Dumb

Apparently people are dumb. At least, that's what I'm beginning to infer from the evidence around me. Speaking as a member of this elite group (currently a smidgen over 6.8 billion strong worldwide) I am reluctant to believe it, though apparently it must be so based on the warnings, advisories, threats, and even pleas found on products in our daily lives which urge us to exercise caution when interacting with the world around us. Case in point : toilet paper.

I was a captive audience in a public restroom yesterday, so to speak, and I noticed writing in the most unusual place. No, it was not etched into the wall, it did not list a phone number, and it wasn't even in regard to how to meet new people or have a good time. It was about toilet paper. Specifically, how to tear it off. Now, it's insulting enough to have the makers of a toilet paper dispenser presume that I cannot see the second roll of TP inside the unit ("this until contains 2 rolls"), and a bit more troubling that someone would be left to handle personal hygiene on their own if they couldn't figure out how to slide the door to get to that second roll ("slide door to access second roll"). But, the real stumper for me was the three words of wisdom written in raised letters at the bottom of the unit - "tear paper here." Really?

Let's say for just a moment that you've never seen a toilet paper dispenser before. Perhaps you've been living in a shanty somewhere and only had access to plain ol' TP with no holder. Or, for the sake of argument, let's even pretend that you've never seen toilet paper before in your life. There you are, suddenly transported to this dazzling public restroom with only your rugged, backwoods experience to guide you through the potty process. Will you be thinking, "Wow... thank goodness for these clear and insightful instructions? I might have really messed this up without the careful guidance and assistance that the toilet paper dispenser company so thoughtfully provided?" Probably not. Probably, you'd yank on the TP like everyone else - it's pretty intuitive, isn't it?  In the process, the paper would tear (it is only thin paper, after all... it's not like they're providing duct tape for the task at hand) and you'd finish your business and move on.

At least, that's what I would expect would happen. Apparently, however, I have overestimated the intelligence of the human race. These types of warnings are everywhere. My Sharpie marker tells me to re-cap when not in use - in case I hadn't yet figured out to keep it from drying out as it marked all over my couch and/or the inside of my purse. A little box of raisins tells me, in essence, that even though they've made my eating experience as sanitized as possible, bits of seed or stem might occasionally make their way into the product. Go figure. My computer charger tells me I should not stick electrical plugs where they do not belong - especially outside. This is sage advice, and might just help me avoid disaster next time I considered jump starting my car by plugging the charger into my cigarette lighter.  Heck - even my lotion advises that it's not for use in eyes. Pity, because a glop of lotion right in the eyeball sounds so appealing, too.

The worst part is, these are all just everyday items within easy reach of my chair. Heaven knows what kinds of warnings you find in more exciting areas, like the laundry room, kitchen, or even... the garage! The latter, I might add, is full of items with graphic drawings of stick people in various stages of injury. I guess these are for folks who don't take time to read instructions, but might take a quick glance at the packaging. Apparently artists who don't have sufficient skills to make it big drawing macabre comic books eventually give up and settle into a steady career in the 'product safety warning' industry. At least there's job security there!

I know, I know... these warnings are necessary to help make daily life go a little more smoothly and to protect companies from ridiculous lawsuits. I'd heard the rumors for years about outrageous legal action, but decided to check it out for myself. Here are a few examples from the past few years:

A woman sued the Mars candy company for $250,000 in "permanent personal injury", claiming that she knew the candies were chewy, but they were "so chewy they should come with a warning." You have to wonder what kinds of injuries she incurred from chewing a Starburst.

Then, of course, there was the case of the woman who sued a furniture store for tripping over a toddler in front of their store. She was awarded $80,000, despite the fact that the toddler her child. Who knew - you can actually get paid for being a negligent parent. All that extra time I'll have once I start ignoring my children can be spent hanging out by the mail box, waiting for my first check. 

The granddaddy of them all (or perhaps, more accurately, the grandmother of them all) was the case of 79 year old Stella Liebeck who sued McDonalds in 1992 and was awarded a whopping $640,000 for having burned herself on hot coffee. Next time you see the "caution - contents might be hot" warning on a lid, you can thank Stella.Of course, you can also thank her that products are significantly more expensive now than they used to be since companies have to cover their 'bottom lines" from every potential crazy person with access to a lawyer...

Ok - maybe people are deserving of patronizing labels and intelligence-insulting instructions if we are so stupid that we would sue over our own ineptitude. I'm beginning to think that there needs to some sort of entrance exam into this club called humanity. Better yet, in keeping with the pace of modern society, perhaps we could start putting a label on each new baby -  something like, "warning - this unit might grow into a litigious adult. Parent with extreme caution."

Cancer

I hate to re-state the obvious, but cancer sucks. Even as I write I am painfully aware of just how inadequate words are at expressing all that cancer entails - even more so since I am not the one with the disease, but merely along for the ride as my beloved friend struggles with it.

Along for the ride, or perhaps more accurately, hijacked by it. Our family was on a lovely trip together, when cancer climbed into the car with us and began making demands. At first we tried to ignore him, pretending he wasn't there. When he finally became unavoidable, we started planning for how nice the trip would be once he left. Then we started scheming ways to get rid of him. We prayed. We bargained. We plead. Now we just ride in silence.

At some point very recently it became apparent that he was not going to leave. More than that, he was also not going to be joining us on our planned ride, but was commandeering the vehicle, and would choose when and where my friend got off. We politely asked if he would at least allow us to slow down a bit, that we might enjoy the scenery along the way, but he seems to be in an awful hurry. The best we know to do now is to sit and hold her hand as we draw close.

At least this is true - we find comfort in the fact that cancer may have driven her, but all roads lead to home. This was not the trip we planned, but there was a plan all along. We are to the point now where the car is starting to slow, and all that is left to do is to help her gather her things and await the destination. Though we are all sad for her end here, we are also looking forward to her new beginning, free from the seatmate that has made things so unpleasant.

It's true - this is not the trip we had hoped for, but I think we're all glad to have been along for the ride, nonetheless. How else would we have learned to say so much with so few words? More importantly, what else could teach us that sometimes we don't need words at all to say what we really mean? We have come to find peace even when we are not in control, patience when we want to scream, strength when we want to cry. Perhaps these are better souvenirs than the ten-cent trinkets we would have picked ourselves on this trip called life.

I guess it's clear now that this was not just a temporary detour. Our plans did not work out like we had hoped, though I can hardly even remember what those plans were now. To be sure, they might have been more fun or more exciting, but they could not have been more important, and certainly would never have taught us about grace and love so thoroughly.

When she departs, she will be loosed from the grip of our cruel co-passenger and will run into the open arms of a loving father. In that moment He will smile and motion us onward, for our journey is not done, though we must make the next leg without her. And, whatever sights we see, places we go, or passengers may yet climb, unbidden, into the car with us in years to come, I know that we will never regret the trip and can trust that our common destination will be worth every mile. And, when we all arrive there together, oh - what stories we will have to tell each other, and what plans we will once again make!

Success By Any Other Name...

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...

The Putting On and the Taking Off

Tonight we had dinner with some friends. Their kids played with our kids. We laughed and reminisced, and eventually my life-long friend and I ended up at the computer looking at pictures of our children. I held her 10 month old, looking past his chubby fingers as he grabbed my nose and poked my cheeks. We struggled to identify which newborn baby was which in the photos - they were all so other world-ly, so present but so distant.

I remember when my babies were first born. They were so vigorous and alive - constantly moving, as if to explore and prove their vitality, though perhaps only to themselves. Each movement was practiced over and over again. Each limb and digit exercised carefully. They were trying on their bodies, testing out the parameters of this new dimension. It was clear enough that the physical part was new, but they certainly were not.

I often thought of my children as old souls. I guess, really, all babies are. The inability to focus, the cries of frustration, the depth of slumber required to bring rest - they all spoke of the incredible amount of work that it was taking for their little spirits - their little selves - to remain present in this realm. To learn it. To experience it. To stick with it. Oh, how much easier must the world they came from only a short while before have been?

Tonight as I held my friend's ten month old son - who had learned to control his hands, to focus his eyes, to engage his spirit - I realized that he had adapted already to his body and this world. If I listened hard enough, I could still hear the hush of a newborn in his deliberate breathing, but it was clear that he was firmly and almost entirely settled in the here and now, even at only 10 months old.

Her two-year-old ran by, sturdy and sure on her little legs, and smiled in passing. She mumbled something about the mission she was on - probably to get more pizza or another dress up dress. Then my three-year-old hollered from the other room, asking for water. So it continued throughout the evening with our respective four, five, and nine-year-old children. Each of them so much more capable than the last. So much more comfortable and in control in their bodies and minds. So much farther from the squinty-eyed, heaven-drenched newborns they had been.

It takes us years to fully adapt to this realm, this reality, this space and time and place that we live in. Our spirits, so present and developed already at birth, stretching out to learn our bodies, and fill each niche. Eventually, we come to be adults - sure and seamless. We (that is, our spirits, which have been here since the beginning) become empowered by the very bodies that took us so long to learn and control. Our arms and legs, hands and feet, fingers and toes - they no longer hold us back by their stubborn rebellion. But, having filled and fully integrated with them, they now free us to express our true selves.

I marveled at that this evening. Rejoiced at it. Let the miracle of that reality settle in. But, as the photos passed by on the screen I began to look beyond the babies - to the hands and faces of the ones holding those infants. The mothers. The fathers. The grandparents. It was then that I started to think about not only the coupling of our bodies with our spirits, but the uncoupling that comes eventually - the process of taking off and laying aside.

Near the end, the fingers numb and become clumsy. Movements slow. The shuffling gait belies not just an aging of the body, but a yearning of the spirit to move freely, once again. Where we find ourselves forgetting is not so much an inability to recall, but perhaps a disentangling of our forever selves from our temporary selves. As hard as it is to fill the body, how much more so to empty it.

I am in the middle - eyes newly opened to the miracle process that unites body and spirit at birth and babyhood, and just beginning to watch those I've loved for so long start their own process of release, of letting go. I find myself wishing that I could encompass all of those around me - lasso them, embrace them - pulling them also to the middle. That through willing it to be so, the babies might hurry to gain their voices, and those slipping from me might turn back from the journey they are on.

But, it is not meant to be. I would not, really, wish to hasten any child from the freshness of God's presence, though I linger near to catch a glimpse of His light, a breath of His presence when I am with them, and count those moments as a privileged worship before the Lord.

And, as much as I would like to hold on forever to my loved ones, I would not presume that my best forever could rival even the first moment of their joyful freedom on the other side of this realm. So, I will linger near to them as well, and surely also catch a glimpse of His light and a breath of His presence, even as the light and breath of those dear ones fade. And when that final moment comes that they have fully stepped out of their robes of flesh -  that moment, too, I will count as a privileged worship before the Lord, who gives order to all things.

The Things I Put Up With Around Here!

I've been thinking about writing a book lately. Sure, there are plenty of useful and brilliant things I could write about - the great American novel, profound thoughts that would change peoples' lives, inspiring words of wisdom that would frame a generation... But, what I really feel compelled to write about is all the everyday stuff that we put up with.

Don't take me wrong, here. When I say 'put up with,' there is no negative connotation implied. I am a firm believer in living an empowered life, and never being a victim of circumstances. Indeed, I don't believe in being a victim at all, and loathe all forms of self pity and spinelessness.  I don't dole out the band aids or Kleenex without really good reason, and believe that the best way to get ahead is by a firm pulling upward on one's own bootstraps - and no slacking off when doing so either. You best be sure you're helping others along the way. (Imagine having to have ME as a mother!)

No, when I say that there are things that I have to put up with, it's really a reflection of my priorities. If something gets problematic enough to stop the effective flow of my life, I'll deal with it. If it's just a minor annoyance, I'm likely to leave it alone. Since I'm not really a detail oriented person, the list of little things that I'm willing to put up with has gotten progressively longer the older I get.

Most of these little hitches in my get a long, so to speak, are minor. I'm sure that, if I set my mind to it, I could probably fix half the list in the course a single long afternoon and with only a few of my hard-earned dollars expended in the process. But, where am I going to find a free afternoon and few dollars that converge all at once? If I have free time and money, I'm certainly going to find more interesting ways to spend them! Plus, if I fixed all the little stuff, what would I have to write about?

Here's a list of my favorite little problems that I put up with in everyday life. Feel free to share yours. Who knows - they might even make it into my book! ;)

• My dryer isn't level. When I open the door to load or unload clothes, the door swings shut automatically. I often find myself propping the door open with one leg, as I lean over to the front-load washer and drag an armload of wet clothes into the dryer's gaping mouth. Sometimes I prop it open by putting the broom in front of the door, or require one of my younger children to hold it open for me. Occasionally I'll have had a day full of minor annoyances, and (unable to face another) I will just give the task of switching loads to my oldest child. On the up side - for the first year we lived here the dryer was not level AND the washer door swung the wrong direction, causing me to have to drag wet clothes over the door in order to get them into the dryer. Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $0

• I have a Betty Crocker Cookbook from 1968 that has a permanent place of honor on my kitchen counter. It rocks. I use it at least 3 times a week. It has everything you could possibly want to make, including some recipes (like scrambled brains) that I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to cook. Short of some Julia Child-esque masterpiece dish, I'm pretty sure I can make anything life would require of me out of that cook book. The only problem - the last few pages of the index have come loose. They're stowed away on a bookshelf in my dining room under the rest of my cookbooks.  I'm fine as long the dish I want to make starts with A-P. Anything else, well... it becomes a little tricky. I once found a recipe for pear tart (which you would usually find under either the 'p' or 't' sections) by looking up 'fruit' and working my way back from there. The cross referencing and logical layout make the book easy to use, even with the missing index pages. Occasionally I find myself unable to find a particular recipe that I'm looking for. So, on those nights, we have a nifty jello salad instead of tapioca, or just plain potatoes instead of turnip gratin. (Not found under the 'g's' - just so you know.) Perhaps I am missing out on a world of recipes (or at least 10 letters worth), but who really likes turnips anyway!? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes. Cost : $3 (including the cost for ring-reinforcing stickers). 

•  I still have three separate remotes. I know it's possible to get a universal remote that would control my TV, my converter box, and my DVD player all at once. But then, where would that leave us when my youngest stole that remote and put it in the freezer? None of my remotes have batteries in them right now, either. Well, they never have batteries in them... ever. To be fair, they do have some batteries. One is full of dead batteries. One has 2 good batteries and one bad one. The other has no batteries at all. In fact, the back is missing. There are still the remnants of the scotch tape that used to hold it on. You'd think this little problem would stop us from watching too much TV. Alas, the only effect it has had is that we can no longer access special functions on DVDs. Who needs to watch the director's commentary, anyway? Total estimated fix time : 5 minutes (including programming a new remote). Cost: $10, including batteries

• We have had 2 lamps in our living room - one on either side of the couch - for 2 years now. One of them didn't have a light bulb for about 10 months. We sure appreciated the extra light once we put one in, but we did take our sweet time in getting that job done. Now comes inconvenience number two - sometime in the past two weeks our youngest child screwed the little twirly knob that you twist to turn the light on (I'm sure there's a real name for it, but it's not worth looking up right now) in the wrong direction until it came off. I know it's bound to be somewhere on the floor close by. However, I've not taken (found? used?) the time to look. So, at least twice a day, every day, I have been  twisting the threaded, skinny nubbin left in order to turn the lamp on and off. I have a groove worn in my index finger. Of course, the logical thing to do would be to get down on my hands and knees and search for the knob. Or, better yet, I could go to the hardware store and buy a new one. Most likely, however, I will stop using the light, or wait until the bulb burns out, therefore buying myself at least six months before I really have to think about the problem again. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : potentially up to $0.50 for a replacement knob.

•  Speaking of light - the lightbulb in my oven has been burned out for over a year and a half. Ditto the one on the freezer in the garage. I think these little problems make mealtime a bit adventurous - you never know what you're going to dig out of the freezer, or what it's going to look like when it comes out of the oven. Replacing these bulbs (at least one of which I'm almost certain we already have in the office) would take away some of the spontaneity of life (or at least dinner) in La Casa Farrier. Total estimated fix time : 3 minutes. Cost : $1.98. 

So, that's what it's like at our house. The appliances (like the people) are a bit unbalanced and occasionally on the dim side. It may not be pretty, but things get done. Lest you think that my "Leave R Be" (as opposed to "Get R Done") attitude stems from some sort of laziness, let me just remind you that the total investment involved in fixing just these five things alone would add up to over $15.00 and over 20 minutes. That's plenty of resources to both buy AND read two brand new books with my children, which I consider a MUCH better investment of my time and money. Plus, don't forget that there's still a sticky toilet handle, drippy faucet, lack of sharpened pencils or working pens, sliding closet door off its track, and so many other minor things to deal with that I'm hesitant to start down that road. Perhaps after I'm rich from writing my book I can hire someone to fix these things. I'll keep you posted.

Busy, Busy, Busy

Forever more I reject the titles 'overbooked', 'too busy', or 'procrastinator.' Instead, I would appreciate it if from this point forward you would just refer to me as 'The Evil Knievel of Scheduling.' Thank you very much.

It's not that I feel cheated, per se, in the fact that I only have 24 hours in my day, like everyone else. But, seriously - if they're talking about selling carbon credits, can't we at least discuss the option of selling spare time too? I can see it now - special banks and exchanges for you to make deposits and withdrawals of, well... time. Choose increments from 10 minutes (for unexpected bouts of constipation or a bonus game of solitaire) all the way up to one week (helpful for vacationers and college students cramming for those final exams). Everyone's always worried that social security alone is not enough to cover the expenses of seniors. Well - I say, let them sell their extra time! What else are the sleepless hours from 6:00 a.m to 8:00 a.m good for, anyway? Bored teenagers getting into trouble after school? Sell that time and put the money in your college fund! Better yet - plan ahead and invest that time so you won't end up a frazzled home schooling mother of 3 with a part time job and a lobbying addiction that cuts into even her Facebook activities.

Oh, who am I fooling? Even if they did create a Time Exchange Bank it would probably be taxed to the point of being worthless, ultimately costing millions in bail outs and user fees. After a lengthy Congressional Investigation and the involvement of the UN Commission on Banking Practices the whole thing would be shut down, defaulting on time loans left and right. Millions would end up late for work, late on bills, late handing in homework, and with no extra time to see to their stress-induced digestive complaints. I suppose the best answer for those who find themselves short on time is the age-old, tried-and-true, common sense solution of staying up too late every night to get things done. (And you thought I was going to say something about planning ahead and using wise time management techniques. Hah!) After all, why would a candle have two ends if we're not supposed to burn both of them at the same time?

I am a night owl by nature. Even as a kid I never went to bed early. I'm lucky if I've got my teeth brushed by midnight these days. The post -10 p.m. hours are the only time I've got to myself. Much as I love having company while I do dishes (and fold clothes, and make supper, and sweep the floor, and talk on the phone, and take a bath) it is nice every once in a while to have my brain to myself. Today I was typing up an email to send out to hundreds of families about a very important legislative meeting. I was mumbling aloud in order to hear if the email made sense. I had just said, "... meet under the rotunda for lunch..." when I was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of questions.

Five Year Old: Lunch? Did she say lunch? I love lunch!
Three Year Old : Why you say lunch, Mommy? Mommy? Why you say lunch?
Nine Year Old : Yeah, that reminds me. I'm hungry. Can we have noodles for lunch?

That'll teach me to proofread aloud! Befuddled by the confusion, I was compelled to hastily wrap up the email (I'm not entirely sure, but the words hungry and/or mommy might have slipped into it, unbidden) and go make lunch for the girls. Yes, it was noodles. Like someone struggling to rise to consciousness, I am slow to understand and vulnerable to the power of suggestion when I multi-task. I think my children know to wait until the very moment when my eyebrows lower, my lips purse, and I exhale lightly, ready to finally coalesce a brilliant idea I'd been working on for months, before they ask for something.Well, either that, or they wait for when I'm on the phone. That seems to work for them as well.

The net result of all this is that my productivity and focus are not what they could be. I suppose I could send my children off to school each day and really get down to business in my nice, quiet home. Better yet, I could get an office, with my own computer dedicated only to work, its keyboard never covered in anything sticky. I could even have an assistant who would follow me to meetings and carry my file folders, rather than the assistants I have now who follow me to the bathroom carrying broken toys for me to mend. I could enter the world of high finance instead of the world of low-slung diapers; mingle with CEOs instead of mangling PBJs; make my mark instead of cleaning up the marks left by others. But, where would the fun be in any of that?

Evil Knievel didn't jump puddles with a Schwinn, baby, and the Evil Knievel of Scheduling doesn't take the easy way out either. Let 'em have their cubicles and meetings, their secretaries and their powerpoint presentations. I'll take the risky path any day, and love every minute of it. The high yields of happy, healthy children are far more important to me than a safe investment in the status quo. Besides - what else are the hours from 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. for, anyway? It's not like I can sell that time...

Blogettes

I often find myself with great blog one-liners that never get the chance to see the light of day because they don't lend themselves to another topic or a longer post. Seems a shame to deny these little blogettes their five minutes of fame. Here are some of the random thoughts that have gone through my head this past few weeks. Feel free to try to extrapolate the situation in which they occurred if it will increase the comedic value for you...

• Potty Update: In one week my youngest child will be 3 years old. She frequently pretends to be a kitty.  She absolutely refuses to use the potty, though when asked to she will consider sitting on the porcelain "litterbox".
• How is it that I can scoop until my hands are numb and never get down to the gravel in my driveway - leaving me spinning for traction on packed snow all winter. And, yet - when spring comes, there is gravel where my snow pile once was? 
• It's no wonder that most yoga poses have animal names. Everyone's heard of 'downward dog' and 'cobra pose'. Want a real workout? Try barnyard yoga - 'stretching hen' (one wing out front, the opposite leg stretched behind), 'bored goat' (head through fence, contorted at a 90 degree angle), or 'bottle fed calf' (legs akimbo, neck extended to its fullest extent, eyes rolled back in head).
  
• Why is it that cats always need to use the litterbox while you are scooping it? I do not feel the need to pee into the toilet while it's being flushed... And, how come the water in our cups always seems to taste better to them than the water in their bowl?
• I recently overheard my oldest daughter asking her sisters questions like this, "Will you please give me that toy? ... Say yes." I have to admit - she has moxie, and it was working for her before I put a stop to it. I'm thinking of borrowing the move for a day or two, just to see how it works out for me. 
• Here's a public service announcement - Most people are not as interested in the features on your new cell phone as you are. Just an FYI.
• Why don't TV stations put better shows on late at night? If you're up at 1:00 a.m. you're already suffering from insomnia. Why should you have to suffer from bad television too?
• How come I can get 200 friends on Facebook within a week of starting my page, but I can never find a babysitter on a Wednesday night? 
• Free range chickens don't range far when it's 10 below zero.
  
• It's no wonder the cost of living is cheaper down south. Our little town here in Iowa has had to pay tens of thousands of dollars in man hours and equipment just to keep the roads clear. In my hometown in Oklahoma the winter road crew consisted of (and I'm totally not making this up) a guy in the back of a 2 wheel drive pick up with a grain scoop and a pile of sand. Wasn't the most effective way to keep the roads safe, but it didn't really matter. South of the Mason Dixon line cars are pre-programmed to drive off the road automatically if there are more than 17 snowflakes on the pavement.
  
• My hens live in our old outhouse by the road. It's drafty, to say the least, and in order to keep them warm in this frigid weather I put in a heat lamp. The red glow seeps out of the cracks in the boards at night. Yep, we have now officially given our Amish neighbors yet another thing to talk about.
• I want a tractor. No - I want enough land to need a tractor. Come to think of it - I want to be the kind of person who knows how to drive a tractor. Better yet - I want to be the kind of person who can fix a tractor. While wearing a feed store cap. And I want to wipe my hands on a red rag tucked into my back pocket. Tractors are the gateway drug to rural girls' fantasies...
• Why do so many people drink soda, beer, and coffee when the natural instinct of 99.9% of children the first time they try these beverages is to spit them out? I've been told that you have to 'acquire a taste for it.' Yes, but why would I want to? Surely I can get my empty calories and caffeine somewhere else, can't I? Isn't that why chocolate was invented?
  
• Why is it that we keep cigarettes legal so we can tax the daylights out of them for revenue, and then turn around and use taxpayer dollars to launch aggressive campaigns to try to get people to stop smoking? Ditto gambling.
  
• Why does anyone buy anything from infomercials? Those black and white sections where the voice over says, "has this ever happened to you" make people look like complete idiots - totally unable to even wield a knife or turn on a blender without creating some pulpy disaster. And who, really, is surprised at this point when they dramatically announce that they'll drop one whole payment if we call in the next five minutes? If a salesperson in a store insulted my intelligence as much as an infomercial does I'd sue, and yet these sheisters are selling Magic Bullets and NuWave Ovens by the hundreds. I just don't get it. 
• And, finally - how is it that the mind droppings of an over-scheduled homeschooling mom can be interesting enough to have garnered 20 dedicated readers? More importantly, how can I turn that into a lucrative career? :)
  

Winter

You know, there are a million different ways to exercise. In Oregon they hike in majestic redwood forests. In California they jog on sandy beaches. In Florida they play tennis in the citrus-scented breeze. In Iowa - we scoop snow. I just shoveled our driveway. Well, that's only partly true. I just shoveled 1/2 or our driveway. I'll do the rest when the feeling returns to my toes. Plus, is it fair to call it shoveling when at this point I'm just making tunnels? Whatever you call it, at least I got a good workout. Despite the fact that it is a balmy 6 degrees outside (with a -13 windchill) I was stripping layers and sweating under my Carharts. I guess busting 4 foot drifts will do that for you.

So far I've not found a website or diet book that tells me exactly what kind of workout you get shoveling snow, but I'm going to estimate (conservatively, of course) that I burned 42,878 calories out there - give or take a few. Of course, it doesn't help that I've taken in 43,952 in the last two days in hot chocolate and homemade bread alone. (Hot chocolate and fresh baked goods are frequently prescribed by physicians in the north to combat Seasonal Affective Disorder, Hypothermia, Cabin Fever and other common serious winter maladies.) I'm hoping that my afternoon scooping will put me back in balance, calorie wise, but I did promise to bake cookies for my daughter's 4-H club tomorrow...

I've never liked winter. I used to attribute it to the fact that I was born in Oklahoma and lived there until I was 6 years old. Winter there meant a light frost occasionally and a reprieve from weeding the garden. Leading child psychologists often say that the first 5 years shape the rest of your life. So, as a child, I assumed that I abhored December thru February because of my warm upbringing during my formative years. Now I've come to realize that it's just because winter sucks.

Don't get me wrong - I know there are people who just love the crisp, clean look of a fresh layer of snow. They don their parka and matching hat and glove set with glee, sometimes even strapping on a pair of snowshoes or cross country skis. These are the people who have jaunty snowmen in their yard. They are out cheerfully scooping by the time the fourth flake has hit the ground. They decorate with snowflake window clings and glittery snowmen figurines. I'm not sure - but they probably even make snow angels. Surely there is as village in Maine (or perhaps the Himalayas somewhere) that is missing them...

There isn't a single family in Iowa who doesn't have at least a half dozen grainy photos from each generation of bundled human shapes standing next to enormous snow drifts, snow men, snow piles and/or snow forts. It is often impossible to tell who is in the picture, since they are covered in 18 layers of clothing. Relative size, at that point, also is no help. A lone person standing next to a snow drift taller than his head could be little six-year-old Bobby (from the blizzard of '73) or Dad going out to hay the cattle (from the blizzard of '62). Living in Iowa gives you grit, and so we carry on. We scoop. We scrape windshields. We don boots and hats, gloves and scarves, wool socks and thermal underwear. We get chapped lips, chapped cheeks, and chapped hands. In short - we we make the best of it.

The coal stove needs to be stoked and shaken down, and I need to empty the ash pan. The chickens will need to have their waterer de-iced and filled, and the snow shovel is still calling my name. I guess it's time to throw on the insulated overalls and boots and get back outside. There may be drifts in the driveway, but at least I've got grit to get me through...

What Didn't Happen Today

My grandmother did not die today. My husband made it home from work without getting into an accident. My children did not fall ill with some deadly disease. My sister's plane did not crash. My best friend's house didn't get broken into. Her brother in Iraq made it to another mess tent meal this afternoon. Change even one of these variables, and my whole world would be falling down around me right now. And, yet, how often do we stop to think about just exactly how lucky we really are? How come no on invests much time or energy into discussing the absence of these types of events, but only in their grim presence?

I'm sure you've heard it before - the thought-provoking (if perhaps untrue) story of the student arguing with his teacher about whether or not God exists... whether He wants to be an active part of our lives. The teacher says since there is evil in the world, it proves there is no God. The student uses the following scientific facts to refute him: Darkness isn't a measurable entity in and of itself, but merely the absence of light. Likewise, cold is the absence of heat. White is the absence of color. Evil is the absence of God in a situation. The mere fact that the world is not given entirely to evil serves to prove His existence.

Please understand - the parallel I am trying to make here is not one of theology. I am not even tempted to explore in a lowly blog the question of why bad things happen to people. Instead, I am fascinated by the scales we use to measure things. I want to know - is my everyday life another example of that which is measurable, or that which is not? Certainly, when accidents happen, they are real enough. They are measurable - in oh so many painful ways. They are tangible. They, therefore, are not just the absence of something else. It must be, then, that everyday life - the 'what didn't happen' that happens around us all the time -  can be only measurable as the absence of tragedy. It is what must not be real - must not be tangible.

Can that be right? I am beginning to see how philosophers get themselves painted into the proverbial corner. I have come to what must surely and logically be a truth, but this is a truth that I do not believe. My everyday life not real? Not tangible!? How is this for tangible: I can still smell my oldest daughter's breath the day she was born. It's so real it almost hurts. When I close my eyes I can feel the hugs that my five-year-old gives me each night at bedtime. I am actually physically warmed when I do so. The depth of my youngest daughter's dark eyes is permanently embedded in my soul, and it compels me to smile each time I recall it. I can hear the hush and the beating of my heart the moment I stepped into the sanctuary on my wedding day. The smell of my grandmother's closet, the twinkle in my grandfather's eyes, the feel of my daddy's hands, the sincerity of my mother's hugs... I cannot measure these things. I cannot prove them. I cannot explain them or duplicate them for anyone else, but they are real, and they are powerful.

Apparently, what we have here is a false either-or analogy. Tragedies, accidents, trauma, disease... these are real. They are measurable. They are terrible. They are unavoidable, but they are far from the only powerful reality in our lives. They are also not the scale by which we measure our lives. Daily life - the substance and heft of it, the deep and abiding joy that is the underbelly of all that we do - IS. It is profound. It is an entity in and of itself, but sometimes it takes a bit more work to notice it.

If tragedy is a thunderstorm, then life is the unseen water vapor in the clouds that brings the blessings of gentle showers and cool morning dew. Accidents may be a gale-force wind, but our daily comings and goings are the unnoticed air pressure that both holds us up and keeps us grounded. The unexpected changes may be a primal scream, but they can't deafen the contented hums, the satisfied sighs, the giggles, the whispers, the song that is the everyday. Today  I am choosing to measure my life by the smiles of my husband, the hugs of my children, the warmth of my relationships. My New Year's Resolution is to remember that the good stuff - not the tough stuff - is the most important stuff and the real measure of my success.

Beauty in the Beast

Warning - this post may be offensive or uncomfortable to some, as it deals in detail with the process of butchering animals. It may also lead you to question how firm my hold on reality is, which is ok with me. What's so great about reality, anyway?

Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).

These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.

In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.

The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep -  you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)

Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.

I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.

The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs,  to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.

It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in  in life and in beauty.

Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation?  Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.

I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.

The Not-So-Noble Cat

Yesterday our youngest cat jumped up onto the coal stove. For the hundredth time. Just like he had been doing for months. Only this time, the coal stove was hot. I now believe in the power of levitation. I've only seen that move three times before. (Two of those times also involved cats jumping onto hot stoves. The third incident was an unhappy convergence of a man with a fear of snakes, and a snake with a fear of man who happened to be in the same time at the same place.) 

When he first hopped down, the cat gave the stove an angry glare, and immediately realized that something was wrong. He licked his foot once or twice, put it back down, and found that the discomfort had not subsided. Suspecting it was the floor involved in this trickery, he hopped up onto the sofa and settled down with a smug stare downward. He had gotten as far as squeezing his eyes shut in self-congratulation when he realized that his foot still wasn't quite feeling right, and he wasn't quite sure who to blame. The poor cat was in hell for the rest of the afternoon - not so much because of the pain, but because of the horror of having his whole house seem to turn against him. Shane now has a bit of a limp, though he wasn't seriously injured in the .00000000045 seconds that he spent on the stove top.  He has, however, been avoiding the entirety of the upstairs ever since.

Shane may not be our brightest cat in the bunch, but he's not alone in having thoroughly embarrassed himself in close enough proximity of his people to become the subject of a humorous story. Charles, who we've had the longest, has given us many such moments. Curiosity once got the better of him in regard to a scented candle. Did you know that whiskers curl when they're exposed to an open flame? He had a charming (if not slightly effeminate) look for about two weeks after the incident, and has forever distrusted the smell of lavender ever since. He also is our chronic hairball hacker, though he never seems to need to throw up unless he is surrounded by plush furnishings or electronics. He has managed to throw up on every blanket in the house, a video game system, three different baskets of clean and folded laundry, a VHS Disney movie, and our push-button telephone keypad. (Ok, now that I think about it, this is probably less a humorous story for me to tell than it is for him. I can just hear him around the old milk bowl, "Hey guys, you'll never guess what I puked on today! Heh, heh, heh...")

Our other two cats, Princess (who has also been known as Papa, Little, Kansas, Flower, Lucky, Candy...) and Nimrod (I'm not making it up - it means 'mighty hunter' in the Bible. Turned out to be more wishful thinking than prophetic insight..) have had their fair share of indignities as well. Princess is the only female cat in our house, and has all the typical traits of a girl. She's moody - one day rubbing against your ankles, the next hiding under the bed. She's also touchy, and gets her feelings hurt easily. Everyone in the house knows not to cross little Princess, and while the boy kitties vie to be with her, they also pay dearly for her attention. She has perfected the 'swipe and hiss' move, and wields it with a smile. Nimrod, on the other hand, is 100% enthusiastic little boy, and possesses no sophistication whatsoever. He burrows in the snow with utter abandon, achieves bath time poses that would make a yoga master jealous and a modest maiden blush, and will eat anything that doesn't eat him first. This is a cat that drinks from the toilet, sometimes even before my husband has finished using it. Not the smartest feline in the world, but good hearted at least, and never given to sullenness or fits of pouting.

Now comes the hard part - how do we continue to share our homes with these creatures, give them the respect they think they deserve, and not end up hurting their feelings by laughing openly at their misadventures? It's a delicate balance that must be found, my friends, but I think we can make it work. First off, it's important to try to cover your mirth as much as possible in the immediate aftermath of a cat catastrophe. Make them think you're having a coughing attack, or chuckling over something on the television, for example. Sometimes I have gone so far as to purposely re-enter a room, often while clearing my throat or shuffling loudly, to convince one of my cats that I wasn't present for his or her most recent descent into indignity. Also, never, repeat stories of their shortfalls in front of them. They  may look like they're not offended, but an unpleasant consequence will ensue.

Of course, that's not to say that cats don't also play their part in this balancing act. Our beloved pets join in the subtle subterfuge by adopting one of two attitudes after doing something stupid. First, there's denial, most often in the form of, "It wasn't me," but occasionally stretching so far as to claim, "It never happened." If outright denial is an impossibility, the second choice that cats have is to pretend like they were in control the whole time. Somehow they ask us to believe, through their body language and the very attitude they ooze, that they really and truly meant to fall off the TV, run into the patio door, incriminate themselves by getting their nails caught in the curtains, leap into the bathtub full of water, or otherwise look silly or act like a dog.

With all of our pretenses -  no matter how much we pretend to have not seen our cats behaving strangely, and no matter how much they claim that they meant to do it - there will still be the awkwardness of  knowledge hanging in the air. There is only one saving grace - the silent dialogue that has gone on between felines and people for centuries. We know that the expression 'curiosity killed the cat' has won more America's Funniest Home Video Prizes than even the classic and timeless groin shot. Let's face it - cats do funny stuff all the time, even if they never admit it, and we claim not to notice. Much as they try to convince us otherwise, we know that they're often clumsy and prone to making poor choices, and we forgive them for it so we may co-habitate peacefully.

More importantly in this dialogue, cats know in their heart of hearts that we are silly, ignorant creatures, widely given to exaggeration and even hallucination, probably to protect ourselves from the fact that their species is so superior to ours. They know, in their heart of hearts, that we are unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unable to discern the subtleties of advanced physics, nonverbal communication, reverse psychology, and balls of yarn, but they forgive us for it so we can co-habitate peacefully. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do.


(P.S. - before I could even finish this blog post, Shane took a flying jump at a shadow in the corner, and ended up falling into the narrow space between the wall and the couch, knocking over the lamp in the process. I sputtered to cover my laughter with a cough. He struggled out, licked his leg nonchalantly once or twice, and then swaggered off and is now alternating between eating the corner of my calendar and the telephone cord. Apparently my coughing fit wasn't convincing enough, and I must be made to suffer.)

The Noble Cat

We are a feline family - firmly in the cat camp in the age old 'dog vs cat' controversy, despite a rocky early start in our marriage. (We had a dog once. He now lives with my brother-in-law. Everyone is happier that way. I don't care to elaborate, thank you very much.) We have four indoor cats - everything from a stately (if slightly tattered) ten-year-old Siamese, to a fluffy, lovable stray that wandered into our home and our hearts this summer. (Isn't that how the expression goes? More accurately, he wandered into our home and started shedding immediately as he made a beeline for the food bowl, but we've learned to love the little freeloader nonetheless.)

One cat has a nervous vomit reflex. Another has the world's stinkiest poop (she's the only one who refuses to cover in the litter box, of course), and another simply cannot believe that the corner of my kitchen counter wasn't created as his bed. (You know how cats are - buy them an elaborate cat bed and they'll turn their nose up at it and promptly go lay on your freshly-washed sweater or open newspaper.) Anyway, we put up with the hair, and the surprise attacks to our ankles, and the midnight scurrying because we receive back all the love and attention we could ever ask for (or at least, the absolute minimum amount of  love and attention they think they can get away with giving to us and still get food and littler cleaning services on a regular basis).

Cats complete our households. They snuggle and purr. They comfort us when we're sad. They give us something to tell stories about (not that we would ever, EVER let them know that we abuse their dignity in this way. Seriously - please don't tell my cats I wrote this post. I would be finding kitty fluids of all types in strange places for months to come, and I would never walk out of the house in a hair-free outfit ever again). Despite how hectic things have been, cats have been the one constant in my whole life. (Hmm.... maybe it should be more like, "because cats have been the one constant in my whole life...") Even as I write, there is a cat curled up beside me, and another trying to get onto the keybaslkfjasldfjlasdofuwerouoard. (Shane says hello.)
 
I'm often asked by the dog crowd why it is that I love cats. Their affinity for Fido is as much a mystery to me as my appreciation of Princess is to them. Sure, dogs don't ignore you, but cats don't demand your attention either. A cat may leave you alone for three whole days, but you can return the favor and all you'll end up with is a little extra hair on the counter and a rug that's been slid across the room. Leave a dog alone in your home for three days and you'll have to invest in a steam cleaner, drywall repair, new carpeting, and two years of doggy psychiatry. Cats don't run to greet you, tongue wagging, when you return home from the office (or from stepping outside to get the mail). But, let's not fool ourselves here. A dog is saying, "please take me outside so I can pee on your tire and poop somewhere you're likely to step in the next few days" as much as he's saying, "Gee, I love you and I'm glad you're home."

To me, that's the crux of it all - what makes cats so very cool. They may need you, but they'll never admit it. They are positive that what they give in the relationship far exceeds what they receive, which makes them feel they've earned that extra eighteen inches of your pillow and the chip on their shoulder. Their self esteem is solid, and by golly you're lucky to know them. Let's face it - cats are the big-wigs of the animal world. Got a cat with crossed eyes who shorts every jump and lands back on the floor with a quizzical stare? What about it? Einstein didn't talk until he was three and was fired from menial jobs for years. Stinky gas? Bad litter box aim? Chronic hairball hacker? You're still lucky to know 'em!

Cats have never forgotten that they were once revered and worshipped as Gods at the height of ancient Egypt's reign as the world's main superpower. Next time your cat is staring off in space, oblivious to your presence, rest assured that he's recalling a time in his breed's distant past when you would have been bowing at his feet. A time when families shaved their eyebrows in mourning for a sick cat. A time when he was surrounded by an adoring public, the choicest of foods, and a litter box that ran all the way to the Nile Delta. It's no wonder that Mr. Squeakymouse and the  Krunchy Kitty Kibble that we offer them today doesn't exactly inspire them to mew lovingly and gaze into our eyes with adoration. Perhaps they're right - even with all their shennanigans and shedding we are lucky to have them around. One thing's for sure - at least sharing your home with a cat is better than owning a dog!

Sirius Arguments

My marriage has dodged a major bullet. See, our trial subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio just expired, and I couldn't be more pleased. Don't get me wrong - I totally loved having hundreds of stations, knowing that my every musical whim could be satisfied at the touch of a button, being able to rock out to music that youngsters have been rocking out to for the past eighty years or so. But, all the shoobie doos and sha la las, all the twanging and head banging, and even all the cheesy love songs in the world is just not worth my marriage.

You see, my husband and I are sort of a classic case of opposites that attracted. I am the positive to his negative, the yin to his yang, the Yoko to his John Lennon. So far our marriage has survived his love of baseball (and my apathy to it), my political drive and involvement (and his apathy to that), and even the struggles in our earliest years between a dog person and a cat person. (I'm gald to say he's now a fervent convert, and we have four indoor cats.) Having worked those things out, I really thought our marriage could survive anything. Then, along came a free three-month trial to Sirius Satellite Radio that came with my new car. It almost broke us.

Mark is an 80's guy. He loves the funky rhythms, the hair bands, the insistent guitar riffs, and even the fashions associated. I, on the other hand, am a honkey tonk and bluegrass girl. He may have played blocks to the sounds of Madonna and Duran Duran, but I drifted off to sleep to Ronnie Milsap and Crystal Gayle. When Merle Haggard sang I'm Proud to Be an Okie From Muskogee he was literally singing my song. That's me - born in Muskogee General Hospital in Muskogee, Oklahoma. It's more than a birthplace - it's a heritage.
Little did I know that even though Opposites Attract (Paula Abdul, 1989), our musical differences were threatening to cause a D-I-V-O-R-C-E (Tammy Wynette, 1968).

Car trips, of course, were the hardest. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the station. These past few months we've been arguing over who gets to drive rather than who has to. Even quick stops at a gas station were opportunities for the listener/passenger to pull a quick switcheroo. Upon arriving back to the car from the pump or restroom, someone was bound to be motioned from the driver's side to the passenger's side and a conversation something like this would ensue:

Delighted New Driver: Gee, honey, I thought you looked tired and might like it if I took a turn at the wheel... for your sake, of course. [big grin]
Disgruntled New Passenger: [indistinct grumbles] Alright, but I'm warning you - one of the girls is probably going to need to stop in about 30  miles for a potty break, you know!

Our record was fourteen stops in 100 miles. Our children were confused, but happy, since each game of  'musical drivers' generally resulted in the purchase of some type of snack or beverage. I gained 3 pounds, but got to listen to all the fiddles, banjos, and steel guitars that I could ever want. Mark, likewise, drank four Dr. Peppers and rocked out to no less than seven Cyndi Lauper songs, and a late Eagles hit that even I enjoyed. Thankfully, however, those days have come to an end. The subscription price to continue getting satelite radio coverage may only be $12.95 a month, but I hear that divorce lawyers are pretty pricey. Even if it never came to that, I don't think we can continue to afford the snacks. There's only one thing left to do - go back to disagreeing on talk radio. At least it's free!

The Year of the Pack Rat

Always be prepared. Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? (I wouldn't know, of course, having never been a Boy Scout, but you do pick up these sorts of catchphrases now and again.) From my limited knowledge and nonexesitent personal experience, it appears that the way the scouts stay prepared is by getting together monthly to practice tying and untying knots, and selling popcorn door to door. Better than the Girl Scouts, I suppose - at least nutritionally speaking - but it still doesn't prepare them to do anything more than handle a hostage situation at a movie theater concession stand. ("Jimmy - you untie those knots while Bobby and I sell popcorn. I knew those monthly den meetings would pay off someday!")

No, in my world, rope tricks and carbohydrates don't count as preparation. I'm a saver. A keeper. A hoarder of goods. Saucepan with a broken lid? You never know when you might need that. Half a yard of fuscia muslin? Might come in handy someday. Dresser wtih the broken drawer? It'll make a good fixer-upper project. It's not that I want to keep stuff, you understand, so much as I feel that I must. You see, I inherited collectivitus, though the trait runs more in my father's side of the the family than my mother's. I am hoping there is some sort of genetic treatment - something intricate and expensive, no doubt, that involves radioactive dyes and spliced and modified DNA - that will enable my children to live a normal life. In fact, I'm sure I've read an article about it in one of the magazines I have stacked in my garage somewhere.... Come on medical science - don't let me down!

The worst part about it is the stigma that comes when people who misunderstand the disorder start in with the name calling. It was one thing when I was a wee little pack-ratling and my parents shielded me from the taunts. Now, however, I see the raised eyebrows when I buy my fifth "dollar box" at the local auction house, and hear the bemused checkout person ask, "what in the world is she going to do with all of THOSE?" after I've grab my bags to leave a store. Why can't they recognize that this is a disorder? Why can't they be more undertstanding? Why can't they see that my habit represents my optimism about life? My upbeat attitude about all things? My ability to find the good in even the everyday bits that others might think of as trash? The world needs more of that. Humanity needs more of that. After all, I may be unable to throw away a worn-out flashlight , but I am also never going to throw away a worn-out friend.

My grandmother lived through the Great Depression. She saves styrofoam meat trays and twist ties. They may pile up from time to time, but I never lacked for art supplies and Fairy Boats during the long summer hours I spent at her house when I was a kid. My dad is a tinkerer, and has whole buildings full of treasures. The wind howled around the eaves and the doors gaped widely, but my daddy always had the right sized wheel or wingnut, blade or barn board, pane or pliers for the projects we did together. Now, my children are building meat tray doll houses and cobbled contraptions. I may wince at the thought of having genetically doomed my daughters to a life of collecting (well, that and large feet - sorry girls), but  I'm going to keep my focus on the inherit creativity and preparation that comes with the territory.

After all, I'm pretty sure the Chinese Zodiac has a whole year devoted to the Pack Rat. Beady eyes and nasty tails aside, there must be traits of the rat that are worth celebrating if they have a whole year devoted to them, right!? Yes, I think I remember something about rats being crafty and clever, and ... um.... hang on a  minute, let me go get that placement I saved from the Peking Buffet dinner last  May. I know it's around here somewhere...

Tennis Shoes

Something's gotta give. I conned my friends and family into joining a little weight loss club I created. If you lose at least 1/2 pound, you don't have to pay. If you stay the same, you only have to pay $1. If you gain weight (even a tenth of a pound) you have to pay $5. We weigh in once a week. This past eight weeks, everyone else has lost weight. All I've lost is $21. Like I said.... something's gotta give. 

The problem is that I already know what I have to do. It's no mystery, really, how to lose weight. Despite all the legitimate variables like metabolic rate, BMI, glycemic index, thyroid function, resting heart rate, muscle confusion, etc..., it really does just come down to eating better and moving more. Sounds so simple. That's what makes it all the more frustrating that I can't seem to get in gear and get the pounds off.

After each of my babies was born, the nurses assured me that the weight would drop right off, especially since I was breastfeeding. They lied. I also heard that once I stopped breast feeding, the weight would disappear. It didn't. These same people swore that chasing after active toddlers is a sure-fire weight-loss exercise. It isn't. I suppose I should be thankful that they were at least trying to be encouraging, but, seriously - it's just not very nice to lie to a new mom, even if you have good intentions.

So, here  I am, staring 30 in the eyes and heavier than ever. I'm out over 20 bucks, rummaging in the closet for my biggest 'big' clothes, and I don't even have any more babies or breast feeding in my future to "help" me along in my quest. Guess it's time to face reality and get serious. Time to make a plan, get in gear, put on my game face. The good news is that I have a secret weapon - tennis shoes. Slipping on a good pair of tennies is the antidote for slothfulness, and can turn even a flabby momma like me into a virtual... um.... virtual..... Babe Ruth? (Sorry. My lack of appropriate sports analogies and inspiring athletic personalities comes from the fact that I have no interest in or knowledge of sports. Maybe that has something to do with my weight too...)

Anyway, back to tennis shoes. Two days ago I put on a pair of slacks and a nice shirt and ended up lounging on the couch for the better part of the afternoon. Yesterday I wore jeans and a T-shirt and was sedentary except for trips to the leftover Halloween candy bowl to get Tootsie Rolls. Today, I put on exercise pants and tennis shoes, and I ended up taking a 30 minute walk, choosing an apple over a chocolate bar for snack, and using the word 'fit' three times during the day. I guess the expression, "the clothes make the man" just might be true.

So, now I've got a choice to make - do I just start saving now so I can pay for the rest of the weight-loss challenge weeks, put on a mu-mu, and forever resign myself to being a big girl? (Perhaps even take to collecting Garfield figurines which feature the feisty feline saying, "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy"?) Maybe I should go ahead and purchase long term care and life insurance, along with stock in Dunkin' Donuts and Tootsie Rolls, just to make sure I've got a 'balanced' portfolio that will see to all my future needs. Is that the kind of person I want to be? Am I really ready to throw in the bath sheet? (Those are jumbo towels, for those of you who are still able to wrap a standard-towel around your whole selves.)

I guess I can't guarantee where I will end up in the future and better than those well-intentioned, lying nurses in the labor and delivery ward, but I can tell you that I'm slipping on my socks and tennis shoes right now. Perhaps I'll find some answers about tomorrow on a long walk this afternoon. I'll let you know what I find.