriously annoyed. He wanted out of that box and he wanted out now. The top of the box flexed outward at the same time that cat paws were coming out of every air hole opening. How could the cat have a paw out of every hole and his head pushing against the top of the box, all at the same time? Evan struggled to keep the lid securely closed as the cat struggled mightily to escape.

Of course, we were stopped by every single red light on the way to the vet’s in order to enjoy our collective misery for as long as possible.

Just as FrodoJoseKitty was about to burst through the top of the cat carrier, we pulled into a parking space at the vet’s office. Thankfully, he seemed to chill out when I turned the car off.

Once inside the examination room, we were able to let him out of the box. He eagerly explored the room until it came time for his check-up.

The doctor asked us what we knew about his history and began the examination. FrodoJoseKitty became agitated by her poking and prodding so she gave him some kitty treats to snack on while she continued. After estimating his age at one year and pronouncing him healthy, she left the room so that the technician could come in and tell us how much the neuter and vaccinations would cost us. I guess she didn’t want to be implicated in the heart attack they were about to cause me. Cat rescuing is apparently not for financially-challenged folks like me.

As soon as the door closed behind her, FrodoJoseKitty made his move. With a great calculated leap, he jumped up onto the counter where the kitty treats were stored. Evan and I watched in disbelief as he batted the bag out of its storage place, unrolled it with his paw, and stuck his entire face inside, happily munching on his hard-earned prize.

We returned the next day to retrieve the cat after his neutering. The vet, knowing that we were trying to find a home for FrodoJoseKitty, gave us certificates “for his new owner’s records” confirming that he’d been neutered and vaccinated.

Today is day 14 of CATivity. FrodoJoseKitty is healing from his surgery and enjoys lounging on his new catnip-infused scratching pad in the sunshine. He greets me with a sweet meow whenever I enter the room and rewards me with a strong purr whenever I feed or hold him.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he’s already found his new home.

The Christmas Cat

Fri, 23 Dec 2011 23:12:27 -0500

The Universe dropped off a cat at my back door the other night.

Actually, it wasn't the Universe at all but a woman from the hair salon next to my house. She and others at the salon had seen the cat hanging around between our properties and assumed that it was mine.

In spite of my efforts to convince her that it was not my cat and I couldn't possibly take it in, I somehow found myself sitting in my kitchen holding this strange creature when my husband came home. It might have had something to do with the fact that every time I said, "Here Kitty," the cat came running to me. I can resist many things but cute is not one of them. Besides, not even my kids come running to me when I call them.

Let's be clear: I did not want a cat, I did not request a cat, and I had no idea what to do with a cat. I'm what you would call a dog person. I adore dogs and have owned and loved many wonderful canines throughout my life. My current companion, Bailey, is an overly exuberant labradoodle who remains convinced that every person she meets exists specifically to make friends with her. I often wish that I could be more like my dog: she has honestly never met a person that she didn't like.

Cats, unfortunately, are another story. Bailey doesn't like cats, not even one tiny bit, which makes the fact that there is now a cat living in my house all the more interesting.

My husband wanted to know what brand of mental illness would possess me to take in a stray cat knowing that we'd have to keep it separate from the dog.

We've been down this road before. Just recently, we had to care for my mother's cat for two months while her flood-damaged house was repaired following Hurricane Irene. The cat had to stay in my son's Matt room as it was the only room with a door that was large enough in our circa 1830 house to hold a kid, a cat, and a litterbox. More than once Bailey pushed past us as we tried to enter Matt's room, scaring the cat and threatening to shorten at least one of his nine lives.

Once again, I had to ask Matt to share his room with a cat. Although he initially rejected the idea, stating that he'd "done his time", he agreed to let the cat stay. Then it was off to Walmart for cat supplies. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with the cat, but I knew that I at least had to feed him. As if to prove my point, the cat was so hungry that he climbed right into Bailey's raised dog dish and began eating dog food as fast as he could.

Since his arrival, I've called the local vets, shelters, friends, neighbors, and lost pet places that I could think of to see if anyone has reported this cat missing. I've placed ads online with his photo hoping that someone would recognize their long-lost pet. I've fed him, and fed him, and fed him some more. I've learned firsthand that what goes in one end most definitely comes out the other end. Cleaning the litter box multiple times a day has been added to my already overscheduled to-do list.

Our efforts have paid off. The cat has gained weight and I can no longer feel every rib and vertebrae on him. He's rested up from his outdoor adventure and likes to show his appreciation by pouncing on Matt while he's sleeping. Life is good with a warm home and a full belly and now he wants to play. A lot.

Although there's no way we can keep him, I figure he'll have a better shot at being adopted if I have him neutered, so that's where he's going. Merry Christmas, Kitty: you're about to lose some dangly bits but you'll gain a life free of unwanted reproduction.

When I called to set up an appointment to have him neutered, the woman who took my call at the vet's office asked what we've been calling him.

"Well, that's a funny story," I said. "My one son named him 'Frodo,' my other son named him 'Jose,' and I call him 'Kitty' because whenever I do, he comes running. Put it all together and you have 'FrodoJoseKitty,' which is what we've been calling him ."

"That's the best name ever!" she laughed. "I'm going to put it on his chart just like that."

And that is how he officially became known as FrodoJoseKitty.

So FrodoJoseKitty is almost ready for someone to adopt him. I don't know why I was given the challenge of caring for a homeless cat a week before Christmas or how his story will ultimately end. Maybe his arrival, rather than being a gift for me, means that I'm supposed to give a gift to him. Maybe it's my turn to play Santa to a cat left homeless through no fault of his own. After all, second chances shouldn't be reserved just for humans.

Murder in the Produce Section

Mon, 10 Oct 2011 07:10:22 -0400

"I think we should kill it." Against the backdrop of muzak in our local grocery store, these words, spoken by my son, couldn't have been more out of place. Yet there we were, eleven-year-old Evan and I, contemplating murder in the midst of colorful fruit and the curious stares of other shoppers.

"I know," I agreed. "But how?" Evan didn't have to think about it very long. "The shopping cart! We could run it over with the shopping cart."

The object of our homicidal thoughts remained motionless on the floor between us as if waiting to learn its fate. It was a jumping spider; thick, black, hairy, and the size of a quarter. It had either hitched a ride into the store on one of us or else it had been hiding out inside the bag of grapes I'd picked up.

Whichever way it arrived, I had no idea of its presence until Evan warned me of its descent on a silken thread from the grapes to the floor just inches from my feet.

This was a very big deal. I do not like spiders. No, scratch that. I detest spiders. My father, in an apparent attempt to ensure I'd need lifelong therapy, once chased me around the yard with a big black spider when I was five. I've been terrified of them ever since. Jumping spiders are especially frightening since they have the potential to jump on me.

"I don't know, Evan. If we try to run it over with the shopping cart, it may jump onto the cart and get in our groceries." Visions of the spider laughing at us while safely concealed in the corner of one of our reusable shopping bags flashed through my mind. No way did I want to chance taking this bad boy home with us.

Evan and I continued to stare at the spider, who had now decided to make a break for his freedom. Both of us shrieked and jumped back, further impeding grocery store traffic and drawing even more attention to ourselves.

By this time, we had managed to completely block the produce section, with Evan and I about six feet apart, the spider between us, and our shopping cart horizontally parked another four feet away between the bananas and the tomatoes.

A few shoppers tried to venture up the aisle but then decided against it. Their avoidance might have had something to do with our screams and the ongoing discussion of murder.

"This is getting ridiculous," I said. "There must be something we can do to get rid of this spider."

Evan took off his shoe. "I know. I'll kill it with my shoe." He raised his shoe to take aim at the spider.

"But what if you miss?" I warned. "What if the spider jumps inside your shoe?"

Evan stopped for a moment and reconsidered. Then, in his most fearless, serious voice, he declared, "I've got to give it a try, Mom."

I stepped back as Evan positioned himself for optimal striking distance of the spider. I held my breath as he lifted the shoe above his head and aimed at the hapless creature on the floor between us. When it felt right, he threw the shoe, miraculously hitting the spider.

Yes! We jumped up and down, high-fiving each other and squealing with delight. Evan's shoe plan had worked. I knew that it had to have a doozy of a headache, but was the spider really dead?

I tiptoed over to Evan's shoe, which was now lying on its side in front of the banana section. I carefully lifted the shoe. The spider was gone! I dropped the shoe and backed away, worried that the spider might have somehow jumped inside the shoe.

"I can't find the spider," I whispered, in case the spider might hear me. "I swear that I saw you hit it but now it's gone."

Not wanting to consider the possibility that the spider had either escaped to freedom or was somewhere inside Evan's shoe, we both just stood there, unsure of what to do next.

After a few minutes, it was clear to me that we had to settle this. For one thing, Evan needed his shoe back, and for another, I needed to finish up the grocery shopping because I had to pee. Don't laugh; I'm sure if you look throughout history, many famous battles were swiftly resolved because someone had to pee.

I walked over to the shoe again and turned it over. No spider. I held the shoe by its heel and bravely shook it, trying to shake the spider out. Nothing happened. As I went to put the shoe down, a dark spot on the outer edge of it caught my eye. It was the spider, smashed up and definitely dead.

As we congratulated ourselves on our spider-killing prowess, we became more aware of the people staring at us and what they were probably thinking.

Evan put his shoe back on, careful not to touch the spider guts. Then he did what anyone would do: he hobbled over to the only piece of carpet in the produce section and wiped that spider right off.

Evan once told me that the best way to kill a spider is to crush it with a tissue, throw it in the toilet, and then pee on it. Evidently, the next best way is to hit it with a shoe in the middle of the produce section at the grocery store.

^{Evan with the murder weapon.}