I’ve been at my parents’ house all of ten minutes, and I’m wandering around outside in the dark, calling for a cat. I don’t even know this damn cat. It’s my Uncle Big Bub’s ancient feline, a calico named Calico. As soon as we walked in the house, Uncle Big Bub was on the doorstep, asking for assistance. How do you turn away an elderly man missing his kitty? So we grabbed the flashlights and headed into the night.“Calico!” I call out, trying to sound warm and inviting, watching other beams of light bouncing in the distance.
This isn’t really Calico’s fault.
He lived his entire life in the same house until last week, and now he’s just confused. He keeps trying to go home. Uncle Big Bub (father of, you guessed it, Little Bub) and my Aunt Barbara recently built a house on the same land as my parents and my Aunt Merry, meaning we now have an actual family compound. You know, like the Kennedys. Only instead of playing touch football, we play flashlight tag with a semi-feral cat named for his physical description.
The tour of my play is performing in Louisiana tomorrow, and as a favor to me, they adjusted our travel route to spend the night at a hotel near my parents. That way, I could stave off homesickness a little with a family meal and a bed that isn’t at a La Quinta Inn. That last part is really appreciated, because I keep having terrible dreams in hotels. Is that normal? I can barely remember my dreams at home, but on the road it’s been vivid, detailed visions of large animals chasing me, my nose falling off, my parents divorcing for no reason, and me getting my foot caught in a bathtub full of quicksand. This crap stays with me the next day. I’m assuming it’s standard anxiety about being away from home and all that, but I wish my subconscious would let me get some decent rest.
Other than while I’m sleeping, I’m adjusting fairly well to life on the road.
That last sentence was a complete lie.
I’m fine as long as I’m WORKING, either performing on stage or getting ready to be there. But as soon as the show ends, I launch into my new hobbies: Overanalyzing phone conversations and worrying about what Preppy’s eating.
“I worry he’s not eating vegetables,” I told my best gal Slutty Mandy a few days ago. “He’s disinclined to have them when I’m home cooking, and I’ll bet he’s given them up altogether. Do you think he’s just eating microwave popcorn?”
“Yes,” said Mandy. “Of course he is. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it from hundreds of miles away, so just deal with it, sweetie. You’ll be home for Christmas. You’ll make green beans. Feel better?”
“No, I don’t feel better. And Preppy told me today our washing machine’s broken, too.”
“Well, shit,” said Mandy. “I guess you’d better quit the damn tour and come on home. Come fix the washer, steam some broccoli for your fiancé, and forget all this acting crap.”
I got it, I got it. It takes getting used to. The smart choice is to just keep looking forward, accept that the life you had before is not your life anymore, and adjust.
My sister Shannon and her husband got a call last week from my nephew’s birth mother. They’ve kept up with her over the years, sending occasional photos and updates regarding his growth and inherent genius. Birth Mama called to alert Shannon that she’d accidentally gotten pregnant again, and would she be interested in taking this one too?
They hadn’t really planned on adopting again- certainly not soon- but they couldn’t turn down the opportunity. They agreed, only to discover she’s due in SIX WEEKS. This would be shorter than usual. Most people, you might have heard, get nine months. Shannon’s taking it all in stride, and adjusting. I envy her malleability.
“I got him!” hollers Aunt Merry with triumph, and everyone cheers.
“Damn! That little so-and-so just scratched the hell outta me!” she then shouts, throwing the cat away from her, and we all give chase, which is a stupid thing to do when trying to catch a skittish housecat. I take a break for a cigarette and a phone call home.
“Hey baby,” says Preppy, sounding like someone beat him up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sick. Possibly dying. Might be flu. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ve got Theraflu in the master bath. And get some orange juice. Drink lots of water.”
“Already doing that.”
“And you should eat better. I think there’s tomato soup in the pantry.”
“Topher. Darlin’. Have you forgotten I took care of myself for a long time before I ever met you?”
The man has a point. But it made me feel needed to problem-solve. He simply refuses to sink into any kind of obvious misery over my absence. Not one tear shed, not one freakout, and frankly, I’m kinda disappointed. I was fully prepared to reassure him and hold him lovingly, telling him all will be okay. But he hasn’t required it.
The tour of my play is performing in Louisiana tomorrow, and as a favor to me, they adjusted our travel route to spend the night at a hotel near my parents. That way, I could stave off homesickness a little with a family meal and a bed that isn’t at a La Quinta Inn. That last part is really appreciated, because I keep having terrible dreams in hotels. Is that normal? I can barely remember my dreams at home, but on the road it’s been vivid, detailed visions of large animals chasing me, my nose falling off, my parents divorcing for no reason, and me getting my foot caught in a bathtub full of quicksand. This crap stays with me the next day. I’m assuming it’s standard anxiety about being away from home and all that, but I wish my subconscious would let me get some decent rest.
Other than while I’m sleeping, I’m adjusting fairly well to life on the road.
That last sentence was a complete lie.
I’m fine as long as I’m WORKING, either performing on stage or getting ready to be there. But as soon as the show ends, I launch into my new hobbies: Overanalyzing phone conversations and worrying about what Preppy’s eating.
“I worry he’s not eating vegetables,” I told my best gal Slutty Mandy a few days ago. “He’s disinclined to have them when I’m home cooking, and I’ll bet he’s given them up altogether. Do you think he’s just eating microwave popcorn?”
“Yes,” said Mandy. “Of course he is. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it from hundreds of miles away, so just deal with it, sweetie. You’ll be home for Christmas. You’ll make green beans. Feel better?”
“No, I don’t feel better. And Preppy told me today our washing machine’s broken, too.”
“Well, shit,” said Mandy. “I guess you’d better quit the damn tour and come on home. Come fix the washer, steam some broccoli for your fiancé, and forget all this acting crap.”
I got it, I got it. It takes getting used to. The smart choice is to just keep looking forward, accept that the life you had before is not your life anymore, and adjust.
My sister Shannon and her husband got a call last week from my nephew’s birth mother. They’ve kept up with her over the years, sending occasional photos and updates regarding his growth and inherent genius. Birth Mama called to alert Shannon that she’d accidentally gotten pregnant again, and would she be interested in taking this one too?
They hadn’t really planned on adopting again- certainly not soon- but they couldn’t turn down the opportunity. They agreed, only to discover she’s due in SIX WEEKS. This would be shorter than usual. Most people, you might have heard, get nine months. Shannon’s taking it all in stride, and adjusting. I envy her malleability.
“I got him!” hollers Aunt Merry with triumph, and everyone cheers.
“Damn! That little so-and-so just scratched the hell outta me!” she then shouts, throwing the cat away from her, and we all give chase, which is a stupid thing to do when trying to catch a skittish housecat. I take a break for a cigarette and a phone call home.
“Hey baby,” says Preppy, sounding like someone beat him up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sick. Possibly dying. Might be flu. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ve got Theraflu in the master bath. And get some orange juice. Drink lots of water.”
“Already doing that.”
“And you should eat better. I think there’s tomato soup in the pantry.”
“Topher. Darlin’. Have you forgotten I took care of myself for a long time before I ever met you?”
The man has a point. But it made me feel needed to problem-solve. He simply refuses to sink into any kind of obvious misery over my absence. Not one tear shed, not one freakout, and frankly, I’m kinda disappointed. I was fully prepared to reassure him and hold him lovingly, telling him all will be okay. But he hasn’t required it.
God, nothing makes you feel more neurotic than a conversation with a sane person.
My Aunt Barbara walks into the light, smiling broadly and holding the cat tight to her chest.
“He’ll be fine,” she says. “He just needs to adjust to his new surroundings.”
I’m right there with you, Calico. Right there with ya.
My Aunt Barbara walks into the light, smiling broadly and holding the cat tight to her chest.
“He’ll be fine,” she says. “He just needs to adjust to his new surroundings.”
I’m right there with you, Calico. Right there with ya.
