Ugh. Middle School.

Today's the first day of school in our district. Normally, I'm ready for the boys to go back to school, if only to get them out of the house for the day so I can watch bad TV for 8 hours straight (Grey's Anatomy binge-fest? Why, don't mind if I do!).

But, this year, I'm just not feelin' it. It could be because we didn't do much this summer. We renovated our kitchen and played on 3 baseball teams that, while fun, pretty much sucked the life out of us for 2 whole months. The 12-year-old got to go to camp, the husband and I took a trip to Napa and the 9-year-old spent a week with grandma, which, let's face it, is better than any stinkin' vacation.

So, they should be ready to go back. However, I don't know if time speeds up because I'm old, or if, in some alternate universe, a month or so was taken away from us without our knowledge because? It just seemed to have gone by way too fast.

Or my reluctance to accept the beginning of the school year could be that the 12-year-old started middle school.

Do you guys remember middle school? Do you look back and wonder how we survived? Because, dang. Those were some awful years.

For me, those were the years I got braces and glasses, and, if that weren't tragic enough, a series of terrible haircuts. The boys started noticing the girls (not me, of course, because of the aforementioned braces-glasses-haircut combo), the girls started kissing the boys (again, see above)...

I'm sure it wasn't awful for everyone. My girlfriends certainly had a fine time kissing all those boys. But, for an introverted, slightly awkward, slightly emotional girl like myself, it was pretty bad. And I just don't want my son to go through it.

I'm hoping because he's a boy, he won't have to deal with the stupidity I did.

Story time... when I was in 7th grade, pegged jeans, matching socks and loafers were all the rage. My mom wasn't a big fan of, you know, "style" or "being cool" or "just trying to survive middle school", so buying me clothes from the Gap wasn't at the top of her list. But, every once in a while (read: a birthday or holiday), I would get something cool to wear to school.

I had these gray pin-striped pants, paired with a peach (oh yes, peach) top and peach socks (of course). I wore this outfit pretty regularly, which meant the outfit was washed.  A lot.

My mother, bless her, was (and still is) a big fan of bleach. She bleached everything, from bathrooms to kitchens to, you guessed it, our clothes. And because I am was the awkward person I am was, I wore whatever was mine without protest, including my now-yellow peach socks.

(In an alternate life, I would've just asked for new socks or begged my mother to not bleach the socks I had, but, of course, hindsight and all that.)

One day, I was in choir, wearing my peach outfit and the mean girl who lived across the street from me said, "Lea, why are you wearing yellow socks?"

Me: Well, this is my peach outfit and these socks were once peach, so...
Her: Well, they're not now.

It's funny the things you remember, isn't it?

She also asked the choir teacher if she was pregnant (she wasn't), so she was just being a bitch to be a bitch, but still. My middle school existence can be summed up in that conversation.

You're not cool. You won't be cool. Wear white socks.

High school brought contact lenses, a perm (which was cool back then) and no braces, so life significantly improved.

Good luck in middle school, kid. I promise I won't bleach your socks.

Life is better with a cat?

You guys all know I have a cat. I’ve talked about her here and here. And, despite all those stories, I love her. Like lurrrrve her love her. Like hate her lurrrve her love her.

But, she’s not without her issues. We “joke” all the time that we’re going to get rid of her whenever she pulls her shenanigans (aka peeing on the floor, peeing on the carpet, peeing on the wall, pooping on the carpet [right next to the litter box, btw], vomiting on the floor, vomiting on the carpet, hissing or swatting at every single person who walks in our door). In a nutshell, being a cat.

But, as I said, we love her. She’s been with us for 14 years now and we’re beginning to wonder how much longer she’ll be with us. We recently renovated our kitchen, so you can imagine how that might have gone over with our anxiety-ridden kitty.

Read: not well.

She’s been acting kind of funny lately. Cries a lot, not really eating much and basically being a real pain in the ass with the pooping and peeing.

So, we took her to the vet yesterday. Because she’s anxious, it never goes well. So, they thought they’d sedate her to examine her.

The vet: How far are you willing to take this?

Me [to myself]: Is she really asking me if I want to treat the cat? Isn’t that why I came?

Me [out loud]: Well, I want to know what’s wrong with her.

Vet: OK, great. We’ll get started then.

That made me wonder. Do most owners come in and say, “I only want to treat if it’s the $20 special”?

I get it. Treatment can be expensive. Especially for a furry friend who may or may not have spent years trying to kill you by sleeping around your neck.

But, I like to pretend think that she does it because she loves me, so we went ahead with the sedation.

After her exam, the vet told me she looks good, but that she is constipated.

Constipated, really?

We know constipation in our house. My son has spent years suffering from it; I, myself, have had these issues. It now makes me wonder if she’s trying too hard to be a part of this family or if maybe we need to check our water.

Anyway, the treatment for constipation in cats is… Miralax. Just like with humans. She gave us some Miralax to take home (which, no need, I get the industrial-sized bottles, but hey, free Miralax!). She sent us on our way, with the warning that Zoe would be a little woozy for a while, so don’t let her play on the steps.

Noted.

For the rest of the day/evening, I watched her like a hawk. She definitely was out of it, almost comically so. Her eyes were glazed, she couldn’t close her mouth, and when she wasn’t walking sideways, she was staring at the walls for hours on end. Funny not funny.

This morning, her meows are back. She’s no longer walking sideways, but she’s certainly not very forgiving. She would walk towards me, but then remember she was comatose yesterday because of me and give me the cold shoulder.

I suppose the cold shoulder is better than the furry neck. At least I’m alive.