I Married A Cat Whisperer

Is there any truth behind the barrel loads of 'wisdom' that creep into our conversations? You know the ones about not trying to change someone, and the fervent urgings to not change yourself in order to suit a mate? 

Ja, well, no fine. I beg to differ. For instance, the world is pretty much divided into either dog or cat people, and I got hitched to a Dog Man who had a series of rather gorgeous Boerbuls. A chunky breed of dog, strappingly built with melty soft eyes and muzzles and natures to match, unless you got on the wrong side of them, then watch out. A definite match of owner to pet, in this case. We agreed to accommodate our separate choice of pet and in due course the dogs found new homes and cats ruled our roost. It just happened, I promise. No devious machinations behind the scenes. 

One of our rescue cats, Speckle, is a bit short of feline genes and owns precisely two brain cells, which rattle like marbles inside her skull. The first cell controls her body - breathe, eat, clean, walk, sleep and so on. The second is solely focused on needing love. At all times. From whoever. 

Spotting her victim, she moved in on Him Outdoors and within a few years had him fawning over her, in turn adopting him as her own. Sleeping on his lap, sitting on top of his packed suitcases and visiting him to inspect his renovations on Henry the Campervan, even daring to sit inside and keep him company. The funniest was when she plonked herself at his side once, growling fiercely when HO opened the door to an late night visitor.

I've previously mentioned how our cats loathe car trips and my circle of friends have been regaled with re-enactments of taking them to the vet or, once, a 4 hour journey during which they ceaselessly howled. It was dreadful.
https://lightlygreen.blogspot.co.za/2017/02/i-covered-traumatic-cat-trip-to-vetsin.html.

HO, bubbling with that boundless optimism of his, insists that packing them into Henry and embarking on a 6 week trip through 5 African countries is possible, and took their curious exploration of Henry at every opportunity to 'prove' his point - that they'll love the campervan. So, we tested his theory with a 4 hour journey on Sunday.

It's official - I married a Cat Whisperer, much as it pains me to admit he was right. Oh, at first it ran to plan. Sullenly loaded into the carriers, they waited for the magic ignition moment to begin warming up their vocal chords, preparatory to launching into the concerto.

"Let them out of the carriers," HO instructed. "They'll explore then settle down." I warned him but hey, lets prove him wrong. So out they came and voila, the volume increased exponentially and we now had a full-on version of La Boheme, sung by the Hounds of the Baskervilles. Aha, told you so.

Speckle bounced like a rubber ball from side to side, staring out of the rear window and showing off her tonsils to the vehicle behind us. Anushka climbed onto HO's lap for a look through the windscreen then curled up beneath his seat. In due course, Speckle sat on my lap and Anushka spread herself out on the bed and the journey continued peacefully. I would never have believed it and if I wasn't with them at all times, would, quite frankly, have suspected some behind the scenes doping. It simply wasn't possible that his frequent soothing 'chats' to them could have wrought this miracle. But it did.

To add insult to injury, they were rather hesitant about their new digs at first, as you would expect. But it completely took the biscuit when we discovered Speckle hiding in HIS suitcase, where she remained for a day or so.  

As the one who feeds, brushes, cares for their health and wellbeing, I do feel a little underappreciated. The bigger lesson is, however, that people in relationships do change. Whether you call it adjustment or adaptation, a dyed in the wool Dog Man is now putty in a cat's paws, while I was quite sad to see the back of Rufus and Bull, the Boerbul dogs.

Mastering the Mistress

I worked quite intensively yesterday, proofreading and editing a travel guidebook. With the usual pauses to reconsider proper and common nouns – African wild cat or African Wild Cat?  Blue wildebeest or Blue Wildebeest?

This conundrum continued to occupy brain space deep into the early hours of the morning as I sleeplessly tossed and turned. It’s in these moments that my brain transforms into a golden snitch zooming around in a particularly frenetic game of Quidditch.  If the reference escapes you, read anything in the Harry Potter series.

Why are titles proper rather than common nouns?  Why do we persist with three female titles – Miss, Mrs and Ms? What is the preoccupation with marital status or conversely, screening the status with the ubiquitous Miz? Why don’t we use a blanket ‘Mistress’ as the feminine version of ‘Mister’?  Why are young boys titled ‘Master’ yet grown men ‘Mister’?

By now the snitch was in full manic mode and so far out into left field it had exited the room. Thoughts and arguments tumbled and skyrocketed at top speed, kicking slumber into touch. Another note to self to really, really stop having that after dinner coffee; caffeine does gymnastics in my sleep cortex.

Is it fear of a lack of options? The horror of being categorised either married, unmarried or one of the above? Does anyone really care?

Mrs is an abbrieviation of Mistress and I’m happy to be a Mistress in all connotations of the word. Even the less salubrious meaning is rather daring and elicits a frisson of excitement. Let’s lose the overpidgeonholing thing and match Mister with Mistress, Ms for short (no feminist statement here, simply the first and last letters of the word, a la Mr).

Simplify the world for our daughters, with a single title that denotes their gender rather than their marital status and removes the rather meaningless but nonetheless anguished over decision women make at some point to either go with traditional ‘subjugation’ policy and take on a new title and name or to follow the feminist ‘correct’ path.

If a girl is ‘Ms’ from birth to death, the decision about taking her husband’s name becomes one of convenience and choice as she’ll be Ms whether married or not. Ms Smith can elect to become Ms Blenkinsop or remain as she was without the confusion of then putting ‘Married’ under her title Miss.

Let’s face it, ‘Ms’ hasn’t taken off as a mainstream choice, possibly because the issue is overcomplicated and implicitly suggests rebellion or rampant feminist. And can you be a ‘Ms’ with your spouse’s name, or is Ms currently reserved for maiden names, whether the bearer is married or not? 

This is something worth marching about, an issue to be clarified and decided once and for all. At the very least, there will be an ink and space saving on official forms with the removal of two title options!

Rounding Up Errant Thoughts

I was gently nudged by a dear friend and loyal reader regarding the erratic train of thought in my last post.  Truth be told, I'd intended chatting about how our plans were turning out to be more liquid than plan, and as flexible as a meandering stream.

Breaking off midway through my musings for a cuppa, the state of the kitchen brought my temperature to boiling point faster than the kettle rattled steam from it's spout.  Hence the diverse sidetrack, sorry about that.  One of the downsides of not planning my blogs; off the cuff scribing means that I'm not totally in control of where it is headed.

OK, so you've got the gist - our departure date for East Africa has stretched further and further out and even a firm resignation and resolution hasn't actually made it reality.  To add more complication to the mix of installing lightbulbs in hospitals, Kenya's August election result was declared null and void by the High Court and a re-run ordered.

Frankly, I'm delighted by this African first, an election result declared free and fair by outside observers successfully contested in court.  Not that I'm leaning one way or the other regarding the parties but this display of democracy at work is very pleasing.  Except, with the new election date set for 17th October and many expats heading out of the country again until things settle down, Him Outdoors sensibly began to wonder if a further postponement of our trip should be considered. 

A call last week to an expat friend in Nairobi scored a point for my opinion, that this was the time to be bold and be there, people who would usually be too busy to see us will have time on their hands.  1 - 0 for the optimist.

A lengthy Skype chat to our Kenyan business partner on Monday evening levelled the score though.  In fact, it earned double points and weighted the seesaw towards the Realist.  George strongly advised that we delay, saying it would be a waste of our time - Kenyan business owners are simply frozen until after the election. He himself was preparing to take his family out of Kenya for a while and this, coming from a Black Kenyan entrepreneur, carried huge weight with us.

Sadly reporting back to our Jozi pals that the drinks send off on Saturday was to be postponed elicited an interesting and heartwarming perspective - 'yay, now we have you for longer' was the general gist.  Wow, guys, we didn't see that coming and absolutely love our Monty Python-esque pals - 'Always look on the bright side of life' is now ringing in our ears and HO belts out a whistle or two every now and then.  Mostly when my bottom lip quivers and pouts.  

In today's world of instant gratification and push button convenience, it is so easy to lose sight of what life really is about - a straggly, potholed track strewn with fallen trees and the odd puddle.  The only way through is to keep moving forward, slowly navigating all the obstacles and to press ahead. Smooth paths and life on a plate are the exception, not the rule. Hollywood and popular fiction have dulled our realistic expectations and should be seen for what they really are - feel good fantasy.

Life itself is a muddle that keeps us on our toes and constantly stretches and challenges our ability to think on our feet and adapt, and thank heavens for that. Disappointment aside, the kinetic energy of change is exciting.

Urrgh, Men and Commune Housework

Life unfolds at it's own pace, which at times is far too leisurely for me.  I'm the 'make a decision and dash off at 100 miles an hour to get it done' sort of person and yes, that crazy woman in the supermarket, parking her trolley at the end of the aisle 3 then zooming across to aisle 27 to pick up the next item on her list is me.

Him Outdoors refers to my grocery excursions as gym time, he swears I walk at least 4x more than needed.  I think of my shopping trail as a sort of honey bee waggle dance. Just not in a figure 8 or, truth be told, in any sort of coherent manner at all. Perhaps the sort of post-fermented marula fruit waggle dance that a bee would perform if a bee's mind was as absent as mine.  Nonetheless, our pantry is always stocked so does the gathering mileage really matter?

We've been wanting to head back to Kenya for months now but things keep cropping up. HO's contract has been (admittedly thankfully) extended time after time as new projects are thrown at him but eventually, in a spousal headlock, he agreed to draw a line under 31st August and bid Altsa 'adieu'. Which he did. 

Perhaps not as effectively as envisaged, though, as now we are both living in the communal company house in Durban while our fur babies and home are under the care of a dear friend and I have clothes and belongings scattered in 6 places, including the boot of my car parked at Oliver Tambo.  Who knew that Madam Chief Nest-er could live a gypsy lifestyle at all, let alone for 10 months?I've had a crash course of lessons in patience, acceptance and relinquishment of control, not to mention having to let go of a perfectionist's standards of, well, pretty much everything. It's been a tussle, I must admit.

While we wait for the contractors to provide HO with accurate and believable figures of the stock required to finish the installations so that the sites can be delivered and signed off, we are sharing a rather cute Victorian house with two work colleagues of HO. A sparsely furnished, absolutely no frills, under renovation Victorian house, and did I mention that the cottage at the bottom of the garden houses a tenant, as well? 

The housemates are lovely guys and lots of fun but my word, they haven't a clue about making a space the teeniest bit homely and as to how easily the XY chromosome bearers slipped into leaving cooking, tidying and washing up to the woman....grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. They also rate as probably the untidiest people I've ever had the misfortune to share a roof with, including the one I married who has reverted to some kind of bachelor oblivion about cleaning and standards of hygiene.

It took me a few days to down tools and resolutely REFUSE to continue tidying the kitchen because I can't bear the odious mess, but neither am I prepared to be 'house girl'. However, the shambles irks me intensely while they are completely oblivious to the mess. I'm taking so many deep breaths, oxygen overload is my middle name. 

I've had a bit of experience sharing digs with a few men this year. In April I homed with No 2 son and his 3 mates for a few days over graduation.  What a pleasure! No 2 had dictated a huge clean up prior to my arrival, apparently, but over the 3 days I was there the guys cooked and cleaned up after themselves. The bathrooms were always spotless and as for the company, it was a hoot.  4 bright post grad scientists who couldn't do enough or be more polite or considerate of their house guest and numerous debates and discussions about the world at large made for a memorable and very enjoyable stay with them.  

I guess the tidy mentality can be laid neatly at the feet of the mother, in which case I need to have a few words with my darling mother-in-law. Or perhaps it's a generation thing - my sprogs were expected to clean up after themselves and ensure the house was tidy, there was none of that 'girls clean, boys reside on a pedestal' thinking in my house and looking at No 2's digs mates it seems he has found kindred spirits of his age.

As for the old geezers I currently share with, zounds. And because the subbies keep finding random rooms and corridors previously not accounted for on site, we are going to be here far longer than anticipated.  Zen and the art of domestic disorder, I'm breathing.  Deeply.