The L Word

I'm a big believer in that you never know how bad---or how good---a situation or a time in your life was until you've come out on the other side. I was going to blog about a breakthrough I had with Pough, and then I got into an instant message conversation with my old roommate.

Instantly, my chest got tight and I got nervous. Then I realized how much more relaxed I am when I'm not in communication with her, and how GLAD I am that we're not living together anymore. It's so funny, because I made excuses for her the last six months we lived together, saying "Oh she's not so bad". I can't do that anymore--she's THAT bad. I've never really forgiven her for not allowing ME to move out when I wanted to, and now her behavior is to the point where I don't even want to be friends with her. So much drama, and too little time on my hands to deal with it. Part of me wants to throw her stuff on the street tonight and change the locks, but I won't. I'm a better person than that. But when it's time to renew the lease, I'm going to wash my hands of her.

What actually got me thinking about not knowing what you're going through is a conversation with my best friend Lori on Thursday. Lately, our conversations have been about her wedding and problems with her fiancee. But on Thursday, it turned to me. My relationship with Pough nearly ended last Tuesday night because I fucked up. I did something that I knew he would be pissed about, and told him, essentially just fucked up really bad.

But Pough forgave me. I had a pivotal moment Tuesday night, where I mimicked the exact same gesture I made on Todd's back the night he broke up with me. I sat there in the dark, thinking "will i ever have this man back again?" with one of my palms flat on his back, below his shoulder blades. But this time, things were different. The next morning, Pough held me tight. I don't actually remember feeling more emotional when a guy held me, or having a guy hold me that way. We didn't want to go to work because we didn't want to let go. The sheer capacity of this man to forgive amazed me. And because of a conversation with Lori, I realized that for the past couple of months, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop with Pough, essentially waiting for us to break up.

I've been too scared to imagine a relationship without end. What's even worse is that I was constantly telling myself, "this can't be love because it doesn't feel like what I felt with Todd". But what Lori told me is that the second love of your life is nothing like your first. She should know, she's marrying hers. And I'm with mine.

After discussing our feelings at a bar in the West Village, saying that we didn't think we loved each other, Pough said something perfect while waiting for the F train at the West 4th Street stop. The next thing I knew, the L word which I accidentally blurted out at New Years Eve and has been on the tip of my tongue ever since, fell out. He said it back, kissed me, and held me tight until the train arrived and the doors opened.

Now, Pough is definitely not what I expected for Meg's Great Love #2. But a guy that loves the Mets and beer, wants to meet my parents, thinks I'm the greatest thing in the world, and treats my friends with kindness deserves my love alot more than the first guy did.

The moral of the story is that life is good right now. And I've finally come to realize JUST how good it is. So good that I don't have time to blog... but I'll try to be better.

And now, an update on the Cat in the Cage:
Jasper's accustomed to his new living. He whines when he doesn't get fed, but otherwise he's pretty quiet. He's on his new diet, so he may emerge on Tuesday a sleeker version of himself, although I doubt it. I'm guessing he'll pee outside of the catbox within 2 hours of release. And then it's back to Pennsylvania for him!

Cat in a Cage, Day One

I've spent over $300 this week on my cat, Jasper, who is currently lying, uber pissed off, in a dog kennel/cage right now in our living room.

Why? Because he peed. A total of three times on my bed, four times on the couch, once on my new roomie E's bed and then, the kicker: on a comforter on my bedroom floor while Pough & I were trying to sleep.

I brought him to the vet first ($289) who didn't believe me and E when we said that he doesn't eat very much (Jasper is 20 pounds, which for a cat is obese) and then critiqued my theory that all these problems could medical. So he suggested a diet for Jas, switching him from dry to wet cat food (wet food apparently has half the calories of dry. Who knew?).

"We'll do the Xrays and the tests," said the vet, "But it's probably an emotional problem. We can prescribe him Valium..."

Umm, excuse me? Valium? FOR A CAT? I can think of many reasons this is a super bad idea, starting with the fact that I could theoretically take all the Valium (I am, after all, 6 times Jasper's weight exactly). When we walked out, E offered up this info that her mom's cat is on Xanax...

Jesus. So faced with the Valium prescription and a stern lecture on Jasper's dental health (very, very bad) I went home. Jasper was sweet the rest of the day, but promptly peed the next morning on my bed. Can you imagine? It's Monday morning, and I have to haul all three of my comforters to the laundromat (including one I just got back from the laundry last week) all because my cat is angry???

After I went to work, I emailed the lady I got Jasper from, who is part of a nonprofit pet adoption agency in Pennsylvania. She suggested the cage idea. Get a dog kennel, put his food and a small litter box in there, and leave him locked up for a week. (Target: $60).

The theory is that he'll learn that he HAS to pee in his cat box, else he sits in his own excrement all day. I'm the perfect jailer, and am determined not to change the towel on the bottom of our little Guantanamo Bay. I don't even speak to him when I put more food and water in.

If this punishment doesn't work, the lady I adopted him from said we could do a kitty exchange for one that would be more appropriate living here. I'm happy to do that, but sad to lose my big, fat, angry cat.

Pictures to come tomorrow... does anyone else find this situation completely ridiculous?

Before I went to Boston on Thursday, I was concerned with the four-hour trip on the Chinatown bus with Pough (both ways!) and upsetting his friend Nick (who recently broke up with someone) with our coupley ways.

Well, I shouldn't have been concerned. The Fung Wa bus was AWESOME. Pough and I were perfect co-travelers, holding hands while listening to separate Ipods. We enjoyed each other's company all the way there by making random Fung Wa jokes and counting the miles to a rest stop in Connecticut to avoid the bus bathroom.

Boston, I suspect mostly because of our host, sucked. We went to Nick's in Cambridge (home of Harvard and more schools than you could shake a stick at) on Thursday night, and everything seemed fine. Then Friday, Pough & I hung out by ourselves all day while our host was at work, getting lost and then spending the afternoon in a local watering hole which, to our dismay, did not have "Born to Run" on its jukebox.

But Friday night? Dud, except for fantastic thai that Pough & I were too drunk to appreciate. Saturday night? Pough and I got in one set of music I really dug (old folk/bluegrass tunes) at a cool bar while watching Nick and his new girlfriend Amanda pass esoteric notes to each other. Sunday? I whispered, "let's get the hell out of here" at 10 am when Nick kindly reminded us it was getting late.

On the Fung Wa back, Pough and I discussed the trip and the weird vibe we were getting from Nick. We didn't necessarily feel unwelcome, but he wasn't rushing to show us the things that we wanted to see either, or do the things we wanted to do (go out for big breakfasts and be lushes with the locals, hearing thick accents along the way).

We barely went in to Boston, which is a problem for me. When I visit a major city, I want to see the things I know and the elements/neighborhoods/sights that make it unique. We barely went to Boston Common, and I would have loved to spend more time in its funky neighborhoods rather than walk for hours around Cambridge back and forth between Nick's apartment and the bars because he likes to walk (and I suspect is too broke for a car).

That being said, when Pough & I got back to New York we were happy even though our subway train was stopped forever because someone had a medical emergency and we ended up hailing a cab. When we sat down to watch movies on Sunday night, it was my favorite part of the weekend.

I still have my doubts about Pough (will I ever love him, or will I just break his heart?) but I'm keeping on the straight track with him, because maybe this could be it. Waking up in his arms for four straight days didn't bother me at all. This trip just makes me look forward to spending 10 days with him in June when we trek out to Wisconsin.

MLK in MA

Add one more state to my repetoire: Massachusetts.

This weekend, Pough & I are headed up to Cambridge (home of Harvard) to visit his friend Nick. I'm scared as hell to not only spend 4 hours in a bus with Pough but also stay at his friend's house for three days. His friend Nick was nice enough when I met him (he's actually the most similar to me: he works in a foreign-language bookstore) but still, three days with the guy? I'm bringing a couple manuscripts in case I get sick of the boys.

Although I'm nervous, I'm really excited. I've heard so much about Boston from Mishy. I'm looking forward to walking on Boston Common, and drinking in a variety of pubs. Seeing the famed Ivy Leagues for the first time won't be too bad either.

Here goes a test run of a committed relationship with Pough, where we visit each other's friends in faraway places (gulp). At least I can get him back by taking him to Wisconsin in June. I'm starting to think that there's absolutely no reason why he won't last that long.

In the past week I've been very busy. On Thursday, I walked in to my bosses' boss and asked her to give me a promotion, a raise, and editorial control over 2 books. On Friday, she did. The decision on whether or not to follow my boss to Hudson Street finally happened and I chose to stay.

But beyond that, I called my mom last night to discuss what had happened (and to be honest, why she didn't sound too thrilled about it). She prefaced this story about my dad and uncles with, "we didn't want to bother you since you were making such a big decision..." and I'm going to preface it with that my uncle David is one of my favorite relatives, my favorite uncle by far (considering I have 10 biological uncles, that's saying alot!).

On the day I left Wisconsin, my dad, uncle Dave and uncle Dan were all ice fishing. My dad and Dave both have ice shanties on Lake Alice, which is between the two towns (merrill and tomahawk) where my mom and my dad, respectively, grew up. Lake Alice is ringed with houses, both summer and year-round, so they didn't suspect too much when a dog came over without an owner in sight and started playing with them. My uncle Dave threw a stick for the dog, but stopped when the owner, a woman, came into view and started to call for the dog. She had to get really close to them and the dog in order to get the dog to come with her (actually grab its collar). My dad and his brothers laughed at a joke Dave probably made, and the woman shouted back something along the lines of "you think this is funny? I have a two year old in the car, fuck you!"

Well the guys were taken aback, but they didn't do anything wrong, so they went on with their fishing (and drinking beer). When the sun began to set, they went back to my dad's ice shanty and started playing cards. Two games in, someone pounded on the door. They thought it was my uncle Matt messing with them, so they laughed and laughed harder when they wouldn't open the door.

I was in that ice shanty a few days before, and it's small. There's a wood stove in one corner, and some wood along that wall. You can fit up to five people sitting but its only about 6 feet tall in the middle. Because the wood stove gets truly hot in that small of a space, my dad constructed a door out the back that is on hinges at the bottom (picture the way a dollhouse opens up).

Next thing my family knew, the window was broken and a guy yelled, "You've been screwing with my wife?" (or something like that). Then the husband and his friend came in and literally beat up my dad and my uncles.

The lantern was thrown to the floor and went out--the guy punched my dad, then threw Dave out the previously closed back door. Dave landed on the ice and was stunned while Dan was thrown up against the wall (and Dan is no small guy!). My dad couldn't really return the punches because the husband's friend was wearing a snowmobile helmet (which, in case you don't know, is about the size and hardness of a motorcycle helmet) and started kicking him while he was down.

When it was all said and done, they called the cops and went to their respective doctors. My dad was the worst off--he has a bruised liver, cracked ribs, and a shiner that stretched from one eye across the bridge of his nose to nearly the other one. Dave, who just had his teeth fixed, has to have over $3,000 of dental work to fix what they did to his nose and mouth. My uncle Dan had a huge bump on his head that gave him a headache for four straight days.

My dad and uncles identified the family by the dog in their yard (they weren't home when the cops brought them over there) and by looking the address up in these plat books we have out in the boondocks that show who owns what land in the county. But then my mom said, "if we can find them that easily why can't they?" and for the first time since we've lived in the country, my dad locked every deadbolt in our house. The cops still haven't arrested the guy, but given the holidays my mom understands the delay.

My brother, who is a big 21 year old guy, wanted vengeance with my uncle Dave, but the rest of the fam talked them down. Meanwhile, halfway across the country, I can't get over it.

Not only does this call into question my general view of humanity (where there's always going to be assholes) but also the mortality of my family. My dad will be 52 on Thursday, and he could have been hurt a lot worse. What if those men had been crazy enough to have guns? What if they get madder after one of them is arrested?

Not to mention the emotional impact. Back in the day, my dad and his brothers were a tough crew. Everyone knows about how the boys got beat up--my uncle Mark, who is my mom's brother, works for the city of Merrill and heard about it within 2 days. None of them slept the first night. I wonder how my dad is going to take his own immortality and this, a physical fall from grace if nothing else.

It certainly scared the shit out of me. And I live in New York.