Nine Lives

If you don’t know, we have two cats. I don’t talk about it much because only crazy people have cats. They are older than the hills and spend the majority of their day sleeping. Mista can barely make the jump to the bed and Toby is deaf. "TOBY!!"

After the flood, the cats lived bachelorette pad-style while we rocked the Hyatt House Dylan McKay-style. Unfortunately, the cats couldn’t live much longer alone in the house while under construction, so we brought them over to Emeryville when we moved to the apartment.

In an effort to minimize the adjustment period after the terrifying move, I bought them wet food as a treat. Marco feeds it to them daily and they’re honestly like kittens again. He also terrorizes them like a 4-year old boy.

And… they’re starting to like it. Jeff says that Toby has Stockholm Syndrome.

Poor thing.

Epona Magica

We swung by our local racetrack when we heard Mulry's horse was running. I think it's fair to say that Marco has inherited our gambling spirit.

We bet the filly to place (her grandfather's claim to fame was placing second in the Triple Crown). She led the pack in the first half and fell to the back to finish second to last.

Including my beer, we're in the red to be sure.

Marco loves the race program and even took it to read in the bathroom this morning. Yep, pretty sure we have a budding degenerate gambler on our hands.
And here's the proof:












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Tough as Glass

As it turns out, playing barefoot while your friend's family is unpacking is not the best plan. The night of our drive to Long Beach, while Jeff slept to prep for the drive, Marco stepped on glass. His foot was gushing blood, which could not be contained by a bandaid. He was sobbing and I couldn’t even see the cut. I finally got it bandaged and contained, but he couldn’t walk.

It was like traveling with the queen of Sheba. Since Jeff the pack mule (he’s very strong) was carrying two boat bags, his work bag and a case of wine, I was in charge of my purse, one boat bag and Marco (he’s heavier than he looks). Carried him home from Romioses, up to apartment, down to car, into Denny’s at 4 a.m., to the bathroom at Denny’s, into boat terminal, onto boat, on boat legs outside for fresh air when he wasn't feeling well, to dinghy and onto Poseidon. Oh and I held the bag while he yakked on the boat trip since the bathroom was full. I earned that 6 a.m. mimosa.

In Long Beach, we picked up some more appropriate bandages which we changed daily in Catalina (in case you noticed the constantly bandaged foot in the photos). It wasn’t infected, but he was still limping a little and it wasn’t really healing. We attributed it to swimming every day.

15 days later, back at the ranch…

Jeff looks again and sees the chunk of glass. He reached in with tweezers and just pulled it out. It didn’t bleed or anything, just popped right out. A fairly large, hole punch-sized, round piece of well-traveled glass. Marco didn't even wince.  “That feels better.”

Shopping Pal

I like having a boy.  I've accepted they're high energy, smelly and gross, but I'm glad that Marco is a boy.  However, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm a little jealous hearing what great little shopping pals all those little girls are!  Shopping with Marco is as bad as shopping with Jeff. 

Jeff immediately gets a headache and his back hurts - he needs to sit down.  Sometimes I can satiate him with a chair near the dressing room and his phone. 

Marco touches everything, insists he neeeeeeds everything because "he's never had this before," and sometimes I can satiate him with a chair near the dressing room and my phone.

At Michael Kors in Vacaville, Marco had teary eyes and cried to me, "How come Grammy gets to buy something and I don't?  Can I please have that watch??" 

Other recent in-store meltdowns have included neeeeeding weights, wire clamps and these glasses.   "I need these because I've never had them and I want to be a teacher!  Please!  I'll never be a teacher if I don't have these glasses!  Is that what you want?"

The Facts of Life

Sometimes a parent has to put a foot down, even when it might border on arranged marriage. Playing “wedding” is a high stakes game folks, and when Marco and Brooke wanted to marry each other, they told Niko he had to marry Olive. Niko burst into tears. “But I don’t want to marry Olive! Mommmmm!!!”

And there was born an adamant new parent rule: “Niko can’t marry Olive! Niko has to marry Brookie! Marco will marry Olive!”

Someone take a note.