On Wednesdays I Jab Myself with a Needle (Alternate Title: I Have a Chronic Illness)

I'd like to say at the outset that I'm not writing this so that you feel bad for me. I'm writing it because when you poke around online about chronic illness, its not easy to find stories of youngish people who are living with something like this. What I've found via internet searches and social media hashtags make me feel a little bit gloom and doom. I sometimes feel like because my Instagram isn't consumed by pictures of my illness and my treatment that I didn't really fit anywhere in the community of people who have what I have.

But I think there must be other people who have the same mindset about their chronic illness that I have, so I'm sending this into the internet. If you're someone who has a chronic illness (or you know someone who has one) and what you read here sounds familiar, then I hope I provide you with a little less gloom and a little more glitter.
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I come from a family of "it could be worse!"-ers. Any time something annoying/upsetting/bad happens, there's a resounding chorus of "it could be worse!" in my head. Its how I was raised and I'm thankful for that on nearly a daily basis. It reminds me that I'm so lucky in so many ways.

But I read somewhere recently that having the outlook on life of "someone has it worse than me" sometimes can invalidate the feelings you have about a particular issue or situation. For me, I think that is absolutely true when it comes to my chronic illness. It could be worse. So, so much worse. But I'm 27, I have a chronic illness and it fucking sucks. I don't curse a lot on this blog but there it is.

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Three days before I started my Masters program at Penn, I got a fever.

Rewind. I had just moved back in with my parents after living in New York for five years and immediately upon my return, I got a sore throat. And a post nasal drip. I went to my primary care physician's office twice and saw two different physician's assistant. Both times they told me I was fine, but after whining at my second appointment, the guy caved and gave me an antibiotic.

Two days later and three days before I was supposed to start at Penn, I woke up with a rash on my arms and a fever. The next day I was supposed to start my Graduate Assistantship in the School of Education but when I woke up that morning, I was so exhausted and had such a temperature that I had to call in sick...on my first day of work (cue a lot of crying and a hefty dose of anxiety over making a terrible first impression). Instead of going to my first day of work, I went back to the doctor that day and saw another physician's assistant.

"Mono," she said "you definitely have Mono. That't why you have the rash on your arms...its the antibiotics reacting to the Mono in your system." I told her that I had had Mono my Junior year of college and that I was pretty sure that't not what it was. "You definitely have Mono," this non-doctor told me. "Stop and get your blood taken on the way out and we'll confirm." This was on a Thursday morning.

Late Friday afternoon I still felt terrible and the Doctor's office called. "You need to come in tomorrow morning" the receptionist said. "And you need to bring your parents". Let me tell you that hearing you have to go see the doctor on a Saturday morning AND bring your parents is something no 22 year old wants to hear.

We went to the office early on that Saturday morning (me in sweatpants, my dad in a sports coat and my Mom with a full face of makeup on-when we get bad medical news in my family, we like the people we're with to be dressed to the nines) and the doctor told me he thought I might have Lupus.

Lupus.

Lupus.

Lupus. Immediately the chorus of "this could have been so much worse than Lupus" started in my head.

He sent me to the hospital to get a million tests (maybe I had a bacterial infection from the wisdom teeth I had removed two weeks before?). They took so many vials of blood that they made me wait an hour before I left. I went home and slept the rest of the day.

After that scary Saturday, I started to feel better. I started school and my Assistantship and I started to make peace with the fact that I might have Lupus.

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The doctor called a week later to say I didn't have Lupus (seriously?!) but that my numbers from my blood work were all out of whack. Basically all of the numbers they check for when you get blood drawn? Mine were all wrong. He referred me to a specialist (which I think is the sign of a good primary care physician) and told me to come back in six months.

I went to see the specialist and he took more blood. Three months later my numbers were still wrong, but I felt fine. Other than being exhausted all the time, I was back to normal...but I was in graduate school and commuting to Philadelphia and working and driving to New York every other weekend to see John. Being exhausted seemed like it was expected at this point in my life.

The specialist told me what symptoms to look out for and to keep coming back every six weeks to check on my numbers. I had no symptoms for the entire Fall semester. My numbers started to return to normal and the whole thing seemed like it was just a fluke. A really scary fluke.

Christmas passed and the Spring semester started. I felt the same as I had felt for most of the Fall: productive, missing John, loving my program at Penn and my new friends there but still...exhausted. All normal things, I thought.

And then in February my ankle started to hurt. Not a lot, just a dull ache. I had what felt like 900 papers due and I was so, so tired. Joint pain was one of the symptoms I was supposed to look out for, but I was driving a lot to Philadelphia and New York (maybe I had drivers ankle, is that a thing?) and it didn't seem like that big of a deal. Until one night a few weeks later, I came home from work after running our major admissions event for three days straight and preparing for a job interview I had later that week at Columbia. I was trying on the new dress my Mom had gotten me for my interview (because she's the best Mom).

I came out in my dress (which was a great dress) and my Mom looked a little bit horrified. Which was upsetting because I thought I looked great! But then I saw she was looking at my left foot and realized what was wrong. My ankle, foot and up my calf looked like it had gotten sunburned..and I realized it was hurting more than it had.

Back to the specialist we went later that week. More blood work showed that my numbers were all out of whack again. And I finally got a diagnosis: a type of autoimmune arthritis which was currently only in my ankle.

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The doctor seemed confident that I had a relatively mild case that had resulted from that weird (not Mono) virus I had earlier that year. He prescribed me an NSAID to take to bring down the inflamation that I had and that was it. My Mom and I high tailed it to Sephora because we like to buy lipstick when we're upset and slowly but surely I started to make peace with my autoimmune system and my achy joints.

I kept seeing my Rhuematologist until I was ready to move back to New York that summer. At which point he said I absolutely needed a Rheumatologist in NYC and that I needed to stop wearing crappy flats and sandals from Target because apparently I needed shoes "with support" (kill me).

I found a doctor who I like (after a relatively terrible experince at NYU Langone) even though her office is so far east it might as well be in the river. I got on a treatment plan that worked (more or less) and I embarked on my new life of living with John and working my first full time job. I had a few flare ups here and there, but all of them were pretty mild (I know now) and we got them under control pretty quickly all things considered.

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But then this summer I got sick with the most significant flare I've had to date. I was sick for almost four weeks before I decided that I should go back uptown and basically into the East River to see my doctor. She said I needed to get an MRI so down I went to take a nap in radiology (I fall asleep every time, the loud noises lull me to sleep for some reason?). Two days later she called to say I needed to come in the following week and that maybe I wanted to bring someone with me.

So my parents drove to the city from Pennsylvania, my dad in a sports coat and me and my Mom with a full face of make up on and we walked into the Hospital for Special Surgery on a beautiful autumn day after nearly ten weeks of aching and exhaustion and puffy joints. My doctor showed us my MRI and said that my arthritis had spread. That we needed to take a more aggressive stance with my treatment to prevent further joint damage and to make me stop feeling like a 90 year old woman. I needed to go on an injection that I would give myself every other week. A nurse would come to my house to teach me how to inject myself, and the medication would get delivered to my door.

I smiled and said that was fine. I looked at my parents and they smiled. My Dad went to get the car out of the garage and I went into the bathroom and promptly crumpled into tears. Until that exact moment, I hadn't felt like a sick person.

I felt totally normal except that sometimes I had to take pills. I felt like a person who sometimes got exhausted really easily. I felt like a person who occasionally walked to SoHo on her lunch break and then couldn't go to Spin class later that night because her joints were just done for the day. I felt like a person who was occasionally homicidal on a packed train because I just wanted to sit down and I didn't look like a person who needed a seat...and how do you say to a stranger, "Excuse me sir, but I have an autoimmune arthritis and could I please have your seat?" I felt like a person who occasionally had to make the trek to the East River to see her specialist.

And then I realized that I felt like a sick person. For four years I had felt like a sick person who had a chorus of "it could be worse" singing in my head.

So on a Wednesday night in October my Mom and Becca came to sit with me while the nurse taught me how to inject myself. My Mom bought me washi tape with skulls and hearts to mark injection days in my planner.

Every other Wednesday night, I come home from work and take my medicine out of the fridge. I let it warm up while I cook dinner and after I do the dishes, I inject myself with the medicine that at this point is really working. Sometimes it hurts more than others. I've started blasting remixes of I Wanna Dance with Somebody and singing the lyrics at the top of my lungs when I stick myself to take the edge off.

Since October, I've gotten progressively better. I was able to wean myself off of some of the other treatments I've been taking, I've been able to start Spinning again (three classes last week, which was huge for me) and two weeks ago I walked all over SoHo on my lunch break and went to the gym at night. I still get tired, and my joints sometimes still ache, but overall I feel like me again.

I still don't really feel like I fit anywhere in terms of my illness. I'm still not crazy about what I find on social media and I certainly don't fit with the elderly people who sit in the waiting room with me at my Rhuematologist's office.

I'm 27 years old and I've got a chronic autoimmune disease; its unlikely that I will ever not have to live with this. But when I got diagnosed I bought a boat load of lipstick. And when my doctor told me I had to go on an injection, I went out for pizza with my parents. And on nights when my injection hurts a lot, John hugs me so tight I feel like I might pop like a balloon.

When I feel sick I sit on my couch with my cats. But when I don't feel sick (which is more likely than not these days) I go out with my friends to Happy Hour, I go on adventures in the city with John, I go to Spin class and I Instagram pictures of my cats. Sometimes I Instagram a picture of my injection or an ice pack on my ankle, but most times its Dilly and Zula. Because my illness is a part of my life, a crappy part of my life. But its not my whole life.

And when all else fails, I blast some Whitney and sing in my kitchen at the top of my lungs.

When Your Husband Works Nights

When your husband works nights, you spend a lot of time with your cats. You also take too many pictures of them.

You binge watch television (this season, a lot of British television). You go to spin class and to yoga class and when you get home, you have the constant conversation with yourself about why you shouldn't have to vacuum or put the laundry away since you just peddled a bike for 60 minutes and or/bent your body into a pretzel.

You see your friends a lot, which is wonderful.

You eat a lot of toast with peanut butter and eggs and smoothies for dinner because cooking for one singular person is harder than it seems. You call your parents and you Facetime your sister. You Gchat with your husband who is 30 miles away at his desk. You blog on this here blog and you tell yourself that you will not surrender to sleep because you will be awake when your husband comes home from work!

Sometimes he doesn't work too late and when that happens you're downstairs and awake when he walks in the door. The cats jump off of you and to the door to see him, because sometimes they are more like dogs than cats. Then the two of you pace around the kitchen, talking and laughing because he's so happy to be home and you're so happy that you made it to 10:45. Then you make lunches for the next day. You put on a brave "let's watch some TV together face," but most nights you're in bed 25 minutes after he walks in the door.

On days when he works very late, you take all of your electronic devices upstairs and you walk up the stairs. You brush your teeth and wash your face and do battle with the rosacea you've suddenly developed on your face with some heavy duty lotion. Then you get into bed with all of your electronics...you peruse Facebook, you click around on Instagram, you look around to see whats trending on Twitter, you start a new draft of a blog post...you start to read your book. And most nights, without fail, you fall asleep before your husband gets home with your phone and your glasses and your iPad and your laptop around you. When he gets home, your husband moves the laptop to the bedside table, puts the iPad in its case, puts your glasses safely on your bedside table, and plugs your phone in so that its charged for the next day. Sometimes you remember him kissing you goodnight, and even when you don't remember you know that he did.

And suddenly it is the morning. Its time for you to go to work while your husband is fast asleep. You take a shower and pad around the bedroom trying to silently get dressed. You kiss him goodbye and whisper "have a good day at work." You grab your bag and your breakfast, you head out the door. You get on the subway and get to your office. You work all day and take the subway home.

You are greeted by two cats who sometimes they think they are dogs...when your husband works nights.

Work Hard, Feel Good about Yourself and Don't Feel Bad about It

Work has been a little bit hard the past few weeks. Not in a bad way...more in a challenging, I don't know what's coming next for me kind of way. New and fun things are happening at home, too. I got some writing pieces picked up, I just started with a Mentoring program (more on this later) that I'm loving, John and I are embarking on Year 2 of married life.

Last week I read Amy Poehler's new memoir, Yes Please. I didn't love it, but it was okay (nothing will ever live up to Mindy Kaling's book for me, she's ruined me for memoirs). Within the first 20 pages though, there were two quotes that I love so much I'm sharing them with you now. I'd like to point out now that I'm not into quotes so much and this is the first time I'm doing this on this blog so I think you should take these pretty seriously!

I've been saying this one a lot to myself at work lately: 

"I love saying "yes" and I love saying "please." Saying "yes" doesn't mean I don't know how to say no, and saying "please" doesn't mean I am waiting for permission. "Yes please" sounds powerful and concise. Its a response to a request. It is not about being a good girl; it is about being a real woman" (page 19)

I loved this one so much, that I sent it to my Mentee after she asked me if she could email me more than the once a week requirement. Obviously I said yes because she's the coolest 13 year old I've ever met, and I think we kind of clicked. But also I'm a giant loser because I sent her a quote? Oh well.
"So here we go, you and me. Because what else are we going to do? Say no? Say no to an opportunity that may be slightly out of our comfort zone? Quiet our voice because we are worried it is not perfect? I believe great people do things before they are ready. This is America and I am allowed to have healthy self-esteem"

The bold part is my absolute favorite. My new (created in the shower last week) mantra is "Work hard, feel good about yourself and don't feel bad about it".

Amen, Amy Poehler. Amen.

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Go Hang Out with the People Who Knew You When You Were 16...Right Now

Last weekend, one of my best friends from high school, Jackie, got married.

That's her on the right in the white! This picture is from the winter of 2006 when we went out a mini-tour of rural Pennsylvania colleges to visit Jen (next to Jackie) at York College of Pennsylvania and Jackie at Juniata College. Needless to say it was a weekend of a lot of pictures and way to many shots (we didn't really drink in high school and were still getting the hang of it at this point). Kim (in the brown) and I nearly exploded with excitement as we drove up to Jen's dorm that freezing cold night, we were so excited to see her.

Apparently long sleeved white tshirts were something we though were appropriate to wear on a night out?

This picture is from our first winter break home from college at our Annual Holiday Extravaganza (notice the capitalization? It was a super serious event). If ever there was a picture that illustrates the joy of reuniting with your friends from home after your first semester away at college, I think this is it. "Look at us!" our eyes say "We are so worldly and we know everything there is to know about everything! We are very mature and take ourselves very seriously!"

I think I can count the number of times I've seen Jen, Jackie and Kim on two hands since that picture was taken. And that really sucks. We didn't have a falling out (at least I don't think we did? Won't it be super awkward/terrible if they read this and are like "YES WE DID, KATE, we hate you!") and I never made a conscious decision to not keep up with them. It just kind of happened and before I knew it, it was 2013 and we were all adults. Getting engaged, getting married, having jobs that made us move away kind of adults.

My three best high school friends see a lot of each other. Maybe because they live in the same state (though not particularly close, Pennsylvania is a big state!), maybe because they are just way more proactive than I am. Maybe because people change and grow apart and that's fine.

But this Saturday we were all in the same room again and it was the lovliest...it just happened to be that the room happened to be a church and then a reception hall and one of us happened to look a lot better than the other three (no offense to Jen and Kim, but we just really weren't competing with the dress and the killer eyelash situation Jackie had going on).

And so I say to you: go hang out with the people who knew you when you were 16 right this second.

It is the strangest/weirdest/coolest experience ever. Its extra strange/weird/cool when you have significant others!

Have so much fun and leave on good terms. Make promises to see more of each other. Because I think even if nothing comes of those promises, when you get married or graduate from graduate school or buy a house or have a baby the people who knew you when you were 16 and awkward will be there. And you'll be able to say to each other "Remember when we had the Holiday Extravaganza and we gave people pumpernickel toast with cream cheese and pickles to eat?" and laugh and laugh. Because the people who made that toast together were important to each other and I think its important to remember that and hold on to it if you can.*

So, I'll see you ladies in December at Jen's wedding...and maybe after that, too.

*My Mom is shaking her head right now and saying "I told you so, Kate"

On Last Names & One Year of Marriage

Yesterday, John and I celebrated one year of marriage! When you get married everyone tells you about how fast everything moves and I have to say they're right; its like I blinked and its a year later!

After our wedding, John and I took a spur of the moment trip to Atlantic City for two nights (where I won $300 from a penny slot machine after hitting a deer on the highway on the way to our hotel...it was a pretty eventful trip). Our first morning there, I opened Facebook on my phone and promptly changed my last name from plain old Legnetti to Legnetti-Olsen. 

366 days later Facebook is the only place that name exists. 

It only exists in that place for a few reasons, I guess. First of all I am wholly intimidated by the process of changing one's name. The Social Security Office seems to be involved and so does the DMV. I have to get a new Passport and a new Drivers License and a new Social Security Card. And our bank accounts need to be changed and the proper supporting documents provided? That's a lot of paperwork. 

The other and more pressing reason, I think is that I have no idea what I want my last name to be. 

Before we got married, John made it completely clear that he didn't care what my last name was. He asked if I wanted him to take my last name and hyphenate it with his, so we could both be Legnetti-Olsens. I thought about it and for some reason that seemed a little too progressive for me (more power to you if that's what you decide to do, but it just didn't feel right to me). 

Then I started thinking about the hyphenating my name and then I kind of decided that when we had kids, I wanted them to be Legnetti-Olsen, too. But then we would all have the same last name and John would just be plain old Olsen.

But if I kept my last name and the kids were Olsens, then they would all have the same last name and I would be the stand alone Legnetti in our house.

I really like my last name. I like that its so uncommon, I like my signature, I like how it sounds...I just like it. And so I think for now, I am keeping it. 

But...Facebook. 

I thought about changing my last name back to just Legnetti a few months ago, but then I thought that everyone would think we were getting divorced and it just seemed too dramatic. So I left it. And I think I'm going I going to leave it, because I think I like how it looks and maybe I just need some more time to get used to it and/or psych myself up enough to start the process. 

Maybe when we have kids I'll feel differently about what our names will be. Maybe I'll want us all to be Legnetti-Olsens. But maybe I'll always want to be Legnetti and for John to be Olsen and for our kids to be Legnetti-Olsens. Maybe I'll wake up one day and want to assume some internet anonymity and will become Kate Olsen-untraceable via Google because Kate Olsen sounds a lot like MaryKate Olsen. 

I know that sometimes women who don't change their last names get offended if they get mail that says "Mr. and Mrs._____" or if they go to a wedding and their place card has them with the same last name as their husband. I'm resoundingly not in that boat. Call me what you want...I will happily smile at the mail you sent me or be thrilled about the fact that I'm included in your special day.

Whatever I decide about my last name and whatever we decide about our hypothetical kids, I feel pretty wonderful about the fact that I even have the option to take some time to decide. I love that I married a man who didn't assume I would take his last name, that we talked about it before bed one night and that he was legitimately OK with whatever I decided. I like that the only person who blinked when I said John and I have different last names was a sassy bank teller last December. "Oh look at YOU!" she said. 

Yeah lady...Look at ME. My name is Kate Legnetti and I have  husband named John Olsen. We've been together for almost seven years and have been married for 366 days. We've got two cats and a house in Brooklyn. We've got crazy, loud families and friends who we love. He plays a lot of video games. I have more yarn in our living room than I should. We're a family regardless of what our last names are, and I love him more than anything. 

Happy Anniversary, babe. I love you.  

A Guest Post from My Friend, Randi!

If you read this blog you know that on some Sundays I volunteer with K9Kastle in my neighborhood connecting kitty cats with prospective adoptive families. One of the best thing about volunteering (other than all the kitty cuddles) is all of the wonderful people I've met. One of those people is Randi, a super kick ass cat lover and rocker of red lipstick.

A few weeks ago Randi sent me the below piece and I absolutely fell in love with it...I can't wait for you all to read it.

Take it away, Randi!
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Living with Four Cats and A Husband in a 500 Square Foot Apartment

I had two cats in a 500 square foot apartment.

They ate in the kitchen and I ate on the couch.

They slept on the couch and I slept in the bed.

All three of us pooped in the bathroom - but my poop went into a  different receptacle than theirs did. We could all be in there at once, but someone who wasn't me had to wait their turn because they only had one box in the tub. The bathroom smelled like Febreze.

There was room for all three of us on the one grey love seat. The noisy one sat on the arm glowering at me and the loving one sat on my lap grooming me. He thought I was very dirty and licking my face with his cat breath was a far superior bath than the Dove soap in my bathtub - than the Dove soap in his toilet's home. We watched Sex and the City together and they both agreed with me that Carrie could never afford those shoes on her measly weekly column's salary. The noisy one loved to eat my pizza crusts off the coffee table.

When I went to sleep at night, I would shut the door to the bedroom. The noisy one was quiet at night, and would have liked to share the bed. But the loving one was loving at night, and
wouldn't let me sleep. He would poke poke poke at my closed eyelids with his mitten-clad paw to make sure I was still underneath. If I closed the loving one out and let the noisy one
stay, the loving one became noisy. If I shut them both out, they danced the Meringue all night long and forgot I existed until I woke up to feed them.

Taking up one small square of 500 square feet was a tall scratching post. They scratched it 90% of the time, and scratched the couch when I wasn't looking the other 10%.

When I woke up in the morning, the loving one climbed into bed with me and bathed me to help me get ready for work. The noisy one followed me around being noisy. Then they told me to have a nice day.

When I walked in the door after work, two pairs of eyes greeted me. The noisy one's said "feed me." The loving one's said "I missed you."

This went on for four years. 500 square feet was big.

Then one day I had two cats and a husband in a 500 square foot apartment.

They ate in the kitchen and we ate on the couch.

They slept on the couch and we slept in the bed.

All four of us pooped in the bathroom. We could not all be in there at once. Someone always had to wait their turn, and on a good day the bathroom smelled like Febreze. Mostly, the bathroom
smelled like poop.

There was sometimes room for all four of us on the one grey love seat. The noisy one fell in love with the husband and sat on his lap. The loving one was jealous of the husband and sat on my lap
a lot less. He tried to sit on the love seat directly, so the husband couldn't sit at all. We watched football together and the cats were afraid of the shouting. The husband fell asleep with chicken wing bones on the coffee table and the noisy one needed to go to the hospital.

The husband never had a pet before so he would to leave the bedroom door open when he went to sleep. The noisy one was quiet at night, and would have liked to share the bed. But the loving
one was loving at night, and wouldn't let me sleep. He would poke poke poke at my closed eyelids with his mitten-clad paw to make sure I was still underneath. If I closed the loving one out and let the noisy one stay, the loving one became noisy. The husband slept very soundly and snored away while I woke up every night to my eyelids being poked poked poked by a mitten-clad paw. Eyebrow whiskers tickled my forehead and giant moon eyes stared at my barely open ones until I scooped up the loving one - eyebrow whiskers and all - under my arm and put him outside of
the bedroom door. Then I would pad back sleepily to wake the noisy one who was quietly sleeping like a cinnabon. I would apologize for waking her and scoop her up to put her out as
well. By the time I returned to the doorway with the noisy one, the loving one had already snaked through my legs, hopped back on the bed and eagerly awaited his turn again in the fun nighttime game. Luckily, the noisy one was offended easily. Once her beauty sleep was disturbed, she wanted nothing to do with the foot of the bed for the rest of the night. I shut them both out and they danced the Meringue all night long and forgot I existed until the husband woke up to feed them.

When I woke up in the morning, the husband helped me get ready for work by making me breakfast. The loving one climbed into bed with me and bathed me to help me get ready for work. The noisy
one followed me around being noisy. Then they all told me to have a nice day.

When I walked in the door after work, three pairs of eyes greeted me. The noisy one's said, "feed me." The loving one's said, "I missed you." The husband's said a little of both.

This went on for two years. 500 square feet was cozy.

The husband and I decided to volunteer for an animal rescue group.

There were two young cats. Saved from a terrible death at the kill shelter. Blind. Overlooked. Waiting for a forever home for a year that never arrived for them. I fell in love with the baby. He chirped and nuzzled in my neck. The husband fell in love with the grandpa. He looked high in the sky with his no eye at the husband and mewed "PICK ME!" at him. Weeks went by watching the baby and the grandpa not get adopted and our hearts broke a little more each time.

And then one day I had two cats, a husband and two more cats in a 500 square foot apartment.

They eat in the kitchen and the living room. We eat wherever there is space.

They sleep on the couch. And on the rug. And on the floor. And on the bed. I sleep on the bed too but they have their side of the bed and the husband has his side of the bed. I squeeze where there is room without moon eyes or people eyes snapping open in annoyance.

All six of us poop in the bathroom. The four of them poop in the kitchen too. I'd rather poop at work. There are often poopy pawprints on my white bathroom tiles. I need to locate the perpetrator by grabbing each one and smelling their feet. The culprit gets a sink bath. So far, the culprit has never been the husband. I scrub the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush and am lucky when the bathroom smells like Ajax.

There is not room for all six of us on the one grey love seat The noisy one sits in her tower and glowers at us from afar. The loving one wrestles with the baby for my attention on the one grey love seat while I'm trying to sit on it. The grandpa sits on the floor directly in front of the love seat on the
husband's feet. I step on the grandpa daily. There is a floor to ceiling tower. There is a scratching post that the noisy one and the loving one scratch 80% of the time. God knows where they
scratch the other 20%. The baby and the grandpa use their blindness to convince the husband that they don't know where to scratch. The husband doesn't like to yell at the baby or the grandpa. They use the scratching post 20% of the time and scratch where ever they feel like it the rest. There are
cardboard boxes that some might call "garbage" but the cats call them "mine." There is a bed shaped like a strawberry in the middle of the living room floor that they take turns sitting in. The loving one likes to ambush the blind ones from inside the strawberry. And the hallway closet which used to be for wrapping paper and duct tape is now for cat treats.

It is impossible to shut the door at night. The grandpa wants to sleep with the husband. He cries all night if he is not permitted to do so. Young cats have a lot of patience when crying at night. The husband lets him in and he sleeps very nicely at the foot of the bed. Sometimes he makes muffins up and down my leg obsessively. The baking doesn't go on very long because if the grandpa is allowed in, the loving one cries at the door. When the loving one cries at the door, the noisy one and the baby come to keep him company. Nobody wants to cry alone. Sometimes, I ask the loving one if he is going to sleep nicely and he always promises with his giant moon eyes, "yes momma," so I let them all inside. But as soon as I fall back to sleep, he is poke poke poking my closed eyelids to make sure I am still underneath. Then we play our fun nighttime game where I try to take one cat out of the room at a time while the husband snores soundly.

When I wake up in the morning, the husband helps me get ready for work by making me breakfast. The loving one climbs into bed with me and baths me to help me get ready for work. The noisy
one follows me around being noisy and the baby stands on his hind legs in the sink while I'm brushing my teeth so that I will pick him up and carry him around the 500 square feet. The grandpa gets stepped on because he likes to sit down at my feet while I'm trying to put my pants on. The husband says to have a nice day at work but the cats all beg me not to leave.When I walk in the door from work there are five pairs of eyes looking at me from the doorway in different states of "I MISSED YOU and FEED ME."

Now I have two cats, a husband, two more cats and a real estate agent.

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Randi is a Brooklyn Native, a high school guidance counselor, an animal advocate and an avid wedding dress re-wearer.  She spends much of her time trying to save the world one teenager at a time, convincing people they need more rescue cats in their lives and finding new places to wear her wedding dress in New York City.

To read about Randi's dress adventures, visit her at trashedinthedress.com or follow her onfacebook.com/trashedinthedress. If you want to get a cat, visit K9Kastle.org

Writer's Stop or Writer's Block?

I think I have a big heaping case of writer's block.

Or maybe I have writer's stop?

Writer's stop is something I just made up which happens when you feel you have exhausted your topics and you just want to go to spin class when you get home from work and then go to sleep. OH! I go to spin now! I love it!

I am getting ahead of myself.

Hello world! Its me! I'm back and I'd like to say that I'll be back forever but really who knows?

I read somewhere that the best way to get over writer's block is to read a whole lot of things. This wasn't really helping me either because until last week I was in a reading slump, too. I know! WHO is this non-blogging, non-reading, spin class attending Kate? I don't totally hate her because the spinning is definitely a good thing, but I feel a little empty when I don't post here. But I also feel kind of crappy when I post things that I don't think are my best writing. See the conundrum?

Here are some things that have been happening!

We got a new cat. I know, I totally should have led with that. Her name is Zula and she is a tiny terror! More about her soon, I promise!

Alyssa graduated from college! I know!

We went to Connecticut for Memorial Day and we went to the best tea shop in the world. My Mom and I died and went to tea heaven.

And did I mention I started going to spin :)

To be continued!

My Grandfather Lives in My Coffee Pot

Two years ago today, my grandfather died after a prolonged illness and eight months of travels between hospitals and rehabilitation facilities.

Before his illness, my grandmother had traveled the same path: hospital, rehab, hospital, rehab...for eight months until we were finally able to get her home...three days after my grandfather got himself into an ambulance and to the emergency room. Like two ships passing in the night they were, except instead of ships they were ambulances and it wasn't an ocean so much as it was 10th Avenue.

Sixteen months is a long time to have two people you love at death's door.

Sixteen months is a long time to be afraid of the phone ringing, to spend hours in the emergency room, to talk to social workers and home health aids, to sit in an intensive care unit and then in hospice.

Sixteen months is a long time.

In a lot of ways those sixteen months, and in particular his last eight months on earth, robbed my grandfather of his legacy. Instead of being able to conjure up happy memories of him after he died, I often found myself thinking and talking about those last sixteen months. About how strong he was when my grandmother was sick. About how sick he was before he died. I think this must be something a lot of people who experience the death of a loved one after a prolonged illness must go through. For me, it was like I had a brick across my brain that I couldn't see through to happy memories of him.

After Pop died we were all kind of in a haze. No more hospital, no more doctors, no more needles and beeping machines and strangers walking in and out of the room. Just visiting Nanny, in her house, without Pop.

In March, my parents came over with my Aunt Kathy and Uncle Richy and my bridesmaids for lunch after we went shopping for dresses. My Mom brought her percolating coffee pot, since we only had the Keurig and I knew everyone would want coffee after lunch. She put the coffee on the stove and turned the heat on. I was in the living room and the smell of the coffee percolating on the stove hit me like a punch in the gut.

I'm pretty sure Pop never made the coffee. But after every dinner, he would sit in the living room while dessert came out. The coffee would go on the stove, the smell would waft through their house and someone would yell some variation of "DAD DO YOU WANT COFFEE" or "KATIE ASK POP IF HE WANTS COFFEE"!

More than anything I had experienced since he died, the smell of coffee percolating on my stove made me feel like he was there. Like he was sitting on my couch, waiting for cake.

On this day last year, I bought myself a Coffee Coolatta (something Pop decided he loved when he was sick) my very first one since he died, and toasted him in heavan. I think that was wrong.

Sick Pop liked Coffee Coolattas.

Healthy Pop, regular Pop, liked hot coffee with a tiny tiny bit of milk (and don't think he wouldn't give it back to you if you made it too light).

Regular Pop liked to take naps sitting up on the couch watching football with my Dad and Uncles. He liked to make fun of Dick Clark (post-stroke) on New Years Eve (ironic since he too was a stroke survivor).

He was literally the worst person to speak to via phone. He said "hello" before he picked the receiver up to his mouth and his notorious mumbling was made even more incoherent by the phone line (and God forbid he was on his cell phone).

He made the best meatballs and these incredible eggs with dried sausage in them. He cooked chicken cutlets and zeppoles and lasangna and macaronni and beans. He loved Chinese food. He was happiest when we were all in his house on Sundays, when he would meet us on the stoop and wave to us as we drove away.

Two years is a long time.

But for me, its enough time to stop remembering all the sad things that led up to his death. Little by little, I am able to remember to remember regular Pop, my Pop, clearer and clearer.

And so, he lives in my percolating coffee pot. Which I refused to give back to my Mom partially because I like how it made coffee but also because the smell makes me feel like Pop is still alive, visiting me in a house he was never able to see.

He lives when I make scrambled eggs in butter and when I have a cold and put a box of tissues in my car next to me. He lives when we sit around his kitchen table with Nanny, when I make chicken cutlets for my friends, when I find a kick-ass parking spot and park in it with my right arm flung over the passenger seat and my left hand open on the steering wheel.

But mostly he lives in my memories, which two years after his death I am finally starting to take back from the grief.

He lives in my heart.