You know, you can’t be loved by everybody. And sometimes, the ones you love are the ones who will stick the jailhouse shiv in your ribs.
But it’s all good fun, right?
So, I thought I’d dispel some of the ugly and false rumors that have been started about me.
The Major hates cats. Untrue. I think they’re delicious.
Seriously, Laura the Cat lived and prospered a long 15 years (73 dogs years) under eight different roofs with us. We played fetch. We played hide-n-seek. We laughed (at least I did). I cried like a baby when she finally gave it up. Harry the Cat is delightful during his non-psychotic interludes.
My friend and fellow blogger, Mike Ring, once described his feline as a device whose only purpose was to evenly distribute kitty litter throughout his apartment. One may say the same thing about Sarah the Cat — except Sarah’s artistic medium is vomit.
They say that no good deed goes unpunished. ‘Tis true, ’tis true. In 2002, our friend, Sally (a sweet and delightful octogenarian) was dying. Sally had lived a great life. Her husband, Harry (no shit, they were really Harry & Sally) had died a few years earlier. Sally’s only regret was that she would leave behind her cat. We agreed to take “Cuddles.” But, that name was gonzo.
We named the cat, Sarah, after Sally’s given name. If only we had had the foresight to name her Sally, the Harry/Sally dynamic would have been repeated in our home.
Anyway, this cat is nasty. And she has either outlasted or killed off all rival pets. We swear that she had plans to bump off Island Boy, but the introduction of Harry has put this particular project on ice for the time being.
How do I really feel about Sarah? I have drafted a “Do Not Resuscitate” order for her (not sure if this is legal — but, let’s give it go) and I have informed her caregivers when we go on vacation that I want no heroic measures to spare her life if illness should befall her.
The Major hates musical theater. Once again, not so.
I once sat through an entire revival performance of Guys & Dolls without once getting up, looking at my watch or evincing signs of boredom.
I have purchased tickets for people to see Les Misérables and then actually attended the performance with them.
The Major hates Boston. How could anyone ever misunderstand my true feelings on this topic?
Let me begin by professing my love of beans of all sorts, sizes and shapes: baked, black, pinto, lentils, Great Northern and, above all, Yankee beans.
There, still doubting my love for that town at the mouth of the Charles? I thought not.
And while I am professing my love for Boston, let me also dispel the slanderous rumor that The Major believes the denizens of that fine burg to be arrogant, haughty, intolerant, stuck-up, effete or misguided by too many years of wasting their affections, hopes and dreams on lost causes. There are wonderful Bostonians. I love them. Especially those Bostonians who read this blog. Dynamite people.
The city has a charm that is unmatched in any other American town. The food is wonderful.
There, see. I don’t hate Boston.
The Major does not embrace the vegetarian lifestyle. Where this came from I’ll never know.
I have lived with a vegemite for years. She is my best friend. She completes me by
talking me into encouraging my growth through cockamamie schemes life-enhancing adventures, such as Haitian adoption.
But, I digress.
Perhaps this particular slander began when people used to ask us out to dinner [Note: as such invitations are no longer proffered, I guess this is no longer a worry]. The kind-natured host and hostess would serve us vegetarian fare in an effort to appease the narrow constraints of Running Girl’s self-imposed exile from the kingdom of delicious animal flesh.
Thanks, friends. But carrot soup again? That’s the third time this week. Damn.
Look, I’ve already professed my love for beans (see above). I also thinks salads are swell. Sorry if asparagi don’t make me drool. They’re weird and make your pee smell funny.
And I quoteth St. Denis of Leary:
Broccoli is a side dish, folks. Always has been. Always will be.
The Major is a cranky grouch. Is it because I had those carolers thrown in prison last year for disturbing the peace?
Is it due to my inability to make pleasant conversations in elevators?
Perhaps it is owing to my directness with members of the food service industry?
My inability to abide those who fail to set high standards for themselves?
Granted The Major brings an intensity or heat to certain situations. But to call this passion, this lust for life, crankiness?
The Major has disowned his Long Island roots. Please.
Am I not constantly extolling the virtues of Long Island?
The Major has a potty mouth. Alright. This one is pretty much true.
Call me salty. Call me colorful. Yes, I am NC-17 at times.
But, I can clean it up when necessary.
My kids tune me out. Running Girl’s favorite tale is one where I busted out a string of expletives worthy of the Darren McGavin character in A Christmas Story. My two older ones were present for this tirade. One of the them ran to RG and squealed:
Mom! Dad said ‘stupid.’
I know, I know. My actions are not really defensible.
I am ashamed.
But, life is never dull at Kay Nou.
— The Major