*Buckle up, friends. This one’s a doozy, and pretty, prettttttay verbose. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!*

I have been an animal lover my whole life. As a kid, I grew up with every kind of animal/pet you could think of. Snakes, rats, birds, bunnies, sharks (yes, sharks!), fish, frogs, sea monkeys, lizards, and even… (and here’s where I hold my breath) certain spiders (which will be discussed later in this post, but I can tell you right now, I will NOT be happy about it, and will likely throw up once I finish describing said experience). I have always believed that pets help to nurture our (hopefully) inherent empathy, and empathy for others, human or otherwise, is, in my opinion, everything.

Sure, we had your traditional cats and dogs, and I adored every one of them. I walked them every day, fed them, cleaned up after them, and was the designated holder of them when the time came for them to be euthanized because, despite my mother claiming to be the same type of ‘animal person,’ she loved to collect them, but never actually handle the tough parts…or, well, even the regular parts. She enjoyed the idea of having pets, I think mostly due to their unconditional love for her, and how they made her look as a person, more than the responsibility of their actual care (I think, in many ways, that’s what having children was like for her, too. I once fell out of an open window at five months old, where I had been napping on the sill (?), and was returned hours later by two young men who happened to see me in the bushes while out on a walk. I had – and still have – so many questions, but it was always told as a ‘funny family story’ that I just never asked them. Oof).

The care part was left to my dad and me. Thankfully, I got my true love for animals from him, and he really did love and respect every single one he came across. I’m pretty sure he liked animals more than most people and I gotta say, the older I get, the more I understand it! Part of me believes I developed a deeper sense of compassion for others because I was there for every animal I’ve ever had the pleasure of caring for when they died. It hurts so much, but it’s also really beautiful (in the weirdest way). I (selfishly) take comfort in knowing the last thing those precious beings ever saw was my face while cradling them, and hearing me tell them how much they were loved in this life before crossing over into their next. My heart doesn’t always agree, because a part of it breaks each time, but the love outweighs the pain, and I will never not have pets I can spoil, adore, and honor with their best life possible.

As I’ve mentioned prior, my dad was a scientist. Our garage was full of all sorts of specimens preserved in formaldehyde for research, which worked out really great for my brother and me, because any time we had a science project due, we just went into the garage, picked a jar, then went to the bookcase to find said animal in the designated Encyclopedia Brittanica and wrote about it.

Does anyone else remember those? With the gold leaflet on? Long before the internet or ChatGPT, and when you left a project to the last minute (as was my style), you could copy verbatim what the page(s) said to meet your word count, because who was going to check? I was born to two educators. From around the age of 9-10, I was often paid a nice wage to grade their papers for them. As a former teacher myself, knowing the amount of work you don’t get paid to do but must be done, I get it. I knew I was golden!

While none of these animals in jars were alive, I still had mad admiration for them, because they helped advance the care of so many others via the respectful research my dad, and others like him, performed. My mom didn’t quite see things the same way, and had plenty to say about the jars in the garage. She hated them and avoided the space at all costs. Her car stayed firmly parked in the carport.

Instead, and though I believe she thought of it as some sort of benevolent act on her part, my mother consistently overfed her animals: our cats ate Gerber baby food three times a day, in addition to very full bowls of dry food, which made for a gnarly litter box that she never seemed to have time to clean. That was my job. And may I just say, P.U.

After my dad passed away, she would feed her dogs (and herself) take-out pizza and hamburgers, then ‘treat’ them to ice cream from Dairy Queen.

Mind you, my brother and I grew up on half a grapefruit or, worse yet, Grape Nuts (or colon blow, for those in the know) for breakfast, steamed peas and bland, season-less chicken for dinner, and raisins and carob chips as ‘sweet treats.’ Sometimes we had Sloppy Joes (which I hated, and still do. Yuck!) Every now and then, we had take-out Chinese food (which I loved, and still do. Yum!) But most often, I fell asleep at the dinner table, so I missed a fair number of meals on the whole.

When any of us told her she was doing them harm, she would admonish us, then get and STAY deeply offended (while calling me incessantly to remind me she was ‘weak as a kitten, and could I please come over to walk/clean up after them? And also bring her a King-sized Snickers and ice-cold Diet Coke in a can?’) She would accuse the veterinarians of being ‘fat-phobic’ when they expressed concern about their weight, and lie about what she fed them, then go on about how much smarter she was than them because she had a PhD and didn’t have to listen to some pleb about what to do with her pets. She constantly talked about wanting to start an alpaca farm (that she also decided my family and I would live on with her, despite none of us expressing any desire to do so).

The funny thing is, my mother was extremely fat-phobic (despite being heavy herself). She would spew the most hateful rhetoric about women on TV, in movies, or simply existing while grocery shopping that she found to be too fat (me included). When I was 12, I broke my arm. And when I say I broke my arm, I mean I broke my arm. Intentionally. Which is a story for another time. While at the urgent care to receive a cast, they weighed me, as was the standard. I’ve always been short and, to this day, stand barely above 5’2”. I was probably close to that height at the time because I quit gaining any vertical inches by around 5^th grade. This is despite coming from a family of very tall people! My brother, nephew, aunts, uncles, and cousins were/are all tall (one of my cousins is over 7ft! My oldest daughter is 6ft. My son is 6’3”. My middle daughter clearly loves her mama the most, because she never made it past 5’5”, and it makes me feel seen. I mean, she’s still taller than me, but not by much!) Did my mom drink too much coffee while pregnant with me? She did love tuna…was it the mercury? One year at Christmas, my husband bought me a replica of the stepstool/seat I always used at my grammy’s. I still have it, and I still use it every day, sometimes just to reach the dishes in the cabinets! While I’ve accepted that I’ll never be a teen model, I’ve still not accepted being happy about it.

I weighed in at 86 pounds. My mother gasped. When the nurse left the room, and while waiting for the doctor, my mother said through pursed lips, “I’ve never been so mortified. Why do you live to embarrass me?” I couldn’t figure out what she was so mad about? She refused to answer me when I asked and wouldn’t make eye contact with me for the rest of the appointment, or even the day. She did, however, assure the doctor as we left that the “weight would be dealt with.” I’m still scratching my head over this one, because huh? The doctor had no issue with my weight, so why did she? If anything, wasn’t that a bit underweight? All I know is, I skipped dinner that night.

My mother treated her animals more as her emotional support while orating about their duty to serve her. She enjoyed a tubby, chubby, feeble pet who depended on her much more than she did a fit, able, healthy one (who rightfully expected daily exercise; a few times a day, even). She needed to be needed, and frail animals who couldn’t talk back were her way.

And part of me understands her methodology. One aspect of my love language is filling tummies. I want everyone I love, everyone I meet, and everyone in general to have a full belly, and I love to fill it for them! I love to cook, host, and put things together (and I seldom do so proportionately – I typically make far more than necessary, resulting in leftovers my husband and I rarely eat, even after sending everyone home with plenty, which then culminates in an expletive-laden clean out of the fridge three days later), but it warms my heart to know that no one leaves my home without feeling full. Of food, of laughter, of love, of song, of drink, and of good times.

This likely stems from the constant starvation I have dealt with my whole life. As a child, it was love and attention. Part of my adoration for theater was how affectionate everyone was. When you were part of a cast who worked so closely and intensely together, lots of hugs were an encouraged given. It was so wonderful. There is nothing like a warm, sincere hug, and to get one every day from so many people, who also said ‘I love you’ so freely, was like winning the lottery over and over again. I remember one time, while doing a show produced by (I’m about to be gross and name-drop here….and am only doing so because the show was so bad, I don’t even include it on my theatrical resume) Academy Award winner Lou Gossett, Jr. (his wife at the time had written it with a friend and it was just…not good), a woman who worked with my dad saw me hugging one of my male castmates. Once the hug ended, she looked at me with a straight face and said, “boy…you sure are friendly” and then rolled her eyes in disgust, as if I had been engaging in something untoward. I was 14 and he was gay. Well, screw you, lady! I got enough of the ‘you’re a whore’ accusations from my mother at home, and at the time, this was my therapy! And no, I wasn’t having sex with all of my beautiful gay friends – or anyone else for that matter – I was 14! Not that it was any of her business if I were!

As a teen/young woman/adult, it was food. I have dealt with a serious eating disorder since I can remember, and I can’t think of even one day where my weight wasn’t the first and last thing I thought of and/or spoke about. In my early teenage and young adult years, I suffered from severe anorexia. So much so, that I exercised at least 4 hours a day, (which doesn’t include the time I spent running up and down our home stairs excessively), weighed myself every hour, on the hour, and survived on three leaves of iceberg lettuce, a bite or two of an apple I’d chew, then spit out, and eight ounces of Pepsi per day.

I was a member of Richard Simmons’ gym (at the behest of my mother) by the age of nine, which I will never be mad about. I LOVED Richard Simmons. I still do. He was, and remains, an inspiration; he did so much for so many, and gave every single part of himself to better the lives of others. Before joining his gym, I loved watching his show and how lovely he was to the people who came to him in need. He was amazing and kind and simply wonderful, and I wish there were more people like him in the world. I was lucky enough to meet him back in the day, and he was everything I’d hoped he’d be and so, SO much more. Now there’s a hug I’ll never forget. May he be resting in divine peace. I will forever love and miss him as much as I would a real-life friend; he is the only celebrity I will ever Stan for being the amazing, unproblematic KING he was. (Well…that’s only partially true, because I also Stan Ben Mandelker and Ronnie Karam, who are also two unproblematic kings, and who make me laugh so hard every single day. If you’ve never listened to their podcast, Watch What Crappens, I highly suggest you start. It’s gut-punch hilarious, even if you don’t watch any shows on Bravo! Those fellas can brighten even the darkest of days and I’m so grateful to them. Part of my self-care has become going to see them live when they’re in my hometown, which will happen again this October. And I can’t wait.)

I also became a regular at Weight Watchers by the age of 12 (after the whole broken arm incident) and for countless years after. The fact that organization allowed me to join at the weight I was when I was 12, shame me for ‘not being able to regulate my eating,’ (I weighed 86 pounds FFS!), and teach me, with enthusiasm even, how to count/restrict calories and say no to food is every reason I will never support them or their bullshit ‘points system’ ever again. Toxic, toxic, TOXIC.

I remember going to Jazzercise with my dad from the age of seven. My dad, as I was being born (granted, I was a whole month late and weighed 8lbs, 9oz at birth) asked the doctor, before I was fully out, if they should put me on a diet because I looked so “chunky.” He once took me to McDonald’s (which, as I’ve said, was a definite no-no in our house), ordered me a Happy Meal, then proceeded to tell me how important it was that I not “get fat like your mom.” So, so many mixed messages that make my head spin to this day.

Friends. These are words people remember. Just don’t say them. It’s so much easier to say nice ones instead, and they’ll mean so much more.

I hated myself for daring to weigh 92 pounds at 16 years old. I was ashamed for being, what I believed to be, so, so fat. I still have the mindset, and it’s still really easy for me to just not eat (as some form of Machiavellian punishment for merely existing). The sense of control it provides is captivating, and when you have none of that in any other aspect of your life, it’s addictive.

Yet, as a now-grown, middle-aged woman in the throes of (peri)menopause (or ‘cougar puberty’ as my sister-in-law so aptly describes it), my body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. I can restrict to my heart’s content, but my good Irish genes now say, “NOT TODAY, SATAN! If there’s another famine, these thighs gotta be READY!” I’ve gained weight for no good reason (and that my mind has such a hard time accepting). I’ve tried all the GLP-1s, and all they do is make me vomit excessively, (no surprise there, given my history!) for days on end, big potty until I can’t big potty anymore, and lay me up in bed for 3-4 days at a time. Oh, and I always gain back the pounds I lose the second my ovaries decide to mess with me (which seems to happen every 7-10 days now). I’m also cognizant enough to understand that I don’t think they’re a good idea for me (despite my soon-to-be-former doctor insisting they’re all I need, because ‘thin is in’), considering my restrictive history. This is NOT TO SAY I don’t fully support them for others, or that I’m not jealous that they work for so many people (I totes am). They’re just not right for me. Nothing about a GLP-1 is “cheating” and to those who say otherwise, I say pshaw. Let people live and mind your own damn business.

I’ve recently begun HRT instead and so far? Incredible. NO NOTES!

I do not wish an ED on anyone, ever. It is a constant struggle, and very hard to treat. No amount of therapy can convince my brain that my body is beautiful just as it is. And it sucks. My husband tells me every single day how beautiful he finds me. And I believe him! (We’ve been together for 28 years. I really don’t think he’s yanking my chain at this point.) There is not one part of me that believes my kids love me less because I carry a few extra pounds, and I know when the day comes that I leave this world (which won’t be until I’m at least 106. I plan to stay around to nag them for as long as possible), they’re never going to say, “Phew! I mean…we’re sad she’s gone, but we’d miss her so much more if she’d just been thinner!” It’s such a dumb thing, but yet, it maintains such a hold. I KNOW BETTER. I wish my rational brain could communicate with my emotional/childlike one as effectively as it does my intellectual one, but it’s…. a process. And a seemingly very long one at that. What I will say is that it’s gotten better. My rational brain tends to win more battles these days! I also give so many less fucks now. It’s too hot, my back hurts, and I just want to sit in my comfy chair and watch my shows instead of worrying about my dress size (and who am I kidding? I’m GenX. When’s the last time I wore a dress? Give me a hoodie and leggings, and I’m all set, thankyouverymuch).

Well, that was a rant, wasn’t it? Back to the animals…

When I was around 12 or 13, my dad had a corn snake that he kept in a small terrarium on the kitchen buffet that extended into the dining room, where you could either prepare or set food (and, apparently, a corn snake). In this (my favorite) house, our den was sunken, and from there, you could look up and see the kitchen, which was open and where the sink overlooked it and out the French doors to the backyard. This was a serious problem for my friends and me, because any sleepover we had (which was basically every weekend), we’d camp out in there, only to be awoken at 6am by my dad turning the water on and off incessantly, while simultaneously microwaving fresh-caught mackerel for the cats. If you’ve never smelled hot mackerel, or mackerel in general, consider yourself very, VERY lucky. What a STINK! We used to catch them off the barge all the time and I regret having been so good at it.

As you know, my dad wasn’t a fan of us sleeping in/resting in general. So, this particular Saturday that he burst into our rooms in the early morning hours, my brother and I were less than surprised. Except…neither of us were expecting this particular announcement.

He simply said to each of us, “Just wanted to let you know…the snake is loose. Can’t find him!”

Ummm….

My brother and I were involved in plenty of extracurriculars, one of which was piano lessons. Our piano teacher was, I’m quite sure, Beelzebub, and was consistently disappointed with our practice habits and theory (which we would complete on the way to her house 10 minutes before each lesson). When she came to our house for a lesson, she brought her own Lysol, and would spray and wipe each key fastidiously (as if we were so filthy, she’d die of dysentery or something?)

Then the smell happened.

The snake had been missing for about a week, and we figured he’d probably gotten outside somehow and was living his best life in the California heat. Our piano was in the living room, which was the nice room that had the fancy fireplace, the good couches and chairs, and was only used when guests were over. And all of a sudden…it stunk. Much as my parents (and housekeeper) tried, they couldn’t find where it was coming from and thought maybe there was something in the attic that was permeating through the ceiling. There was no amount of Pledge or Clorox in the world to de-stunk that funk. Around this same time, our piano became out of tune. We didn’t notice it until Mrs. Zook said she refused to provide us our lessons until we had it tuned.

That poor piano tuner.

While the rest of us were in different parts of the house, we all collectively heard the scream. Then the tuner came to the dining room, where we had all gathered, and said with the shakiest voice, “I think I’ve found your problem.” Turns out, the corn snake had made his way into the top of the piano and intertwined himself in the strings. He clearly was unable to free himself, and very sadly died in the process. So, when the piano tuner opened the top of the piano to examine what could be causing it to be out of tune, he found a very long, very dead snake, in between each string, while being hit with a stink no person should ever have to smell.

We ceased lessons with Mrs. Zook after that. There was no way we’d ever be able to explain what happened, plus my brother and I were kind of over it anyway. I can still play the piano, just not very well. And I’m okay with that.

Another traumatic experience with one of my dad’s chosen “pets” was the time I went to his classroom, where he kept both a Burmese python (named Candy Venus Medusa Gonzo who, after breaking out of her cage during Christmas break, resulting in the school janitor locking himself in a closet for a full day, ended up at the Los Angeles Zoo), and a terrifying, hairy, to-this-day nightmare-inducing tarantula. I can barely type that word without crying, and I’m not kidding. We don’t say that word in my home, and my husband and kids know any type of prank or joke about spiders will be met with either physical violence or my untimely death (which I remind them would ruin their entire lives because they would miss me too much to ever go on. They’re so good to me, because they let me believe it). I can’t sleep without first putting the covers over my feet, before stretching them out. And it’s because of this type of spider (that doesn’t even live in the region I do). Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom didn’t help, because he fell into a pit of them, and I’ve been ruined by it ever since. Thanks a LOT, Harrison! I thought you were cool!

My dad was THEE favorite among his students and peers. He was known as “Mr. J,” and if I showed up at his work, I was treated like a celebrity. I would hear things like, “You’re Mr. J’s daughter? YOU’RE SO LUCKY!” or “I’m so jealous you get to live in the same house as Mr. J!” and kids would draw straws over who got to eat lunch with me in his classroom that day. I mean, I was like seven, but the power was exhilarating! It’s because he was really, really good at what he did. I’ll write about the Catalina trips at another time (because this post is clearly crossing into tome territory).

Never wanting to disappoint or complain, I went along to get along with most things that would earn me praise from my parents. One time, while visiting my dad for the day, he was explaining to his students that there was nothing to be afraid of about the DEMON spider he had chilling in a cage on one of his counters.

THE HELL THERE WASN’T!

I’m going to spare the details, because I honestly can’t talk about them without feeling sick, becoming paranoid that they’re everywhere near me, or that I’m somehow going to wind up on a secret spider hit list. I’ll just say, my dad called me over, in front of his class, and (without warning) put this horrifying silk-spinner on my forearm.

I froze. I don’t think I took a breath the entire time this ghastly beast (how dare you) was on my person.

And then it started to crawl. All the way up my tiny little arm, then my shoulder, and then stopping so close to my face I could feel it pulsating, as every single hair (on both my arm AND head) stood on its end (and still does every time I recall this experience). And my dad was so proud of me. Which is all I ever wanted, so I didn’t cry or scream or run or bat this trash creature off me like every ounce of my being wanted to.

I absolutely CANNOT and WILL NOT place a picture of what this horror hamster looked like and you’re welcome in advance. Instead, I will share this precious GIF of an actual hamster living his best life:

Weird and funky pets aside, from the time I could understand language, I thought each and every kitty of ours throughout the years had two names: their given name (Guido, Sluggo, Orange McNasty, Coco, et al), and the exuberantly articulated, “KITTY, GODDAMMIT!” I thought this because I heard that name far more than their official ones. Any time they got between my mom’s feet while she was walking, or tipped over their water bowl for the fun of it, or knocked the keys off the counter just because they could, my mother bellowed, “KITTY, GODDAMMIT!” It was as familiar to me as my own name, and I just went with it. I can remember picking up Nigel (his went to 11) and asking, “Are you my best boy, Kitty Goddammit?”

And now I get it. My husband and I recently adopted the best kitty to ever kitty. My husband isn’t even a pet guy (other than fish or the frogs and subsequent tadpoles that return to our small backyard pond each year), but Roz Chunks, Attorney at Paw, is so fantastic, that he’s absolutely smitten. He would (and does) do anything for her, and she has him wrapped around her perfect little toe-beans.

And she loves him so much back. She wails like a wife waiting for her husband to return from his dangerous boxing gig or fishing gig or insert-dangerous-thing-that-worries-the-wife-gig-here like it’s her job any time he leaves the house, and always finds a way to cry herself into more food and playtime from him, before giving him kisses with her precious smiling lips and perfect pink nose.

She’s a runt because she was stunted by an illness that she still had when we adopted her (but takes her meds like a champ, and is beating it to shreds!) So, she’s still tiny, but with the cutest, roundest belly and the best Brazilian butt lift I’ve ever seen. (I mean…I don’t have actual proof she had one, but I have my suspicions. She does make that lawyer coin defending the mean streets of Ann Arbor, after all). We love her so much.

She’s also absolutely nuts. We’re convinced she’s on the booger sugar with the number of zoomies she has per day, and it’s more than I’d like to admit that I call her less by her name and more by “KITTY, GODDAMMIT!”

She loves to get between our feet, hide under beds to attack, and scooch her bum in a back-and-forth motion before the inevitable pounce.

She does kitty parkour throughout the house all day, every day. She has what my husband likes to call her “kitty condo,” which is set by our living room window. She leaps from couch to chair to kitty condo to window in seconds flat.

Any time there’s thunder (which there’s been a bit of lately), she races from the window to the sliding glass door across the room, and pounds her paws against the glass, as if to say, “I can make big noise, too, JERK THUNDER!”

She consistently stalks Bob Sacamano, our robot vacuum, as he goes about his business trying to keep the floors clean because, “Hey, buddy! You don’t scare me and I can eat the crumbs off the floor faster than you!” Even though Bob Sacamano is just trying to do his job.

She’s absolutely perfect.

It’s unlikely I’ll ever stop referring to her as KITTY, GODDAMMIT! during those times she gets between my feet, tips over her water dish for the fun of it, or knocks the keys off the counter just because she can.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.