WWHOHD?

What would Hestia or Hera do?

Oh, these H-gals are on ON MY MIND. It turns out that Hestia, not Hera, is the goddess of hearth and home. Hera is the goddess of marriage, motherhood, children. But I am grooving hard on both of these goddesses, at the moment.

I realize I have not cleaned the cat litter box for some time. Some kitty litter is scattered beside it, and the trail extends into the hallway outside the bathroom. I swallow the unpleasant conclusion: Eli has been, er, helping me keep it clean. Ugh. Clearly, I am no goddess of the hearth and home—not yet—although I love home with a passion, and I pine for a hearth with the fervor of Hestia. I yearn for a lasting marriage like Hera, even with a husband that tosses a lightning bolt now and then.

After a scary start to the beginning of 2010, my health is under control now. Now I want to change that ‘l’ to an ‘r’. I want me some hearthy goodness, stat.

My mom dispatched a friend of hers to help me with the air conditioners yesterday, after I nearly careened down the front porch roof on my stomach, chasing a runaway AC unit I tried to install myself. I managed to drag the unit and myself back through the bedroom window, but not without scraping up my decolletage and yelling bloody murder for the entire neighborhood to hear.

As mom’s pal put in a new electrical outlet (whaaaa? really? it’s that easy? would you like me to do you now? bed or floor?) so Sophie’s air conditioner could be plugged in correctly (too hard to explain coherently), I again had that intense urge to bake or knit some gratitude for the guy. Bring him a dirty martini on a silver tray. Sew him a monogrammed hankie with a Jesus fish on it. (He is a God-fearin’ man, with a God-fearin’ wife at home to do these things for him, but still.)

You know things are changing for me if I am having intense urges to bake or knit or sew, or use a cocktail shaker. Well, maybe the cocktail shaker reverie is nothing new. I just don’t have one.

If Women’s Studies 101 was all about women’s choices, then my liberal education was perhaps not lost on me. I am simply entering a new phase of life that happens, on the surface, to resemble the 1950s. But my innards are totally 2010, full of dark smarts and bloody wisdom.

As I was on my belly on the roof two days ago, clutching the tail of the air conditioner—swearing like a beached sailor whose ship is disappearing into the distance—I realized I was idiotically willing to go down with the air conditioner, skull first, before I let go of it. I was not going to be That Woman: the woman who, without the assistance of a husband’s biceps, loses the air conditioner and dents the roof of her car with it, spectacularly.

I needed help, I really did. And I pretty much suck at asking for help. See: Exhibit A, Friends Who Can Attest to My Hermetic Existence When the Going Gets Rough.

I want a partner in this life, for the rest of my days, because that is how I roll. Like the German shepherds I’m so crazy about, I’m a one-person creature, at heart. My inner circle of friends is small, tight, loyal. Most of them are one-person creatures too, and they don’t judge. I have never been a socialite. I can stretch myself, sometimes, but it will never be my way.

I am tired of worrying about creative success, financial success. I am tired of worrying about books that never seem to get written, or—once written—never get published. I am tired of query letters. I am tired of trying to drum up freelance writing and editing work. I am tired of my successful-enough (except for air conditioner installments) independentish single life.

I want to make crazy swinging-from-the-ceiling love to a sweaty, grinning husband who’s just mowed the lawn, just weed-whacked our property into tiptop shape, and re-entered our home through the new back door he installed. I want to bake brownies for him and the kids, from scratch. I want to buy one of those little torchie things and caramelize the top of a creme brulee for him, for his birthday. I want to knit him warm Icelandic wool hats that I line lovingly with fleece. I want to clean toilets, I want to keep track of our social calendar, I want to mend tears before they turn into rips. I want to research the difference between lemon oil and Murphy’s oil soap. I want to help with the family business, whatever that might be. I want to send Christmas cards and birthday cards, on time. I want to plan wonderful trips that end with us sighing and happy to be back home, framing and hanging photos of our adventures on freshly painted walls. I want to do laundry for days, listening to love songs, humming dreamily, writing poems in my head, while all my former dreams of grandeur and fame fly away like dark birds and disappear into trees. I want to immerse myself in a warm, milky bath of gorgeously outdated gender roles. I allow myself these fantasies, now.

At 40, I will dream what I want, without fear of chastisement or scorn. Nobody went around dissing Hera or Hestia. Uh-uh. Hellz, no.

I want to wake up with someone again. More days than not. When the dog barks at something in the backyard at 3 a.m., I want someone with me when I go to investigate. The people who have truly seen me, really seen me in this lifetime, are for the most part the ones I’ve woken up with, gone to bed with, snuggled for hours. Sex is fun and fine, sure, but real intimacy lies in listening to someone’s slow, sweet breathing as he falls asleep beside me.

I am Hestia. The pumpkin bread is on the counter. All yours, honey.

I am Hera, hear me roar. Put away your lightning bolts, and let’s play.

But first, excuse me while I polish the banister.

I just found this in my email, from one year ago. A sweet, self-described clairvoyant stranger, who wished to help. I chose ten cards, at her request. Thought some of you (particularly those of you who love the ghost stories from the house) would also like to take a peek. I like the part about not being a “sanitised” mom. That, I’ve got down.

Have any of you trusted a tarot card reading at a low point in your life? Did what you hear make sense…or do you think it did only because you wanted it to?

January 6, 2009

Hello, Jenn,

Thank you for sending me your chosen numbers…I use the Greek Mythic deck and the spread I find best for internet readings is the Celtic Cross. Please remember the ten cards used are your choice. I shuffle the deck while I think about your questions, then lay your cards using the numbers you have chosen.

Your first card is the Significator position at the centre of the Celtic Cross and it is the Wheel of Fortune. The Fate card, I always think of it as the destiny versus free will card. I am often asked how I can believe in both Fate and free will. The simplest way I can put it is, Fate is the hand of cards we are dealt in life and free will is how we choose to play those cards. We are all guilty at times of blaming outside influences if life is not treating us quite how we would like it to. This card is here to tell you that fate does not come to meet you, rather you turn to meet your own fate. Every second of your life so far has brought you to this precise moment in time at which you now stand. So it follows that you alone are in charge of your own destiny. The other cards in this Celtic Cross can prompt and attempt to nudge you in the right direction but ultimately you will choose. There is even a train of thought that goes, fortune and misfortune do not befall you, you do in fact invite them in. Your future is not etched in stone. But when the Wheel appears in your spread it is a good indication that it is about to make a fresh turn, new paths and doorways are about to open, so you will need to use your intuition. Although nothing in life can be taken for granted, you should be optimistic that fate will not deal you a cruel hand, nor will your inner-self, if listened to, lead you astray.

But it is crossed in the centre by the Crossing Card which almost always has a direct effect upon the first and you have the Queen of Wands. I believe this is how the world in general perceives you Jenn. This Queen is the ancient image of today’s “superwoman”, industrious, creative, versatile, strong-willed and talented figure towards which so many modern women aspire, a woman who is capable of loyalty and love in a relationship, yet who also has the strength, ingenuity, creative and tireless energy to rule her own world in her own right. I feel that you are an independent, charismatic woman, always full of bright ideas and helpful to those you love. This card has adapted itself extremely well to modern times, it represents the woman of today, capable of great loyalty yet fiercely independent. You are a lady who is reliable in matters of love, you bring a sense of humour to your relationships, like to have fun and enjoy company. You also make a great friend and a loyal lover. This may be how the world sees you, but you have your frailties and insecurities, as do we all, only you prefer to keep yours under wraps. Perhaps it is time to allow those around you a glimpse of your inner self, they will then come to realise that you too can be vulnerable just like the rest of us.

The third card in the reading is the Crowning Card and describes the atmosphere that is hanging over you and you have drawn the Eight of Cups. I think you have to come to terms with the fact that your marriage is over. The movement implied by this card is primarily emotional. It speaks of a relationship which has been significant. Energy and emotion have been invested during the past, and now you are moving away and abandoning what has been achieved. As each day passes you realise more and more things are not what you thought they were, they lack substance and have not brought you the happiness you thought they would. This card reflects a situation when the only solution is to let go. No matter how much energy or effort has been put in, it is still not working, and the only option left is to abandon it. This stage of a relationship is one of the most painful, it means there is nothing further that can be done. Increased efforts would avail nothing, you must give up and start again. Many people, when confronted with this dilemma, refuse to acknowledge it, they continue in the hope of a response which is no longer possible in the present circumstances. The sad fact is Jenn that when you have been hurt you must put this behind you, write it off to experience, and move on. I know this must sound blunt and unfeeling but your misery will end and you will find happiness again.

The fourth card is the Base of the Matter and you have the Empress. This card is represented in my Greek Myth deck by the Goddess Demeter, the ancient Greek Goddess of the grain and nature. First and foremost you are a true earth mother not the sanitised version we sometimes see in TV commercials, a true nurturer and fierce protector of the young and vulnerable. You won’t cling and you won’t lay guilt trips on your girls. Mother energy flows through you and you are a magnet for stray humans and animals. Your door is always open, and there is always a spare place at your table and in your heart. Your determination is legendary, you have the power of the mother bear protecting her young. It is to you that people will turn at their most unbearable times. It is not necessarily your wise words but something in your calm accepting presence and willingness to help, that can soothe the most troubled spirit. Remember that your “young” are not necessarily children but can be needy adults or creative projects. Because you are so ready to nurture and the world is such a hungry place, Demeter will help you avoid “burnout” brought on by physical or emotional exhaustion.

Now the fifth card is all to do with Past Influences and in your spread it is the Lovers. I know you must feel that you have sold out romantically in the past, and this card offers you the chance to get back on the right path again. Whatever paths life might require you to walk I feel that you and your partner will always walk those paths together. When you first fall in love you are driven mostly by desire, it is only later that you realise there are so many other attributes required in a relationship that will stand the test of time. There is understanding, friendship, compatibility to name but a few. You should consider how do you pick your partners, on what do you base your choices. Is it physical appearance, wealth and status, quality of character, friendship or passion? A true love choice believe it or not, is the reflection of your own values, a mirror image of the person you would most like to be. This is sometimes viewed as the second time around card, but you are now armed with hindsight and unlikely to repeat mistakes made in the past. Not surprisingly the Lovers suggest love, romance and an emotional, spiritual and physical union. Any relationship connected to this card will always be a powerful and meaningful one. The old idea of the soul mate is even suggested here, Jenn, and as the King of Cups has revealed himself later in your spread, it suggests to me that yours is already very close to you. With your soulmate you will both feel as if you have known each other always, even be able to read each other’s minds on occasion, and feel completely in tune on every level. Many occultists would say that you have been together before, loving through many different lifetimes in many different cultures. You are quite simply meant for each other.

And so on to Present Influences, the sixth card and yours is the High Priestess. This is an extremely subtle card, it concerns the dream world and your subconscious. The Priestess is begging you to look within, pay attention to your dreams, and listen to the inner voice we all possess but seldom use. She invariably counsels you to be patient, wait for the right time and rely on gut feelings rather than logical answers. You may begin to experience very vivid dreams. You may even begin to suspect that someone who has already passed over to the other side is trying to make contact with you. If this should happen do not dismiss your feelings as merely fanciful, sit down quietly somewhere and concentrate. The Priestess could very easily be your guide to the spirit world trying to make contact with you, and could very well be you sense the presence of a friendly ghost in your house.

I should explain to you here that the Priestess is merely symbolic, she can take any form, man, woman or child, she represents your own guide to the spirit world. Do not be apprehensive, it is the living we should sometimes be afraid of, never the spirits. Your own emotions come to the fore at every opportunity Jenn, whether it is love, fear, grief or joy, nothing is half hearted for you. It is people like yourself that the spirits do find so easy to communicate with. But do be aware a psychic sensitivity can be both a blessing and a curse, as when you pick up on the emotions and problems of others easily you can then take on their feelings. I feel there are already times when too many emotions and problems are heaped on your shoulders causing you to feel overwhelmed. It is my firm belief that each and every one of us possesses a certain amount of psychic ability, just some like yourself possess more than others, this card suggests that you have a leaning towards spirituality that is very worthy of development.

The seventh card in the reading is Where One Finds Oneself and you have drawn the Two of Wands. This card is an excellent omen given your desire to go to Iceland. There is a restlessness around this card, as you become aware of new horizons, a growing awareness that there is more to the world than your own backyard. There is a big world out there and there are decisions to be made about what to do, where to go, and how to get there. There is also an element of thought and deliberation as this card signals the planning stage of an idea or venture. Moving overseas could even be a serious consideration and because the world is your oyster this can sometimes feel overwhelming. However, courage and initiative will be available to overcome any obstacles. There is energy and strength to go ahead and attain your goal. This first idea may not be the final shape of the future, but it is full of potential, and sufficient to lure you out of your present confines into a new venture. You cannot at the moment predict the outcome, but if you do not believe in your vision enough to try, you will always be left to wonder what might have been. Financial improvements are also indicated here but you must have the courage to follow your intuition and take up any opportunities offered. This will not be a time to stand still, follow your gut feelings and move ahead bravely.

The eighth card is People Around Us and you have the King of Cups around it seems! There certainly sounds like a King of Cups type, and I also feel he will be your life partner and soulmate. With this man both the positive and negative aspects of his nature must be considered. He is a kind hearted man, fair, responsible and wise, as generous with his time as he is with his emotions, good with people of all ages.

Those around him will always listen to his advice because they are aware it comes from the heart as well as from the head. However, here we also have the image of the wounded healer, the figure who through compassion and empathy can heal others yet he is struggling to heal his own hurt. He places human love and feelings above everything, and will go to any lengths to preserve this emotional contact. Yet he remains curiously uncomfortable, unsure of what he has is still intact. This insecurity can often be the cause of losing what he most desires. While he lacks trust in his personal life he will never ultimately achieve the fulfilling relationship that he so desires. The King of Cups can be something of an emotional puzzle, so you have to ask yourself a question here Jenn, “Are you prepared to be the emotional anchor this man so often requires”? Personally I think yes, and you will be pleased you have taken the time to nurture this relationship in the end.

Now the ninth card is your Inner Hopes and Fears and in your case it is the Sun. This is a welcome card in any reading. At a physical level it speaks of glowing good health for yourself and your family, and a sense of general well-being. This card speaks of good mental health too, it is about feeling whole, positive and centred. So the Sun will shine on you, you will be in the spot-light and I feel sure your moment of glory is close at hand. Well deserved praise, recognition, a sense of belonging and being in the right place at the right time. This card can manifest itself by finding your niche or vocation in this world and realising that all too elusive prize of human happiness, hopefully that will embrace the book deal you mentioned hoping for. Emotionally it tells you that you are in a space of light and love, so keep your loved ones close. You are wanted, prized and valued and you sit in the centre of your family’s universe as does the Sun. You have so much to contribute to this world Jenn. You are affectionate with a kindly good humour, devoted to home and family and ever loyal to your friends. You are at your best in an environment where your protective and nurturing instincts are allowed free expression. You have a quiet determination and tenacity when pursuing your goals.

Sometimes when I am reading for someone certain place names will come into my head and refuse to budge, in your case:

It has not been Iceland but Naples. I feel this city has its part to play in your life.

And so to the last card in the reading, the Outcome and yours is Death. So here you have it Jenn, the card that everyone dreads, but don’t panic. This card does not foretell physical death as some films that go for the shock factor would have you believe. But it does foretell an ending of some sort. Life is a series of endings, we end our childhood once we reach puberty, we end our single life once we marry etc. etc. It depends a great deal here on how you are able to accept endings, sometimes it can be painful if you cannot recognise the necessity for change. Although this card can never be taken lightly, think of it in terms of life itself, each phase serves its purpose and we move on to the next. I think you have to accept that your marriage has fulfilled its allotted span in your life, and you must look forward to fresh horizons with hope and faith in the future. I feel you are lacking in energy at present, as if carrying some great weight, or wading through treacle. Death tells me a metamorphosis is about to occur, and the old you will have to die in order that a new and brighter you can emerge. Never resist change, this refusal to adapt will only create a stagnant atmosphere around you. Every relationship, even the best, has its cycles of beginnings and endings, for our feelings change as time passes.

I believe in the power of nature and symbolism, I know that there are certain things which can attract good luck your way. With this in mind let me suggest that you buy yourself a honey bee brooch, it doesn’t have to be expensive, and it will help you to realise your dreams and at the same time bring good fortune your way. The honey bee represents sweet new beginnings and a sweet new year. I wish you well.

[***I did buy a honey bee brooch last year. I admit it. And I'm still wearing it. But NAPLES???]

I have become a ghost
in this old house—
perhaps its quietest inhabitant.

I turn lights on and off
and most of the time,
there is no one here to notice,
no one to exclaim, to marvel
at all we do not understand.
TV channels change at my
will—no one cries foul or
questions the electricity’s
motives.

I do not need to eat because
I am no longer here. The kitchen
ghost is happy to have the
abandoned room all to herself.
She rolls out her biscuits
and tries to ignore
the still earthly 21st-century
table detritus that interferes,
the kaleidoscope mess that
makes her squint and rub her
eyes with floured fingers.

There is no need for me to
take up smoking—I can smell
Mr. Pipe’s smoke coming from
my daughter’s room when she
is not there. Clever Mr. Pipe,
ensuring himself a name for
all eternity.

As for Mr. Squash,
Mr. Squash has gone away,
irritated by my failed vegetable
gardens and dead lilies. He knows
what matters and no one is listening.

When I was alive, I used to smudge
charcoal on paper. I used to write down
the voices of those I did not know. People
would take these pieces of paper
from me, busy themselves with them.
That was my short experiment with
living. Quick, bright flame turned
tall, thin shadow—
taller, thinner, than in life.

This ghost has no energy left
for creation. I left behind what
I could. I do not burn to create.
I have no heat and nothing to burn.

I am not an original spectre.
I offer nothing fanciful or daring, no
dazzling extrusions of ectoplasm, nothing
that the ghosts or the living appreciate.

It’s all been done. I have been done:
I weep. I descend and ascend the stairs,
endlessly. I can feel the last of my energy
pooling in my room, creating its own thumbprint,
whorls of unanswered grief. Years from now,
some woman will feel uneasy as she sets
her slippers down beside the bed.

When even the animals tire of me
I take to the streets. I roam. I haunt
other homes, dwellings where I am
least likely to be a nuisance. I seek
familiars. I want to be warm again.
You don’t know what this terrible cold
is like.

If I do not show up on your doorstep,
if I do not rattle your windows,
if I do not moan in your attic,
consider yourself lucky.

Never begrudge a ghost its roaming.
It is bad luck to begrudge a ghost
its wanderings. A ghost—
like the living—
is simply doing its best.

If it finds its way into the bland light
we like to talk about in passing,
it will catch fire and burn with the
joy it no longer remembers.

Until then, the hide-and-seek
continues. Ghosts do both:
the hiding and the seeking.
There is nothing for it. Let
them play, let them play.

***I am currently haunting HERE.

Two words.

Liquefied poop. Blockage. My luck.

My basement. Men came. Men tromped. Slimebugs flew. Men screamed. Hammers pounded. Sewage everywhere. On pants. On shoes. In kitchen. City wrong. Mr. Rooter wrong.

Cleaning, me. And friend.

Made call. “$1200 to $1800.” Nope. We’ll do.

Tears out. Friend in. Shop Vac in. Sewage out. Vomit, plentiful. Sewage gnats. House, sullied. Bleach, ammonia. Shop Vac? Don’t ask.

Metaphor, yes? Or no?

Ebay? Sell house?

Tears, plentiful. Anger, plentiful.

Done in. Done with. Just done.

You? Thoughts? GO HERE. Thank you.

Dear Penelope Prindle,

You are dead. I am not.

Perhaps you’re glad we visited today. Or perhaps you don’t give a whit. Either way, I’m glad that my friend and I visited *you*. We looked down, of course, at our clumsy feet matting the grass in front of your gravestone. “Penelope Prindle,” we said, over and over—an incantation.

I wonder if, from above (because surely, that is where you are) you noticed that my hair is thinning, or cared that my bum is not what it used to be. I care. I care about many things that I imagine won’t matter at all, once I am gone.

I have no idea what you looked like when you were on this Earth, but I imagine you had exceptional posture, like my friend’s defiantly upright handwriting.

Penelope Prindle, what of *this* down here matters? I wish very much you could tell me, leave a friendly, informative comment on my blog.

We would not have fled, had you materialized before us. We lingered, hoping you might. While we waited, we dripped for you a bit of cocoa-and-coffee, down into the moist, dark soil that holds what’s left of you. Cocoa-and-coffee, and a bit of cider. We also left you a seashell that I found in the back of my car. We wanted you to know that we remember you, although of course we don’t remember *you*, not specifically, but that’s no one’s fault.

Penelope Prindle, I have a cat now. Did you have a cat? I imagine that you did. My own folly—creating a life for you that you may not have lived. Perhaps you were allergic to cats, couldn’t stand them, wretched, clawed little beasties. Still, I can’t help but think of you with a cat on your lap, warming you when nothing else would.

Were you lovely? Were you vain? With a name like Penelope Prindle, there had to have been expectations. Unless you were batty from birth, or missing a finger, or a toe.

I am weary, Penelope Prindle, and weariness wears others thin. Did you find that as well, in your time on this earth? “Only the dead don’t make mistakes,” my friend told me, as someone had once told her. I found this reassuring. She said this before we realized we had sat upon her blueberry muffin and crushed it.

I like to think that kindness is not wasted on the dead. I could be wrong. I am wrong about many things. I do know that kindness is not always welcomed by the living. Some of the living peer squintily around kindness, suspecting ulterior motives, even if there is none there.

My friend and I take kindness seriously. We only peer around gravestones, Penelope Prindle. Today, we pried two fallen ones out of the ground to set them upright. Under one, we found beetles, slugs, and a toad, still, but soft and blinking. I squealed. I am not always as brave as I would like to be.

At my urging, my friend (braver than I) picked him up (alive, he was!), kissed him (yes!), then returned him to the riverbank nearby. In doing so, she dropped her great-grandmother’s spectacles into the river. Don’t worry, Penelope Prindle (oh, but you wouldn’t, would you, no need for that now). Luckily, my friend recovered them and placed them delicately back into their case. It is peculiar, what is precious to us on this good earth. Did you find that so, at the time? What mattered to you?

I am lonely and anxious, Penelope Prindle. The living have heard it before, but you are a fresh ear, and I appreciate that. I like graveyards, but I am not in a hurry, not exactly, to meet you in the afterlife, if there is one. I would just like to know what matters, so I may attend to that now, and not waste my time on the things that don’t.

More than a few of the living find my life absurd (a cemetery! another cry for help! another plea for attention! pffft!), but I swear to you, Penelope Prindle, that I am merely looking for meaning. It is all I know how to do in this life. That, and making children and dogs and kittens laugh.

I try to pry up my loneliness and cringe at what I see underneath. I am not bold enough to kiss every toad I find. I am not courageous enough to poke at everything that squirms, Penelope Prindle. Were you brave enough? What was the most marvelous moment of your life? Will you find me when I make my way to your place? Please do. I should love to have some sort of tea, some sort of heavenly elixir with you, someday. Remember me by my seashell, by my worn jeans, by my glasses, by the sweat under my arms. These days, ladies do not glisten; we sweat, how we sweat!

Penelope Prindle, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance today. I hope you like the seashell. I hope it reminds you of something that mattered, down here.

Most sincerely yours,
Jennifer Mattern

Francis of Assisi Society is not convinced that we are the right home for Carlita. They don’t doubt our love and commitment to this little kitten, but they are worried about Nina Dog chomping her to death in one split second.

I write this to you as I play a nighttime game of fetch with this kitten. The dogs are gated downstairs, and Carlita and I are taking on her comic book cat world of monsters with this new chapter: The Crumpled H&M Receipt of Doom! As I understand it from Carlita, the receipt threatens the well-being of our entire household! And we must crush it! We must throw it, over and over, and bat it and bite it, until we have beaten it into submission!

Carlita is teaching me that the only way to play with cats is to enter the game and be on their side in the fight against evil. So I throw. She fetches. We purr. We attack. She brings it back to me, over and over. I have no idea if kittens do this, but she does this, so I assume this is what I have been missing all my life, being a dog person. She fetches better than my dogs, and when I say, “Get it, girl! The future of the universe! It’s on us! Get that receipt!”, we lock eyes. She understands, and she purrs like the Super Kitten she is. This is teamwork.

I want to say I am sure that Nina Dog will not break Carlita in two. I am 97% sure, but the 3% uncertainty is breaking my heart.

Yesterday, because Carlita speaks some Spanish, the girls sang, “Hola, Hola, Amigos,” to her, and then we had a Pablo Neruda poetry reading. I read words of love and longing to our kitten in butchered Spanish. I have never studied Spanish. But my aunt left me an ancient copy of Neruda love poems, and Carlita purred appreciatively as I stumbled through the original Spanish. The girls, too, settled as we read and listened. We didn’t bother with the English translation. The sound of the Spanish—no matter how far from Carlita’s rough, licking native tongue—pleased us all.

I believe I took in Carlita because I feel I am failing at caring for others in my life, aside from my children. It feels like everyone has had to care for me over the past two, three years. And I am not sure what I have been able to give back.

If I must give back Carlita, because Nina Dog simply will not come around, the girls will be broken-hearted. And it will be one more thing that feels like an absurd failure in my life. I do not mean to set myself up for failure. In fact, I try again and again to follow my heart. I want to succeed. I want to care as well as I have been cared for. I want to do the right thing. The only thing I have going for me is some grasp of compassion, and belly-to-the-ground humility that I never wanted. I’d like to be able to use that.

Some would say taking in a kitten in need of a home is a pretty stupid thing to do in a time of flux, especially when there are doting children involved. They may be right. I have been known to do some truly stupendously stupid things in my time.

But she slept on my breasts at the Agway, for an hour, with her little light-dark face a symbol only I could decipher. “You never stop looking for meaning,” my mother chided me, and she is right. I cannot stop. I don’t know what else to do. If I stop looking for meaning in a supermarket love song, or a tiny cat’s face, I don’t know what I have left to offer the world.

On my breasts, she was a Pablo Neruda poem, without words.

Right now, she is asleep beside me as I type to you. We have vanquished the H&M receipt. Downstairs, I hear a dog puking. I shake my head at my own folly. I listen to Carlita breathing, I watch her ginger-striped fur rise and fall. To her, this has not been a failure. We have won a battle, together, and now, she may sleep.

Francis of Assisi (not Saint, for no one trusts saints these days) tells me to be careful, and keep them posted about our household. They would eagerly take her back. Perhaps I am an idiot to press on as I do, doggedly (!) listening to trainers, allowing visitation between Nina Dog and Carlita regularly, my hand woven through Nina’s autumn print collar. Will it take until autumn? Will Carlita never be safe? Have I put this tiny animal soul in a terrible position? Have I put my girls in a terrible position (yet another—divorcing a cat?)?

I don’t know. I sigh tonight. The melancholy is brutal, insistent. I can do no right, it tells me. I am a waste of resources. I write of kittens and receipts and puking dogs. What good can come from this?

And yet it is all I have to offer, tonight at least. Carlita and I will sleep. The dogs will sleep. I will leave the puke till morning, because I cannot bear another reminder that my life is ridiculous.

Instead, I will will myself to dream of Carlita’s world, of dangling threads and birds just out of reach—and of beautiful Spanish words I do not yet understand, may never understand.

Today, Mary Magdalene offered me a cat.

I took the cat home.

Who says no to Mary Magdalene?

This Mary Magdalene is 74 and from Cuba. She runs a rescue organization called Francis Assisi Society. Not “St. Francis.” When I asked her why not, she sighed and said too many people were afraid of saints these days.

Carlita is a 10-week-old tortoiseshell calico, dipped in blacks and golds. She has inky paws and a face split between light and dark, like mine. She purrs like a furnace and I am afraid I will crush her if I roll over tonight.

I know nothing about cats, but being a Catholic schoolgirl, I know not to look a gift cat in the mouth from a Cuban saint. I don’t know why God wants me to have little Lita, and I hope Nina does not eat her (Eli only wishes to kiss her endlessly).

In short, I am terrified, and wondering if I have made my life even more complicated than it was 24 hours ago. What do I know of litter boxes, of cat toys?

And yet, she is curled up here on my bed with me right now, absolutely perfectly tiny, ribs poking through skin. She almost died of dysentery, Mary Magdalene told me with tears in her eyes, and she nursed her back to health.

Mary Magdalene felt certain Carlita needed to come home with me and the girls. And for some reason unknown even to myself, I said yes. I said yes.

Maybe nothing is perfect, maybe nothing is planned, maybe we can set down food and water and litter boxes for each other in this life, a feathery cat dancer or two, and simply let go of control. Maybe it will all be fine, however it is fine.

I feel like Lita has a lot to teach me—about taking in, while letting go at the same time.

Meow. I seem to have become, in the span of 12 hours, a cat person.

One more mouth to feed.

Perhaps insane. But perhaps some higher force at work. Signs have been pointing to CAT CAT CAT for months. Say a little prayer, would you, that the dog-cat introductions go more smoothly each day?

I show Keith the Plumber my dripping shower faucet, gesturing elegantly with my left hand. I feel like a Price Is Right girl. Keith, this job could be yours, IF THE PRICE IS RIGHT.

Keith touches the water. “It’s hot,” he says. “That’s not good.”

“Of course it’s not good,” I say, cheerily. “I would think there was something wrong with you if you told me it was good! We’re on the same page! Isn’t December excellent?”

“I can’t work on that kind of faucet,” says Keith.

“Sure you can!” I say.

Keith gives me a peculiar look. “Nope, that fixture is about forty years old. I’m not insured to work on that. It’s not scald-proof.”

I mull this over. “I’m almost forty. I’m not scald-proof either. But my doctor works on me! Ha! Ha ha!”

If I am officially a loon, I’m really going for it.

Keith smiles weakly. I deflate slightly.

“It’s bad, right?” I say.

Keith nods.

“How bad?”

He takes a step back. “I’d have to install a new scald-proof fixture.”

“How bad?”

“Six.”

“Hundred? Thousand?”

“Hundred.”

“Oh,” says I. “Six hundred. That’s funny! That’s very, very funny! Why don’t you go look at the downstairs leak, and I’ll think about this.”

Keith goes downstairs with my friend, who knows where the leak is in the basement. I have not been introduced to the basement leak, as people in my life have been kind and have not wanted to create any more havoc in my overtaxed brain.

I hear all sorts of discussion through the floorboards when I head downstairs, doing my I’m massively medicated and someone just asked for $600 because I’m forty, no, because my faucet is forty! hip wiggle.

Keith and my somber-looking friend come upstairs. “Oh ho!” I say. “It’s bad, right? Also bad?”

Keith makes his official estimate on the scary pink plumber paper. Much addition and no subtraction. He hands me the yellow copy of the scary pink plumber paper.

$1258.

One thousand two hundred and fifty-eight dollars.

Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho! Merry Christmas! I think we will bathe in the sewer and simply wrap scarves around the pipes downstairs! And buckets! Isn’t this what buckets are for? For putting under leaky things?

*****

That was my thought process.

We sent Keith a-packing—pleasantly, of course, as I have a habit of being pleasant in the most unpleasant situations, such as childbirth, funerals and plumbing estimates. I am delightful under duress, charming in crisis. Until people leave. Then I freak and muffle my head under pillows.

I figured I had some time to think it over.

HO HO HO HO HO!

The shower faucet is raining water and will not stop. It’s gotten so bad during the past few days, I have to close the bathroom door to sleep, because the sound makes me nuts. A stream of hot-water dollars going down the drain. EX-CELL-ENT!

Gets better!

This morning, I put my hand on hot water knob in the shower AND IT WAS HOT. The tiled wall around the faucet? Also hot.

I called the plumbing folks again.

“It’s a great day here at Plumbing Paradise! How can we help you?” said a woman.

This sort of caught me off-guard.

“Is it really a great day there?” I asked.

Her voice changed completely. “I have no idea,” she said grimly.

“Well, this should cheer you up. I need Keith to come,” I said. “My faucet is HOT TO THE TOUCH. The wall is HOT TO THE TOUCH. Water is POURING OUT and I can’t stop it.”

“Hm. Tuesday the 23rd? Can’t do sooner. We’ve had some emergencies.”

“Um, I’m a little worried I’m having an emergency. Can you ask Keith? It seems VERY WRONG that things are getting hot.”

“I’ll tell Keith.”

“I just want to be sure the WALL DOESN’T EXPLODE AND RAIN SCALDING WATER AND BROKEN TILE ALL OVER MY BABIES.”

“I’ll tell him. The 23rd?”

“Christmas Eve-Eve. Unless Keith thinks this is an emergency. Which, you know. It could be. Did I mention I have babies? And dogs? And there’s me? And we brush our teeth in the bathroom? Ho ho ho?”

“Got it.”

*****

In the Berkshires, it’s ridiculous trying to get a contractor of any type to come quickly. Christmas Eve-Eve is not bad, IF WE DON’T ALL DIE BEFORE THEN. Check back, dearies.

Keith, the job is yours, EVEN THOUGH THE PRICE IS WRONG, AND IS SURELY GOING TO GET WORSE.

Merry plumbin’ Christmas. May all your faucets be merry and scald-proof, and younger than forty. And we thought forty was just a tough age for women. Ho ho ho ho!

In my early, early 20s (my boy-jeans, beaded necklaces, and Birkenstock era) I had this stubbornly persistent, recurring vision of my future self.

She/I was always in a sunny kitchen, with my two dark-haired little boys. One was chubby and darling, somewhere between infant and toddler (that drooly wiggling gummy in-between, wet fingers stuffed in mouth). In the vision he was always, always on my hip, nuzzling my neck as I was on the phone (dark phone with a curly cord, attached to wall).

I was always on this phone, looking serious but calm, strangely calm. My other son was older, same beautiful dark hair, but running around, joyously wild. Maybe four years old? Five? There was always at least one large mellow male dog wandering about, as well, poking its muzzle hopefully into its stainless steel food bowl and sighing in the background. Waiting.

They all seemed to be waiting on me, but this was a phone call that could not wait. That was always clear. Sometimes I was fetching a snack for the younger son as I talked, but more often than not, I was simply rocking him on my hip, listening to the caller’s voice.

In this recurring vision, my hips were slimmer, though my chubby little guy never seemed to mind. My breasts were smaller, too, and I was a more serene, steady mother (and a younger mother) than I am today. I knew in the vision that I was a single mother, but was never quite sure how I’d gotten there. There was a sense that something had gone awry, maybe terribly, but that I was surrounded by vibrant boy energy, and would manage somehow, just fine, thank you very much.

So I was quite surprised (both times) when life presented me with two little girls. I was startled by this gift, and though I imagine I would have been crazy about two sons (and perhaps had an easier time of it, this parenting gig?), I recall thinking, Wow. TWO girls? Jackpot! And the guilt that flooded in immediately, as if I had abandoned these little boys that never had a chance to be mine.

The vision receded in time. It took its leave for good when the girls arrived on the scene and rewrote my life plan in crayon scrawls and lipsticked walls and princess squealing. Still, sometimes I wonder who those little boys were, who was on the phone, how I knew I was alone, that my sons were solely my responsibility. I wonder whom they went to, which mother has those handsome little guys now. I do feel like they are out there somewhere—change of plans, sorry, fellas, you’re headed to Cleveland—although this is a silly thing to admit. But my charm lies in admitting the silly things. Someone has to. So.

Now: I have a kitchen that is sunny for part of the day. The kitchen in the vision was much nicer than the kitchen I have right now. Don’t even get me started about the floor. There are two dogs: one foxlike, delicate and female; the other a gentle moose forever poking his big muzzle into his empty stainless steel food bowl. There is no wall phone, no phone at all in the kitchen, actually. I try to stay away from phones whenever possible. I can never say what I want to say. Checking messages frightens me. What good can come from phone messages or visions? Oy.

Now: I have taken to dancing with the girls in this kitchen. I wonder if the ghost of Mrs. Kitchen approves, if we get in her way as she reaches for the ghostly shortening, the sugar. The house has felt very empty of ghosts of late, and I have to admit, it adds to the loneliness I feel right now. At times I think they are disappointed in me. This is another funny thing to admit, worrying over whether or not the ghostly residents of your home are clucking in disapproval, have taken leave of you, despairing at your wrecked life. I am no Victorian or Edwardian mother. More flapperesque, and Mrs. Kitchen would likely have had no patience for that, all that shimmying when there were biscuits to be made and legs to be covered.

The girls and I dance, at least twice a week, like madwomen. Sophie and I dance to my iPod speakers until we are covered in sweat. She stopped mid-shimmy last week and said, “I’m going to have a heart attack!” I said, “A heart attack? Wait, seriously?” And then she was on me, age seven, climbing up onto me again, onto my hip.

“A heart attack of love,” she said.

And so we danced on.

When Hattie Belle joined us, Sophie took a break. She is not fond of sharing me with her younger sister. Hattie Belle opted for Cole Porter: “Too Darn Hot.” We shook and shimmied too, adding jazz hands, trading off solos, even working in some swing dancing—that infinitely cool WWII move where the guy swings the girl on either side of his body, over and over. The H-Belle loved it. I loved it, though I was sure the real heart attack might kick in during my ongoing heart attack of love.

My greatest ongoing lamentation as a mother is my inconsistency. My energy levels swing, swing, swing—there is so much to do, and resources of time and energy are finite. Sometimes their mother is in tears; other times, she is ready to dance them to the moon. I am not the rock I hoped I would be, the rock of my vision. I am fluid—literally, sometimes I arrive home in tears—and I don’t know how they will remember me. What their vision of their mother will be. I have no say in this.

I remember my own mother and my own grandmother as rocks. They made it look easy. I assumed I would find it the same—a cinch, a piece of cake (not before bed). But it is harder for me. And yet, I am hoping there is goodness, that memories are being created, that their future vision of me will not be as volatile or inconsistent as I feel. I hope they will remember dancing until the windows were steamed over, until the mac-and-cheese was cold, as the dogs barked at our flying feet. I hope they will forgive me my follies, my poor attempts at jazz hands, my heavy heart and heavy dance steps, my off-key notes. I do love to sing, and for now, they indulge me this, and sing along.

No one told me that visions only go so far. No one speaks of this at baby showers. No one speaks of the surprises that life serves up when you’re in the ladies’ room. Of course no one speaks of these things; no one would leave home. The only antidote is to color in the lines of your reality, and then to keep coloring, coloring wildly, madly sometimes, outside the lines. The head, well, it’s a helpful thing, certainly. But the heart, when surprises are on the menu, well—the heart is the way to go.

And if the heart says dancing to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” is the prayer of the day, then I say, let’s shake those bottoms, let’s belt out the lyrics we know, and let’s fudge what we don’t know, just as loudly. There will always be a need to fudge—life requires it.

And if you see my almost-boys, hug them for me. I’m sure you’re doing a great job with them out there in Cleveland. Amen to you.

December 1st. A bit of sun peeking through the windows. I knew something was wrong when all of a sudden I could hear David snoring, and Eli smacking his droopy poop-eating jowls on his dog bed.

No no! All wrong! Where was my white noise? My beloved sound machine had died?

Frantically, I seized the sound machine and began pushing buttons. No go! Catastrophe! I cannot be expected to sleep in a house where I can hear other living, breathing creatures! Who could expect such a thing from me?

I fumbled for the alarm clock — no friendly glowing Santa-red numbers. And the air, well, the bedroom air should not be so cold.

Pushing the curtains aside I saw white. Snow everywhere. Power out! The terrible succession of thoughts, collapsing like Dominoes and crushing a Candyland route of brain cells:

No furnace!
No heat!
No stove!
No coffee!
No DVD player or TV (this one made me gasp aloud as I heard H-Bomb stirring in the next room and thought MY GOD SATURDAY MORNING WHAT WILL WE DO WITH THE CHILD)!
No email (another gasp)!
No phone (okay, not bad).

I prayed that the cold would envelop Hattie’s head and lull her into a nice hypothermic sleep for just another hour or two. I was willing to drape a German Shepherd over her if necessary.

No go. Little Girlfriend Was Up. I dispatched David and Eli to deal with the H-Bomb Morning Situation. Red clean fluffy Nina, the quietest sleeper in the house, was welcome to stay and warm my tushie.

Power back on now, but the house temp is still hovering around 59 degrees. If I think warm fuzzy thoughts perhaps it will heat up more quickly.

P.S. THANK YOU TO SANTA IN NYC, you sneaky wonderful person, whoever you are.