THE WRITING DILEMMA

Missouri

"Missouri"

Sometimes there are things that I want to write about but I can't write about it because someone might read it. Which is totally dumb, because if you write something you should expect that eventually someone is going to read it. Here in lies the Catch 22. I am of the old school way of thinking that if you can't say anything nice, you shouldn't say anything at all. I don't have bad things to say about people, but since I don't talk as much as I write out things, I might say something hurtful. Why don't I just get a private diary, you ask? Why do I think I have to write everything here? Well the thing about so called "private" diaries is that they are never really private. Someone could always find it and read it and then what if that person is upset by what they read? 

It is the basic plot line of over a dozen teenage movies. Girl writes scathing things in diary. Girl's enemy finds diary, makes copies and distributes throughout the school. Oh the embarrassment of having your classmates read about how you want to French kiss Joey Martin and how Brenda Bellman is a stuck up little bitch. And of course, by the time everyone reads that stuff, it's completely outdated. You now want and have been Frenching Eric Taggert and you and Brenda are the best of friends. Until she reads your diary. Then all Hell breaks loose. Even when we write things down with the intention of those words being private, there is the potential for disaster. After Chris died, I found an uncountable number of notebooks where he'd written list after list. There was one where he'd written "I will be well" over and over, like a school teacher had punished him with writing this sentence a thousand times. I can't imagine he ever wrote that thinking that I would read his heartbreaking words of desperate hope or how shattering it would be for me to read it. Yet I understand that he wrote it as his therapy, when he and I both desperately wanted to believe that he would be well. 

I think about these things whenever I sit down to write somewhere. Even my Fortune Cookie journal that I write in every week. I was hoping those fortune prompts would inspire tiny stories of fiction, but there have been so many that just pull out threads of memory that I end up laying down on the page. Yesterday was the first time in a long time where I wrote something of fiction. I wrote about a woman working in her gray cubicle with gray walls and gray lighting and how she could see a flower shop out her window and longed for the freedom to run her own shop. It was the first thing I'd written in a long time that didn't make me nervous for others to read it. There's a slight worrisome panic that someone will read my words and it will stab them in the chest the way Chris's words stabbed me. I can't stop thinking about the first rule of the hippocratic oath. Do no harm. Am I causing harm with my words? That line between throwing my thoughts down on paper and exposing my raw skin is so very fine and thin. My balance has been off lately and I feel like maybe I've fallen into the raw skin side of things. 

Spring does that to me, probably because I've spent the last several months bundled up in layers of clothes. I've been hibernating. It's kind of like taking that first scooter ride of the season without a jacket because you think it is warm enough outside to go without. Then half way in to the ride, your arms are covered in goose bumps and your teeth are chattering. This time of year makes me more sensitive. Maybe I just need to put on a sweater. Or find a good therapist. 

ESTER, KIND OF LIKE EASTER

When I was small, on Easter mornings, I'd run to look out the bathroom window. Standing on the toilet and looking out this window gave me a birds eye view of the backyard. This was the best vantage point for spotting any of our brightly colored eggs that the Easter bunny may have hidden in our backyard. Then I'd run down to find my Easter basket. My mother recycled baskets from previous years, but you would not have known this because she always redecorated them with beautiful elaborate bows. Our baskets always contained one new plush bunny rabbit, a chocolate bunny, and some sort of trinket. I'm sure during my Strawberry Shortcake years, that Easter basket contained something Strawberry Shortcake. There were also the usual candies like jelly beans and chocolate eggs in the baskets.

Just about the worst thing ever was running to that bathroom window and seeing that it was raining. I don't know why. Our baskets still had pretty bows and were filled with goodies. Eggs still got hidden. They just got hidden in the living room instead of outside. It's just that hunting eggs in the expanse of my parent's backyard was so much more fun than looking for them under the couch or a lampshade. Sometimes on rainy Easter mornings, the eggs wouldn't be hidden at all. They'd still be crammed in our baskets along with the treats. The sight of my carefully died eggs still in my Easter basket on Easter morning always made my heart sink and mumble something about how the Easter bunny is a jerk. 

Turns out that as an adult, rain is not the worst thing to see out the window on Easter morning. Snow is. Snow. Big wet snow flakes that stick to the cars and form a blanket on the lawn. That has become my new worst. Except, thinking about it now, I realize that if it had snowed on Easter when I was a kid, I would have been over the moon ecstatic. I've gotten cantankerous in my wiser years and cold and snow makes me raise my cane up and shake it at the sky. My cane looks a lot like a camera. By noon, it had all cleared up and the sun came out all in time for Easter services at Terry's which included an egg hunt and the annual burning of the Easter bunny effigy. We ate a lot of egg related food and I still have a half a gallon tub full of deviled egg dip in our fridge. Our fresh eggs looked like we had chewed the shells off, so we just threw it all together in the food processor (minus the shells) with deviled egg spices. Google deviled egg dip. It's totally a thing.  

We all had a grand time at Terry's, even Josephine who got to run with other dogs and be doted on by people other than me or Michael (just me, Michael never dotes), but the whole time I couldn't help but think about Easter's of long ago. I couldn't help but remember the matching Easter dresses or the traditional annual family picture. Most of all, I couldn't help but remember my brother in those baby blue suits, the bell bottoms making him look taller than the sky and how he'd always hide the Easter eggs. As many times as I would ask. That seems to be his way. All I have to do is ask and he's there. I've outgrown the need for him to hide eggs for me. Egg hiding has become things like help us instal a water line or advice on installing a door on the chicken coop. When we talked about installing a new fence around the backyard, he started mentally compiling plans and tools that he'd need. That's the kind of guy he is. 

Today is my brother's birthday. Today is a great day to tell him that I appreciate and love the guy he is. Thanks, Randy for all the hidden Easter eggs and Happy Birthday!

NATIONAL DAY OF HAPPY

My tile. #aidswalkkc #onestepcloser

"My tile. #aidswalkkc #onestepcloser"

Did you know that Sunday was not only the first day of Spring, but the International Day of Happiness?!? Probably not. Let's face it; international happiness is not really on the top of the list of things being paid attention too. In fact most of the stuff getting all the attention right now are things that are the opposite of happiness. I awoke to news the other morning of terrorist attacks in Brussels and a particular Republican candidate (rhymes with rump) has already started flinging out racist hate. Because that's what he's best at. (Side note: Do you really want a President whose 'best' skill is being a racist fascist hate monger?) Finding happiness on a national level is turning into a Where's Waldo book. I apparently stopped looking for it weeks ago because that's when I stopped uploading a happiness picture into my VSCO ap. 

Things like International Days of Happiness make me question things. Am I happy? What do they mean by happy? Is it like happy 50% of the time or just more of a shrug with a general side of happy? How do you measure happiness? When people say they're happy are they being honest or is it just a polite answer to how they are doing? While I was typing all of this, I was also thinking about the layers of dust in my house and how I want to clean under the furniture. If you were to ask me, I'd say that happiness is directly proportional to how clean the house is. Please note that in the time it has taken me to write any of this, I have completely dusted the whole house including baseboards and ceiling fans. I did not however get under the furniture with a dust mop of any kind. I'm only one person. 

If I remember correctly, last year I had a hard time with that whole Winter to Spring transition. This time around though, I feel less disgruntled and more unsettled. I keep rushing forward to the next thing on the calendar without being still for the day I am currently on. This week I have had a chiropractor visit and I have a dentist appointment tomorrow. This is all scheduled around wash times and fix times and microscopy times. Next week I have an appointment for my yearly women's health exam and I still have to make an appointment with my general practitioner about the whole cholesterol thing. I have gone from hardly scheduled to over scheduled and I'm not sure how it even really happened. I have yet to schedule a time to get the side mirror fixed on the scooter so I can get it inspected because the tag is due. Nor have I scheduled an appointment for Josephine to have her yearly shots and exam. Then there's the car tag that's due, but I don't need an inspection for that because it's a fairly new car. And now I'm rambling and I haven't even mentioned the garden or the chickens. Every weekend we've planned to work in the garden or clean out the coop has been a cold miserable weekend. 

This is also a reason for my unsettled feeling. The weather. One day it's warm, like today. We may even get thunderstorms tonight. Then the next day will be cold. It's supposed to snow on Friday. I am as unsettled as the season, but am I happy? With all this unsettling I haven't really had time to think about it. On the actual National Day of Happy, I painted a tile for Mosaic, an AIDS Walk fundraiser. They sell the tiles at First Fridays and at the AIDS Walk. The Cabbage painted two and then Terry covered her hand in paint and pressed her hand to a tile. We all had a grand time for a good cause. In the moments when I wasn't worrying about how many paint brushes the Cabbage was using or all the paint cups she had placed next to her elbow, I can say that I was happy. I was so happy that I might even start taking a painting class at the studio. 

As soon as things are a little more settled. 

[Don't Forget to donate to my AIDS Walk page!]

BICYCLE

Almost alien

"Almost alien"

I was determined to not let the whole bike riding to work thing be just a passing fad and vowed that as soon as it was the weather was nice, I'd start riding Bessy to work. The nice weather showed up around here sometime last week. I rode the scooter. It's totally a lame excuse, but if I can't start my week with riding the bicycle, then I'm ruined for the rest of the week. Plus it was the first scooter ride of the season. Sunday rolled around and Michael said that it was going to be 77 degrees on Monday. I then declared that I was riding my bike! I said it with an exclamation point, but I didn't feel that exclamation point on the inside. 

The minute I agreed to ride my bicycle on Monday, I began to doubt myself. I've been walking over ten thousand steps every day, but I am not "in shape". My mind instantly pictured the three big hills that I have to tackle to get to work. Those hills took on a ridiculous incline. I tried to think of the downhill parts where I don't even peddle, but I started to remember those sections as being to short and to far between. What if I couldn't make it to work? What if I did make it to work, but it took me over an hour? Just what if I couldn't do this? Then Monday morning came along and I was still doubting the whole bike riding thing. Michael stepped outside and said "whoa! it's thick as soup out here!". I thought "here's my out!" I could always say that it's too foggy outside to ride. Except I didn't.

I dragged my bicycle out of the garage and headed out into the fog. As I turned the corner to head towards the bike route, I felt the cool air sting my cheeks and my eyes tear. Then I felt an involuntary smile creep up on my face as I coasted through the neighborhood. The stillness of the morning combined with the heavy fog gave the illusion that I was the only person on the planet. Then a car would pass or a person would emerge from the fog to stand at a bus stop and I would remember that I was not alone. I struggled up the hills that I have always struggled on. They were not better or worse than they were when I was riding to work regularly. When I got to work and parked my bike, I noticed something shimmering and sparkling in my peripheral vision. Dew drops had collected on my eyelashes. My cheeks had that rosy crisp air glow and I filled up with a little pride for myself. I suddenly wanted to brag. I rode my bicycle to work. Like this made me special even though I know that millions of people do this every day because it's the only way they can get to work. 

Well, pride goeth before the fall, because my ride home that evening was pathetic. I was so slow. It was like was I only moving just fast enough to keep me balanced upright on the bike. It took me forty five minutes to ride four and half miles home. The next morning was worse. My knees started to ache on my third turn of the pedals. My thighs were burning. My nose was dripping. I wheezed up the first hill. I seriously considered walking up the next hill. I practically whimpered with relief when I finally reached that last section of the ride where I could just coast into the parking garage. I knew my ride home would be excruciating. I thought maybe if I could get out a little early, I could just take as much time as I wanted to get home, but then a miracle happened. Just as I was walking out to the parking garage the sky opened up and dropped buckets of rain down. Michael had to pick me up on his way home from work. When he showed up, he said "What about your bike?" I replied that maybe Thursday or Friday he could just drop me off on his way to work and I'd ride my bicycle home. 

A friend of mine was saying the other day how she's been working out for three years now and she just didn't know if it was doing any good. I can relate. I walk every day. I get on my yoga mat. I hardly ever use the elevator at work and will walk up four or five flights of stairs three or more times a day. I have this idea that I am fit, but when I'm wheezing and pep-talking my way up a hill that idea becomes a very fine piece of china that I just violently threw onto the sidewalk. I have to remind myself that I haven't done this kind of activity in months. I have to remind myself that I am not in any sort of competition with any one and getting to work and back is not a race. I have to remind myself that it is OK to huff and puff. I have to remind myself that it's OK to be a little bit outside of my comfort zone. 

I'll be riding my bike home today.  

LAUGH, LOVE, EAT

Monday

"Monday"

It's been weeks since I've had my usual Saturday morning ritual of sitting down at my favorite bakery with my Fortune Cookie journal. Our weekends have been full of museum visits, impromptu trips, and good visits with out of town friends. I realize that I could make time to write in this journal at any time, but there's something about Saturday mornings. I tend to be awake before most of the world and there's something about the stillness and quiet of these mornings that makes it easy to sit and write. This Saturday, I woke to drizzly rain and in that quiet and stillness, drove to the bakery. I placed my order, made myself comfortable at the counter table and pulled out my journal. I opened the journal to next prompt and paused. Laugh often, love hard, eat and repeat. 

Of course. Of course this would be the fortune cookie prompt that I would get after weeks of inactivity, just three days before what would have been my eighteenth wedding anniversary. We were going to get married on March fifteenth, but then remembered that we should "beware the ides of March" and chose the sixteenth instead. Chris made me laugh often, that's for sure. He made everyone laugh often. Chris had this sharp dry wit that was smart and so well timed. I have not met another person, with the exception of maybe Chad or Talaura, who could make me laugh so much. And love? He was my first love, so of course we loved hard. Fierce. It was the kind of love that gave you confidence. We could do anything, handle any misfortune, survive any tragedy as long as we had each other. The whole eating thing was practically a hobby for us. I remember at one time, Chris bought a couple of dinosaurs because he had an idea for a food blog called Dinersaurs. I think the T-rex had a monocle. Most of our vacation stories centered around all the restaurants we experienced. Our whole reason for visiting Eugene OR was to eat pizza at the Pizza Research Institute. Laughter, love and eating were a continuous loop in our life.  

I sold my old Nikon on Craigslist over the weekend. It was my first DSLR. My first fancy pants camera. Chris gave me that camera. I don't know if he bought me that camera because he believed it would foster and encourage artistic qualities in me or if he just bought it because it was a new shiny gadget. Chris was a magpie for any kind of new electronic thing, but he was always encouraging (almost pushing) me to be more creative. Either way, it doesn't really matter. That camera served it's purpose. I learned to be more observant of my surroundings and little bit about light and aperture settings. It was the learning camera. In the same way, my relationship with Chris turned out to be the learning relationship. I just didn't know it at the time. I learned that it was possible to be in a relationship that didn't require constant arguing. I learned that two people could communicate wants and needs with out complaining. I learned that not all relationships were like my parent's.  Constructive communication, compromising and the give and take are the valuable take-away lessons from my time with Chris. I learned how important it is to laugh often. I learned how important it is to love hard and fully and to find the joy in eating. I learned the importance of that continuous loop. 

I marvel at how life changes, but stays the same. Michael bought me the new Nikon, probably less because it was a new shiny gadget and more because he believes in my creative talent. He's told me that I have a better eye for seeing things that not everyone sees. Maybe that's true. I am probably more practiced in the art of observation than some, but only because I work at it daily. Michael makes me laugh often. Maybe not in the same way as Chris did, but he makes me laugh. I love him and his willingness to say yes to every little scheme I come up with. Our joy of eating has expanded beyond the new restaurant find by bringing new ingredients into the kitchen and cooking things together. The loop goes on, just maybe in the opposite direction or the loop is more elliptical than circular, but it's still a loop. Sort of like the rubber band from my rubber band sketches. Malleable. Our lives are malleable, bendy and stretchy. 

Maybe that Fortune Cookie prompt should have said laugh often, love hard, learn continuously, eat and repeat. 

TAKE A LEAP

Instagram photo by Cindy Maddera * Feb 29, 2016 at 9:02pm UTC

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 2 likes

People were going crazy over Leap Day yesterday. I think I saw about fifty posts regarding the extra day this year. Some were annoyed we had an extra twenty four hours on a Monday while others were all about taking advantage of the extra time. What will you do with your extra twenty four hours, Cindy? Well...I kind of see it like money. There's no "extra". In fact, I am suspicious of a calendar that is so wrong all the time that every four years it has to throw in an extra day to "fix" it. Someone posted something about the British skipping eleven days in September in 1752. Eleven days! It all had something to do with the Calendar (New Style) Act of 1750. This reminds me of getting in my car and driving to a destination and not having a freaking clue how I drove the car to that spot. 

I kind of just wanted to take a nap with my extra twenty four hours. Michael and I made it back from our whirl wind weekend trip just in time to start a load of laundry and turn on the Oscars. Our trip reminded us of some 80s vacation trip where you pack as much stuff in a thirty six hour period. We at lunch on the Hill, we looked at our cheek cells at the Science Center, we walked all around downtown, we went to a casino and then we walked all around downtown some more. We had dinner at this great oyster bar where the oysters where the biggest oysters I've ever seen. I have over a hundred pictures to process and edit and organize. Maybe that's what I should have done with my extra twenty four hours. I didn't. Of course. Instead, I used my so called extra time to do more laundry, make us a delicious pot pie for dinner, clean the bathroom and watch The Walking Dead. 

I didn't completely waste my Leap Day. It was seventy degrees here yesterday (while today's high is forty). At one point, after spending hours in a dark room marking worms on a slide, I decided to go walk a loop outside. I had already missed my window of opportunity to get to the gym for treadmill time. When I reached the farthest point of the loop, I just kept walking. I walked all the way over to the Nelson and up and around the sculpture park. There were people stretched out on picnic blankets on the Nelson lawn. A small girl was kicking a ball back and forth with her mom. I passed a young man with a baby strapped to his chest. He was walking along the path, the baby facing out with his little arms and legs waving and kicking around like crazy. I noticed tiny pink buds forming on the hedges. The sun bounced off the glass walls of the labyrinth as I watched a couple slowly wind their away around inside. I felt the sun, warm on my face and smiled. 

Lately I have been slightly panicked about getting enough steps in during the day. I've started tracking my food again, which stresses me out because somewhere in the middle of the day I realize that I haven't eaten enough calories to maintain or lose weight. There's a dress I plan to wear on Saturday, that I'm afraid is going to be uncomfortably tight. I keep getting reminder calls from my doctor's office to schedule an appointment to check my cholesterol and on Saturday, I learned that it would cost $1,465,000 to send my body into space. The Science Center has a space scale that tells you your weight in dollars. I was not amused. I feel myself falling back into my destructive weight loss habits. But yesterday, while I was walking through the sculpture garden, I didn't think about any of those things. 

I guess you could say that I used my extra twenty four hours to cut myself some slack. And I still got more than ten thousand steps in. 

SPINNING

I took that picture the other day for my 365 Day Selfie project. The idea of it came to me while I was setting up a slide to scan on one of our microscopes. A good song had started playing on my playlist and it made me dance. I noticed the way the sweater I was wearing moved while I danced and thought it would be a good picture. I took a number of shots while spinning to get that one picture. Each time I stopped to take a breath and check takes, I was dizzy and by the time I called it quits, I was queasy. I didn't realize at the time that I would actually be capturing what was and is currently happening in my brain. I am spinning. There's a lot happening in the next few months. There's some AIDS Walk charity events that I will be involved with. I'm starting a sabbatical next month that will last for about six weeks where I get to learn a bunch of fun new science stuff. I need to finish planning the garden so we can plant the first wave of veggies. 

Then, really the thing that makes me the queasiest, I got some news about something I had written. I wrote it a while back and half heartedly submitted it and now I've been asked to maybe read it in a public setting. Maybe. When I first heard the news, I had the immediate feeling of validation and pride. This lasted for only a second before the implications actually set in. Since then I've felt like doing nothing more than curling up into a ball while breathing into a paper bag. I went back to read that story because it had been months since I had written it or read it. I had set it out of my head and even kind of forgotten some of the story. I let a friend read it and was told that it is a powerful and raw story. And after rereading it, I could not disagree. It is a very personal and vulnerable story. I think that's what has gotten me so tied up in nots. It's like I've just agreed to take off all my clothes on stage in front of the world. Which I have done for real before. I have taken a number of naked photos for 365 day projects. 

So why is this any different? 

I remember the first time I took a nude selfie. I am artfully nude in the picture with the main attention drawn to my legs. At the time I took it, I was very uncomfortable in my skin. I've always seen myself as the chubby one. This will never change. But I took a risk that day and opted for bravery and just went for it. I remember being so nervous about posting that picture. It was hard enough to to take it, let alone post it. There were so many aspects of this picture that made me so vulnerable. I had exposed my body and I had made an attempt to be creative. I received lovely reviews from fellow 365 Day group members. Every one was kind. The day after posting, one of my then online friends posted a nude photo of herself hiding behind her guitar. She was skinny and beautiful and taking this kind of photo was easy for her. It felt like I was being copied or like she was trying one up me. Her anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better mentality would eventual lead to the end of our friendship, but that first act would be the one that would make it really hard to push myself and allow myself to be vulnerable. There have been times after this where it has even been easy for me to be a little vulnerable. 

This thing, though, feels different. Worse some how. Taking my clothes off for a picture would be the easier thing to do right now. I read the piece to Michael last night and stumbled over words. He had to tell me to slow down. There was a moment when I felt the words catch in my throat. This was happening and the only one hearing the story was Michael. My stomach clinches at the idea of others hearing this story. My stomach has been clinched for days actually. I think about when I wrote that piece and how I wrote it just to clear the clutter from my head. I wrote it without the intention of sharing it. Maybe that's why it turned out to be so pure and honest. At the time of writing it, I didn't worry about what others would think of it. I didn't censor myself. Reading out loud made it feel like I was cutting myself open and turning my body inside out. The most vulnerable soul baring stories are always the hardest to share. 

Allowing yourself to be vulnerable forces you to be brave. Je suis forte. 

HER DRESS IS SO SAD

Produce and piñatas #PrintYourFeed2016

"Produce and piñatas #PrintYourFeed2016"

Last week, while I was drooling on the couch, I realized that I could probably be doing more than just blankly staring at the TV. Except I never got up to do anything more than make a cup of tea. I'm back at work, by the way. My coworkers kind of wish I wasn't because I sound gross, but there are moments when I can actually breath through both sides of my nose today. My chiropractor told me to drink apple cider vinegar with raw honey to fight the inflammation in my sinuses. I stopped by the healthy nut store on my way back to work and then made myself the most awful drink of too much apple cider vinegar and not enough raw honey. I'm drinking it anyway because I think it's working. It's only been twenty minutes and I'm sure it doesn't work that fast, but believing that it is working is what's keeping me alive (not really). Any hoo, back to things I should have been doing instead of blankly staring. 

I should have been garden planning. I should have been reading. I should have been sleeping. I should have been knitting. I should have been editing photos. I should have been looking into a way to sell some photos. I should have been coloring, but by far, what I really should have been doing was writing. I did none of that. I could have worked on some unfinished things even if I didn't feel like writing up anything for this space. Thursday rolled around and I had nothing written for a Love Thursday entry and then I gave myself a pass for my Thankful Friday entry. If I want to be completely truthful here, I considered a Love Thursday entry but then I thought "I don't want to write a Love Thursday." I was relieved to not sit down and make an effort to write an entry for Thursday with a theme. I don't want to do Love Thursday posts at all any more. Then I felt really bad for thinking that and then I felt OK for thinking that and then I felt really good with thinking that.

I'm tired of doing those entries. Love Thursday has become work and that's something it should never be. Lately though, I have been grasping for ideas for those posts and struggling with writing anything worth while. Most of the time, I'm just phoning it in with a bunch uplifting words that you could you read off the back of any self help book. There have been times when I might as well of just said "Ooh! Look at that grape! I love grapes." because I am reaching to find anything relevant for a Love Thursday. There's a part of me that is really ok with letting this go, but there's the other part of me that is scared to let this go. I don't want to slip back into old habits of using this place as a podium to bitch and complain. I don't want to forget to look for the love and good things in my life. It's just that right now, it all feels like pretend. I am pretending.

The other day Michael and I had a good getting things off our chest moment. He said something to me that he's said before and I always want to tell him he's wrong. He said that I was a sad person. In his defense, he said it not meaning it to sound like a bad thing. It's just something he says he knows about me, that I am a sad person. When he says this I want to scream "I AM NOT! I AM A HAPPY PERSON! I AM SO FUCKING HAPPY ALL THE FUCKING TIME. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!" Except I know he's not wrong because I have photographic evidence. I started a year of self portraits because I needed to learn to like myself again, but I'm two months into it and I'm not any closer to seeing my face and liking what I see. In those pictures I take where I just simply look at the camera I can see it. My resting face is sad face. That's what I've learned from taking a daily photo. I have resting sad face. There's a vacancy in my eyes that I didn't realize existed until now. When I first noticed it, I was surprised by it. I looked at the picture of myself and thought "what happened to me?". Oh wait. A lot's happened to me and kind of in a short, concentrated amount of time.

I guess I think I am not a sad person because I can write a Love Thursday entry even if it's a phoned in post about a grape. I am pretending to not be a sad person because I write these entries every week. In fact on weeks where I have nothing for those kinds of posts, I get slightly panicked. Someone soon is going to figure it out and see that I am a fraud. So I might as well come clean now. By coming clean, I feel like I want a fresh clean notebook. I want to make changes here. I want to write here without being tied to a theme. I want to write here without dreading the content or censoring my content. I want to write here without constantly trying to sound like Pollyanna.

I want to write things that will change my resting sad face.

NOTES ON MEDITATION

About a month ago, I started meditating for fifteen minutes in the morning before starting work. I walk into my office, put away my lunch and my bag and then plop down on my zafu pillow. I start with ten rounds of alternate nostril breathing and follow this up with twenty four rounds of a mantra. It has been an a easy forming habit for Monday through Friday. Meditation comes in other forms on weekends. I don't sit down for a traditional round of meditation, but I don't take my vitamins or floss on weekends either. There are some Sundays when I don't brush my teeth until well after noon. That is not the point. The point is that I have formed a new weekday habit and instead of starting my day by reading all the emails and checking in to all the online places, I start my day by mentally cleaning up my brain. The best analogy I can come up with is that it's like starting an intense baking project with a clean kitchen as opposed to working around dirty countertops, cake batter encrusted bowls and sticky floors. 

When Yogananda was a young man, he would sit in meditation and see visions of his Guru, Sri Yukteswar Giri. Elizabeth Gilbert, in her book Eat Pray Love, describes having visions of her guru while in meditation. I have heard other stories as well. People see their guru or Buddha or even a vision of what they can only describe as God. I see nothing. Well...not nothing exactly. I see colors that range from deep blue and violet to something in the far red. I say far red because I know those wavelengths penetrate deep tissue. So I assume my eyelids are filtering out most all of the other wavelengths since white light (regular light bulb) contains all of the wavelengths. The blue and violet are probably due to synapses firing because they are confused by the absence of light. I am a scientist with a Spock like brain. The thing is I don't see a guru (probably because I don't have a guru) and I don't see anything God-like. Though, the other day I saw a silhouette of a deer and thought "Oh! That's must be my patronus!" Then I slapped myself on the forehead and snorted. That must be my patronus. Really? That must be ridiculous. Everyone knows my patronus is an elephant. 

At one point I had a fleeting thought that I don't see anything because I don't believe in anything. I'm lying. It wasn't really a fleeting thought. It's a thought that has stuck around for awhile. At first I thought "Wow! I really don't believe in anything." It was suddenly easy to fathom endless nothing. I can see a little me sitting in the middle of nothing and it's true that I don't believe in gurus and gods. That's simplifying things. When it comes to God, I don't believe in the religious texts' description and interpretation of "God". Sure there's got to be something greater than us out there, but I think that something greater is that force that makes us all work together for the greater good. It's being a part of this great ant colony as opposed to being a lone wolf. That something greater is too big for word descriptions. In the case of gurus, I don't believe anyone should have that kind of powerful influence over your spirituality. I feel this way towards any religious affiliation. Priests, Rabbis, Imams. Even Buddhist monks. I am my own guru. Which sounds fucking arrogant right? Maybe so. Arrogant or not, it's true. I am the one responsible for my spiritual or lack of spiritual growth. 

I don't believe in nothing. I believe in me. Sure there's some arrogance in that, but shouldn't you believe in yourself just a little bit? I'm not so sure it is arrogance as much as it is self worth. 

I NEED TO WRITE

02/366

"02/366"

I had an appointment with my massage therapist, Jeana, last Thursday. She's got a new bio-mat that fits the whole bed now. The bio-mat is warm and filled with amethyst crystals and magical powers (not really). Jeana is also filled with magical powers. She knew just by looking at me that I had been on a road trip because one hip was higher than the other, which she addressed but this is about my hands. She does this thing where she pulls my fingers back towards my elbows and massages my palms. This time when she did it, I wanted to come off the table and karate chop it. At the same time, a voice in my head screamed "I NEED TO WRITE!"

When she moved on, I was left with those words echoing around in my brain. What the fuck was that?!? Yeah, I mean, I know I need to write. I've got unfinished business, but it's unfinished because I'm lazy and apathetic. But this voice wasn't telling me I needed to do this because I need to do this. It was more of an internal primal need, like needing to pee. It was an urgent shout of need. If you would have handed me a pen and paper, I would have just gone to town writing a bunch of jibberish. Then, just like that, the voice was quite and I set the thought aside. I went on as normal. Then on Saturday, as we were driving to the sledding park, Michael was talking about something. I don't remember what he said, but something in the middle of my chest screamed "I NEED TO WRITE!" and it was so forceful that I felt my breath catch. I mentally slammed my heart back into my chest and told it to "shut up!"

Sure, I get it. I really really really need to finish something I've started. I know this. I'm just struggling with time. I know this sounds like a cop out, but really I have so many little side projects going. Besides keeping up with the blog, I'm taking pictures for my 365 Day Selfie project and my 365 Day Happiness project. I've carved out fifteen minutes in the mornings for meditation. Then there's work, where instead of taking a lunch break, I walk and get on my yoga mat. I eat a quick lunch at my desk before heading off to the next task. Once I'm home there's dinner to be made and people and animals that need my attention and TV to watch. Then when I finally have a moment, I am easily distracted with Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and who said what where. 

I am sure this sounds familiar to many of you. I'm sure you all struggle with some version of the above. I just remembered that some time soon I need to do my taxes and I really need to sit down and create a spreadsheet of credit card debt. See? There's too much. How am I supposed to get the things done that I am supposed to get done and still have time to do the things I want to do? I remember the first time I sat down to write out my Life List and how it took forever because I kept putting things on the list that I should do. Practical things, like get photos organized. Which, by the way, I need to sit down and re-work that list because my life is different. I'll tell you what I need. I need to channel Benjamin Franklin. How did he do it?!?

All I know is that I better figure out something or I'm going to look like a crazy person walking around telling myself to shut up. 

POSSUM SOUP

See

"See"

Mom and I had a lovely spa day before meeting my brother and sister-in-law for an early dinner. While we were munching on delicious street tacos, Katrina started telling us about their exciting Saturday. Turns out they have two possums living in their house. The possums had gotten in through the crawl space under the house and then up through hole in the floor under the bathtub. Randy said they'd sprayed them with ammonia. They had poked them. They had yelled at them, but the possums would not budge. Randy was beside himself on how he was going to get those things out from under his bathtub.

The plan for after dinner was for me to go with Randy and Katrina because they were taking me to get my birthday present. We had a couple of hours to kill before we could go get the present, so Randy was like "Great! You can help me get those possums out!" I heard him say this to me thinking he had to be kidding, but he was not. I followed along with his plans only because I just didn't know how to tell him that my biology degree did not qualify me for live animal removal. I'm a microbiologist. I don't deal with anything larger than about 3 cm. Any way, plan A involved Randy putting on welding gloves and handing me the lid to a rubber maid container. Randy was going to reach in through the access panel behind the bathroom (which is in their guest bedroom), grab one of the possums and throw it into the rubber maid container. My job was to throw the lid down onto the container. When we opened the access panel there was only one possum. Randy only needed to grab one possum. This should have made it easier. Here's how that went. 

Yeah, so, reaching in and grabbing the thing was a no go. Plan B sounded a little better. Randy had a trap. We thought we could bait it with some delicious possum food, but the trap couldn't be positioned in front of the door in a way that would ensure the possum would go into the trap and not out and around the room. Plan B got scratched and Katrina and I both thought that Randy was done for the day and ready to call an exterminator when Randy came wandering back in with a length of rope. He then tells us he's going to get the possum to walk through the loop he was making in the rope. Once the possum was partially through, Randy would tug the rope which would sort of lasso the possum. He would then swing the possum into the box where I would throw down the lid. Randy told us this plan and then Katrina and I looked at each other and passed the same brain waves back and forth. Those brain waves said "THIS IS NOT GOING TO WORK!", but Katrina shut the door to the bedroom any way committing us all to this task. So now we were all shut up in this tiny bedroom with a possum. Randy got the lasso ready and then started poking the possum to get him to move to the other side of the bathtub. I was holding the container lid for dear life, ready to use it as a shield for when things went horribly wrong.

Except things did not go horribly wrong. Randy lassoed the possum and swung him up and over into the box. I immediately slammed the lid down on the box and then Randy and I looked at each other with giant round eyes of shock. We had just captured a possum and no one got injured or bit. It was a spectacular. There was no sign of the other possum, so we're hoping that one decided to move on. We took our lassoed possum out to an undisclosed rural location and set him free. I'd like to think that his creepy ass snarly grin was one of gratitude for letting him go. 

We did not eat him. 

THE UNSINKABLE MOLLY BROWN

Instagram photo by Cindy Maddera * Jan 9, 2016 at 1:46am UTC

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 7 likes

Forty is just around the corner. A week and some days away. I want to tell you that I am still super excited about forty. I want to tell you that I relish in the idea of growing older. I can't wait to live in one of those retirement villages with shuffle board and canasta and shuttle rides to the grocery store. (There's a weekday here where a shuttle bus drops off a bunch of elderly people to do their grocery shopping at Trader Joe's. I will be part of their community one day!) Woo-Hoo! Forty is going to be SO.DANG.AWESOME! These are all things I feel in my heart and soul. These are all things my body is not feeling right at this moment.

Saturday, Michael, the Cabbage and I all attended a family yoga class. We had fun jumping around pretending to be animals. Then I bent over to put my shoes on and I couldn't get back up. It was like someone had stabbed an oyster knife into my sacroiliac joint and was twisting. Et tu Brutu! I sort of wrenched myself up through the pain and mumbled something about my back hurting. Then we all got in the car and headed to IKEA and I just pretended that there wasn't an oyster knife sticking out of my back. When we got home, I was sitting on the couch and Michael looked at me and asked "Are you OK? You look like you're about to cry." It's hard to be OK when someone has obviously mistaken your SI joint for an oyster.

I pulled all of my yoga tricks out of the bag and nothing worked. This is how I found myself sitting in a chiropractor's office yesterday, having my spine photographed. I had maybe three vertebrae that where not in some state of impingement. My back resembles a deflated accordion. Many pops and some shock therapy later, the oyster knife was removed leaving behind just a dull ache. I go back on Thursday for more adjustment and to get a "wellness plan" for a happy spine. Thursday will be followed up with several more visits to get me back into a less sad accordion shape and into a happy, dancing accordion shape. Hoopa! I'm sore but standing up straight no longer makes me teary. 

The receptionist at the Chiropractor's office was entering my information into the computer when she realized we had the exact same birthday. She said that this is the first birthday she was ever hesitant about. She asked me how I felt about this one with it being sort of a big birthday. I replied "I think turning forty is going to be GREAT!" and as I leaned forward saying this, I winced in pain. I remember my friend John telling me about how his body completely fell apart when he turned forty. He said that all he could do was live on his couch for a year, but he feels great now and he's in his fifties. I guess I just assumed that all my years of yoga would protect my body from wear and tear. In some ways it has. I'm super flexible! I know how to get myself off the floor without causing more damage. I walk all the time. Actually, I'm in better shape now than I was in high school. I'm skinnier, my diet is better and I'm more active. 

So fine. I have a few more gray hairs and some of those have shown up in my nose and eyebrows. I've been experiencing pre-menopausal symptoms since August and my back (violently) went on strike for a few days. I got on my mat today and it was glorious. OK maybe not glorious. But it was pretty great. I know forty is going to fantastic. I still stand by my belief that forty is the year I pass over into the spectacular years. I will not be swayed. Forty is going to be amazeballs. 

I just have to convince my body of this. 

DEAR J.J. ABRAMS

You probably get this a lot, letters from fans and probably a few from non-fans. I'm going to be honest. While I'm a huge fan of your work, I am not your biggest fan. That title would go to Chris. Actually, if it wasn't for Chris, I most likely would not have paid as much attention to your work. Chris paid attention. He paid attention to all things Sci-fy related, but his ultimate passion was Star Wars. I knew this when I married him, but it would be a few years into our marriage before I would realize just how Star Wars obsessed he was. 

We met in college. It was a random introduction in the school cafeteria that led to a discussion of books. On my first visit to his dorm room, I noticed the Star Wars sheets on his bed. I knew that Chris was poor and frugal so I just assumed those sheets where a set of twin sheets left over from his childhood that he just decided to use for college so he wouldn't have to spend money on new ones. Those sheets would move with us to our first apartment together, then to an apartment we would live in during graduate school in our first years of marriage. As we were packing for our third move, I pulled those sheets out of the closet and started to put them in a box. I paused and asked "Do we really need these? We don't have a twin sized bed. We should just donate them." Chris snatched the sheets from my hands. "Are you kidding me?! Do you know what these sheets are?! These are original Star Wars sheets! We're keeping them!" Those sheets would be moved with us from apartment to rent house to a brief stay in his mother's house and finally to our first home and what would be Chris's last home.

Yeah, you guessed it. Chris is no longer with us. Quite simply, we had a year of wonderful where we started a new life in a new city. We bought a lawnmower and became home owners and then Chris got sick and died. It really happened almost just that fast. Chris was smart and funny. He was my best friend. He was a total geek who knew every thing there was to know about Star Wars. The only time I ever beat him at a game of Star Wars Trivial Pursuit was because I'm pretty sure he let me win by feeding me the easiest questions or at least the ones that could be answered with R2D2. We had a ritual where we'd say a sort of grace before our evening meal. Both of us had lost our religion long ago, but we were in a place where we felt it was important to be grateful. We'd end our little prayer of thanks not with an "amen" but with "So say we all and thank you to the Force." 

Any way. I think you get the point. The continuation of the Star Wars anthology was just a rumor when Chris got sick. A year after his death, it was official. There would be three new Star Wars movies and that you would be directing at least the first one. I thought "of course" as soon as I heard. You are the director that Chris would have picked. In reality, Chris would have wanted to direct it himself, but you were for sure his second pick. It was actually something he talked about. What if they did three more stories? Who would direct? These were the kinds of debates we'd have over coffee. I saw that movie over the weekend. I went in not wanting to have expectations and steeling myself against disappointment. There was a part of me begging for this to please please be worthy of Chris and another part of me saying to just let it be the movie that it is.

I couldn't tell you what the opening scroll said. I started sobbing as soon as the words Star Wars popped up on the screen. I used that time while the story scrolled up the screen to pull my shit together so I could watch the movie. There have been so many moments when I wish it was possible to talk to the dead, like the time I couldn't find my scooter key after Chris died (he totally knew where it was) or to ask him about the scraps of notes I'd come across while cleaning out his office. Now, all I can think of is what would he say about this movie. I want to know his thoughts. I want to hear his speculations for the next movies. I was not disappointed. It was everything I could have expected it to be and I think Chris would have said the same. In fact there were times when I was sure that Chris had to have whispered an idea into your ear. 

So, well done Mr. Abrams. You managed, without even knowing it, to honor and pay respect to a dead man. This movie was a perfect balance between old and new with just enough nostalgia for the past to pull on heart strings. The new characters are equal parts intriguing and lovable and I can't wait to find out more about them and who they are. One of the most important things you brought back to this series though, is the humor. It was serious when it needed to be, but there was also the kind of humor that we saw in Episode IV. Star Wars fans needed that. You have made Star Wars fun again. For this, I thank you. Thank you J.J. Abrams for reminding us all why we fell in love with Star Wars in the first place. 

Sincerely,

Cindy Maddera of ElephantSoap.com

TURN TURN TURN

So, I'm looking at the Christmas tree this morning. Mostly because I heard something suspicious and sure enough Josephine was running out the door with Mrs. Claus riding a train in her mouth. (We mourn the death of Mrs. Claus today.) Other than the recently removed ornament, the tree looked perfectly normal. It was upright, not swaying side to side. There was nothing amiss at all about the tree.  I did notice that some ornaments had been moved around on the tree. I thought "huh...guess Michael's been moving ornaments around on the tree." Like this is a thing people do. "I see you've decided that this ornament should go over there, but really it's much better if we put it right here." Except Michael isn't really that kind of a person. 

Well, Michael gets out of the shower and starts to brush his teeth when I say "I see you've moved some ornaments around on the tree." He responds with "I have no idea what you are talking about." Except it doesn't sound that clear because there's a toothbrush in his mouth. He steps out of the bathroom to look at the tree and I point out all the ornaments he's moved. He just shakes his head and is adamant that he did not move any ornaments. Then he tilts his head, pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and says "This tree has been turned almost exactly 90 degrees. Look at it!" I look and he's right. The plugs for the star are no longer on the back side of the tree. We stand there stunned and slightly creeped out. The blanket the tree base sits on is not even wrinkled. We have no idea how the cat did it, but we're pretty sure it had to be the cat. Or ghosts. Or aliens.

Speaking of the cat, or not speaking really. He's got a few new tricks. Right now, he's with out a voice. He looks at you and opens his mouth and you expect to hear a "meow" but nothing comes out. He's mouthing "meow". We looked it up and apparently it's a thing that happens because cats are weird. It can be caused from many things from hacking up a large hairball to laryngitis. Cats can get laryngitis. Cats will also murder large earthworms all over your floor. That's his second trick. Because he is a jerk.

THINGS I'D RATHER NOT

Barbara and the Snowman

"Barbara and the Snowman"

While Michael was out Saturday doing his Christmas shopping, I stayed home to put up the Christmas tree and make stockings for the pets and Christmasfy the house. First off, let me tell you about making stockings. This required me to use a sewing machine and we all know that my relationship with my sewing machine is not good. We don't care for each other at all. When I dragged it out of storage, dusted it off and plugged it in, I anticipated a large amount of swearing. For some reason, loading a bobbin correctly is the hardest thing to do, but after the second try and a little sewing on a test piece of fabric, everything seemed to be working normally. The next thing I knew, I was sewing along like I knew what I was doing, pulling pins as I went and storing them between my lips like my momma taught me. There was a brief moment when things were going so well that I looked around to see if any one was watching and I thought "who the fuck is this person using a sewing machine?!?!"

It took me longer to get the sewing machine out and then put away than it did to do the actually sewing. This was also kind of true for decorating the tree. It took longer to bring up the boxes than it did to put the ornaments on the tree. Michael and I had discussed before I even started that maybe I shouldn't put anything important out and on the tree this year. It's the first Christmas with a puppy and a cat. Josephine has already removed and destroyed one cardboard elephant from the tree, as well as tiny bearded gnome. I have sprayed the cat many times with a can of compressed air. It was agreed that by "important" we both were talking about my Babar ornament. I was totally amazed that Chris was able to find a replacement that one time. I could not tempt fate and expect to find Babar a third time. Most of my ornaments are plastic or paper or cloth, so I went ahead and just put everything except Babar on the tree. 

Every Christmas, since we've been together, Michael and I have picked out an ornament for the tree that is an "us" ornament. The first year, we picked out a Santa riding a trout. It made zero sense, but it was ridiculous and seemed to be fitting because we hadn't really been in our relationship long enough to have an idea of what represented "us". The second year we picked out a record player because I had gotten Michael's record player fixed and I had purchased a bunch of Dorris Day and Barbara Streisand records. Cleaning days were a mix of his records and mine, with me singing along to all of them. This year we had plans to get a VW bus ornament because that's all we seem to be able to talk about these days, but when we went to the store, they were sold out. We settled on an R2D2 and Darth Vader set because the new Star Wars movie comes out Friday and we have tickets to see it Saturday. (Buying Star Wars ornaments with Michael is a little I don't have a word for it, but he likes Star Wars a whole lot, just not on the level that Chris liked Star Wars and this is a completely other topic of conversation.)

As we were placing the new ornaments on the tree, Michael asked me about the ornaments already on the tree. He wanted to know how many I'd left off the tree this year because the tree was not loaded down with ornaments. I admitted that I'd really only excluded Babar from the tree and then I looked at him and asked "I have told you what happened to all our ornaments right?" He said he vaguely remembered, but asked for a refresher. I gave him a brief run down version of how the Grinch disguised as a mean dog with inconsiderate owners destroyed our Christmas ornaments. And they were not just a box of generic ornaments either. These were ornaments that we had collected over the years of our marriage, ornaments that had been from our childhoods, one of a kind irreplaceable ornaments. As I got to the part about how Babar had been turned into colored dust, I felt my throat close up and tears prick my eyes. I was surprised by my reaction to telling this story again, surprised that it still stung after all this time. Michael was appropriately outraged and I shrugged and said "I'm still building back my collection from that time."

We are building back that ornament collection. The Christmas tree is a blending of memories that grows every year. Chris and I managed to gather a small number of ornaments together after the destruction of the old ones. There's an Ecto-1 and a Wall-E on the tree to replace the Enterprise and Yoda. I've added in some new elephants and Chris did find me a new Babar. After a moment of hesitation, I took Babar out of the box and set him on a shelf along with my Abominable Snowman. It just didn't seem right, after all of that, to leave him tucked away in a box. Now Michael and I are adding our own ornaments to the collection. Sure, it's not much now, but give us a few more years and I bet it will be a spectacular collection. 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DOG!

Old man Josephine

"Old man Josephine"

Josephine is officially a year old today. At least I think it's today. I looked at her paper work and I can't tell if that's a five or an eight. Since I missed the fifth, I'm going with eight. I bought her a Kong on Saturday and I think she likes it. I've seen her chewing on it even without the peanut butter smeared inside it. We determined that she was using the old logs propped next to the fence as a diving board for flying over the fence. Michael moved them and Josephine was still in the yard when I got home yesterday. So, fingers crossed. Michael wants to change her name to Henri with the French pronunciation. She is still so much puppy. She wants to obey, but it's so hard for her to sit still. Chewing and tearing up things is the most fun and Michael's room is best room for finding pens and candy wrappers and socks. I let her have run of the house last Friday as a test. She and the cat broke into Michael's room and Josephine destroyed the blinds in one window. They were crap blinds anyway. 

Josephine is my dog. Michael would probably cook her up and make puppy stew if given the chance. Or so he says. I've seen him laugh at her ridiculous puppy ways and the way he places his hand on her head when she plops down against his leg. Mostly though, she's laying in my lap or following me around the house. Josephine has been waking me up around midnight like she needs to go out. I let her out and when she comes back inside she just curls up at the foot of the bed and I let her. I've never had a dog that slept in my bed. I guess Odie did before he was banished to the outside. Hooper never had any interest in it. He always preferred the floor or his own bed. That time we had the ice storm that took out everyone's power for weeks and weeks, I spent that first night alone in our rent house in OKC. Chris was babysitting Quinn. He called me just as the power went out and said he'd come get me, but I told him to wait until morning when it was a little safer. I grabbed every blanket and hunkered down for the night. I tried to get Hooper to lay down next to me, but as soon as I stopped petting him, he was off the bed and sprawled out on the floor. 

Josephine doesn't snuggle up next to me at night, but instead has her spot at the end of the bed. She loves the wool blanket I brought back from Ireland and she snuggles down into. As much as I'd like to be all strict and say "NO DOGS IN THE BED", I find that I cannot be. She is a comfort and warms my feet. She doesn't walk all over me or hog the bed. Sometimes she snores, but she did that in her crate too. In the mornings, she'll get up when I get up and stretch into down dog, followed with up dog and I rub her belly. Then I open the door and the cat is usually sitting there and Josephine jumps down to bite his ear or neck or leg. The two of them follow me to the kitchen for food. By the time I'm done with my shower and pull back the shower curtain, Josephine will be laying on the bathmat with one of her toys and Albus will be sitting on the sink. That's where the three of us hang out in the mornings. 

Josephine is a crazy messy hilarious little dog. She's smart and loving. She reminds me of my Pepaw. I look back on when we got her and she was so dang tiny. So tiny. She's still small, but only in size. Her personality is huge and when I look at her she makes my smile huge. She'll get an extra scoop of peanut butter tonight in celebration and maybe a bath. Happy Birthday Josephine Boisdechene Clofullia!

TRIM UP THE TREE

Fancy lunch

"Fancy lunch"

I know I was just talking about not being ready because of the whole Christmas card thing, but I think I can honestly say that I've never been so far ahead on my Christmas preparations in my whole dang life. I have all the presents I'm buying. Michael is in charge of getting a few other things for the Cabbage. I have wrapping paper. I have ribbon. I have candy for stockings (except for one last candy item for Michael; he likes sixlets; they're his favorite; he's from the past). I have knew lights for the tree. I pulled that plan for the Christmas card out of my sleeve and last night Christmas cards were ordered. I have material to make stockings for Josephine and Albus. I HAVE ALL THE THINGS!!! I AM WINNING AT CHRISTMAS!!!

Except. None of those presents are wrapped. Some of them haven't even shown up yet. All of the Christmas decorations are still in the basement. The Cabbage looked around here on Saturday and said "You don't have no Christmas up in here any where." (Right now, grammar is the least of our problems.) Stocking are hung no where with care. In fact, I bought a box of sticky wall hooks for the stockings two weeks ago and I have no clue where I put them. It's possible I threw them away now that I'm really thinking hard about it. The sewing machine is still sitting in the garage covered in dust and cobwebs. Christmas cards don't get here until the eleventh (fingers crossed). I AM LOSING AT CHRISTMAS!!! 

OK. Maybe I'm not losing at Christmas. I may have just fallen for that commercial Christmas rush trap. Halloween wasn't even close to being over when our local Target cleared an isle for Christmas decorations. The spiders weren't even cold on their webs and had to stare down dancing elves with their beady little eyes. Weeks before Thanksgiving, I was flooded with promotions for pre-black Friday sales. "Get 'em now! While supplies last!" People were talking about decorating trees on Thanksgiving day making me beg the question of "of what kind of drugs are you on that gives you enough energy to cook and eat a turkey and put up a Christmas tree?!?" I have attended three Christmas parties all in the first week of December. The Cabbage has seen Santa twice. The poor kid had no idea what she wanted for Christmas because she hasn't even had time to contemplate it. Both Santas told her that this was OK. She could just email them later. Email Santa. Santa doesn't even have time for regular old mail anymore. 

I get that the last few months of the year tend to fly by, but do we have to shove them forward? Am I the only one hearing those outside voices telling me to hurry up and get all of the things done right this second? Sure, every one needs a little Christmas, but does it all really have to happen "right this very minute"? I am telling those voices to just shut it. I want to savor my Christmas. I want to savor this last month of the year. I want to take a moment to actually look at the lights, to listen to the music, to smell the spruce (and then sneeze uncontrollably because I am allergic to firs). So what if my Christmas tree doesn't make it up until December 12th. The important thing is that I am putting up a tree before Christmas day. I am right on track for Christmas. 

Really, I'm saying all of this and procrastinating because I'm super nervous about that dog/cat/tree equation. 

THE LAST DAY

Sunday

"Sunday"

Tomorrow is the first of December and I'm still wondering what happened to November. I can never wrap my brain around how the last three months of a year can just fly by or how I know that this happens and I'm never prepared for it. I'm not ready. I feel like that's a motto I've been hanging onto for some time now. I'm not ready to write. I'm not ready to buy a lawnmower. I'm not ready for loved ones to die. I'm not ready to say goodbye. I'm not ready to say hello. I'm not ready to be a grownup. My whole life has been a continuous loop of I'm not ready. I feel unprepared and ill-equipped for the end of another year. I can't even remember if I did anything on my list of things I wanted for this year. 

I feel like being unprepared is not the kind of person I am. In general, I mean. I like to think of myself as the kind of girl who is always prepared like a girl scout. I'd like to think that at any given moment, you could open my pantry and find everything you need to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies. All I did for the first eighteen years of my life was to prepare. I was ready to sing a song, do a speech, play a solo on the drums or cello, even bake a pie all at a moments notice. I was ready for college. Something happened in college though. I stopped being ready. I naively assumed that once in college, my preparing for all the things was over. Or maybe I just decided to become all Scarlet O'Hara about it all. Fiddy-dee.  Life would just naturally fall into place. Except life does fall naturally into place. Jobs happen. People move. Babies are born and people die. Ready or not! Here life comes! I recognize that life has placed many things in my path that you just can't really prepare for and I think I have tripped my way around those things in a reasonable manner. 

This is a very introspective way of telling you that I do not have a plan for this year's Christmas card. I had a plan, but then I couldn't find green leggings, everyone got sick and now the weather's turned to shit. The time for outdoor photography has passed and to be honest trying to wrangle a five year old in front of a camera while trying to use a remote to take pictures sounded less and less like a good idea the more I mulled it over. It made me tired just thinking about it. I looked through all my pictures from this last year and I have nothing of the three of us together. There's a nice picture of Michael and the Cabbage on the beach. I've taken some decent selfies. I suppose I could some how photoshop myself into the beach picture in some tacky way. Not once did I think to ask Tiffany or Tom to take a picture of the three of us on that beach. Not necessarily for a Christmas card, because the whole beach photo shoot of the family on a card is not really my style, but so we'd at least have a picture of the three of us together. 

I may or may not have a back up plan hiding in my sleeve. But right now? I'm not ready. 

I'M GETTING A REFRIGERATOR FOR CHRISTMAS

We each get two and half beans

"We each get two and half beans"

My fridge is original to this house. Not that this is a bad thing. It's nice to not have to buy appliances when you move into a house. When we moved in, the bottom shelf on the door was held in place with tape. That shelf is gone now. The light inside the fridge, even after replacing the bulb, doesn't come on when you open the door. The crisper drawers may not be the original drawers because they don't fit in the tracks, but just sit in the bottom of the refrigerator. The doors do not seal well and there have been mornings when I've walked into the kitchen to find either the freezer door or the fridge door open. My parents had a fridge where the bottom corner never sealed unless you sort of kicked it closed in that corner. Dad was always hollering "Make sure you push the door closed!" I have become my Dad. Now I am the one yelling about shutting the refrigerator. You can hear water trickling somewhere in the back and occasionally a large orange puddle of liquid seeps out onto the floor.

The refrigerator is gross. Michael's been complaining about it since day one. He's constantly talking about how we need to replace it and that we should replace it before we actually have to and blah blah blah. Every time he mentions it, I nod my head and mumble a half hearted agreement. But again, I am my father's daughter. I cringe at the idea of spending money, particularly large sums of money. Also, my kitchen is small. Finding the right refrigerator for that space requires lots of research. Online research isn't going to cut it either. I need to open up the doors and slide around the shelves. We need to measure the space multiple times and discuss what it's going to look like in that space. 

Yesterday, we walked into Home Depot to get extension cords. We've moved the chicken coop to the very back of the yard and we needed an extension cord that would reach out that far to plug in their heating lamp. We woke up to winter temperatures on Saturday, so that lamp thing is pretty important. After putting extension cords into a shopping cart and a few other impulse buys like hooks for stockings and a new baby gate to keep Josephine in the kitchen, Michael said "What else do they have here?" That's when we found ourselves in the appliance section, opening up all the refrigerator doors. Then we found it. We found the refrigerator that would fit our kitchen with all the features that we both have wanted in a new fridge. Plus it was on sale. I'm not good at large impulse buys, so we had to go home and remeasure the space and talk about running a water line to the basement because there's an ice maker and water dispenser. Of course we also needed to make sure that there wasn't a better deal happening somewhere else. Finally, around 10:30 last night Michael looked at me and said "We are not going to get a better deal. We need to order that refrigerator."

So, this morning while watching CBS Sunday Morning (their food edition, of all things), I ordered us a new refrigerator. It will be delivered on the 28th. We have to run a water line to the basement before that happens and possibly replace the glass in the door to the garage. The new fridge sticks out just far enough to cause some concern that we'd hit that window with the fridge door. We've been told that the water line thing is easy. Michael looked up replacing the window and thinks that will be easy too. All that's left for me to do now is to breathe into a paper bag and stress about what I'm going to have to clean up behind the old fridge before moving in the new one. But hey! We'll finally have fridge with a light that comes on when you open the door!

CIRCLES AND SMALL PLANETS

Instagram photo by Cindy Maddera * Nov 2, 2015 at 9:35pm UTC

See this Instagram photo by @elephant_soap * 4 likes

Michael and I ended up at our favorite Indian food buffet on 39th street Saturday. Our plans were to eat lunch and then head over to a hipster craft show. We were sitting there, with our plates of warm saucy food. I was half eating with my hands, using my naan to shovel masala on a spoon. A woman walked by on her way to the buffet line and I looked at her and said to Michael "I know that girl." Michael looked over at the woman and said "You just know her pants." He was referring to her multi colored striped leggings. I disagreed with him. "No...I know her." I wasn't sure, but I thought her name might be Trinity. I told him that we were in yoga class together at the downtown Y in OKC and that she went off to do her yoga teacher training. She came back and taught the class we'd taken together. Then I went off and did my teacher training. 

Michael ended up at the buffet line at the same time as her and cornered her. I could see him pointing at me. When she passed back by our table she stopped. We talked about that class we'd been in. We talked about teaching yoga and some of the people we both new in Oklahoma who were still teaching or not teaching. I asked if she was just visiting. She said that she was. Her husband was doing a greenhouse workshop in some small town an hour away and she had driven up to go to a yoga class and look around Kansas City. She asked if I was also visiting. I told her "no", explained that I had moved there in 2011, almost five years ago. I told her that it was a great city and that she should check out the Nelson Art Museum while she was around. Then we said our goodbyes and parted ways. 

As she left, I realized that I never once said anything about Chris. She didn't know Chris; hadn't ever seen us together. Which was rare. Chris and I were like salt and pepper shakers. Our friends and acquaintances were shared. Even the owner of our favorite coffee place knew us a one unit. Yet here was this person who only knew me as me. For once I didn't have to explain anything. I didn't have to say anything about moving here with Chris or how he died. I didn't have to explain how I stopped teaching yoga when Chris died and never really felt the need to teach any more. It's not like I was hiding all of that or anything. It was just unnecessary information. I could freely talk about my life and how I was happy with this move. I was free to talk about my life as my own. That is to say, I do not regret being part of a salt pepper set. It just makes me appreciate the singularity of being, I don't know, a sugar shaker.

It's still such an odd coincidence to have run into her at a random Indian restaurant in Kansas City. Just another reminder of how small and compacted we are in a such a vast space. Just another reminder of our connections.