Thaw before reheating.
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Wednesday morning: woke to find holes in the front garden where caladium once had been. Damn garden theft! It presented a good excuse to get some work done out in front. $30, 15 mosquito bites, and one cleaned up porch later, and the front yard had a face lift.
While in Mobile, Kate and I enjoyed treats that my parents brought back from Skip and Emily… including an incredibly thoughtful Mother’s Day card for me and birthday presents for Kate!
Emily and Skip found a selection of Wombat stories and a Wombat doll for Kate. This has significance: Wombat is Paul’s moniker, a name by which he is well-known personally… and, believe it or not, professionally. When he was co-opting in college, a “WOMBAT” was a “Waste Of Money Brains And Time” and Paul, plucky guy that he is, picked it up as his own. (Yes, I have been called “Mrs. Wombat.” What can I say? I married up.)
This was primarily a personal call sign until a few years ago, when his teams of co-workers became filled with other Pauls… everyone used nicknames. Paul became “Wombat.” This continued into his telecommuting roles, which is where things get interesting. Paul rarely goes into the DC-area office (once in 3 1/2 years) and is known as “Wombat.” He is also very good at what he does, creating a curious mystique about this super-smart guy called “Wombat” who no one has ever seen. I think this makes the perfect movie …
Scene: Computer lab in some dungenous CIA facility. Top secret agent Denzel Washington is leaning over a computer screen where his leggy co-star, a mid-level employee unwittingly pulled into the fiasco, types frantically.
Co-star: “I just can’t do it. This is stuff that I don’t understand and can’t access.”
Denzel: “We need more information! Isn’t there someone who can help us?”
Co-star: “Well…there is one guy… he’s a legend. I’ve never seen him, few people have. He’s so good that some say he doesn’t really exist, but I’m pretty sure I could find him.”
Denzel: “Who is he?”
Co-star: “I don’t know his real name. He’s called ‘Wombat’…”
Denzel: “Wombat???” (pauses) “Well, if you say he’s that good, we need him. Where do we find this ‘Wombat’ guy?”
Cut to sunny fly-over shot of Beautiful New Orleans and bright sounds of New Orleans Dixieland…!
This is what I see in my head when I think about Paul’s work. I picture stuffy CIA-officials that look like Denzel Washington trying to track down the mysterious ‘Wombat’ in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade. What can I say? The woman known as “Mrs. Wombat” has to get her excitement from somewhere.
No, we’re kidding. It’s *LILAC.*
The official line is: this stroller is pretty darn amazing. It is smooth, has decent room for both kids, secures them both very well, handles walking in New Orleans, fits through doorways, and folds easier than any stroller I’ve seen. Under their butts are little cloth handles that read “FOLD” — you pull up on the handles and the stroller folds in an instant. WOW.
It is heavy, but light compared to some other double strollers. The REAL test will be in just over a week, when I fly *alone* with the kids to DC. (We’re meeting Paul up there for a few days in the area before we drive down to NC for a few days for fun with Nana, Amy, Kevin, and our favorite chunky hunk, Brayden.) The stroller will get a full break-in during the trip and I am nervous and eager to see how it does…!
I posted earlier about the mystery creatures making homes(?) behind our shutters. We still have no idea what these things could be. The bullet type thing is what was inside one… or at least, half of it. Any thoughts???
I am constantly impressed by the creatures the South gives home to. Yowza.
We’re selling it. 
The great jogging/all terrain stroller that served us so well. We’ve found that, since Kate, it mocks us. Reminding us of days when we could walk, run, stroll, and meander to the Park, St. Charles Avenue, or the store with ease. Now our distances are short and slow: we’re either carrying one, or allowing one to walk, both situations which cut walking trips down in size and frequency.
The upcoming trip to DC (more on that later) brought the realization that we NEED a double stroller. Without it, the scenario of me, alone, flying with both children, is a very scary one. I learned quickly that double strollers: 1. are expensive; 2. require the consideration of many more factors than I initially would have thought; 3. are big.
At first, I thought we were going to be a sit-and-stand type of family. Then we saw them in person. I realized that upon seconds of sitting back to back, my kids would be pushing against the seat backs each trying to grind the other into fine powder…. if Will would even agree to sit behind his sister (unlikely). The tandem models were an immediate rule-out for size (they don’t fit in our station wagon) and weight. So, I was looking at side-by-side models.
After consideration of a hundred things (their different weights, different ages, size, weight, and durability of the stroller, etc.) I decided on the Maclarens. We love our Maclaren Triumph (single stroller) and I thought this was best. A similar double? $250 or more. I watched ebay for a few days… they get that high and rarely does one come up used. Ouch. I couldn’t pay that much for a stroller that, in reality, I’d never be able to use at home. In New Orleans, you MUST have an all-terrain stroller to use it outdoors or you’ll never be able to go anywhere.
So I started checking out the all terrain double strollers. Yowza. $450 and up. After coming to these conclusions: good strollers are expensive, it’s a good thing to splurge my consulting income on, good strollers have good resale, and we miss long walks together — we decided to find one. In the end, it was the City Series Baby Jogger — normally $550, but purchased for $425 on sale through ebay, marked down due to it’s color (lilac). We were going to get the Mountain Buggy Urban Double ($669, we could get it down to $575 with coupons and sales) but liked the additional length of the City Series, the easy fold, and the smaller size when folded. Actually, we were just really excited to find something comparable for $100 cheaper. I still can’t believe we spent this much on a stroller. So, in the mean time, we’re selling our other strollers… need to replace the consulting income that was suppose to go to Jazz Fest.
We are so excited about it and can’t wait to try it out… isn’t that odd?
We’ve had a problem with ferns for awhile. The problem is that we forget to water, or don’t water enough, or leave town and forget to leave out supplies for watering, or have sun that’s too strong, or plants that aren’t right, or something…. cause in the end, the issue is that they wither right up. And there they sit, balls of dried fern, dry as desert sand. For awhile, I was calling them “phoenix ferns” — just waiting for them to burst into flame and bring forth the beautiful bird held within. 
This weekend we decided to regain some standing with the neighbors and let the phoenix dreams die. We replaced the plants… but we did so with a plan. Paul installed an automatic watering system that runs through tubing down into each basket, directly to the center of each plant. It was so easy, so quick, and so attractive an option that I am shocked we didn’t do it sooner.
And we didn’t stop there! Out came buckets, sponges, and soap. The front of the house got washed… at least, from about my arms’ reach down…. not even half way up the 14′ porch, but still not bad. Paul is pricing out pressure washers… it’s time we gave in. It’s just a must in this type of environment. Paul says he’s going to follow up on my start and use the ladder to scrub the high parts of the porch. That would be great… lotsa buggy carcasses stuck to stuff up there. The other thing on our plate: a New Orleans paint job (maybe next fall?) and sealing/painting the porch.
While I was washing, I found several (maybe a dozen or more?) reddish sticky nests behind the shutters attached to the siding, along the crevices where the window frame meets the siding. At first I thought wasps… but no. Then I thought termites? But when we started prying at them with a screwdriver, we saw that they were sort of hard (like a beetle shell?) and had a grub-like inside. Some seemed “empty.” Paul was the primary remover and only got to a few before the kids became too much of a hassle. We have NO idea what these things are!! Any ideas??
– Three-year old temperament and tests.
– Wrangling Kate, the non-stop walking, into everything, smart, quick, and cute maniac.
– Getting Paul’s work *laptop* functioning… so that he can join me to work from Oak Street or Rue. That’s right, we’ll be able to work through Wi-Fi together out in the ambiance and atmosphere… once the darn machine is cooperating.
– Determining what to do about school for Will next year… and realizing that our options are dried up because we’ve waited too long.
– The flat tire and brake replacement on the car… and having to go to Mobile to get it fixed
– Wanting to do a hundred things (start on the back of the house renovation, upgrade to a bigger vehicle with latch, have a vacation, explore more of our local gems) but feeling overwhelmed.
– Needing appointments for a thousand services we’ve been neglecting for years (from dental to allergy to general and beyond) but unsure of who or where to go.
– Getting Kate to sleep.
“Mommy, I want Manx back.”
“I know, Will. But Manx is gone.”
“But I love her, Mommy.”
“We love her, too, Will.”
In 1993, Manx was found with a litter of kittens at a rest stop off I-81 in Pulaski County, Virginia. Upon bringing the group home, the people that found her quickly noticed that Manx was “different.” Because the family had many animals and several big dogs, they realized that Manx’s petite stature and physical differences put her at risk. Paul offered to take her in and upon doing so, renamed her “Manx,” (the folks who found her had called her “Pixiedust”). When Paul brought her to the vet, they estimated her age at “around 2, we think”, confirmed that she had given birth (we don’t know what happened to the kittens), and said that her “special” qualities may have been due to being hit by a car, experiencing a seizure while giving birth, or a developmental disability. Regardless of what caused her differences, it was clear that they did not cause her any distress and that she was otherwise in perfect health.
When I met Manx in 1998, she was a happy, round little furball. We met when she tried to rub against my legs, missed me, and fell. This is how Manx usually introduced herself: walking on the backside of the sofa and falling on your lap, rubbing on your feet and falling over, jumping up to sit beside you only to miss and splat on the floor. The coordination and grace that characterizes most cats were completely lost on Manx. Her back and front ends seemed out of touch with each other; one moving to the right when the other moved left. Her balance was always a bit off; a good sneeze knocked her over. It was all incredible endearing and a constant amusement.
She wasn’t the sharpest cat. Manx would rub on an open door, rubbing along its base, pushing it so that it would swing out from under her, making her fall over on to the floor. She’d act surprised, get up, and repeat the motions — over and over — until finally the door slammed shut, causing her to startle and hop away. A few minutes later, we’d see her performing the same incantations with another open door.
While not the smartest of felines, she was one of the prettiest. Perfect white chest and four precious white paws. Permanently petite in stature (6-7 pounds was her ideal weight), silky soft to touch, and with beautiful brown, tan, and grey stripes that graced her back and tail. Photographs rarely captured the sweetness of her appearance.
Manx lived to love. Anyone, anytime, all the time. (Video link.) Until my asthma became too much, she curled up each night next to my chest. It was a chore to train her to sleep at our feet; some nights we woke up with her trying to squeeze herself on to our pillow. She was happiest rubbing herself against you (or anyone), having her back scratched and head rubbed. Her “elevator butt” — the rising butt that came when you scratched her back — was very impressive. Any contact with her caused her hair to fly off her body en masse, making you think she was going bald, but her coat remained unchanged. The patterns would change over time, but the amount of hair that came off never ceased… bathing and brushing rarely made a difference. In addition to purring, she showed her contentedness by drooling. So after a particularly heavy petting session with Miss Manx, you would not only be covered in hair, but her drool acted as a glue to stick the hair to you. It was not uncommon to get calls from friends who had visited weeks before, saying that they had found Manx hairs (conspicuous due to their striped appearance which mimicked her coat) on their belongings. I once found a Manx hair inside a book I was reading on the Metro in Washington, DC, two weeks after I’d been to see Paul (when we were still dating.)
We laughed over Manx’s antics almost everyday. One spring day in Michigan, I let the cats on the back deck as I worked with the container gardens. Suddenly, Manx was gone! We realized that she had jumped off the deck (almost one story high) and was happily munching grass in the backyard. Paul and I mobilized to get her back into the house, working together to corral her to the front door. Manx was spooked and put up a chase. She ran to the front door as fast as she could — which for Manx, looked like Pepi Le Pew bouncing through the air, with her back end flopping side to side with each bounce. Watching her run from behind put us in hysterics; we giggled as we ran to the front. We had no idea how far she’d go to get back inside. Instead of stopping at the front door, Manx, in a single moment of grace, leaped from the front path over the stoop and sailed through the air toward the door — only to be stopped mid-air by the glass front. It was like watching Wylie Coyote slam into the side of a cliff, pause, and then slowly slide down. Manx did exactly the same thing, coming to a stop in a puddle on the front step. She was fine; but we pulled muscles laughing. (“We’re not laughing at you, sweetie, we’re laughing with you!”)
Manx wanted everyone around her happy. If someone raised a voice, she was there — rubbing against legs, mewing her concern. When Will suffered with gas pains as a baby, Manx cried as much as he did. She sensed our emotions and seemed to try to make us feel better when we needed it. 
When Scout came into our lives, Manx took him in like her own baby. She carried him by the scruff, groomed him, and curled up beside him to nap. Scout, fireball that he was, responded by tackling and pouncing on Manx at every opportunity. He’d wait patiently, perched high on a shelf, watching for her to appear. Then jump down, directly in front of her, completely freaking her out. Manx complied with his annoying habits by playing the tattletale; even when Scout didn’t touch her, she’d whine and cry loud enough to cause trouble. Even as cats, the two of them were great at the “I’m not touching you” games that siblings play.
As Manx suddenly dropped weight, lost some hair, and began to show her age (in the past few months) Scout’s demeanor toward her changed. He began grooming her, allowing her to eat from their food dish first, walking back from the water bowl to allow to her to drink. We understand that he was very protective of her body when she passed.
We found out that she was gone while out to dinner with my parents in Mobile. In order for us all to say goodbye, to make it real, we knew we needed to personally handle her final arrangements. On Sunday, we had a small goodbye in the backyard, with the girls next door (who were very fond of her), and buried her by the lantana in our planting bed. 
Will and I painted shards of slate (I’ve been collecting discarded slate for painting medium) — I made a memorial plaque and Will painted “Our Family: Daddy, Mommy, Will, Kate, Scout and Manx”. We hung these on the fence around where we buried her. Before putting her in the ground, we held her remains, petted her fur (she felt just the same, as soft and silky as ever), and did what we needed to do to make it real for us. The girls’ being there helped keep it light and pleasant. Will said goodbye, but it still struggling with missing her and understanding what it means. Frankly, the concept of “here” and “gone” is pretty abstract (do I even understand it?) so I think he’s doing quite well, all things considered.
We love you, Manx! Thank you for being our special girl.
While we were having a wonderful afternoon on Friday, our beloved cat Manx was taking her last breaths.
She was fine Friday morning when our neighbors checked on her, but was gone by the evening.
We were unable to return until Saturday afternoon, so we had to ask our neighbors (Mom and three girls — ages 12 and 9-year old twins) to place Manx’s stiff body in plastic bags and put her in our freezer. It’s Saturday night, we’re home, and she’s still there.
After contacting the vet and discovering that it’s a $70 fee for communal cremation ($155 if you want the remains) we decided that we really wanted to bury her here.
Manx, as many of you reading this know, was an incredibly special cat. Unbelievably precious, completely loving and trusting. Best guesses had her at 16 years old (with Paul for 14 of those years). Her disability (cerebellar hypoplasia) was mild but marked, she was klutzy and cute, spunky and sweet. No one was immune to Manx-love, she was everyone’s favorite girl.
We were very unsure of how to approach all of this with Will. He couldn’t find her upon returning home but quickly got distracted to other things. When the household calmed down towards the end of the night, he remembered her again, saying that he wanted to see her. We started to explain that she was gone, but of course the idea didn’t stick. Right now, Will believes Manx is “hiding.”
Scout is okay. For the past few weeks, he has been Manx’s caretaker. They’ve been sharing food and water lately — and Scout has actually allowed Manx to eat/drink to her fill as she wishes, even if it means that she goes first. (If you know Scout, you know that this is definitely NOT normal behavior.) We’ve seen him grooming her, cuddling up with her, and just generally being sweet.
I’ll do better to memorialize our sweet girl a little later…
Abeona’s power outage meant that we, or at least me, were going to be doing some rescheduling today. My lit review progress fell yet-another day behind (but this is OKAY, I assure myself) and Paul joined in when he could to enjoy the beautiful day. A winter storm meant that the DC area was moving slowly, so he was able to have a bit more of a relaxed workday. 
Will and I planted seeds (basil, chives, parsley, zinnia, verbena) to germinate in little greenhouses. He is watching seeds grow (“beanstalks!”) at school so I thought we’d do a similar side project at home. We planted the extra seeds in the backyard — hopefully, they’ll do okay there as well!
Paul rocked our Babycakes to sleep. She is struggling with tooth number #2, which has been trying to break through for the past 3 days.
After our gardening, Will and I found an interesting bug to observe. Little man needed his ‘noculars to get in close.
The weather was in the low 80s, but with low humidity (unheard of in these parts!) and the day was exquisite. It felt very funny to bring those little greenhouses inside tonight to prepare for our chilly night (possible frost?) and cold tomorrow (the high may not reach 50!)
