WARNING: CAT MAY BEHAVE...LIKE A CAT

I spent the last two days in training about product liability.


In its most fundamental, pure conception, product liability is meant to ensure that people who make things make them:


1) as safe as possible

2) consistently in that safe way, and


3) warn a user of any dangers that exist even when said product is as safe as can be.


It sounds deceptively simple. I was sitting there listening to detailed outlines as to product exposures common to specific industries and court cases where dumbassery (pardon my French!) was not only excused, but rewarded,
and got to thinking: what if we had to do this with everything? Like weather, or basic bodily functions (teeheehee), or....pets.


And this is what happened.



So, yeah, it may be hard to hold Mama cats liable for their "products." Not only is English not their native language, but also, the just don't give a damn. At all. In lieu of an opposable thumb, they've figured out how to flip us off with their eyes. And if you think you're going to get a dime out of a cat, just try collecting your own hairbands that they've stolen and then hidden in some pocket of the universe that doesn't exist in the normal space-time continuum.


But beyond that, after trying unsuccessfully for
two Halloweens in a row to get Jellybean to wear his adorbs little fireman costume, and Nilly her
precious lion mane, I don't think there's a breakable's-chance-on-an-elevated-surface that the warning labels are going to last the lifetime of the product.



 I have no concrete solutions to either the challenges of cat liability, or the challenges of product liability. But I propose that we make May 25 National


Manufacturer's Day. Hug someone who makes something!


And maybe get them a cat.

Remember that one time?

My grandpa was a boy during the great depression, and for a spell after his dad walked out on a wife and three boys, they lived under a pecan tree.

"Just try it," she said. Oh why the hell not? His legs had just
started to tremble when she went slack, having passed out
from the blood rushing to her head. Just then the boat hit a
wavelet, and she tipped, landing heavily on the industrial
carpet and dragging him with her.

In my mind it was almost Swiss Family Robinson.  A temperate day in Oklahoma (again, this is in my mind, so those exist)  and three rowdy boys coming up with clever schemes to get to the pecans while their mother, wearing a faded apron, does the wash in a metal tub.

The reality would've been extreme heat, or ice storms, depending on the season, no bathroom or shower to clean up in, and a persistent fear of where the next meal is coming from. Because when you can't afford a roof, food isn't guaranteed.

I'd like to think grandpa might not have realized some of that at the time, since his mama probably tried to shield him from it. But poverty is hard to ignore when you're living it.

She pressed into him, grinding sand further into places
it was never meant to go. But he didn't notice. He was too
distracted by the boys splashing nearby, and their
 snickered comments about "boobies." 

Now, somehow, his mama got back on her feet, remarried, and built a life in Arkansas with her family that included the boys hunting rabbits for dinner sometimes, and an outhouse that got super fancy when my grandpa came home from college and installed an electric light. (Them college kids and their highfalutin' ways!)  So not quite a rags to riches story, more like a rags to frayed-hems-and-worn-elbows.

I wish I could have met her.

I spent the last year addicted to historical romances.  They've got the best gowns.  But when the heroine swishes into the packed ballroom wearing shimmering silk and a culturally improbably independence, and the titled hero spots her from across the room and slides between couples, unable to resist seeing up close the way candle-light gleams off her hair and those bewitching eyes, a  small voice in the back of my brain says, "yes, but they both smell like BO, as does the rest of the packed party, and she's probably pitting out in her silks. Of course with the limited light sources, maybe that's not obvious. And I love me some strong heroines, but sass probably didn't go over quite that well with men who were raised to literally believe God made them better than everyone who wasn't aristocracy, and most of the people who were."

Their lips met first, then their teeth. They both giggled a
bit awkwardly, but in for a penny...He slid his arms around her
pulling her close.  As her fingers drifted through his soft curls,
she whispered, "Is that a tick?"

It's not just historical, they just make an easy example. Heroes and heroines of every genre are tall and graceful and quippy, and have indefinable scents that are just them. I can't say I've walked up to someone on first meeting and smelled their person in any positive way. I love me some cologne, shampoo, and being female, Axe turns me to jello (yeah, thanks to sarcasm I wouldn't have done well in historical eras.) But I honestly can't say I've ever been drawn to person-scent. Granted, my nose works at about 80% of normal, so maybe I'm just missing out.

As a romance writer, I'm not opposed to idealizing things in story. I don't want to think about Scarlet O'Hara's BO, or Jamie Fraser's morning breath. The good guys always get the bad guys, and the last word.  I don't want my own stories, set in the South, to include the tang of bug spray and the way mosquitoes hover just beyond its reach looking for that one little inch of skin you missed.  Nobody gets dandruff or snotty colds. Because the point of most stories is to escape those things, and indulge in a dreamy adventure.

The problem is when the idealizing doesn't stop at novels and enters my real life because its a setup for recurring disappointment.  If I pull out the Hallmark channel moments of Christmases past, and wrap them in golden cellophane, then every Christmas after is not quite as good, and I can't figure out why. Because if I've forgotten the things that didn't go splendidly, I can't make changes to address them.  Same goes with birthdays, and chocolate cake.  I spend my time trying to make the people and places around me be what I manufactured in my head, and then when a pecan tree isn't a tree house, life feels overwhelming, unfair, and disastrous.  Why can't I get it right?

Love could be tough,when you belonged to a cult
that didn't believe in standing less than two feet apart.
And it was even tougher when, after you finally figured out
how to kiss without breaking the rules, you didn't
notice the Civic barreling towards you through the snow,
it's headlights capturing your first and last moment of
romance sans PTSD.

I don't mean I want to dwell on what didn't go the way I wish it had in the past. I just mean when I'm tempted to pick and choose pieces to save, I need to stop, unwrap the memory, and let it be real. Christmas morning was still filled with laughter and a conga line through the kitchen. The cake was still delicious. Three boys probably did come up with harebrained schemes to get at the pecans.

But those moments were beautiful pieces of a whole experience.  The tiffs or boredom that slivered the laughter happened too. And if I can figure out why, next time I can make plans or changes--or even just bring my expectations back down to earth--so the holiday is more enjoyable. And while that cake was lust-inducing, this piece is delicious too. (And it's here, which makes it instantly wonderful.) And though great-grandma couldn't have changed her pecan tree story on her own, the reality of it makes me see how strong she was and how diverse grandpa's life has been.

Aw, and this is the real thing right here. True love.
(And I'm going to assume the soldier is super hot.)

I guess what I'm realizing is this. There's fantastical beauty in the stories we read and tell. Characters struggle, but they always overcome, and there's almost never a less than stellar kiss.  I love this. I don't want to change it or belittle it.  And the best stories are when you embrace all of this with the hero, and come away having reflected in a way you will carry with you.  But there's also beauty in the reality of life. In the imperfect, whole truth of the past. And when it comes to actually living, the whole is much more powerful.

When Nothing Else Mattered

"Where have you taken him?" Her throat burned with the words, barely a whisper, after days of sobbing.Tears ran over swollen, red cheeks, blurring her vision as she wiped the snot running from her nose with her sleeve.
Not this. Not now. Not after everything.
She loved him desperately. Because he was the first man, maybe ever, who didn't look at her and see an object he might use.  If a man ever looked far enough North to meet her eyes, she saw disdain. She'd always thought the only alternative would be pity, but god, how wrong she'd been.
The first man who hadn't asked anything of her had won her heart.
And now they'd killed him.
Her chest ached, everything in her wishing bad things could be undone, but years of life made that impossible to believe. It wasn't the first time she'd seen life leave a body, but it was the harshest.  It still made her want to throw up.
Yet, Jesus did the impossible. He healed people all the time, and she wasn't sure why he hadn't healed himself. but he had a reason. He had to.
All those stories he told, all those mysterious things he said while looking so hard at them, like he was willing them to get it, well. She didn't get it, but obviously there was more going on than any of them could fathom.  All those stories ended with hope.
Still, all that had to wait. The heaving loss took up every thought, ached in every joint, weighted every breath.
Even if he was gone, she loved him. And she would see him buried with all the honor she could.  Part of her wished she'd saved that jar of perfume. But he'd been so delighted when she'd washed his feet,  she couldn't really let go of that memory. Still, it'd be nice to have that to go with the herbs she carried through dark streets. Most people would've told her not to go out before the sun came up. It was dangerous for a woman, especially with so many foreigners flooding town. And even though she made it to the graveyard, Roman soldiers weren't known for their high regard of Jewish women.
But none of that really registered. She had no more capacity.
Because he was gone.
Well, it didn't matter. Wherever they'd taken him, whatever they'd done, she'd give him a proper burial. She straightened, pushed the hair back from her face, and lifted stubborn eyes, ready to stand here all day if she had to until they told her why they'd moved the rock set to protect his grave, and what they'd done with his body.  "Where have you taken him?"

I went to a sunrise service on Easter this year. It was beautiful. Set at Red Rocks, with the sun rising over the city, it kind of had to be. But add to that music that ranged from wood flute to operatic to contemporary, encouraging, joyful words, and the breakfast picnic complete with mimosas we brought, and it was a truly memorable experience.

But equally memorable was the quiet, simple Stations of the Cross I visited on Good Friday.  No actors or talks, simple music, and silence.  They asked no one to speak, but handed out readings of scripture that follow the events of that heart-shredding night.  It breaks me every time, not from guilt but from the stunning idea that anyone, even Jesus, could find me lovable enough to choose to die for me.  And to remember the horrid, nerve-searing pain, and loneliness so utter that he called out asking why God had forsaken him...I hate that he had to go through it all.

I thought of Mary Magdalene on Good Friday. Jesus was in the tomb.  His disciples were holed up, terrified for their lives, that they could face the same torture Jesus did. And on top of that, after all his talk of eternal life, he'd died. Brutally. Was any of it true?

But Mary got out of bed after another sleepless night, gathered the herbs and ointments to anoint a corpse, woke up the herbalist and dealt with his vitriol to get the last few items on the list, then hiked out in the dark and cold to a graveyard.  She'd figure out how to move the stone guarding his tomb when she got there.  Because she loved Jesus in a way that went beyond his deity. She loved HIM. She didn't have answers the disciples lacked, and she may not have asked the questions yet, or ever. She didn't feel betrayed, she just felt the gaping loss of the dearest person she'd ever known.

And because of that love, she was the first to see the resurrected Jesus.  She was there, not out of faith, but out of love. And he loved that.  I think it was no accident that Jesus appeared first to Mary and the women. And while it speaks a lot against gender-based scales of spiritual importance, I don't think it was primarily for that reason.  I think it was because they were there. Because they loved him to bits, whether or not anything made sense, and he loved them right back.

Bake Your Heart Out

In general, I'm not one for reality shows. Not because I'm too cultured, but because in an effort to engineer drama, they bring out the worst in people and I just don't enjoy that.  BUT I have found one I love. 

The competitors on The Great British Baking Show are all amateurs. They don't live together in a drama house, they go to work all week, see their families, and practice for the next weekend.  They don't fight over space in an overheated kitchen, they're in a tent set among rolling green hills and gamboling lambs. Really. And they don't have judges shredding them with harsh words, they have two hosts encouraging and sometimes helping them, and two judges giving direct, but not unkind feedback.  Even the music has no ominous bass. It's classical.

If you compare it to the setup for most reality shows, it sounds like a recipe (ha!) for failure. But the show has done well and I am addicted. It's fun to see normal people create extraordinary things...even if I question the British definition of dessert on a regular basis.

Week one, something happens.  Everyone cries. well, not the judges, but almost all, if not all, the competitors cry at some point.  It's interesting for two reasons. One, I didn't think British people did that, like, ever. Two, after seeing other reality shows, the comments or situations that spark tears don't seem that bad.  But when I step back and look at the situation, I get it.

These people are truly good at baking. They're probably the best of anyone they know. But now, everyone is good. It's intimidating. It makes you question if you're actually talented, or if you just thought you were.  And while you're intimidated, two famous experts point out the flaws in your work, which, again, is definitely a first. It feels like confirmation that you're an imposter. You aren't actually good at this, and you're embarrassed that your best isn't good enough. Add to that time limits, and camera people watching you, and I'm pretty sure anyone would shed a few tears.

The other thing about it is I don't look at these people and think, "Suck it up, sissy. You're too sensitive. Get over yourself." I feel for them in that moment, knowing what it's like to put your best foot forward and wonder if it's enough. 

After the first week, no one really cries again (unless they have an absolute disaster, or if they have to go home. And then everyone else cries too because they're going to miss the person.)  It's like, that initial cry is almost necessary to clear the glut of emotions the new, scary situation brings up, and after that, they're fine.

It makes me wonder if sometimes, when I'm working super hard to hold it together, to suck it up, sissy, and not be so sensitive, maybe I need to just have a good cry instead of tamping emotions that just continue to back up like a clogged drain.  And I don't even have to do it on national television, which is awesome because sister is not a pretty crier. But if I clear those emotions, maybe I'll be free to metaphorically bake dessert while lambs gambol around.

Scaredy Cat Vs. The Big Bad Owner

Everything is different in the dark.

While that works on a metaphorical level, the literal meaning led to a little bit of havoc the other night. It started when I put a pan on the stove top to heat and then didn't get back to it in time. Smoke started to build up in the kitchen and crept ever closer to the smoke alarm. I turned off the heat and moved the pan, but it kept smoking. So I took it out back, reminding myself to shut the screen so the cats wouldn't get out. Which of course I forgot to do when I went back inside.

Moments later I heard a semi-panicked meow. Jellybean had taken a half dozen tentative steps and then decided he wasn't sure about this whole "outside in the dark" business.  I called him and he came happily back in for a handful of treats. He's really not a rebel.

Nilly on the other hand... Nilly saw me coming and hurried down the steps.  So, with the screen door now shut so JB wouldn't work up his courage and go outside, I went outside and tried to find a black cat in the dark, while using my most syrupy voice to tell her what a good girl she was (even if she was actually being a brat) all the while frantically praying Nilly would NOT jump the fence.

It didn't take too long to get her back up on the deck, because the dark really isn't that much fun--especially without a brother to pounce on. But once she was up there, she wouldn't let me catch her. She darted out of reach and into the shadows. I sat at the top of the stairs, so she couldn't get back to the yard, and waited. Several times she ran to the screen door to go back inside, but it was closed. I continued to sweet-talk and waited for her to finally come over.

It took longer than it should have. I mean, she wanted inside, and I wanted to take her inside. I've never picked her up and heaved her off a deck or out of the house, so why I was suddenly the boogie man I have no idea. But eventually I nabbed her, and by the time she laid off struggling, we were all back in the house where we belong enjoying cat treats. Well, two of us were. I had wine.

I wonder how often I dart away from God's hand because I want to go in the house...when he's just trying to pick me up and carry me inside for the human equivalent of cat treats.  I don't know. But next time I feel a nudge and I'm tempted to hide behind the grill until I figure out how to get past the screen door, I hope I'll be smarter than a cat and just come to Him already.

Feeling, Better

Last week someone came at me. Not like a bear or crazed dog, a person.  And not even physically--though I really should take a self defense class--but verbally.

I looked for angry photos and this emerged and it
was way too funny NOT to use. Plus, in the heat of
the moment, I'm probably about this sane.

If it had been my work life it still would've sucked, but I get paid to deal with the occasional butthead. But this was in my personal life, so no paycheck to comfort me.  With some distance between me and that moment, I can see it wasn't actually about me at all. It was about fear of change
mostly, and a little about wanting to be in charge, both of which I totally understand.

I've been reading Brene Brown in book club. We're on our second, Rising Strong.  Brene is a shame researcher, who discovered early on that people who are able to deal with that emotion are people who embrace vulnerability. She was as excited about that news as I am. (If you haven't watched her TED talk you totally should. It's fascinating, and also if you want to feel pretentious you can name-drop TED in conversation. Here is the link.)

One of the first steps is identifying what you're feeling, acknowledging that, and trying to get down to the root of it. Am I mad, or am I really sad but mad feels safer? Am I embarrassed, and if so, is it because I failed or because I feel like I've been successfully projecting perfection and that image just face-planted on the sidewalk?

The concept is simple, but the action is not. In that moment I got as far as "I'm feeling angry and defensive. My face is hot, my body tensed, and I want to lash out." Then I stopped processing and just got pissy.

It was a few days before I was like, "Ugh, I should probably try to live wholeheartedly. Bleh." And a few more days before I was like, "Fine, fine. I'll explore the emotion" (said with more snark than eagerness.) And a few more days still before I'm finally doing it. These are the questions we're to ask:

What is the story I'm making up in my head about what that person thinks, how they feel, what they're going to do, and why?
What are my emotions?
What is my body feeling?
What am I thinking?
What beliefs about myself and/or others are driving the story/emotions/feelings/thoughts above?
What am I doing with all of it?

See? Not a fun process, but it gets at what the root of those situations is so those lies, or insecurities, or fears can be faced, maybe with a few safe people, instead of stockpiling hurt that never goes away.

It's super not easy, especially when immersed in a torrent of emotion, but yeah, I'd say its worth it. Because to protect myself from hurt would require I insulate from the good emotions too. You can't deaden one without losing the other.

Though sometimes a glass of wine and a good book are way more fun.

So Many Lessons, So Little Time

Nothing makes you realize you're not a natural decorator like deciding to remodel.  I tend toward ALL THE BRIGHT HAPPY COLORS!!!! But that tends to look like the Skittles factory exploded, and nobody wants to live in a decimated Skittles factory.

The adventure started yesterday when I went to look at flooring and promptly learned you do not match your floors to your cabinets. You go at least a shade or two darker. Yeah, news to the non-decorator.

Then I got home with a sample that was as light as possible while meeting this criteria and discovered that actually, the darker color does look nice against the cabinets. In fact, my how-light-can-I-go choice was maybe...too light?

Then I decided my ignorance was getting in my way--I mean, I still have to pick counters!--and went to the expert for some advice. Google. Where I learned that you want your cabinets to be a contrast to your floor and counters, and then have an accent color.

Okay, accent colors still seem a little advanced, but contrast I get. So then I started looking at all the colors of counters that exist. So. Many.  And realized I'm going to need advice on this too.

I'm willing to listen to the experts, or even the sales guys, and am confident I'll get a good result.

But I want it now.

And that's not how remodeling works. That's not really how anything involving contractors works.

So I'm in another lesson about patience, and realizing I haven't changed since I was a tyke waiting to open an Easter basket when every second took a millennia, and it felt like my very heart would pop if I didn't get to it soon.

All this to say, if before this process is complete, I start to seem a little crazed and/or have heart trouble, please give me an Easter basket.

Stuff That Happens In My Head, or, Coffee As An Antipsychotic

I got a little overzealous the other morning with the Keurig, and now it's out of order.

I know. Heartbreaking.

So I had to go back to the old school brewer, which doesn't see much action these days. As I waited for my caffeine to brew, the water-spout-thingy inside squeaked a few times.

Which naturally made me think of a mouse. And what would happen if a mouse got stuck inside my coffee pot.

I know. Horrible.

So then I had this almost irrepressible urge to double check that there wasn't, in fact, a mouse in my coffee pot. BUT, even before my first cuppa, I recognized this as nonsensical.

Still...

I finally convinced myself I didn't need to check because: the cats would have gotten the mouse before it made it to the coffee pot. And as sad as it would make me to see Mickey or Minnie drooping  from the jaws of either of my babies, or worse yet, left like the ickiest gift ever at my bedroom door, it would probably be a less painful death than the coffee pot.

This is why I need caffeine.

One dose of salted caramel flavored medium roast later, I'd finally put this maddening line of thought behind me, when...the refrigerator door squeaked.

Digging In

Plotting starts with determining the lie the character believes, and why. We all have those moments in our past that shape us, usually without our realizing it. You can tell because when you brush against their memories, they ache all over again. And if you try to say the words out loud to someone else, all that hurt/pain/shame wells up as fresh as a steaming pile of vomit.

I've recognized some of these in my life. Being told as a little girl I was too sensitive. being told on the playground I was so ugly.  And I've taken these out, handled them, and seen them for what they were. Flimsy tissue paper untruths. They don't hold up.

But what about the ones I've told myself? Told myself I'm ugly so I won't get arrogant. Told myself not only my true value, but my perceived worth by others, is dependent and inversely proportional on those five pounds I gained.  Told myself that if I were ever going to succeed it would have happened by now, and that in ten/twenty/thirty years I'm going to be that joke who never gave up on a dream that was out of reach. We talk about never giving up like its a good thing, but we only mean it if you someday reach your goal.

As deeply wounding and breaking as the lies others have told me can be, the lies in my own voice are so much worse. The willful ones, like believe you're ugly or you'll be vain, are based on deeper lies. Like you're fundamentally a bad person. You need shame to keep you from being an even worse person. If you acknowledge good in yourself, you'll lose perspective.

What bullshit.

Your worth is based on a handful of pounds. Anyone else CARES that you gain or lose a handful of pounds.  I don't care when other people do, but they're all more shallow than I am. I bring less to the table than anyone else, so these tiny flaws are all it will take to send others in search of better comrades.

So dumb, when I just look at it.  I'm not that much deeper than others, and I'm not that much less worthwhile than others.

It seems deep down I have trouble with properly valuing things.  Let's hope I never hold a garage sale.

But, looking at these, digging up the bullshit, tilling it, and then planting seeds of truth will lead to better things. Flowers that smell lovely. I'm not sure that analogy holds up, but you get what I'm trying to say. There's no way to ignore the lies into obsolescence.  They're there. They must be faced.

But they can be faced, and that's the hopeful part.  They can be pulled out and looked at. It's scary, and not something I'd look forward to like a trip to Cancun, but it can be done. And most of these when they face the cleansing waters of truth, are tissue paper lies. They dissolve a lot more easily than I expected after carrying them for so long.

Thank you, God, that the truth will set me free. Us free. Shower me with truth and give me the courage to examine the things I've let be truth for so long. Thank you for flowers and for this whole world, a giant analogy of your love and of hope. Let me be present today and see it.

Max and the Adventure of Losing Everything

I've been thinking about a story. A Bible story, actually, and a very short, relatively boring one at that. It's just a few lines about a wealthy, important man who came to the Teacher Jesus and said he wanted to join his posse. Jesus said, "Sure. But first go sell all your stuff and give the proceeds to the needy."
The man was taken aback, and left sad and confused because, hello, he really liked all his stuff. He'd worked hard for it. Took good care of it. And its not like he didn't give anything at all to the poor, but all of it?
That's where the glimpse into this life ends, but I don't think its the end of the story.  I think Max (that's what we're calling him now) went home to his beautiful house and looked around at his cool Maserati, his fine art collection, and his ginormous-screen TV and shook his head. No, he didn't have to give it up, he was generous already. In fact, he was kind of miffed. The gall of that guy to tell him to sell everything. Sure, easy to say when you're a nomad with almost nothing.
No, he popped a beer, invited his friends over, and cheered the home soccer team against the Galilean Olive Crushers.
But the next day, when he woke, he had that heavy sense that lands somewhere between loss and dread, that he'd missed out on something vital. An opportunity more incredible and precious than traveling the world, or eating at the finest restaurants, or being named among the hot 30 under 30 in Time magazine.
And as the days passed the ache grew instead of fading. Every time Matt Lauer mentioned anther slew of miracles by Jesus tears burned the backs of Max's eyes. And though he did all the same things he used to, grilling out with the guys, bidding on new sculptures, and vegging out over gourmet food in front of his massive TV, none of it felt as exciting as it once had. None of it was enough. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it any more, all those leisures were just as fun. But he'd found something more precious, more thrilling, in the gentle, warm gaze of a man not much older than him who seemed to care about him even before he knew Max's importance, and then turned and cared about a beggar just as much.
It didn't happen all at once, no. At first he just gave away some things. The old paintings stored in the attic, last season's robes, leftovers from the restaurant to a homeless man on the way out.
And even those things felt....revitalizing. Max tasted a freedom-tinted joy that was entirely new. He felt like a boy again. Light, happy, and connected to a world he hadn't intentionally drawn away from.
After that it was the motorcycle, then his second car, and then one day, when Matt Lauer started talking about Jesus' latest dust up with the religious people, it struck all at once.
Max called Christie's Auction house, and floored the poor receptionist when he said he wanted to sell....everything.  Even after she finally quit hanging up on him for crank-calling and put him through, it took a while to get the appraiser to agree to come out and look at an entire mansion of stuff, and even moreso when he told her he wouldn't be there to collect the check. No, he didn't want to wait that long, so he instead gave her a list of orphanages, widows' aid programs, and the homeless guy who sat outside his favorite restaurant, and told her to divide the proceeds accordingly.
And without a single glance back or a twinge of doubt, Max walked away, thumbed a ride, and joined the mass of people following Jesus. And if he were going to have any second thoughts which, less face it, was highly likely, they vanished when he saw the joy and welcome and pride in the face of this Teacher whose very words burned in his chest and ignited life.

Bloom When

It is mid-May, which in Colorado this year means flowers, sunshine...and snow. Yesterday, we had about four inches coating the landscape.

I looked into my backyard when it hit to at least enjoy the flora for a moment before it froze. Only one brave blossom had opened. It was a beautiful dark purple, with large leaves laced out wide. The others sat curled into buds, unwilling to risk opening.

The open flower fell to the ground when the snow came. But every single one of the other plants turned yellow without ever showing their faces.

It made me think about life. So often we want to wait until its safe to risk pursuing what we really want. When I get married....when the kids are older....when I've saved more...when I'm retired...when the economy turns around...when I can talk someone into going with me...when I lose weight...when I get better at it...

And in the meantime, we wait. Just, wait.

The problem is, we only get to live each day once, and not one person really knows what the next day will bring. When I think bravely, I'd rather bloom blue and early and leave a trace of color in the world than fade to yellow without ever having seen the sun. Because the snow will come for all of us, whether we open ourselves to this life or not.

I'm thankful for this one small reminder to live, and for
all the opportunities I've had to experience wonderful moments in this life. Blossom moments. For playing with kids in Cambodia, for eating amazing pizza in Vatican City, for sleeping late on a rainy Saturday, for snuggling kittens in my lap. I'm thankful for the wonder of watching whales leap from the ocean, waterfalls sail off cliffs, Christmas trees hovering over piles of bright presents. For the chance to be totally and utterly honest with friends over coffee, to laugh like a crazy person over old memories, to pursue dreams I can't make happen on my own, and to pursue those I can. For moments of success, yes. But also for moments of failure, because it means at least I tried. For roller coasters, for songs that make my heart expand beyond my chest, for painting classes, and for a delicious bite of chocolate. For all the moments that remind me to be open, to embrace the warmth of the sun, and to bloom not just where I'm planted, but when.

(Sniff, Sniff)...Do You Smell That?

I'm not all about ragging on oneself, particularly publicly. But the truth is, I don't have a perfect body.

No, this is not my nose. While it probably works better
I can't say I'd trade.

I've come to accept this.

One particularly im
perfect part is...my nose. It just doesn't work that well. This can be a good thing, like when I'm working with children and those around me start making the grotesque "I'm smelling a loaded diaper" face, because the person who smells it first has to take care of it. So, I change very few diapers.

But it also means I can miss out on some wonderful scents, or at least it takes them a long time to get to me. So when coffee is brewing, cookies are baking, or a Christmas tree is freshly cut, everyone around gets this blissful "I'm smelling my childhood" face, and I have to pretend until my lazy nose finally decides to perk up and sniff already.

If anything, this makes me appreciate those wonderful scents more. And one of my favorites: fresh bedsheets. I enjoy sleeping, although its another thing I'm not particularly good at, but still. There's something so great about lying down in cool sheets and poking your feet into the corners of the bed, then balling up a pillow and closing your eyes.

And then, you inhale, and you get that unique aroma of soap and Spring Breeze, or whatever scent your detergent is. It makes me anticipate dreaming of meadows, (I never actually have, but it's a nice thought as you drift off) and it makes something that is pleasant anyways feel special.

I've read a few historical of late and always amid the romance and fancy dress balls I'm thinking about how they didn't have Degree or Mitchum, didn't bathe all that often, and didn't have spearmint gum. I'd probably do better than most in that environment giving my lack of olfactory acuity, but I'm glad I will never find out. I don't even want to imagine the days before they had soaps with artificial meadow smells. I would miss that.

So, today I'm thankful for good smells, all of them, and particularly the aroma of fresh sheets. I'm thankful for the chemists in some lab who mixed ingredients until they came up with Meadow, and for my own washer and dryer, so I can enjoy that scent as often as I'm willing to do laundry. And yeah, I'm thankful for my mediocre nose because even I do get those whiffs of wonderful now and then.

Raise Your Glass!

There's only one thing to do when it's April and your tulips are wearing little caps of snow:

Drink a margarita.

Why, you ask?  Well, aside from the obvious primary reason--because it's a margarita--there is another more subtle goal.

Winter is a cold, unfeeling despot. When it sees those under its power start to smile, or venture out of doors without down-feather armor, it figures it has gotten too lenient and cracks down. Hard.

And you end up with snow hats on your tulips in the middle of April.

 Like all despots, it reigns unfeelingly and uncompromisingly. So if you dare to pack up your mittens and scarves, you get crushed by a cold (I'm on number three this year. Clearly, I'm a rebel.)

So what are we to do? We protest. We say, "Suck it, winter. I may be stuck inside. I may be paying a heating bill during a month that should mean open windows. I may even have to keep my winter duds at the ready year-round. You can take my papasan chair, but you can't take my margarita!" We raise our glasses and our spirits in the face of the frigid out-of-doors, because no matter the temperature, "It's eighty degrees somewhere!" And the spirit of Spring cannot be overcome!

And you know what? Winter sees, raises it's fists to the heavens, and realizes it's beaten. Then, ever so slowly, slinks away until...well, until later.

The fire may burn in the fireplace, but Spring burns in our hearts. Raise your glass!

The Most Interesting Man In The World. (And he doesn't drink Dos Equis....probably PBR)

I love writing stories set in the South because some of the most interesting people I've ever met hale from below the Mason-Dixon. Here is the story of one such man, who is to this day the most interesting person I've encountered. I met him during a visit for work, and wonderful craziness ensued.

Aren't little towns the cutest?!?!

His name, while fascinating in its own right, has been changed to protect the innocent.

I went to review the properties of a county and got an immediate flavor of the town when I passed two sheriffs having a Little Debbie Snack Cake Break in the middle lane of the road, with their lights flashing.

I'd made the appointment with a woman but when I arrived at the county annex, which was roughly the size of a teaspoon, she said I'd be meeting with the judge. My mind goes to black robes, silver comb-over, and a deep voice. 

I was right about the deep voice. Judge Bubba Butterstone stood up, dusted some hay off his hunting fleece, and led me back to his computerless office. We talked square footage, year built and maintenance routines, then toured the annex. I wanted to see the courthouse so he said he'd drive me over if he could smoke in the truck. 

Fine by me.

Judge Bubba warns me there may be stuff in the passengers' seat and sure enough, a hunting rifle and a hunting vest are taking up space. He moved the vest, and invited me to share the seat with his rifle.

"Don't worry, it's not loaded. Oh, wait a minute. What do you know, it sure is." 

So, I'm making sure my toes are out of the way, and then he says, "Why don't I just move that? You'll probably be more comfortable." 

Um, yeah. 

So he lifts it over my head and into the back while I shamelessly scrunch low in my seat, just in case.

As we head to the courthouse, he says, "The traffic was bad this morning."

"Oh, because of construction?"

"No, because of that convict that escaped."

WHAT!?

"Yeah, a kid just got convicted of murder and escaped from the detention center last night."

This explains the cops and their Little Debbies. Apparently, they'd been stopping traffic to look for the murderer, and then found out that somebody's car had been stolen so they figured they should just look for that car instead of searching all the rest of them.

So we go to the courthouse, a stone building that volunteers are coating in Christmas lights. It was like a scene from a movie set in the South that you watch and think, "Maybe fifty years ago in a Thomas Kinkade painting," only it was real.  It warmed the cockles of my heart.

Then, I ask about the jail. 

So Judge Bubba says we'll just go look at it, and heads to the jail. 

At first I wasn't sure this was a good idea, but then I figured the last place an escaped murderer wants to hang out is near the prison. Plus, Bubba rolled up the windows, so if there was a convict passing by, he couldn't reach in and grab the loaded rifle out of the back seat. 

As we pass the news vans, the judge tells me not to let anyone know who he is and we won't get mobbed…by the two news crews. 

I agree to this condition.

We go inside, and all these sheriffs are walking around looking pretty P.O.'d that somebody got out. When Judge Bubba tells them I want to see the sprinkler riser they all gave us that "I'm trying to track down a killer and you want to look at pipes?" look. 

Hey, I would have done the same thing. (And I later found out that the criminal escaped via the sprinkler room, so it was a sensitive topic to begin with.)

So I just smile and get a phone number I can call after all the convicts are rounded up, and head out of dodge.

Just another day in Arkansas, y'all.

Pocket Pack!

Ew, right? 

So, I thought I'd dealt with my annual cold in November-December. It was a long bugger this year and sticky. I won't go into more detail than that. At any rate, I spent my time in the trenches and figured I was good for the rest of the season.

Au contraire. This year, I managed to obtain a second cold in March. Yay. I do not like to be sick. I don't like it when my nose gets red and I sound like a ten year-old, and I have to sleep with my mouth open, which then makes my throat dry...I don't like it. So, I stock up on meds, and make sure I have Kleenex within reach at all times.

The problem with carting a box of tissue around with you is that people stop seeing you, and just picture a giant germ headed their way. Gives a body a little sympathy for Typhoid Mary. Same goes if you pull a bunch of Kleenex free and stuff them in your pockets/purse/laptop bag.  People see you riffling through a bunch of wrinkled tissues and assume you've got mucus on everything you own, which is usually only about 30% true.

Enter, the nifty little pocket pack. It fits relatively easily in a pocket or purse, and keeps all your tissues nice and orderly until you need them. I no longer need to walk around with the equivalent of a WARNING sign tucked under an arm, nor do I have to sift through wrinkly tissues
while people lean as far away as possible without falling off their chairs.

It sounds like a small thing, and it is. Until you get a cold. So, I'm grateful for Kleenex and the person who thought up putting aloe in them so my nose won't chafe. I'm grateful for the portable packaging some marketing guy thought up mid-sneeze, and I'm grateful that my spring cold was much shorter than my fall one.

Open Windows

This is not the view from my window, unfortunately, but it was
too pretty to pass up. It definitely beats my deadish yard and the
angry squirrel who regularly runs the fence.

I've been a proud homeowner for 1.33 years now, and I must say, I like it. There have been elements of adjustment, sure. Like the fact that owning a lawn means one must mow a lawn, there is no super to call when things stop working, and it costs a lot more to regulate the temperature of a house than an apartment of middling size.

We're at that quirky time of year where the typically moody weather of Colorado becomes downright manic depressive.  It snowed on Wednesday, and today it was pushing eighty.  It does keep things interesting. I don't want to flip flop between running the heat and running the A/C but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, even if her pocketbook winces when she does it.

So, I'm always very pleased on days like today. It was upper '70's, perfect sit-outside-to-read weather, but at night it will cool down. So although the house got a little to cozy for comfort today (still had the system set to heat from Wednesday) it's no matter. I can sleep with the upstairs windows open and it'll cool right back down. For free!

It makes me grateful for lovely weather days, for the fact that I have A/C at all, even if it can get a little pricey, for a fabulous down comforter in case it gets cooler than expected overnight, and for two stories in my house. I would not leave windows open if I slept on the ground floor.

Golden Hearts

Last week I found out I'm a finalist for the RWA (R) Golden Heart (R) Contest for unpublished writers.  (I don't know how to make the little symbol with the R in the middle. Sorry.)

For me this was a huge honor.  For the cats it was rather traumatic. Poor Buckles was sitting right behind me when I let out a victory screech. It took them a while to confirm I'd regained my sanity before they'd come back over.

Anyway, this will look great on my writing resume and I was so excited for that. Little did I know...

Almost immediately my inbox experienced an inundation of email unlike anything since the great flood, if the flood had been electronic instead of wet.  It turns out the finalists are a super fun group of women who want to be my friends!

Writing is a solitary activity, unless you count the people in your head, which my therapist says I can't. So, it means so much to have friends and peers who get the process, who understand the reward of typing The End, who share dreams of being on a book shelf, who get rabid insecurity, and who want to jabber sometimes to people who will answer back. And now, I have a whole bunch more friends to add to my circle! We've known each other via email for less than a week, but already bonds are forming and we're planning to keep in touch long term, to encourage and help each other find success, and to celebrate when we do.

Now, I can't talk about writing friends without mentioning CritGroup13, including Jodie, Christina, and Donna. We've been sharing life and writing for what...six years now? And they probably know me better than almost anyone in the world. Even though we've only gotten to hang out all together once. Once! (If I were going to indulge my corny side, I would say they truly have the Golden Hearts (R). But I won't. And they do.)

So, today I'm grateful for email, that makes long distance friendships so much easier. For friends who stay friends no matter how long its been, and who immediately go into fun-goofy mode the minute you get together again. For fellow writers who share my passion for story, for those moments, however rare, when we can all be together and get a little crazy. For this finalist opportunity, and for all the friends I didn't know came along with it!

The Little Airplane vs. The Big Nor'Easter

This is the BEFORE picture. Note the happy, unsuspecting
smiles of two friends/ who don't anticipate a potential
death match over a vomit bag.

Perspective is crazy. Not just in the I-can-pinch-your-head-when-you-stand-far-away way, but how your definition of what is good, or what will make you happy can change based on experience.

Last fall I got on a flight to North Carolina for a writer-girls weekend (shout out to Jodie, Christina and Skype-Donna!)

During the layover in Washington-Dulles where I met up with Christina (yay!) we were told our flight was 20 minutes late. Boo. But then that moved and then it moved again. So after a while we were going to get in late, but I was just hoping to get in soon. Then, we go up in the air in a cigarette with wings and fly through a Nor'easter.

Do not get in a plane and fly through a Nor'easter. It was like driving on a rumble strip through the mountains with portions of the road blown out. My new definition of happy very quickly became to land without having puked. I had my little sick bag ready and I was eyeballing Christina's, ready to kype it as needed.

About an hour after the "we're landing soon so put up your tray tables" announcement, we started flying up instead of down.  Not good. The pilot said cross winds were high, but we'd try again.

So. We go lower and lower, and I breathe harder and harder thinking non-puky thoughts, and we're so low I could literally reach out my window and pick a weed off the Tarmac...and then we sore up into the windy heights again. Me and my stomach were yelling "Nooooooo!"

Pilot man lost his nerve, which in retrospect, I'm okay with. I'd rather have a pilot be cautious than end up sliding down an inflatable slide while firemen spray foam at the plane. But at the time, I didn't feel that way. Again, perspective.

So, now I'm praying harder than I've prayed since the last time I got pulled over, and deep breathing, and also trying to figure out what we'll do if the pilot makes good on his threat/promise to take us to Dulles instead, if our third attempt isn't successful. I'll be happy if we can just land here. At all.

We fly lower, and lower, and I pray harder, and harder, and continue to think non-puky thoughts, and then....BAM. We hit the runway. Hard.

This is what waited at the other end. This
and lots of chocolate and laughs. Yes, it was totally
worth it.

And you know what? We applauded. I applauded. Because at that point, the only thing I wanted in the world was to be on the ground, and I was! And as a bonus all my dinner was still inside me!

All this is to say, I want to be grateful for the little things, without a Nor'easter in the mix. So today, I'm grateful for pretty weather, and windows that open, and cats that didn't wake me up early. For sweatshirts and yoga pants, for breakfast. I'm grateful for my laptop and that the battery lasts a long time, for auto back-up so I don't have to live in partial panic that I'll lose EVERYTHING some day by accident. I'm grateful for toilet paper, and indoor plumbing, for warm water, and clean clothes. For eyeliner! For clean water, for coffee, and for fun mugs. For beaches, and friends, and even experiences that make me remember how much I have to be thankful for.

You Are My Sunshine

One might wonder why, for a post about sunny days, I would choose a picture of red peppers.

If one has ever been badly sunburned, one knows exactly why. Because just like those peppers, you're red, and burning, and pointy....okay, not pointy. That was just to see if y'all are paying attention.

But for real, yesterday the fine state of Colorado reached the mid-70's for the first time this year. And, to celebrate, I cleared my schedule and spent the day outside reading and editing.

The whole day.

The funny thing is, I only spent a few hours of that time in direct sunlight because my favorite reading spot in the backyard is nice and shady in the afternoons. But, those few hours were long enough to get a sunburn. Oh, it's not a red, burning, pointy sunburn, just a pinkish warm-to-the-touch one that will fade rather quickly.

But you know what? I'm cool with it. (Lame pun unintentional) For the next few days I won't be able to forget the lovely time I spent outside.

I'm as anti skin cancer as the next person, but this mild rosiness wouldn't be possible without that beautiful weather.  And if the price for being able to loll in my papasan chair with a glass of wine and a favorite book is a baby sunburn, well then welcome baby sunburn.

I'm thankful for sunny days and spring, and sunscreen--which incidentally, I did put on my face--and the smart people who figured out how to make it not feel greasy. For favorite books, wine, time to put my feet up and enjoy the sunshine, and yeah, even a little sunburn now and then.

Book-Lust

My library is nice, but not quite this nice.
picture by imelenchon onmorguefile.com

This is me resurrecting my poor blog. It didn't die, its just been cryogenically preserved for...a while.

But for a number of reasons it's now been reawakened and I will have to think of things I'm grateful for at least three times a week. In part, because I am adopting, and in this time of waiting for a placement, I want to keep myself focused on things I do have.

I've never been a budgeter. As long as the income is exceeding the expenses, I didn't worry about it. I admit it. And if I had been, the book allowance would likely remain unregulated because I love them and I feel like they're a good investment. Hey, I reread some of them!

But, alas, since adoption isn't free, I'm now saving extra-hard, so my book budget went from astronomical to just above nil. It was a painful choice. I window shop on amazon and lust after new releases the way Carrie Bradshaw looked at shoes.

When I took my little pity-party public on Facebook, so many people were quick to remind me about the library. I've used it before, I use it often for audio books when I'm traveling for work. But for whatever reason I've never gotten into using it for actual books. I think it goes back to the limitless budget for buying my own copies.

So, after some amazon-lusting I went to the online library system to see if they had the new releases I wanted. One, they didn't. Boo. But one they did! Yay!  So now I'm happily ensconced in a new novel. It turns out the library copies are just as enjoyable as personal copies, as long as you don't dog-ear the corners. So, I'm grateful for libraries, fresh stories, a society that still recognizes the importance of written art, and artists who labor to make them. I'm also grateful for all those books I managed to accumulate before my self-imposed embargo. My pretties!