Spring Has Sprung and I Sprang Right Into It - Part 1

I am not sure why the heart of darkness felt so lingering and draining this time, but I fairly limped out of it. In Las Vegas, we turned the corner from winter to spring, seemingly overnight. The calendar said March 20th was the Vernal Equinox and Las Vegas paid attention. The extended forecast shows no days of inclement weather. Outings are planned. The gray pea coat will make a trip to the dry cleaner and be placed in the closet, under wraps, until it is needed again.

For a woman who did not go outdoors on dry land between childhood and the age of 50, I have made up for lost time since 2002. In addition to camping and hiking and walking many miles every day of life, I go on the occasional outing. I have visited many a backwater on the backsides of California, Arizona and Nevada, sometimes walking or hiking while waiting for the cyclist to catch up to me, sometimes on a solo voyage for the pure enjoyment of it. The places I visit are not likely considered destinations by many, but I rarely fail to be charmed by something I see or experience. I rubberneck while driving in on the highway or down the main drag (if there is one), taking in all that I can. And I've become adroit at discovering the answer to the question of the ages: "What's shaking in these parts?" I am indulged in requests to stop the car so I can take a picture of something that makes me laugh out loud or scratch my head. Once I was a world traveler. And now I simply get around. Yeah, it's a Beach Boys song.

It was a gloriously warm, not hot, day. The sky was full of smeary looking clouds and some other junk, so the light was poor and flat, but I didn't complain. The air movement could only be categorized a breeze, not hurricane force. It was as good as it had been for a long, long time. The drive to the speck on the map was a fairly long one, but pleasant. I didn't feel rushed. I didn't feel cold. No phones jangled in my ears. I relaxed and enjoyed myself tremendously, savoring time spent away from the two different sets of four walls where I dwell most of the time. I felt all of my senses come to attention and my brain sharpen up. I drank in everything I gazed upon, and some of it was damned funny. I'd welcome the reader to join me and experience some of what I saw on my pass through just the latest little hamlet.

There are three tiny towns (with population of 5,784 in the 2000 census) situated in the 40-mile long valley that sits at 1,265 feet above sea level. I wouldn't have thought it would be so low. And it is greener than I would have imagined. Parts of this valley have been used for agriculture and I can see why. Obviously there is water available here and I saw lush green growth everywhere. There are huge and ancient trees both standing and downed, with petrified root systems gnarled in the air. Scattered across the valley floor are enormous date palm trees with dead fronds hanging so thick they look like lion heads. Approaching from the highway, I crossed the Muddy River and craned my neck to see if it actually was that. Yep! Muddy.

Reader, it has been suggested that I am easily amused and that is true. I can have a good time with whatever is at hand and my eyes were scanning the landscape looking for fun. It didn't take long. I saw the spaceship from a long way off. The sun was glinting off of its silver dome. Spaceship? This is not Roswell, New Mexico! What the . . . ? I gawked out the window looking for aliens hiding in the brush. None ever showed himself, and as the spaceship drew nearer, I spotted the sign that told me that was no spaceship at all. But it did tell me why the valley is so green and why it can support agriculture. There is water here!


Absent any spacemen to amuse me, I continued toward my destination. There was only one viable business to be easily seen - The Muddy River Bar & Grill. Business did not appear to be booming. I saw about ten other commercial buildings and suites, almost all vacant. They were contained in a one-block area that I suppose is the commercial center of this place. There was no grocery store, no gas station, no convenience store. I'd seen a sign by the side of the road that made me sorry I'd spent so long in the chair with Christine the previous evening. I'd have been pleased to do my part for the local economy and I'm sure Stephanie of Styles by Stephanie would have taken good care of me and my hair. It didn't seem there would be a long wait for service.

Rolling down the highway a bit farther, I spotted the sign that pointed me to the place I aimed for. It had a soft, sweet name evocative of newly arrived spring and I was to spend a soft, sweet time there. I did what I always do first - I drove in a big circle taking in the sights and clocking distances between things. I did this twice. After the second time, I knew what I wanted to get out and see. I knew where I would set out on foot to put some more miles on myself for the day. I knew where I would eat my picnic lunch and I spotted a public restroom which is a rare commodity in some of these places.

My first stop, now that I had the lay of the land, was an unusual one for me. They looked lovely, so dark in their pen with the light blue sky and the green, green grass. They drew me, but there was a problem. I am afraid of horses. They are very large and they have big teeth and I have a scary horse story to write about sometime - an unintended childhood event that rendered me forever frightened of horses. I stepped out of the car and watched these animals from across the road. One can always jump back in if any sudden, menacing moves are made. I spoke quite softly. "Hey, horsey home dudes, it's spring." They moved! Closer to the barbed wire fencing. They were interested in me. Just not for dinner, I hoped. These animals made it so clear they found me intriguing, I couldn't stay on the other side of the road. I'm all about connecting with others, including animals, so I took a deep breath and crossed. I talked to them for a long time. I wasn't brilliant, but they won't tell that. I felt deeply peaceful talking to animals, looking into their (enormous) eyes and they into mine. I decided. I was going to do it. I touched each of them, stroking their hair softly while continuing to speak to them. They touched me deeply. I don't think I'm afraid of horses any more. At least not all horses.

The sign was posted at the end of the horse pen. It made me muse because I'd already seen the size of this community. This was no imposing monument sign, but rather one that put me in mind of a piece of metal patio decor. I drove at about a 25% grade up a road that was better than a Jeep trail, but still a dirt road. When I got to the top, I thought, "There's no cemetery here." It was just a bare mesa with natural formations, rocks, sand and the odd bit of scrub. No emerald lawn anywhere in sight. Why would anyone put up a nice metal sign like that? Just to trick city girls who find cemeteries peaceful into driving up a mean, sharply angled dirt road? I'd already put the car in reverse when a little fluttering red and blue object caught my eye through the brush. I got out to explore and I found the cemetery. For here, right in the natural desert setting, were eight residents and holdmarkers for two wives who have not yet expired. Tiny American flags fluttered (the red and blue that had caught my attention) and slightly faded artifical flowers in every hue were in abundance. I was struck by how many of the departed were young - younger than I. Three out of eight. The graves were spread far apart, so I wandered awhile, reflecting that to be placed in the desert once I have left my body would be OK for me. I'd rather have my ashes spread at the petroglyphs, but interment up here on the mesa in the sun would not be a bad final resting place at all. It pleased me that Mickey has a bighorn sheep's skull placed near his headstone. In fact, nearly everything about this quiet, sunny, slightly breezy place pleased me. I stayed a long time. Peacefully. Contemplative.












Reentry to the ho-hum, ho-hum is highly overrated. By midday Monday, I was harried. Eaten alive by an unappreciative general public. I had to force myself to concentrate from time to time as I wanted to slip back into my daydream about a quiet, warm and peaceful time spent "away". Not "here". There is much more to show and share, but I believe I will do this in chapters. I want to savor it a little longer.

The wind came back last night. It screamed through the "breeze"ways in my community. Perfect name for those channels that amplify the noise as the gale rattles the windows. The blinds in my bedroom rattled all night, despite double paned windows with no known breach. Virginia Woolf trembled as she is terrified of the wind, so I made her a little bed in the bathtub and closed the bathroom door. At 3:00, I got up to walk. The chinook was terrifying. I plunged out into it and walked more miles than many would attempt, but fewer miles than I expect of myself. I have a triggerpoint in the arch of my left foot. I learned I have a little health worry to address and, although I had not felt any symptoms before I was told about it, now I suddenly felt tired and weak. It's in my head, I am sure, but it's bloomed. I became a little depressed, a little whiny. I was glad that I was by myself when I spun on my heel and headed home because I do not feel very good about myself when I am less than intrepid. Today I was a wind wiener. But I will dream of beautiful days to come. And tomorrow will be a better one.

In my ears right now: An old favorite, rediscovered. Terence Trent D'Arby.

Something that charmed me: That little glimpse of gentle spring charmed me. Perhaps it charmed me a little too much, as I'm having trouble dealing with just slight annoyances. One gets crotchety.

This is Not What I Should be Writing About

I should be writing about any one of those handful of topics that churn inside, but I'm very good at avoidance. I practice it in all manner of ways. Class clowning works pretty well. I do or say something goony and the audience laughs. It sustains me for awhile. Or I become interesting. It engages others and one doesn't have to spend any time inside. After all, it is rude to ignore someone who wants to interact. So I'll say it again. This blog is never going to be a pretty flowers picture blog. It was never intended to be. I don't want it to be. That's not what I do. Nor am I a professional or amateur horticulturist. The reader doesn't want to read, and I don't want to write, about how to grow this or that plant. This is not a blog about plants. Plant blogs exist elsewhere. What this blog and the writer are about is (mostly) connecting with others. And that's what this post is about, even though it may seem initially that I'm still on about the damned plants.

So I've posted a couple of times about the bromeliads and the felonious felines. Now it happens that Mother Badger reads the blogs and often has some comments to make. But she does it her way. She doesn't jump on the blogs as a public follower and she doesn't post her contemporary photograph. And she doesn't drop her comments into the blog. She reads the blog and makes comments in e-mail. That's her way, reader. We've all already agreed there aren't any rules to this. And nobody tells Mother Badger how to do anything, anyway. Sometimes she is right up to speed, reading the blogs as they're posted. Other times she drifts away for awhile. I don't think she's consumed by it. This time it happens that she was keeping right up. And she had some information to impart to me, because Mother Badger knows about bromeliads and the like. So her e-mail after the first post gave rise to the second post. But her e-mails after the second post have given rise to this third post and to plenty of belly laughs.

I have a vision of Mother Badger sitting at the computer in the Arizona Room, her face toward the wall and her back toward the dining room. I feature her reading the blog and thinking "Hey, I have something to say about this!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. She reads more and lands on something that makes her muse. "I have a comment about that!" She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail and returns to the blog. Yet another part of my brilliant meanderings grabs her attention. She leaves the blog, shoots the e-mail one more time. For the last post brought three separate e-mails and made me think, "This is like conversation! This is almost as good as being in the same room, visiting."

So this time, some of the knowledge imparted is this: when I use a knife to cut the pups away from the mother bromeliad, I should dip the blade in Clorox first. I never planned to become a bromeliad obstetrician and was, in fact, just a little squeamish about such things during my own pregnancy and childbirth experience. However, I'm in the soup now. My curiosity is running and I must move forward. I wonder if the Clorox is some form of antiseptic for the birthing process. I'm kidding! Come on, reader. She didn't state the purpose of the Clorox, but if she says "Do it," I shall, when the time comes. She also said I must use Root Tone on the pup, and that, I do understand, because my research shows the pups don't always have a good root system when it's time to remove them. I liken the Root Tone to the baby powder of this operation.

She had some well-conceived advice that could result in my being able to keep plants at home. She recommends that I steep a strong solution of cayenne pepper and water, put it in a spray bottle, and liberally coat a "test" plant. It occurs to me that cats have a very refined sense of smell. Perhaps they'd be deterred when they stepped up to take the first chomp. But if not, Mother Badger assures me their first bite will be a surprise, indeed. "Hotter than hell for humans or animals," so she says.

Lastly, she offers me encouragement and urges me forward. She commented that my pictures reveal lovely, healthy bromeliads which shows that I am on my way. And she suggests that now I am hooked, I should look into proteas. Hmmmm . . . I know about them. At least I could point one out if I saw it and say, "That's a protea." I Googled "protea". They're a little like the bromeliads in construction! I'm not sure where I'd locate one in Las Vegas, Nevada, but I know how to learn that, too. Hmmm . . .







It was Mother Badger's final statement, however, that created the most electrical connection for me. She wrote, "There is something primitive about propagating plants, like teaching . . . . " It struck me hard. This woman was a teacher because that's what she wanted to be. She did it long and I know she did it well, because it's what she loves. And that's what she's just been doing to me. Teaching. Again. I could write several posts about things I have learned from her, but that's for another day. For today, I'll just remind myself that we all have something to give to others. That's how it works. I'll give you a little of this that I have in profusion and I'll take a little of what you possess that I lack. That's the way it goes. It reminds me that I should continue to make eye contact with other humans and say what I have to say, ask what I have to ask. It reminds me of the importance of remaining open and trusting those who have shown themselves to be reliable.

OK, stick a fork in me. I'm done. If I get bromeliads or proteas or a flower or anything else I think is beautiful, I might take a "pitcher" and post it. But I'm done playing the bromeliad investigator of the blogosphere and shall now move on.

In my ears right now: It is a dark, shitty, wintry day in the desert southwest. It is snowing near my home and in my Mojave Preserve in places I was startled to see named in the Severe Weather Alert. In severe weather, people don't exclaim, "Let's call the carpet cleaners out!", so my phones are dead after a booming day yesterday. I'm alone and I could slide a little if I made a poor musical choice. So, dedicated to Bloomsbury Bird and Benson Bird, even though it's been done before. Reader, I do know that parakeets do not possess musical taste, but I swear they react differently to dirges than to something like this. We needed this today. And I can dance to it! Or better yet, hula hoop!


Something that charmed me: I had a terrible 9 mile walk this morning in hideous conditions. Screaming wind. Wet. Cold. I gave some serious thought to crying as my eyes streamed onto my face and the wind chapped me there. Except crying would have just made for more chapping, so I soldiered on. I wasn't a happy girl when I got home to shower and get ready for work. But driving in, I was struck by how many of "those" trees are popping. For at this time of year, the cherry trees burst. There are pink and white varieties, and I describe them as exploding Q-tips. I passed hundreds of them. And this weekend is Daylight Savings Time. And the following weekend is the spring equinox. And the weekend after that . . . and so it goes.

A Cheap, But Meaningful Gift to Oneself ~ I Love Learning New Things!

Beloved Dylan is drawn to plants and flowers. He has never met one he didn't like . . . to eat. Virginia Woolf became so impressed with his delight for greenery, she has become a chomper, too. It is truly the only perverse, wrongheaded behavior either of these cats commits, and it makes me unhappy. The result is that my home is devoid of plants. I get lovely light in the rooms due to the placement of the windows and I would have some beautiful growth in every room if I could. However, I gave up plants in the home after several episodes of green vomiting on my very light carpet. In my office, a second choice but a good one, I sport some truly remarkable specimens. Home dudes occasionally need to be reminded not to brush up against long, twining limbs and trailers: "Watch out for the plant, Homes!" I don't have a third choice place in which to enjoy plant life.

On a Sunday at Fresh & Easy, I treated myself to a bromeliad. These odd looking species range from the well known pineapple to large varieties that thrive outdoors to small, colorful, showy ones that only thrive indoors. My new purchase was all flashy pink, tightly overlapping leaf bases tucked in among long, curving, narrow green leaves. I always think the colorful stalks resemble a reptile's scales, many precisely interconnected pieces working together to cover the internal structure. I felt it was too cold to leave my bromeliad in the car overnight, so I carried it inside on my first trip from the car. I'm nobody's fool. I put that plant on the top of the entertainment center amongst many other items ~ they wouldn't notice it for just a moment. They'd be far more interested in the rustling grocery bags and the smell of the guacamole and shepherd's pie and cucumbers. I returned to the car for the last load and trudged back inside, arms overloaded. I wasn't even completely across the threshold when I spotted two furry creatures at the top of the entertainment center, shooting furtive looks across their shoulders and . . . . chomping. Heartbreak. I was only gone a moment. Those plants are comparatively pricey, too.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I always stop to look at the plants and flowers when I enter Fresh & Easy. What? The bromeliads were still on the shelves, but on sale for $2.10! Hmmm . . . OK, well that makes sense. They'd been there for awhile. Some of the leaves were broken or scarred, and I wouldn't have taken some of those plants for free, but I poked around the gathered offerings and came up with a pretty nice replacement for my pink and green beauty. It had an odd, deep purple, microscopic flag protruding from between two of the "scales". I wasn't sure what that was all about, but it was easily plucked off. When I entered my home, I immediately put that plant in the coat closet at the front door. Hey, I may be too trusting at times, but I'm not stupid. That night I served dinner to a friend. I opened the coat closet and said, "See what I found!" He looked a little startled and quipped, "I don't think it's going to thrive in there, Les, even if it is a plant that will tolerate low light." "You goon, you know it's going to the office with me in the morning!"

The bromeliad has sat on the corner of my desk for a week, pleasing me a great deal. I like to water it, pouring the liquid into its middle where all the leaves and the stalk converge to make a cup. It would seem I chose a location where this plant believes the lighting to be perfect, and it surely attracts attention from visitors to my queendom. "What in the world is it?!" Midweek I noticed some odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales". Yesterday, when I arrived for work:


Who knew? A flower!

Today when I arrived for work ▬ ▬ ▬ ►

It puts me in mind of a little girl with her hair in pigtails high on her head. And there is promise of more purple flowers to come! Odd, deep purple, microscopic dots protruding from between some of the "scales", indeed! Yesterday I e-mailed the photo of the first flower. "Ha! Look at that!" came the reply. This morning I e-mailed the picture of the twin flowers. He responded, "I always thought that pink spike was the flower." I always did, too. I love learning new things! And down below, the reader likely thinks I'm going to say those purple flowers are what charmed me.

In my ears right now:

Let's play Twister, let's play Risk, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
See you in heaven if you make the list, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

Something that charmed me: My desk lizards charm me. Oh, come on, reader. You knew that! For I am the Queen of the Reptiles and I am feeling far more frisky than I have in awhile. She's ba-a-a-a-ack!

Photo credit for the lovely Virginia Woolf:
J. D. Morehouse

Disappointed Madonna

The portrait is the 14-year-old Virginia Woolf, so the year would be 1896. I believe that is the most beautiful face I have ever seen. She is possibly the most English looking woman who ever lived. I've read all the books twice, of course. I've read all of the biographies. I'm an Anglophile, so lots of things about her would pull me. But we also share some human experiences that are uncommon and terrible. I came through as simply a twisted sister. She suffered for 59 years, put rocks in her coat pockets and jumped into the river. I think she was disappointed every moment of her life. I have this portrait on a little pendant I love, and I wear it around my neck. Frequently.

I like things to work as intended. When a car does something to me, say get a flat tire, I don't want to have that car any more. When my computer loses its mind, I want the Badger to build me a new one. When I snip a thread on a piece of clothing and a seam running the length of the garment unravels, I want to send it to SafeNest. Disappointment unsettles me. It makes me feel uncertain and insecure. Unable to trust the car, the computer or the garment again. For many years, I was so rigid, I behaved almost as extremely as those feelings suggest.

Yesterday it was Blogger. I noticed early on that some of the blogs I follow had new posts, but they were not propagating to the blog lists of the followers. It lasted until the afternoon when slowly, one by one, the new posts began to show up in the blog lists. First Tree, followed soon by Erin O'Brien. Sometime during the middle of the night, the Badger's Digital Existence updated. Everybody's updated except mine. And my post was an invitation to an imaginary party with 'tend friends! In addition to appearing in no blog lists, the post has repeatedly reformatted itself. I glance at it and there's the text I wrote . . . matched up to the wrong photo! Repeatedly. This gives me angst. Doesn't Blogger like me? Why wouldn't Blogger like me, as I really like Blogger . . . . .

So as I walked this morning, I thought about disappointment and how we handle adversity, big or small. I thought about Tree's post of yesterday, speaking of broken things. I thought about the comments made from fatalists and optimists. I decided stressing about an aberrant blog posting is probably not worth any more energy. I decided to land on my own little Pollyanna take on things: keep at it, don't give up, try some more. I approach many things that way. For, you see, I can feel disappointed, but behave rock steady. It's called balance. I'm glad I've found some. I lacked it for most of my life.

But I sure as shootin' wanted some of the bloggers to come to my party!

In my ears right now: the seminal disappointment / reemergence pop tune, "I'm a Believer".

Something that has never failed to charm me: A phrase someone special says to me quite frequently. It means more than the small simple words that comprise the sentence. There are layers and less obvious meanings present. "I'm glad I know you."

You're Invited

. . . to an end of summer / birthday blogger's coffee at Limes' place. Those who would like a shot of Bailey's or Kahlua in it, shall have it. I will not being having shots. Dylan will be on the sofa ready to shed his white fur on those who wear dark clothing. Virginia Woolf will echo-locate those of you wearing pastels. The soundtrack will be the Badger's latest personal mix. Be prepared to enjoy that! I'll burn candles in my stained glass stars and we'll just t-a-l-k . . . .

This has been a most wonderful summer. I discovered blogging and it has done me good. Writing is cathartic and exercises my brain, heart and soul. The Badger has taken some of his most compelling photos ever, and we are excited that each of us has successfully placed some of them for show and sale in bookstores. Mother Badger has repeatedly rung in about our blogs and has a little potential project up her sleeve. I have a new friend I enjoy. A lovely outing is planned next weekend (more on that in a future post), but it will decidedly mark summer's end and the beginning of the year that comes after. I mark years as January to December, but also as birthday to birthday.

I am a teacher magnet, as in: drop me into a room of 100 people and all the teachers find me and I them. Hence, several bloggers I follow are about to end their summer, return to work . . . my birthday looms in a few days and it has always marked "end of summer, start of school . . . " Endings make me pensive and introspective. I'm not all that thrilled this year to have the odomoeter flip again. It's not a milestone birthday. I still have a ways to go until 60. But a broken odometer, my age frozen in time, would be OK enough with me.

So, were we 'tend friends actually in a room together, here are some of the things I would say:

Tree, the Badger and I are having a (100% friendly) disagreement about the existence of a particular photo and its title. I feel so sure of myself. But he's so meticulous about maintaining his portfolio, that I'm a little concerned. I'm transitioning from one computer to another, so I can't currently get to the photo I'm certain exists and with the title I know so well. I'm good in a pinch, however, and have a lovely substitute photo. Your words that caused me to land on a vivid image were " . . the economy of the thorned heart . . ".



OB, I loved what you had to say about Plan Left and Plan Right rather than Plan A or Plan B. It's not hard to choose between a good decision and a bad decision. That's not even decision-making, but simply selecting something comfortable over something painful. We engage more, the stakes are higher, when the choices are a little fuzzy around the edges . . . not so sharply defined. Although I am normally a very decisive person, I can sure dance around making a decision when I'm torn. I wish you good luck. I hope you'll be happy with the decision you land on.

Mother Badger, I hope - sincerely - that you move forward with the project you e-mailed me about. Do it while you've still got the goods! It will be your legacy, just as you mused about blogs being our history in the future. Put down your history! You have some stories to tell. I mean this, truly. If I spent half a day with you, you'd be on the road. And you can do it in comfort and air conditioning. Your sons and grandchildren and all of us who are fond of you are waiting. By the way, I know you won't want coffee. I'll have skim milk or a beer or wine or diet Pepsi for you.

Doozyanner, I keyed in immediately when I started to follow you and you made references to elephants in the room, family elephants, rotting elephant carcasses. More recently you've said "ginormous elephant" and I believe I understand that, as well. I hail from a huge extended family and I think it is fair to say that we put the funk in dysfunctional. The part of that which intrigues me is this: some of us revel in our dysfunction. "Yep, we're a mess and it's OK enough for me." Others of us run screaming. Who handles it better, the complacent or the runners? Who would we ask?

New blogger Dan, I liked what you had to say about asking for help for things we don't even want to learn how to do. I've finally accepted that I don't have to know how to do everything well, I don't want to know how to do everything well, and I don't do everything well. "So ask somebody for assistance, Limes. And offer what you can to others." Although I can grouse about it, I really sort of like my age. I'm comfortable in my skin for the first time in my life. So you're 100% correct - as long as the health holds, it's good from here on out. Thanks for boarding my bus! Looking forward to following you on "The Rest of My Life".

Wheel Dancer, you are most interesting to me. You write lengthy technical pieces about all things cycling. You are beautifully poetic from time to time. But your posts I enjoy the most are those with few words that tell a complex story, colored and shaded. I admire - I envy - the efficient beauty of that economy of words. I don't have that.

TRW, where in the world are you? Woman, if you don't report in soon, I'm sending out an SOS. There's a party going on! Be there. When you ever get home, your mailbox will be filled with girlfriend offerings. I've visited the post office drop box almost every night!



David, Michele and the home dudes, it wouldn't be a party without you. And when the guests spill their coffee with shots, we can pop out the protein spotter and put on a little demonstration. I'm kidding! Please come to my little party.




Badger, you know I'm going to ask you to take good pics of the event. And I'll surely ask you to help me keep enough coffee beans ground and cups filled and conversation going and napkins in everyone's lap, pass the crudite tray and slices of Milky Way cake. Push Dylan off the sofa and absentmindedly stroke VW when she head-butts you for attention . . . It's been a good year, Badger, dating from almost exactly one year ago ~ you remember the event. It's a good time to give an imaginary party and get ready to watch the next year unfold.

Limes, note to self: it has been a good year. Think of all the steps taken forward. Think of all the changes. Think of all the fear a year ago. Think of the words most recently shared with someone special. "I have ____, and I have ____, and I have my marathon training and I have my blog." The next year will start out in the geographical location where the last one started, in the same company, in the same pursuit. And it will be an even better year. More advances made. That marathon will happen in the new year. The continued exercise of healthy new habits . . . . . .

So, 'tend friends, please send me your RSVP!

In my ears right now: Pink - "I'm comin' up, so you'd better get this party started . . . . ."

Something that charmed me: I've been blogging for 77 days when this publishes. There's a whole culture sprung up around it for me. Certain snippets of knowledge about a number of really fine people. This was a good thing to do!

Photo credit - "My Prickly Heart" - J. D. Morehouse
Photo credit - Limes on August 7, 2009 - J. D. Morehouse

Equal Time for Virginia Woolf

Photo credit: J. D. Morehouse

Virginia Woolf ~ July, 2009
BFFs for almost 2 years now

I tried the room-mating thing for awhile. It did not suit me. It lasted 10 unhappy weeks. I was so determined to get out of there, I worked two 8-hour-a-day jobs for a month to buy things I'd need to set up housekeeping without tapping savings or building credit card debt. I hired two home dudes to move me on Labor Day weekend in Las Vegas (not pleasant), worked like a dock walloper myself, and no - I didn't let the door hit me in the ass as I left. I am sure the people I roomed with do not consider me a very pleasant person. It was one of the most unhappy times of my life.

I scoured craigslist diligently looking for the good goods - cheap. Found a great sofa, and I knew home dudes to clean and scotchguard it for me. The seller convinced me to also buy a lovely red bamboo floor mat to go with it. I got a dining set for a song and I think it is the handsomest thing I have ever seen. When the seller delivered it to me we had to be pretty crafty - I couldn't carry my end of the glass top and we had to engage the help of a new neighbor.

I knew I wanted a cat with me from move-in day, and I found that on craigslist, as well. I don't feel that "a cat is just a cat". Not all cats bond with all humans. It's personal. It's individual. The owner of the "small, but adult, all black female cat" was a good e-mail correspondent, so she got more attention from me than the hit-and-miss types. Conveniently, she lived near the house I was moving from. It was arranged that I would visit a couple of times to meet and befriend "Athena".

The woman was friendly as she let me come in. My first sight in the home was a pack of 10-12 completely black cats roaming around - these cats were identical. Except for male vs. female, I don't know how one could have differentiated them. The woman, however, plunged her arm into the herd and gently lifted the one who was Athena. I confess to looking at the back end of Athena, just to make sure she was a female. Come on, nobody could possibly tell these cats apart. Athena charmed me completely and I asked if I could come back soon just to reaffirm that we'd be well-suited. "Sure," the woman said.

A few days later I returned. On that visit, I noticed the fine, self scooping cat litterbox contraption. They are quite expensive, and intriguing. It scoops itself, but one still has to collect and dispose of the scoopings, so . . . . hmmmm. Surrounding this mechanical litterbox were acres of cat droppings on the floor. I don't think those cats liked the device, and I asked the woman about that. "Oh, the only one who will go in the box is Athena. All the others go on the floor around the litterbox." ("No shit," I thought to myself) . I asked her if she felt certain Athena reliably used the box, because a cat who can't catch on about the litterbox has no future with me. "Oh, yes - absolutely. She's the only one who does use it."

I said that I would like to take Athena into my home and we made arrangements for me to pick her up on moving day. As I was leaving, I asked if she was finding new owners for all the other cats. I wasn't sure if she was moving away or just decided she didn't want to keep 10-12 cats any longer. "Oh, we're not giving any other cats away. Just Athena." What?!?! If you can figure that out, please clue me in.

On moving day I appeared with my cat carrier, picked up Athena and put her in the car. I'd left the A/C running while I collected her ~ didn't want to roast her in her own juices. She got agitated in the car, howling as some cats do when transported. She was pretty loud, incessant, and began the drooling thing, eyes bugging from her head. I turned off my CD player to reduce the noise level in the car and said "Come on, Virginia Woolf, we're going to the new home we'll share." I said it quietly. She never made another sound. Silent assent. I swear that is literally true. We have been BFFs since that day. That cat has never, once, offered to do anything other than use her litterbox. (Let's make sure that's the one we give away, OK?)

A few months later, I noticed her jump into the litterbox as I was leaving for work. OK, I could wait a moment, scoop, and go. To my horror, I saw blood in the litterbox! I went on to work, but David took a look at my face, asked what was going on and then said, "Call the vet now and go - don't lose an hour." I did and I didn't. The result was anticlimactic and expensive. The Badger said, "Wow - that's a lot of money! How do you feel about that?" I replied, "Oh, Badger, imagine being a creature so small, so lowly, that the best deal you ever had in life was Limes watching over you. I'll take care of her the best I can for as long as I can and I won't ever extend her life to make me comfortable."

And now I'm done (for the moment) blogging about those silly animals and I shall move on to other topics.

In my ears right now: What do you think? Stray Cat Strut! ". . . I don't bother chasing mice around, I slink down the alley looking for a fight, Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night, Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry,"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy." . . .

Something that charmed me: David quickly sending me away from Mission Control to get my cat attended to. I didn't know him all that well at the time. I didn't know the way he loves his own pets and considers them important members of the family.

Perverse Creatures

My parents never allowed a fur-bearing pet. Not one. Fish, birds and turtles were allowed. My father once built a beautiful dog house, but no dog followed. He has kept dogs in his later life, sometimes 4 or 5 at a time, and he takes in rescue dogs. I guess my mother didn't care for fur-bearing pets. She's never owned one. My dog-loving dad, however, does not care much for cats. I grew up hearing all manner of nasty cat stories, and I knew I didn't like those hateful creatures.

I was 19 when Ex said, "Let's go to the SPCA and get a cat." Said I, as cute as a bug at 19: "I hate cats." Ex: "OK, I'll go by myself." I love cats. While bubbling on the subject matter for this post, I tried to count back in time by name and recalled appearance. I believe I've enjoyed about 50 of them on an intimate level. But few have been held at the level of affection I feel for beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf. They are sharing a very special time of my life - the time when I just may finally self-realize, the time when I'm the closest, so far, to finding the way.

But they are damned perverse. First there is the hair thing. VW is completely black. She sheds like hell. Her individual hairs are coarse and spiky, short and straight. They cling to and poke out from every light colored article of clothing I own, not to mention the fawn colored sofa, light ceramic tile floor and the windowsills. Dylan is beige and white. He sheds like hell. His fur is long and wispy, finer than frog's hair. It clings to, and weaves itself into, everything dark. His is the kind of fur that even intertwines with carpet fibers. The home dudes sometimes come in from a frustrating job to say, "Damned cat, Limes. Fur like your Dylan." They have recommended I buy a $50 carpet rake with which to terrorize my carpet and Oriental rug twice a week before thoroughly vacuuming. Right, dudes. I have time for that.


Above, you see Dylan sniffing Badger toe. Dylan is a water-seeking freak - a feline divining rod. He demands a clean bowl of fresh water every morning in terms no one could mistake, cat lover or not. But his best sources are the toilet - of course - any dripping faucet, or the betta fish home. When I turn off the shower, I am attacked through the curtain - he wants to get to the last drops emanating from the spout.

VW goes for small objects. Pieces of anything. If I remove the cap from a bottle, it should be put in my pocket and not on the counter. Make the mistake of putting down a pair of earrings? Um, make that "an" earring. In one room of my home, I keep several miniature quilt samplers as wall decor. She removes the pins that affix these to the walls, if there is any way she can reach them. We have a little game. I buy pins to keep the quilts on the wall. VW removes and loses them. I buy lots of pins and bandages. She leaves pins scattered on the floor. Below you will see the pink quilt flapping.


Then there's glass, as in the glass dining room table . . . . oh, come on, I wouldn't attempt to feed you there without first taking the DustBuster to it! On every window in the place, there is a horizontal hazy stripe stretching from one side to the other. They appear to spend a good deal of time with their noses pressed against the glass. Wet noses, temperatures outside in triple digits. You get the picture. Sometimes I have to use an abrasive sponge to clean up the windows!

But the very worst area of perversion is plants. Dylan is a lifelong plant destroyer. He's never seen anything green that he didn't want to chomp. When he joined VW and me at my home, he taught her the pleasures of "salad" very quickly. She's a good learner. I am a woman who likes to keep plants and flowers. I am a woman who is stuck on stupid because I keep buying and they keep chomping.

It happens that on Friday night I bought Gerbera daisies at Fresh & Easy. Gerbera daisies please me and these were gorgeous. When I went to bed Friday, I closed these flowers in a bathroom. I took them to work with me Saturday and brought them home Saturday night to be closed in the bathroom. I asked the Badger if he would point his killer camera into my daisies because the contrast of the deep, vivid orange against the brilliant green takes my breath away. I wanted it memorialized in a photograph, not a "pitcher". This morning after walking, I treated myself to a sit-down at the computer. My church service is a cup of the best coffee and a little blogging. I had given the daisies a little drink of water and they were draining in the sink. Limes blogged and sipped. The place got pretty quiet . . . . . yep. Petals knocked off, leaves in shreds, wet soil everywhere.

In my ears right now: The sound of my own voice screeching, "Damned animals."

Something that charmed me: Virginia Woolf, at least, has the good grace to cringe when I bellow.