god forbid you should have a good time

Does this happen to you? It happens to me every single time — and I can't seem to ever remember that it does. And then (for some reason) I'm actually surprised by it. And then mad at myself for being surprised. Because (after all) I should have expected it. It happens every time, right?

The point being that I should just never take actual vacations. Not even a weekend's worth. And definitely not at my favorite place in the world (apart from the Sahara), and that would be Big Sur.

This time it was a camping trip with the new girlfriend. I'd made reservations for this camping spot long before I'd even met the new girlfriend, that's how determined I was to take a couple days off.  Don't get me wrong, I DID bring work with me. Papers to grade, because it's already that season. So. I felt pretty protected from god forbid having too much of a good time.

Unfortunately, I had a good time.

More than a good time.

And when the weekend was over and I got home — there was a flood in the garage. And no, I won't describe it.

So. Instead of taking that well-needed post-camping shower, I got out the good plunger and worked at the drain in the garage.  After about an hour, the flood subsided, but not enough to proclaim it cured.  After all, this has happened before. After a trip to Paris (for work, of course) and some other trip I don't remember, except that I had fun. Fun being the operative word that brings down the waterworks chez moi.

I'd been warned the last time or two that the sewer pipes (like the water line before it) was in far from stellar condition.  The house is, after all, over a hundred years old.  The pipes may or may not be original, but they're old. And ceramic. And broken. They've been at war with the tree roots out front for decades. I've observed their war up close and personal when I had to replace my water line.

So. Was I surprised at the diagnosis? No. Sticker shock, yes.  Half my savings, down the drain — literally.

Is there a point at which everything that can go wrong will already have done so, and I can go away for two days of camping in the dirt and smoke and pretend I'm relaxing, and not come back to some portion of my 1907 cottage having a little shit fit?

Is it just bad timing? Am I unconsciously going on vacation exactly at the time my house most needs my attention? Is my house really a big furry cat who needs to make a fuss every single time I go away? Or am I supposed to go away more often in order to train it?

I'm pretty sure that if I'd had a crappy time, I would have come home to an intact house.  I'm pretty sure it's the fun my house is complaining about.  I'm pretty sure. But I just can't prove it. The experiments are just too costly.

All I know, is that next time I plan a trip just for fun, I'm going to sneak off and not tell my house at all.

Except that now, with a broken sewer line, there's not going to be a next time any time soon.

This has all happened before. And it will all happen again.  Just when we're the most decadent. The cylons attack.

missing you as I do

Suddenly you were gone, and you didn't answer my call — and I panicked. This was all my fault. I know I say that a lot. I know nobody really believes me. But this was my fault. How could you not feel displaced and uprooted with these others in our bed? How can I explain to you that it's okay to share? That there's room for all? When you're too upset to think. When all you can do is hiss and swipe?

They're not really invaders...

Okay, so that's a lie. You're right. I hear you. They are invaders, colonizing your territory. I know you feel usurped — but sweetie, there's room for all. I promise.

Instead, you stormed out, and didn't return when I called.

I called you gently, with all the love that I could muster. You stayed away. I tried to go back to sleep in our overfull bed, but still I panicked.

"He's on his rounds," she said. So don't despair. "He's always out this time of night," she said. But I couldn't hear her.

"I'm a bad mommy," I intoned, and she cooed in my ear. She gave me one rational reason after another why this was okay.

"He's doing better," she said. She told me you're adjusting. She listed instance after instance of how much better it has gotten. But I panicked anyway, and went downstairs and called you again.

"You're never in bed this early," she said reasonably. She's so reasonable! And I know she's right. I panicked anyway. Went down a third time, and called you yet again —

I'd left treats for you, and now they're gone. So I knew that you'd been by and I should feel less guilty. I added more treats to your bowl — and suddenly you appeared. My panic lessened.

Vladdie, I know it's crowded and our routine's disrupted. You're not there waiting patiently when I climb into bed. You're not there as I adjust the pillows, put on my glasses, and open up my nighttime book. You don't curl into my arms. You don't start purring. You're not licking me incessantly. I'm not nuzzling your sweet smelling fur. I just can't stand it.

On the other hand, well yah, we've not been reading.

"It's getting better," she said, and I know she right, and means it.

Last night I saw you sniff the big brown loopy lab and not hiss or scratch. She takes up so much room. She's hard to maneuver. She wants to be exactly in your spot —luxuriating— as we all four adjust. You've got to teach her what her place is, darling. No one else can do it. You've got to excuse her clumsy ways. Forgive her youth. She is a bouncy nuisance, but yes, she's getting better.

Vlad, you scared me with your absence. With your refusal to heed my call. I stood at our back threshold and called into the breeze, the ferns and the trees. You weren't along your usual fence. You weren't prowling or patrolling the perimeters of our yard. You have your secret life, I know, and I forgive you. It's what you felines do when you are free.

"This is why I couldn't ever let mine go outdoors," she said, and I know she's right and means it.

But how could I restrict your joyous romp? You fairly sprint up the pine, the yucca, and the backyard fences. You perch on posts and keep potential invaders all at bay. You wait at our neighbor's door expecting entry and good scratches. How can I explain that they've moved, and that your buddy their parrot's gone as well? I hear you cry — it breaks my heart. How can I change things? Or bring things back to normal? How can I tell you it will soon be all okay?

Time heals, they say, I know they're right —

Ah, suddenly here you are —at last— looking all smug and happy. It's 2:30 AM, and that's not bad. She was right to say we'd just gone to bed too early. You're sound, you're fine, you're back, and you're not mad.

Sweet kitty, how I love you, how I've missed you. It's been a whole two hours you've been gone. I guess it's just this guilt that I've been feeling. But here you are accepting treats, and curling up upon our pillows. And you look fine, and everything's okay. And I know I'll go through this hell again tomorrow. Until you reclaim your priority, and push that loopy labrador away.