Vocabulary Lessons with Charlie

My nephews were here today, and since the weather was nice they spent most of their time outside. Charlie came inside briefly at one point and told us--rapidly, breathlessly--about the plan they'd hatched.

"Me and Bubby are going to have a club, and we're going to hang out in the back of Papa's truck. We're going to get some stuff and take our vehicles with us. We call these vehicles," he explained, referring to his new scooter and Talons's new rip stick.

And with that he was out the door.

don't let them take you

Don't turn away

This is our fate

And all this dreaming's just as real

As all that other shit we feel

I've felt myself starting to slip back into my old ways lately: worrying too much and getting frustrated and overwhelmed when things become challenging. Since I moved to Tulsa, I've been pretty good at letting go of worries and staying focused on positive things, but the last few weeks have been a lot more challenging than most.

I've been traveling a lot and spending time away from my cats, which I hate. I'm starting to feel my life is divided between two places again, like it was when I lived in PA--there was my life here in Tulsa with my family, and my life in PA with my job, my cats and my friends. Now my family and my cats are here, but Ryan is in OKC and I usually can't have one without being away from the other. I'm not complaining, mind you! Ryan is wonderful and totally worth the short drive between us...and since I don't have a job I have plenty of time to spend in both places.

However, I am keeping my eyes open for potential jobs in Oklahoma City. I'm just sayin'.

Most of the bullshit with my parents is legitimately infuriating, and the pressure I get from them only compounds the concerns I already have about money, a job, and my living situation. Add to that the holiday stress and some slight hormonal turmoil, and it's no wonder I got back into the old mindset of being pissed off, sick and tired, fed up and bummed out.

Other little frustrations have been piling up too, and I'm finding things seem a lot more difficult than they should be. Stuff like keeping my health insurance, getting money back from failed travel plans, dealing with creditors, refilling prescriptions and simply buying some damn Sudafed for my stuffy head...the red tape is ridiculous!

I guess between those little frustrations and my parents giving me hell, sometimes I feel like I have to fight extra hard for so much of what I need. That's not really the case, though; I have supportive friends and an amazing boyfriend who understand where I am in life and do all they can to encourage me. I have sweet kitty cats who give me love and affection every day. I have two enchanting nephews who never fail to lift my spirits. And these things just are. I don't have to fight to keep them; all I need to do is remember to appreciate them and lean on them when I get into a funk. Everything else is peripheral.

Anyway, the moodiness seems to be passing, and hopefully I'll continue finding the strength to stand firm when people ask about my job situation or my parents start trying to control me.

I know who I am, and I'm not a girl who worries; I am hopeful and grateful and ready to embrace whatever adventure tomorrow brings. I am not emotionally dysfunctional; I just live with people who are, and it will take a lot of resolve to get out of here with my peace of mind intact. I'll do it.

I know what I want, and it doesn't involve making choices based on what other people want me to do. And if I have to continue belaboring that point--in my blog and in conversations--to keep myself on track, that's what I'll do.

This song definitely helps.

Whoever said you can't go home was right.

I guess it hits all of us at some point, the disgruntlement that so easily creeps in during the holiday season. I've had my share of it this year, and I'm going to vent!

First, I missed a flight to Cincinnati on the busiest traveling day of the year and, due to major weather problems, couldn't get an alternative flight that wouldn't get me there late and leave me spending most of the weekend alone in strange cities--and then only if I managed not to get stranded in Chicago. So I missed out on seeing Over the Rhine's two-night anniversary concert with Eric and Sara, which was a bitter disappointment.

There was an upside, though...I got to spend the weekend with Ryan instead. And that Saturday night, Eric called from the concert while the band played my favorite song. I put my cell phone on speaker and laid it on the table, then closed my eyes and soaked it in: the distorted sounds coming through the phone, the lyrics I couldn't understand but knew by heart, and the gratitude for my wonderful friends who had me in their hearts. Ryan saw the tears in my eyes and moved closer, while the song itself perfectly expressed my feelings about that moment, about him and my friends, and about life in general.

Pour me a glass of wine
Talk deep into the night
Who knows what we'll find

Intuition, deja vu
The Holy Ghost haunting you
Whatever you got I don't mind

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

Put your elbows on the table
I'll listen long as I am able
There's nowhere I'd rather be...

We spent the rest of the night drinking wine and listening to music. My weekend was salvaged, to say the least.

Alas, not everything turned out so well. The morning I missed my flight, my mom had to come back and pick me up from the airport, and that was when the bullshit began to get out of hand.

"Well, it was a hair-brained idea to go to a concert the weekend before Christmas anyway," she declared. "There, I said it!"

"You can call it hair-brained if you want," I replied with a steely sort of calm. "It wasn't my idea anyway."

She seemed relieved that I'd be home where I belonged for the weekend, but her relief turned to disapproval as soon as I told her I was going to Oklahoma City. Why not? My Christmas shopping was done, my bags were already packed, and everything was squared away for me to be gone.

This was when my mom decided to unload about how my dad rants and raves to her about everything I do. I've been out of town a lot--seeing Ryan in OKC, visiting his family in various other parts of Oklahoma, taking a well-deserved vacation, etc. Apparently my dad feels I'm neglecting my obligations and doesn't like that I leave my cats in my mom's (not his) care so often. He's also apparently very bothered by the fact that (he assumes) I'm not looking for a job and he seems to be under the impression that I'm planning to live with my parents forever, remain unemployed and continue to let my hellion cats run rampant in his house. And he doesn't like the way (he thinks) I manage my money. She doesn't mind all these things, she assured me. But she has to listen to him complain about them, and she doesn't like that.

"That is not my problem," I told her, a determined calm taking the place of what in the past might have been crippling guilt or blind fury. "If he has a problem with anything I do, he's welcome to discuss it with me. But I am not responsible for guessing how he feels or what he thinks, and I'm not going to spend my life bending over backwards trying to please him or anyone else." She seemed to find this argument fairly sound, and I continued to explain that my goal in life right now is to do what I feel is best and what makes ME happy.

I talked it over with Ryan later that day and received confirmation that my parents were being ridiculous and treating me like a child. Furthermore, my father was trying to control things that are none of his business and was showing a total lack of confidence in my ability to function as an independent adult. I was livid.

My parents were kind to let me live with them, yes. But there were no overt conditions attached...only the invisible strings of guilt and shame that can be used to manipulate me after they've pretended to love and support me unconditionally. Do they think I don't know it's a pain in the ass to have my four cats here? Do they really think I WANT to stay here with them any longer than necessary?

Fuck that!!!

I was home just a few days for Christmas before I left town again to spend a couple of days at Grand Lake with Ryan's mom and step dad. Fortunately, with all the relatives around I was shielded a bit from my parents' disapproval, at least for the holidays. But they started on me again as soon as we returned from the lake last night.

My sister had cleaned out the attic, removing numerous boxes of stuff she'd saved from childhood. I was next, my dad informed me (implying that somehow I'm crowding them out of their house by keeping a few things in their attic while I live here and that the stuff all needs to go now). Then my mom suggested that maybe I'd like to move those boxes in the hallway into the attic now that there's room. I reminded here that those boxes are transitional, that I'm gradually collecting things to either give away or take to storage eventually...just as I've explained to her before.

That was when my disgust with all of this began to really take hold. What about asking how my visit with Ryan's family went? How about making a little conversation with Ryan instead of staring at the TV? We eventually went upstairs, where my cats were shut up in their rooms while my parents' demon cat "Precious" had his turn being out of lock down. It's not like we went up to my bedroom and shut the door so we could make out or something...nor is it anyone's business what we were doing.

Still, everything seemed ridiculous and I felt like a fucking teenager.

Here's the thing: I am looking for a job at a pace that I'm comfortable with. I don't pay rent, but then no one ever asked me to. I have money, and I support myself. How much money I have and how I spend it is no one's business but mine. What I do with my free time is for me to decide, and my only obligations are to make sure my cats are cared for, and to be there for my family when they need my help (if they ask for it!). I have never made any kind of contract giving anyone the right to tell me how to live my life, or subjecting myself to an unspecified quantity of guilt to be dispensed at another person's discretion. NOTHING entitles anyone--not even my parents--to make decisions for me or to judge me for the life I choose.

Then there's the unsolicited advice. It's part of the reason I don't attend my family's church. I'm still pretty burned up about the pastor's suggestion that I should "start getting rid of cats, get married and have some real babies." But it's more than that. I can't bear the thought of being asked several times every week where I'm working these days or how the job search is going. I don't have the mental or emotional strength to continuously decline offers for help getting jobs I don't want, or to explain how I know what I want to do with my life in general but when it comes to the specifics I'm going on blind faith.

And I cannot endure one more pessimistic warning not to wait too long to look for a job because the economy is so bad and lots of people are out of work these days. Maybe it's ignorance, or arrogance, or complete denial...I refuse to live in fear.

I refuse parental guilt trips, and I refuse to feel shame for loving my life. I refuse to speculate on the feelings and opinions of those who choose not to discuss them in a calm, rational manner--or who choose not to discuss them at all.

Something I WILL do, however, is start looking for a job in earnest as soon as I return from my New Year's trip to Philly. I will reclaim the missing pieces of my dignity and get a place of my own where I can dance naked, let my cats run rampant, drink 'till I pass out on the couch, have my boyfriend spend the night, and come and go as I please with only the cats to scold me, and then usually only if I'm late with dinner.

Katy's Holiday Shopping Tips

I've tried many ways to avoid Christmas shopping over the years:

I've made donations in my family members' names, and that was fine until the year it made my dad cry. No gift I've ever given him has been so memorable since I was three or four and he pretended to send me to my room because I naively answered him when he asked what his unwrapped Christmas gifts were. Anyway, his crying and hugging me was the pinnacle of the donation-gift era, and I decided anything after that would feel flat in comparison.

I've resolved to do all my shopping online, but that idea largely failed because I procrastinated too long and then realized I hadn't allowed enough time for shipping.

I've done the hand-made, home-made gift thing, and that was really fun but labor-intensive...not to mention expensive and eventually overwhelming.

This year I played around with all of the above ideas, but I finally decided to bite the bullet and just go out and buy some gifts. I completed most of this year's shopping in two major excursions, and while I patted myself on the back I took note of the factors that kept me from becoming hysterical or hostile and decided to write them down.

(Of course, being unemployed is a big plus at this time of year, aside from the nagging doubts about spending precious severance dollars when there's no income to replace them. But that's another topic altogether.)

Behold my brilliant advice:

1. Eat lunch. Seriously, this is no time to mess around with your blood sugar levels. When you find yourself trapped in a narrow aisle with a crazy person breathing down your neck and shopping carts coming at you from all directions, that sandwich may be the only thing that keeps you from having a crying, swearing meltdown.
2. Shop in the middle of the week, in the middle of the day. Quit your job if that's what it takes to avoid weekend shopping crowds--better yet, get laid off with severance so you'll have some money to spend on gifts.
3. Know your shortcuts. Getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic can only lead to too much time spent contemplating the futility of life, the decline of humanity and the crass commercialization of Christmas...and that's time you could spend getting a coffee or taking a nap, if only you can navigate the lesser known paths to the mega shopping centers.
4. Keep it simple. Do you really think your aunts, uncles and cousins care how much time you spend deliberating between store-bought and homemade trail mix, or agonizing over what to package it in? Just grab something and move on...if they don't like it, tough shit.
5. Make a list and have a plan. Because while you're waiting in long lines or cowering in the gift wrap aisle, terrified and confused, you'll need something to remind you what your priorities are.
6. Fuck it. Don't be afraid to walk out of a store that has exceeded its capacity for crazed, disgruntled and possibly smelly shoppers. Ask yourself if there's really anything in that store worth entering a potential mosh pit. No? Get the hell out. Yes? Go get a sandwich and come back later.

As a final thought, I believe it's worth noting (yet again) how stinking nice people in Oklahoma can be. Having "Excuse me" answered with "Excuse me, Hon!" is exactly the kind of thing that brought me home.

more mushiness

Ryan was in town over the weekend, and Friday night we went out with his dad and step mom to a dance held by their "two-steppers" club. I haven't gone country dancing in years, and it's never been Ryan's thing, but I had a blast.

What I enjoyed most (besides being with Ryan) was watching people dance. They were all older than us, and a good portion of them were senior citizens. By the way they dressed up (some of them were quite sparkly), I could tell this was an activity they really looked forward to every month. Their faces showed the joy of people doing something they loved, and that was invigorating!

I didn't dance much, and to be honest I was perfectly happy sitting at a table with Ryan's arm around me, taking in the atmosphere and talking with our heads close together so we could hear each other over the music. It's probably goofy of me to say this, but I didn't want to tear myself away from him long enough to dance with anyone else. It was just one of those times when everything felt right and nearly perfect.

I don't know why, but every time this guy says anything sweet or gives me a compliment, it takes me by surprise. It's not that I'm not used to being appreciated or treated this well...it's just that I still can't believe he thinks or feels those things about me!

And it's not that I don't feel I deserve him; I totally do! But it's hard to believe he's real, and I'm amazed at how nicely things have fallen into place, how at such a crucial time in my life (being unemployed and changing careers and all) I've met someone who gets it. His perspective is so similar to mine; he knows what I mean when I talk about following my passion and enjoying every day and living in the moment and liking/accepting myself. Hearing him talk about all that's possible in life--for him, for me, or for both of us--is absolutely thrilling.

It's like I have a motivational speaker and a muse and a boyfriend all tied up in one package.

the mystery deepens

Me: Do you still hate Scooby-Doo?

Charlie: No, not very much. I like it.

Me: What do you hate?

Charlie: Uh...(long pause)...I like Tom & Jerry...uh...I just hate something I don't like. It's...something...

He trailed off as he became transfixed by an episode of Tom & Jerry.

We're no closer to learning why the child sometimes hates Scooby-Doo, if in fact that's the case. However, it appears we can work under the assumption he has an understanding (if somewhat limited) of what it means to hate something.

The investigation continues...

in which nothing happens

There's just nothing going on this week. Nothing.

It's so bad that I actually considered posting a list of all the cold remedies I've tried in the last two weeks. And it's a long list: sore throat spray, cough drops, various nasal sprays, homeopathic remedies and aromatherapy blends. Not to mention the now closely guarded Sudafed...which is unfortunate, because I would think lately there are far more desperate cold sufferers out there looking for relief than there are actual meth-heads trying to score some supplies.

Every time I bought a new cold remedy this past weekend, a cashier or a person in line with me would nod sympathetically and say something like "Yep...it's definitely going around."

I saw the doctor between naps today, and he showed the same perplexed detachment as when I saw him just a month ago for the same problem. "Yes, I'm already taking that and it doesn't help," I found myself saying. "Yeah, I tried that, too. And that. Yes, and even that." All of which I told him a mere month ago! Dude, just hand over the prescription pad already, and I'll come up with something.

Anyway, back to how boring this week has been...

It's so bad that I found myself trying to build a blog entry around the phrase "tempura chicken tesiticles," which I heard on the Travel Channel within minutes of other intriguing phrases like "indigenous nudity" and "midget prostitutes charging half price." Unfortunately, the sinus cavities pressing on my brain seem to be hindering my creativity...and anyway, it was a stretch to begin with.

T.V. just isn't doing it for me these days, and it seems I'm not alone. According to Leah, things are so dull in Philly that Channel 10 did a news segment on itself, followed by a behind-the-scenes look at the making of said segment. And I thought things were slow here in Tulsa!

So I've just been sleeping, and sleeping. Sunshine has a cold too, and we're quite the pair, holed up in the bedroom and hiding our unwashed fur/hair from the world. Tomorrow will be more of the same, I suspect. But by Friday I'll be pumped full of enough antibiotics that I should be able to get off my ass, wash my hair and face the world again.


Oh, this just in: Buster has been heard sneezing. Apparently this cold stuff really is spreading like wildfire.

Cartoons

Charlie: Scooby-Doo's on, come look.

Me: Do you like Scooby-Doo?

Charlie: No, sometimes I hate it.

Me: Oh - why?

Charlie: Dora already came on. You missed it.


I guess some questions just don't deserve answers.

Turkey and Mushiness: A (not really) obligatory Thanksgiving post

It appears we’ve survived another Thanksgiving at the Smith house. There were no tears and only a few screams, so I certainly can’t complain.

Mom fixed turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy and a pie, and I did the sweet potatoes and green beans. Dad, as tradition seems to dictate, tidied up the yard with his leaf blower and cut the turkey.

Mom, having learned from past Thanksgiving feasts (during one of which my sister found her crying in the garage), asked my dad to carve the turkey BEFORE any guests arrived. I knew why, and I made it a point to finish up my cooking and get the hell out of the way before he got started.

You don’t want to be in the kitchen when my dad comes to cut the turkey. You just don’t.

Indeed, he wasn’t in the kitchen two seconds before I heard him yell “Shit!” He continued to mutter for several minutes and then declared twice (to no one, because Mom was out of earshot and I pretended not to hear him) that this was the last year we were cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

Because it’s such a hassle for him, right?

Anyway, the turkey was done within five minutes and I snuck back into the kitchen to check on my beans and potatoes. Mom cleaned up the mess Dad had made when he dropped a drumstick on the floor (hence the cussing), and I herded my cats up to their room before they could locate the source of the enticing smells that were filling the house.

Soon my aunt and uncle and their kids arrived bearing salad, veggies, pies and Aunt Bev’s famous stuffed mushrooms. Next came another uncle with nothing but his appetite. (And I can’t complain, because that’s what I usually do...of course, my trip used to be a lot longer--1200 miles--so I had an excuse.) Finally my brother arrived with his wife, my nephews and several more pies.

Then we got our binge on.

My sister missed out on the fun this year, as she’s spending the holiday with her fiancé and his family. She spent yesterday wandering all over the state of Texas, stopping in Dallas to retrieve said fiancé from the airport, and then stopping again at the airport in San Antonio to get his luggage, and finally hitting the home stretch to Corpus Christi. That’s how they roll…by the seat of their pants and without a lot of advance planning.

Everyone’s gone home now, and the cats have finally given up on finding any hidden turkey scraps (they still don’t know about the stash Mom has set aside for them). Mom’s snuggled in her recliner with a heating pad on her back, and Dad’s watching TV with the volume ridiculously high, as usual. Grandma Iva is in her room, worrying about whether anyone will remember to turn down her bed before The Lawrence Welk Show comes on.

I’ve snuck upstairs for some quiet time with the kitties, and I guess this is where I reflect on how thankful I am. I certainly have plenty of reasons to be…

• I’m thankful for the hope I have for my future, and for a chance to start over in so many ways.
• I’m thankful for the severance check that allows me to survive on nothing but dreams and a sense of adventure—for a while, at least.
• I’m thankful my parents made room for my cats and me; that they haven’t complained too much about our excessive napping and shedding; and that living here hasn’t made me crazy yet.
• I’m glad I’m not in Philly, where November is far too chilly for my taste and the winters are unbearably cold. (I wore short sleeves today and took out the trash in my bare feet!)
• I’m thankful for my family, because they give me so much to write about, and because they’re the only people in the world who share my particular brand of nuttiness.
• I am grateful for my cats, of course…for wet nose kisses and soft head butts and early morning purrs and loving blinky-eyes and all things feline.
• I’m thankful for a New Guy who makes my heart flutter, and for all the things that make him so fucking cool, like how he loves his cats and surrounds himself with books, music, and art and makes me laugh and makes me breakfast and doesn’t mind if I cuss like a sailor…and how he’s just really damn likeable in general!

Recipe for a Perfect Saturday

On a cozy couch, combine two orange tabbies, liberal quantities of excellent music, and one really great guy.

Add beer to taste.

Laugh frequently, petting cats as needed.

Enjoy!

swatting flies and putting out fires

Monday I watched both of my nephews for a few hours, and we had quite the flurry of activity.

First, we stopped at Quicktrip; Talon had enough money to buy a bag of chips for himself and another one for Charlie. I found it very sweet that he considered his brother without being told, so I agreed to buy whatever drinks they wanted to go with their chips. Five minutes later, I left the store feeling I'd barely escaped with my life.

Talon wanted a 32 oz. fountain drink--he rationalized this by explaining it was the same price as the little drink Charlie wanted, and who am I to argue? So while Charlie chose from Booger Berry and whatever other bizarre flavors his drink came in, Talon filled his giant cup with some kind of red soda.

Charlie finally settled on a flavor, and I grabbed a soda for myself. All was well until Talon went to put the lid on his drink and--bless his heart--spilled the whole thing all over the place. Anxious to finish up and get out before we were kicked out, I asked what was in the cup so I could get him a new drink.

"It's mix of, like, four different things," he said sheepishly.

"Never mind," I said and sent him to ask someone to bring a mop while I sopped up some of the red stuff. Charlie tagged along behind him, dropping his own drink as he ran. Luckily that one was in a sealed plastic bottle, so a second disaster was averted--mostly. Talon made another drink, comprised mostly of Mountain Dew and cherry syrup, and I put the lid on it for him.

By the time we got to the counter, Charlie's drink was leaking on his hands. So the clerk took it away and told us to get another one. We had to go through the whole selecting-a-flavor dilemma one more time, and finally we were headed to the car with strict orders not to open ANYTHING until we got home.

Back at the house, Talon and I had some homework to do. I'd bought him several kinds of rocks & minerals in Hot Springs, and he wanted to label them and take them to school. So we sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and his rocks and started googling.

I knew this would be a bit of a challenge, as three-year-old Charlie is chock full of energy and requires constant conversation. What I didn't expect was for my dad to be the one who couldn't leave us in peace for five minutes!

Alas, my dad turns into 6'3'' child when my nephews are around, and he also happens to be utterly helpless without my mom. Unfortunately, Mom got a phone call and was not available to distract Charlie or Dad while Talon and I tried to get some work done. Within seconds, my dad was at the table with us, broken glasses in hand. He couldn't see to fix them, so he had to have Talon help him find the loose screw and put it back in.

(Pun not intended, but funny nonetheless.)

After several minutes of ridiculous commotion, Dad and Charlie finally went back to the living room. But within minutes, Dad was calling "I need the flyswatter!"

A wasp had come in through the fireplace, and instead of getting up to find the flyswatter like any able-bodied, able-minded adult, Dad sent Charlie after it (likely having first sent Charlie to ask my mom where it was--helpless, I tell you!). I tried to tune them out, but then I looked up to find Charlie coming through the kitchen with a watering can.

"That's not a flyswatter," Dad cried. "Katy, help him find the flyswatter."

"Not water," I explained to Charlie, laughing. "The flyswatter...to swat flies."

"He knows what a flyswatter is," Talon called from the kitchen.

"Oh yeah?" I answered from the pantry. "He's pointing at a bottle of vinegar right now."

Talon giggled.

After an eternity, Mom finished her phone call and found the damn flyswatter. By then I'd given up and told Talon he'd have to the label the other half of his rocks with his teacher's help. Their mom would be arriving any minute to pick them up.

It's a good thing I didn't find the flyswatter myself; I'd have used it on my dad.

shades of purple

It's been 20-25 years since my Grandma Mary moved out of her house at 123 N. Gillette. But I dream of that house so often, and in such vivid detail, that it's hard to believe how much time has passed. In dreams it's new and it's old; it's home but it's not. It's mine for the taking, but I'm almost afraid to claim it.

I dream about the view of the street from the screened-in front porch where I used to play, and I look out past the magnolia tree, hoping I'm safe from whoever may be outside. And though she's not there anymore, Grandma's comfy chair is in the same corner, facing the T.V. The room is otherwise empty but for a hint of stale cigarette smoke and faint echoes of laughter in the corners, sparkling like visions of the costume jewelry she kept hidden in her bedroom.

The dining room is no longer crowded with furniture or piled high with remnants of a depression-era urge to keep everything because "you never know when you might need it." Now it's open and empty, ready for a new purpose, waiting for me to let some light in. I can see through the glass doors of the two bedrooms off the dining room, and they are so full of stuff that I can't even walk in them.

Sometimes I go through her things, unfolding and refolding her clothes, deciding what to keep and what to discard, making room for myself. The colors are vivid, and royal purple is always prevalent.

Sometimes I cook in her kitchen, and everything is as she left it; I always know where to find what I need. I never fail to notice the kitchen door and the steep concrete stairs leading down to a sprawling yard, a stand-alone garage full of more junk, and the vegetable garden beyond. I look out over the garden and think of the wild, unfettered dreams that could grow there...

I wander through the house, taking stock of what's left and treasuring every familiar nook, every alluring doorway, every shade of purple. I've inherited something that can't be quantified by the things, the rooms, or even the memories. It's rightfully mine, to make what I will of it. She's not there, but she's a part of me and my laughter is her laughter.

I never dream of the small apartment she eventually moved into, or the nursing home where she spent her last days. And I never, ever dream about the empty lot left behind after the house burned down some ten years ago. In my dreams the structure stands, but the unanswered questions--the things we don't talk about--linger in the shadowy corners.

And when I'm awake, I remember what remains: the laughter, the wonder, the purple, the sparkles...and the little princess with pretty brown eyes and shiny red hair, who grew up without a castle.

one of my cents' worth

The last few years have been a discouraging and confusing time for me, politically; maybe it goes back to a fear of anger and confrontation. Although I've learned a lot about how healthy it is to disagree constructively, I'm still the ultimate diplomat. I don't mind conflict as much as I used to, but I do cringe when it gets heated. And I've been really disenchanted with the political landscape of the last few years. Call me too sensitive, but at times I've found the viciousness between left and right to be heartbreaking.

The other night I saw some people holding up signs for their candidate at a busy intersection, and I heard a barrage of horns honking in support. And that was when I saw the other side of it all: a belief in something instead of opposition to someone...hope instead of hatred.

Of course, my own struggles pale in light of the decades of racism and ignorance that have scarred our country. And now we've elected a black president! I don't think it ever seemed outside the realm of possibility to me, but when I think of generations before mine who saw times when a black president seemed like nothing but a distant dream...I can't imagine how they must feel today.

Maya Angelou gave me a taste of it on CBS News this morning. "I am so proud," she said. "I am filled, I can hardly talk without weeping. I am so filled with pride for my country. What do you say? We are growing up!"

It's a new day. So can we start healing now?

it's all about the animals

Anyone who knows me at all knows this blog isn’t truly mine until I’ve given the scoop on all the animals in my life. And while my own herd hasn’t changed, we’ve had a few changes in our living situation worth mentioning.

First, our sweet little dog Cuddles isn’t with us anymore. She started limping over the summer, and for a while the cause was mysterious. Due to her age and her declining health, my mom opted out of having her x-rayed and gave Cuddles a round of steroids for the pain. That helped a lot, but as the dose was decreased, the pain came back and the limping got worse. On the second visit, the vet noticed the cause immediately: tumors in the area of her shoulder and chest. Cuddles had them before and they were surgically removed, but more had come up and they were growing rapidly.

The best thing, the vet said, would be to continue the full dose of prednisone to keep Cuddles comfortable until the tumors got large enough to impair her breathing, which would probably happen within a couple of months. Indeed, Cuddles was happy in spite of her limp, but eventually we could see the tumors coming out of her back and side, pushing the leg farther and farther out from her body. She never lost her appetite, but she started getting very tired and couldn’t breathe well or lift her head.

I went with my mom to take her to the vet one last time, and Cuddles did lift her head that day, panting happily and looking around because she loved going places. It was good to see her that way, and I knew we were doing the right thing. But I couldn’t bring myself to be in the room when she took her last breath. Cat wrangling skills aside, I’m still too sensitive for that.

We got Cuddles as a puppy the summer before I started college, and my sister named her for her gentle nature. When I got Sunshine as a kitten a couple of years later, Cuddles was wonderful. At the sight of her, Little Sunshine arched her back and puffed up her tiny bit of fur. Cuddles circled her, trying for the ceremonial butt sniff, and Sunshine turned with her, not willing to turn her back for a second. Eventually Cuddles pounced, knocking the little ball of fuzz off her feet, and proceeded to gently play-wrestle. They were great friends in their younger days.

These days Sunshine doesn’t have friends, and she doesn’t want any, thank you very much. As happy as she is to be back at my parents’ house, she usually keeps that happiness confined to a quiet corner in my bedroom (or maybe a spot halfway up the stairs, or on my mom’s bed, or on the back of the couch if I’m there). Outside of her safety zones, forget about it! She’s become less and less tolerant of the boys in the last few years, and lately she’s even fed up with Buster, who she used to at least tolerate as a lesser evil than Pip and George.

Buster, as always, is just sort of lost and alone. Sunshine never would let him bond with her, and Pip and George have their own little brother-love thing going on. Of course, he does like to romp and play with Pip. And he and George make pretty good partners in crime (I call them Pippy's goons). But when it comes to affection, Buster tends to hang back and keep to himself.

He does have a new friend, but I’m not sure he’s thrilled about it. My sister’s cat Precious, a gorgeous Maine Coon, came to stay with us in August while she went out of town. He’s still here, and he won’t be leaving. (NOTE: he’s not a member of my personal herd and will stay with my parents when I move out! Also note this cat proves my theory that pets with names like Precious or Sweet Pea—or Sunshine!—are more likely to become monsters than most animals.)

Anyway, as Buster is the least threatening of the bunch, he was the first of my cats to begin spending time with Precious. Poor Precious spent months watching my guys through the cracks under doorways before I convinced my parents this was a good idea. All he wants to do is play, but Buster would rather stick close to me where he feels safe. But even if they never become buddies, they’re very compatible…that is, unless Precious decides he wants to try for a higher rank in the fragile hierarchy we have going. Buster’s so passive that he’d probably surrender his position in a heartbeat.

Regardless of whether he chooses to leave the bottom of the pecking order, I doubt Precious will ever try to outrank George or Pip. George, being the creepy little stalker that he is, simply chases Precious every time he sees him. I don’t know why he does this, but he’s always had similar tendencies with Sunshine. She rarely runs from him, but Precious always does, and George pursues him with gusto, his butt swaying and his belly fat swinging with every step. He doesn’t want to catch anyone…the fun is all in the chase.

Pip, on the other hand, just watches Precious. He follows him from room to room, and when he parks, Pip parks directly in front of him, face to face, and looks at him. This is the same kind of Jedi mind trick George uses on Sunshine, and though it looks perfectly innocent, it has a notable effect on the cat being watched.

My parents are convinced that Precious lives in terror and needs to be protected from my little beasts. But I’m the cat wrangler in this house, and I say the cats just need to get used to each other and work out an arrangement. They’ll be fine, and I’ll separate them if I ever see blood or signs of psychological torture.

For the record, Sunshine does not participate in any of these multi-cat activities. She’d rather live in denial that a fifth cat lives in this house, and to facilitate that I keep my bedroom door shut for most of the day.

With his obsessive tendencies and constant craving for food, George has established himself as the trouble-maker in the house. Sometimes he infuriates my mom or me, and then he skulks around with a guilty posture that’s somehow irresistibly adorable. I’m convinced it’s a built-in survival technique, being so cute it’s impossible for humans to stay mad at him.

The other day my mom was sweeping the floor, and when George saw the broom he made a big production of cowering, as if he was afraid she was going to chase him down and whack him. Mom claimed he must have a guilty conscience, and we laughed. But I couldn’t help wondering if there was a history behind his reaction. He rarely shows signs of having been abused in the past, but based on Pip’s behavior and the sketchy stories I’ve heard, I’m sure he used to live with a person who was abusive in some way.

Pip shows more signs of fear, and he’s especially jumpy around my dad. He’s a little less cautious when treats are involved, but I worry that if my dad ever loses his temper and yells around Pip, their tentative friendship will be over. Honestly, as cantankerous as my dad can be, I’d prefer to keep Pip away from him altogether. It’s not that he’d ever hurt my cats…I’d go Rambo on his ass if he did! But Pip is especially sensitive to angry voices, and I don’t want him to ever live in fear again.

My dad’s been getting on my nerves lately, and that—combined with my desire to protect Pippy from all forms of anger—is probably why I had one of my cat nightmares the other night. But this one was worse than the usual cat dream; Pip got lost. I was devastated and couldn’t stop looking for him, even though I was afraid of what I’d find. Just when I began to accept that he wasn’t coming back (and I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed), I found him…he was badly injured. I cautiously grabbed him by the scruff, hoping to hell he wouldn’t panic, and got him into a car.

I urged whoever was driving to keep going, even when another car rolled over violently in front of us, bursting into flames and blocking part of the road ahead. Go around it, I demanded. You can’t stop. I eventually woke up in a panic, but fortunately Buster was right there to purr me back to sleep.

That dream reinforces the theory that I’d walk through hell for my cats...especially my little orange Pippy.

So that’s the animal situation—inside the house, at least. I planned to include some stories about the birds and squirrels that frequent our back yard (and amuse me to no end), but they’ll have to wait. I’ve got a tear in my eye and a sudden urge to go play with Pip.

I Don't Know

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few weeks thinking about who I really am. Not who I was at TV Guide, who I was with Mark, who I am with my family or who I can become based on various other external influences…but who I am when all the extra stuff is stripped away and I allow myself to just be.

It hasn’t been easy to be quiet and listen to myself; there are plenty of distractions to take up my time and energy, and it’s easy to mechanically get caught up in the distractions instead of digging for the truth. The challenge is not in finding myself, but in putting everything else out of my mind and letting myself find me.

A few days at a bed and breakfast in the mountains seemed like the ideal way to begin my quest, and the place I chose was absolutely perfect: secluded and quiet, comfy and cozy, and just friendly enough without being intrusive. In fact, I knew I was in the right place when two adorable dogs came out to greet me as I got out of my car!

But I didn’t find myself focusing on the resident animals as much as I might have normally. It did take me a couple of days to stop worrying about finding wi-fi access, and I spent a lot of time shopping and sight-seeing. But on the third day I determined that I would make time to sit still and do nothing if it meant tying myself down to the porch swing.

One of the first things that occurred to me that weekend was “What if I don’t like myelf?”

Of course this is absurd, and it’s not for me to like or dislike…I am what I am, and I want to find that and run with it. I thought my first blog entry would serve to present my findings during the vacation, but it’s not working out that way. I’m still learning how to listen to my inner voice instead of worrying about what other people think I should do or be, or what they might think of who I become.

The one thing I have determined with absolute certainly is that I have a rare chance to take a break from working and explore the possibilities. And if I don’t make this most of this chance, I may never get another one. I cannot get caught up in worrying about money and end up taking a “good” job that doesn’t fit me! I can’t be concerned with what the world thinks I should be doing—getting married, having babies, buying a house or whatever “normal” people are doing. I can’t feel guilty or lazy every time someone hints at the question of how long I’m going to remain unemployed.

A friend recently expressed how much peace he’s found in being able to simply say “I don’t know.”

So there it is: I don't know; I don’t have a plan.

And I like it that way.