Flash Flood Warning

Inspirational song: When the Levee Breaks (Led Zeppelin)

Oh, for crying out loud.

Yesterday, I postponed hacking away at the long grass, because my neighbor's son volunteered to run his riding mower over it. Today, over my end of the county, someone left a tap on in the sky, and it came down at about the same rate as that water main that broke over by UCLA this week. I can't remember the last time this much rain came down this fast here. They said over five inches of rain fell today, in our part of town. I have a sinking feeling that my entire back yard will be an unmowable swamp again, not just the bottom section by the weeping willow, before I can get any help from next door. I don't know whether it was rain or some other crisis that had the major arterial road closed for a couple blocks as I tried to make it across town. At least there weren't as many flooded roads up where I live as there were downtown. They said the city ranks on the top ten list for frequent "nuisance flooding." I think I'm glad we didn't end up living down on the coast.

This week is a big test for how well the big drainage canal behind our Colorado condos has been repaired. In September, when the biblical flood came, our complex suffered so badly (the highest number of units lost in town) because there was a giant grate over the culvert where it runs into the main street next to the development. Debris piled up on that grate, and the force of the water was so extreme that it dented the steel bars. Water backed up quickly, flooding all the ground level units in the lower buildings to the ceiling. The second building was skipped somehow, but the water came up through the drains in our building several inches (almost a foot in one unit). We have been promised that the culvert problem has been fixed. There was supposed to be record setting rain for this time in July coming down this week. I have to keep breathing deeply and trying to trust that all will be well.

Today was a day for literal flooding, and a metaphorical flood of disasters. Sure, they were little things, but when it comes one on top of another, it's really hard not to just give up and go to bed early. I tried so hard to be good. I cleaned my bedroom, stripped the bed for fresh sheets, and vacuumed up the spare dog that the little red-headed dog is trying to sprout from discarded fur on the floor next to my bed.There's a reason one does not vacuum blindly into a piled up duvet in the corner. So much for that cool "statement necklace" that my mother gave me twenty years ago, that I knocked to the floor when I threw the blanket. It made quite a racket as it died. I gave up, and came downstairs to throw the sheets and mattress cover in the washer. As it turns out, if you aren't careful about tucking all your dirty laundry inside a front-load washer, and a little corner gets shut into the seal of the door, you are going to learn just how many swear words you can say in one quick burst as you run from the couch to the laundry room. For once, I was glad I failed to take the last load of towels upstairs to the linen closet. I had a big stack to choose from to soak up a couple gallons of water that dribbled out. In all my cleaning, I intentionally left the door to Cricketstan open, so she could have one of her rare visitation trips to the rest of the house. As soon as I sat down after the laundry crisis, I realized she had vandalized the same spot on the wood floor that landed her her own independent nation in the first place. (I did not take a picture of that before I cleaned it up. You're welcome.)

I've had worse days. Much worse. But I think I'm about ready to call this one and get ready to start it all over tomorrow. Surely there won't be so many little nuisances in a row.

If You Build It

Inspirational song: Hippy Hippy Shake (The Swinging Blue Jeans)

I needed to travel on the interstate yesterday, and I found myself intentionally riding in the slow lane, trailing a semi with a shipping container on it. Traffic zipped by on the left of me, including a different shaped container truck, so I could compare, but I stayed there, barely topping sixty miles an hour, for about ten miles. I couldn't take my eyes off the container. I tried to decide how big it was, and I settled on around eight feet wide, ten feet tall, and twenty feet long. I'd like to say it was wider than that, but I just don't know. When I finally had to pass it, it didn't seem to be more than two carlengths (and I drive a petite car). I tried to imagine myself standing in it, with kitchen cabinets along one wall, or a dining room set. It was tough. The man and I both really want to build a shipping container house, but it's going to be a challenge to me to fit inside one, even if it's made from multiple containers. The idea is to arrange three of them in a U shape, and open them up to a central courtyard in the middle of the U. But those containers have to house a master suite, one or two guest rooms, a kitchen and a living area. Eight feet wide rooms are really snug, even if they have very large openings to the courtyard. Containers come in wider sizes, but how hard are they to get compared to the smaller ones? Maybe the more relevant question is, how do I convince the guy spending the money that the smaller versions are just not going to hack it? His nephew and his wife are currently building a tiny house, and while I think the tiny house movement is really cool, and I'd love to visit one, I do not think I would survive in one myself. For one, I don't think the nephew has any animals to get cabin fever cooped up in there with him and his wife, and two, they're very young and apparently are immune to the pack rat gene that some other members of that family had (including my man). I'm expecting to be compared to the young couple and their tiny house many, many times when work finally begins on our forever house. I suppose my answer will just be to turn and start counting noses of the little furry faces staring back at me.

I didn't mean to get the bug to move. I really didn't. I still want to spend more time here at the Park. Years more time, if I am to be honest. But that's part of the problem with having a gypsy heart. You just can't stay in one place very long. I think the longest I ever lived in one house in my entire life was seven years. The average has got to be less than three. Much like a philandering spouse lives for the conquest of new hearts, I live to decorate and arrange new houses. I don't care how sore I get painting walls, nor does it bother me that almost every piece of casual clothing I own has a paint smear on it somewhere, I love to do it. I practically shake with longing every single time I push my cart past the home goods section of Target. I get explosively happy when I actually cave in and buy a new set of sheets or a new pillow. And in the last fifteen years or so, my construction skills have improved exponentially. I want to learn how to do the wiring and the plumbing myself, to add to my framing, flooring, and drywall experience. There's just one fear I can't shake: what if we build the Forever House, and get tired of it four or five years later and want to move again?

I'm about ready to declare, after one and a half growing seasons, that I am a failure at Park maintenance. Wherever this container house ends up, I hope it's someplace where I don't have to mow very much. This large green space is too much for me. It is worse than last year, the big patch of grass that I let get so long it was impossible to mow all at once. I've had to call for help. My neighbor's son told me today he would come by with the riding mower this weekend. I'll wave a big white flag of surrender and start thinking of ways to express gratitude. (I'd offer to bake cookies or something appropriately neighborly, but he didn't seem all that enthused about my gluten free kitchen.) Since I didn't end up mowing today, I did try to go out with a big set of pruners and hack at the suckers on the crape myrtles and trim back the boxwoods. Just that little amount of work stressed out my arm muscles enough that for the rest of the evening, my forearms and hands shook wildly whenever I tried to raise anything, like a glass of icewater. I really am more suited to inside work. Bring on the shipping containers, and find me a couple wooded acres in the foothills. Let's do this thing.

A word on pictures. I tried to see whether I could take an interesting shot of my disco cat. Paying attention to the cat statue was not to be allowed. A certain white cat got very jealous, very quickly. I should have taken video of it, knowing how popular that Vine was last week, of a kitten attacking a cat statue. Live and learn.

Just Fooling Around

Inspirational song: Poor Little Fool (Rick Nelson)

I'm trying. I really am. But I just can't be serious tonight. About the deepest I can possibly go is admitting I heard Rick Nelson playing on the radio today, and noticed how mature his voice sounded in Garden Party (he always sounded older than he was), and after I wondered how old he was when he died, thinking perhaps he was younger than I am now when his plane crashed, I couldn't help but wonder how many of my rock heroes (or for that matter, big names from history) I outlived. I do get a little freaked out to remember that John Lennon died when he was right around 40, and I have now lived longer than he did. I have less than ten years before I have will have outlived Frank Zappa, Warren Zevon, and Robert Palmer. Hell, I already outlived Falco. It's making me feel like the clock is ticking on making something of myself artistically. I'll really get a complex if I factor in the 27 Club (Joplin, Hendrix, Cobain, Winehouse, Morrison, etc).

I am starting to feel less like an impostor when I tell people that I'm a writer now. The first time I said it, I thought I'd be challenged, like I had to produce some sort of credentials to make it through the barbed-wire checkpoint. Now, it's not like that at all. This is what I do, and I own it. I even had a coherent answer to explain the long-format writing projects I'm juggling right now. For once, I didn't feel like an idiot playing dress-up as a writer. It feels good. It feels comfortable.

I haven't been a very enthusiastic photographer, these last few weeks. I am lucky when I remember to take pictures of anything. All I can come up with from the last day or two is Athena sleeping with her tongue out, and Dr Love giving me a high five. I've been cooped up inside for too long. I need to break out and go sightseeing or something. Anyone want to go outside and play with me?

Taking a Bigger Bite

Inspirational song: To Beat the Devil (Kris Kristofferson)

I was a little pushy over the last 24 hours with my determination to share, but I had something important to say, and it really needed to get out. I needed to vent. I've had several blogs lately that meant a lot to me, and I found myself watching closely to see how well they were received. Slowly, the numbers have crept up, but it was frustrating when I finally had multiple works that I was ready to turn loose on the internet, and here I am still just a D-list act. I feel like after almost a year and a half, I've honed my skills and now it's time to take the bigger stage. I've said it to close friends, and I will make a blanket statement for all my readers: If you want to share what I've written, that's fine, as long as you are including the links to the source work. I post a link on Facebook to share daily, but you can copy and paste a URL on Twitter or any other platform where I might be appropriate. If you never read anything that you want to spread, I won't be disappointed with you. But I'm not hiding away, whispering in a corner anymore. Shyness be damned.

It's been an interesting few days for predators around the Park. Since my giant spiders took over the deck and front porch, I've been spending almost zero time outside. I conceded the deck to Carlotta and her little cousin who now own about 30% of the deck, including the entire patio table set. I had to go water my herb garden and failed vegetable garden for the first time in weeks (we've had a lot of rain), and I was absolutely terrified of getting too close to the twitchy girls. While I watched, both of them trapped and killed large flying insects, a dragonfly and something that was about three times as big as the biggest horsefly I've ever seen. I still worry about the dogs running through a web and angering one of the spiders. They say that golden orb weaver bites are not poisonous, but they are extremely painful. To that end, I ordered a concentrated cedar oil repellent/killer. I plan on chasing them away rather than killing them, but I don't know how well it's going to work. I'll give a product review in a week or so, once I give it a chance.

I've been torn on what to do to chase away the horrid little rodents that stole all my tomatoes and peppers. Last year I read someone who suggested mixing some concrete mix with something they would eat, like sugar, and leaving it out for them to harden their little intestines. It would be safer than poison, since my neighbor's dog nearly died last year from eating a poisoned rat. But after talking to that same neighbor, I decided I might have accidentally solved the rat problem already, as a consequence of my procrastination and cowardice over the spiders. I have a huge patch of grass that has not been mowed in a while, and it's wild and wooly. I have been told that the lady on the other side of me saw a snake as long as her car in her driveway last night. I might have harbored a predator, and didn't know it. If the rodents don't come back for a while, I will assume that there is a fat, happy snake to thank for it. But I still have to mow. Sorry, snake.

No, It's Not Okay

Inspirational song: Mama Said Knock You Out (LL Cool J)

I was doing a little housecleaning today. It was a Sunday, around one in the afternoon, and I sighed in the direction of my television (which was off), as my thoughts turned to football. I've always been a hardcore fan of the game. I was wishing the next month or so would pass quickly, so the season would hurry up and arrive. Not thirty minutes later, after pausing to peruse the internet, and play a video commentary, my warm fuzzy feeling about football diminished to a sour stomach and frustration aimed at the NFL and at society as a whole. The news broke this weekend of a security video showing a very famous football player dragging his unconscious fiancee out of an elevator, unceremoniously dumping her limp body on the floor, and acting entirely unconcerned over her well-being for several minutes, even when another man approaches the scene. The story as it is being reported is that he punched her, knocking her out, during a "domestic dispute." From here, the story branches off into so many layers that enrage me, I don't know where to start to catalog them. First off, I am not seeing that he is facing criminal charges of any kind for beating his wife. If they had been a less affluent couple, both of them would be trapped in the criminal justice system, at the very least until fines had been paid, classes attended, and lawyers paid. (Yes, in some states she could be facing a nightmare too, if there was an indication that she participated in a fight.) The second part that offends me is that after he did this, this woman went forward and married him. And then finally, when faced with this incident, the NFL commissioner suspended this player for a mere two football games, less than the punishment for one player stomping on another player's helmet during a game, and much less than a notorious quarterback received for dogfighting.

I cannot fathom how we have allowed domestic violence to continue to be ingrained into our culture. For hundreds, thousands of years, it was codified into law, that violence against women, especially wives, was allowed. Encouraged even. But in our more enlightened time, with laws designed specifically to protect women, a culture of permissiveness toward domestic violence remains. It's ignored in high schools and colleges, and victims are doubted, sometimes nationally mocked and persecuted online. It's an underlying message in our music, in our movies, and in our books. It's in advertising. All of these things reflect our attitudes, and as long as it's glorified thusly, at some level, we are still condoning it. This is not to say we aren't improving. Ad campaigns from the 50s or 60s, suggesting it was okay to spank your wife over bad coffee or shopping choices, shock our senses now. But there is still a frighteningly long way to go in advertising, which continues to objectify and demean women. I've been a longtime reader of historical romance novels, and when I think back to the content of those books from when I was a teenager, I am appalled. They really were "bodice rippers," with horrible scenes of brutality and date rape, as if a woman only needed to be coerced into sex to fall in love with a "cad" she dislikes. Thankfully, the last twenty years or so of these novels has seen a dramatic change in content, with storylines that depend on mutual affection more than Stockholm syndrome. For the record, don't confuse the romance genre with that awful 50 Shades nonsense, that apparently had less to do with consensual BDSM behavior, and everything to do with stalking, abuse, and disrespect. (And no, I have no intention of reading that shit.)

I wanted my children to be forever clear of abusive relationships, and I started trying to shape their attitudes as soon as I could get through to them. They were tweens when I started telling them that I didn't care who they brought home as romantic partners (male, female, any race, any nationality, any political party), as long as they treated them well. And that clause read backwards as well as forwards: my daughters were not to accept partners who disrespected or abused them, and I would not tolerate them disrespecting or abusing their own partners. It's my only rule. Without this, I cannot give my support to the relationship. I wasn't shy about saying these things to their friends, either. More than once I heard teenage girls justifying the abstract notion of hitting boys, for some reason or another, based on the history of men beating women over the course of recorded history. I immediately butted into the conversations to contradict this line of thinking, insisting that no one deserves abuse, and that domestic violence was never appropriate, no matter who was hitting whom. I don't know whether I got through to anyone. If just one of those kids who heard me took my words to heart, it's a start. It's never okay. For anyone.

Cut Loose

Inspirational song: Perfect Skin (Lloyd Cole and the Commotions)

I've had enough of being deep this week. It was time for a night to cut loose. We had a fantastic dinner and bonfire and a whole lot of stress removal. I really don't want to think very hard now. I am going to finish the last of my wine that I didn't have to share with anyone. I'm going to swim. I'm going to swear like a sailor. And I'm going to enjoy the crap out of the rest of my night. Love you all madly, but mama needs a night off. We'll see how I feel tomorrow after the hangover wears off.

Long Term Memory

Inspirational song : Go Your Own Way (Fleetwood Mac)

I fed one of my addictions this week, when I went to the store for screws and paint. I have so little self control when bedding plants are in my line of vision, and I couldn't have kept myself from entering and exiting the store through the garden center if I had tried. I didn't try. The best I could do to keep a handle on my weakness was to focus on clearance plants. Foot tall plumbago plants in quart pots marked down to a dollar each? I'll take two. Twenty five percent off of little creeping Jenny plants? Two of those too. Half off of a large nandina? Oh, I'm starting to fill up, but maybe just one...

It took me until this afternoon to put the new plants into pots, mostly because I was so reluctant to step out on the deck to retrieve the last little bit of potting soil. There are now two of the large banana spiders blocking my path to the trash cans. Carlotta moved her web and tripled her living space, and apparently invited her little cousin to come set up shop in the apartment above her. I finally screwed up my courage and retrieved the bag of soil, and brought it in to fill up the spaces in the pots. I made another fantastic mess on the kitchen floor, but this time it was merely incidental to moving root balls around. The girls were visibly disappointed. They immediately recognized the offending bag of soil from a few weeks ago, and looked all around it, hoping for another palmetto bug to come out and scare the crap out of mommy. It amazes me how long cats' memories are. They knew exactly what had happened last time that particular green bag was inside, and they were ready to play. In my many years of being a crazy cat lady (and the mother of girls who moved off to college), I've had reason to separate off groups of cats, only to reunite them at later dates. When my older daughter went off to do field work one summer, she brought her two cats back to live with us for six weeks. We were stunned and moved when we watched the reunion between the sister cats (this is Cricket's sister), and the look on the gray cat's face when she saw Torden for the first time in years nearly made us cry. Even though we sent her up to college with a young tortie who loves her madly, the old girl always looked at me like she thought the rest of the Pride and I had abandoned her. It hurts my heart that she thinks that.

Being a nomad, I often have trouble remembering where I am. I couldn't begin to count how many times I've woken, and before my eyes are open, I really have to work to think which room I'm in, and how is it arranged. Sometimes when I do open my eyes and look, I'm surprised to see where the windows are, and what shape they are, or what color the walls are. The details of my houses are still imprinted on me deeply. If you don't think your surroundings matter so much, try taking a mirror down off a wall for a week. Just that one detail will mess with your whole sense of spatial awareness. For me, that is the part of moving that hurts the most. I know where things go, what color they are supposed to be, how each room sounds and smells, and when one piece of that puzzle changes, I feel a keen sense of loss as if we are already packing up the rental truck and leaving a phase of our lives behind. I struggled with that feeling when I sent the painting back for the career retrospective at the state capitol this summer, and I moved around two of my stepdad's paintings to fill the void.

Tonight I was driving, ruminating on the girl cats' reactions to the potting soil, and what an obvious indicator of their memories it was, when a song came on the radio. Two or three strums of a guitar, and I was in fifth grade again, sitting in the back of our language arts class, where we were allowed to go once all of our classwork was done. The teacher had recorded a handful of songs, and once our assignments were complete, we went back to the table with the tape player, and we could sit with headphones on, listening to music, while the rest of the class finished up. There are incredibly important moments of my life, things I really should remember, that I couldn't recall under threat of death. But three seconds into a Fleetwood Mac song, and I can remember sitting across from the boy I had the biggest crush on, talking excitedly with him about how my mother was taking me to see the upcoming Shaun Cassidy concert. Maybe if calculus class had had a soundtrack, more of that would have imprinted in my brain. Anything would have helped.

Almost Normal

Inspirational song: When I Come Home (BR5-49)

It looks like I can finally see the end of my holding pattern. I'm still circling, and will be for a while, but for the first time in a long time, it sounds like the air traffic controllers remember that I'm up here, in limbo. It's not time to panic clean the house or restock the pantry yet. I did, however, make concrete plans for "after" for the first time in over a year. I got an email for a ticket presale for a Mannheim Steamroller Christmas concert yesterday. Personally, I've never been a big fan. The man, on the other hand, has liked them since before we ever met. In a gesture of compromise, and an investment of a healthy dose of faith that he will be home by the time the show comes around, I bought tickets last night. Good ones, even, sixteen rows back, in the orchestra section. This is the first time I've been willing to commit to anything on a timetable that involves my man in a very long time. One way or another, I will be going to see this show, and I am placing a large bet that I will have my favorite date accompanying me.

Two more boxes of rugs arrived today. They are the first of a large wave of boxes headed my way. I think the fantasy of running a rug selling business is getting ridiculously closer to a reality. I still don't know where we would set up shop, or even whether it would be a brick and mortar shop or a less tangible setup. You will not find me in a crappy parking lot on the side of the road, with rugs on flimsy racks, selling out of a van. No blankets with eagles or Hello Kitty on them either. These beauties are the real deal, handmade and totally unique. The ones that arrived today were undyed wool, knotted in intricate geometrics, using just the natural variations in the colors of the wool, and a gorgeous green silk. The man is getting smart, too. He sent the silk one home in a nylon bag, so the cats don't get to investigate it like they did (and are continuing to do to) the wool one. Looks like tomorrow morning will involve a quick trip to Target for more plastic tubs to keep curious noses and loving little claws away from them.

Most places I've lived, July is the hottest month. We are nearly through it, and then there are just a few weeks of August where the heat is still at peak. My mind isn't here, in this hottest part of summer. My head is already looking at the cooler weather of autumn, when the spiders retreat, the grass grows less quickly, and my empty nest will be filled again. I can see the end, finally, and for once it doesn't seem very far away.

The Butterfly Man

Inspirational song: Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters (Elton John)

I've been thinking about a different sort of bug today. It's one that is nearly universally liked, and rarely actually thought of as a "bug." My mother sent me pictures of a pretty butterfly my stepfather found near their front porch, and it was quite lovely. It had a neat water color sort of look to it. I've had good intentions of planting milkweed in the Park, since I learned that the monarch butterflies desperately need it around to keep their numbers up. I never learned where to buy it. So many places where butterflies lived for endless generations before have been lost to development and herbicides. I'm always surprised any time I see a butterfly at all anymore, and that makes me so upset. I've tried planting flowers that are supposed to attract them, like buddlea, but I never seem to have a green thumb where they're concerned. I have yet to grow one more than about half a season. In New Mexico, it was too hot and dry where I planted them. Here, it seems far too swampy for everything I put in. Someday I'll find my ideal baby bear sort of climate. And I'll cover it in buddlea and milkweed for the butterflies, vitex for the bees, and maybe something to attract hummingbirds, once I learn what interests them. (Red flowers, maybe someone said?)

I saw, as I scrolled through my Facebook, that today would have been the birthday of one of my mother's cousins. His mom was the one of my grandmother's siblings I knew best, but I struggled to remember him clearly now. I think he fluttered through my life when I was so young and self-absorbed, sheltered from any drama that didn't affect me personally, that I failed to have lasting adult memories of him. From what I can piece together, he was a gentle soul, but so unhappy with the circumstances of his life. While he inspired unconditional love from his friends and his family, he ultimately was unable to cope with the forces that shaped his world, from the loss of a father too soon, to depression that proved too much for him to handle. He took his own life at a friend's house one night when I was in high school. My great-aunt tried to get him help, but it must not have come in time. I hope she didn't beat herself up too much over wondering whether she could have done things differently, but knowing human nature, I'm afraid she did. His life and tragic end are part of the reason that my family takes depression seriously. There is no shame in asking for help, and you absolutely must embrace the things that bring you peace, whatever they are. I believe that wholeheartedly.

I remember the night he died very clearly, even though my memories of him as a living man have faded in the last few decades. There is a very dangerous intersection in my home town, a four (or is it five?) way stop, with train tracks running through it, where a stoplight should have been in place since the 1950s, but probably never will be installed. The locals call it "Crazy Corner." I was in my car there as a train rolled past. It must have been a warm night, as the windows were rolled down. The train whistle blew, and I had a horrible chill run down my spine, partly because of the heinously loud noise right next to my ear. I said to my girlfriend who was with me, "Someone just died." I don't know why I was so sure, but I was absolutely certain. I guess it was the next morning that my mother broke the news to me about her cousin's suicide. I was not pleased to have my odd feeling come true.

One thing that he did very well, our cousin with a hippie soul, was create art with butterflies. He made little dioramas in bell jars, with natural elements and the most beautiful butterfly specimens around. I have two of them, blue butterflies of different varieties, but nearly the same color. I think my daughter has one as well, from when my great aunt passed away, and we helped clean out her room at the assisted living facility. Hers might be a large green one, if I remember correctly. I don't remember anymore whether he sold the butterflies as art, or whether he just made them because they were his passion. I've tried so much to protect the ones I have, through my many moves. They are such precious family heirlooms.

If you are suffering with depression, and have not yet sought help, please do so. To any of my friends who need an extra ear to bend, even if you already have a counselor and a medication boost, I am always here for you. Write me. Call me. Stop in. I can make time.

For Love and Money

Inspirational song: Milkshake (Kelis)

A friend of mine has also been watching the spiders in her yard, and told me that one of hers had a whole lot of males in the web, not just one like my Mr and Mrs Carlotta. Well, it was unlike my formerly monogamous Carlottas. Apparently in the web, it is 1976, and the key party is in full swing. A couple wild and crazy guys showed up this evening, and as of now, there is no way I would go hang out and watch them without the safety of my living room window between us. Just now, big mama was working on a large dragonfly for dinner, which was mesmerizing enough for me, and one of the W&C guys came shimmying up, wanting her attention. She was having none of it. She chased him off repeatedly. I noticed that he was down a few legs, much like she and the original man in her life. Is this common? Spider legs getting pulled off? Is this a thing? I wondered whether these particular orb weavers were just a little more violent than most. Carlotta is a lot more twitchy now that she is getting ready to be a mother. Can it be autumn already, so I can have my deck back? I'd like to be allowed to sweep it and check on my plants, but I am not going anywhere near the cranky lady.

The topic of generating income keeps coming up in conversations all around me (with just about everyone I know). I keep pondering what my next steps will be. I have a job waiting for me if I ever make it back to Colorado, but I can't say for certain when I will be back in those parts. The man has shipped home enough stunning, handmade rugs from his travels for us to open up a serious retail business, and it is a very real possibility that we could go into business selling them in the not too distant future. But I always come down to wanting to write full time. I have tried in the past to do the things that I love for money, and it has often ended badly. I still carry with me the lessons I learned when I tried to turn my passion for costume designs into my own company (mine and my partner's), with a production facility, massive inventory, and employees. If I hadn't had to move at the end of the second year, we might have turned a profit, but I had to leave just as we were getting off the ground. We poured our blood, sweat, and tears into building it, and by the time we broke up the company, I was so tired, and so overstretched financially and creatively, I burned out completely, and have barely designed costumes since. Every time I make up a new recipe, or turn out a phenomenal dinner, like I did tonight, I think how much fun it might be to start a catering company or a food truck. And then like a ton of bricks, the memories hit me of how much I ended up hating sewing by the end of a few years of trying to sell my work. I don't know how to do anything in moderation. Once I get going on something I think will pay off, I will work fifty, sixty, seventy hours a week, trying to do it all at once, until there is nothing left of my dream but a bitter shell. But so far, writing has not turned into a burned out hull. I won't let it. If I recall correctly, this is post number 461, meaning around 459 days of writing in a row. And I don't hate it yet. I wish for a night off once in a while, but I don't want to stop creating. Maybe there's hope for it yet.

Pay Attention

Inspirational song: Time (Pink Floyd)

Time is running too fast. Time is dragging along too slowly. How difficult it is to live through each moment, giving it its proper respect, without waste, without suffering for it. When life is only a few years old, each day is a miracle, and it lasts forever. Summers are endless. Christmas takes too long to arrive. There's time to do everything you want to do, and each activity imprints so strongly on your long term memories. You remember every piano lesson endured, campfire song sung, archery contest won. A single night of a slumber party is a memory for the ages, for all the children in attendance. The world revolves around a child's eyes.

But an adult's life passes in a blur. The pressure to work, to support, takes your eyes away from the revolving world. You can't wait for the kids to settle down at the slumber party, so you can sleep, because you have things to do the next day. You know you don't have time to take anyone to dance classes, so you never suggest them. Your fertile years pass, and you wonder whether you should have kids at all before it's too late. You pay your dues playing the smoky bars or taking embarrassing roles in low budget films, wondering whether your big break will come while you're still young and beautiful. You think the value of your life is measured in a paycheck.

Kids grow up in a flash, and you wonder whether you paid enough attention to them. Kittens and puppies grow old before your eyes, and you have to say goodbye before you're ready. Faces mature, skin sags, and hair thins. And if you're lucky, before it's all gone, before the time is over, you wake up, and pay attention. You are still beautiful, right now. Your kids are still there, waiting for you to find out what interests them. There's still time to paint. There's still time to invent. People still want to talk to you, and learn what you know. Don't stop. Don't give up. The clock is ticking, but time is not up. Use it.

The Church

Inspirational song: Cover My Eyes (Pain and Heaven) (Marillion)

Have you ever judged how good a day was by how badly you hurt later that night? When I woke this evening, from an absolutely critical three-hour nap, still full from lunch, on fire from the armpits up, I knew today had been a winner. Now I am showered, thankful for microfiber and cotton knit, braless by necessity, exhausted still, and so, so happy. Even after using the oil-infused super conditioner, the only way I could get a brush through my hair was to spray leave-in conditioner everywhere. I'm not sure I own enough aloe vera gel to make my shoulders and neck stop burning. Time is the only cure for the first beach sunburn of the year.

Two years ago, we were spending so many Sunday mornings at the beach, we started referring to it as "church." It was glorious and indulgent and spiritual all at the same time. We always spent a couple of hours intimately in touch with the salt water from whence we all came, and then got the hell off the beach before the mass influx of tourists clogged the roads. Last year, we didn't go nearly as often, but we went a few times. This year, I hadn't made it out a single time until today, and even then, I wasn't sure I would make it. I'm turning into such a vampire, transitioning my waking hours to overnight, so I can communicate in real time with the man, and sleeping late in the mornings. I have been avoiding the sun, for the most part, as well. But I believed my friends when they said today would be epic, and my faith in them was rewarded. It was epic, and more. Strong thunderstorms blew through as I was meeting them this morning, and cloud cover remained for hours after, keeping the temperatures down. The seas were calm, and the water was neither brisk nor uncomfortably warm. It was heaven. We all spend more time in the gentle waves than out of it, which is my preferred method of beach-worship. And we all wore out at right around the same time, ready to walk the few blocks from the beach to our new (as of today) favorite restaurant. I don't know whose idea it was to come to this different spot, but we all agreed the switch was brilliant.

For the drive down, our driver kept the top up on her recently-acquired convertible. I didn't think anything of it. On the way back, after swimming and an incredible meal (the last time we all ate this noisily and happily in public, we were moaning in ecstasy over dinner at Husk), we put the top down. I hadn't ridden in a convertible in years, and did not think to plan ahead. There is a reason all the classic movies show women wearing scarves in open cars. I, on the other hand, was grateful for the spiral bobby pins keeping most of my hair back, and wishing my bangs were already grown out. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open at highway speeds, even with the borrowed aviators that made me look like Hunter S Thompson. We were three-quarters of the way home, when suddenly it got about 20 degrees cooler, and noticeably less sunny. I turned to the cowboy sitting next to me in the back of the car and said, "We're going to get wet, aren't we?" He pointed out the wall of water that I couldn't fully see without prescription lenses, and and assured me we were. At first, we were laughing about it, acting like we were just heading down Splash Mountain together. It stopped being cute about thirty seconds later, when the heavens opened and soaked us. We pulled over an exit too soon, just so we could get the top back up. Not even a deluge could dampen our spirits, though. Today was one of those special days that you hold on to, and pull out years later, whenever you need a lift. It was heaven.

Girl Party

Inspirational song : Misty Mountain Hop (Led Zeppelin)

Wow. I really needed a lazy day. I have been so stressed out trying to keep Cricketstan clean (twice daily with Lysol wipes and a sponge and bucket of Mr Clean), and trying to refocus on a couple of the major projects I dropped months ago, I needed to blow off some steam. Mischief managed. Big thanks to the Bonfire leader for letting me just sit and talk for hours. We talked about the present and we talked about the past. We told secrets and we spoke of regrets. I have been very obsessed with trying to sort through my life, wanting to put it into some semblance of order so it would be interesting to read in long form. Bless her for listening to me tell the hardest memories, and triple bless her for taking my side when I needed her to. This is what good friends are for.

We sat in the hot tub for an hour or two. The only picture that actually took was a blurry mess when her one of her dogs leapt in the hot tub with us. We tried to convince them not to do it, for all the good that did. The little one knew it was where the cool girls were hanging out. She just wanted to be part of the girl party. I know that feeling. I wanted to be part of the girl party too.

The Long and Short of It

Inspirational song: The Bad Touch (Bloodhound Gang)

How is it possible that I have spent perhaps half of the last two or three days fascinated by watching Mr and Mrs Carlotta have sex? I have never been a voyeur, but it is absolutely riveting to me, seeing how often these two go at it (quite a bit, actually) and I find myself anthropomorphizing their body language. For most of the time Carlotta has been occupying her special parking spot right next to my deck door, she seemed very calm. She used to jerk in surprise when I'd open and close the door, but she is used to it now. Unless I slam the door, she knows I'm just letting the dogs run. And she is as calm as can be when I stand a foot away from the outer bands of her web, watching her. Neither does she mind when I press my cell phone against the window, six inches away from her many eyes, to take pictures of her. Mr Carlotta has been just as mellow, just hanging around in the web, waiting for the day he was needed. If he had had a tiny little beer and television, he would have been in heaven. But as of yesterday, it's go time, and he is putting a lot of effort into performing his marital duties. They go at it for several minutes, until she decides she is either satisfied or tired of him (I really can't tell), and she spasms and grabs him with the third set of legs (the short ones), and sets him aside. He marches off an inch north of her in the net, as perky and enthusiastic as he can be while she returns to motionlessness. They seem to be doing this all day long. I can't tell whether they take the nights off. One of my friends asked whether she would eat him when she was done with him, like a black widow spider. I have no idea what his eventual fate will be. I do know that once the babies are ready, it's not going to be a cute, little, sticky, white egg sack like the one Templeton moved with his mouth in Charlotte's Web. It's going to be one or more giant brown balloons like the four I found by the chimney earlier this spring, leftovers from last year's gate guard who scared the pants off of me every time I went to take out the trash. I expect to find them in the cat palm that forms the base of her web. I want to bring that plant inside this winter, but I am NOT bringing in all the baby Carlottas with it.

I refilled my bird and squirrel feeders this week, and the squirrels are acting like this is the only food source in the whole county. One pudgy tree rat keeps eating even after I've opened the door and the little red-headed dog is on his way out. It's not until the dog is at the edge of the deck that he jumps away to the tree. I hate to say it, but one of these days, boy dog is going to catch him. There's not much I can do about it, if he doesn't have the sense to learn the sound of the deadbolt sliding open, like all the other squirrels did, and run away to save his own life.

Since I stopped letting the cats outside, while the Park is too hot and mosquito-laden for me to spend time out there with them, we have experienced quite a resurgence of lizards. They're everywhere. Yesterday I moved my pot of succulents that was drowning and put it under the umbrella. I found the tiniest little guy on it, hanging off of a waterlogged stalk of portulaca. Nose to tail, he was barely over two inches long, and very patient while I waited for my phone camera to focus on him properly. As many spiders, lizards, and birds as I have around here, you would think I would have a reduction in the amount of bugs. Oh, wow, what if the overwhelming swarms of bugs that are out there ARE the reduced numbers? Go ahead, Carlottas. Make more spiders. I need your help with pest control.

Make Me Pretty

Inspirational song: Eat It (Weird Al Yankovic)

I took another trip back to the test kitchen today. I've been successfully inventing unique dishes for my family for many years, and as I kick around the idea of compiling all my best recipes into one tidy location, I have to go back to my old standbys and clean them up a bit. Several of the ones my kids and the man requested most were perfected during my wheat-consuming years. I was also a lot less careful about my ingredients when I both didn't know and couldn't afford better. Now, with no one to please but myself, I'm revisiting my creations and making changes.

Every time we get together with the kids, my younger daughter asks for me to cook the old favorites for her, even when it means me trying to cook in her tiny (messy) condo kitchen. One of the things she requests most is one of the first recipes I invented for my young family. Back when the girls were toddlers, celebrity chefs were thin on the ground. There was Julia Child ("the French Chef"), Graham Kerr ("the Galloping Gourmet"), and only a few others that any of us knew. I spent a lot of time watching Jeff Smith, "the Frugal Gourmet." I suppose that was apropos, since frugality was key back then. I clearly remember watching an episode where he raved about Eastern European flavors, heavy with paprika and allspice. I couldn't tell you what dishes he actually made with them, but I know exactly what I was inspired to create, based on what I could find in the kitchen that day. For twenty years, it has been known in my family by its acronym: "CTM." I didn't know what to call it, so as I handed over the plates that first day, I said it was "chicken, tomato, mozzarella...stuff." It wasn't pretty, but it tasted amazing. I made it once where several of our friends could see me handing it to the man, and our old roommate from college laughed and said it looked like he had thrown up. I've had a complex about it ever since. I have tried and tried, but I cannot make it look pretty. It really looks revolting. And it's one of the best things I've ever created.

I'm sure a few of you are curious, so I will share the recipe. If you find a way to make it beautiful, without actually changing the integrity of the dish, feel free to send me pictures.

CTM

Over medium-low heat, soften diced onion in olive oil that is liberally sprinkled with sesame oil. Add in boneless chicken (cuts of your choice, whole or cut up, I use breasts or tenders), and lightly brown on all sides. With a heavy hand, cover them with paprika and allspice, and stir while the spices warm in the oil. Add herbs (dried or fresh - lots of marjoram, and basil, oregano, rosemary, and/or thyme if you like them) and fresh or powdered garlic. Salt if you want (I invariably do). Add lots of roma tomatoes - I cut them over the pan, so that none of the juice inside is lost on a cutting board. Simmer this until the chicken is cooked through and the tomatoes are very soft. Cut the heat and add slices or hunks of mozzarella cheese (depending on the effect you want), and let it melt. Stirring it through is acceptable, but that's part of what makes it such an ugly dish. Back in the day, I would serve this over a pile of egg noodles, the only pasta I ever really loved. Today, I tried it over a corn-quinoa elbow pasta that was incredibly unsatisfying. I need to think of a different carb to try. Rice sounds gross with it. So does potato. What's left? Gluten free bread? Maybe.

And there you have it. Born of poverty and basic cable television, the greatest tasting, grossest looking meal I ever made. My Smith family legend. My older daughter spices it up a bit, and my younger daughter just waits for me to show up and make it. My man has never, ever, not once complained about having it handed to him. Give it a try. Tell me what you think.

Crime of Opportunity

Inspirational song: Mother's Little Helper (Rolling Stones)

Today was an excellent day to let myself get carried along on other people's plans. I am so glad I turned the reins over to my friends all day. My mah jongg master needed to make a Trader Joe's/Whole Foods run, and took me along for the ride. I got the couple things I went there for, plus enough to fill a single grocery bag and triple the amount I intended to spend. But I came home with some fun stuff, and finally solved a big mystery I had about Whole Foods. Every time I walked past the beer & wine section and the meat counter, I noticed a strong floral scent. I could never figure out what was causing it. For years I kept looking up in those sections, thinking maybe they had potted flowers for sale and on display up high, or maybe incense burning and pumping through the ventilation system. I didn't just catch this scent at this location. I encountered it in Tulsa and Boulder too. It really bothered me, not knowing. Today I took the time to investigate, and followed my nose down the cleaning supplies aisle. There it was, as strong as can be, coming from geranium-scented dryer sheets. I don't know that they were more appealing to me than my usual brand, but I bought them, just because I finally figured this out after years of wondering whether I was having an olfactory hallucination. Now my laundry room smells nice, though.

I went on a date tonight. The Bonfire leader had tickets to see Ray Lamontagne, and though I couldn't have named a single one of his songs, I agreed to be her last-minute substitution when her original date fell through. We had a good time, spending way too much money on crappy beer and wine, and bonding with the couple seated next to us, who we met for the first time as the opening act concluded. By the time we were seated, the fossilized muscle relaxant I had taken earlier loosened up my back (finally, after a week of pain), and it loosened up my mouth and attitude too. For being at a concert of 95% unfamiliar music (I did recognize one song), I had a terrific night. I will agree with my date's assessment of the venue: it did not lend itself to rocking out, or even grooving along with the acts on stage. The seats were small and more tightly packed than an airplane, and the atmosphere was oddly dampening. There was no place to dance. Poor Bonfire leader was as fidgety as she could be, in the confining seating. We didn't end up waiting for the encore.

In two dramatically different situations, I had extended conversations with local chefs today. This is a particularly good thing around here, since it is still the top tourist destination in the country, primarily because this place is an unparalleled foodie paradise. In Whole Foods, a hip bearded chef gave me tips on how to make perfect quinoa (so naturally I bought a bag of the variety he recommended, to try it), and then tonight, we learned that the woman of the neighboring couple at the concert was also a local chef. We talked for a long time before the show started, and then more as all of us women took a group potty break. We got her contact information, and I sincerely hope we see these guys again. She was a keeper.

I promised a friend I would give her some pictures of town down by the coast, so as my mah jongg master drove, I took a handful of shots out the windows. Hopefully these will tide her over, while she's so homesick for the Low Country. It was the best opportunity I had for touristy photos today.