How to run a cat out of town

Our little Ava

You've met Ava. She's the intellectually challenged cat we took in a number of years ago. I took pity on Ava late one night and fed her. The next day, she was back with a dozen suitcases, a rollaway bed and a list of rules. My advice to you: Never feed a stray cat.

Life with Ava requires:

- Only petting her while she's eating.
- Never picking her up.
- Refraining from taking photographs of her. It bores her.
- Never asking her to do long division.
- Absolutely never sneaking up on her while she's sleeping. She hates that (although it's rather amusing to watch her spin up in the air while hissing and clawing).

So I took the little diva in and tried to convince Mr. G. that she was our other cat, Frankie. He didn't buy it.

Ava is incredibly attached to me. She comes in and visits when that big mean guy is on the road. She waits for me in the driveway every night and runs up to my car. Otherwise, she naps in the garden on the wooden bench that the neighbors so generously gave her (well, really, us).

After Frankie died, I worried that Ava was lonely. I mentioned to Mr. G. that Ava loves when you talk to her. She meows and preens. Really, she's quite the little conversationalist. Mainly pop culture. Ava's not much of an intellect. Mr. G. rolled his eyes. The next morning, I heard him ask Ava how her day was going. Then he told her to eat all her breakfast so she could get a treat.

One day, it occurred to me that I should have a plan for Ava in case I die unexpectedly. I'm not expecting to die unexpectedly. But you never know. What I mean to say is my death would be unexpected. I'm pretty sure Mr. G. and Bailey would live on my life insurance payout, and life would go on. But Mr. G.'s never taken to Ava despite talking to her in the mornings.

Me: You know if I die that you have to take care of Ava.
Mr. G.: What if I move?
Me: Then you have to take her with you.
Mr. G.: Michelle, she's a stray cat. The next homeowner will feed her.
Me (indignantly): Ava is our cat. We love Ava. She depends on us. You couldn't just abandon her.
Mr. G.: Whatever.

So, obviously, Mr. G. needs to go first. Not that I'm planning anything. I read Agatha Christie just for fun.

Beware bad boy cats

Lately, a strange cat has been coming into the yard. I should explain here that Ava is feral. I'd love for her to move into the house, but she's too wild. She only comes in if we leave the door open, and then she stalks about, sniffing everything before heading back outside, where it's safe. The strange cat has trouble written all over him. He's not welcome. He's the overage bad boy with a van of the cat world. I don't watch Ava catching anything fatal by associating with other cats. She's completely in agreement with me.

The other night, I was in bed reading when I heard snarling right outside the window. I leapt out of bed, but Glenn was ahead of me. Sure enough, the bad boy cat was in our back yard. Glenn, wearing boxer shorts, took off after the cat. Mr. G. came back 20 minutes later, completely out of breath. He explained that he chased the cat down the street, around the block and out of the neighborhood. "That's the last we'll see of him," he predicted. So maybe, just maybe, Mr. G. is more attached to Ava than I thought. Or he just really doesn't like bad ass cats.

It's a wedding, and we'll cry if we want to

The bride

My sister, Linda, got married last weekend. She's my little sister. She's an attorney. She lives in Shreveport. She's my only full sibling. Her husband's name - Lord, is that strange to say - is Jack.

I was six when she was born. I very clearly remember my mother showing her to me and saying, "Remember how you asked for a baby sister? Here she is!" I remember very clearly saying, "No, I asked for a puppy." And I had.

Sisters. Please take note that we are the same height.

We haven't always gotten along. She has a knack for pushing my buttons. I have a knack for overreacting. She insists I'm short while she's tall. She makes fun of the fact that I once served as veep of a "Fawlty Towers" fan club. Don't laugh. Despite it all, I'm glad I got a baby sister instead of a puppy. I'm glad I got to make her Mickey Mouse pancakes on Saturday mornings, watch endless episodes of "Designing Women" with her and go to the movies with her. Even if I most definitely did not ask for a baby sister.

The morning of my wedding, my mother - who isn't a big drinker - handed me glass after glass of mimosas. She either wanted to calm me down or she was scared I would bolt. The morning of my sister's wedding, my mother handed Linda a bottle of champagne and a box of disposable champagne glasses. She didn't even cut the stuff with orange juice. In fairness to my mother, my sister is more high strung than I am. I'm the calm one in the family. If you know me well, you should open your eyes wide in horror at that thought.

Grandmother and Linda

Linda got her hair done, put on her gown and hung out in the bride's room downing champagne and eating chicken nuggets. She was a beautiful bride. She lounged on the floor in a pool of sparkly white satin. Suddenly, she sat up and said, "Is Grandmother stopping by before going into the church?"

My grandmother is our only living grandmother. Our grandfather is the only grandfather we've ever known. They are the rock in our family. They made sure we all went to college. They are generous with love, advice and compliments. Their grandchildren adore them.

Linda and Jack

A few years ago, Grandmother was diagnosed with advanced cancer. I drove to the hospital to sit with my grandfather while the doctors did the surgery that discovered the cancer. I remember standing stoicly in the waiting room while everyone cried around me. I just knew she would beat it. I had unwavering faith. What I didn't realize was that the cancer treatment would make it difficult for her to walk. She's in constant pain. If there's anyone who doesn't deserve a life that like, it's Grandmother. She is the most selfless, kindest person ever. Ever.

The minute my sister saw our grandmother in the bride's room, she burst into tears. No worries. Her mascara was waterproof. Our grandmother stood there, looking a little bemused by the tears. What this, for me? Our grandfather looked like he was on the verge of crying as well. We're not a family that gushes about our love for each other. We don't end every conversation with an "I love you." But we're not immune to the sentiment of big occasions.

Not a puppy but I'll keep her

I was assigned a reading for the wedding. I swapped with another girl for a shorter reading. My eyes were dry as I stepped up to the microphone. I got through the first sentence and burst into tears. I looked toward my sister who had a "WTH" expression on her face and looked back down at the piece of paper in front of me. I got out a few words and then gave in to the hysterics, sobbing uncontrollably while my mother kicked herself for not medicating me with champagne. I fled back to my pew. I kept the reading, though. If you were there and wondered how it ended, give me a call.

I had very personal reasons for getting as upset as I did. They involve my parents' divorce and my mother's struggles as a single parent with two young girls. My Dad was involved, but he wasn't there around the clock. It was usually just me, Linda and Mom. So often, it felt like it was the three of us against the world. Those years seem miles away. I never thought I'd miss them, but I do at times. Now we're all settled and happy. Linda's wedding brought it full circle. It's no longer just the three of us. I couldn't be happier about the fuller circle. I love my stepfather, my brothers, my husband and my brother-in-law. But it would be nice to step into a time machine from time to time and whisk back to the days when we were just three.

Paging the IT girl

Most of the time, I'm a political reporter. Then there are the days I double as an IT person for people who are even more clueless than I am about computers. It makes me feel like a goddess.
The other day, a coworker not yet on Twitter decided Friday was the day. He was joining Twitter. He set aside several hours for what he just knew would be a long, involved installation process. Then he asked me for help. He was up and running within five minutes. It's not that I know all the shortcuts. It's just a really simple process.
My husband excels at breaking his computer. Really, his employer shouldn't give him a computer. He's better off with a notepad and pencil. The world is better off with him just having a notepad and pencil. I'm better off with him just having a notepad and pencil - especially when I'm slouched in my red chair, watching "The Real Housewives" reunion, sipping a glass of chilled white wine and I hear the plaintive plea from the other room. "Um, can you come here for a minute?" It's never a minute. Never, ever, ever.
One night I went into the home office. He was seated at his computer with that stricken look on his face. Somehow, he'd hit something that popped up a window at the bottom of his emails. He wanted to know how to fix it. Here's my approach to IT problems: I hover my mouse over things and click until I stumble across the fix. My husband wants me to TELL him how to fix things so he'll LEARN. "Just tell me," he always says in an exasperated tone. No matter how often I tell him I'm uncertain how to fix it without a little exploratory clicking, he doesn't believe me.
Luckily, though, this was a problem I'd encountered before on my husband's computer (although what he's hitting still escapes me) so I could tell him to click the "X" at the top righthand corner of the offending box. As I've told him at least a million times before. He summons that box like Aladdin summons a genie. He just can't remember how to get the genie back in the bottle.
Mr. G. used to call the IT department at his workplace when he encountered problems. Then they got caller ID and stopped taking his calls. He's asked if he can call the IT department at my workplace. I refuse to hand over the number so they'll continue to answer my calls.
I don't really blame IT for ignoring my husband's calls. I overheard one of those phone calls.
Mr. G. : "Um, yeah, I've got a box on my screen. How do I get rid of it?"
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "It's a box."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "What's in it? I don't know. It's a box. Just TELL me how to get rid of it."
PAUSE
Mr. G.: "I'm looking (for one whole second). I don't see an 'x'"
LONG PAUSE
Mr. G. "I. Just. Want. To. Get. Rid. Of. The. Box."
So it's all on my shoulders. It's a big job. I'm convinced that Mr. G. could innocently set off North Korea's nuclear weapons simply by pushing a few buttons on his computer. Then he'll ask me to TELL him how to fix it so he'll LEARN.
The other day, I came home to the news that we're taking a work trip. My husband has to go to a conference, and I get to tag along. As I was working out in my head the logistics of working Bailey into the trip (can't leave Boo-Boo at home!) and sorting through possible sightseeing excursions, I heard my husband say, "This will be great. You'll be right there if I have any computer problems."

Never offer a picky eater a turkey melt

Oh, no. Not a turkey melt!

Mr. G. is a rather picky eater. He comes by it honestly. His mother is a picky eater, and she nurtured the pickiness in her baby boy to a ridiculous level.

For one thing, Mr G. cannot skip breakfast and go straight to lunch. Even when he covers a late game, stumbles in at midnight and rolls out of bed at 11 a.m. He might concede to brunch, but it better feature eggs.

My sister-in-law, Nancy, told me a story once about visiting the Guilbeau Manse when Glenn was a young college student home for the weekend. Everyone but Glenn got up early, ate breakfast and lingered over coffee. Then Glenn got up around noon. My mother-in-law ordered everyone out of the kitchen so she could make Glenn's breakfast. No, really. Everyone: Out of the kitchen. The prized son has risen, and he's going to want breakfast. And apparently the entirety of the kitchen table to himself. Cajun mothers and their babies. There's no closer bond.

For decades, my in-laws lived in Metairie (my husband claims he's from New Orleans. Let me set you straight. He's from Metairie). Their home turned into Glenn's personal bed and breakfast during Jazz Fest every year. He'd invite his friends in, spend the day at Jazz Fest, head into the French Quarter and come home in the early morning light. One Sunday morning, Glenn made it home ahead of his friend, Thomas. Knowing Glenn, he probably wandered off and Thomas spent the next few hours looking for him. Glenn's version of that story is that he wanted to turn in sooner than Thomas did. Regardless, there was Thomas, using the hose to wash off his feet in the back yard when my mother-in-law raised the kitchen blinds. My mother-in-law gasped, looked at Thomas with indignation and said, "Thomas, what are you doing coming at 6 in the morning? My son was in at 3."

All of this brings me to Saturday lunch. My husband had a breaking news story. Something about two former players trying to kill each other in Alexandria. Probably while trying to find a downtown restaurant open past 2 in the afternoon. But I'm just guessing. Anyway, I offered to make a grilled cheese sandwich for my hard-working husband. Then I decided to surprise him with a turkey melt as well as a grilled cheese sandwich and fried tomatoes.

Mr. G.: Is there turkey in this sandwich?
Me: Yes, I made you a turkey melt.
Mr. G.: Why would you do that? You said you were making grilled cheese.
Me: You like turkey so I thought I'd surprise you.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey.
Me: Glenn, I've seen you eat turkey.
Mr. G.: I don't like turkey and cheese together. You're always trying to make me eat things I don't like.
Me: Yeah, always. It's my mission in life to torture you through food.
Mr. G.: Well, you made me a turkey melt when you said you were making grilled cheese.
Me (Patience now thinner than paper): Oh, for God's sake, Glenn. Open the sandwich, take the turkey off and give it to the dog.
Mr. G.: Oh, yeah, I guess I could do that. OK. I love the tomatoes. How did you make them?
Me: (complete silence)
Mr. G.: Hmmm, they're nice and crunchy.

My parking lot problems

Sheldon had parking problems as well

It's legislative session time, which means I'm parking in Texas so the lobbyists can have front row spots on the hill. Not that I'm bitter or anything. I need the exercise, and it's not hot enough yet for me to glare at their luxury cars as I struggle up the hill past them. Notice I said yet. I park in what's known as the garden lot with all the male legislative workers. The female legislative workers get to park on the top of the hill with the lobbyists. It's thought that the women should be closer to the building because they often walk out at night. They'd put me on the hill as well, but we wouldn't want a lobbyist to be raped and murdered on the way to his Lexus SUV, now would we? This year, in addition to the indignity of hoofing it in with the boys, I got spot number 666. If you think I pull into 666 each morning, you might want to hold back on toilet papering my car. I swapped parking tags with another member of the media when he wasn't looking. I'm a true sweetheart. Today, I took a break from session to meet someone about a story at a local coffeehouse. It was a pleasant day so I enjoyed my stroll through the Capitol gardens and saluted Huey before arriving at my car. I arrived at my car to find a woman who appeared to be taking photographs of it. Now I don't drive anything snazzy Are you kidding? I'll probably be driving this car until I retire. Should've, could've, would've gone to law school and become a lobbyist. Then I'd be on the top of the hill in a massive, luxury SUV. But I digress. My point is it was somewhat surprising to see someone photographing my car. I walked up to the woman and politely asked if she was taking a photograph of my car. She ignored me. I walked in front of her and asked again. This time, she looked at me and started gesturing. At some point, two things became clear to me. One, the woman was deaf. Two, she actually was photographing the Toyota next to my car. Through a series of hand gestures, the situation came into sharper focus. Someone had parked in the woman's parking spot. Not just that, but someone had parked in a deaf woman's parking spot, and she was taking photographs because she couldn't just call Capitol security and say, "Hey, someone's in my spot." I decided to help her. I didn't recognize the car. But it was an older Corolla with piles of junk in the seats so I narrowed it down to belonging to someone in the media. Then I peered a little closer into the window and spied an insurance form. Aha! I could get a name and an address. I looked up triumphantly at the woman, who shoved her phone in front of my eyes. She'd tapped in "Car looks like my daughter's. I was taking a photo to show her." I nodded my head, walked to my car, climbed in and drove off.

A Christmas Story

Scottie thinking about the cafeteria instead of his Christmas sweater

My Uncle Scottie is special. He's lived away at school for as long as I can remember. As a child, I always knew the giant bag of candy in my grandparents' freezer was earmarked for Scottie. On nice days, we'd go visit him. We'd sit at a picnic table while he happily crammed candy into mouth. All of the candy. The entire giant bag of candy. Tons and tons of sugar making an always hyper Scottie really, really hyper. The school eventually asked ever so nicely that we stop bringing candy.

Scottie can't talk. The fact that he can walk is a testament to my grandmother's determination. When she realized he wasn't hitting the developmental benchmarks that her older children hit, she grasped each of his chubby little hands, pulled him gently to his feet and walked with him in a hunched over stance until he finally got the concept of walking. It must have taken her months.

My grandparents love all of their children, but they light up when they see Scottie. He's not just special in a developmental sense. He truly is special. For us, he is pure joy, even if his hands are always sticky and wet from shoving them in his mouth. Scottie loves to eat. He loves to be outside. He loves to run. He's very slight with an ever present smile. Looking at him, I see my grandmother's coloring and traces of my Dad and Uncle Brian. At times, I wonder who Scottie would have become had God seen fit to make him a regular Joe. At other times, I see how happy my family is to see Scottie. I don't think he knows who we are, but he always seems just as happy.

Many years ago, one of Scottie's schoolmates got a recliner. The recliner was built on a rocker frame. Soon, Scottie was racing into the shared living room and claiming the recliner. Every day. It became a problem. Finally, the school called, explained the issue and Scottie got a recliner of his own. My grandparents were so happy to have something to buy him that he actually would enjoy. Now that the giant bags of candy were taboo.

To say that Scottie adores food is an understatement. He lives for it. I don't know how he does it but he can make a grab for someone else's food without even looking their way. It's uncanny. At school, he strolls around the living room, slyly edging toward the cafeteria door. He doesn't know who the president is or that there's something called the White House, but he knows what is on the other side of that door.

Scottie lives in a cottage at his school with other men who share his developmental challenges to varying degrees. Some wear helmets to protect their heads. Others are confined to wheelchairs. Grown men wander around with toddlers' toys in their hands because that's where their development stopped.

It's always sad to see these souls because you wonder - at least I wonder - why God brought them into the world this way. Yes, they're loved, fiercely loved by their families. But is it fair that they have such limitations? It often depresses me to visit although I'm always happy to see Scottie.

A few years ago, I went to the annual Christmas party, where one older resident sat in his chair and held a finger over his mouth to shush the chatter around him. Every once in a while he would vacate his chair and wander off somewhere. We were warned not to take that as an invitation to sit down because he would take off his shoe and throw it at us. We left the chair alone. Then Santa walked into the room, and not just any Santa. The saddest Santa you've ever seen: Thin, without a pillow to fill out his stomach, a gray wig perched sloppily on top of his natural brown hair and sneakers to pair with his too short, threadbare red felt pants. The cranky resident in his chair lit up and cried "Santa!" To this old man, Santa existed, and he was right there in that cottage with a sack of toys. For me, joy came into the room with that old man's innocent excitement. For Scottie, well, the ornaments on the tree looked like maybe they might be edible, and he was plenty happy about that possibility.

Dealing with a picky eater

My husband and I are involved in the care of an 80something near and dear to us. One of our jobs is to get her to eat. You'd think this would be easy. Imagine if you had someone offering to cook you anything you'd like to eat. You'd eat, wouldn't you? You'd pretend you were the queen living at Buckingham Palace and eat, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong.

Now I have some experience with picky eaters. My husband is a picky eater. Before we married, my husband took me to meet his parents. My future mother-in-law immediately got down to business and told me about the food issues. Apparently, for the first - oh, I don't know - 10 to 40 years of his life, my husband ate fast food restaurant hamburgers and nothing else. My father-in-law would go to the restaurant and buy the frozen patties. They cooked them at home, making a separate meal just for him while the rest of the kids ate the regular meal. I was horrified by this story, and then I remembered that my husband is the youngest child.

Growing up, my mother's rule was that we had to eat what was in front of us. For the most part. We got to pick one thing that we didn't have to eat. I chose pork chops. I hate pork chops. Otherwise, we were expected to at least try everything else. This held for me, my sister and two of stepbrothers. Then there's my baby stepbrother. He was impossibly cute as a young child. One Thanksgiving, we were seated at the table with our plates of turkey and the side dishes, and I looked over at his plate. He had a celery boat filled with peanut butter and a minuscule piece of turkey. I looked at my mother, who immediately changed the subject. I'm still bitter. That woman made me eat liver and onions as a child. A celery boat of peanut butter certainly never came sailing my way.

Getting back to our charge, I went over the other day with a plate of food. She refused it, saying she wasn't hungry. I looked down at the counter. A dripping ice cream scoop was sitting in a pool of melted ice cream on the granite. Two empty bowls containing streaks of ice cream were on the coffee table. So I knew what the score was. Now, my initial thinking was if you get to your 80s, eat all the ice cream you want. Add some nuts and some hot fudge. I'll get the whipped cream for you.

Then our charge went to the doctor the other day. Her doctor is little more strict than I am. He decreed that she has to eat regular meals. Candy and ice cream aren't going to cut it. We relayed this information to her care giver, who takes her to the grocery store. A few days later, they went to the grocery store and the care giver watched in horror as ice cream, candy, cookies and crackers went into the cart. Finally, she had to say something: "Glenn doesn't want you eating all that junk." Our charge looked at her, flipped her hair and said, "Glenn's not here."

A day later, I went over to the house and started slyly looking for the candy under the guise of cleaning. I thought I could sneak at least some of it out of the house. Would you believe that I couldn't find it? Any of it? She apparently has a hiding spot.

Tonight, we offered to do dinner. I made stuffed shells. Have you made stuffed shells? This is not an easy recipe. It took me several hours. I roasted some broccoli, added bread and sent Glenn over with a plate. She refused it, saying she wasn't hungry. When Glenn came home, I told him we may have to take drastic measures. No Internet for a week. Wait, she doesn't have the Internet. How do you ground someone in their 80s?