The Thanksgiving Vow

A year or two ago, I made a vow that when we finally got out of the trailer park and into a "real house" I was going to take the entire week of Thanksgiving off with the goal of cooking everything for the holiday from scratch.  Which might sound reasonable for most people.  I am not most people.  Those who know me read those last lines with disbelief and alarm because this was the first Thanksgiving that we are in our "real house."

My refrigerator waiting for the big day!

My kitchen helper

My best friend of twenty-five or so years, Lisa, likes to joke that I can burn water.  While I haven't studied physics since 1994, I am pretty sure that burning water is against the laws of nature.  I have burned hard boiled eggs, however.  In my defense, I was pregnant & quite addled for a variety of reasons.  It was incredibly confusing when I heard loud popping sounds emanating from the other side of the house.  I had so completely forgotten about the eggs that it didn't even occur to me that the sounds could even be related food.  It was quite a shock to find exploded eggs as I waddled into the kitchen.  In my defense, that is not bad cooking so much as it is forgetfulness.

That's the only kitchen mishap I have any defense for, though.  All other disasters, I have no option but to take full responsibility!  I misread tablespoons versus teaspoons, I am impatient and put the heat up to high consequently burning whatever is supposed to be gently sauteed, stuff boils over, stuff implodes, explodes, falls limp.  I still cannot make an omelet.  Lisa has seen it all after spending in two years of home ec with me and then the remaining 20 some years riding shot gun in my life.  A recent quote from Lisa regarding my cooking skills, "I remember a girl that let a pan boil dry..., and wrecked canned soup!"  How does one wreck canned soup?  I am not sure but I have done it dramatically enough to stick in someone's memory for a couple decades!

Given some other viable option, I would not have taken home ec, but I went to a small private school and you could take home ec. or shop.  Taking shop was frowned upon because it would not equip me to be a good wife.  I wasn't especially interested in being a good wife, but whatever, it wasn't algebra and I figured it couldn't be that bad.  No one was permanently injured, primarily because the tissues in the mouth regenerate rapidly.  I am sure that the home ec teacher didn't quite know what to do with my ineptitude and my 16 year old feminist grousing.  I really wasn't interested in being a good wife, especially if it involved cooking.  Or sewing, I wasn't impressed with sewing either.  Too many little pieces of thread tangling into knots and jamming up the sewing machine.

I have occasionally forayed into the cooking realm, with increasing frequency across the years, attempting such feats as boiling eggs.  This required a phone call to my step-dad because I wasn't quite sure how long they were supposed to boil and it was before I had access to the internet 24/7.  I managed to keep myself fed, but it was never skilled or graceful!

Once my food allergies kicked in post-pregnancy, I pulled it together enough to take care of the basics and figured out baking.  A few years ago I was allergic to corn, wheat and soy at the same time, and the only way to get sweets is to make it myself.  Desperation truly is the mother of invention!  An unfed sweet tooth is not to be argued with, so I figured it out! 

This context, then, is why my vow to cook from scratch so alarmed my nearest and dearest.  My husband, bless his heart, who has an insane level of confidence in my ability to do what I set my mind to, wasn't so worried.  He wavered, a bit, I think, when the water & honey mixture was boiling over onto the stove burner as I was attempting to make marshmallows.  Here's a tip:  when boiling something that contains sugar, remember that sugar expands, so use a large pot!  My cooking abilities are akin to driving on ice, you have some control of the direction of the car, but barely and disaster can strike at any moment.

A kitchen without a flower explosion!

Disaster did not strike!  Overly salty crust in the pumpkin pies struck our palate and then one pie promptly struck the dog dish while the other struck the garbage can.  That was easily remedied by making two more pies.  Those we happily ate.  We also had the honey & water mixture boiling over on the stove, but neither that nor the pies count as disasters.  My idea of a kitchen disaster is something involving smoke alarms going off or someone gagging.  I successfully served my family two pumpkin pies, cranberry sauce, apple pie, pumpkin spice cookies, brownies, sweet potato casserole with homemade marshmallows, mashed potatoes and biscuits.

My home ec teacher would be so proud!  I know Lisa and the rest of my nearest and dearest were pretty impressed!

My first attempt at pumpkin pies.

Becoming Sunny

"Sunny Day Sweepin' the clouds away, on my way to where the air is sweet." I've also heard "Keep on the sunny side always on the sunny side, Keep on the sunny side of life, It will help us every day it will brighten all our way.  If we keep on the sunny side of life" a lot!

My mom named me Sunny Elisabeth Clark.  Everyone assumes that my parents were hippies but they were not.  First, they were a little bit too young to be hippies.  Second, they lived in the Midwest and attended religious boarding academies.  There wasn't a lot of cultural "room" be a hippie.  They did have long hair and bell bottoms, but I think pretty much everyone under 30 did prior to 1980.

However, there was Avon.  My mom happened to be flipping through an Avon catalog, browsing the jewelry, perfume and lotions when she noticed the president of Avon was named Sunny.  My mom really, really liked that name.  So, I became Sunny.

It's a funny thing growing up with the name Sunny.  I get complimented on it all the time, people want to meet me because of my name and I have endured endless jokes about it.  The most common joke was "Is your brother's name Moonie?"  My somewhat snotty reply was usually "No, he is not a naked butt."  At least that is what I said starting at about age 11 when I was annoyed by whom ever was making that joke for "like the MILLIONTH time."  And singing, as you have probably guessed, I get serenaded a lot. I am always super impressed when someone knows a song with my name in it that I haven't heard before.  I have had thousands of comments like "Oh! How sweet, you must be just like your name!"  Um, no.  It is one of the great ironies of my name that I am not always like my name.  In fact there have been significant periods of my life, long periods of my life where I was completely unlike my name.

I have depression.  If you want to be specific, I have Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Moderate to Severe (atypical symptoms), With Full Interepisode Recovery, With Seasonal Pattern.  Depending on who is doing the diagnosing, though, my diagnosis can also be Bipolar Affective Disorder, Type II, Moderate, With Melancholic Features, With Seasonal Pattern. 

You probably didn't notice, because you are not sitting here with me, but I just took a giant psychological leap back, put myself into doctor mode and distanced myself from the pain of having all that while having the expectations associated with my name.  And by admitting that, I stepped back into the pain.  It is very, very painful. 

I have two types of depressive episodes- lethargic, sad, guilty, tired, self-hatred, crying, hyposomnia (sleeping lots and lots), avoidant, ahedonic (not feeling pleasure), and amotivational (not motivated).  The second type is agitated, irritable, restless & angry added on top of the symptoms of the first type with out being so tired.  I have the first type of depression in the fall and winter.  I have the second type in spring.  How the party doing the diagnosing categorizes the second type of depression,  determines if they think I have Major Depressive Disorder or Bipolar Affective Disorder, Type II.  It's a grey area and is open to interpretation.  There is a lot of stigma attached to Bipolar diagnoses because those are the people that are often considered "crazy."  I am aware of the stigma but the diagnosis isn't what is painful, it's the experience, so I don't care what label I am given.  Plus, I am a doctor so I get that it is all from a chemical imbalance anyhow.

Did you see how I did that again? I went into to doctor mode.  It's easy, it's safe and I am much more comfortable in it.  When I am in my doctor mode, I am Sunny.  I am bringing help and hope and relief to people.  In fact, I am most comfortable in whatever mode I can avoid certain parts of myself.  When I am interacting with friends, I am Sunny.  When I am with my daughter & husband, I am Sunny. When I am with my extended family, I am Sunny.  When I am with my coworkers & colleagues, I am Sunny. 

If I am not managing my symptoms or I hit that self-critical piece of myself, I would probably be better named Stormy.  Even when I am managing my stuff or I am in place of greater self-acceptance, I am never, ever a morning person.  Moonlight or Starshine would be much more appropriate.  My brain chemistry has also gifted me with a couple sleep disorders, which set my biological clock to be a "night owl" and create a need for at least 9 hours of sleep a night.  My name is a misnomer on multiple levels!

I recently received feedback from someone I am acquainted through a Facebook group.  Part of the feedback included a comment about how I didn't match my name because I was critical of myself.  Well, yes, exactly.

I generally do a pretty good job of leaving that aspect of myself out of my day to day life.  It hurts when it is noticed.  It makes me feel anxious and ashamed.  And when I write, it leaks out. It leaks out all over the place.  And while I like writing and I want to write more, I avoid it.  I don't make it a priority.  I do so because writing creates leaks for areas I need to work on.  Greater self-acceptance, creating space in myself for something just for myself, feeling like it is okay to have something in myself just for myself, all come to mind.  For someone who was taught that self-sacrifice was the greatest form of love, doing something purely for myself creates a lot of angst.  I already have a lot of angst to begin with.  A lot of un-Sunny-like angst. 

Some of that self-criticism derives from the chemical imbalance in my faulty, amazing brain.  The rest of that is because of ingrained attitudes about myself that I picked up in my childhood.  I can explain the origins of some of those attitudes and I believe that some will forever remain a mystery. 

Regardless of the cause between my mismatched name and myself, the current struggle is that developing as a writer means putting stuff out there.  Well, that's not so fun, when you are leaky.  It requires courage and determination and willingness to be vulnerable.  I am not always super willing to be vulnerable but I am courageous and determined.  So, I will use those things to push me into vulnerable places, which will force me to confront the leaky stuff, which will then move me to a better place.  I will inevitably hit other areas of vulnerability and continue the cycle.  My life will always be a process of becoming Sunny and letting Stormy go. 

Reconciliation vs. Refrigerator

Time for a confession...my husband and I are legally separated.  Yep, as in one step prior to divorce type separation.  And at this point, we have opted to wait on reconciling. There are more important things on our agenda.  If I were to pause and ask what those other priorities might be, guesses would likely be to attend couples therapy or decide if we really love each other or something maritally relevant.

Nope.  Mainly we are delaying our reconciliation for a new refrigerator.  So, my husband and I are choosing a refrigerator over altering our marital status.  Based on that snapshot, we totally sound like people who should just go straight for the divorce!  What kind of people want a refrigerator instead of reconciliation?  Very, very romantic people.  People who got married for tax purposes in the first place!  People who got legally separated to buy a house! People who have a new house with a very old, leaky refrigerator!

Well, technically, I do not own this house.   My husband owns this house and the leaky refrigerator.  I live in this house and we call it "our" home but that is a big fat lie.  It's totally my husband's house, I own all the furniture.  That's how we divided it up in the legal separation.  Except we didn't actually have the house when we separated, just the furniture.  Technically, he got nothing in the separation.  He was however, able to rid himself of my horrible, horrible credit.

Are you thoroughly confused?  So was the realtor and loan broker.  The family law lawyer wasn't confused at all.  She totally got that I was an ignorant, my person who didn't get a lawyer in the first place when I got a divorce from my first husband.  Because I made a stupid choice, my divorce documents were not written out correctly.  They were correct enough to ensure that I was no longer yoked to my first spouse but not correct enough to remove me from the mortgage of the house I owned with the aforementioned first spouse.  Which wouldn't of been a problem for my credit, except for the lovely human being that is my first husband decided it was good idea to stop making payments on the loan.  The bank didn't think it was a good idea and my credit score dropped by about 400 points.  That was an exciting time in my life!

So much for the plans to buy a new house.  There was no way that was happening with my credit score.  At this point, having a wife was more of a ball and chain than usual for my poor second husband.  Not only could he not date other women, my husband was stuck in a less than desirable abode.  No wonder we separated!

Seriously, though, we couldn't buy a house when we were married.  My poor credit made it look like I was "too risky" for a bank to approve a loan for me and because of the laws in Washington, my husband couldn't buy a house without my credit being taken in to consideration.  So, we figured out a work around.  The work around was to get separated and have my husband buy the house.  We could of just gotten a divorce, but despite being incredibly reluctant to get married in the first place (i.e. hands gripping the steering wheel until the knuckles were white and focusing on my breathing as we were driving to the court house to get married kind of reluctance, reference first marriage), I didn't want to get a divorce.  I felt sad and as it turns out, I liked being married the second time.  Choice of spouse obviously makes a huge difference! 

People were kind of horrified.  Initially, I was kind of horrified too, but it beat the heck out of getting a divorce.  Especially since in my county divorcing parents have to take a parenting class.  How fun! Local child psychologist in a parenting class!  It sucked having to make major life decisions based on the fact that I was dumb (as in ignorant) 6 years prior when untangling myself from a very unhealthy relationship.  It sucked that my ex-husband was intruding on my present life.  It sucked to have no control over my credit.  It sucked.  The whole thing just sucked.

Enter the work around.  Separated in September 2012, husband was pre-authorized for a loan in October 2012, house hunting commenced November 2012, offer on house accepted December 2012.  Move in date: December 31, 2012.

We have the house now and the house I owned with my ex-husband that was ruining my credit sold in a short sale (hallelujah!).  All the reasons for separating are now gone.  People keep asking "Are you married again, yet?"   The answer is, "No, because we want to buy a refrigerator!" It costs about $400 to file the paperwork to reverse the separation.  That goes a long way towards defraying the cost of a new fridge!  It seems like it is in the better interest of the family to go with the appliance.  Our anniversary is November 29th, I suppose I could always file the paperwork as a surprise anniversary present! Because, I am romantic like that, right?

Moral to this story- 1) Lawyers are important, 2) Lawyers are important, 3) Lawyers are important.  Well, no, not just that.  While I don't believe that all things happen for a reason, I do believe that good can come out of anything.  This whole scenario forced me to be patient, to develop greater trust in my husband, confront issues related to my ex-husband, and educated me regarding laws about marriage, divorce & property.  It also caused me to delay gratification, which has heightened my appreciation for our new house. I really, really like our new house.

Of all of those, developing more trust has been the greatest gift.  By virtue of being the second, my husband got handed a lot of baggage that wasn't his to begin with.  I didn't have much faith in marriage in the first place, given that the divorce rate in my family was about 80%. I didn't want to deal with divorce as an adult.  I was pretty full up being a child of divorced parents.  I took a risk on my ex-husband because he seemed "right."  I had developed this idea that if I did everything "right," I could end up with a good life.  The "right" spouse was someone who was from a family with no divorce, well educated, good work history, long term friendships, no substance use, shared interests and shared beliefs.  My first husband matched all of the above.  He looked good on paper and his family looked like something straight out of Norman Rockwell. What he kept hidden rocked my world and shook my faith in everything, including my ability to make good judgements.  What I had left was a pile of rubbish.  

Enter my second husband.  We started dating approximately 30 seconds after I left my first husband. (What can I say? When I am done, I am done.)  I had so much baggage I needed a pack mule, so dating wasn't the wisest choice on my part, but I was done with doing everything "right."  I had so very carefully attempted to live my adult life "right" and got burned.  So, I was just going to start doing what I wanted to do.  What I wanted to do is date the total sweet heart that is the man who became my second husband. I decided to screw what what was "right" and so called "reasonable."  So I jumped, both feet first, into a relationship toting all this baggage and a pack mule.

Lack of trust was probably the biggest of the bunch.  Lack of trust in marriage, men and most importantly, myself.  When your judgement has been so epically poor it is hard to have much faith in yourself.  I came to terms with the idea that I made the best choice I could with the information available to me.  When I got more information, I made another choice.  Those choices brought me to a life I love.  So, I did gain confidence in myself and in my husband.  Confidence enough to have a baby with him and then marry him when the baby was 8 months old.  But, not enough confidence to be entirely anxiety free, remember the white knuckles on the steering wheel?  I shed much of the baggage and no longer needed a pack mule, but like a miser, I hung on to bits and pieces. 

Back to the house and the work around.  This, clearly, is not the "right" way to buy a house.  It is not wrong in the illegal sense, but it is certainly non-standard!  Getting separated allowed us to buy a house, but it required that I relinquish all control of the process and have faith in my husband's decision-making.  I wasn't involved in (read: in control of) the loan process, the real estate stuff, home inspection, nothing.  My role was only to offer opinions on properties.  Control is something I have used to alleviate anxiety in the past and it wasn't going to work here.  Control as a coping strategy has limited utility, as I learned in my doing everything "right" phase.  It is a place that is easy to slip back into, however.  I needed to let go and go with the flow.  And I did, and we landed in our awesome house, where I sit now. 

Okay, I guess I should say my husband's new house.  But, remember, it's my furniture, so the combination makes it our home! Now, if we could just find a darn refrigerator....

Poem #2

Run, child, run!
With freedom nipping at your heels
like a mongrel dog.
Joy coating you like dust from the gravel road,
left with imprints from your little feet.

Dance, girl, dance!
With intensity twining around your arms
like fingers of smoke.
Uncertainty dangles like jewelry from your mom's bureau,
left with imprints from your young hands.

Love, woman, love!
With anticipation pulling at your mouth
as if by magnets.
Passion stripping you clean to the bone, your body
left with imprints from a man's lips.

Birth, momma, birth!
With strength emanating from your womb
the inner super nova.
Dedication cloaking your soul,
left with imprints from her little feet.

-S. Clark 10/05/13

Liquid Breath

liquid breath of the Pacific Northwest
paused, for a moment
falling drops, drizzle, downpour
begins again, drenching
autumn leaves
glistening ruby, russet, rust
drift down, dressing
forest floor
softening land, loam, loess
sit silent, absorbing
liquid breath

Small Unauthorized Mammal

This is not my cat sitting on my husband.

My 17 year old brother, who by virtue of his age, is a little drain bramaged, err.. brain damaged.   He brought home an unauthorized kitten.  An authorized kitten is trouble enough, but an unauthorized kitten is another thing all together, especially when said unauthorized kitten is found when one is going into the aforementioned brain damaged person's room with the expectation that it is free of small mammals.  In other circumstances, this would be a reasonable expectation, but NOTHING is a reasonable expectation when it comes to the 17 year old male homo-sapiens.   He keeps his clean laundry in his bed, and leaves his dresser empty.  His dresser is used to pile dirty dishes.

So, small unauthorized kitten waltzes out into the rest of the house.  This delights my small girl child and her slightly less small friend.  They proceed to pop the kitten into a laundry basket and haul it around the house.  These are very pleased small girl children.   The promptly named him Skittles, because "he skittles around the place."  I, for my part, do not name the kitten, because to name the kitten is to own a kitten.  For a variety of very legitimate reasons, I am not interested in owning a kitten.  If I had wanted a kitten, I would have brought one home myself!

The dog, Kona, also appears delighted.  She is doing the whole play bow routine and bounding around the house.  She was 120 lbs of pure joy.  She has probably named the kitten, she loves the kitten, she loves everything, everything is made for love!!!  At some point, our adult female cat Shzung, is exposed to the small mammal.  She most definitely has not named the kitten, she hates the kitten, she hates everything, everything is made for hate!!! This kitten is not amused by any of this and does an excellent miniature version of "the Halloween" cat, arched, puffed and hissing.  He really seem unimpressed with all of us, as if he could be picky.

Fast forward a few (writers note: unauthorized kitten just jumped on the lap top and stomped "000" into the middle of this sentence) days, the small mammal is stalking around the house, attacking ankles, bossing my 120 lb dog away from her food dish, chasing Shzung into the basement, trying to eat my cereal, licking up left over spaghetti sauce, and generally owning the place.  Meanwhile, my brother has named the unauthorized kitten "Jack," but "Only if we get to keep him," says the brother.   Ha!  We're not even sure we want to keep my brother!

So, back to the kitten, what I have found very intriguing about him is that he doesn't seem to realize he is small.  As far as he is concerned, he owns me, my house, my animals and my family.  He is offended when I don't allow him on the kitchen table, or to dig his claws into my calves, or dash into the back yard, or pick on Shzung.  Which has lead me to a thought.  What would life be like if I didn't realize I was small?  Not small in physical stature (which I am, and I totally realize that.  The only thing being unaware of my physical stature would lead to is constant frustration that I was inexplicably unable to reach the top shelves) but small as in limiting myself or my ideas about what my life might be.  What if I stopped limiting myself?  What would I do, what would my life be like, what would I do with myself?  What would you do?  I am going to take an art class. 

There is a Basketball in the Bathtub and Other Thoughts on Parenting

Written in May, 2009

I am an expert in parenting, which I find hilarious because I have one child, she is only two years old and she watched 11, eleven, episodes of Dora the Explorer today. She watched 253 minutes of animated television. You don't have to be a parenting expert to think that maybe, just maybe, 11 episodes of Dora is about 10 episodes too many for a two year old. But it goes to show that parenting, like many life experiences is not what you expect. It is not even not what you expect. It is some other animal entirely. An animal that lives in some other universe that your feeble mind could never in its wildest dreams conjure up. I knew she would be her own person but I expected her to be, well, a little more like me but a lot less like me. Who knew I was so freakin' stubborn and moody? Besides that random genetic component (Aden, I am so sorry you have your father's skin and your mother's short legs, I'm sure you'll learn to cope. If not, there is always therapy, I can make some good recommendations.), the other wild card is your co-parent, someone who grew up different than you, has a different idea about what is important and in my case is NOT a parenting expert. He is awesome with her but we have wildly differing philosophies at times. My husband's happiest childhood memories involve movies and he probably spent 3/4 of his life with only the TV or his thoughts as companions. He has a sleep disorder and it has invovled many hours awake while the rest of the world was asleep. Given that frame of reference 11 episodes of Dora is completely fine, in fact, it is probably beneficial. After all, it is educational. And then there is food. Or rather, the food our daughter eats. I do not consider PBJ's, cheetos and popsicles to be ideal toddler food. I want her eating green beans, pasta and milk. She knows what is in a donut box and I had to move our small stash of chocolate because she remembered where we kept it and would help herself. She said "coke" before "Poppa." Her mother, who tends to be more of a health freak and less of a junk food junkie is afraid the battle for healthy eating habits will by lost. Who can compete with High Fructose Corn Syrup? I love screaming fits because she wants to have the 3rd popsicle of the day. It all just goes to demonstrate STRONGLY that I am not really in control of anything, which is why there is a basketball in my bathtub. Control freak here thinks all play things should be carefully stored in their designated spot. Just to be clear, the bathtub is not the basketball's designated spot. Control freak also did not buy the basketball as she tends to buy toys that are developmentally appropriate. A WNBA-sized basketball purchased before the child could walk doesn't quite qualify as developmentally appropriate. But, "what the hell?", I say. Aden likes it and its fun to have in the bathtub apparently. So, I am trying to make sure we hit the high points (treat other's with respect, etc, etc) and assume that, in the words of my friend Martha, "She won't be doing this when she is 15."

Haiku

Cacti

On of my earliest memories involves walking around a very big store, with very wide aisles and white linoleum tiling.  I am not sure of my age or location, but I must have been rather small because I remember the floor better than anything else.  Small people are closer to the floor.  I was with my grandmothers.  Yep, that is right, plural, grandmotherS.  I was with my Grandma Esau and my Great-Grandma Freckles.  Freckles was not her real name.  Her real name was Anice Ida Leach.  But I wouldn't know this for several more years because I was small and names and relationships are kinda vague and smoonched together.  What I knew was that Grandma Freckles looked like she had a lot of Freckles, so that's what I called her.  Grandpa Freckles got the name just cuz he was married to Grandma Freckles.  It made sense at the time.  Grandpa Freckles used to pull quarters out of my ears and made coffee so strong that it would make your hair fall out.  I didn't know the part about the coffee until much later, either.  So, me and the grandmas in a store.  I don't know exactly where we were or what our purpose was, although I imagine we were grocery shopping Albion the "big" town (population approximately 1,000) near our "little" town of Petersburg (population 283). 

What is important though, is that I walked out of that store with a little cactus plant all my own. It was the kind that has a green trunk and then a super florescent pink round bit grafted to the top. I don't know what brought about this gift.  My family never had much money and I didn't have the kind of grandparents that expressed love by buying me things.  I certainly didn't ask, that's not how the world worked for me.  Why it was decided I must have a cactus, I will never know.  However, it was love at first sight, I believe. I can't be sure because as I mentioned, I was quite small. But, I have cacti in my home now and more at my office. I often experience the following scenario with clients in my office:
"Are these rea--ouch! They are real!" It is a good measure of impulse control, "can you resist touching the cactus to see if it is real long enough for your therapist to give a response?" There is never a time that I haven't owned a cactus of some sort. I even grew some from seed, once. They are a constant for me. I never thought about it much until recently, though. I happened to mention, in passing to my dad, that I really liked grasses and cacti.  I appreciate flowers and love to have them growing around my home but I don't typically make a bee line for the flowers at the garden section of home stores.  I go for the the cacti or grasses.  My dad replied "Hmm, I bet that is because of your grandmas in Nebraska."  My dad can be kind of oblivious to things, mostly minor, like the birthdays of his children, but he got this one right.  I think I have always had cacti around as a way to remain connected to my grandmas, even though I lived half the continent away from them most of my life, and especially now that Grandma Freckles has passed away.  I remain connected with them by sharing a love for pokie, spiny, awkward plant. There is a beauty to them as well, the variations in color, shape & spines, but you have to have an appreciate for unusual beauty. And when the do flower, it warrants a full blown celebration.  Other plants are like girls from the wrong side of the tracks, they give it up easily.  They flower all over the place without anyone even half-trying.  If you see a cactus blooming and you are not in the desert, you know that there was either the perfect alignment of the stars or the person growing the cactus was very attentive, meeting it's every need, like pampered royalty.  I find them more beautiful for it and I appreciate that I learned to love something not commonly considered beautiful.  That is very likely the true gift of the grandmothers.  And yes, the grandmas had blooming cacti in Nebraska. 

Artist

Well, it seems I am an artist.  Identifying myself as an "artist" has never been part of my self concept.  I strongly identified as "creative" and have loved making crafts, arranging holiday vignettes and personalizing my living spaces, even as a small child. My mom tells me I would arrange my play things "just so" in a little toy kitchen.  It was usually, promptly destroyed by my younger brother, much to my consternation.  I also cannot remember a time when I didn't have a stash of crafty things for making gifts, cards, Christmas ornaments, and random bits of this and that.  I felt totally and completely "unglued" when I couldn't find my, you guessed it, my glue gun for a few months after a recent move.  I was totally disoriented.  I doodled through every lecture I ever attended, right on up to and through my doctoral program.  But, straight up artist was not me but people who painted or had fancy cameras and dark rooms or did more than just doodle.   I formed my identity around being academic.  I studied, researched, hypothesized & memorized.  I am fascinated theories, ideas, research results.  Boring nerd stuff.  I went as far as I could go academically.  Hello, Doctorate in Philosophy of Psychology.   Recently, I joined an online community via Facebook called Open Group for Bedlam Farms, started by one of my favorite authors, Jon Katz.  This a community for those who love animals, writing and other forms of creative expression.  As I have seen posts of photos, paintings, poems, essays produced by individuals who identify as artists, I have considered the possibility that I might not just be a nerd, but also an artist. In fact, I think I can pretty confidently say that my creative expression "counts" as art. How can I be sure?  Well, in true nerd fashion, I looked it up!   According to Google, "art" is defined as "The expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture,...: 'the art of the Renaissance.'" And "Works produced by such skill and imagination."  Hmmm....  chew on that for a while, self!  Major, cataclysmic shift, tectonic plates in my brain crashing.  It seems that all these years I have been creating art!  Therefore, it follows that as a producer of art, I am an artist.  My brain still screeches to a halt writing that sentence and starts looking around for more familiar academic territory.  That's okay, though, I'll integrate this new idea into my sense of self.  Its nice to experience growth, even in "middle age" (although if I live as long as my great grandparents, I won't be truly middle aged for another decade!).  I am looking forward to being a part of the artist community as nerd artist!

Photograph of my dog, Kona

Photograph of my favorite flowers.

Two Feet of Love

I have always said that my husband, Hugh, and I had souls that were cut from the same cloth.  It is stereotypical, but totally true, that it felt like we had known each other our whole lives when we first met.  It was magical and seemed to be the product of divine intervention.  Hugh is convinced that his Grandpa Jones, who was a gambling man, worked out a deal in heaven.  When he was alive he constantly tried, and constantly failed, to set Hugh up with eligible women. After he passed way, it seems he continued his efforts to set Hugh up from heaven.  Apparently, Grandpa Jones ran into my Grandpa Esau and they found a way to get their grandkids together.  This was a huge gamble since my life circumstances didn't make starting a relationship an easy thing to do (super long story!).  Eventually, the fabric of our lives were sewn together.  There have been a lot of snags- a terrifying, life threatening pregnancy, a very angry baby, debt from the pregnancy, the loss of our support system, job changes and health problems.  Hugh contracted mono when our daughter was about a year old.  Unfortunately, he never fully recovered and has astronomical levels of the Epstein Barr Virus (which causes mono) in his system.  As a result, he has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  We just learned of this diagnosis and he is beginning treatment.  The snag this time is that he will feel worse before he feels better and we have hit the worse part of the journey.  It is hard, there is little I can do to help, he is not mentally or physically present as much as I want him to be.  However, our souls are still sewn together.  This picture of feet is actually picture of our souls connecting.  No matter how sick he feels or overwhelming this illness seems, there is a connection.  Even if it is just putting his feet on my leg, he reaches out to me.  And that is enough. 

Not Perfect, But Better

My family moved into a new home December 31, 2012.  Not a brand new, just built house but a new to us house.  It was actually built in 1975, making it my age.  I think it may be aging better than I am actually.  We love this house.  We waited 7 years for this house and had to over many, many obstacles to get this house.  However, it seems the only thing that was ever upgraded in this house was the carpet and paint.  We have vintage golden rod yellow in two bathrooms and the kitchen and some weird green-blue in another bathroom.  When we moved in the carpet was a pristine, very, very, very light beige.  The walls are also a very, very, very light beige. So, for what ever reasons, the previous owner had seen it fit to install carpet that is impossible for anyone to maintain, other than a obsessive-compulsive person without children or pets.  I have a St. Bernard and a six-year old.  They like dirt.  Heck, I am a gardener, I like dirt.  Most of our carpet is now a light dirt brown color, although parts of it are a dark dirt brown color.  Parts of the carpet that had furniture immediately placed over it remain pristine.  Instead of making me happy, I find it depressing because then I can see EXACTLY how much we have destroyed the carpet in 5 short months (Actually 4 months, 26 days and 20 hours). I am sure the walls would be similar if we could walk on them but luckily we can't, so only certain areas are turning dirt brown and it is easier to keep up with those spots than the wall to wall carpeting.   Let me just say that the flooring situation in this house is far from perfect!  If I had the budget, I would rip it all out and replace it with something very sturdy, in a color that hides dirt (i.e., dirt brown) and was easy to clean.  Buuuuttt, do not currently have a renovation budget.  We have a "what can we figure out that will keep me from losing my mind and doesn't cost a lot of money" budget.  That primarily involved waiting until something shows up at Goodwill, Craigslist or Habitat for Humanity Restore that improves our home and costs less than $50.  If you haven't already done so, I suggest that you check out both, or what ever the equivalent in your area is, because I have found some amazing stuff.  I found a pristine toilet for $15 at Habitat for Humanity Restore.  Good-bye ugly yellow.  Now I am on the hunt for another toilet, tub and 2 sinks.  But, back to my carpet!  The worst area is the stairways.  It is a split level house and the front door opens to the stairs.  Up to the main floor or down to the daylight basement.  Dirty dog and daughter = gross stairs.  I can't afford to make it perfect (hardwood with a durable carpet runner, perhaps?) but I figured I could make it better.  I happened upon brand new hall way runners at Goodwill.  They had 3 of the same pattern that could be pieced together to cover my stairway.  So, that is what we did.  Or mainly, my husband did.  I dictate projects, he does the bulk of the work.  It's a good deal.  And the project turned out good too!  It's not perfect, you can see where we pieced together the rugs and if you look closely you can see the nails we used.  However, it is better.  It hides the dirt, it adds traction (sock on carpeted stairs are dangerous!) and covered up the carpet we ruined. So, I can feel good that we (my husband) made an improvement.  I could be dissatisfied that it isn't "exactly" what I wanted.  But that would be disregarding the progress we made and creating a "fail-fail" situation.  It was a "fail" to have the ugly carpet but the improvement would also be a "fail" because I labeled it "not good enough" because it wasn't "perfect."  So, my attitude would create unhappiness no matter what. Thinking this way in any area soon leads to a "why bother?" attitude.  If you can't achieve perfection, and consider that failure, then everything will be a failure (or almost everything).  This often makes pursuit of perfection crippling.  Humans are motivated to avoid failure and will avoid activities that lead to that outcome.  Then we don't try new activities or new solutions to our situation.  However, there is no absolute when it comes to failure or success, it is all in how you view it.  If you focus on making progress, focus on making the situation better, there is no such thing as failure.  Even if something doesn't work out as expected, you are still learning about the situation and can then approach again, only better informed.  If the stair runner hadn't turned out well, that is not a failure, that is more information on how to improve when I try again.  Well, I am reconsidering, there is a such thing as failure.  Failure comes by not trying.  This brings to mind a quote by the author J.K. Rowling " It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might have well not lived at all, in which case you have failed by default." (Just in case you have been living under a rock for the last decade and a half, she wrote the Harry Potter books).  So, you can try to avoid being unsuccessful at something by doing nothing, and fail by default.  Or you can try something, possibly screw it up and try again.  Eventually, your efforts will lead to better.  And better is better than perfection.

If you would like to read more about this topic, please check out the book "Mindset: The New Psychology of Success" by Carol Dweck.  It is available on amazon.com.

Hyperemesis Awareness Day 2013

I wrote this while pregnant and suffering from Hyperemesis Gravidarum. It was written August 29, 2006

I have met the devil...

and his name is Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG). If it is not truely the devil himself, then it is a least one of the devil's spawn. What is this hideous monster you ask? Well, I am here to tell you! Here is an "official" definition:HG is a debilitating and potentially life-threatening pregnancy disease marked by rapid weight loss, malnutrition, and dehydration due to unrelenting nausea and/or vomiting with potential adverse consequences for the newborn(s).

However, this really does not seem to do it justice. A survior's definition is as follows:

Although approximately 80 percent of pregnant women experience morning sickness, hyperemesis gravidarum, the evil sister of morning sickness, strikes only one percent of all pregnancies. It is a rare and dangerous complication characterized by relentless vomiting (usually upwards of ten times daily) and severe, constant nausea. If not treated effectively, dehydration and malnutrition can threaten the well-being of both mother and unborn baby.

This seems more like it but still the words don't really do it justice. I don't have a concise definition of this pregnancy complication, I am too busy coping to codify. Nonetheless, I still have some things I'd like to say about it. It is like have the flu with motion sickness with some elements of a migraine. I call it mutant morning sickness. This disease doesn't just harm my ability to eat and drink, it wreaks havok on all my bodily systems. Not only that, the ways in which is screws with my ability to eat and drink don't follow a pattern or seem to have any rules. My symptoms/bodily experiences:
-Cannot drink water at all
-Cannot shower or bathe without getting sick
-Severe motion sickness (I can't even walk to the bathroom without getting sick)
-Hypersensivity to light and sounds (I had to change the ring on my cell phone because the sound of it made me want to vomit)
-Dehydration (although I am doing better with this since I discovered Vitamin Water, a health-type drink and popcicles)
-Frequent nausea
-Frequent vomiting (I went 19 days without vomitting, then I relapsed last week and seem to be getting worse again the last couple of days)
-Occasionally, I blow out blood vessels around my eyes because of the force of the vomitting
-I also occasionally loose control of my bladder while vomitting, which is not all that uncommon among women with this disease, much to my relief.
-Random food cravings and food aversions. For a while, all I could eat was chicken and rice soup, not the thought of chicken and rice soup makes me sick. I used to eat healthy but now the only things I can stomach are high statch and high grease.

I have never felt more physically miserable in my life. The sad thing is that I am not as sick as many other women with this illness. It could be worse! There are at least some foods I can eat, unlike some women who have no choice but to get food through IV's. Being bed ridden, no matter what the reason is completely demoralizing, so I have to contend with my depression, as well. Although, emotionally, I have felt worse and I am trying really hard not have this labeled the most emotionally miserable time of my life. My "bad" days consist of crying and vomitting. My "good" days consist of crying, reading and surfing the internet. My "excellent" days I am able to check in with a client or do some paperwork (which seems to be ever present, even when I am not seeing clients). Aside from being stuck at home, I am sad that I am not able to enjoy being pregnant. I know that even "normal" pregnancies are uncomfortable but "normal" pregnant women haven't had the joy stolen from them. My pregnancy makes me sick and if I weren't on medication, it could make me deathly ill. That doesn't create a lot of warm fuzzy feelings. Some women with HG get angry at their unborn child, I am not, I am angry at my body. For some reason, my body reacts to pregnancy similar to how it would react to being poisoned. So, I pretty much feel that I am getting ripped off. I am also getting ripped off because I will not have any other children than this one I am carrying. I may adopt but the option to have additional biological children has been taken from me because being pregnant is basically dangerous for me. The conventional wisdom is that every pregnancy is different, so I should be safe to try again. That is not true. The odds of me having a pregnancy just like this one, if not worse is 70%. And that my friends, is not gambling odds as far as I am concerned. Some women choose to get pregnant knowing that they will have HG and decide it is worth it. I am not going to do this again. I realize that my child isn't born yet and actually having my child will change the way in which I view my suffering. Even so, I am not going to do this again. We have one shot and it better go well because I will not be pregnant again. All my eggs are in this basket and we are out of luck if we drop the basket. If Hugh and I want more children we will either adopt or find a surrogate for the pregnancy. Finding peace of mind is very difficult right now and knowing I am only going to do this once brings me a sliver of peace. For now, I focus on one day at a time and try to quell my anxiety about no income. A lot women improve in their 2nd trimester to the point of being able to have a "normal" life again. I am hoping and praying that is the case for me. The sooner the devil stops dancing in my innards, the better!

You Can Never Plan These Things Part II

Shzung, upon returning home.

So, after being certain that Shzung was consumed by some rabid, wild beast roaming our new property, she has graced us with her presence again!  Hugh thought he saw her one evening around midnight.  Given that he was sober, has 20/20 vision with out corrective lenses and not prone to hallucinations, I had to believe him.  What a shock!  Usually, when cats disappear they have gone over the "rainbow bridge," so to speak.  However, she was elusive and I didn't see her for another two weeks.  Once I saw her, I thought it would be a simple matter to pick her up and bring her into the house.  But, I forgot about cats and plans.  Specifically, that cats don't care about my plans.  So, we put out food, we called her in sweet voices, we let her daughter cats out to see her.  I employed every strategy I could think of.  She would have none of it.  This went on for a month and a half!!  Quick sightings followed by an empty food dish.  Finally, one evening Huckle went out with me, meowed into the woods and Shzung meowed back.  I started in with my sweet voice and low and behold, she came up to me!  Shzung has always been described as a "snot rag" by my husband and this just proved his point.  She purred, rubbed on my leg, climbed into my lap and acted as if nothing happened!!  I couldn't even be angry at her for deserting us!  Then, I was trapped in a dilemma.  Do I grab her and head to the house, or do I let her move at her own pace?  I didn't want to have her get mad at me and take off but I didn't want to miss my opportunity.  After deliberating for 10 minutes, a while petting the cat, I went for the grab and run.  Luckily, the dog, her nemesis, was no where near and I was able to safely stow Shzung in the laundry room.  My daughter was overjoyed!  We decided to let her and the other cats roam around the bottom level of the house and strictly monitor the dog while everyone adjusted.  That actually worked pretty well and the cats were then integrated into the rest of the house.  Shzung promptly decided it was a good idea to pee in my daughter's room.  Bad plan!!  Cats should stay downstairs!  Still a bad plan!!  My husband has a sleep disorder (Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome, actually we all have it but I will write about that later.  Go here for more information), so he sleeps downstairs sometimes.  The cats keep him awake.  Okay, now that we know the cats will come back, they can go outside.  No!  The scratch and whine at the door and keep Hugh awake.  They can have a kitty door and go in and out.  No!  They bring mice in the house and they really keep him awake.  Please read his account here. So, now he is attempting to "train" the cats to leave him alone.  He has had some success with this and figures that in comparison to the issues that accompany mice, it's not so bad.  So, I thought we could go forth with all the family members back in the fold.  Alas, Huckle decided to go on a walk about and now she's been gone for a couple weeks.  I also realized that Three seems to have vacated the premises.  So, the saga continues.  My plans are for naught. We are now down to one cat who provides a constant reminder that "The best-laid plans of mice and (wo)men / Often go awry." (Quotation from "To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough" by Robert Burns,  the addition of both genders by me!)

The Time I Threw a Live Mouse Off the Balcony a short story by Hugh (for Sunny, his beloved wife{not dead})

It was the late night or early morning of April 20th 2013, depending on how you look at it.  If you look at 4:00am as the early morning, please stop reading now.  The gap between our levels of understanding of the universe are so vast, you might as well be reading Japanese.  I awoke, or was awoken to, by a loud  clanging.  A loud clanging is an embarrassing and “so not original” way to begin a story such as this,   but I will remind you now and this one time only that every word I am currently typing AND every word you are currently reading is the God's honest, absolute and Almighty truth...

    The loud clanging turns out to be our least beloved cat, “3”.  Believe me, she has earned every ounce of effort we put into naming her.  Let me go back a moment here.  I promised the absolute truth and yet have already started with a small but important piece missing.  At first, upon being awoken, I suspected the clanging was our Chinchilla, Dr. Pepper T. Mouse (a name he/she has earned through gallant service and entertainment to the family).  I approach Dr. Mouse's cage (the irony of his/her last name only now becoming real to me) only to hear the loud clanging in the other room.  And now I have ruined the suspense, but there in the darkness I see 3 dragging our 6 foot floor heater across the carpet with her paw.  I, being the only sensible creature in the room, scold her and push her away, thinking that a heater is a very stupid thing to attack.  Rather than retreating, she leaps back toward the heater and begins to hop around and gyrate in agitated and vicious movements usually reserved to members of the fiercest South American tribes.  Then it hits me.  She's not attacking the heater at all...

    I lift the end of the heater a few feet in the air.  There is a small section at the end, where the wiring is housed, that just so happens to be impossible for a cat to infiltrate.  I imagine it is nice and warm in there.  I give it a shake and...  Something is alive in there.  I steel my nerves and head to the garage for supplies.  My initial plan is to remove the housing cover by unscrewing the single Phillips head screw to identify the intruder.  Wish I had given it more thought, but I am a man and we tend to think one step at a time.  This will hurt me later.  To be honest, my plan was probably as follows.  I open the things, the creature runs out and the cats pounce on it.  They do the dirty work, I do the clean-up and we never tell a soul.  Just giving each other knowing looks while we pass through the house for the rest of our lives.  “Mommy can never know.”

    So there I am turning the screw with two agitated felines twitching behind me.  Schzung has now joined the fray and while I don't have a lot of faith in 3's abilities in... ANYTHING, Schzung could most likely survive on the Moon.  But that's a different story.  I remove the housing cover only to discover a new problem that causes my original plan to fall to pieces.  The mouse is adorable.  All of a sudden, this has become a moral dilemma.  Not having time enough to explain the change of plans to the predators, Schzung pounces for the kill.  The world's cutest mouse scurries through a gauntlet of razor sharp paws and gnashing teeth until finally taking refuge behind a stack of books in our entertainment center.  Note to self: My cats are incapable hunters.  On the plus side, I did not have to witness the grizzly killing scene while quietly consoling myself with thoughts like, “well...  that's nature.  A brutal struggle for life.  Beautiful in it's way.”  Nature of course, did not remove screw from the cover housing.  I realize now, that if I hope to get any sleep tonight, I will be taking care of this problem myself.

    As the cats continue their pursuit I run to grab a pair of gloves.  If anyone is going to be getting this tiny creature out of our house, it is going to be me.  When I return to the scene the mouse makes a break for it.  The cats are useless, it has to be me.  I spring toward the fleeing mouse and moments later I am looking at its little tail in my right hand.  Now what?  I start toward the sliding glass door.  My first thought it to let it outside.  To release it back into its natural habitat.  But after a few steps, I pause.  This little thing has invaded my house.  It has put my family at risk with it's toxic feces.  Rabies, Hantha Virus...  Who knows what this little disease ridden filth mammal might be carrying.  I should just crush its little skull.  Just squeeze it in my hand with my world renowned grip strength.  No...  Too gruesome.  I don't have it in me.  Next plan.  I'll put it in a container.  Yes.  Keep it there overnight and ask Sunny what to do in the morning.  Edan will get to see a cute little mouse and then cry because she can't keep it as a pet...  No.  No good either.  My track record for keeping creatures in containers if spotty.  Remember what happened to the salamander?  And the frog escaped as well.  We would be back at square one.  I walking up the stairs now.  The container idea is denied.  So what then?  Flush it down the toilet, garbage disposal, suffocation?  I have to either kill it, or get it far enough away from the house that it won't easily return.

    Once again, my instinct to get this creature out of my house kicks in.  The front door?  Nowhere to put it.  It will scamper into the garage and be back in the house in an hour.  I'm not walking back downstairs.  If Kona catches wind of this, she will only further complicate the issue.  And then.  It hits me.  The balcony.  I fight through nagging doubts as I walk purposely, nurse-like, to the sliding glass door that opens on to the balcony.  With one motion I slide the door open with my left hand, rear back my right arm in a mighty recoil and let fly the mouse in a launch intended to reach the surface of the moon.s

    And then.  There was silence.  In the far distance I see the tiny silhouette under the moonlight as the rodent floats gently down the cliff.  I don't know what the terminal velocity of a mouse is.  But the fall looked VERY survivable to me.  So... Am I a mouse killer?  Or a mouse rescuer?  I'll leave it to you to decide.

A Love Story Through Food

In the last few years, my relationship with food has experienced several ups and downs. Previously, I had no problems. I liked food, it liked me. When I was pregnant with Aden, I couldn't eat anything for three months because I had constant nausea and vomiting as the result of Hyperemesis Gravidarum (HG, please see http://www.helpher.org/, for details beyond "I puked constantly").  Even water made me sick. I threw up everything. The only thing I could keep down sometimes was Chicken Noodle Soup or Chicken Rice Soup. Hugh spent a lot of time holding my hair and cleaning up. He also spent a lot of time searching for and eventually procuring liquids that I could tolerate (vitamin water: green tea and some other orange thing only). I threw up so much soup I will never eat it again, I feel nauseated going down the soup aisle in the grocery store and I only recently allowed Hugh to eat soup, as long as I don't see or smell it. This was horribly depressing. Once enough medication got into my system I could hold food down but only certain things. So for approximately one month all I ate was tomato soup, 1 dill pickle and tuna sandwiches. Then, without warning the thought of that made me sick so I would switch. This was also depressing but was a vast improvement. Hugh spent a lot of time procuring and fixing the few items I could eat. By the end of the pregnancy I could eat mostly normal as long as I took my medication and didn't over extend myself. I was so happy when Aden was born because I thought I would be able to eat normal. Wrong! Aden proved to be sensitive to the food proteins in my breast milk. So, I had to cut out all allergen producing foods to clear our systems and then add things back gradually. This was also depressing. Again, Hugh spent a lot of time procuring and preparing food that I could eat. I don't remember much but Hugh says there was a lot of crying. I do remember eating a lot of rice and pears. Then, when Aden was almost one, it all went to hell again. This time the culprit was food allergies rather than reproduction. I ate zucchini bread and corn chips on Christmas Eve. That night I stayed up with hives, asthma, stomach cramps and general gastro-intestinal "distress" (if you get what I mean). I had no idea what hit me because last I knew I was only allergic to honey and dairy products. So, I took me to an allergy doctor. Surprise! I am now allergic to corn, zucchini, summer squash, peanuts, honey & dairy. Okay, easy enough to avoid. Who really eats zucchini anyhow? I was a little sad about the loss of peanut butter. But, little did I know! After repeated exposure to certain foods, my allergy list has drastically expanded. This was also depressing. And it really jacks your work day to stay up the night before dealing with an allergic reaction. So, I get me to an allergy doctor again. We retested in 2009 and 2010.  The new and improved food list ended up being quite extensive.  I kinda lost track around 15 different foods.  I read EVERY ingredient on EVERY food label to identify "safe" foods. These allergies have changed depending on my seasonal allergies and what I had been eating too much of.  What has remained the same is that I can't eat anything with corn in it. Including high fructose corn syrup, which is in EVERYTHING. (Go check your cupboard. You will be shocked.) At one point I was not eating any corn products, wheat products, sugar, caffeine, dairy (including butter and eggs, which I always had before), summer squash, zucchini, peas, green beans, soy, carrots, honey, peanuts, walnuts, hazel nuts, almonds, white potatoes, and I can't remember what else.  There might be more but I don't want to get up and dig through my files.  You get the picture anyhow, it was lousy and difficult and depressing.  But not as depressing as it might have been because I learned to adapt and I had my secret weapon. Hugh.  He kept right on procuring and preparing food I can eat.We experimented madly. We have actually come up with some good stuff and found other good stuff on the internet. I really missed bread and he developed a recipe! And other than the obvious difficulties with food over the past few years, the major theme behind this food saga is a love story. No matter what happened, no matter what he needed to do, no matter how awful it was, the man did not waver. This may not seem like a big deal, but every time he leaves the house to scour the town for some strange request, he is demonstrating his commitment to me and willingness to figure out the "worse" part of things so that even if it is not "better" we survive. Apple Butter at 11:15pm? Safeway, open until 12am. Ground buffalo at 9:24 pm? The Marketplace, open until 10Pm. Non-dairy egg substitute for baking? Amazon.com 24/7. No matter what my difficulty is, Hugh has unfailingly stepped up and walked with me.  Which, I think, is the foundation of a lasting relationship.  Yeah, communication is important, and you need to make sure you have time for physical intimacy and time away from the responsibilities of the world and all those things that are endlessly discussed in women's magazines.  But honestly, underneath all those things discussed in all those magazines, I believe the core piece is a deep, positive regard for your partner that leads you to do what needs to be done, whether it is finding apple butter or any other task a long-term relationship throws your way. 

You Can Never Plan These Things

Have you ever tried to make plans when it comes to cats?  I have and I don't recommend it.  Here is the sum total of cats and their accompanying plans...

 Camille

Louie

1) Louie and Camille- two sickly kittens I rescued from under my front porch.  Their mother was a mangy, starving stray and she somehow managed to give birth to two kittens.  I am physically unable to pass by an animal in need, so I caught the little buggers and fixed them up.  The plan was first to give them to a local rescue.  No dice.  All the rescues were full of kittens.  The supply is way beyond the demand for this particular product.  Okay, plan 2.  Take Camille, who was peeing on my furniture to the Humane Society.  Ah, no dice.  I got her into the building, completed the paperwork, returned to the car and began to cry hysterically.  The Humane Society could not guarantee that she would find a home and she might be put down.  My dear husband went back into the shelter and brought her back to the car.  We bought some expensive spray stuff that convinced her furniture was not a litter box.  Plan 3, try to find cats a new home.  Success!  An elderly couple wants both of them!  Wait, an elderly couple only wants Camille...  okay, Plan 4, find a home for Louie.  No dice.  We just kept him until this year when he went to what ever afterlife cats have.

2)  Shzung-  this cat literally walks in the (doggie) door and does not leave. I assumed, upon finding her on my kitchen counter one morning, that she was a confused kitty and set her outside.  She had a collar and looked healthy, she just needed to reorient and find her actual home.  That was a super simple plan, right?  Wrong!  She came back in doggie door that night, crawled into bed with us, parked it on my chest and stayed.  I put ads online, in the newspaper and put fliers around the neighborhood.  Surely someone was missing this sweet kitty, right?  Wrong!  No one claimed her!  I can't take her to the Humane Society and the rescues are always full (reference Camille and Louie, above).  So, we have a cat.  Actually, we have two cats because we still have Louie.  Please note, I never planned to have even a single cat!!

3) Shzung gets pregnant-  I, being a logical sort, made an appointment to have the pregnancy terminated and get her "fixed."  Sounds horrid I know, but we musn't forget the overabundance of cats.  My sweet husband, who also has never wanted a cat, doesn't "feel right" about my plan, so we have kittens!!  Yeah, three kittens!  Huckle, Three and Jamie, who were born in my bedroom (which, is a story in of itself, maybe I will share it later).  Jamie thought rugs were toilets, so she went to live with a family as an outdoor cat.  My daughter predicted Huckle's existence, so we had to keep her.  Truly, she told us when she was 4 years old "Shzung will have an orange and black and white kitten and I will name her 'Huckle.'"  You can't argue with foreknowledge.  But Huckle was the runt and kinda sickly, so we kept Three as a "back up cat," expecting Huckle wouldn't make it.  Huckle is now 12 pounds and larger than some dogs.  So, without planning to have even a single cat, I HAD FIVE.  They accumulate.

 Jamie, Three & Huckle

Huckle

Louie and Three

4)  Cats will be outdoor cats- oops no!  New management for the HOA, all animals must be inside or on leash.  Cats don't do leashes.

5) Okay, so we will wait patiently until we move and then the herd will be outdoor cats.  Nope!  We do move.  And into a place with 2.5 beautiful acres...  It's a cat's paradise.  No! It's not a cat's paradise!  Szhung ran away and then over the fenced portion of the yard (followed by our new dog.  That's another story, I will tell you later).  No problem, she will come back, she always came back when she sneaked out at our other house.  She hasn't come back...I am sad but cats come and cats go, right?  NO!  Not when your daughter is almost six.  She is sad.  My sweet husband tells her that Shzung went to a house with no dogs.  Alrighty then.  Our remaining cats like it outside and we figure the loss of Shzung was a fluke.  Then Huckle is gone for two days.  Yep, that's 48 hours.  Not cool.  I am heading outside to look for her again, expecting to come up empty handed.  When I open the door, she is there, standing on her hind legs with her paws on the front door.  "Meow," she says to me.  I have never been so relieved to see a cat in my life or any other animal for that matter.  Even more than a lot of humans.  Sigh... not cats outside ever!  The laundry room, which has space for crafting will now be devoted to litter boxes and cat supplies.  So much for Mom's craft room!  Plan has gone awry.  New plan is that small girl will not be sad because her cats disappear.

Why all this talk about cats, becoming a crazy cat lady and planning?  It is because you can never plan these things.  And by "these things,"  I mean anything that we encounter while on this Earth.  While we were living this cat saga, we were going up and down, back and forth, and generally all over the place with our other "plans."  Plans to buy a house, plans to pay off debt, plans make changes to our jobs.  Not a single one of those plans worked out.  We are in a new house and we are almost done paying off our debt, but not because of our specific plans.  We accomplished those things because we had a goal and identified what needed to happen right now to get closer to that goal.  We also, foolishly, tried to identify all the steps to completion of our goal.  Then we felt horrible when those steps did not take place.  When we thought we had a plan and every plan from that step did not materialize, it made us feel as though our plan would not happen at all and we would not reach our goals.  This is not true.  Just because one aspect of how you thought it would go, doesn't how you expected does not mean that the goal is unachievable.  It means that you must rethink the next step necessary to move closer to the goal.  When making grand plans, we lack all the information needed to have a detailed, step-by-step framework.  What I have learned is you only need to focus on what you are doing right now. You need to have a general game plan and some sense of the big picture, so you know what you are working towards but a detailed plan isn't going to cut it.  There are too many unknowns and too many surprises. Because living a life is a lot like having a cat.