Out With the Old

For the last few years, I've done a little tradition on New Year's Eve. I do a Feng Shui Orange Peel Blessing on my home. Then I draw Native American Medicine Cards for the year. The orange peel blessing? Totally doesn't work. I think it doesn't work for two reasons:

1. I don't actually believe in it--I just do it for fun.
2. The rest of my home is not feng shui-ed. My chi gets tangled a lot.

One year I chanted "I will get a GREAT job this year," and then ended up getting hosed by the company I was freelancing for. Last year I said, "This is going to be the BEST YEAR EVER," and instead 2010 will go down as one of the worst years of my life. F*ck the orange peels. I'm not doing it again. Although I really like how they smell.

I love the Native American Medicine Cards and even though they are also just for fun, I do find interesting meaning in them. If you follow me regularly, you'll notice that I totally blew it with listing all of them and the meanings I found in them on the blog this year. That was for a reason. The cards I drew this year were rather haunting. There were more spiritual and woo woo than cards I've drawn in past years. They foreshadowed a time of great change, pain, and darkness.

I was baffled on January 1, 2010, but now on Dec. 31, 2010, I know exactly what they meant. I can go back through the months of the year and plot out their meanings like the most precise of maps. I chose not to share them here because this was the Year of Secrets on Clark Street. Many things happened behind the curtain. I blogged about shiny things to hide what was really going on. And while I know my readers would have understood all of it and helped me through the long months of 2010 with gusto, I had to keep some things private this year. Yes, it's true, I actually do have privacy. (I'll wait while my mother laughs.)

So this year, I'm going to change up the cards, so to speak. I'm just going to draw one. My totem animal for the year. I will read about the animal and hold it dear through 2011. I will find strength in the animal's natural strengths and comfort in the animal's earthly behaviors and instincts. I like the idea of just having one animal to take me through the next year. The others with their secrets and mysteries can stay in the pack. See? I do know how to give up traditions after all.

So now we come to the question of resolutions. I don't make them. Or I make really easy ones. One year, my resolution was: "Stay alive." I kept that one. I like to make true resolutions in spring when we are finished with all of this winter nonsense and I can focus on them. But I do want to throw one out there that I hope sticks.

I will find my anchor.

I've said that before on this blog in reference to an unknown future man. This time, I just mean it in any way it comes into my life. Whether it be a full-time job I can dive in to or a great relationship or a new hobby that pulls me in deep and helps me to feel really solid, I just want to find something to hold me still in the waves. I resolve to. A big ole heavy as hell anchor that will plunge to the icy depths and grab on tight.

This year I was floundering around out there like Jason Bourne in the arctic waters and no one saw my beacon light. So I have to find it myself. This year I let what other people think of me creep in one too many times. I was affected by things that were said and done in a way that should not have bothered me. I found myself worrying and thinking and spinning my wheels into a tizzy about all sorts of things. It was ridiculous. I fell back into old patterns and ways of thinking that I thought I had put away long ago. So in 2011, I will.

At one point this year, I found myself thinking: I don't know who I am anymore. That's a terrible way to feel. These things happen for a variety of reasons. Mine was moving back to Farmsville and finally adjusting to the culture shock and truly settling in. How can I still be me in such a tiny town? How do I fit in here when I am so very different? Is this the right place for me?

After much soul-searching, I realized that it is right now. I like living here. I love the convenience and the farmie life. I love my little, beat-up gnome house in the country. So now the challenge is to find a way to bring "me"--whatever that is now--into this world. I am not the woman I was when I left Chicago 3 years ago. I've changed. And that's OK. I just have to learn how to recognize and embrace my present self. I've been ignoring and rejecting her for too long.

So today I begin to just be me, with all of my oddness and peculiarities and embrace them. Starting with this song. I really like this song today. Goodbye 2010.




My Song
by Brandi Carlisle

Everything I do surrounds
These pieces of my life
That often change
Or maybe I've changed
Sometimes seeming happy
Can be self-destructive
Even if you're sane
You're only insane
But don't bother
Waking me today

Here I am
I'm so young
I know I've been bitter
I've been jaded
I'm alone
Every day
I bite my tongue
If you only knew
My mind was full of razors
That cut you like a worry
From each song
But this is my song
It is my song

Now I live everyday
Like there'll never be
A last one till they're gone
And they're gone
I'm not to proud
To beg you for your attention
And your friendship
And your time

So you can come
And get it from now on

Here I am
I'm so young
I know I've been bitter
I've been jaded
I'm alone
Every day
I bite my tongue
If you only knew
My mind was full of razors
That cut you like a worry
From each song
But this is my song
It's my song

And it's you, it's you
And if you only knew

Here I am
I'm so young
I know I've been bitter
I've been jaded
I'm alone
Every day
I bite my tongue
If you only knew
My mind was full of razors
I'm not sure I can take it
I've nothing strong to hold to
I'm way too old to hate you
My mind is full of razors
To cut you like a worry
From each song
But this is my song

My Childhood Bear

When I was a little girl, Grandma Blonderson gave me this bear. It's a Daekor Pot Belly Bear that was a bit controversial (a bunch of them got recalled for having wires in them--mine does not) and is now considered extremely collectible. Mine? Not for sale. She's a mess. She has stuffing coming out and her mouth is falling apart. And, well, she's like my favorite thing from my childhood EVER.

My cousins all got these at some point (I feel as though Chicago Cousin might have had a raccoon instead of a bear though??). I squealed with delight when I saw my grandma walking up to my house with a bear wrapped in tissue paper. Her little ears and bootie were sticking out of the paper, so I knew what it was right away. I don't have a memory of actually opening it or playing with it that day--just a snapshot picture of Grandma on the walk with pink tissue paper. Years later I got the baby bear version--smaller but just as adorable. I made both of mine be girls. My sister's were boys. We all had quite the adventures. Gran used to crochet hats for my bears. They were hilarious. Ah, grandmothers.

This Christmas, I needed something to cuddle with since my kittehs were at home. I opened the closet and brought out Bear in all her glory. And guess who found her with me the next morning...


Man I love that bear. And that girl.

The Black Toilet Has Left the Building

Right now, like as I type this, two dudes I know from the watering hole are installing a new toilet. They came in, took one look at the old toilet, and both said it was the funkiest toilet they've ever seen. They are professional plumbers. Greeeeeat. And they both have NO IDEA what could be causing the problem. As one said, "We are the plumbing guys. There are also well guys. Call them." I don't know whether to laugh or cry. The well is connected to the neighbor's house, and they don't have this problem.

After much research (like asking every single plumber in town about the black toilet), I've narrowed down the source of the problem: I do not have a water softener tank. This explains the MASSIVE amount of minerals that clog up my humidifier, kitteh water bowls, and all of my own glasses, plates, sinks, and, um, toilets. Just one toilet. That is now in the back of the dude's truck outside. Good times. It wasn't black before (in theory) because the flapper was broken so there was a constant stream of water going through it. When my dad fixed the flapper, the water stopped moving. The iron built up = black toilet.

So, do I want a water softener tank? Well, I'm pretty sure there is one in the basement. I think I saw it down there at one point. I know it's not connected. Is it broken? What would it take to connect it? How could I possibly lift water softener pellet bags by myself? I have a horrible back. And then we have the monster question. How much would it cost me to buy pellets for a year? Do I really want to add that expense to my life? In a rental? Maybe it's cheap. I don't know. I will have to discuss it with my father. He knows all about these things. He can help me figure out if it's worth it. The plumbing dudes? They just said it's possible that the new toilet could start to become black if it's a water problem. Greeeeeat. Brand new black toilet? No want.

You should see these guys. There is VERY little room for them to work with near my bathroom. They are wrapped around the toilet in an odd plumbing threesome. I would take a photo for you, but it just feels wrong. The whole situation is quite awkward considering the fact that all three of us were at the watering hole last night watching the Iowa game. Go hawks.

They are tracking snow in here. Oh well.

The sound of my typing is helping me to ignore what they are doing. I'm pretending to be working. They have no idea that I'm writing about them right now. Funny, no? That they are now the Famous Plumbing Dudes Who Took the Black Toilet and they don't even know? I'm not going to tell them. They can blissfully install the new toilet without knowing I'm outing them to the Internet.

It takes a long time to put together a toilet.

There are lots of awkwardly-placed bolts.

(whistles)

The TV has a murder show on.

The kitties have fled. I have no idea where they are. Probably under my bed. But now they are trapped in there because there are two scary men blocking their exit. I hope no one has to pee. I'm sure glad I don't.

(whistles)

So yeah, I'm going to have a new toilet now, but will it stay sparkling white for long? I. Don't. Know. Neither do my plumber dudes. But I'm so very grateful that my landfather bought me a new toilet and sent over these nice boys to install it. I am a lucky duck. Yay me!

(whistles)

Good times. Very good times.

Plumbing Dude 1: "Do you want to take a picture of it while it's still white?"

Laughs all around. Also, a twinge of humiliation. Whatevs.

I've now decided it's officially time to invest in bottled water. WTF have I been drinking all this time?

Are you enjoying my steam of consciousness?

Seriously, how long can it take to install a toilet? Now one of them brought a hacksaw in. Are they going to chop me up into little bits and distribute me around the county? Oh no. They are hacksawing something in the bathroom. I have no idea why.

Webster just BOLTED out of the bedroom. He made his escape. He is rubbing the cardboard toilet box. New box! Don't get attached to it. It's leaving with the boys. If they ever leave. Maybe they will move in?

More hacksawing.

(stares at wall)

(realizes might have to pee soon)

I asked what they are hacksawing. "Oh, just some nuts." Pause. "He decided he didn't want kids, so..."

At least they are funny.

I HEARD A FLUSH! SUCCESS!

So now they will clean up, take the boxes and tools and all of the stuff they drug in here, and go about their merry way. I will enjoy the beauty of my new toilet for at LEAST 24 hours before any blackness begins to appear. And the next time I see these dudes, I'll buy them a round. If anyone deserves it, it's them.

UPDATED TO ADD: My father has confessed to putting some kind of acid into my toilet to clean out mineral stains when he fixed the flapper. Perhaps it caused the blackness? Interesting...

Very Important Christmas Kitten Update

I took the wee girl to the vet this morning. I was supposed to go at 9am, but I had to push back the appointment to later because of work. Mysteriously, a Kind Woman arrived early for her doggie appointment, so we were both at the vet in the waiting room at exactly 10:20am. The Owner? She was at work, oblivious to vets and snow kittens, mourning the loss of her 12-year-old cat that died last week--she was the Kind Woman's sister.

A phone number was given out. It was mine.

The snow kitten was tested for feline HIV and leukemia. Negative. Miracle. The other kittehs who were tested this morning were not so lucky, the vet informed me. We gave her the first of two leukemia vaccines, and then he checked her out as she pranced and purred all over the office. Such a wonderful kitten! Yes, yes, I know. I went home with free kitten food, ear mite medicine, a new health record for "Christmas Kitten," and a dream. A dream for the Owner to say yes.

At 2:30pm, the call came in. Is the kitten still available? Yes! Oh GOOD! So I drove her over to the Kind Woman's house. The Owner was there when I got there. She looked almost like she was in pain as I handed over the baby. Like she was holding back tears. I understand. Losing an old cat and gaining a new one is a very emotional process. I felt a little tug at my heart as I gave her away, but it felt so good to know she is safe and sound in a loving, healthy home. She found her Owner. Lucky girl, indeed. The Owner held her close as I left, and I saw true love developing. It's a beautiful thing.

And I know I made the best decision because right as we were leaving, I placed the carrier on the floor for just a second--but it was long enough for Gretchen to peek in and HISS. I've never heard her hiss before. Message received. And now we will go back to being just the three of us.

ReHoming the Christmas Kitten

This is a terrible cell phone picture, but it's really the best I can do. The dear heart won't stop moving long enough for me to get a good photo.

So the Christmas Kitten is in my guest room right now. I felt guilty about our family friend having to care for it, so I went and got it. I recalled how VERY UNHAPPY Webster was when I introduced him immediately to Gretchen and that large, blue arc of static electricity zapped between their noses, so I took the kitten straight into the guest room and shut the door tight. She pranced around happily purring and nudging and trying to nurse from my ear lobe, chin, and neck. She clearly thinks I am a large kitteh. I gave her food, water, and a litter box and left her to her own devices. The resident cats lingered by the door, sniffing. I acted like nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing to see here. Move on.

I briefly considered keeping the kitten. Why not? I have the room, and I don't have any reason to not keep it. But then I realized that whenever I visited it, she purred and purred and wandered all over me and wanted endless attention. My own dear kittehs do this from time to time, but mostly they entertain themselves. As the day went on, I realized that I like my little family just the way it is. We gel well together. A new kitten would cause a fruit basket upset to our system. To drive home the point, Gretchen was oddly calm. Instead of flying around the house and tearing it apart, she patiently snuggled next to me while I worked. And last night, she crawled into my arm crook while I was reading before bed--something she never does. She passed out there, and Webster snugged in by my belly. I envisioned a wee kitten trying to get into the mix. Um, no.

But there is also another reason I should be honest about. More than once in my lifetime, I've been called the Crazy Cat Lady. I don't like it when people call me that. It implies that I have no life outside of my animals. That I hoard them and treat them like people. That I'm out of touch with reality and wear a bathrobe and slippers at all times. I'm not that person, and I consider the label quite the insult. My sister and I were discussing how if someone has 3 dogs, they aren't called a Crazy Dog Lady. Or 3 kids won't get you labeled the Crazy Baby Lady. But if you dare to tip beyond 2 cats as a single woman, you're in for it. You might as well shut yourself in and never leave the house again. I think it's unfair, but that is the way society views female cat lovers. I had an old coworker who was male, gay, and had 16 cats. No one called him the Crazy Cat Man. Not one single time. Everyone just thought it was cute that he and his partner had so many furbabies.

I would never give up an animal that I wanted because of what other people might think. If I had developed a true attachment to this kitten, I would keep her. She is ADORABLE. She would be the PERFECT PET. Her curiosity and affection melt my crusty, black heart into little pieces. I enjoy petting her and shooing her away from my ear and watching her snarf down the food I leave for her. I am also wooed by all of the spring farm kittens that roam around outside each year, but that doesn't mean I want to keep them as my own. I appreciate them for what they are--great critter catchers and good eye candy. The Snow Kitten needs a new family that is waiting for that perfect match. She has yet to find her owner. Little does the owner know that the kitten is almost there. She is almost ready. She just needs a check-up first.

Yes, I could just take the kitten to the shelter and let their doctors fix her up. But I know that the shelter relies on donations, so in my own little way, I'm donating to their cause. I'll have her checked for feline leukemia and HIV before I drop her off. We'll check out her poo to make sure she isn't wormy and peek in her ears for mites. Perhaps someone at the vet will want her or will know someone who does and I can skip the shelter altogether. Let's hope.

I trust my gut. When I went to pick up the kitten from my friend's house, I kept saying that I may or may not keep her. I hadn't decided. But my gut already had. I kept having a strange feeling in my chest when I thought about keeping her. Taking on a new animal is a gamble. My own cats are fine with her because they can't see her right now. But what if they didn't get along? What if I had a repeat of Webster peeing and pooping in my bed to show his displeasure? What if she drove me freakin' crazy because she climbed all over me when I tried to work? What if my mother never came over to my house again because she doesn't like this kitten? These were all things I had to take into consideration.

I decided not to let guilt or my compassion for animals take me down. I feel good about the fact that we saved her life and gave her warm, cozy foster homes for a few days. I'm happy to take her to the vet and donate a little time and money for the cause. And I will always remember her little face and how she brightened my Christmas with her obsessive purring. I feel good about contributing in this way. Small pleasures. That, my friends, is what life is all about.

A True Christmas Miracle

On Christmas Eve night, after we got home from the festivities with the Blondersons, I cringed when I went outside to have a cigarette before bed. I heard it crying. The Christmas Kitten. It was still there. No mother had come for it while we were gone. It didn't find its way back to wherever it came from. Now, it was crying from under the eave of my parents' house. It was snowing, freezing, and quiet in the Iowa winter night. Mew. Mew. Mew. It was almost midnight.

My heart started breaking. I felt a physical pain in my chest and the familiar tingling of a panic attack starting in my hands and forearms. The door flew open and my sister tossed me the farmcat Maggie's treats. I took a handful and put them down for the kitten. It ate them so quickly I worried it would vomit. But it stayed back there under the eave, and I went to bed. I sat on my childhood bed thinking thinking thinking. What to do?

On Christmas Eve afternoon, I had noticed Maggie looking VERY UNHAPPY at the back door. When I opened it, she flew inside and ran to the garage door. I let her in the garage and went outside. Mew. Mew. Mew. There was a kitten under the back stairs. It was sitting on the pipe leading from the corn boiler to the inside of the house--it was warm on the pipe. The kitten looked a little beaten up, but it didn't look sick per se. Just roughed up. Perhaps Maggie had swiped at it? I wouldn't blame her. She has to defend her territory from all kinds of critters and Mean Feral Cats out there on the farm. But this one was gentle. Tender. I got the distinct feeling that someone had driven by and dumped it. Certainly, a momma cat would have never left its kitten in this type of weather on purpose. But we had to leave to go to the family get-together, so we left it. Maybe it will find its way home.

Nope.

It was gray and white. It had a wee tail. Gretchen was probably a few months older than this cat when I brought her home from the shelter. I would put the Christmas Kitten at around 4 months old. Just shy of being able to take care of itself. My sister and I gave it treats, water, and a box. It was the best we could do.

Christmas Day arrived in all its glory. The morning sun was shining. Little was squealing with delight at all of her presents. I felt the love and warmth of my family. And then I went outside. And it was still there. Crying. Climbing up my comfy pants. Trying to nurse from my ear.

The problem? Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. Little prancing around the house wanting to open presents. A closed shelter. The next day a Sunday. An Extremely Territorial (With Good Reason) Very Old Farmcat. It wouldn't survive on my own farmland at this age or I would have brought it here. And my indoor cats would have been VERY CRANKY and I couldn't handle the thought of stirring up Webster all over again. But my crusty black heart had cracked open. I wasn't going to have a good Christmas after all.

Until...

Dorothy whipped out her cell phone and called her best friend's mother. They chatted. A plan was hatched. And so Dorothy and I gathered the kitten in a box and drove it across town to a warm garage with a heat lamp, a litter box, a box with a blanket, food, water, and a loving foster parent who promised to take her to the shelter for us when it re-opened after the holidays. It turns out she had rescued her very own indoor cat one Christmas as well. I think that is when the best strays show up. They find their owners. They know who to look for.

When I picked up the kitten to take it to its foster home, it climbed up on to my back shoulders and purred and purred and purred and purred. She talked to me and rubbed on me and OH MY so much love. I felt her tiny bones--every rib. She was so itty bitty. She just needed some love. When I left her, the weight of the world lifted off my chest. I could breathe again. I was going to have a very Merry Christmas indeed. And so I did.

It's not uncommon for me to see stray cats. I see them in town. I find them sneaking through my trash in my yard. Most of the time, they are crazy feral. They won't come NEAR humans, and you shouldn't try to touch them because they will FREAK OUT. But this kitteh? Sweetest thing ever. I curse whoever drove out to the country and left her there. May you also be abandoned in the cold. But to the woman who took her for us: Thank you, thank you, thank you. You have no idea how much that meant to me.

For the next day, Maggie wouldn't go outside. She was worried the howling kitten was still out there. This afternoon, I made her go out there. I walked all around so she would follow me. She sniffed and sniffed. She peered. She was ALERT. Is there an intruder? But I calmly explained that the kitten was gone. I walked over to where it had been and waited patiently while she sniffed and sniffed and declared the area OK. And then I took a handful of treats out of my pocket and fed the dear heart. She happily snarfed up the treats, relaxed, and finally felt comfortable enough to wander around her territory. The guard was back on duty.

Back at Farmhouse Villa, Webster and Gretchen greeted me from my two nights away from home with glee and wonder. Where have you been? What is THAT???? Oh yes, Grandma had purchased them a new cat scratcher. Even though they don't have front claws, they both love to mark it and pretend they do and roll all over it. SHEER JOY, I tell you. I was happy to be back with my own furbabies.

But the best part of this Christmas is knowing that the wee, tiny kitteh will be finding a new home. She will be adopted by someone who can love her and give her the life she needs. We did our part, and someone else will do their part, and then a third party will be blessed with her presence for a lifetime.

Thank you to my parents, my sister, my brother-in-law, and our special friend for giving this kitty a second chance.

Love, Blondie

Christmas Past

Well, well, well, it looks like we are going to have a white Christmas after all. I woke up this morning and looked outside to see a few inches of snow blanketing the land. Lovely. It looks so peaceful and serene out there.

I was trying to remember my own childhood Christmases the other day. It's hard to remember the ones from when I was very young, of course, but I do recall a few bits and pieces. When I was Little's age, we lived entirely in the downstairs of Nerdtopia. My father built the top half of the house quite a while after the downstairs was complete. We had a large living room area with red shag carpet. There was a pool table on one side. Behind the pool table, we put a small Christmas tree. This tiny tree has now turned into The Memory Tree for all of the Blondersons, but when I was little, it was just ours. I remember one Christmas morning opening up a shoebox that had a small stuffed head with long, red braids. My sister got one that had brown braids. You hung it on the wall in the bathroom and put all of your hair clips on it and things to keep them all in one place. For some reason, opening that gift is clear as day in my mind.

Flashing forward a bit, I have a memory of getting a Care Bear Cloud car. I remember wanting to take it to church because Christmas Day was a Sunday that year. I think I actually did take it, along with a few small Care Bear action figure things. I also remember the year Dorothy and I got a Nintendo and my brain almost exploded. Hello, duck hunter! Ah, good times.

What I recall beyond all the presents was the fact that my grandma and grandpa Blonderson came to our house on Christmas Day for turkey dinner. They would show up around 4 or 5 and would eat with us--just us. All of the Blondersons got together on Christmas Eve, of course, but we were the ones who had them all to ourselves on Christmas Day. I'm not sure how that happened. Most likely, my mother simply invited them one year and then kept doing it. I do recall that at some point, it was annoying. I wanted to play with my toys instead of talking with my grandparents. But then I got older and loved having them there with me. We ate a huge dinner and snacked on stollen. It was very special.

Memory is a strange thing. I know at some point, Grandma went into the nursing home. Did we invite her over for Christmas dinner when she was sick with Alzheimer's or was it just Grandpa? I can't remember. In fact, I don't remember Christmas Day at all from junior high on. I just retain the memories of those Christmas Days when Grandma could speak and interact with us as we ate our turkey. I have a photo of her wearing my first Walkman. From there, it gets fuzzy. I remember all of the Christmas Eves, but not the actual days. Weird.

Grandpa and Grandma didn't love us more or anything like that. They lived next door, so it was easy for them to come over. But that simple act of them coming to be with us always made me feel so very special. In preparation for those meals, my mother taught me the fine art of setting up china. Adding ice to water glasses to chill them. Delicately folding cloth napkins. In that way, I bonded with my mother's mother as well--all of those lessons were originally from her. Gran was totally into Emily Post and things. The table was set PERFECTLY for my beloved imperfect farmie grandparents.

I don't remember the Christmas Days after they died, even though it was just over a decade ago. I start to remember Christmas Day again when my brother-in-law joined our family. He appears in my memory in all his oddness. Poor guy. He was probably SO uncomfortable those first few years. It takes a while to get the hang of being a Blonderson. And then as the years went by, he became one of us. Now, my memories are filled with him, and I can't imagine him not being there. And then Little appears on the scene and Christmas Day takes on a whole new meaning. She didn't understand it at first, but BOY was she happy to get so many presents! And then we come to now, when she RUNS into my childhood room to wake me up to open PRESENTS! She squeals as I drag her under the covers to cuddle. NO! PRESENTS! It cracks me up, and I love it.

Even though it appears from my conversations about Christmas Eve with the Blondersons that I'm unable to accept change in this area, I have. Each year is a little different than the last one. I know it is always morphing and changing into something new. Each year, it's a little bit different. And that's OK. I've learned to roll with the punches and find new ways to hold onto the past while embracing the future.

But I do love to cling to my memories of my grandparents at this time of year. They were so special to me--like a second set of parents. It's strange to think that Little is experiencing my own parents as grandparents. I often find myself calling them Grandma and Grandpa because I'm used to calling them that when she is around. She gets so excited to be around them, and I love watching them interact. They are more hands-on than my grandparents ever were.

It was different when I was young. I had a billion cousins around, so they didn't get down on the floor and play with Barbies with me or anything. Seeing my parents with her makes me so proud. I hope that I can have a child one day while they are still alive so my offspring could get the experiences she has had. But then sometimes I think she is lucky just the way she is--with all that love and attention just for her. My lucky girl. My sweet little redheaded angel. She might be the only grandchild, and that would be just fine. My focus is so heavily pointed at her that I might not know what to do with my own kid. Oh, just put him in the closet. JOKING! (maybe)

Anyway, enough of my blabber. It's time to get myself together and go play with my family. I wish you all a wonderful Christmas Eve filled with love and happiness. And if you are lucky enough to still have grandparents, do me a favor--hug them and kiss them and tell them how much you love having them in your life. Look them right in the eyes and make them really feel it. And then open presents and be childlike in your joy. I know I will.

Tell Me a Story If You Dare...

Yesterday, I realized I was in extreme danger of ending up at my parents' house for Christmas without a book to read. The horror! I'm almost done with my current choice (The Book Thief = awesomeness), so I took a trip to the bookstore to find something interesting. I settled on The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, which looked good because I love the moon and any story about the moon. Score.

Then I realized I needed a gift for Pa's stocking, so I went in search of something good. I found something he would like, but then I found something that I would like. Scratch that. I would LOVE. So I bought Rory's Story Cubes for myself as a Christmas treat. I can't WAIT to see Little make up a story using these cubes. You roll them, get some images, and create stories about what you see. The possibilities are endless. Why didn't I invent this toy?? I dunno. I've always loved story starters, so I was thrilled to find the cubes. Am obsessed with them a bit, actually. I found myself staring at them last night making up little stories about airplanes and the eyeball just for my own entertainment. I know, I know. I need to get out more often.

When I was young, I wrote endless stories for my teachers. Over the years, I went from writing happy fiction to dark, twisted fiction. I wrote a story about a school shooting in 8th grade that would have probably gotten me on the FBI's most wanted list today. All of my writing teachers catered to my madness--they seemed to like the dark ones the best, too.

I'm not sure why I'm like this. I've just always been this way, I guess. People often get wide eyes when I tell them about my interest in serial killers and murder shows. I've freaked out more than one person with my reading choices. But I love to explore the murky darkness of the human soul. What makes us tick? What turns us from good to bad? Is there a bad person inside each one of us just waiting to come out? Is everyone capable of murder? I think so.

I believe anyone would murder another human under the right circumstances, like self defense or defense of a child or loved one. Our will to live is SO STRONG and we don't even realize it until the right ducks line up in a row and BAM! You can lift a car off yourself! Just as the Greeks were obsessed with their names going down in history, I think all humans have a strong instinct to stay alive in any way possible. Yes, even the saintly Pa Blonderson could kill someone if they were trying to kill me--or his granddaughter. Beware. Pa knows how to use a gun. He was raised on a farm.

So yes, I enjoy weird stories. Creepy stories. Edgar Allan Poe? Check! Ray Bradbury? Check! The Yellow Wallpaper? Hells yes. Pure genius. Me loves. But alas, I must not bring my niece into my realm of evil. When I roll the dice with her, I will keep it sunshine and roses. No scary stories for the little ones. Just innocent, interesting tales filled with magic and princesses and things like that. I will save the darker stories for sometime next summer when there is a full moon and a fire crackling out in the Iowa darkness. Maybe I will make smores. And then I will roll the dice and do my best to freak people the f*ck out. (smiles)

Merry Christmas!

Holiday Brain Fry

I just wrote the beginnings of like 3 different blog posts and stopped. One was about Amanda Knox. One was about Christmas. One was about working. I stopped all three halfway through because I got bored of myself. It doesn't work to try to force blog entries. I have a lot of work to do before I break off for holiday shenanigans with my family, so I'm very distracted. In lieu of my brilliant (cough) writing today, please enjoy the following:

The Ghosts of Moments Passed

This is my grandfather's hand. The photo is yellowed because it was taken on one of those old-fashioned cameras that had film and everything sometime in the 1980s. So foreign, no? I was thinking about this hand this morning because my sister wrote an incredibly lovely post about her Christmas present from my father. Go read it here. Be prepared, it will make you sniffle.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have an odd emotional attachment to inanimate objects. My house is filled with little sculptures and doodads that may seem to not have any relationship to each other, but they do. I have specific memories attached to every single thing in my home. Each item has meaning. A memory. It represents a time and place in my life. In this way, I'm surrounded by my secret life. You might come into my home and see a doodad nailed to the wall, but I see the whole story--the wonderful or horrible story. My home is not for others. There is no Martha Stewart in here. There are no matching hand towels in the bathroom. Instead, there is a crystal heart jewelry holder that Kate gave me for being a bridesmaid and a lotus plant from my dear auntie. When I look at either of those items, I see love.

I admit that my home is slightly chaotic in its decoration. Nothing matches except the couches. The couches I bought with my very first enormous Christmas bonus when I worked at the big publisher. I had real furniture! And it matched! When I look at my couches, I see a young woman who has finally come into her own. Now they are worn and beaten and falling apart, but at the time, I was SO PROUD. Whenever I feel bad about giving up my career, I remember that at one time I could buy couches, but then later on after the merger, I could not. Things change. Companies change. All of these lessons are wrapped up in sofa cushions.

A small, wooden turtle reminds me of the time my mother once said, "You are like a turtle. You are slow to action, but you always get it done in your own time." A small glass elephant was a gift from Shrinkydink before I left Chicago to remind me of my strength. Some items in my house are attached to painful memories. I have decorations I bought out of loneliness to fill up my apartment after my ex dumped me. I have collages I made when I was sad to inspire myself to new action. But mostly, the items in my home give me strength. Right now, I'm cuddled under a Ranger Rick brown and tan blanket that my grandma gave me when I was a child. It's followed me everywhere I've been all of these years. It's kind of ridiculous for a 33-year-old woman to cuddle with Ranger Rick, but I do. She bought me a subscription to that magazine when I was little, and I loved it.

My sister and mother do not hold as much sentimental attachment to objects as I do. I cringe when I hear about Dorothy doing another one of her yearly yard sales or craigslist runs. I don't even want to HEAR about it when my mother ships off a chunk of her belongings to Goodwill. What precious items are being tossed away? Why don't they LOVE their things like I do?

My sister and my mother are both minimalists. They don't like to have a lot of "stuff" in their homes. I think both are quite overstimulated when they come to Farmhouse Villa. I don't entirely blame them--there's a lot to see here. My home is a hodgepodge of weirdness compared to their nice, clean, matching homes. My father is more like me in that he keeps just about everything. But I don't think he's attached to things in a sentimental way. I think he's just totally convinced that he can USE that one screw he found at some point in the future. So he keeps all of them. My father's cluttery messes drive my mother CRAZY. She's tried to keep up with him, but she just can't. So he now has his very own giant office downstairs where he can blow it up and no one will see. When I go into his office, I understand. I'm a little overwhelmed, but I do understand.

Recently, my sister and I have both been feeling like people don't understand us. We've gone through some miscommunications with friends and family lately that just plain suck. So this morning, I was touched by her blog post. I felt she was a kindred spirit. She got it. She was swooning with love over the wheat wall-hanging that my father gave to her for Christmas. I must admit, I was jealous at the handover. I thought he was making her her very own wall-hanging. I didn't realize he was going to take the one from his own house. Because see? I have an attachment to everything in my parents' house, too. But when I saw her face light up and those big ole tears start coming out, I knew we'd all made the right decision. Take it, my love. I know you will treat it right. It's an honor to have mental sculptures from a Blonderson. And you of all people deserve it.

My sister and I weren't living here when my grandfather passed away, so we have very few items from his collection. I also have a rose, a kite boy, and daisy flowers. These are some of my most prized possessions. I get jealous when I go to my other family member's houses and see the treasures they have. It makes me hold onto my own Grandpa-creations that much closer. After I lost everything in a house fire in Iowa City, what I missed most were the delicate necklaces from Gran that I had hung on the bathroom walls as decorations. They were beyond repair. I miss them. After that fire, it took me a long time to find meaning in the possessions around me. Everything was just a new replacement out of necessity. But now I'm back to my old self--loving my tchotchkes with all their meaning and power. I like living this way better. It adds life to a single person's household.

That hand. Where is that hand? I don't know who has it right now. It could be any of the Blondersons. The last time I saw it, I was taking photos at my grandparents' house after they died. With one of those old cameras that had real film. I lost all of the pictures in the house fire. I have one left, and it still smells of the flames. It's blackened and crumply, but I keep it. It's of a single copper rose sitting on my grandfather's work stool in his workshop. It's in a special folder I have of the paper items I was able to save. They stink and are hard to read, but I keep them just because. I had taken several photos of the hand, but I wasn't able to save them. I need a new photo.

So two good things came to me this morning because of my sister's post.

1.) I am happy that my sister finally understands the emotional attachment one can have to an object in an extremely powerful way. She likes her belongings, but she's never shown this much love for one. In this way, I think we are having a shared connection. We get each other. I'm so grateful for that.

2.) Wherever that hand is, I'm going to track it down. I want to take a new photograph of it to display it on my wall. (I would like to just steal it from whoever has it, but that would be wrong.) I will photograph it nicely and make something for the wall. Then I will have that part of my photo collection back from the ashes.

It's never too late to bring an old memory to life. Especially one that gives us so much joy. I want to place my hand in his for just a moment and hold on. And I want to live my life in such a way that when I pass on, my family and friends will remember me with pride and love as well. Grandpa touched so many lives with his treasures and love. I hope to touch lives in my own way, too. I'm still figuring out that part... It takes some of us longer than others to learn how to leave our mark. But I will keep trying. And in that way, I know I'm still making my grandfather proud.

Fixing Up the Rental House: A How-To

Step 1: Decide to completely bypass your rental agent, and call up your landfather at home. Gingerly explain that your gutter joined Circ de Soleil during the recent blizzard and that your front stairs have fallen apart. Apologize for the inconvenience. Be happy when landfather is extremely nice about it. Appreciate that as you remember all of the slumlords you've encountered in your many years as a renter.

Step 2: Hear someone outside, so go investigate in your comfy pants that are quite loud--as in bright green with rainbow butterflies all over them. Find your landfather and his son (your landson?) outside taking off the gutter. Make small talk about the gutter and the wind. Watch with admiration as your landfather teaches his son about how to do home repairs properly. Decide to mention that one of the windows is rotting. Tell landfather your own father said you should mention it. Watch as landfather looks over at it and says, "I'll call a carpenter." Think to self: That was easy.

Step 3: Invite landfather and his son to come over and look at the stairs. Wince as son bounces up and down on the steel plate out of fear it might all crumble and fall apart. Once again, admire this father and son duo as they push a bunch of crumpled concrete down under the stairs and install a few steel rods for support. Listen as landfather explains once again that my old high school buddy was SUPPOSED to fix the stairs this summer. Think perhaps the 10 or 11-year-old boy who is working on the stairs could do a better job. Apologize for the house problems out of your youth-instilled Lutheran Guilt. Feel happy when landfather says, "It's not your fault. You can always call me about house problems!"

Step 4: Watch in silence. Make more small talk about the goats who are now missing because the neighbor sold them for the winter. Think to self: You should mention the black toilet. Just do it. Instead, stand there in your comfy pants and discuss the rampant amount of deer that you've been finding in your yard at night.

Step 5: See landfather turn to look at you and say: "Anything else we can fix?" This is your moment. Don't let it pass. Say: "No, everything else is OK." Watch as he and son fix the gutter to the truck. Know your moment is passing.

Step 6: Gather up your courage and say: "Well, there is one thing. Um. I think I need a new toilet." Hear landfather from the other side of the truck say: "No problem. I'll call a plumber tomorrow and have him call you so you can tell him when it's convenient to come by." Stutter: "Um, I have a black toilet." Watch as he doesn't even flinch. Neither does the boy. Explain that you had your father fix the flapper like a year ago, but it didn't seem to help. Be bewildered when landfather doesn't seem to find this odd in any way. Explain that you hadn't called because you didn't want him to come in because it's embarrassing. Watch as he doesn't even laugh. He just says again, "No problem." Have urge to run over and hug landfather and his son, but control self. Realize that would be a little awkward. Especially in those pants.

Step 7: Profusely thank them. Wander back inside as they leave. Realize you just spent like a year fretting and worrying and being embarrassed about your black toilet for no reason. Realize that you love living in Farmhouse Villa because, yes, you love living in the country and you love your little gnome house. But realize above all else, you have struck Landfather Gold. Have flashbacks to the hundreds of horrible landparents experiences you've had in your lifetime. Remember the evil trolls who took your money and never fixed a damn thing and almost carbon monoxided you to death. Recall the flood of water that came in every time it rained in your basement apartment in Chicago--and your 4th floor apartment in Chicago that had cockroaches everywhere. Remember your last apartment in Chicago that you loved--but that had heating problems and old windows that wouldn't shut and the landfather that was never home. Ever. Remember being at the mercy of all of these people and wishing JUST ONE would be nice to you and not jack your rent by hundreds of dollars each year. Realize you have found that one. Thank the Universe that your current landfather will do just about anything for you if you just have the balls to call him. Feel blessed.

Step 8: Have to pee. Go to the bathroom and look at the window that is falling apart that will soon have its very own carpenter to fix it. Stare at the toilet that has been the bane of your existence ever since you moved into the house three years ago. Be overwhelmed with joy because dammit your back hurts and you haven't been able to move in three days and everyone has been so mean lately and you just wanted SOMEONE to be F*CKING NICE ALREADY and someone was! Someone was so very nice! Stand there holding down the toilet flusher thing until the toilet flushes all the way just as you have for THREE YEARS. Feel peaceful. Realize it didn't have to be this way. Remind self to call landfather faster next time. Lesson learned.

When You and Your House Fall Apart at the Same Time

Last weekend, my folks and I went to see Little in the Nutcracker. I warned them there were blizzard winds coming to Farmsville. Did they believe me? No. Oh, Blondie, it's never as bad as they say it's going to be. Um, I have evidence that it WAS that bad. See the gutter above on Farmhouse Villa? Yep, it's wrapped all the way around itself. Good times.

Then yesterday, I was chatting on the phone with Star when I bent down to put a soda on the side table in the living room. Something horrifying happened. I tried to pretend I was OK, but my back had gone out in an extremely painful way. I made my way to the floor, hung up the phone, and just stayed there for about 15 minutes. Sometimes when I tweak my back, it will go away on its own if I just sit still. Nope. It just got worse. Pretty soon I was seizing and releasing without trying to. My back has its own brain--I'm convinced.

So I call my parents. Ma offers to come over and help me get off the floor. I call the doctor's office and get a prescription for a light muscle relaxer. Then I call my boss. Through my weird hiccupy breathing from the seizing, I tell her I'm going to blow my 5pm deadline. It was about 3pm. It just wasn't going to happen. She told me kindly not to worry and to take care of myself. So then I got bored on the floor and started sending random text messages to my friends. "I'm stuck to the floor. Kitties are circling. They are going to eat my face off." Then I took a few photos from my angle and sent them to people: "I call this one 'View from the Floor.'"

Ma arrived with the muscle relaxer and some dinner and I got up and moved to be flat on my back on the couch with an icer I keep in the freezer for just such emergencies. But nothing seemed to help. Oh no. This pain bands out all the way around my ribcage. My back was killing me. I made my way to the bed and prayed for it to magically heal itself over night. Um, no.

So this morning, both parents showed up to take me to the doctor. On the way out the door, I realized the stairs had fallen in. Remember last spring when the stairs crumbled? My landfather put a sheet of steel across the stairs. The steel is still there, but the concrete underneath is now on the ground. The evidence:


Greeeeeeeat. So I go to the doctor and inquire about a tetanus shot. Since I live on the farm, I'm always snagging myself on rusty things, and I can't remember when I last had one. I got a shot that vaccinates against tetanus, diphtheria, and whooping cough. I guess my childhood whooping cough vaccine has proven to be not very effective, so they encourage you to get a new one. Sure, why not.

Then the doctor gave me some fancy lidocaine patches for my back and an anti-inflammatory to go along with the muscle relaxer that doesn't seem to be working. Perhaps all of these things will work in combination and I can finish my work assignment today or tomorrow. A girl can dream. The nurse told me that you can throw your whole back out of whack from moving just a millimeter or two in the wrong way. I totally did that. Yes, I did.

I have been stretching and carrying heaving things and moving in awkward ways lately. I also scooped up my 6-year-old niece multiple times this weekend without being careful about how I did it. I have a very touchy back, so a painful pull once or twice a year is nothing new to me. But this one really, really hurts. It's middle back. I'm used to lower back pain, so I'm not as good at moving properly with this kind of owie. Hopefully, it will be gone in a few days. (knocks on wood)

In the meantime, I gave my landfather a call about the stairs and learned that I was SUPPOSED to have gotten a new staircase some time this summer. It seems the man who was supposed to come back and fix them after the TEMPORARY fix of the steel plate totally forgot about me. I went to high school with this guy, so I will shoot spitballs at him from the windows when he finally shows up. I also told my landfather about the amazing feats of my gutter. So he will get that fixed soon, too. I didn't mention that whole black toilet thing this time because I care more about the stairs than the loo. Baby steps.

So now me and my bum back and my bum house are all going to sit here and wait to feel better. Tick, tick, tick... I hate today.

The Extreme Joy of Mindless Distraction

OK, I can't keep it in anymore. The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is totally out of control. Camille Grammer is... I don't even know if I have a word for her. She is very sneaky. She acts all demure and innocent, but who are we kidding? She is stirring that sh*t pot as much as she can. Her snarky facial expressions give her away. But she totally pretends to be all innocent and it makes me so MAD. I think I actually yelled at my television at one point during this last episode.

And then--WTF??--Allison DuBois shows up and is a CRAZY EVIL B*TCH!! Name familiar? Yeah, it's THAT Allison DuBois from the show Medium. Apparently, Kelsey Grammer produces the show Medium and it's based on this woman they know. I really like Medium and I think Patricia Arquette rocks it. But dude, she is SO WONDERFUL compared to the real life medium. I've never seen such a snarky, calculated woman in my life. It makes me feel that my enemies? Nothing.

So if any of you are having a rough holiday season and need some totally insane distraction, go online or dvr it or whatever, but start at the beginning and watch all of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills from this season. I think the women's commentary in the middle of the scenes might be the funniest part. It's great zoning out TV. Rock it.

Inspired by My Mother's Past Life

A few times in my life, my mother has given me the blessing of talking about her youth or young adult life before marriage. She doesn't often talk about her past. She's a complete mystery to me before she plopped down in Farmsville with my father. I know she lived in a few different states growing up. I know what my grandfather did for a living. But she rarely shares stories from her little girl days. I'm not exactly sure why that is. I think she is just private that way.

One thing she has told me about a few times was her life in college at the University of Iowa and when she met my father in eastern Iowa where he was living after they had graduated. He went to Iowa State, so how these two connected is beyond me. I mean seriously. Cyclones vs. Hawkeyes? Hawkeyes RULE! But anyway, I do know that she married "late" for her generation. She was in her late 20s. I was born when she was in her early 30s, so it's surprising I didn't come out with two heads or something. The horror! My how times have changed...

Anyway, I enjoy hearing about her single life because it's so fascinating to me to think of my mother "out there" meeting people and going on dates. It was a more innocent time. She has told me about a few singles mixers that she went to in college and out of college. There were clean, wholesome ways to meet men back then. When I think of my mother as a single young working woman, I envision her in buttoned-up sweaters with little broaches pinned above her heart. Maybe a poodle skirt?

I enjoy it that my mother can actually empathize with me about single life. Her brother and sister married "on time" and created families. She spent a few extra years being the odd duck out. So she totally gets it when I complain about being the extra wheel in my own nuclear family now. She's been married for a LONG time, but she still remembers being the younger, single sibling. It's a special bond we share, and I love it that we can relate to each other in this way.

So the other day I was thinking to myself: How does one find a singles mixer in 2010? It's not like it used to be, people. Oh no. It's MUCH different. If I want to find a singles sex party (or a married one)? No problem. Hello, craigslist. If I want to go to a bar and pick up a stranger for a one-night stand? Presto magic. Easy as pie. If I want a 3-minute dating party? There are hundreds to choose from. And yes, I know all about online dating sites. But if you just want to get to know other singles and do something fun like bowling? Good f*cking luck.

My mother was also a member of a few clubs while she was single. Just the other day, she told me she had been in a ski club. WTF?? I had NO CLUE my mother had been in a ski club. I knew she liked skiing, but I had no idea that she'd joined a club to do so. I thought it was super cool, to be honest. I started to see my mother as a fearless, carefree single gal on the town. I knew she'd been in a sewing club in college (I've seen the photo), so I used to think of her as a nerdy single woman. (Of course now that I crochet, I realize it's totally NOT nerdy. Ahem.) I didn't understand that it takes work to put yourself out there and join groups in the hopes of meeting new men and women to fill up your free time with fun activities. I know my mother is in a women's group now, but it's filled with older women (and a few young birds) and it seems like a lot of work to me. I don't want more work. I want FUN. So I switched my brain from thinking about my mother's current groups to her early-20s groups. How can I be more like my Ma? Fearless and carefree?

I wrote down a list of activities that I like to do. I crossed off all the ones that I can do by myself. That significantly cut down my list. Boo. When I looked up things like a bowling league, I realized they all meet late at night waaaay out in Omaha somewhere. It's winter. There is ice. Also? You need to bring friends to join your bowling league. I couldn't join the local league because I couldn't find 4 people who would COMMIT to going. The hardest thing in the world is to get married people to schedule a weekly event. And everyone I know? Married.

So I was starting to get frustrated. There is nowhere to ski around here and I really don't like skiing anyway. Every group I found that involved something I like to do, such as chess, meets up at a church in Omaha on like a Tuesday morning. And everyone in the pictures were, um, really old. I have a day job. I can't be cutting out to play chess with 90-year-old men on Tuesday mornings. Hrumph! They say if you can't find a group that you should start your own. That is the great dilemma in my life. I don't have time. I can barely keep up with my own chores because no one is here to help me. I already do everything on my own. I don't want to start a group and be responsible for a bunch of other people. Also, I realize that all of my activities are beloved by seniors. I can own it. So if I started a chess group in Farmsville, it would probably meet at the senior center. On Thursdays at noon. I wouldn't even be able to go to my own club.

Just when I was beginning to lose all hope, I found a group online. A bunch of people in Omaha get together to do fun things. There are singles and marrieds in the group. They go bowling, eat dinners, have potlucks, and go to events together. It looked fun. So I took a deep breath, envisioned my young mother, and went for it. I'm on a list, and they'll email me when they are getting together. They have some events coming up that I can't attend because of the holiday madness, but once we get through January, I'll be taking my first brave steps into the world of Complete Strangers.

One of my favorite photos of my mother is from when she was in college. At some point, my dad scanned it into a computer and sent it to me. It has her name, the year, and The University of Iowa written on it in black type. It's a black-and-white photo of Ma sitting at a table. She's smiling and has a kerchief on her head and is wearing a sorority sweatshirt. She's so young and joyful in the photo--looking off at someone else, laughing. I've had it on my refrigerator no matter where I live for about 10 years. I love this photo so much. It makes me smile every time I go get a soda. When I go to my very first date with the new group, perhaps I will take it in my purse for inspiration. If she could do it, I can, too.

If Gretchen Had a Tree

When the Bastards Start to Grind You Down

A few years ago, my sister and I had a blog we shared called "She Just Doesn't Get It." We debated various topics from the family and familyless points of view. It was good fun and we produced a lot of chatter, but we got too busy and quit posting and eventually just took the whole thing down.

My sis works for BlogHer now, so she pitched the idea of debating to the company, and they now have a fun feature called She vs. Her. Women speak about two sides of various topics--politics, family stuff, etc. This week, they are featuring my sister and I as we debate about whether or not we should spend our Christmas in Farmsville (old tradition) or at her house (new tradition). This, my dear friends, is a HOT BUTTON issue not only with myself but with families everywhere. Who wins? No one. But my sister and I did have a good time writing about it. You can read it here: She vs. Her: Can We Change our Holiday Traditions?

My sister and I still have an ongoing dialogue about this issue. We actually had a bona fide FIGHT about it a few years ago. I did some crying. She did some crying. We like to cry at Christmas. We actually keep a tally of who cries the most. It's an emotional time of year and by the time it gets here, you're just freakin' exhausted already. I know you understand. But in the spirit of debate, my sister and I spoke privately, calmly wrote out our feelings, and then gave them to the world. It's hard to put yourself out there like that. Especially when people say things that aren't so nice in response. A couple of the comments left by readers ruffled my feathers a bit. But I have to admit, it's not just because of one post created on BlogHer.

Lately, I've been having some kind of communication breakdown with the people I love. I've been feeling a bit beat up. Like people don't understand my feelings and, in fact, don't even want to try. That no matter what I say, I am wrong. I don't like feeling this way. And these unsolicited remarks are making me want to lock myself in Farmhouse Villa, delete my email account, shut off my cell phone, and get night-vision goggles so I never have to turn on the lights so that no one knows I'm home. Am I exaggerating? Only kinda.

Perhaps the most important lesson I learned in my therapy with Shrinkdink is that I get to own my own feelings, no matter how much other people disagree with them. In work, life, and relationships, it's OK to say no or yes depending on how I feel. And then I don't have to feel guilty about it--that doesn't have to be part of the deal. But it's really hard to want to express your feelings when people start to pick them apart, judge them, or project some personal issue right up into your face. I've been getting this feeling lately: Really? Are you sure this is about ME and not about YOU?

I'm self-aware enough to know that I project my own sh*t onto others from time to time. Been there, done that. I apologize when I realize I've done it. I make amends for anything I didn't mean. And I try really hard to take into consideration each individual's perspective when I'm talking about serious subjects. So I'm bewildered as to why recently no one seems to want to take mine into account. Hello? I'm over here? Doesn't anyone see my point of view? Bueller?

To be clear, I'm not talking about my BlogHer debate. I knew before I even wrote it that any mother who read it would most-likely side with my sister. We have a better perspective about people who are like us and have similar situations. What I'm trying to really figure out is if I'm truly that different from everyone else with my opinions and feelings. Do I think and feel differently about a variety of topics just because I am single and childless? Or is it because I am just wrong wrong wrong about everything? At this point, I really can't tell. But a lot of people disagree with me about a lot of stuff right now, so I'm confused. When did my vote stop counting? Did it ever count at all?

One of the great mysteries of life is that we all feel "alone" at some point. No matter where we live or what we do or if we have 20 kids, we are still alone. No one else can read our minds or control our decisions. All of the celebrities inevitably give an interview about how they "didn't fit in" growing up. It seems no one escapes that sneaking suspicion that they are inherently "different" than everyone else. I'm not self-absorbed enough to think that no one in the entire world understands me and I float on my own island or something, but I do wonder where my peeps are at? Why is it so very hard to find like-minded people? It's not because I live in Farmsville. There are all kinds of minds here. I also find my perspective misunderstood on the Internet, over the phone, in meetings, in emails, and when I'm with family. It was the same in all of my other cities. Sometimes I feel a great chasm between myself and the people around me. Does anyone else feel this way?

(crickets)

I've learned over the years to trust my gut. Whatever my gut says is right for me. But I've recently begun to have a bit of self-doubt. It's kind of freaking me out. I don't like questioning my own opinion and wondering if I'm right or wrong. I don't like silently swallowing my feelings out of the fear that I might get my head bitten off. Or maybe I won't be attacked per se, but I will be devalued. Brushed off like so many flies. Unworthy of being heard. I deleted an entire blog post the other day because I didn't want anyone to tell me my feelings were wrong. I decided to keep what I was thinking about just for me--so I didn't have to come up with a defense.

No, Ma, you don't need to worry. I'm not slipping off into some wild depression. No, I will not actually hermit into my home and never come out. I just feel a little delicate lately--and with good reason. And that's OK. I get to feel this way. And I get to write about it here on my blog because this is my space.

And even though I write for me, I do know that there are people out there who relate to many of my feelings. I get comments and emails from all kinds of folks who tell me I've said something they completely understand--something they couldn't say aloud. So I say it for me and for them. For all of us, really. Because deep down inside each and every person, there is a secret loner. A tiny, wee Blondie. I refuse to believe that I'm the only one.

Adventures in Hearing Aids

When I got home from Nutcracker Weekend, I found a tiny box in my mailbox. It was my hearing aid. Time for the experiment to begin! I took it out, put it together, and popped it in. The aid came with 3 different sizes of ear pieces. I chose the middle size. It seemed to work well enough. I turned on the television and went for it.

The brand I chose has a volume control and a few different switches. The one for people who have severe hearing loss was way too loud. So I left it in the mode for slight hearing loss and turned it up a bit. I could still hear the whoosh, but I could hear other sounds OVER it. It's hard to explain how the hearing aid helps, but it does. I was able to hear the television quite well over the whoosh. But the real test is real people. I needed to talk to myself for a bit, so I spent some time jabbering on to the kittehs about various topics. I adjusted the aid as needed.

It doesn't work the same as Pa's hearing aids. His fit into my ear better and felt different. Since I have audio control of mine, if I turn it up too loud, I hear a sound like pfffffffffffffff--like a microphone that is on without anyone speaking. The booklet that came with the aid said to practice wearing it for like a half hour each day for a while to get used to it. It said the key with hearing aids is to have patience. (Are you paying attention there, Pa? Ahem?) But I thought perhaps it would fit better if I tried a different ear plug.

I took the larger one and popped it in my ear. Nope, too big. So like an a$$hat, I took out the tiny ear mold and put it in my ear. It wasn't attached to anything, so it went right in. Like all the way in. And got stuck there. Of course. Because this is my life.

I immediately went and found my tweezers. But since I couldn't see the tiny, clear plug no matter which mirror angle I went for, it just kept going in further. I tried to pick at it with my fingernails, but no. By now, the end of the plug was flush with the opening of my ear canal. There was no retreat. It had a mushroom head, much like a tiny penis. And the big part of it was way down in my ear, so it wasn't going to come out on its own. Somewhere around junior high, boys started threatening to put their penis in my ear. Now, it had finally happened. It was a very, very tiny penis. And just as I had always suspected, it wasn't very fun.

After twenty minutes of utter failure, I gave in and called my parents. "Um, I got my hearing aid plug thing stuck in my ear." I could hear Ma in the background making that noise that tells me she is extremely disappointed. I remember it well from my youth. She suggested that I go to the hospital. NO! Pa may or may not have been trying to contain a giggle. But he's a nice fellow, so he came over to my house to help me out.

When Pa arrived, I handed him a flashlight thingie, the tweezers, and sat very still while he tried to get the plug out of my ear. My tweezers don't work very well, so he kept losing his grip. It was slightly painful. Finally, I felt movement. And then POP--out came the plug and all was right in the world. SUCCESS! And just in time because Pa had needle nose pliers in his pocket and mentioned something about building a wire contraption to extract the plug. Never ask an engineer to remove your hearing aid plug if you don't have your own tweezers handy. Just sayin'.

I showed Pa the hearing aid and had him try it on for size. We talked shop for a while and the kittehs came out to get some petting from Grandpa. We both agreed I should leave my ear alone for a few days because it was now very sore. We called Ma to let her know about our success, and she sighed with relief.

Lesson #1 About the New Hearing Aid: Never stick the plug in your ear if it's not attached to the tube.

Despite all this, I'm happy with the results so far. The real test will be taking it outside of Farmhouse Villa to the places where I have the hardest time hearing other people, such as at my parents' house. Also? I'm going to be ordering that custom ear mold stuff ASAP.

Tiny Dancer

I just wrote the longest, most depressing post. I deleted it. No one needs to see that. Not even me. Instead, I will give you this beautiful picture of Little from the Nutcracker this weekend. I had a great time, and she brightened up my world. Let's stay with that image, shall we? Yes.

On Extreme Friendship Disappointment

Remember a while back when I found an old photo of my guy friends from college? I said I was going to email the picture and then close that particular door. I was pleasantly surprised to actually get a few emails back from some of the boys. It made me feel really happy, and I was glad they got in touch. But two of the boys did not write back--the ones I had been closest to. This hurt my feelings. And even though I knew better than to let it bother me, it did. And so it started festering deep in my psyche.

I've not had what we could call the "best year." It's been one bad thing after another here in 2010, and I've struggled to stay positive and keep my sh*t together through many bad times. I'm still trucking, but I have NOT been on my A game. In these last few months, somehow the heat has gotten turned up around me. And when the heat gets really turned up, I seek out comfort zones. It turns out these zones? Not so comforting.

So the other night, I had a few cocktails, got a little p*ssed about the situation, and fired off an email to the two boys I miss the most. In said email, I asked them what I had done to make them not want to talk to me. Why they have dropped out of my life? To be clear, I have actually heard from one of them recently. Out of the blue. And it was in a very game-playing kind of way. So that added fuel to my fire. In my email, I decided to just lay it all out there. I asked them to tell me if I'd done anything wrong. That I knew I had not been the best friend I could be over the years. That I understand they are both married and I'm a woman, so that might be an issue. I just wanted them to tell me one thing: Why haven't you responded to me in years? I just wanted to know: Why?

I don't expect everyone in my life to keep in touch perfectly. Lord knows I am quite terrible about it and if some of my old friends read this post, they would call me out for being the huge hypocrite I am. Yes, I can admit that I am no angel. But with these two boys, I've written nice emails to check in and query and be in touch once about every 5 or 6 months for about 3 years with no response each. You would think that would be enough of a clue for me, right?

But I've gone through this with both of them before. Usually, they reappear on the scene and we catch up and they thank me for thinking of them all that time. But after this dreaded year, I got fed up. Either you want to keep me in your life or not. Clearly you don't, but just be honest about it. I wanted the cards out on the table. Something inside of me needed to hear it directly from those horses. That was the message of the email. And yes, I did warn them that I'd had a few cocktails. It was the only way I could get enough balls to send it. I was sad, missing them, and more than a little grouchy about it.

This all brings us to right now. At like 3:30 in the morning. I went to bed at 9pm because I have a bunch of stuff to do today and was planning on getting up at 5:30AM. I have a slight cold right now, so I woke up at 2:45 coughing. I checked my phone to see what time it was and noticed some text messages I'd gotten while I was asleep. And there it was: a response. One I really, really didn't want.

I understand that when people feel attacked, they like to attack back. It's human nature. So I shouldn't have been surprised by what I saw, but I was. Instead of nestling back into my cozy nest and sleeping until the alarm went off, I rolled over and was instantly awake. Thinking about the response. One of the boys skipped over the email and went straight to texting. His response came after a period of time, leading me to think he thought about it for a while. It also came at 11:30pm on a Friday night, leading me to think perhaps he'd had a few cocktails of his own. But what made me completely unable to go back to sleep was how MEAN the text was. MEAN with a last line that was nice. It's the weirdest text I've ever seen--and I've seen a lot. Especially drunken mean ones from crazy people. But this one? Takes the cake.

One of the things I liked most about my guy friends in college was their brainyness. They were some smarty smartersons. They had large vocabularies. I had forgotten this. I also underestimated my friend's ability to lash back. I recall fighting with him a few times over our 15 year friendship, but I was always the meanie. He was more accommodating. Um, not anymore. I got totally b*tchslapped. And so as I tried to go back to sleep, my brain started twirling and whirling with these thoughts: Why do I care? Is it just because I've been having a rough time and was seeking a woobie? Do I even know this guy anymore? Why do I care if he talks to me or not? What has he done to make me think of him as a "good friend" in the last 5 years? Nothing.

So then I got mad at myself. I'm p*ssed I put myself out there in that way. I exposed my soft underbelly. I wasn't exactly sunshine and roses about it, but I was asking--more like begging--for my old friends to toss me a bone. We weren't just acquaintances. We were very good friends who stayed with each other's families and visited each other in different cities after college. We watched each other go through good and bad times. We cared for each other in unique and special ways. But that was a long time ago. We don't know each other like that anymore. Back in school, I was stronger. This year, I've been rather fragile. And now I'm completely annoyed that I even went there. Because what I got on the other end was nasty. Be careful what you wish for, little Blondie. Some friends disappear for a reason.

So I got out of bed, fed the kitties, and decided to come sit down and blog about it before I start my day. I'm up, so I might as well just get up and stop pretending I can easily fall back asleep at this point. I knew I needed to come write about it because the text was THIS CLOSE to taking away all of my power and making me a victim. Poor me. No ones cares about me. All of my old friends hate me. I'm a loser. That kind of thing. I will NOT allow myself to go down that path. Instead, I will remind myself of a few key things:

• I have plenty of friends who I've known longer than or less than 15 years who love and adore me and are present in my life.
• I am the one who started this by sending a cocktail-laced email that wasn't exactly sugar and roses.
• Yes, my feelings are hurt, and that's OK.
  
• My friend made it clear by what he said that I'm not allowed to talk to him that way. But my way of talking was not even close to what he said to me. So I need to own the fact that no one can talk to ME that way. I do not get to cave and beg forgiveness on this one. I don't need to desperately cling to someone who sends such a response when my email, though a little wordy, was quite clear about one thing: I missed him. His response? Not so much love. So I will delete it, delete his phone number and email address, and move on. Book closed.
• I recognize that one of my coping mechanisms when things go wrong is go back to the past to seek out happier times. But I need to recognize there is a difference between fond memories and the present. People have changed. I have changed. Memories are just memories. Yes, they can comfort us, but we can't magically bring them into our present lives. We have to let people stay in the past sometimes. It's healthier in certain situations.
• Don't send email when you are feeling blue and have had more than one cocktail. Like ever.

So now, instead of freaking out about this text for the rest of the day, I will tell myself that it's OK. We all make mistakes and say things we don't mean. I sent an email that clearly did not sit well with an old friend. That was my bad. But I'm not going to beat myself up for it all day long like I usually would. I'm not going to let my friend's razor tongue paint the whole day horrible. Instead, I'm going to take it like this: Message received.

I will move on with my present day life. If we cross paths many years down the road, so be it. But I will not be the one to carve the path in the woods. I've tried too many times. Instead, I will extend my friendship to those who want it, appreciate it, and are worthy of being in my life. Because I am special. No matter what the naysayers think.

My Little Reader

One of the things I adore the most about my niece is her voracious appetite for books. She lurves reading and being read to. My sister and brother-in-law started reading her bedtime books from the minute she arrived in this world. Each night, Little would choose a certain amount of pictures books and someone would read to her--mommy, daddy, grandma, grandpa, or auntie. Eventually, there were less pictures and more words. Now, she can read those things all by herself, but it's still the MOST fun to read TO her. I love it.

Last year for Christmas, I got her a bunch of Junie B. Jones books. My, how I underestimated her reading prowess. Not only can she zip through tiny books like that in a heartbeat, she can now read bigger words that I can. I blame Fancy Nancy. And my sister. So this year for Christmas, I bypassed all of the Barbies and toys and clothes and craziness and went straight for the goods. She is getting the Little House on the Prairie Box Set. The holy grail of little girl books, if you will.

I remember reading these books over and over when I was young. The one that sticks out the most is... Wait a minute. I just went to look at the titles and realized the book I liked the most ISN'T IN the collection I bought for her. I got her the first 5 in color. Crapola. Oh well. The one I like the most is one of the longest ones. All good things in time, wee child. So when she's a little older, I'll get her my favorite: The Long Winter. Something about that one really got to me. I envisioned being trapped in all that snow out in the middle of nowhere. Yes, I thought I was Laura Ingalls. Who didn't? And I loved imagining being all cozied up in a farmhouse with the wind whipping outside. Oh, it was a great book.

Anyway, I'm excited to see how Little will respond to these books. See, when I was young, I actually did live on a farm and was surrounded by relatives. My mother sewed many of my clothes. I recall wearing a bonnet to church once. And my cousins and I played in the banks of the creek and made mud dishes and used our imagination to create toys and games. Little is as modern as they come. My little darling can use the computer better than her grandma. So I wonder if she will appreciate the old-fashioned beauty of the books? Or will she totally not like them because it's so far away from her real life? Either way, I will not take her opinion of the books to heart. She's her own little person, and she can like or dislike whatever she wants without any judgment from Auntie Bon Bon. But I will admit there is a little part of me that hopes she treasures them as much as I do.

One of my biggest fears is someday having my own children and realizing they don't like books or reading. Years ago, I read a study that said that if the parents in a household don't read, the children won't either. But I have known a few parents that adore reading that end up with kids who could care less. Especially in this high-tech world where there are so many other distractions for children. My niece is extremely bright, but that doesn't mean she would instantly like reading. Does she like it because my sister and BIL were so diligent about reading to her? Is it genetics passed on from her parents? Is it because she is creative and has the imagination to visualize the stories? What makes a child a reader?

You would think I would have all of the answers to these questions already because I work in educational publishing and specialize in Reading and Language Arts. But most of the professional development I've done has focused on why kids don't read or can't read. There isn't a lot of research out there about the kids who love it and want to read all the time. The struggling readers get my attention. The good readers just make me smile. Maybe someday I will get to work on a Talented and Gifted program, but for now, I concentrate on making reading exciting for those kids who throw down the book and pick up the PlayStation.

I'm excited for Christmas morning when Little opens her presents. Last year, I was worried she would open my gift, see books, and be disappointed that I didn't get her toys instead. But her eyes lit up when she saw Junie B. Jones, so I think I will have another winner with Laura Ingalls. I hope. And then I can get her to snuggle up on the couch with me, open the book, and read to me with her tiny, beautiful voice. I don't need my tax bill to disappear this Christmas. I just need my sweet niece to crack open a book and tell me the tale.

"It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all."
--Laura Ingalls Wilder

Pondering Caretakers

The other day, I queried Ma about life insurance. I asked her why people get it and how it works and why it's profitable for companies. She explained that life insurance companies invest your money until you need it. Uh huh. We all know how investment banking works. I just watched a TV news special about the fall of Lehman Brothers...

Anyway, I was curious about life insurance because I have a couple of childless married friends who recently purchased it and I really didn't understand why. Ma explained that life insurance makes up for your deceased spouse's missing income. You use it to pay off a mortgage, stay afloat, or care for children. I stared at her blankly. I said, "I've never expected someone else to take care of me."

This concept of being cared for is very foreign to my brain. I've seen it. When I was young, there was a period of time when my mother didn't need to work. Back then, my father's income was enough to support a family of 4. Oh, those were the good days. But I was very, very young. And ever since then, I've never understood how people do anything on one income. Especially when there is a lack of education involved. Then it gets 100x worse. I admire families who somehow make a go on $7/hr. I don't know how they do it. I can barely take care of myself with one pretty good salary. Hello, Tax Man. Love you.

At various companies I've worked for, life insurance has been part of my benefits package. I never paid much attention to it. Oh yeah, great, thanks, whatevs. I know that I feel this way because I have no extras, such as offspring or a husband. But I also kind of feel like even if I was married, I wouldn't care too much about life insurance. Because I have absolutely ZERO faith in the system.

My Gran, dear heart that she was, set up some kind of account for me that was supposed to pay off HUGE when I was old. But something happened to the company, and I had to settle for a small payment only a few years after her death that I was promptly taxed on. She did everything in her power to make this gift available, but the corporate f*ckers ruined it for her and for me. I didn't really care that much. I was very young when I was gifted. I didn't understand things like inheritance or investments. I blew through what I got in that first year after college when the real world smacked me in the face. OOF. That was hard.

So even though I hear people talk about insurance policies and social security and whatnot, I assume none of it will be there when I'm old. I truly believe that I will work until I'm 90 and drop dead of a heart attack. I'll be a greeter at Walmart or something. I will always work. Sad, but true.

A friend of mine's father has been retired since his mid-40s. He's fine financially. He and his wife will never have to work again. It's been almost a decade since he went off the grid. I am baffled by this turn of events. I know others who work for companies that still have pensions and things, so they will be able to retire in their 50s. Really? Oh yes. And then there are people who have really super rich parents. So they only have to work until their parents die, and then they can take over the family fortune. Me? Um, no. I will not be coming into any giant amounts of cash when my folks kick it. (If I will, I don't know about it.) And that's just fine with me.

One of the problems with being single into your 30s is that you become a fully-functioning adult without the help of a partner. This is a problem because you can become so self-sufficient that you decide you don't need to get married or create a life with another person because you're just fine by yourself, thank you. It's true that I don't need someone to take care of me. In fact, in all of my relationships, I've been the breadwinner. For some reason, I always make more money than my men. But it's never bothered me because to me it's normal. I don't know any other way of life. Sure, I shared bills with my live-in ex-boyfriend, but he wasn't going to surprise me with a dream vacation or anything. In fact, I've never taken a vacation as an adult. I know people who do, and I envy them. Vacations would be nice.

But sometimes, I will admit that I feel like I'm missing out on something. I have numerous stay-at-home-mom friends. I get curious about how that works. Do you have to ask permission for personal purchases? Or is it "what's mine is yours"? Does it feel really good to be taken care of? Or do you long to do your own non-child-related work? I don't know how I would feel about it because it's so foreign to me that I feel like I'm discussing what it would suddenly feel like to breathe underwater. Even though I can take care of myself, I would like to daydream about what it would be like to be taken care of by my man of the house, but I can't even go there. Perhaps I can't go there because I don't want to--it hurts too much to envision things we can't have?

At least I have this--at least I wasn't raised to believe a man would take care of me. My mother and Gran always instilled in me that I needed to be able to take care of myself. My Gran's husband died young, and she had to make her own way later in life. She got a master's degree back when it was unheard of for women to do so even though she went on to marry a very successful man. She was a trailblazer. Perhaps I have more of her in me than I thought. Don't trust that anyone other than you will take care of you.

Is it sad that I feel this way? Or just a sign of the times? Do I appear to be some kind of radical feminist? Or am I just being a realist? I'm not sure. But as Ma was explaining life insurance to me, I couldn't help but think: That is a giant waste of money. But then again, if something happens to Dorothy and Beloved (knocks on wood) and I have to raise Little, they'd better have something waiting for me. (snickers)

But in reality, we'd probably be just fine. I've made it this far. I could make it then, too. She would have fewer vacations but all the love in the world. I could give her that. Yes, I could.