Tiny Tim Goes Shopping

There is nothing my mother enjoys more than shopping.

Well, okay. That's not entirely true. We all know she likes collecting men  But just after collecting men, she likes shopping.  And if she can collect men who will take her shopping...all the better.

Of course she likes her wine too...I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but shopping ranks right up there as something my mother enjoys most in life. Wine. Men. And shopping.

She particularly likes to go shopping at Christmastime. My mother firmly adheres into the notion that Christmas is about the buying and giving of stuff. Every December she calls me and whines that she doesn't get to go shopping and wants to buy presents. And I, who dislikes shopping and holiday crowds, tell her how cold it is and how frenzied the stores are, and negotiate the purchase of gift cards on her behalf, which can be opened on Christmas morning so that she feels she's given a gift and I've avoided having to take her shopping in December. It was a system that was working just fine until Steve entered into the mix. He's such a little Christmas elf.

Every year Steve suggests we take Mommie Dearest shopping, just for the pure joy of getting out in the hustle and bustle with her. Every year I say no. The words pure, joy, and shopping with my mother cannot be formed into a single sentence. This year when he started saying we should take her shopping I responded only slightly less adamantly than I would have if he said we should vacation in North Korea.

NO.

So he tried an different tactic by appealing to Anna's sense of compassion and, less jaded than I, she agreed. They went yesterday, Bob Chachit and Fred, and loaded little Tiny Tim and her walker into the car and took her out into the Christmas decorations, lights, and music. It even snowed all storybook and perfectlike.

Scrooge stayed home and worked.

(Source: Google Images)

They didn't take her out for long or to very many places. She doesn't have the stamina for much. They took her to a Charming Charlie store loaded with costume jewelry, purses, and scarves where she got so excited she developed a  headache, heart palpitations, and lightheadedness.  She had to sit down for a while. Three times. Fortunately she didn't have a stroke. That would have put a damper on the whole storybook outting. Nevertheless, she was thrilled and her Christmas was made. He joy was complete.

All it took was a kind-hearted man and his daughter to put in the effort to take an elderly woman out to do what she loves best. Or second best. Maybe third. Regardless, they lived out the meaning of Christmas. And giving. And sacrifice. They personified what this Christmas business is all about. I can see that now and I've considered what they did.

I'm prepared. Next year when Mommie Dearest calls me complaining that she can't go Christmas shopping I'm pretty sure I know what my answer will be.

Bah Humbug.

I'm gonna need a few more ghostly visits for that one.

Breaking the Self-Loathing Rules

I like myself.

There. I said it. 

I recognize, according to our culture, I'm not supposed to. But I do. I like the person I've become. 

It's not that I spend a huge amount of time thinking about how much I like myself. I'm not that narcissistic. I have come to realize, however, that I like who I am. Which is not, I venture to guess, playing by the rules. There's no denying how deeply ingrained self-loathing is in American culture. Especially for a woman over 50.  I'm supposed to dislike my wrinkles, abhor my body, despise my hair, and fear the aging process.  Not to mention that I shouldn't like my personality quirks.

I'd be lying if I said I've always been okay with who I am. I haven't.  But the older I get, the gentler I'm becoming with my eccentric, wrinkly, saggy, greying self.  Okay, that's not true.  I still don't like my greying hair. It's not that I hate it, necessarily. I just hide it behind the magic of chemicals.  Perhaps I haven't fully arrived. Nevertheless, I like most of the person I've become.

This focus on self-loathing came to my attention last week as I was testing out a hiring program at work. The premise of the program is that the applicant reads a word which pops up on a computer screen and then determines if the word is descriptive of them or not.  I completed the assessment putting words like "quiet," "defensive," and "difficult," in the 'not me' category  and words like, "cheerful," "optimistic," and "witty" in the 'me' category.  It all seemed harmless enough. I was truthful in my responses and I liked the words that described me.

The next step of the process is where I had trouble. Following the sorting exercise, I was given a list of the very same words. Next to the 'me' words were check marks. The instructions were to put additional check marks by the words that described what I want to be. Presumably I was to un-check the ones that described what I didn't want to be. 

I was perplexed. The assumption seemed to be that I wouldn't like some of the words that described me. Except that wasn't true.  I liked the words that described me. Because I like me. Sure I want to continue growing into a better me.  But I don't dislike the me that I am (grey hair excepted). The program assumed I'd dislike some of the words that described me and desire some of the words that didn't. I wasn't supposed to be happy with who I am.

In the midst of angst over that whole message,  I got a call from a cosmetics representative about one of those weird home parties that I had agreed to attend. I said I'd go because I wanted to see my friends. But the representative was doing her job trying to build a clientele.  She asked a series of questions, the final one being, "What is the one thing you dislike most about your skin?"  Again, the assumption was that, of course I'm dissatisfied with something. Only I'm not. Yes, I have at times been dissatisfied. And my mother is quite dissatisfied with my wrinkles. Yet these days I sort of like my wrinkles. I've earned them and I don't have any desire to look like a creepy wax figure of myself.

Here's the thing. Being older isn't bad. And being quirky is just who I am. Some people are fat. Some are tall. Some are fat and tall.  Some are Asian. Some are witty. Some are dull. The list goes on and on.  Is it really necessary to assume we all dislike something about ourselves? 

Obsessing over things we don't like takes a lot of time. Time that could be spent caring for someone else. Or complimenting them. Or doing something kind.

We live in a culture of self-loathing. But we don't have to conform to what culture says...because it is a lie. We can look in the mirror and like what we see.  We can laugh too loudly and then laugh some more.  We can say off-the-wall things that make people wonder if we have Turrets, and chuckle to ourselves at their response. Not that I have experience with any of those things, of course.

The truth is, we aren't required to tell ourselves we're fat, or ugly, or socially awkward. We can tell ourselves we're wonderful just the way we are. We can be kind to ourselves and love ourselves and take that positive energy out into the world.

Because the world needs less self-loathing...and a lot more love.

Pearls and Tennis Shoes

I've spent an inordinate amount of time looking at this photograph trying to figure out the story behind it. With very little information I've attempted to piece details together, but no matter how hard I try, I simply can't figure out what was happening when this shot was taken.

What I do know is these are my ancestors; the progenitors of my children, my siblings, and me. The colorful, crusty, unrefined gene pool from which we are descended. Coming from a line of sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable types would have been boring. But we don't have to worry because there wasn't a sedate, well-mannered, socially acceptable soul among them.

These are our people.

The one on the left is my grandmother, Beatrice. The two in the middle were her younger twin brothers, Bert and Boyd. The little one, on the right, wistfully looking into the distance was their older sister, Nellie.

There are so many unanswered questions about this photograph. Why is my grandmother wearing a white dress, pearls, and blue tennis shoes? Why are the others dressed casually but she's dressed up? Why do they all look sad? Or worried? Or discouraged? What is Nellie thinking as she gazes somewhere else, not paying attention to the photographer? Where are they? What is the occasion?

I'll never know. Nobody who knew anything about this picture is still alive. All of these siblings have gone on to the other side and while I have no idea what the afterlife looks like, I'm pretty sure if it is calm and serene and gentle, these four aren't there. If it involves smoking and drinking, swearing and gambling, befriending outlaws, and telling bawdy jokes, however, I've no doubt they are happily settled in.

When I was a little girl a lot of things scared me. My grandmother among them. As I grew into adulthood, though, I learned that she was funny and lively and genuine. She spent her final years playing bingo, going to dances, and riding a bus to Las Vegas several times a year. I don't think she ever saw a show in Las Vegas, for her it was all about playing the slot machines. She never fit into the 'grandmother' mold.  Thankfully. She never really fit into any mold. I liked her style. Be who you are and ignore what others think.

My memories of Bert and Boyd are dimmed by a haze of cigarette smoke. Most of my recollections of them are around a poker table. I grew up hearing the stories of their friendship with the notorious outlaw Pretty Boy Floyd. As a little girl my mother was with them when they hid Pretty Boy under a pile of laundry so the police wouldn't find him. On the surface that may seem undesirable but to them their friend wasn't a 'bad guy.' He was a 'good guy' who was helping the poor. I liked their style. Live by your convictions even if others don't agree.

Nellie was tiny but strong. She was divorced when it wasn't a socially acceptable thing to do and she never remarried. In an era when few women wore pants instead of dresses, Nellie bucked convention and dressed in slacks. She lived in the city, had a career, and went against the grain of social expectations for her time. Nellie told me bawdy jokes and laughed heartily. She died in Las Vegas with her sister, gambling to the very end.  I liked her style. Shun oppressive convention and walk through life with confidence.

I'm never going to know the real story behind this photograph. It is too late. But I do have memories of the way these four people lived their colorful, meaningful lives. Maybe I'll use what I know of them to piece together a fictional story to go along with the picture. A story to guide my children, my siblings, and me in how to live fully and courageously. A story to remind us.

These are our people.

The Kindness of Noticing

Random Acts of Kindness is a thing.

I like to hear of someone paying for the next person's venti, half-caf, low-fat, vanilla latte at the Starbuck's drive-thru window (proof that drinking coffee makes one a nicer person) or the benevolent tipper who leaves a huge sum of money for their poor, hard-working server. Those things matter. Regardless of how small, they make the world a better place. I'm especially appreciative of how intentional these givers are. I assume they, in some way, have planned their act of kindness.

Source: coffeecupsandcrayons.com

But, I also appreciate acts of kindness that flow out of people without any pre-meditation. Those things that happen... just because they noticed something.

Twice this week I've been on the receiving end of the kindness of others, not because they planned to do a kind act that day (I don't think) but just simply because they noticed something. I doubt either person knew how much what they did mattered to me. I suspect they didn't give it much thought.

But I did.

Before I explain what they did, I'll just say both acts made me think about how easy it is to encourage someone. Of course, it is just as easy to discourage someone, but this story is about encouraging and I don't want to mess up the goodness mojo with negative talk.

Story number one begins with me stopping at the grocery store for toothpaste. Just one little tube of minty fresh toothpaste was all I needed.  I was on my way home from work and for whatever reason, that day I was feeling particularly tired. Not at all minty fresh.  I went to a store that never seems to have any customers, thinking I could get in and out quickly. After locating the toothpaste I went to the check-out lines only to find that the seven other customers who went to the store that day had all come at the same time, filled their carts, and were just ahead of me.  What I did next seems, in retrospect, a little on the petty side.

I counted items.

Having gone to the Express Lane - which had a sign that said "15 Items or Less"  (and should say "15 Items or Fewer"...but that's just me being petty again) - with my one item, I found myself feeling irritated at the woman in front of me who had more than 15 purchases. Fortunately she didn't see me peering over the edge of her cart, counting. Moments later, however, when I was gazing in the other direction, she turned to me and said, "Oh, you only have one item, go ahead of me."  Feeling a little sheepish about my attitude toward her only seconds before, I thanked her, moved in line ahead of her, bought my toothpaste and left quickly, which had been the goal in the first place.  It wouldn't have killed me to wait but I appreciated her kindness in not making me.  It was a tiny thing. But it made my day brighter. My weary little self felt less weary.

Perhaps I was more aware of her act of kindness because, having been on the receiving end a few days earlier, I had already been thinking about how meaningful simple gestures can be.

As much as I haven't wanted to think about it, my friend Debbie is moving away. For years we have talked about that someday when she and her husband would move and settle into retirement. I didn't worry much about it because it was always in the future. Except now it isn't. Now her house in Colorado is on the market, another one in Kansas purchased, and someday is upon us for real. As much as I am trying to be a grownup and embrace the change, thinking about it makes me forget to breathe.

Debbie and I became friends years ago while singing in our church choir. We both had sons named Parker and before long we discovered we each thought the other was hilarious.  We've shared a lot of life over nearly twenty years. Some good stuff. Some bad stuff. Some silly and some serious. Always with laughter, we've been deeply invested in each other's lives for a very long time.

It feels a little like I've been told I'm having a vital appendage removed.

Last weekend at a gathering of the music ministry, there was time set aside to honor Debbie for her years of service and to pray for her 'new life.' Many wonderful things were said of Debbie and heartfelt prayers were offered for a smooth transition. It was lovely and caring and meaningful and all about Debbie when, out of the blue, one quiet, unassuming man offered a simple prayer for me because, as he put it, "Sue will be lost without Debbie."

He is right. I will.

This man doesn't know me well, but clearly his powers of observation are intact. Amid care and concern for Debbie, he thought to remember what this would mean for me. He had bothered to notice how close we are and anticipate how different my life will be with Debbie in another state.

Something so simple. So kind. So meaningful.

Both the woman in the grocery store and the man in the prayer circle reminded me that kindness is not just about doing, but also about noticing. The art of noticing and caring and then doing.

Perhaps in addition to Random Acts of Kindness, we should start a movement of Random Acts of Noticing, Which In Turn Result In Random Acts of Kindness.

Although the title might need work.

Whatever the title, it doesn't take a lot of planning or effort but simple kindness can mean so much.

Limes Need Love Too

Wait! Summer is OVER???

The Scream by Edvard Munch

Although the autumnal equinox doesn't come for couple of weeks summer is, for all intents and purposes...over. 

Sad.

Summer is my very favorite season. For lots of reasons I suppose. Maybe there is some throwback to childhood summers when fun and play were the order of the day. Or maybe it is that when my own children were in school, summer was our time to just goof around. I like flowers. And heat. And chirping crickets. I like it all and I set my intentions on enjoying it. Except somehow, this summer didn't seem nearly as delightful as I had hoped.

There were a number of reasons for that, really. Some were self-imposed, like taking on far too much work all at once. I forgot about that boundary setting business. Some were God imposed, like rain. Every. Single. Day. Rain is nice and all, but too much of a good thing gets burdensome. Some were externally imposed, like horrific news events that make me think everyone has gone certifiably insane.

It was a tough summer.

I wasn't entirely ready for Anna to return to school when she did; it seemed to come up far too quickly. Nevertheless, we drove her to another state, got her settled, and returned home in early August. I felt sad. In the following week I was working a million hours everyday to meet deadlines. It rained. Every. Single. Day. There were riots in Missouri and reports of Robin Williams' suicide. Russia invaded Ukraine. Ebola was ravaging West Africa and hopeless refugees were trapped atop Mount Sinjar. A friend's son had just died tragically in the prime of his life and other friends were coming to terms with their son's incurable brain tumor.

It was a very tough summer.

One afternoon that week, amid all the soberness, I stopped at the little market in my neighborhood to buy some fresh produce. Lemons were on my list and as I approached the stand where they were displayed in mounds of yellow, I saw a young woman and her two small children stationed in front of them. The woman was deeply engaged in a conversation with her son. I'm not sure what they were talking about...maybe the merits of citrus or the dangers of scurvy.  I don't know, but the little girl was seemingly unnoticed for those few minutes. Left to her own devices she did what anyone would do I suppose. Or maybe what I hope we would all do. She started singing.

To the nearby limes.

It started off as a simple little song. I didn't recognize the tune. In fact, it was rather avant garde with its dissonant notes, uneven rhythm, and lack of any discernible rhyming patterns. Before long the girl became quite impassioned and the song took on a decidedly loving tone. She loved those limes. Everybody loved those limes. Limes were the best thing in the world. In fact, all existential meaning in life could be found in those simple limes.

Okay. She didn't sing that last part. But she might as well have. I just stood and listened as she sang her limey love song with every bit of her soul. I smiled. My spirit lifted. And yes, she was in my way and I couldn't reach the lemons.

But it didn't matter. I appreciated her zeal for the limes so much that I didn't really need to reach the lemons at that very moment. Somehow, amid the fatigue and tragedy and sadness, the little lime crooner gave me hope.

No, her song didn't change anything that had weighed down my spirit that week. It didn't end hatefulness. It didn't cure cancer. It didn't make tragedy less painful.

It did remind me, however, that love is more powerful than hate. That joy is more powerful than sorrow. That all people...and all limes...need to feel loved. As long as there is love there is hope.

The little girl reminded me that we would all benefit by singing words of love to the limes.

And to one another.

He Didn't Stop and He Went Blind

Turns out the notion if you don't stop you'll go blind is true.

Well...maybe.

My evidence regarding this claim is sketchy at best. Plus it's only based on one example, so reliability might be lacking. But still, the hypothesis is compelling and since I base this claim on the life of a cat, I'm thinking this probably adds to my credibility. 

A few weeks ago we added another name to our family's dead cat roster. To be clear, we don't acquire cats in order to add them to the list, it just sort of comes with the whole cat ownership thing. Willie was our latest fatality. When we took him in we named him William Alexander Jenkins the Third. I have no idea if there ever was a William Alexander Jenkins the First. Or Second. It just seemed a rather regal name for a cat. But old William had a...behavior quirk...we hadn't encountered in a cat before. In fact, I didn't even know a cat could do that. It sort of took away from the regality if you ask me. As it was, the shortened version of his name was rather apt.

Giving Willie a home wasn't my idea. As all of our cats have been, Willie was a shelter cat in need of a loving place to belong. He was old and sickly and had very little to offer as a pet. Anna had been taken in by his only real selling point; engaging, emerald green eyes set against a deep gray furry backdrop. She claimed he needed a home. I claimed he needed a different home than ours. She felt a deep conviction that we were his only hope. I maintained three cats were plenty. Steve remained quiet on the subject for a while. Eventually, though, Old Softy got involved in the conversation by stating that we already had three cats anyway, what was one more? It was two against one. I lost.

Several things became apparent as soon as Willie came home with us. One, Willie was old. Two, Willie was sick. Three, Willie only ate human food. Four, Willie hated other cats. Five, Willie had an awkward addiction.

It took a bit for us to catch on to what Willie was doing. Or maybe nobody wanted to admit they thought Willie was doing what it seemed Willie was doing. We'd never had a cat who did this before. At first there were uncomfortable moments when one of us would recognize what was happening and glance around the room to see if anyone else noticed. It was actually a little embarrassing. Eventually, though, we collectively concluded that yes, Willie was doing what we thought Willie was doing. We just had no idea what to do about what Willie was doing.

We tried distracting him mid-socially unacceptable behavior, but this only served to make him agitated and surly. Everyone in the family agreed they could understand Willie's response. But still, letting it just happen seemed weird. We couldn't figure out how to communicate to Willie that he should really only do that in private. Cats aren't the best about following social conventions. This had the potential to make things quite awkward when we had guests.

We discovered a few patterns that helped discourage Willie's activities a little. Nice soft blankets seemed to enhance the experience so we removed comfy throws from public living areas. Reducing Willie's stress seemed to help a bit as well. As for guests, we decided to be open about Willie when company was around, "Oops, Willie forgets his manners, let me just take him into another room." It was unusual to be sure, but what else could we do with our cat's unconventional proclivities?

Over time Willie seemed to moderate his own behavior a little. Either that or he just got too old and sick to do it as often. Either way he cut back to only several times per day. We started noticing a pretty rapid decline in his health in early spring and one day we saw him walk right into a table leg. His failing eyesight had been obvious for some time, but now it seemed Willie couldn't see a thing. He hadn't stopped and sure enough...he'd gone blind.

As time went on Willie lost weight and agility and except for a few sessions of personal satisfaction every day, his quality of life seemed to be slipping away. On Willie's last day we held him, told him we loved him, and then put him on a soft blanket and let him have some time alone. We figured it was the second most compassionate thing we could do that day. It was his obsession up until the very end.

I've never had a cat like Willie before. I'd be okay if I never do again. We gave him a good and loving home and more than once we looked away and just pretended not to notice. If Cat Heaven is the compassionate and understanding place I think it is William Alexander Jenkins the Third is there now with a nice soft blanket, a room of his own, and emerald green eyes that will never again fail.

Sadie's Sentence

Sadie finally had her day in court.  Well, Sadie didn't go to court. I did. Sadie stayed home and slept with a cat. Because that's what dangerous animals do.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

 

Steve accompanied me to the courthouse. He said he was going as moral support but, in reality, I'm pretty sure he went along thinking he might need to hold me back if I started swinging and yelling, "Lemme at 'em! Lemme at 'em!"

 

I almost did.

 

The whole experience was infuriating.

 

Step one was meeting with a snarky city prosecutor. I'm not sure if her job description includes snarkiness, although I doubt it. If it does, however, someone should alert HR because she deserves a raise for fulfilling her role quite well. Making sure to be as condescending as possible, she explained the whole situation to me. I already knew the story. I was there.

 

Following her description and explanation of the Potentially Dangerous Animal charge I was facing, she told me the city was prepared to offer a plea bargain for Running-at-Large. Sadie...not me.  

 

Running-at-Large? All of the documentation, citation, and descriptions in the case, state that Sadie was on a leash and harness at the time of the vicious one-inch-jean-ripping incident. Now, however, I could plead guilty to letting her run-at-large? Doesn't that mean she was out having a dog free for all, eating garbage, peeing everywhere, dancing in the streets, biting anyone she could find, all with no human supervision?  

None of that was true.

Neither was the Potentially Dangerous Animal charge but that would just be splitting hairs.

Fortunately I wasn't testifying. No Bibles and claims of truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth were involved. This whole affair wasn't about telling the truth. Nor about justice. It was about making money. It was about backing me into a corner by 'benevolently' reducing the first untrue charge for a lesser and even more untrue charge. When I balked at this I was told I could plead 'not-guilty' and take the whole thing to trial by jury. Oh, and by the way that would mean I'd have to retain a lawyer. Oh, and by the way, if you do here is the list of charges associated with going that route. 

But suit yourself. Really.

It was at that point I stated clearly what a scammy load of crap this was. I glanced at Steve who was making all manner of non-verbal facial and hand gestures to tell me to calm down. I considered pulling his hair. 

I compromised myself and took the plea bargain because in the end it was all about money for me too. I chose the least expensive way out of a situation that never needed to go to court in the first place. It galled me to stand before a judge and plead guilty to something not even remotely true.

In a word...it sucked.

Interestingly, the whole reason why I was cited was that the boy's parents wanted fifty-bucks for the kid's jeans. Not once did they state a concern about Sadie as a dangerous dog. The Potentially Dangerous Animal charge was the brainchild of the city. It was not, however, until I asked about paying restitution that the prosecutor even remembered that part of the case.

The kid got money for his jeans. The city got their $100. Sadie got court mandated obedience school which she has been attending voluntarily since the incident occurred. When I mentioned this it seemed nobody spoke English anymore and they couldn't understand a word I was saying. In addition, for the next year my sweet little rescue dog gets to wear a muzzle anytime she leaves our house. The judge was quick to give me all the financial ramifications should I fail to comply and Sadie were to rip someone else's jeans. I gathered he didn't want me to mistake the punishment as being about the safety of the citizens of Centennial rather than replenishing the city coffers.

It's done. I'll get over my anger at the system. I'd still rather be in the United States dealing with the broken judicial system than anywhere else in the world. It just didn't need to go to court.

So please...if you see Sadie running wildly around town wearing her Jason hockey mask looking for jeans to rip up...just call me.

I'll take care of it.

Tradition

Some families maintain traditions steeped in historical, religious, or ethnic meaning. In our family, traditions usually come about as a result of having done something fun and the desire to repeat it again and again. Of course each time we repeat our traditions they take on a slightly different flavor but we savor them nonetheless.

Such is the case with our Easter tradition.

Several years ago we decided to spend Easter weekend at a small, semi-rustic cabin in the mountains. Our kids were getting older and increasingly busy with jobs, friends, and various activities. Family time became scarce, so we opted for a weekend devoted to just being together, bonding, and having fun. That year we enjoyed the time so much it kicked off a tradition of going to the mountains every Good Friday and staying through Easter weekend. With the five of us crammed into a tiny two-bedroom cabin there is plenty of opportunity for laughter, deep conversation, game playing, and soul restoration.

There's also time for our annual headgear photo. This is the first one. It is also my favorite because it captures a sponteneous moment when Steve said something that made us all laugh just as the camera shutter clicked.

Easter 2007

 

One hallway in our house is now lined with framed images from each of our subsequent holiday weekends. They make me happy every time I look at them.

 

This year our weekend had an extra little twist that added to our bank of memories.

 

Anna took the train home from college on Friday morning and after picking her up, packing, and loading the car, we set out on our journey. We didn't time our departure very well and ended up in the stop-and-go traffic of people headed to a Rockies baseball game. When we finally made it to Boulder we decided to make a quick biology stop. After a few minutes we were ready to make the last trek to the cabin but our Jeep had other ideas. It wasn't going anywhere. Steve checked everything he could think of under the hood but eventually announced that the vehicle needed to be towed to the nearby repair shop.

 

This was not part of the original plan.

 

Getting to the mountains without a car was going to be tricky.  Fortunately Parker lives in Boulder and has a Jeep of his own. Unfortunately he was working in Denver. We unloaded our belongings onto the curb.

 

Watched as our vehicle got towed away.

 



 

And looking a bit like refugees from the city, awaited Parker's arrival.  It was well after dark when we finally made it to the cabin but eventually we all arrived safely and ready to immerse ourselves in the joy and relaxation we've come to expect.

 

On Sunday it was time to take our annual Easter Family Photo. We had recently been having a conversation about eventual changes to the photo. Our children are now all young adults and we anticipate the day will come when 'add on' family members may be joining our little fivesome. Steve and I have discussed at what point these fictitious but anticipated, someday, additional family members will be invited to join the photo...and our expectation that they won't fuss about having to wear something on their heads.

 

Sadie was our additional family member guinea pig. Okay, she is actually a dog, but anyway, she was our first addition. I'd like to say she didn't fuss about having to wear something on her head but I'd be lying. She fussed. A lot. Should human additional family members cause that much commotion about it they will probably be thrown out of the family, but we cut Sadie some slack and she eventually complied.

 

Happily.

Easter 2014



As it does every year, Monday arrived much too soon and we were forced to leave our little mountain Utopia and return to real life. As we headed into Denver we got a call about our Jeep. It seems some little, but important, thingy had broken and the only way to fix it is to rebuild the engine.

 

Turns out the weekend ended up being a lot more expensive than we had anticipated but that didn't stop us from having fun, taking our annual headgear photo, and trying out the new family member requirements.

 

I'd like to go on record, however, by stating that as much as I love our traditions, if I get to choose, I think I'll take fussing new family members in bunny ears over engine repairs.

 

Some things just don't need to become traditions.

 

 

 







Merci(less) Me

When I got up this morning my agenda for the day did not include killing a squirrel.

But then...plans change.

I've never killed an animal before. I have made the decision to have a few cats euthanized but it is always one I make soberly and I never let them cross over alone. Several of my family members think I'm slightly insane when I ask that they take insects outdoors to freedom rather than smash them indoors. I've been known to try to convince a couple of mice to leave on their own before we resort to setting traps.  I'm basically a pacifist. And a weirdo.

I was met with a challenge this morning, however, when Sadie was going berserk over an incapacitated squirrel under our backyard deck.  I don't know what was wrong with the squirrel. It isn't impossible that Sadie injured it but I don't think she did. Regardless, the little squirrel was under our deck and Sadie was trying everything she could think of to reach it. I could hear the squirrel crying and chirping in obvious pain. After some consideration I decided that I had to do the merciful thing and kill it.

Problem #1. I have no idea how to kill something.

Steve had mentioned that over the coming weekend he was going to take apart a step leading out from the deck to the yard. It is actually a low platform made up of several boards. Initially the plaintive cries from the injured squirrel were coming from under the platform step so I decided to start the reconstruction project a little early by removing boards in order to reach it. Lacking a hammer or drill or any other real construction tools I used an old shovel to pry up the boards. This took considerable time. Time I used to develop a plan for what I was going to do once I had access to the critter.

Having never killed anything before I started going over possible ways to put this little creature out of its misery.  Whack it with the shovel? Nah. That wouldn't work. I know myself. I'd never hit it hard enough. All I would accomplish would be hurting it more. I remembered a story my brother told about his wife shooting a snake with a shotgun. She killed it and it makes for a rather funny story, but no. Shooting the squirrel wasn't an option.

I finally decided that after removing enough boards to get close to the squirrel I would scoop it up into the shovel and take it to the pond where I would drop it in and let it drown.  Not the most humane way in the world but better than causing it further injury or letting it suffer.  Once it was dead I planned to fish it out with the trusty shovel, put it in a garbage bag, and place it in the trash can awaiting removal by the curb. I was feeling pretty confident about the whole thing until I got the boards removed and saw the suffering rodent. My heart pounding, I was determined to do right by him as I attempted to scoop him into the shovel. Apparently he didn't like my plan. He dragged himself far enough away that I couldn't reach him.

Problem #2. I have no idea how to kill something.

With the squirrel now further under the deck I had the option of letting him continue to suffer, cry, wheeze, and eventually die or, I could find another way to get him out. I figured water would do the trick so I turned the hose on and let it drip down between decking boards. This did absolutely nothing except make the squirrel cry louder and make the suffering little rodent a muddy, suffering little rodent. At one point I actually heard my self say out loud, "Oh come on little squirrel. I don't want to hurt you...I just want to kill you."

There was nothing left to do but take apart the deck. Continuing to use my old rusty shovel, I started prying at the deck boards. I got a board up in one piece but broke a couple of other ones in my lust for blood. Except I was trying to avoid blood.

I pulled up enough boards to see the little squirrel and again planned to scoop him into the shovel and drop him in the pond. What I hadn't planned on was the little squirrel's determination not to go for a final swim. Mr. Squirrel (or Mrs., I couldn't tell) wanted nothing to do with my plan. He managed to drag his little body to a foundational deck post that made a small three-sided box and wedge his bedraggled, muddy, mangled little body snugly between two boards.

Damn.

Problem #3. I have no idea how to kill something.

With the squirrel now wedged tightly between two boards I had to come up with a new plan. I wasn't sure the squirrel was even able to unwedge itself and I tried to use a little garden spade to dislodge it. I couldn't. It cried. Once again, I was afraid of hurting the squirrel before killing it. He was already hurt enough I couldn't see hurting him more. Now that he was wedged between boards I didn't know how to kill him. I considered stabbing him. But with what? A kitchen knife?  Um. No. Besides, I knew I'd never be able to go through with it. A bloody murder scene was out of the question.  Poison? Dang, fresh out of poison.

I knew if I let Sadie into the backyard she would make quick work of the problem. But I couldn't stand the thought of her killing something and I wasn't entirely sure why the poor squirrel was dying. What if it was sick? I  also couldn't shake the haunting thought that if I let her kill it she might not remember that the cats were cats. I didn't want to take the chance she'd enjoy it so much she'd want to do it again. No. I couldn't let Sadie get him.

I decided the best thing to do was to try and pull him out of his hiding place so I mustered up my courage, donned some leather work gloves and with my heart pounding even harder this time, reached down under the deck and grabbed his tail. He let out a loud scream. I let out an even louder scream. He hunkered into his wedge. I fell backwards onto the deck.

Alrightlythen. Pulling him out by the tail wasn't an option either.

And then I heard the garbage truck.

Damn.

Problem #4. I have no idea how to kill something. 

Having exhausted all of my brilliant ideas for humanely taking care of my squirrel friend. I decided to go inside and work for a while. In my office I couldn't see him nor could I hear his sad little cries. Surely he would die soon. I gave him an hour. I tried not to think about him as I worked but at the one-hour mark I went to check on him. He was still and quiet and peaceful. I spoke kindly to him and told him I was sorry things hadn't quite gone as planned. I was pretty sure he was dead and I would be able to remove him from his hiding spot. Just to be sure though, I gently poked him with a stick.

He let out a loud scream.

I let out an even louder scream.

Damn.

This wasn't going well.

I'd like to say my plan worked and I was able to usher the little squirrel into rodent paradise. But I can't. As of right now he is still alive and I have no idea how to kill him. As much as I wanted to play the benevolent grim reaper all I really managed to do was damage the deck and talk to a squirrel.

When I got up this morning my agenda didn't include killing a squirrel.

I guess I stuck to my plan afterall.

UPDATE:  Following publication of this post Steve came home and humanely took care of the little squirrel. 

My Fair Doggie

So this dog ownership thing...somebody should have told me what I was getting into.

Apparently all those things you hear about the differences between cats and dogs are true. Having had a cat...or four...during the majority of my adult life, I'm pretty well versed in the world of the feline. Feed them. Let them think my bed is theirs. Pet them when they say I should. Create a weird, creepy pet cemetery in the backyard when they die. That pretty well sums it up. No walks. No baths. No assurances that they are good kitties. They really don't care if I think they are good. As long as they feel I'm catering to their whims everyone is happy.

Not so with dogs.

It just would have been nice if someone had told me about that before we impulsively took in an abused, rescue dog whose needs are vastly different from the felines of privilege who currently concede to let us live in their house. 

In reality, Sadie doesn't show all that many signs from her early life anymore. I think she's forgotten about her puppies. Being on death row seems a distant memory. She's well loved and although she wouldn't look at the cats when she first came to live with us, she has learned to cohabitate with them. One cat is her buddy, two don't really care about her one way or another, and another one is seemingly plotting her death on a daily basis. But then, he seems to be plotting everyone's death on a daily basis, so we don't worry about it too much. 

Until recently my daily walks with Sadie have been a refreshing routine. We would go out in the warmth of the day so she could sniff all the things that appeal to dogs and burn off some energy. I used the time not only to get a little exercise of my own but also to think and process. Without that time my thoughts tended to resemble a Fort Lee lane closure. It just wasn't healthy. Since Sadie made her way into our house my mind had been clearer. Walking had been a good thing for both of us.

Until it stopped being a good thing.

Our walking routine changed a couple of weeks ago when, for whatever reason, Sadie decided to exercise her cattle dog herding dog instincts on a young man who in no way resembled a cow. He was just an innocent, if a good bit larger than I, boy on his way home from school. She didn't actually hurt him but she ripped his pants and scratched his leg. 

I was horrified. He was upset. Sadie, however, had no idea she had done anything unacceptable. She was just doing what herding dogs do. This was the first clue I had an Eliza Doolittle on my hands.

I gave the boy my contact information and insisted I would pay to replace his pants. Immediately following the unfortunate herding incident I called Animal Control and Sadie was put under house arrest. First a teen pregnancy and now trouble with the law. My children never gave me this much trouble. 

Sadie was under house arrest for ten days. This meant no walks, no trips in the car, just a few quick jaunts into the back yard each day. During that time I didn't hear from the parents of the boy who had the misfortune to pass us, as I had hoped I would. I did go out for several days in search of him. I was prepared to offer him another apology and some money but I never saw him again.

When Sadie had served her time, a parole officer visited our house and told me the boy's parents were pressing charges and I had to appear in court. Although it was sad to think they didn't trust my word enough to believe we could work things out on our own I also knew the situation could have been much worse. This is when I knew it was time for Operation Pygmalion. Minus the patriarchal undertones.

The first step was to enroll Sadie in obedience school. We knew she was smart but up until this point we had felt what she needed most was love and recovery from her early life. Clearly love alone wasn't going to cut it anymore so I registered her at a School for Wayward Dogs. Going to school creates a lot of anxiety for Sadie. She attends class with a rowdy little Husky intent on being the center of attention and distracting Sadie from her studies. Nevertheless, with time and patience I'm confident Sadie will eventually calm down. Currently she demonstrates some mad sitting and lying down skills and I'm pretty sure she's going to show that feisty little Husky up when they start learning 'stay.'

My second step was to take her to a veterinarian. I had taken her once just after we adopted her but she was so thoroughly traumatized by the experience little was accomplished beyond making it inside the front door. This time she was somewhat better although it took two humans to subdue her enough for an examination. At one point I heard the veterinarian say, "It looks like you are putting on a little weight." I looked around the room for my mother but then realized the vet wasn't talking to me, she was talking to Sadie. It seems our overzealous approach to love has nudged her from an ideal weight of 25 pounds up to a tubby 30 and Sadie needs to go on a diet. As an act of solidarity I'm going to join her.

We start as soon as the batch of chocolate chip cookies I just made are gone. I mean it.

The last step in the remaking of Sadie was a bath. Every time Parker sees Sadie he asks if she's had a bath. Something in my spirit knew this was not going to be an easy endeavor. My spirit was right. I recruited Parker to join me in taking her to the self-service Bark 'n Wash as I knew I'd need help. I had no idea how much help. By the time we left for home Parker, two professional dog washers, and I were all drenched and exhausted from washing a 30 pound dog who should really only weigh 25 pounds.

 

Sadie and the bath of terror

The owner of the Bark 'n Wash refused to let me pay. I'm pretty sure she just felt sorry for me as I stood there bewildered and dripping. But Sadie was fluffy and clean.

I don't know exactly how things will end up in court. I've been assured Sadie won't be taken away from us but I suspect I'll be asked to pay restitution. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place. It won't surprise me if some additional costs are added on. Regardless, I intend to continue playing Professor Higgins to Sadie's Eliza Doolittle until she learns to become a proper little cattle dog.

But ultimately I plan to continue to love her first and foremost. Because, manners or no manners, what all of us need more than anything is love.

For the Love of Bunny Marshmallows

I've been threatening to run up and down the street naked for years.

Once when Anna was a baby and wouldn't stop crying I told her if she didn't stop soon I was going to take off all my clothes and run up and down the street naked. She was too young to know what I was saying, but Charles wasn't. He calmly responded with, "Don't you think that would be a little embarrassing?" I'm not sure he understood the concept of hyperbole. Anyway, ever since then when I get frustrated enough I make the same threat.

This week I happened across two separate magazine articles offering expertise on how to be a good parent. According to both of them I've been a bad one. Apparently you aren't supposed to threaten. However, now that my children are young adults I guess I'm off the hook. But only a little. Whatever bad decisions they make in life will surely come back to having a lousy mother.

I guess using a Tazer on them wasn't such a good idea either.

Okay fine, I didn't really use a Tazer on my children. But if I believe the message of the parenting articles, not using a Tazer is pretty much the only thing I did right.  One of the articles even detailed a strategy for how to give praise.

Really? We need instructions on how to give praise?

I don't remember following instructions on how to give my children praise. Praise seemed like a fairly straight forward exercise. I wasn't aware there was a right way or a wrong way. I just did it the best way I knew how and for the most part they seem okay. They don't seem too badly screwed up today because I didn't praise them the right way then. But the truth is, praise aside, I didn't parent my children perfectly. At all. Sometimes I was negligent. Sometimes I was too attentive. Sometimes I yelled. Sometimes I was inconsistent. Sometimes I was too controlling. Sometimes too harsh. Sometimes too soft.

Sometimes I just was.

Because like almost every parent, I was doing the best I could. Which is something I have to remind myself about my own parents too. There are no perfect parents. Nor are there perfect children.

Thank God. Perfection is so overrated.

We weren't (nor never will be) a perfect family. Consequently, my children are now entering the age where family get-togethers provide the opportunity to dredge up old stories about the times I went insane. They laugh about me losing my mind and yelling. Or the time when I dumped the entire bag of bunny marshmallows in the parking lot because they disobeyed me. Or the time I threw the full water bottle across the room in exasperation. (For the record, I didn't throw the water bottle at anyone...just across the room.) Those things didn't happen every day. But they happened. And although they make for funny stories now, at the time I felt terrible.

I didn't need to be so hard on myself though. In the end, my children weren't scarred because I sometimes lost my patience. They admit they often drove me to it. They also say they never expected me to be a perfect parent. All they really expected from me was love.

I think striving to be the best parent possible is a good thing. I'd never discourage someone from that. But striving to be a perfect parent raising the perfect child is a recipe for unnecessary stress and pressure. It isn't going to happen. Kids aren't always going to be what we want them to be, parents are going to screw up, and later on all that striving for perfection will just get in the way of honest relationships.

In the end it doesn't really matter how perfect anybody was. In the end all that really matters is that my children know they are loved. So yeah, they misbehaved and I dumped the bunny marshmallows in the parking lot.

(Source: Google Images)



They cried. I felt bad. They missed out on gelatin and corn syrup molded into something that vaguely resembled a pastel rabbit that spring. My self imposed penance for the long ago hasty punishment has been making sure they receive bunny marshmallows every Easter. I realize I really don't need to. Because even if I never gave them another bunny marshmallow in their entire lives my children would know they are loved.

Loved for who they are.

Not what they do.

Not how they act.

Nor look.

Nor what they accomplish. 

They are simply loved.

I'm absolutely certain I could never love my children more than I already do. I'm fairly certain I won't ever again feel the need to dump a bag of bunny marshmallows on the ground. But that running naked up and down the street thing...

...I make no guarantees.

The January that Wasn't

Somehow I keep losing the month of January.

It showed up on my calendar and everything. I got invited to the party of good intentions and fresh beginnings and I made plans to attend but then, I don't know, I got distracted or I couldn't find the right outfit to wear or something and before I knew it I'd missed January.

At least that's what happened this year.

Last year I came down with influenza B on New Year's Eve. Or was it influenza A? It doesn't matter. It sucked. A lot. From that I developed a secondary bronchial infection and just as I was getting over that my cat attacked me. It wasn't a great beginning and I spent all of January 2013 in a pharmaceutically induced fog. For the entire month I was unable to do anything but read. While on the surface that doesn't seem bad, my brain was so addled by drugs I can't remember anything about the books I read. Not even the titles.

I was looking forward to a healthier and more productive January 2014, ready to greet the new year with hopeful anticipation of good things to come. But then, all of a sudden, I'm not sure why, I came down with a touch of indifference.

Ennui? I don't think so. Although the January Blues seem to be a thing, I don't really think that was what was happening. Granted, I've never been a huge fan of January. It has always seemed like the most moody and pessimistic of months.

Source: Google Images

I typically manage to tolerate it fairly well though. The best thing ever to come out of a January, for me, was Anna nineteen years ago, and even she wasn't supposed to arrive until later. Maybe in her fetal state she knew January would be in need of some joy and charm and sunshine so she decided to make her entrance earlier than anticipated. Since then she's always brightened the start of a new year in an otherwise disconsolate month. Anyway, the point here is, I don't think I was depressed.

I wasn't sad. Although I didn't wake up with my typical excitement and exuberance about what the day would bring, I did get out of bed every day. I showered. Washed my hair. I had no trouble working. Nothing seemed particularly gloomy but nothing seemed particularly funny either. I simply felt uninspired.

It started to bother me a little and I began to worry that I was going to settle into being dull, humorless, prosaic, and uninteresting. I wondered if I would have to retake the Myers-Briggs test and come up with a whole different personality type to fit the new boring me. I considered that this change would require a complete overhaul of my wardrobe to attire that is much more practical and better suited for my age. And I was going to have to repaint the interior of my house. Goodbye cheery yellow walls. So long purple counter tops. Get lost red couches. Ohmygod...I was becoming taupe.

Thank goodness I was too lifeless to over react.

Except I did. Which, if I'd stopped to think about it was a pretty good indication my dispassionate personality change was only temporary. And maybe not bad at all. What if it was just something my psyche needed to do. Perhaps, like all things in nature, my personality needed to go dormant for a while to rest and recharge. Maybe everyone goes through these phases and I'm just too narcissistic to notice.

I don't know.

Nevertheless,  February came a long and like Punxatawney Phil, I poked my head out of hibernation, looked around, noticed the sunshine and somehow started to feel like myself again. Although I find The Holy Day of Romantic Obligation in February to be contrived and silly, yesterday I found myself making heart shaped cookies, dancing to the radio, and laughing at the quirkiness of life. My mother called and told me she has a new boyfriend and all seemed right with the world.

I can't say exactly what happened. And I'm not sure if I'd even categorize it as good or bad. It just is. But maybe that's the point. Perhaps all life asks of us sometimes is that we just go with what is for a while. Not what we expect it to be, or want it to be, or even think we need it to be. Maybe life just asks us to trust what is, knowing when the time is right it will nudge us out of hibernation, turn on the radio, and once again ask us to dance.

The Birthday List

This week I sent an email to a casting agency expressing my interest in participating as a movie extra. To be clear, I don't make a habit of writing to casting agencies asking for the opportunity to be an extra. The truth is that I've never even considered it before. For one thing, I'm a lousy actress and for another, I'm just not much of a movie fan. Having a part in a movie, however insignificant, never really occurred to me until recently.

The closest I've ever come to this level of fame and fortune is when I lived in Southern California and a friend called to say she had signed me up to audition for Wheel of Fortune with her. I went along gamely and naively with no idea what I was in for. The process for being chosen as a contestant was to sit in a room with a bunch of people at little elementary school desks with paper copies of puzzles to solve. If you passed the first level you were promoted to the next level and on and on to stardom. I think some of the higher level challenges included jumping up and down and acting super excited. I probably could have passed those but having never watched the show I was a bit vague on the puzzle concept and was eliminated in the first round. I sat around waiting for her as she kept moving through the ranks of contestant selection. She made it to the top tier although she was eight months pregnant and I still cringe at the thought of her jumping up and down. In the end I'm not sure she ever got called to be on the show.

(Source: Google Images)

Now that I think about it that story really has nothing to do with being a movie extra.

Anyway, I sent the email to the casting agency and pointed out that I'm particularly talented at exiting a building and walking down the street. That seems to be what a lot of movie extras do. Walk out of buildings and down streets. I'm pretty sure this is my latest calling.

Whether I'll actually get the opportunity to be filmed while leaving a building and walking down the street remains to be seen. But I took the initiative to inquire because it is 2014 and just before my birthday in December I got this crazy idea to ask others to help me compile a list of new, different, and stretching experiences I can accomplish in the coming year. Being an extra in a movie was one of several interesting suggestions.

I didn't end up getting a lot of responses to my request for ideas. I'm not terribly concerned about the number of items on the list, though. I'm happy with what I got and appreciate those who invested time and brain power in helping me compile the list. I believe if I attempt to fulfill the offerings I will accomplish the goal of expanding my horizons somewhat. In some cases I will probably end up looking a little foolish. But perhaps no more so than failing out of the first level of solving Wheel of Fortune puzzles.

Here is the list:

• Learn to play an instrument I love.
• Learn to throw a Frisbee.
• Hike Mt. Elbert.
• Take a foreign language course.
• Be an extra in a movie.
• Take Irish Step Dance lessons.
• Attend several services at the House for All Sinners and Saints church in Denver.
• Take a road trip by myself.
• Learn to skip a stone.
• Write letters to each of my children saying why they are my favorite.
• Stop and talk with a homeless person.

There were three additional ideas that are still under consideration:

• Spin a globe with my eyes closed, stop it with my finger, and visit the place where my finger lands. I love this idea but am thinking I might alter it to a map of Colorado. I'm not sure I would have the funds nor the wherewithal to go anywhere my finger landed. I mean...what if it landed on Afghanistan or the middle of the Arctic Ocean?

• Sing a solo. As much as I love singing I, weirdly, have terrible stage fright. Speaking in front of groups presents no problem for me but singing creates paralyzing anxiety. I have, in fact, performed a couple of solos in my life. They were terror inducing experiences. I haven't decided if I want to try again.

• Let my hair go to it's natural color. This is the least likely suggestion to make the final list. I don't think the suggesters were actually serious about it but whether they were or not, I'm not sure I'm adding it. For one thing, my hair hasn't been it's natural color since I was 12 or something. For another, I'm not sure I'm ready for the whole grey thing just yet. It sounds terribly boring. I'm still thinking about it.

So that's my list. Some of the suggestions sound fun. Some sound scary. Some sound intimidating. Some sound interesting. And most are things I'd never have thought of on my own which is exactly what I wanted.

I don't anticipate being successful at everything on the list. I just anticipate giving them each a try. At the very least by this time next year I hope to be able to say

E _  _ e _  _ e _  _e       i _       t _ e      B e  _  _    T e _  _ _ e _!