Merry F#$@ing Christmas

This Christmas Eve my cousin Maggie birthed a new brainchild. She decided that it would be a fabulous idea if the family played a game together after dinner instead of falling asleep independently in our chairs with our hands holding our stuffed bellies. The game of choice was Taboo. It all went as Maggie had hoped - we sat in a circle (even Grandma) and took turns leading our teammates to belt out the correct word. And then my turn arrived. Folks, in a moment of sheer loss of concentration, I dropped the F-bomb in the middle of my grandma's living room on Christmas Eve with my entire family as witness. It was embarrassing for me, so I can only imagine how embarrassing it was for my mother who shouted out, "She didn't learn that word from me! She didn't learn it from me!" It's a damn good thing Grandma's hearing isn't too great.

Yes, I am a sheep...Baaaaaaa

Okay, so I may be the last person on the face of the planet to get hip to this video blog that everyone's been watching. I read about Rocketboom in the New York Times a couple weeks back and have been tuning in every since. It's a mix between the Daily Show, Wired, and a hipster blog. Check it out - it's fun. And if you are a heterosexual man or lesbian, you might think the Rocketboom chick is hot.

The Guilt is upon me

I left work early this afternoon to pick Ada up at the vet. The excruciating hour drive back to my house with that howling cat is not a trip I will soon forget. Yet, I did not realize until I got home the extent of the damage on my little kitten. She hopped up on the sink to drink some water - she drank as if to save her life. As she drank, I noticed something very disturbing. Her paws were bleeding, leaving little smudges of blood where she stepped. The vet had told me that her paws would be tender; he did NOT tell me that they would be BLEEDING. Oh the insufferable guilt! Ada's little paws look like they've been dipped into a meat grinder and all so I could save my precious blinds from imminent destruction! How could I be such a bad parent. Such a bad pet owner. She gimps around the house, staring up at me with those big eyes, cursing me. When I could no longer endure the despair of her suffering, I quickly called the Lytles. Will was able to assure me that, yes, her mangled paws are normal and, yes, she will heal and, yes, he worried about the same thing when Buddy's claws were pulled and, yes, it'll all be okay. Thanks, Will - that conversation was sweet relief. I'm still feeling pretty darn guilty, but less manically despondent. I think the guilt will run its course, too, once Ada starts tearing around the house again like the little banshee she is.

Yes, it is that cold

There is something very, very wrong with me

My little rugrat is at the vet getting her little girly parts clipped or snipped or tied or whatever procedure they do, so I've been home alone the past few nights. One would think that I'd take advantage of this glorious opportunity and get some work done around the house in the absence of a little creature chasing my heals, jumping into my piles of swept dirt, and playing in the sink I'm trying to scrub. One would think. Instead, I do nothing. I sit. I flip listlessly through a new magazine. I summon from all corners of my body the energy to pull myself off of the couch and carry my lifeless limbs to bed. I'm tired. While getting out of bed in the morning is a torture of the Abu Ghraib variety, staying awake once out of bed is an odious chore of epic proportions. I fall asleep while writing in my journal before work. I fall asleep on the way to work. This morning I fell asleep at my desk and knocked my coffee into my lap. I fall asleep after lunch. Last night I nodded off as I was driving down my street, passing my house right up.

Maybe it's the weather. The cold air beckons for hibernation. Or maybe my constant motion over the last few months is finally catching up. Or maybe (and I hope this isn't the case) my body is fighting off some insidious virus which has invaded my body in pursuit of treachery. I don't know. What I do know is that it is nearly 8:30 and I could fall asleep as I'm typing this blog.

That Bottle of Grape Juice is My Nemesis

I purchased that bottle of Welch's 100% Grape Juice on Sunday evening. I have tried to open that bottle of Welch's 100% Grape Juice every morning since Sunday evening. I am convinced that the cap of that bottle of Welch's 100% Grape Juice is welded to the bottle. It's too much. I wake up thirsty. I get Ada her food first (being the good pet owner that I am) and then I try to pour myself a little drink of juice. This week it was not to be. I've used steak knives to try to cut the little plastic pieces between the cap and the bottle ring. I've pulled the wrench out - too small to get around the bottle. I've pulled out the pliers. Those were of no use. I've grabbed the cap with my bare hand, practically ripping the flesh from my palm. I've used cloth towels and paper towels. The cap, it does not budge. The red grape juice mocks me. From now on, I'm sticking to Welch's 100% Grape Juice (the purple stuff).

I'm bitter.

But then. Then I became more bitter. My darling Ada (Nemesis #2) decided that she would escape from the house again tonight. This time she was not so easy to catch. This time she hid under the deck, made no movement or sound. She hid from the light of my flashlight. I circled the house in vain. I called her name. I shed tears for that cat!! I thought she was lost forever! And then. Then I spotted her as I was turning the corner of the house. Quickly, though, she darted back under the deck. Under the deck she waited. Maybe she was confused. Maybe she was scared. OR maybe she is just an ungrateful brat who wants to spend her days rotting outside! I digress. I waited and waited as the blood slowly drained from my unforgiving fingers. I called her name, begged her to come out, shined my flashlight under the deck catching the reflection of her devil eyes. Finally, I decided - it's do or die. I dove under the deck, nice wool coat be damned, and I shimmied, belly crawling on the ground, to where Ada sat unmoving. I quickly grabbed her with what little feeling I had left in my fingers and pulled her with me as I belly-crawled back out from under the deck. She was saved. I was saved. Whatever. We made it back into the house safely and when it was all said and done I wondered Why. Why when my cat barely cares that I exist except that I feed her and change her litter box. Why. Why do I find myself in this one-sided relationship bowing before her every need. Why. I guess the answer is that I get the biggest kick out of the little rat and I'm happy to have her home.

In summary, Nemesis #2 has redeeming qualities, while Nemesis #1 needs to be taken back to Krogers and replaced with a more compliant bottle of juice.

Skippin' Out

Today, I made the final call - I'm skipping this year's work Christmas party. I'm feeling a little bit guilty. As it is my fifth year at this company, I'll be receiving a plaque. A plaque to be presented at the Christmas party. The Christmas party I'm skipping. So, it will be very obvious that I'm not there. I'll just have to bank on my ability to weather the political fall-out resulting from my absence. But, you see, this year none of my tight work colleagues will be present. None of them. And, as has been standard for the last two Christmas parties, this year I would be without a date...again. Unless, of course, you want to count the enormous zit that currently resides on my upper lip. He's large enough to be named and he's outlasted any dating relationship I've had in the last two years. We are nearly engaged, me and my zit. I think I shall call him George and we shall get married at the Cape and buy a winter home in the Carolinas. It shall be lovely. I must be careful not to pop him.

So, anyway, I'm skipping the party for a hardy workout, a cold drink, and a long rest before I hit the road for my second attempt at a weekend in Chicago. It'll be a great bonding weekend between me and Cass and, of course, George.

Mindful Eating

The past few weeks I have found myself doing something that I rarely do - emotionally eat. I've been snacking at work, eating cookies and candy, inhaling anything I can get my hands on. It's clear to me that I haven't been eating with hunger, but eating to distract myself from whatever it is that I'm working on or thinking on or worrying about. So, late Friday night, I sat down with my books and came across this notion of "mindful eating". The author described this process of eating each bite with intention. Eating slowly. Chewing each bite at least 50 times before swallowing. Allowing the mouth to aide the stomach in digestion. The author claimed that we only need about half of what we actually eat, so if we eat mindfully we will eat less and, therefore, we will be able to afford to purchase organic food with our savings. I was doubtful about the eating half of what I eat now part, but the rest made so much sense to me - eating as a meditative act. The following morning, I woke up and made myself pancakes. Sitting down with the pancakes, I took my first bite. I chewed and chewed and then...gulp...I had involuntarily swallowed the pancake well before the 50 chews. So, I tried again. Chew, chew, chew...gulp. Huh. This next time I decided to count to 50 before I allowed myself to swallow. I comfortably made it to 16 before my throat was begging to swallow. I fought every natural reflex and instinct to make it to the count of 20. I was surprised by how frustrated I became, how I held my breath and fought my own will. After several attempts, I decided that maybe 50 is a target to work myself up to and that I would settle for the hard won 20 chews for the rest of my breakfast.

Breakfast took forever. But I'm not complaining - it was an interesting awakening to realize just how fast I normally eat. And, as it turns out, the author was correct. I ate one pancake when I ordinarily wouldn't have stopped before two were down the pipe. One was all I was hungry for. My stomach had time to catch up with my mouth and for once in my culinary life they were on the same page. No uncomfortable feeling in my gut for overeating. No emotional punishment from my brain angry that I had overindulged. No, nothing negative at all. I do believe I've stumbled upon a habit worth developing - and that doesn't happen too often.

The White Stuff

It took me an hour and a half to drive home from work this evening. An hour and a half. It took me fifteen minutes to get to work this morning. There are times when you have just got to say enough is enough. Cincinnati, you've got to learn how to drive in the snow. It's gotta happen. I'll include myself on that plea. I was sliding around with the rest of you. I'll admit it - I'm no better. But, let's face it, Cincinnati, we aren't getting any younger. It's time to master a skill that has evaded us for, well, as long as we've had wheeled vehicles, I would imagine. Let's not let Cleveland best us. We can drive in the snow! We can do it! We are better than this!


And there my rant ends. Wish me luck as I drive to the Windy City this weekend. I may hold my breath the entire way if this white stuff doesn't clear out. :)

One Life Down, Eight Remaining...Almost

I thought I killed Ada last night. It was a wretched moment when I held her limp little body in my hands. In an instant, I saw ghosts of dead hamsters flash before my eyes before my mind flashed to the penguin from March of the Penguins, pecking on the body of her passed away chick. It was a moment of disbelief and horror.

You see, I woke up in the middle of the night, sat up in bed, and thought to myself that Ada must still be running around the house. Otherwise, she would awake instantly, sensing my movement, and pounce on my lap. Laying back down, I felt something furry half under my leg. It was Ada. Except she wasn't moving. I moved away from her and gave her a little pat. Nothing. I picked her up, and her little body lay slack in my hands. In flooded the instant of anguish when I thought certainly I had squashed my little kitten in my sleep, suffocating her, crushing her.

And then I began to hear a glimmer of a purr. Then louder and louder the purr hummed, until the kitten, risen from the dead, stood up and stretched. What relief! I didn't kill her afterall! She stood on my chest and blinked at me, bewildered as to why I would wake her from her deepest of sleeps.

(I have to admit that later on I almost regretted the misfired killing when she knocked my makeup bag into the sink while I was brushing my teeth and I watched for a few helpless moments as the bag and its contents filled with water. Such is life.)

The Nagging Weight of Future Fear

After two blogs about my beloved little rat, I guess it's time to write a blog about me and the current weight on my mind. It's so silly really, this weight of mine. But, I'm not alone in it. I've read that next to death, people most fear public speaking. While I fear many things more than public speaking, it still isn't my very favorite thing to do. Particularly when it matters. And this time, it matters. My first public meeting, the first of a series of at least three, is fast approaching. A few months ago even the prospect of these public meetings was an unthinkable nightmare. A gut-wrenching prospect. Thankfully, a lot can happen in a few months. When left with no option, I've quickly become a project manager in my own right - calling at least some of the shots, managing people and deadlines, writing proposals, calling clients on past due payments and facing issues that I would have been happily ignorant of in the not-so-distant past.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like if Dragon came back to the job (an impossible notion). Would I fall back into my old role as underling supporter and worker bee? It doesn't take much wondering for me to acknowledge that there is no going back - there's only moving forward. And if Dragon came back tomorrow (a wonderful notion), we'd have to re-negotiate every role. I've grown past indecisiveness. I've grown past needing an okay on every line drawn. I've grown.

Dragon isn't coming back, tomorrow or ever. He will, however, be sitting on the sidelines as the client at my very first public meeting. Can I handle this meeting? Absolutely. Am I scared out of my mind? Absolutely. It's time to grow past this too.

Ada's New Trick

Ada is obsessed with water. She knows that water is in the shower and it drives her crazy that shower doors are closed whenever she is in the room. She mews and cries, pacing the bathroom floor, sniffing at the doors...looking at me...and then sniffing again. I don't need the little rat tromping around in the bathtub. It's off limits. Out of bounds. Whatever.

So, one morning an idea hatched in her little brain. She paced the bathroom as usual, but this time she had an intensity about her. Then, suddenly, in a flash of gray and white she pushed one foot off a drawer handle and leapt to the top of the shower sliding doors, landing like a little ballerina. It was so amazing, I just had to take a picture...before I escorted her to the floor.

She's done it several times since. Each time with grace. But, I have to say, I never let her get much further than that. She still hasn't met her goal and the tub is still off limits.

(By the way, the bathroom is under construction...pardon the ugly walls)