Every once in a while, when the store doesn’t quite have what I’m looking for, I make my own greeting cards. Today, I took a whole hour for lunch (the luxury!) and worked on these for my stinky little Skype buddies – my nephew Owen and my niece Penny who are turning three and two, respectively. Man, I love those kids. Theirs are likely the only cards that will arrive on time this year – no stamp required!

I don’t really buy into causes. I think it’s because, on a day-to-day, choice-by-choice basis, I try really hard to do The Right Thing and stubbornly expect other folks should be doing the same. And, it follows, if we’re all doing that – being good – we shouldn’t need causes. How d’ya like that logic?

Mostly, though, causes are just really annoying. Pit-marked by tunnel vision and awkward, naive passion not wholly unlike the post-adolescent variety that made you wail Indigo Girls lyrics into the dashboard of your parents’ American made auto (don’t say you didn’t), causes can be really exhausting and frankly, a bit embarrassing, for anybody who happens to be stuck in the passenger seat.

I mean, god love ya for all your feelings, but shut up already.

When I say I try really hard to do The Right Thing, I mean, I’m still a gigantic mess of a human being who makes mistakes and, if we’re being honest here,

• is not very good at recycling outside of the office
• uses paper products instead of a towel or sponge too often
• does not check the label before buying things made in China
• manages to leave her reusable shopping bags at home on shopping day like, 93% of the time

Among other things (oh, the glorious spectrum that is my imperfection).

What’s more, my motivation for doing The Right Thing doesn’t have as much to do with the greater good as it does a fear of consequences. Simply, doing The Right Thing means I’m not doing The Wrong Thing. And for me, there’s a lot of safety in that kind of validation.

An exception, interestingly enough, is that when it comes to animals, children, anybody or anything vulnerable or weak, my motivation is born of what I can only describe as a feeling of empathy so intense it borders on grief. I become consumed and overwhelmed by it.

I didn’t need to pay a professional to tell me why I am wired like this, but I did anyway. For validation, you see.

Empathy is why, after watching Food Inc., we don’t buy mass-market chicken, eggs, beef or any other livestock who has been subjected to the kinds of conditions that the folks at Tyson, et al, raise them in. I have no problem eating animals. But now that I know there’s a choice, I want them to have as close to a Little House on the Prairie existence as possible before it’s time for, you know, the dying. The images from that movie are burned into my brain, and probably burned into my husband’s brain is the memory of me, sitting on the couch, sobbing about how those poor chickens felt never going outside like chickens are supposed to. Think of how they feeeeeel. Not exactly the point of the film, I’m guessing.

Illogical hyper-empathy is also why, in the middle of a rainstorm, I will climb out of bed during the dead of night to build a cat fort out of painter’s tarp on my back deck. Because I won’t sleep if somewhere within my realm of responsibility, there are sick, scared, hungry or cold creatures. I mean, wild animals out in the wild? The horror, I know.

In light of yesterday’s post, please add to the above-listed imperfections:

• does not include rats on the list of animals she is responsible for preserving

And empathy is why I turned to my Dork Lord last night and said, “We can’t buy cheap chocolate anymore.”

“Okay.”

“Like, no Hershey’s or Reese’s Pieces or anything.”

“How come?”

Because I read this.

I didn’t even know. And the image of some little boy straining every muscle in his legs to lift a bag of cocoa beans so that I can give myself a headache from too many M&Ms is nauseating. I didn’t know and now I do and I’m sad. And because I don’t want that kind of suffering on my head, I’m out. I’m bound to falter (moments of weakness most likely related to late work nights and vending machines) but I will just keep trying harder so that when I close my eyes at night, I can say that I did everything I could to not hurt anyone else that day and, perhaps, save the silly bursts of panic for the neighborhood ferals.

I’m not telling you what to do, and I won’t get all cause-y about it (a stirring rendition of Language or the Kiss, anyone?) but if you’d want to know about cheap chocolate and child slavery, you can go read about it, too.

Rage Against the Minivan link via Helen Jane‘s twitter.

I spent the last week in Key West, keeping my fingers well pruned and off a computer keyboard. Sometimes a girl just needs to disconnect. Especially after working 65 hours the week before. That was… fun. I actually really like my job and the people I work for/with, so putting in a bunch of extra hours in the name of turning out a good product doesn’t bother me. But it turns out that physically, you can’t work 7AM to 11PM several days in a row and maintain… well, anything. A good attitude or sense of humor, a household or even appropriate caffeine to food intake ratios. I was a disaster. A twitchy-eyed, cranky disaster.

But now! Now I am well rested, appropriately caffeinated and trying to get back into the swing of things at work. Only, I’m totally distracted thinking about rats.

Oh, yes, you read that right. RATS.

This morning as I went to leave for work, I looked up from my car to see actual, gigantic, thick tailed rats walking on the window ledges of my neighbor’s house and immediately felt every hair on my body stand on end. I mean, rats. On the house. Next door. First, I freaked out and ran inside to my be-toweled husband who said he was unsurprised – the yard next door is in a state of serious neglect and the amount of rain we’d gotten over the last couple of days simply drove the vermin upwards. Totally un-comforted, I ran back outside.

“Mama!” I hollered. “C’mere, Mama!”

As Mama Cass came running, with her bow-legged little trot, from where she’d taken shelter on our back deck (I made a tent for her and the Last Wild Kitten out of a blue tarp and some patio furniture and while sure, it looks like we’ve got squatters, I just couldn’t stand the idea of them out in that rain) and I realized two things:

1) Mama is not a whole lot bigger than one of those damned rats and

2) Omg, thank the baby j that I have wild cats living in my yard

Mama Cass took after that nasty thing in a blink and, having seen Mama Cass yank a bird out of mid-air once, I was filled with every confidence that she and the LWK would soon be snacking on wild beasties. At the very least, she will keep them on their side of the fence.

Which all leads to the very important question:

Is there such a thing as anti-vermin traps or poisons that won’t hurt Mama and her kitten?

I feel like we should be pretty aggressive about keeping those horrid creatures away from our home, but I won’t do anything to compromise the health and safety of our officially unofficial pets. You know, the ones I’m considering buying a dog house for so they won’t get so wet and fine, probably even an electric blanket because cold is not an option either. SUCKER.

In a surprising bout of spontaneity, I took an unplanned, whirlwind trip to New York this weekend. Sure, now I have this nagging voice going on and on about what that does to my carbon footprint, flying across the country for like, 24 hours of capriciousness, but that’s neither here nor there. Plus, I picked up some nasty little bug so that must even things out a bit with the Universe.

Last week, E (or Ari, for you fishblog veterans) had to put her dog to sleep. She was so sad and, having just been through that surreal bit of horribleness, it ate at me that I wasn’t there to ugly cry with her. And then self medicate with Apple Jacks. Whenever I toy with the idea of finding super cheap airline deals, I’m always disappointed. But this time, I lucked out and scored some $49 tickets on an airline that wouldn’t even let me take a carry on (that woulda been another $60-$90) or choose a seat ($40, please). Like I cared. I didn’t need anything more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes. Look at me being so free-wheeling!

So off I went, and when E walked in to her apartment on Saturday and there I was just sitting lah-di-dah on her sofa, well it pains me to say I didn’t record her reaction. She stood there for the longest minute looking confused and WTF-ing.  She told me later she thought she’d imagined me there. Surprise well executed.  Because it was so last minute, I was also able to show up, unannounced, at a friend’s Willow-watching party and get so much hugging in, I filled the reserves.

The Dork Lord sometimes worries that I want to be back in New York. And even I, knowing better, sometimes wonder what it would be like, living among my people again, under a whole different set of circumstances. It can seem a bit rosy. There’s a lot of love there. But then I ride the subway. And I’m out. No. Thank you. It’s why I left, in part, because I found myself clenching my jaw just to keep from screaming, “Stop touching me!” every time I hit the pavement or descended into the hot, smelly subway.  New York is really no place for the part-time misanthrope.

I’m allergic to cats.

Hahahahahahah. Oh, man. That’s pretty precious, right? More on that later.

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, stuff I can’t really talk about here because I’ve still got some sorting out to do. No, I’m not pregnant and seriously, if one more person suggests it, whether online or in person (I’ve put on some weight, yes. But it’s cheese and beer not a goddamned baby, okay?) I’m going to completely lose my composure and do something… well, very un-composed. TAKE THAT.

Because I’ve been so distracted, I’ve been a little more tweety lately, so if you want to read me wax brilliant on the company potty, toothpaste and diamonds, that’s where you can go to get your fix.

Otherwise, I’ve been spending my internet time planning home improvements I can’t afford and stalking a Kate Spade handbag, waiting for it to go on sale for many, many fewer dollars. The home improvements thing is kind of lather rinse repeat, but the bag thing is new. I’m not usually one to lust after labeled luxury goods (I happily wear Target shoes and spend more money getting them resoled than I actually spent on them in first place) but that’s how you know it’s love, right?  I saw this bag and then the heavens opened and fat little angels sang me a song about how if I owned it, all my troubles would cease. And I believe them.  However, having spent upwards of a thousand dollars in the last month or two on cats who do not even live with us I’m fairly certain that if I buy that bag and it’s not at a screaming deal, I’m going to have a screaming husband. Or a sulking one. You know. He’s been so patient with the cat lady thing, I can’t even tell you. Probably because I warned him that for every time he watched his recordings of the NBA finals I would rescue another kitten. And he’s WAY up on that count.

And, we’re back to the part where I realize I’m allergic to cats but it never came up because Hal (Sir Halitosis Maximus, the Grand Duke of Bad Breath) has some protein in his saliva that makes it stink like death and goat cheese and sweaty teenage boys which also counteracts the dander and blah blah, he’s essentially hypoallergenic.  Midge is not. And she’s going to learn to love baths.