amyliming

19.

Years.

That’s how long one very tyrannical cat has been at my side—through term papers, car accidents, roommates, bad apartments in the dangerous areas of Hollywood, through road trips cross country without A/C in a muscle car with loud exhaust, through so many boyfriends and breakups that he learned simply to sit in quiet judgment and never, ever get attached.

19 years of he and I learning each other’s language, sleeping next to each other, jamming to classic rock, starting and stopping jobs, rescuing new dogs, and mostly him nursing me through magnitude 10 herculean headaches.

I always knew that this cat—this little Dictator of the house—meant the world to me. I knew it from the moment he surfaced from under a filthy trailer on the Alabama border, declawed and riddled with worms, eyes focused on mine, speaking loud and clear that we two souls were connected. I knew that when I put him in the car with my dog, Circe, a Rottweiler (and a big, big girl), he would just sit on my lap and look at her, calm and already devoted. And he did. I always knew with Mr. Manne—I knew that he would sit on my arm and inside my overalls and never run. He came with me to Olvera Street for the blessing of the animals, and he calmly sat with me on a harness and watched everything, never scared.

But I found out this month when he got sick, and I almost lost him how devastated I will be when I do, actually, lose him. Mr. Manne pulled through, and he’s returned to his usual despot behavior, stealing our food and romping through the house as if nightly we don’t hook him up to an IV bag and assist his body with hydration by pumping him full of subcutaneous fluids. He acts as if his one-functioning kidney is more than enough as if he’s invincible.

But I know, as I always have, how much love hurts in the end. Mr. Manne represents to me a sort of time capsule that I have buried within him—the old me, the person that I lived with him by my side. The person that only he knew will disappear with him when he chooses to go. That’s what animals are, really. They are reflections of our best love, our deepest secrets, the parts of us that we choose to share with only the purest, non-judgemental creatures to which we have access. Humans aren’t worthy, surely, as Mr. Manne saw time and time again and tried to tell me, as he eschewed those that I brought home. But in him, in one tiny cat, I had the image of my best, most vulnerable self. We all, in our pets, have secured the most private transactions: their love for our actual, transparent selves.

Each time we bury the pets in our life, we lose part of this, the past self that we gave to them, and each time I lose one I say, “I can’t get another.” I wonder, skeptically, if it’s because there is no purity remaining within me. A lot has been said in the past few years about pet loss and grief, so it’s not just me that seems to think it takes a lot of a person (Huffington Post Article)

Until Mr. Manne passes, that is. Until then, my heart is still filled with the love of the bitter little soul that somehow steals my pillow and my dessert and manages to still seem wiser and more enlightened than me. After he goes, after the time capsule is sealed and Mr. Manne’s crown is retired, the skepticism surfaces. Let’s please all hope that his reign is longer than 19 years.

Skeptically Yours,

Roadmistress

Whatever, Said the Cat

She was three years old then, my niece, and I was slightly terrified. I’m not a kid person. Thank God my mom was with us because I felt like I was pretending to be courageous and knowledgeable. She was visiting me for an entire week, and keeping a little child alive was something I’d never done.

That, and Circe had just died. Literally. The day before.

It was 2009, and Circe had been with me since I was 17. She was my stability, my strength. I knew from the minute I held her fuzzy little Rottweiler butt and smelled that addictive puppy breath that she had saved me. And from every second going forward, I relied on her to be my moral North—she pulled me forward into the correct decisions each day until I found myself properly aligned with adulthood. I hesitate to postulate about life without Circe. It isn’t worth the time to imagine that type of degenerate possibility.

So when she passed, I took care of business on her behalf, and I curled up into a ball—as expected, and I died inside for an entire day, but I knew that Maya was coming the next day, and I knew that she and I got very little time together anyway.

So I pulled it together the next morning, hauled myself off to Burbank airport, and I picked up that little glittering ray of mischief alongside my mother, and we galloped like dorky giraffes out to the car, where I struggled for an hour to install a child-safety seat (holy hell.). I would have been still curled into a ball if it weren’t for her—my three-year-old niece throwing pixie dust into my sadness.

She curled up next to me that night, so I knew I couldn’t cry myself to sleep—and she asked me to tell her a story. Everything in my brain is always about pets, so I recalled the day I brought Circe home and described the unwelcoming committee she received from the resident cat. As I spun that into a children’s tale, it became “Whatever, Said the Cat.” It was intended to make both of us laugh, to explain to a 3-year-old why pets get spayed and neutered, and to help Maya choose rescue someday because there are so many dogs that need it.

It was written for her, for the child that helped save me from sadness, and it was written for Circe, who also saved me so many times. And just a few months later, I found a very needy, abandoned German Shepherd that I rescued in Circe’s memory, and surely enough, she was taught all of the lessons from Whatever, Said the Cat by the resident felines.

The cycle, of course, continues. Love, rescue, life, happiness, and then death. Recently we’ve lost George Harrison Ford, and then unexpectedly, Bonham. I can’t even bring myself to talk about that yet, but perhaps soon, it’ll become a book.

Now, the story has been rewritten to remember Georgie and to star the ubiquitous Tyson—because Pitbulls need a PR campaign, and he’s the poster dog to represent them. Both of them had terrible stories but amazing comebacks, so they are appropriate for Whatever.

People need to stop giving me such fodder for my stories—and I’m skeptical that the shelters will empty out anytime soon, but maybe if the next generation does a better job, we can hope.

Skeptically Yours,

Roadmistress.

All Together Now!

So this is new.

DisappearingAmerica has been my skeptically skeptical place for all skepticism, hence…Bigskeptic. Anyone following along still may say, “who is Roadmistress?” Ahhhh, yes, well—Blog friends, meet Instagram and Twitter friends. This is also a shameless self-promotion site for my books. Roadmistress, alas, is Bigskeptic, who is Roadmistress…which was inspired by my big, beautiful Buick Roadmaster. And here we are, all of us, which is to say, me.

-Skeptically Yours, Roadmistress.

Knowing

I know you, George.

I know you by the sharp pang I feel when you plunge your teeth, all ten of them remaining in your mouth, into my shin as I’m moving too slowly in the morning as you wait for your Friskies. I know the three canine teeth especially, and I’m always surprised by your strength. By your fearlessness. Your…assholery. I know that your crooked grin is from fighting valiantly as the calicivirus ravaged you, your mouth full of sores and your organs shutting down. You survived because you are a fighter, and you finally submitted to allowing a human’s assistance.

I know you by the hoarse series of vocalizations you give me, and I know what they all mean. I know that one is a plea to go outside—one that, until just a month ago, went unanswered. You are an inside cat. Inside is safe. One means you’re hungry. One means that you’re needing attention. One means you’re incredibly annoyed with the canine attention you’re receiving. Each one demands an immediate reply. It’s why, although you’re named for a few men that your character echoes—you’re known around here as “King George.”

I know the feeling of your fur and your paws as you walk across the bed and eventually settle in beside me. You aren’t as heavy as the other boys, and you don’t ruffle the covers. You’re careful and precise. You spent a lot of time outdoors before we found you; you know how to maneuver unnoticed. You are svelt and weightless.

Outside—that’s new, and it’s because I know we’re near the end. I know that because I know you. I knew immediately when things changed for you. And I realize that once upon a time, you reigned as an outside Tomcat, errr—intact—and no human told you what to do. So watching you roll in the dirt and feast on grass and scratch the palm tree—I know that’s not the virile Tom you once were, but it’s a compromise, King George, and that’s all we have in the back yard. I watch over you like the secret service, and I know that you hate that. I won’t compromise here.

You are named George Harrison Ford. Your name hails from two men—George Harrison, the subtle but insanely talented Beatle who went largely unnoticed and asked for so little. And Harrison Ford—handsome, usually playing the hero, and weathered in just the right way.

You found your way to my mother because you were dying, and for ten years, you have let me know you—despite the fact that you were reluctant to be a people’s cat. And I thank you, George. And here we are now.

In the next few weeks, you’ll ask me to let you go, and I will do that for you. I believe the biggest gift we give each other is knowing well enough when to say goodbye.

And I’ll know. Because I know you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Long Time No See

It’s what my dad says when he sees someone after a massive gap. Sometimes, if he’s feeling especially feisty, he just says what he feels, “I thought you were dead.”

It’s what you can say when you’re 85, and people excuse you for honesty. I’m not there yet. I still lean on some semblance of polite small talk.

It’s what happened the other night when I pulled up in my Chevy—oh, not that THAT Chevy. Not the Nova. I guess…I guess I owe y’all some backstory.

Long time, no see.

The Nova taught me how to focus. She taught me how to use my hands and fix things. She taught me how to steer into a skid (a few times). She taught me how to drive without electronannies. She taught me how I shouldn’t trust a speedometer or a gas gauge. She taught me how to rewire around fusible links. She taught me how to sweat it out, fight, push, and endure.

And her last lesson was how to just let go. She sat for a long time after my ex ruined her. I pieced her back together with the help of my friends, but she really needed a new start, and she had taught me everything I was going to learn from her. Except, well, that one thing. I wrote a big, emotional ad and I put it on Craigslist, and I said “no” to a few people. And then it happened. Some guys pulled up, they drove her, and they left with her.

I realized I was never going to finish that car. I realized that I didn’t want to. She was, to me, the car from high school. The silly old Nova that gave me my first lessons about installing an engine and replacing motor mounts, and adjusting a carb. She wasn’t the lessons I needed…right now.

So, here we are.

Wait, there’s actually more. My new job started expanding my travel, and things got intense, and with the travel came pet sitting like crazy, and my gorgeous Jaguar was sitting around costing a fortune while I was in San Fransisco ALL THE TIME. So I traded it for…drum roll…a Chevy.

And now we’re here.

I parked my Chevy at my new 2nd job. Why the 2nd job? Because with all of the travel comes petsitting. And with petsitting comes people in my house that don’t handle the dogs the way I do, and there are vet bills. Petsitting plus vet bills mean… the second job.

I found myself small talking with these people…thinking of my father and his honesty and wishing instead I could be talking to him and spending time with him—with my family and loved ones. But here were are, here I am, like so many of us. 2 jobs, debts. The new American dream.

The disintegrating American dream—is it because we’re bad planners and big purchasers? I don’t know, kids. I’m skeptical, but I can’t say. I’ve done nothing but reduce and let go. What I can say is that my next “Long time, no see” to my family will be well earned and followed with a sigh of relief.

Also, blog readers…
Long time, no see.

Happy Trails. Long May You Run.

-Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Consistent

At times the hardest part of being in a relationship is knowing that there are parts of you that are difficult, trying, and stressful—and knowing there is no control. My mother, throughout my childhood, often turned around to find me gone, leading a wayward steer named Jackson back into his stall by his ear–I’m sure she barely mitigated a heart attack simply by knowing that if she ran into the pasture in a frenzy, he might react. Luckily he didn’t, and she didn’t, and I was able to usher him back to safety. These things often popped up—a flying squirrel that curled up on my doormat and found a home in my hoodie pocket, a very pregnant cat behind the Outback Steakhouse that would ride home as quiet as a mouse in my Mustang and have 6 kittens on our porch, a motley colored dog in our yard that would find sanctuary from the Florida heat.

It was just—divine—-the animals. As easily as the automobiles came to me, so did the animals find me. And the facts were facts. The shelters killed them; this I knew inherently. And so—I know that I have subjected those in my life to the stress of extra paws and fur. I know, and while I’m sorry that it makes life harder, I can’t possibly imagine that letting them die is worth the—what? Convenience?

I can’t even put together a comprehensive list of animals that have benefited from the patience of my mother, brother, and yes—-even those horrible exes that have come and gone. And now—the patience of my boyfriend who endures the lifesaving rescue of one very big, very sweet Pit Bull named Tyson.

Here’s what I’ve learned about Pitbulls in the short time I’ve been involved with their rescue. People see the breed first and then the dog. They see the stance, the head, and they cut a wide berth around them. I can’t help but liken this to racism—isn’t it really similar? It’s judging by misconception alone, by appearance. It’s saying, “a handful of pit bulls were used for crime; therefore, we’re going to lump them all into this stereotype.” Instead of looking at his attributes: knows basic commands, great with all other dogs, calm, hardly barks, wants to play and walk with you but desires to snuggle on the couch as his primary directive, intelligent, young, strong, a clean bill of health, good with cats—people see “pitbull,” and that’s that. That’s one hell of a list of great attributes to simply disregard.

That’s like getting a fantastic resume for a job that fulfills everything you could want for that position—and then making a judgment call against the individual because of someone’s ethnic background. It’s just…ignorant.

So here are some things that are consistent about what I’m garnering from my current rescue situation: people consistently fail me but never surprise me; animals tire me out, keep me exhausted but give me something to work for and something to believe in; despite the hurdles, they throw into my life and my wallet and my personal life and relationships, they are the reason I’m here. These things are never changing.

Cheers to being consistently covered with fur, consistently the crazy pet lady, consistently tired, and consistently giving comfort to the small army of previously unloved creatures that call my house their home.

Past, present, and adopted animals. Foster kittens were thankfully all placed into amazing homes.

Past, Present, and adopted animals. Bottom left: Circe, my angel, may she rest in Peace. Bottom right, Dexy—the 11 year old Shepherd dumped at East Valley that lived her last year in happiness with me.

Past, Present, and Adopted animals. Bottom Left, sweet 22 year old Yoko, may she rest in Peace. Top Right—tarantula rescued from rushing river in Puerto Rico. I’ve been told it’s not “native” and I don’t argue spider geographics, but I didn’t want to see her die. My sweet foster kittens and adult foster cat were placed into amazing homes.

Tyson, with Joplin, about whom I blogged a few years ago when I pulled her from East Valley Shelter.

My fosters, Sheila and her 6 babies, Luna, Berkely, Squishy, Tyra and her 3 kittens, Tinga, Fontana, Cary Grant, Onjie and her 5 kittens, Dexy, Lily and her 6 kittens, were all incredibly loved. I didn’t go looking for any of them. Just like Tyson—running down my street, through my yard—they found me. Consistently.

Skeptically Yours.

Salvation

Years ago, indescribably, a 1976 Nova and a Rottweiler formed a foundation for me to rise from the ashes of depression, fear, and self-harm. They did so by giving me something to do with my hands in the form of repair and restoration with the car, learning how to revive something from the past that, frankly, no one else would have noticed. The Rottweiler—well, she was my savior in the form of protector, moral North, and governing director of responsibility. Going from invisibility to boisterous and frightened to safe and secure was empowering.

I’ve often made the comparison between myself and the Nova, the lessons of self to those of the car. It perhaps sounds shallow and banal to someone who doesn’t give a damn about cars or classics, but here’s what I say to that: the Nova isn’t a classic, and this week, she transcended the status of “car.” Lessons come in so many forms.

Everyone that knows me, actually KNOWS me, knows that I drove that thing in high school, through college, out to California, and in daily traffic in LA. They know that it was once taken from me by an ex who thought he had the right because he had put some work into the car with a shitty magazine that needed a topic. Six months and a flatbed later, minus an engine and interior, etc., I got it back. She had been gutted, and so had I.

I have replaced three engines in that car, put about 100,000 miles on her, and all in all, she has actually never put my feet in the dirt. That car has outlasted leased Lexus vehicles, apartments, boyfriends, fiances, jobs, the death of my best friend and protector—the Rottweiler, Circe, multiple nights out in Hollywood, and before that, Homecoming, Prom, the expedition to college, the move to Los Angeles, the day I took my first script to Emmett Furla Films.

And she has been the only constant. She has been an unwavering force of consistency.

The last blog I wrote talked about the gas leak in the Nova and my frustrations with her, and I did, actually, put her up for sale. I’ve received a few inquiries about her, and I’ve countered each with “no.” The universe, it appears, has sent me a few messages regarding her purpose in my life.

This week, 2 things happened. First, a massive pitbull appeared on my street at the same time that school lets out, and little bitty school kids and their mothers were scared silly. Big dogs with gargantuan heads do not frighten me, so I lassoed the culprit. After walking him around the neighborhood for hours, it became clear that there was no owner to claim him nearby. No one recognized this big boy. He was pliable and amiable, so I postulated that he must have an owner, and the next day we planned to go to the shelter to scan the microchip. After all, if any of my dogs got out, I would be frantically searching the shelters for them. It’s only fair, I convinced myself.

He spent the night at my house, my own pitbull feverishly trying to attack him through the door, him sweetly ignoring her futile efforts. The next day, we were going to make out way to the shelter…but…he was too big, and slightly stinky, for the Jag. So…the Nova…was the chariot of rescue. As he climbed into the back seat, I realized that my girl, Circe, was the last dog to ride in the Chevy and that the Nova was performing a task that my new—and, very expensive—-Jag—couldn’t.

And she did it flawlessly.

The dog is fine, by the way. He was chipped, and the owner was contacted. If for any reason he isn’t claimed, the Nova will fire back into action, and we’ll go get him and bring him home—errrrr—back to my house for rehoming. He is, after all, too good not to love.

Next…my boyfriend’s “rock solid” Jeep grenaded. As if on cue, the Nova raised her hand as if to say, “You need me. I am here. I have outlived all of them, and I always will.” He’s never been a fan of the Nova and in fact, is the person in my stories that said of the Nova at the show years ago, “Why is THAT thing here.” I, of course, defended her honor by saying, “fuck off.” However, he has never understood her. Not really.

The Nova carried him diligently to work, no frills, no AC, no radio, no power windows—but when he returned, smiling, he said, “The Nova is kind of a hoot…” and then he wanted to drive it again, and again…it was clear.

She gets under your skin. She is flawed and imperfect. She is nothing if not strange, underestimated, infuriating, and wonderful. She is not beautiful exactly, but something about her makes you look at her. She has been abused and lived through so much—and the wisdom and experience she can share are worth the patience of waiting. She is mine—she is my counterpart. She has rescued me again this week and reminded me what’s actually important—the lives of the helpless, helping those you love, and loyalty. I forget from time to time, and she finds a way to teach me again.

Skeptically Yours.

Fuel

Yesterday Bigskeptic jumped in her rickety bucket of a Nova and attempted a short drive around the block, after which I was going to wash and wax. She looks like hell; she really does. The time spent in pieces, stored car-knapped from me outside in the California sun, uncovered and unloved, meant that the aging paint was ruined, as were the wheels. It really looks the part of the 70’s POS these days.

Instead of a quick run around the block and pleasurable wash/wax, my nose was assaulted with fuel, and I luckily coasted into my driveway as gasoline dumped from the carb onto the intake and, subsequently…everywhere below it. A smart person would have made a trip to the store, bought a “For Sale” sign, and washed her hands of the whole damned thing.

I may not be smart after all.

Sweaty, wearing Eu Du Fume perfume, I went inside and sat down with a coffee and thought about the path of the Nova, how she got here, with me, how I got here, with her.

I have taken immense shit for that car. While there have been the occasional blubbering males commenting on sexy women with cars, it’s been more judgment than anything from even those closest to me about why the hell I hang on, with claws, to that ridiculous, dilapidated car.

The closest I can muster to logic on the matter is because all this time, that stupid Chevy quite literally fueled my passion for cars—how they work, why some matter and why some don’t, why some get restored, and why some get left behind, the history, the physics, the design. She is antithetical to custom cars and hot rodding as I am antithetical to those typically involved in this industry. I cling to her because somehow our plights are tied together, and where everyone else would leave her behind because she doesn’t matter, I cannot. She has to be along for the ride.

Once I met someone at a car show that looked at my Chevy and said, “who brought that??” and my response was, “fuck off, that’s mine.”

That’s exactly how I still feel today about my bucket of bolts, our outsider plights intertwined, both of us taking a moment to sit and be broken until we figure out just exactly who we should be in this iteration of our self-revision.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Dirty crawlin’-around-cars-legs. My shoes smell like gas.

Empty Shelves

I’ve been flea marketing my whole life, so I know better than to attend with a set agenda or with the weight of a broken heart dragging down the process of sorting through someone else’s castoff goods. Today I made the mistake of attending under both circumstances, and I left with the rarity of emptihandedness.

There were treasures to be had, I’m sure, but in my state of mind, the biggest bits of baggage weren’t in the beat-up boxes and card tables surrounding Veteran’s stadium but with me. I needed to replace a shelf leaving with a fresh ex, and everything I looked at reeked of my broken heart, and while some measured 36 inches wide, it wasn’t, somehow, big enough to fill the gap. I had subconsciously tasked the flea market and all of those vintage goods rich with the energy imprints of lives over and done with the task of answering some very big questions and filling some very big gaps.

Emerging single again means that 1300 square feet of house feels enormous, I feel immense loneliness, and the gigantic chaos of everyday life seems harder to navigate. Those things are parts of breaking up, as is the division of property, the crying, and the logistics. Even those splits made for the better are filled with these tragedies, and I know that, but I still went searching through other people’s pasts for answers today, hoping to numb out or wise up.

I came out empty, with no shelf, no answers, just…the same skeptic that got me into this mess in the first place. Here’s a tall, stiff drink and a Cheers to you, all of you, making a go of things. It’s harder than it looks.

Skeptically Yours.
Bigskeptic

Forgetting

Living with the voice of a WWII veteran constantly broadcasting his story to me has changed a lot about how I feel today, Memorial Day. When I’m writing, the voice of my narrator feels very close and real, like a radio station being picked up from 1951, a crackly station played only to me, through which I become a messenger. My book, which I have finally finished after years of construction, is about a veteran of WWII who watched many, many of his brothers die in the European Theatre.

Because of this narrator, I’ve tossed myself into several books about the war…The Forgotten 500 (buy it here The Forgotten 500 ), and The Monuments Men are two of my favorites thus far, as well as jumping into Part 2 of my own book…so the death toll of WWII has been fresh for me these past few months. I’ve been in it because that’s where my Narrator is, still coping.

Circe Taurus Izaboo.

The story he tells is about what happens NEXT for him and his guilt for those he left behind in Europe. Enthrallment with the past and nonstop-fingers-are-beating-the-keyboard-writing did something peculiar for me this month: I was writing so much that I remembered May 12th as nothing but Circe’s birthday, and today I celebrated Memorial Day with a humble and thankful heart.

In remembering only Circe’s birthday, I forgot something that was once fucking huge…my Unwedding Day.

Two things: First, Circe was my hero and best friend, the Rottweiler that taught me everything I needed to know about life, love, dogs, myself, dignity, and humor, forever and ever amen. She was born on May 12th, 1997, and died on January 14th, 2009, and those two days are hung in my heart.

Unwedding Dress.

Second: May 12th was also the planned day for my wedding years ago, which I canceled. It’s been, for 2+ years, a day that I remembered mostly for what it wasn’t rather than what it was. Certainly, I have felt bitterness, remorse, anger, “what the hell was I thinking” and confusion, but this year I felt nothing. It’s the best nothing I have ever felt, and it’s the best thing I have ever forgotten.

The year of my Unwedding, after the cancellation and the lost deposits, I put on my wedding dress (a cute little casual vintage lace mini dress) and went to see a movie in the graveyard at Cinespia, Hollywood Forever Cemetery, Hollywood, with my friends and family. It was a way to “put it to rest” and move on, but it was clear on my mind each year until 2014 when I completely forgot that this was the day I dodged the biggest bullet in existence.

I believe very much that if I had gotten married on May 12th, 2012, I would be a statistic of divorce by now. As hard as it’s been to separate myself from that life, it would have been harder to negotiate a divorce. Canceling a wedding and breaking off an 8-year relationship was devastating, and the ensuing questions about my marriage status weren’t fun and never will be, but I am thankful for the opportunity that changed my trajectory, thankful for the inspiration that I have right now to write, and thankful for a spirit that can choose to let go, and simply…forget…because it was a small moment in time that doesn’t matter in the long run.

Remembering all souls that have been lost, those with 2 legs and 4.

Memorial Day is about remembering those that perished protecting our country, and I do so with a heavy heart each year. I also celebrate Memorial Day by forgetting the bad things that have weighed me down so that I can better appreciate the good things we have because of those people, the things that all along we tend to take for granted because we worry so much about the trivial and meaningless. Buried in the anxious and unforgiving past is no way to live, not when so many lives have ended prematurely, brutally, and often rather anonymously. Their legacy often lives in our ability to forget the insignificant and focus on the chance to be alive, to do good for one another.

Here’s to forgetting the things that hurt you and remembering the people that free you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic