Primal Scream

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! No. No. NO, I can not write another article or blog post or website. I just can't do it, especially when I'm on my fifth article about colocation. I'm not a computer nerd (though I'm a nerd in many other respects), and I just don't want to do the research anymore. I got a break today and wrote about Japanese erasers, but I've got nothing left in me. It's gone.

Help me. Someone write a book I can edit. Someone offer me a job that won't make my brain sizzle out of my ears.

I need to go find my cheese, which I hope has been placed in the "we'll pay you to travel the country with your family and write about it" section of the maze. Or I'd even take the "we'll pay you to be a cosmetology guinea pig" nibble as long as I can make a good hourly wage.

Sigh. Pardon my outburst. Sometimes it just builds up to the exploding point and I have to yell for a while to calm down, even if the yelling is purely virtual. Thank you for your time.

The Beasts I Live With

Our menagerie has slowly  -- and, perhaps, inevitably -- grown over the last three years of living in our home here in our small town. We do love animals, though as the adults in the family (usually), Husband and I have had to put our collective foot down several times. It's not foolproof, though it did spare us the addition of two cockatiels, but only barely. I actually wanted those birds, but they ended up in a home with a very attentive and loving person who doesn't have constantly hungry cats. Probably best.

The oldest and most venerable animal who allows us to feed, pet, and house him is Myles. He was the only one in his litter who didn't end up in a new home, so we've kept him for 10 years. He is still my dad's favorite cat of all time. He rules the house as the grumpy old man who scares the dogs nearly witless and doesn't put up with not being fed every five minutes. But he's really a soft and cuddly teddy bear who snuggles up for a good session of fuzz therapy whenever you need a cuddle. Of course, his habit of leaping onto the bed at 5:30am and kneading me with his claws until I stumble down the stairs and shove him out the door isn't my favorite thing in the world, but we all have our trials in life.

Lincoln is the polar opposite of Myles. We found Lincoln pacing back and forth in his cage at the pet store, an unfortunate inmate of the animal shelter because of his penchant for running up trees. Gabrielle used all her birthday money to purchase his freedom and then spent a week begging me to take him back because all he did was hide behind the couch and try to scratch people. He did eventually grow used to us and adopt us as his people, but it wasn't until after he was neutered that he and Myles finally became best buddies. Lincoln is outgoing and playful where Myles is quiet and brooding. And he's very much Gabrielle's cat. He loves her dearly.

I've talked about Jazzee before in this blog. She's not officially our dog, but she shuttles back and forth between our house and my friend Ruth's. It was kind of hard getting used to having a dog, what with the constant and sincere devotion and attention she pays to me; I was used to the much more disinterested cat personality up until that point. I pick her up nearly every day and she goes home at night, which suits her fine, since no one except her plays with her toys or chews on her chewy rawhides at her real house.

 Marmite came along earlier this year -- in February or March, I think. He was the stray that won our hearts, and he's the one who finally made me understand what dog people have been saying all along. He and Jazzee are best friends and they follow me wherever I go in the house -- my own little jingling parade of tags and fur and pure excitement. Whenever we put on our shoes and get ready to go out the door, Marmite is there, whining in anticipation of a car ride; and maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll get to go on a long walk in the field without wearing his leash, sniffing everything and running three miles to our one. He is fiercely devoted to all of us. I can't help but smile at his constant enthusiasm.

And then there's Yu. As lost kittens, she and her brother stayed with us for a few days until we located their owners. Turns out the owners live just around the corner, but they are fairly disinterested, and Yu visits us just about all the time. She is a cat with many names depending on which neighborhood kid you talk to (and all the neighbor children know and watch out for her): Ninja, Thunder, Dark Star, Midnight, Shadow. I never liked any of those names and simply called her Little Girl or Baby Girl until Husband suggested we name her after Granny Weatherwax's cat (one of Terry Pratchet's many delightful characters in his Discworld novels). So Yu she is. It makes for some hilarity of the extremely nerdy type. I enjoy saying things like, "Is Yu hungry?" and "Does Yu want to go out?" Just hand me the coke bottle glasses and the pocket protector.

Yu loves to tease Marmite. Loves it. It's practically her favorite pastime, though she does get a kick out of attacking my foot under the bed covers. Marmite, for his part, views her with some trepidation, but he doesn't like going out into the backyard without either Yu or Jazzee for company, so he puts up with it.

Funny how animals shape us and change us, isn't it? I get a great deal of satisfaction from the fact that an animal trusts me completely, and it makes me want to be a better person. It's like being smiled at by a baby: the sheer rush of joy you feel in that sweet moment seems to encourage some deep-seated desire to rise to any occasion where courage, honor, and integrity are required. Such is the power of this ingenuous innocence.

A Half Month in Review

I turned 41. That's right, I said it.

Sian was named English Sterling Scholar for her school, which is a big accomplishment. We also took her to visit the Brigham Young University campus, which Husband enjoyed almost as much as Sian did. He was ready to sign up right there. Sian was very excited, and not just because our tour guide was a cute 22-year-old returned missionary with a great sense of humor.

Linnea and I almost started weight lifting this week.

There was a pair of shoes, these light green satin slingback heels, that I talked myself out of buying on my birthday; but today I went back and bought them. I guess I'll end up buying the perfume I talked myself out of purchasing on my birthday as well, though I can't give you a date on that yet since I don't know myself. Some things must be done purely spontaneously, and perfume is one of them.

I had a desperate week at work (total brain burnout) and started looking around for something else, but then I got an email that they were going to start paying me more. It's amazing how a raise can renew your enthusiasm.

Sian, Sophia, Elannah, Joseph, and I went and saw the junior high school play production of How the Rotten Pickle Gang Robbed a Bank...or Got Turned Into Jailbirds for Tryin' to support one of the girls in our neighborhood. You haven't seen it because tonight was the premiere performance of it anywhere. I was mildly disturbed by the fact that there were four "ladies of the night" who made a blatant attempt to quit "the business" and hook them some town men. The town women tried to run them off in order to keep their men. I mean, really. I know it was a melodrama, and I booed and hissed or awwwed as much as I could understand what, exactly, was going on (it was a junior high production, after all), but prostitutes in a junior high play? Sophia, who had dropped out of the play early on, said to me, "They cast me as one of those girls, but I didn't like it so I quit." I guess I can understand that.

I took my friend, Ruth, to the doctor in The Big City. She's pretty much homebound and hasn't gone shopping for about five years, so because she was feeling good, we went out after her appointment. She treated me to lunch at IHOP, her favorite place. Then we went to the craft store and Walmart. By the time we got home, I was exhausted. Hauling a wheelchair in and out of a small Kia about 50 times really took it out of me, not to mention pushing her around acres of store. That makes up for some of the weight lifting I missed.

Speaking of Ruth, it snowed so heavily today that I had to go over and shovel her walk and wheelchair ramp twice, plus climb up on the ladder and brush snow off her satellite dish. Service brings blessings -- in this case, more weight lifting as well as some stretching.

I bought a huge stack of books from the thrift store. It's cheaper than paying the inevitable late fines at the library, and then I can keep the books  in big stacks (I ran out of bookshelf space long ago) until I get into a cleaning frenzy and make myself edit severely. For some reason, I have an affinity for old needlecraft books. I love the bright, stylized shapes of the 70s, though I would choose different colors. I don't know who I'm kidding, though. When am I going to be churning out tons of vintage-style embroidery? Lest you wonder (yeah, right), I only bought one needlecrafting book. I also found a great Mexican cookbook, a book about persuasive speaking, a clearly written herbal reference book (you'd be surprised how difficult that is to find), and something on home decorating. I love thrift store bookshelves. They're a treasure trove of odd and interesting topics.

Now, aren't you glad you know all that about me?

Miss Congeniality 2012

When the chance came to sign up for this year's high school Homecoming pageant, Sian took the opportunity. She and several of her friends put their names on the list, and thus began a rush of workshops, practices, and shopping, which finally culminated in the pageant contest on a Thursday night.

Being frugal (or "poor Welsh peasants," as Husband calls it), the challenge was to find suitable formal attire that didn't require taking out a loan. Despite the horrific crowds, Sian located a lovely, full hot pink skirt on 50% off day at our favorite thrift store and paired it with a new cream cardigan from Rue 21. I thought the effect was lovely. But even more important than the clothing changes was the fact that her personality shone through during her interview and as she performed her talent, a piano piece. She, did, however, short herself on her bio, I thought. Her escort read it to the audience as Sian took her final walk around the stage, smiling and poised. Instead of touting all her many achievements, as most of the girls did, this is what she wrote:

"Sian is a girl who loves to use her imagination. She enjoys reading, writing, and both playing and composing music. She loves her family and enjoys the occasional ride on a flight simulator.

"Sian firmly believes that a life lived with no regrets is a life lived well. She loves trying new things and going to new places. Her goal in life is to be like her mother, whom she thinks is the most perfect, raddest mama in the universe."

What mother would not get at least a little teary-eyed at that?? She left out the stuff about her being Editor-in-Chief of the school newspaper, serving on the Seminary Council, taking AP courses, and still maintaining a high GPA. She also neglected the part about having played with the Chamber Strings orchestra on her violin. But I know that what Sian put in there about family and living well are the most important things to her, and I couldn't be more proud.

Though she didn't end up on the Homecoming Court, she did win the Miss Congeniality award. And when it was all over, her escort asked her to accompany him to the Homecoming dance.

Above: on-stage after the pageant finished. Below: Sian, her escort (in gray), and some congratulatory friends.

Below: Sian and her date leaving for the Homecoming Dance.

The great thing about that skirt was that it was so full she got to wear comfortable shoes to the dance and no one even knew.

Patting Myself on the Back

I've had a brilliant idea about how to store all my earrings for easy access. Now that my ears are pierced, I find I'm a bit of an earring junkie. That adds to my necklace fetish and my urgent need to visit the shoe department of any department store I happen to be in (and also all the thrift stores, too. Ladies, I found a pair of the most adorable purple suede Steve Madden booties for $7 a few weeks ago. That's right, bow to the master.).

The nice thing about earrings and necklaces and shoes is that they fit you no matter what your current dress size. Even if (when?) I manage to lose the chub, I can still wear those booties. And my appreciation for chunky necklaces and interesting danglies is not a wasted investment, either. I would certainly love to be forced to shop for a new, thinner wardrobe, of course, but that's in the future.

Anyway, my brilliant idea is neither expensive nor difficult to create, so I'm going ahead with it. Maybe this fit of creativity also produced what I like to think of as an incredibly well-written website yesterday. I was very proud of it. I try to write well on all my work items, but sometimes the brain juices are really flowing and I turn out a masterpiece.

I'd say this calls for a celebration with ice cream, but there's the chub issue. I'll celebrate by using the Total Gym when sitting in front of my computer gets to be too difficult to take.

I've Still Got a Couple Years Left in Me

So when does a person start feeling old? I mean mentally? It's not hard to notice the effects of aging in a physical sense (like every time I stand up after sitting for a while and have to give my right knee a moment to catch up), but I feel just as young -- if a little more wise -- as I did when I was...well...young.

Last night, it was my turn to hang out with the young single adults in our stake (the kids who are 18 - 30 years old and not married) and play volleyball. The only other woman my age who was there was one of the young single adult advisers. Her name is Renee, and she's petite and fun and has no problem fitting right in with the younger crowd despite the fact that a couple of her kids are in the young singles category, or maybe because of it. She brings great snacks, she knows all the kids by name, and she teases them like they tease her.

While I didn't walk in feeling as awkward as I would have had I been younger (yay! a benefit of age!), I still got the feeling those kids look at me as a sort of oddity, a reminder that youth eventually dies and the glorious dreams of the young morph into the reality of trying to live a good, if somewhat obscure, life.

Or maybe they don't think that. Maybe they just don't know my name and are curious about why I crashed their party.

I set my stuff down and watched the games going on for a moment, but when I realized one team was short a player, I kicked off my shoes and joined in. And I had a blast! With Renee shouting out hilarious advice and playing her hardest, everyone relaxed and had a good time. It helps that I'm not terrible at volleyball, as well. Yeah, this old girl with her bum knee and extra jiggle did manage to make some dang good plays, if I do say so myself; and though I'm not as outgoing and bubbly as Renee, I got to know the kids around me a bit. We laughed and joked, and I saw them begin to accept me not as a chaperone-type person but just as a person.

If I could go back to my youthful body and keep my hard-earned knowledge, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But if the choice was to be young again while forgetting everything I've lived, I'll keep my creakier body and my decades. I don't feel old. I'm still surprised I'm going to hit 41 in a month, and, really, age and youth are all relative. When I'm 80, 41 will seem pretty spry and bouncy, and I'm sure at 80 I'll still feel excited by all the stuff I don't know yet that's just waiting to be discovered. And when I'm 80, I'll be offended that my younger self thought being 80 was so old.

Meanwhile, I may just show up to play volleyball next week, even if it's technically not my turn. We old people somehow never manage to organize volleyball games for ourselves. I haven't slept that well in ages.

It Only Took Four Years to Figure This Out

Last week, I decided something needed to change. Since Husband and I had had that conversation about being more organized, I really have been trying, but I still can't force my brain to fully cooperate within the prescribed hours of official writing time. Frustration.

It did dawn on me one day, however, that I always do better after allowing myself a completely guilt-free break from writing for a day (a day that is not Sunday. I never do writing work on Sundays, but I am plenty busy with a multitude of church meetings), so I concocted a clever plan: I write every other day. On writing days, I do nothing else but write. I do not stress over anything else, including housework. On non-writing days, I do not stress about writing in any way (except for checking to see if any plumb assignments are up for grabs so that I can do them the next day).

I don't know why I didn't think of that earlier. I remember one semester in college when I crammed all my classes into three days and then had Tuesdays and Thursdays to mentally de-stress and get homework done. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were long, long days, but I always knew that the next day I could take a bit of a break. The kind of writing I do is extremely mentally fatiguing, and dreading the dawn of yet another day when I have to sit in front of the computer cranking out well-crafted articles and websites only hinders my thinking powers (which are already somewhat limited due to my chronic sleep deprivation). Knowing that the next day is a break helps me focus and concentrate with good will.

So far, it's been working really well. I am far more productive on writing days because that's all I worry about. Plus, I know that tomorrow morning I can plan out any activities I want to do without being chained to the computer. Spend a morning washing dishes while listening to talk radio? I can do that! Successfully complete 30 loads of laundry? Ready! Wile away an hour at the library? Acceptable! The end result is that I actually finish more paid work in three days of focused writing than in five days of scattered and stressful attempts to get everything done.