The Finder

Inspirational song: The Seeker (The Who)

I had a chance to show off my superpower today. I have only one, and I'm very good at it. I find things. Specifically, I find important items other people lose, and are frantically searching for. I can't count how many mornings my man has freaked out, unable to find his keys or wallet, so he could go to work. It was always up to me to find them, in the weirdest places. But this isn't my superpower. This is more like training for the Olympics than actually competing. Today was the real thing. I was out to lunch with my group, and there were two new members. At the end of a fabulous meal (yet another restaurant featured on television, for good reason), the waitress came back with our scanned credit cards, minus one. Between scanning the cards and bringing them to us, the card belonging to one of the new women went missing. The waitress was in a panic, and the woman was thinking she had to go back to her bank for the third time this summer, to get another card (and pay another fee to replace it). I watched the waitress look all over the diner-style bar area, looking under objects, on shelves, on the dining floor, and she was at a loss. My friend and I stood up and walked around a booth to help. I did what I always do: I paused, blocked out everything but what I wanted to find, and then looked right at it, deep under the ice machine behind the bar. The relief on the waitress was palpable, to know for certain it hadn't been stolen out from under her nose, and she wouldn't be blamed. And I had proof that I still have the touch.

I think my favorite recent episode of this was when I worked for the mom and pop gift shop/plant nursery in New Mexico. It was in an old house, maybe a hundred years old, and the store covered the house, a huge winding garden area, and a couple outbuildings. One night, when I was working in the main house, in the jewelry room, the owner came in, at a loss to find his keys. By the time he came by me, he had been searching maybe 20 minutes. I didn't ask many questions. I mostly just "listened" for the keys. I told him I would be right back (I had to point out that I was walking away from the cash register), and I left the main house, walked through the parking lot, past the garden entrance where he spent nearly all of his time, and went into the storeroom. Storage was in the two-room outbuilding that had once been a guest cottage, and it was packed as tight as any hoarders home on cable television. I went straight to the back, without hesitation, chose the left path to shelves, and reached behind a stack of candles and grabbed the keys. When I told him where I found them, and that I had gone directly to them, he looked at me like I was either crazy, or had been following him and he didn't realize it or like it.

I'm usually very able to remember where anything is in my house, as if everything in the three dimensional space around me is sequentially coded. When there are instances where I can't find something, which is rare, but it happens, I absolutely lose my mind. It almost invariably turns out that someone, human or canine or feline, has moved it from the last place I saw it. More often, even if things are buried under papers on a counter, or under a stack of laundry, or deep in a drawer, I just have to ask the item to be revealed, and it's there. If I ever lose this skill, it will be more than I can bear.

I didn't take any new photos today. I don't really have any examples of lost and found items. The closest I have is of someone hiding, specifically my daughter's ex-roommate's cat. It's a reach, but I didn't want to go completely without a photo today.

Soft Tissue

Inspirational song: Why Paddy's Not At Work Today (Clancey Brothers)

I've been in denial for several weeks now. Before I joined the Y, when I was walking every day, and promising my Denver friend that I would do a Couch to 5k program with her (on the honor system), I did something to my foot. What did I do? I Have No Idea. This is a problem. It is possible that this is just like the soft tissue damage that happened to me in college. Back then, on dorm move-in day, a group of us were walking back from Target, and my roommate stepped on the back of my flip-flop while I kept trying to go forward. It tore the tendon at the base of my big toe. But it was August, and I was in marching band and a full-time pedestrian, so not walking was not an option. So this took an entire year to heal. My clumsy dogs have done this same move on me a couple of times since it became sandal season again this year. If this is all I did, then once again it will probably be just a matter of time for it to heal, while I have to lay off pushing myself to higher and higher weights on the leg press. That is depressing, since it's one of my favorite things to do in the weight room. But it wouldn't be the end of the world.

The other possibility is a little more daunting. It's possible that during one of those Couch to 5k days (when I was running in my worn-out tennis shoes, carrying all the extra weight I picked up between multiple surgeries and moving to the land of the greatest restaurants in the country), that I injured my foot in a more dramatic way. I'm hoping it isn't a fracture that I've been ignoring. But tonight at water aerobics, it was hurting so badly, that when I slowed down to give it a break, the instructor noticed the look on my face and asked me whether I was ok. I insisted I was just sore, but I was lying. Having a tennis shoe laced up on it right now hurts, and it was rough walking out of the gym. The last time I had a massage, about a month ago, when the therapist squeezed the ball of my foot, pain exploded so badly that I thought I would pass out. But instead I just stayed quiet, even when he twisted and stretched the foot. I'm supposed to see him this weekend. I think I will take a Sharpie and write "no" on the ball of my foot, so he knows to leave it alone, and doesn't forget which side is which.

I had wanted to spend today writing about the rain, but in a good way. When it was non-stop last month, I didn't want it to stop forever. I just needed a break. I wanted a balance between rain and sun.  I think we are finally back to that point. It dried out and warmed up enough that when big thunderstorms popped up the last two evenings, it was finally enjoyable to watch and listen to the rain. I even went out in it today, just for the fun of it. The storms were short but intense, and the wind was strong enough to water the plants all the way up on the porch. Lightning struck close enough to the house to brown out the power. And of course--of course--the giant boy kitty was nowhere to be found. Since he was a baby, he has been afraid of thunderstorms. What a chicken.

Ok. I swear, I will call the clinic tomorrow, and ask them to tell me whether the damage is just soft tissue or bone. Hold me to that promise. If there is a way to weasel out of this, I will find it. I hate talking to doctors.

On Civil Discourse

Inspirational song: What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding (Elvis Costello)

Three years ago or so, when I first started thinking about writing a blog, it was in reaction to what I perceived as the breakdown in our ability to speak to each other with civility. I wanted to address the hateful things so many people were saying, as I watched them throwing out broad insults on every topic imaginable, dividing us into insular groups, preventing us from working together, and shredding the gentler souls who were targeted. Obviously I am not the only person to be distressed by this, and I am probably not the most eloquent to address it. But at the time, I felt like I had something positive and productive to add to the discussion. Inevitably my general shyness overwhelmed my desire to lecture like a mother, imploring the public to remember that axiom, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. So I put off starting that blog, and eventually dropped the idea, in favor of anonymity. But in the back of my mind, I kept wondering, was there anything I could do to steer folks back into more civil discourse, in person and on social media. 

Last night, an old friend of mine shared a meme that was intentionally misleading and designed to evoke an emotional response to a subject that dominated the news recently. I responded to the hypothetical question posed by the meme (it was a why are these things different kind of question), and my friend and I commented back and forth a few times, firmly disagreeing, yet never forgetting that we are still friends, and that each of us is a person of intellect and feeling, worthy of respect. My friend didn't create the meme, and I don't hold its existence against him personally. But then someone with his same last name, whom I've never met, chimed in, and immediately started calling me names (she used "idiot" in the first comment), made wild, hateful, sweeping statements, got some details backwards about the situation we had been discussing that had broad implications, and added very little to the discussion except bad feelings. I asked her outright why she was so committed to the "you people" attacks on me personally, and how did that help. Her answer was to practically cackle that she had no intention of helping anyone or anything. At that point it was midnight in my time zone, and I gave up and went to bed. By the time my man got home to his computer where he is, to read the thread, our old friend had deleted the whole thing, so I didn't have a neutral party who could read what I wrote to tell me whether I managed to stick to the topic without disparaging her personally, as I hoped I had.

This is a very specific example of why I had wanted to write years ago. This woman was deeply invested in character assassination, in a way that implied the outcome mattered to her personally. She absolutely could not see me or the people under discussion as worthy of respect or human dignity. Yet she kept talking, assuming things about me and the topic of national news that she could not possibly know, that for me were absolutely untrue.

I have heard a lot of people on tv talk about the "new normal." They suggest this mood of hostility and obstinance is here to stay, and we should get used to it. I cannot accept this. There is no reason we should refuse to work with people who differ from us, and there is no reason we must belittle them to give ourselves an inflated sense of who we are. I'm not saying we all have to agree. I'm just saying we need to recognize the basic humanity in everyone, including those who don't watch the same cable news channel or have the same Sunday activities. I know that on a personal level, I have a broad spectrum of friends and acquaintances, who are as different from each other as they are from me. I am in contact with people who are left-leaning, right-leaning, apolitical, and radical. My friends are deeply religious, profoundly atheist, and absolutely uncertain. There are plenty who are fantastically smarter than I, and some who really struggled in school. They are fat and thin, young and old, sweethearts and assholes. But most importantly, they are individuals, capable of making their own decisions about all of the above (well, except age). I don't want them all to be carbon copies of myself. I want them to be different, so that I can learn new things, and I want them to understand that even when we disagree, I know that they are still good people. It isn't so difficult to do this. Why have we allowed hate into the picture, and what can we do to get it back out again? 

It's more than I can answer in one short essay. I may have to revisit this one often, a nod to the original inspiration to write. The only photo I feel like putting with this is of the very angry Ewok, from our trip home from today's shelter visit. She desperately hates these treatments, as much as I dislike taking her there and smelling her on the way home. I think she matches my topic well enough.

Giving Myself Permission

Inspirational song: What Would Willie Do? (Bruce Robison)

As I mentioned a couple days ago, I have now been doing this for three months, every day. I kept my promise to write whether what I had to say was exciting, boring, light, deep, sad, or funny. I am through with what most jobs would consider a fair probationary period. I'm a fully qualified employee now. And as such, I think I am going to give myself permission to coast today. I opened a beer, turned on Kitchen Crashers, and I'm going to keep the entirety of the rest of my day to myself. For the last few weeks, I have managed to provide full-length introspective posts, even when I thought I had nothing. But today, it's all for me. I will give you plenty more tomorrow.

To hold you over, here is a photo of the love of my life. Enjoy your respite from my rambling.

Carrot and Stick

Inspirational song: Deserve (Marillion)

I want to dedicate every calorie I burned today to Danny Elfman. I really had to force myself to the gym today, and the first six or seven minutes on the elliptical were a horrible slog. Then Dead Man's Party came through my earphones, and it was just the right groove to get me moving. I conquered my reluctance, broke through that wall you always hear about, and gladly did a half hour of cardio and an hour of weights. I was having so much fun, I "rewarded" myself with an extra set on my favorite machine (leg press), with an extra 20 pounds on the stack. I don't get it. I really feel fantastic when I go there, for water aerobics or lifting. Why is it so hard to get myself out there more than once or twice a week?

When I left, feeling triumphant, I had a couple of options. I could tell myself I worked hard enough, and go to a drive-thru restaurant and eat twice as many calories as I'd burned, and a ton of chemicals I didn't need. Or, I could keep the steel in my spine for another hour, and go to Publix for real food. This time I rewarded myself in advance for choosing the better option. I went to Publix via the last few hours of a sale featuring an extra 40% off clearance priced handbags. I know, I know. Sometimes, I'm really just a girl, and comforted like one. But it was my favorite brand of purse, for less than 30% of its retail price... That felt like a hell of a prize for working out and eating right.

The grocery store held one final reward for the day, something I didn't expect at all. I was nearly done, with a shopping cart full of healthy fruits, vegetables, and antibiotic- and hormone-free meats, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of an elusive unicorn. Wait, let me back up a bit. A dozen years ago, when we lived in the Central Coast of California, the grocery store we frequented carried frozen kosher cheese blintzes. They were my favorite guilty pleasure, taking into account we lived in wine country and had access to the best strawberries and barbecued tri-tip imaginable. Then one day, they disappeared from the store, and I have combed every freezer aisle since, in the vain attempt to find them again. The memory of them grew, blew out of proportion, until it was as falsely perfect as the memory of a first love. Suddenly, here they are. I don't think these are the same brand. But I don't care. I grabbed them, and ran back for strawberries, and had to race through the checkout lane before I broke out in big, wet tears, I was so childishly happy. I'm saving them for breakfast, so I have a night to savor the prospect of them before the reality sets in that they're just frozen cottage cheese crepes.

Three Months In

Inspirational song: The Lucky One (Alison Krauss)

I've opened up a lot lately, and feel somewhat drained for having exposed so many of my secrets so close together. I kind of wish I had a freshly planted garden feature to focus on, or a recent trip to the beach to brag about. I don't even have a recent piece of art to show off. I cut the front grass, and cleaned the kitchen. That's about it. Other than getting chased inside halfway through, thanks to a brief but heavy downpour, it was fairly uneventful. Thanks to the rain, I didn't have to water much of anything except what is covered by the front porch, and while I did that, I looked around for my giant spider. She was nowhere to be found. Not kidding, it was scarier to know she had been there and vanished than to see her in the first place. I was afraid that she was lurking above me, or had found a way inside. I haven't looked in the front room, but if someone starts playing the piano, I'm leaving the house.

Even with the big spider MIA, I am too afraid of diving into that web-clogged little enclave to plant the caladium I bought and set there during the rains last month. So far it is surviving in its nursery pot, but I need to get it in the ground eventually. Maybe closer to Labor Day, the spiders will retreat and I can get my hands back in the dirt for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time. 

I failed twice to get to see a movie tonight. I'm trying to catch one that is barely holding in at one theater, and is gone at all the others. I missed getting to go by myself to a late afternoon showing because I got a call from the man, and honestly, I wasn't going to hang up on him for a movie! Then I was going to drag one of my neighbors to a later show, but she ended up not being able to get free. It is out of the question to go to this theater alone after dark. It is in an odd location, between a gated tech company and a local government building. At night it is absolutely eerie. We have come out shows before, wondering whether the apocalypse came while we were inside. The lobby was dark and deserted, there were no other humans anywhere, in the halls, bathrooms, or at the concession counter. The parking lot is always nearly empty, with maybe a few people just hanging out by their cars, talking but not driving away. Nine o'clock at night feels like four in the morning out there. So, yeah. No movie. I just hung out at home on a Friday night, watching my scruffy kitten get a new high score on her iPad game. (620, baby. Not bad, for a two month old.)

Survivor, Kitten Edition

Inspirational song: The Circle of Life (The Lion King)

I have been trying to figure out how to report what happened this week with the litter of kittens the man has been watching over in his temporary home. I told him that kittens are notoriously fragile, but I didn't expect to hear that violence would visit the nursery on his patio. A few days ago, he found that three of the four kittens had been killed by one of the tomcat strays, bitten on their necks. Only one kitten escaped, the mostly white with calico patches. The man was devastated, and has been down on life ever since. I think I am entirely capable of understanding how difficult it is to go through this, and I regret that he has to feel the same way I did when the first two foster kittens died here in June. It took me almost two weeks to fully recover, and in that time, I was unable to tolerate even seeing pictures of kittens on the Internet. My man is stuck on the memory that the last time he saw the little tabby kitten, he was telling him how big he was going to be when he grew up. My heart aches when he says that.

I told him that he should name the surviving kitten after the movie The Highlander. ("There can be only one.") The central character was Connor McLeod, and he's testing whether he likes the sound of calling her "Connie." I asked him for a photo to share of her in a few days when she opens her eyes.

I took my scruffy kitten in to the shelter again today, thinking it was going to be a regular checkup. Apparently as long as she has the fungal infection, she can only go to the lime dip, not to the regular kitten area, to guarantee she can't pass the infection to the other babies. I do not know how long this will go on, but I hate taking her in for these treatments. I know she hates it too. I can't believe she forgives me after each trip, but she does. This stuff is burning her fur, in much the same way someone would feel if she bleached her hair three times in a week. (My younger child knows this feeling.) It is fragile and pulling out in clumps. She has a couple tiny bald spots, like above one eye (not the usual one all cats have there) and the underside of her tail. I swear, I am certainly the only person who would ever love this unfortunate animal. FIV positive, ringworm fungus making her fur fall out, and upper respiratory infection that she can't shake making her sneeze and have crusty eyes. I have to promise her every day that I won't give up on her until she is healthy and glossy. There will be great reward for my effort, I believe. When they called me from the shelter and said, "We have special needs kittens," I had no idea how accurate that statement was.

She is having another Loch Ness Monster evening. Every time I try to take a photo of her to accompany the post (and I've taken a couple dozen so far), all I get is a dark, blurry shadow. She is too busy killing everything in the living room to be still longer than a single second. So, I give up. I'll put one or two of the blurry ones and call it good.

Good Sense

Inspirational song: Senses Working Overtime (XTC)

There are days I wish I had more ways to express what goes on here than just words and pictures. The other senses get a workout here too, and it is so much fun for me to just let them dominate the conversation once in a while. Today was all about sound and taste. 

I have admitted to a growing addiction to Pinterest. It snuck up on me, out of the blue. I registered for it months and months ago, but at first rarely looked at it except for once or twice when I needed a recipe.  Now I spend upwards of six or seven hours a week scrolling through it. Today was one of the first times I seriously considered making a pin of my own, based on the deliciousness of my kitchen adventure. I think I will work on my technique a bit, and break out my grandmother's china when I'm finally ready for serious photographs on a pin. If you're wondering, I modified the breakfast item I always get at my favorite restaurant back in Boulder. At Lucile's, they call it Eggs Jennifer. I may change the name, since I changed a few other key details. Here's what I did: I made a real hollandaise sauce, for only the second time in my life. I cut a few narrow slices off a baguette, and warmed them in the oven, with sliced tomato and fresh spinach. Rather than try and fail to poach eggs, I took pity on myself and cooked them over easy in butter. I layered the toasts with sliced avocado and the eggs, and covered it in hollandaise (that I loosened with a little extra lemon juice, as it had gotten a little stiff while I made the rest.) It was incredible. Really. As good as the restaurant that inspired it, and I didn't have to find room in my stomach for the eggs AND grits or potatoes AND begniets with jam AND tea with milk. It was enough food to hold me for nearly the entire day, and I didn't even contemplate eating again until after water aerobics, at 8 o'clock. The only photo I took was as I sat on the couch (I am a single woman for the time being, after all--so yes, I eat on the couch), and the old man cat started sniffing around, imagining that I would allow a cat to eat something with avocado (NO!).

Because I was so sated throughout the day, I also put off feeding the animals until I was home from swimming. This was not well-received by the professional eater dog. She can tell time, and she knows the difference between six o'clock and eight o'clock is Hungry! Hungry now! I have been wronged! When she first joined the family, five years ago, she used to make the most hilarious noises. She carried around her chew toys, and sang from deep in her throat, the call of the Wookiee. As she matured, she stopped doing it so much, but when she gets really worked up, like tonight, the Wookiee noises come back. It is so much fun teasing her, and watching her prance like a pony and sing for her dinner. I don't make her do it long or often, but tonight she walked with me while I carried out the trash, singing the song of her people. I wish I had recorded it, and had more computer literacy to be able to share it with my audience.

I struggled with topics for much of the day, trying to figure out what was interesting enough to write about. Then, this evening, our water aerobics instructor breezed in, full of energy, and proceeded to talk all about her day--about the horror movie she watched while doing laundry, and I realized I shouldn't tie myself in knots about my subject. There is a real human compulsion to share our experiences, and that is the true core of why I started writing. I wasn't looking to be exceptionally profound. I certainly didn't want to lecture on politics or religion. I just wanted to share the things that bring me joy, or make me laugh, or frustrate me enough to look for other humans who can commiserate. I am going to continue down this path, and if I'm lucky, you'll keep tuning in to read about it.

Out With the Old

Inspirational song: When the World Is Running Down (The Police)

I don't think I intended for today to feel like a clerical day, but I'm glad that it did. I had a handful of errands that needed to be done, and it always makes me feel clear-headed to get through the menial stuff. While I was on the go, I finally got a trunkload of items I no longer need to the consignment shop. I had been filling a large laundry basket as I went through closets, and the first heaping basket is gone. That's one out of about fifteen that I need to do in the next year, to lighten my load physically, as well as mentally. I am no hoarder, but I do have more than I need, considering we are a family who moves so often. And since we do all the packing and loading and moving ourselves, it's important to pay attention to every pound hiding in the closets. And believe me, there's a lot of weight lurking there, and in the garage. Fourteen more trips to the consignment shop? At least.

I need to pay attention to the things that do and don't work around here too. I can't consign broken items, and I need to take a hard look at things that are reaching the end of their life spans. Once upon a time, things were built to last for a very long time. Now I look at how much I own that was designed to become obsolete very quickly. We still own two desktop computers that were purchased in 2008. One of them has an incredible amount of data stored on it, but it is barely functional at this point. I am no longer able to update it, not by my choice, but because the operating system has hit its wall. I don't know what to do. I don't want to replace it with another desktop, and I haven't done any research on laptops to see what would last longest, but I just can't let all this data evaporate. I think I need to filter through it, and thin it out as much as I need to do with my closets.

Tonight was supposed to be a game night. But it is always so hard to get people together in the summer, and tonight was no different. We had too few players to play bunco, so we sat and talked and made a few plans. It wasn't what I intended, but it felt good on a day of organization. 

Today's pictures included taking stock of the wildlife in the back. There are more of the banana spiders like the palm-sized one in front, but the ones in back aren't quite as large yet. But the more pertinent detail to notice is that there is a breeding pair in the knockout rose bush. Just what I needed, a million of these things. Well, if that doesn't take care of my mosquito problem, what can?

Tourist Trap

Inspirational song: Overture/It's a Boy (Tommy)

I think I was on the same wavelength as the DJ on Classic Vinyl today. As I was driving home from today's adventure, I heard the news that everyone was talking about, whether they cared about it or not. I started singing the first song from Tommy (the movie version), changing the name from Mrs Walker to Mrs Windsor. An hour into my drive, there I was with the radio cranked, rocking out to the French horn heavy Overture to the same "opera." It might be time to dust off that particular DVD, just so I can cure myself of the earworm that has been stuck with me ever since. It's a boy, Mrs Walker, it's a boy...

As I predicted, today was much more exciting than yesterday. Close friends of our are vacationing in North Carolina. I couldn't manage to arrange dog boarding to join them, so we compromised and met at Myrtle Beach. I haven't been there since I was in preschool, so I had no idea what to do or where to go. We decided that since it was such a touristy town, we were going to pull out all the stops, and go full tourist trap. "Margaritaville" fit that bill. It was like a campy mini-amusement park: over the top themed restaurant, giant swarms of fish that crawl over each other for the bits of fish chow they sell for a quarter, carnival rides, souvenir shops, funnel cake and snow cone carts, and a hundred year old mechanical pipe organ playing the score from Star Wars. Our friends have young children, and they ate it up. Our table at the restaurant was a modified fishing boat, with an ok view of the Sharknado that has a little animatronic show every hour or so. (It's supposed to be a hurricane, but thanks to the TV movie a couple weeks ago, I'm sure it will forever be viewed differently.) The kids got balloon creations from the pirates on stilts who cruise around the dining room--the boy got a sword and the girl got a mermaid that was very well done. After lunch, we rode rides, fed fish, and bought kitschy souvenirs. What a great time!

On the way up, I thought maybe my navigation system was finally over our very heated argument from May, and had started to work with me. Apparently I was wrong. My morning route surprised me, with the car sending me up through a ribbon of earth borrowed from the swampy national forest on either side of it. I thought the nav system was just trying to avoid Mount Pleasant, the scene of our epic fight, and I enjoyed the scenery. But maybe it had more margaritas than I did (just one, and I waited well over an hour before I drove, for the record), because the car sent me driving in circles, in dodgy neighborhoods, telling me to continue going straight on roads that ended in T junctions half a mile before the map said it would, and generally acting like it had no idea how to get me back to the highway. So maybe we aren't past our difference of opinions after all. At least I wasn't trying to find a Whole Foods this time.

I made it back in time to get the dogs outside before the carpets suffered, but apparently in my haste to get inside, I failed to secure the door to the garage, and I had left the garage door to the outside open since I planned to go back out for gas later. The old man cat is deaf as a post, but he must pay attention to the change in pressure of the house, because he can sniff out an unlatched door the instant you walk away from it. I got a call from my neighbor that he was taking off down the street. Three cats were still in the garage, and ran in as soon as they were discovered. The old man was caught fairly quickly. But the big black cat eluded me at first. I caught sight of her heading to the other neighbor's open gate, and I picked her up. Right at that moment, a man we'd never seen before came around from the back of the neighbor's deck, pushing a running lawn mower. The cat lost her mind. It was all I could do to hang on to her long enough to get inside the garage. I'm now damaged in several places, and trying to work up the nerve to clean it all with peroxide so I don't get an infection. And the new shirt I bought last Wednesday is now ruined, with four giant toe-holes in it that can't be fixed. But, as I said, today was way more exciting than yesterday, no question about it.

A World Full of No

Inspirational song: Roxie (Chicago)

Every time I think I am winning, my arch nemesis agoraphobia comes back and kicks my ass for another round. I had the opportunity to go down to the coast and have a lovely brunch with a friend this morning, but I woke up feeling like hell after a sleepless night full of heartburn. I cried off. And ever since, I've retreated into that stubborn shell that makes it impossible to breach the front door. This has been a problem for so many decades, I can't remember when it actually started. None of my family has any understanding of what goes on when this happens. They can't comprehend that not only do I not want to go outside, I can't. My heart rate increases and my stomach clenches at the thought of going as far as the mailbox. They seem to associate my time in the house as boredom, which it certainly is not. Their usual reaction is talking down to me, telling me it's just a matter of getting up and going. I must need something to do. Moreover, I must WANT something to do. A couple times they have nagged me into taking jobs that I despised, saying it would be good for me. All those experiences accomplished was to lower my self-esteem, and make me so angry every time I saw someone who able to make a living in a creative manner, writing or singing or sculpting or whatever they found fulfilling. It never helped the anxiety that sneaks up out of nowhere and chains me inside.

I don't think it is the same as when I don't feel like facing the weather or the insects. Or, if it is, those days are the lesser cousins to the days like today. Some days I get caught up in what I'm doing, and forget to go out, or tell myself I will just wait for the heat to pass. Then evening comes and I happily breeze through the door. Not today. Today the anxiety was in complete control, and here it is, nearly time for bed, and I am sad to see how little I managed to do. Even writing was an imposition on my moodiness. 

I am determined that tomorrow will be better. I'm heading north to meet with a friend who is vacationing on the Outer Banks, and she is willing to meet me halfway for a day of being silly tourists. I have decided that I will use today's inertia as a chance to regroup, resting long enough to build up a head of steam, so I can take off at higher speed tomorrow. I can't let my arch nemesis win. The war continues.

The Streak

Inspirational song: William Tell Overture (Gioachino Rossini)

The streak is broken. For the first time in months, maybe since February, I went to a movie and it did not dump buckets of rain on my car in the parking lot while I was there. I really didn't expect it to end today. There was a better than 50% chance of rain, according to the tv news. Maybe my luck is changing.

Today did feel like I was breaking out of a little rut. I finally got my act in gear early this morning, and managed to mow all of the grass to the same height, including the foot deep patches that had been taunting me for over a week now. What a relief to have it all under control, including the intermittently unmowable swamp. I lost a lot of plants between the torrential rains, and the subsequent heat and mosquitoes that kept me inside, shirking my duties since the rains eased off. There are a few signs of hope in the back, but the trend is toward plant death. I know Dead Flowers is my favorite Rolling Stones song, but it is not my favorite look for my yard. I keep itching to go to the nurseries and get some replacement flowers, but I am trying to show some restraint, until I know I will be outside often enough to keep it all in good shape. I keep fantasizing about pesticides, just to get rid of the mosquitoes. Give me strength!

The movie was the reward I used to motivate myself to get all my work done first thing this morning. I know I'd heard negative reviews about the Lone Ranger, but I went anyway, with two of my girlfriends. It had its flaws, but overall it was a decent couple hours of escapism. Being from the part of the country formerly known as Indian Territory, it was a little annoying to see landforms that were so obviously Arizona and New Mexico being passed off as Texas. But I can't lie: I did like the killer rabbits.

Tarnish

Inspirational song: Weird Science (Oingo Boingo)

I should know better by now, not to ignore the out of doors until the time of day the mosquitoes come out. Am I just getting more sensitive, or are these fierce little bloodsuckers stinging worse than usual? As I jumped and twitched, trying to water the container pots on the porch, I chastised the four-inch spider for not living up to his side of our bargain, which was to eat every insect in the Park, in exchange for me not killing him with fire, as my friend suggested.

While I sat around, waiting for the physician's assistant to call me back and tell me whether I was healing well enough (yes, there was reason for concern, but she says it's ok), I channel surfed. I admit it, I watched a couple of those shows that ask an awful lot of stupid questions, and provide very few facts to go with them. I believe today's offerings were about angels and monsters. It reminded me of one of those things that has been eating away at me for years, information I don't usually volunteer because it doesn't reflect well on me. One of the rites of passage in elementary school is a science fair project. In typical fashion, when it was my turn to do it in fifth grade, I waited until the night before, and stayed up until three in the morning to slap it together. But here's the deal: my subject was the Bermuda Triangle. Seriously. The Bermuda Effing Triangle. Okay, I was ten years old, and maybe the teacher who approved the projects thought it was funny, but why the hell didn't someone pull me aside and tell me that's not science?!? Or worse, is it because in 1970s Oklahoma, they didn't know the difference? I don't want that to be the case. Either way, that "honorable mention" certificate is a badge of shame on my otherwise academic embrace of science.

Yesterday, while the stinky little Ewok slept on my chest, and I tried to ignore the stench of brimstone, I should have given a little care to the science experiment occurring on my neck. I was more familiar with that smell that I realized. It was identical to the liquid silver polish I have used in the past, the kind that smells incredibly toxic, and turned my brown T-shirt tomato soup red where I spilled a drop. I looked in the mirror this morning, in the brighter light, and discovered my silver pendant was so tarnished, it's possible the plating completely burned off the loop. I will suggest to the techs at the shelter when I take Athena for her next treatment, that they should warn people not to wear silver jewelry around dipped animals.

The Year of the Kitten

Inspirational song: The Year of the Cat (Al Stewart)

Ok, I didn't reach very far for the song today, but I don't think there exists a closer match for today's topic. It's Internet purity day, all cats, start to finish.

Today was Athena's checkup day, and the news wasn't great. She had a lump on her tail when I got her, and last week they plucked some hair and skin samples to test it. As if a positive test for FIV and a recurring rhinovirus weren't enough, this unlucky little black cat has a fungal infection on her tail. I waited over an hour for them to bring her back to me, and when they did, she was sopping wet and stinking of sulphur. They dipped her, and told me she has to come back every three to four days to get it again. My kitten cannot catch a break. Riding home with her made my eyes water, and now she is dry and sleeping on my collarbone while I recline on the couch. The scent of brimstone is wafting up into my nostrils, like strapping on a horse's feed bag full of matches. This kid had better live a long, fulfilling life for all the hurdles she has vaulted in her first seven weeks.

My man was very excited yesterday when he got online. One of the cats who lives in the courtyard of the house he shares with some coworkers gave birth to four kittens, and he found the mama and babies right after the event. He provided a box and towel for their bed, and mama allowed him to help move the newborns into the bed. I've had cats most of my life, since I was three years old, and he has had cats since he moved in with me in college, but until this summer, neither of us has cared for kittens younger than a month old. We always have our pets spayed and neutered, so none of our animals has made us grandparents. He has been feeding some of the stray cats next to the building where he works also, and this morning reported that of the five kittens he had been watching and trying to befriend since he arrived, there are now only two who appear to have made it. I've been trying to temper his expectations for the latest litter, but I would be very happy if he were to have more success with neonatals than I did. Having the mama cat there is a big advantage.

When I was a teenager, I gave my boyfriend a kitten that I had found, thinking that it was a great idea. It turned out that I was horribly wrong. I never heard the whole story, but what I pieced together made it sound like he frightened the cat to death "playing army," at one point where we were in an off-again stage of our relationship. I can't imagine what I was thinking, even giving the time of day to someone who could be so callous about an animal. I may whine sometimes about the amount of effort it takes to care for this menagerie, that my man and I are equally credited/to blame for creating, but I would have it no other way. The man and I are in total agreement on that, I guarantee.

For the first time since I started the blog, I am planning to use a photograph I didn't take. The man gets credit for the one of his mama-cat, assuming he doesn't tell me I can't use it. And there is no story to go with the one of my boy-cat. It's just the pose he assumed while I wrote. It was too cute not to include. ---While I went back and forth between devices to gather all my photos, the kitten moved, and smelled so foul, even the grumpy calico was moved to groom her. Whatever it takes...

Not My Day

Inspirational song: Duel Duet (Shock Treatment)

This day has not gone the way I had hoped. I didn't heal as fast as I had hoped from yesterday, so I had to continue to be a worthless slug all day. The sting on my wrist appears to be a fire ant bite, and it's really starting to hurt too. I had a few things I needed to buy that couldn't wait (like dog food--funny, they expect to eat every single day), so I thought maybe a little retail therapy would help. I found a couple shirts on clearance, and started feeling icky on the way out the door of the outlet shop. So I caved and went through a fast food drive-thru, on my way to the Big Evil for dog food. I really didn't want to be there, but they're the only place within 5 miles of my house that sells the dogs' favorite chewies, the kind we call STFU sticks. (And yes, those words are in my dogs' vocabulary.) So I ended up wandering the halls of the worst store on earth, getting all the things I've needed for a while now, while my stomach just felt worse for having eaten fast food, and my self-respect diminished for filling the cart with three times as much crap as I had intended to purchase from this retail chain. At least when I got home, my favorite recent episode of South Park was on. I think it's the only bright point in my day. I'm a loser....

Of Unusual Size

Inspirational song: Let It Grow (Eric Clapton)

I tried to take it easy today. I had to have the tiniest of minor surgeries today, the kind that shouldn't need stitches, as long as I don't raise my heartbeat enough to overpower a little silver nitrate (in lieu of stitches). After the little disposable piece of me was removed, I came home and let Julia Child collaborate with me to make the best onion soup of all time (do you hear me, younger child of mine? Of All Time), and then took a nap on the couch, so as to be completely still. I'm not sure I accomplished my goal. In fact, I'm pretty sure I failed.

I let a hot, finally-dry day go by while I recovered, and by the time I went outside to water containers, my coleus on the front porch was almost wilted away to nothing. I set to fixing that without further delay. While I sprayed the flowers and hostas around the stump of the Bradford pear, I tried to rip out a few more suckers coming up from the roots of the stump, and managed to be stung either by one of the spikes on the big suckers, or by an insect. I'm not sure which, but now there's a lump under the heel of my hand with a little brown dot in it. I guess it's not worse than the damage I did to the suckers. Then I switched my valves on the faucets to water up front, and by the time I walked from one side of the garage to the other, I was presented with an opportunity for a product review. You know those neon green, expandable, lightweight hoses they sell at Home Depot? I'm not impressed with them. I had zero success making it seal when I attached my sprayer, even after we bought little plastic washers to help out. And today, as I leaned over to pick up the sprayer, the hose hissed and then blew apart, shooting water in my face. I had no time to spare with the coleus, so I picked up the ripped fragment of hose, and wrapped it around my hand until I closed off enough water gushing out of the long split to be able to aim it where I wanted. By the time I dribbled water all around the front, I was as wet as the flower beds, and my shoes squished when I walked. I guess it's time to go to Lowe's and get a replacement.

In my front yard can be found at least two growing things that are not what I expected them to be. A couple weeks ago, when a friend was over, I noticed a spider that was about the span of a walnut in its shell. When I marveled at its size, my friend said it would get much larger. I guess I didn't believe her, because I was really surprised when I caught sight of him this afternoon. He now could touch all the edges of my freakishly large phone, and maybe even hang off the edges. I was not about to get close enough to him to find out for sure. And last month, while I dragged my feet about buying a string trimmer to edge the walk and driveway, I had let a few clusters of suckers grow under the monster crape myrtle, after I noticed that they were developing buds. Today they are in full flower, and when I stopped to take photos this morning, I realized they are significantly lighter in color than the tree they spawned from. They're cute, these tiny, pink blossoms. I wonder whether they would survive long as cut flowers.

Make It Work

Inspirational song: Can't Get There From Here (REM)

Nothing came easy today, with the exception of a hat trick of wins in mah jongg this morning. Everything else required digging deep to find my inner grownup. And she was well and truly hidden for as much of the day as possible. By the time I needed to get ready for water aerobics, I was curled up in a ball of anxiety, trying to reason away a nervous stomach. It wasn't until I had forced myself to put on my swimsuit that I was sure I was going to go to the pool. But once on the road, I was very glad I pushed through the reluctance. I ran into someone I needed to talk to when I got there, and I felt so much better about myself for getting a good workout. It would be so easy to give up. But I can't do that to myself. This is so important.

I decided to explore a little on the way home. I thought I knew a road that cut through to an expressway, so I gave it a try. For the first block or two, it was great. I passed one of those hundred year old coastal houses that I could only dream about. I don't think I would be able to set foot in that place, even if I bought a ticket to a tour of homes. It was so far out of my league I could barely focus on it. Two blocks later, I realized I was driving under the expressway I wanted, and the neighborhood changed dramatically. It became very rural, and far less prosperous. And as I turned through it, I realized there was no way out of it. It was impossible to miss the metaphor. After a mile or two of driving, very happy that I had the navigation system to warn me when I was stuck on the dead end roads, I found a connector road that eventually led someplace I recognized.

Before I made it home, I remembered that I was completely out of money, while for days I carried around three checks that I have been unable to deposit. After my bank telling me my account had been compromised, and sending me a new debit card, I have discovered that since I got the new card, I can no longer deposit to my out of state credit union at the local ATMs that I had used for years. I have no idea what the problem is, so I had to drive around looking for a new credit union to use. I was hesitant to use the one I found, since it was the old envelope-using style. I trust that much less than the ones that scan the checks. I hope my money actually makes it into my account.

While I was finding the new credit union, I drove dangerously close to Cane's, the most addictive fried chicken I have ever sampled. There I was, tired from aerobics, defenses low from a frustrating drive to find and ATM, and that sweet siren calling me. But I resisted. I am trying to be healthy, and I found the strength to work out, when I really didn't want to. If I'm on my way to health, I can't stop at a fast food chain (even one so delicious). I can't get there from here.

I only took one photograph today, a study in black and white. It doesn't match my story, but it was pretty enough to share anyway.

My Special Day

Inspirational song: Till Then (The Mills Brothers)

There had been a heat wave for well over a week, and the day of our outdoor wedding was approaching quickly. We wondered whether my man's elderly grandmother would be able to withstand the sun and temperatures in the upper 90s, even up at altitude, in the quaint mining town where the wedding was to be held. His grandmother decided not to attend, probably at the urging of his mother. I was one of those horrible brides who thought full-length dresses, made of unbreathable peach-colored polyester satin, would be a great idea in the summer sun. What's worse, we were the kind of nerds who were into the medieval-themed live action role playing world (ah, my shameful geeky youth), so the clothing for both the bridesmaids and groomsmen were period pieces. They were designed by me, and assembled by me and my friends, but done as cheaply as our meager incomes would allow. It's hard for me to look back at our wedding photos, and believe that any of those people still speak to us after that. The costume construction was a bigger project than any of us were prepared for, and we were all up late the night before, trying to complete them. Even so, some of the groomsmen were stitched into their clothes by hand the next morning. And for all that, I still didn't learn my lesson about waiting until the last minute to prepare for an event for many, many years. I'm not sure I have mastered it yet.

The heat wave broke somewhere in the last 24 hours before the wedding, after the rehearsal. It didn't help my stress level a single bit, because then I had to worry about rain on my outdoor event. I must have been such a trial to be around, between the weather, the planning in general, the sewing, and the fact that my man met my father for the first time in person At The Rehearsal! I don't think I was what they now call a "bridezilla," because I wasn't so much demanding to be revered, but rather freaking out because I thought I had to do everything myself. I wish someone had taken me in hand back then, someone who had any experience at all with weddings, because I had none. I knew nothing about registries or budgeting or dancing or anything that goes into putting on this kind of production. I think when my own daughters get married, I am going to spring for a wedding planner, so they don't have to go through the gut-churning stress-fest that I did.

Whether we were totally prepped or not, the time came for the ceremony. While I dressed and downed a few bottles of champagne with the girls, my man raced up the mountain on the back of our friend's motorcycle, damned near late to the wedding. As I said above, the groomsmen were sewn into their clothes, and there was a scramble to find music, because I missed that detail in my planning. Apparently someone grabbed the tape player from my bedroom, and as I walked down the aisle with my father and stepfather on either side of me, I realized that the music playing was the Kitaro instrumental music that we listened to the last time my man and I had, er, been romantic. The ceremony went well, although that "we tease each other like school children" side came out when the pastor told him to kiss me, and he said, "nah," and let me get a horrified look on my face, before he grabbed me in a big hug and kissed me soundly. The reception was well-done, the food so good my mother still talks about it. (We went back to the same inn last year for dinner with the kids, and it is still one of the best places in the state to eat. Primo.) My girlfriends told me that because I declined to wear my glasses during the ceremony, I was too nearsighted to realize I'd married the motorcycle-driving friend by mistake. (He also had light brown hair and a beard at the time.) As we are getting so close to a quarter century together, I say no, I am certain I married the right one.

Happy anniversary, Mr Man. I miss you, and I can't wait until you get to come back home.

This Old Man

Inspirational song: House at Pooh Corner (Loggins and Messina)

For several days now, I have been trying to live very simply. I mean that on an extremely micro scale. I haven't wanted to drive anywhere, to avoid wasting gas. I haven't wanted to go to stores, where I might spend money out of boredom. I didn't want to go to a restaurant, when I had packs of raw beef and chicken at home that could spoil if I ignored them. Simple, quiet, and cheap. I think it's a psychological holdover from the days when the girls were babies, and we were desperately broke. If I have a few days in a row when I feel like I've spent indiscriminately (such as seeing two movies and going out to eat with my friends twice in under a week), I pull back suddenly, and start behaving like the money will suddenly dry up and I'll lose everything. I'm not sure I will ever get to a place where I feel totally at ease or trust that we are financially secure. Is that what leads certain individuals far more well-off than we to hoard money the way some people hoard junk or animals? Egad, is that why I have so many pets?

By living so close to home, it leads to very little fresh material about which to write. I spent much of the day wondering what tonight's essay would cover. I watched the adult cats playing, and noticed the assimilation of the kitten is complete. They have all stopped brooding and acting bent out of shape over her appearance, so I thought perhaps it was time to tell another one of their stories. The old man has been demanding a lot of attention lately, and every time I talk to him with broad gestures, to compensate for his deafness, or pick him up and feel his thin brittleness, I fear that our time together is coming to a close. I should tell his story while he's still here to correct any discrepancies.

Eighteen years ago, we left Colorado on our first cross-country move as a family, to unfamiliar territory in North Carolina. We were as naive as we could be, for all that we imagined ourselves worldly even then. We had our original pride of three cats, one that came into my life before I'd even met my man. Within a few years we had lost one cat to a stray dog attack, picked up a trio of dogs of our own, rescued a cat who had been trapped under a vacant house for weeks, and even saved a fledgling blue jay who lived in our house for a couple weeks until he was old enough to fly away. As far as I was concerned, we had a very full house. One summer night, fifteen years ago, I had a vivid dream about a speckled angel fish who lay motionless on the bottom of a tank, until I jostled it, and it woke and became a cat who rose to the surface of the water. I thought it was so odd that I would remember the dream so clearly the next day, and I told it to my family. We joked about it being a premonition. It wasn't a week later that one of my family members looked out our back door, and saw our female hound licking a tiny white kitten who had walked into our back yard. We all went out onto the deck, to see what she had found. It turned out he wasn't solid white, but had the beginnings of gray points, like a little Siamese. The girls and their father were very excited by this surprise gift, while I resisted, insisting we had all the animals we could support, what with the recent rescue of the starved cat a few weeks earlier. While we argued, we didn't notice that a storm was rolling in. Suddenly, lightning struck a house on the street that ran behind our yard. At that moment, everyone went inside, family or not. And as the tradition is, once inside, adoption is assured.

That winter, we had moved into the first house we ever purchased. My man's frequent business trips helped pay for it, and we were alone often back then. During one such trip, I was laid out with a badly pulled muscle in my back. The half-grown kitten was climbing on things that were dumped in the converted garage that we used as an overflow room. He tipped over an eight foot tall wooden ladder onto himself, giving himself a head injury that he was lucky to survive. I had to ask a neighbor to take him to get checked out, since I was in no shape to drive. He seemed well enough, but not long after I found him in the middle of a grand mal seizure, in the middle of the night. It was one of the most terrifying things a pet parent can witness. The vet gave me a grim prognosis if the seizures continued, especially if they became more frequent, which they did. For years, they were frequent and frightening. When he was four years old, two moves later, for a brief while, he was our only pet. I was sure the seizures were bad enough that he would be the next to go. But we are just not the kind of people who can share the attention of one single cat, and two weeks after my cat from college died (my first cat to live to 15), we adopted two littermates from the local shelter, followed almost immediately by another rescue by the man. I don't know what it was about raising three kittens at once, with all the wild energy in the house, but something seemed to right in his brain, and the seizures tapered off to nothing. I am not sure he has had a single one in the last seven or eight years. And now, the kitten I didn't expect to survive to his first birthday, has now celebrated fifteen of them. He has charmed scores of our friends, the most gregarious feline I have ever known. I don't know how much longer he will be with me, but I know all of my friends and family will truly mourn when he finally does leave us. 

Sketch and Sniff

Inspirational song: Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)

A cold front arrived last night, ushering in yet another round of storms. While I was glad to be rid of the headache that preceded the front, I was less thrilled at the smell of dirty gym socks that came in with the rain. Whatever happened to the idea that the world smelled good after a "cleansing rain." When do we get one of those? It's a trade off, living in such a pretty place. In person, it doesn't smell as good as it looks. I've heard some people blame the paper mill, and some blame the pluff mud. But honestly, I can't say for certain the odor that offended me each time I let the dogs out today was from any farther away than the swamp that is swallowing all the trees and bushes along my fence. I never left the house today to find out. 

I spent a little time cleaning house, clearing out a few lingering food smells, and putting in a new heated oil cartridge that is supposed to smell like "Tuscan herbs." The jury is still out whether it's an improvement over yesterday's stew or the funk that rolled in with the rain. 

The paints came out again today. I am keeping this one to myself until I decide it is finished. No work-in-progress photos. I have to go through a few stages yet, where I absolutely love it, and where I am embarrassed that it came from me. And then at the end, hopefully I will be at peace with it and be able to share it. As a substitute, I will offer a peek at the face who kept stealing my seat every time I stood up to walk around and take a break from painting. She's cute, but she really is a little stinker.

Cut It Off

Inspirational song: Is There Anybody Out There?  (Pink Floyd)

About three weeks before my younger daughter started kindergarten, she was pestering me to trim her hair, particularly her bangs, which were getting in her eyes. I don't remember why I put her off, but I told her I'd get to it later. I was in my bedroom when she walked up, and said, "I got tired of waiting for you to trim my bangs, so I cut them off." And she had, all the way to the hairline. I remember clearly crying out as I sank to my knees, knowing there was no time to grow them out before picture day. An overreaction, perhaps. Now that I'm older, I can recognize that it was just hair, and it makes a better story having that goofy first school picture to show off. And I eventually got used to her hair misadventures. This might have been the first time (but I don't think it was), and it was certainly not the last. I'm not even sure it was the choppiest self-haircut to date. 

The same daughter has had several eyebrow fails as well. (For the record, I'm not telling tales out of school. She has admitted to all of this on her own blog recently.) She has yet to figure out the proper shape her brows should be, nor does she understand the correct way to alter their color. When she was a freshman in high school, she was so frustrated with not knowing how to tweeze, that she took to shaving the shape she wanted. Her sister and I tried repeatedly to impress upon her how bad it looked, to no avail. This has been a point of contention for six or seven years now. And last week, rather than using a pencil to fill and alter the color of her brows, she used hair dye to match colors, and bleached a white spot into them. It was the bangs all over again. She shaved them off. Let me stress that word: Off. Unless you are Bob Geldof, referencing Syd Barrett, a razor should never touch your eyebrows. Even when I was in college and a very interesting trumpet-player friend dressed as the lead character from The Wall for Halloween, he used latex stage makeup to cover his eyebrows rather than shave them.

Why am I talking about my girl's hair catastrophes? I finally went back out and hacked at the grass in the back yard again. This is the third attempt, after all the rain, and the first since I came so close to heat stroke a few days ago. The longer it takes, the worse it is looking. Because I have to do so much mowing with the front wheels slightly elevated, and trying to focus on the longest sections, not where I mowed dog paths a week ago, the whole thing looks, in a word, horrible. It is shaggy and choppy and lumpy and every other word I can think of that suggests that it flat out sucks. It is possible that it is far worse than anything my girl has done in two decades of hair disasters. I really didn't want to show photos of it. But if she was brazen enough to smile proudly in that kindergarten picture, then I can be bold and show exactly what I have wrought in the Park. Unfortunately, I didn't think ahead when I tipped the mower over so far to take a picture after it jammed, and it flooded the engine with fuel, and refused to start again. So I gave up for the night, and I'm letting it settle in the shed. I will finish the last 400 square feet tomorrow, I suppose. Here's to looking like the goofiest kid in class.