HOW DO YOU SPELL TROUBLE? 

L-I-Z-Z-I-E  

I never intended to adopt a cat.  

I thought our daughter Abby would be happy with Splash the Beta fish. But as she grew older,  Abby said she needed a pet she could hug.  So, when she was ten, she and I visited the Humane Society.  We fell in love with a tabby called Ollie.  

As time flew by, Abby went off to college and the house grew quiet.  Being that my husband Jim worked, it was nice having a furry companion around.  Ollie and I grew close, so you can imagine how heartbroken I felt when he was diagnosed with kidney disease.  Within three months, I had to make the difficult decision to put him down.  Ollie only lived to be eight.  

After months of mourning his loss, I felt ready to have another cat.  At the Humane Society, I found Ozzie, a beautiful tabby with one green eye and one amber eye.  Ozzie was well-behaved and gentle, but way too curious and one Thanksgiving, he snuck out.  When we discovered he was missing, I totally freaked out.  Ozzie was an indoor cat.  He didn't know how to hunt for food, how to find shelter, or how to defend himself against predators.  He would never survive outside.

Jim and I posted his picture on Face Book and on Next Door and taped flyers to lamp posts.  We walked the neighborhood every day calling for him.  Jim searched the woods behind our house.  After 19 days I was beginning to lose hope.  By now it was December and the temperatures were below freezing.

Can you believe this cutie causes so much trouble?

Still, we hoped someone had found Ozzie and had dropped him off at the Humane Society, but when we visited, he wasn't in the room of lost pets.  While we were at the adoption center, I decided to hold some kittens, thinking a new cat would cheer me up.  But they were sickly and sad-looking and none could replace Ozzie.  Then on the way back home, we drove past Pet Smart and decided to step in to look at the kittens.  I had no intention of adopting that day, but one of them was named Abby—an obvious sign this was meant to be.  And just like that, we had ourselves a new cat and I decided to call her Lizzie.     

So, here we had a kitten and my husband and I knew nothing about caring for a young cat.  We had adopted Ozzie as an adolescent.  In no time, we learned that this kitten was a handful.  She'd sneak into closets or the pantry and get accidently trapped inside, scratch furniture and audio speakers, bite our toes, leap three feet up to the top of the refrigerator door to swat my hand, and the list goes on. 

The worst thing was, Lizzie didn't know anything about litter boxes (which surprised me because I though all cats no matter how young knew where to potty).  She did her business wherever she wanted.  A gal at Pet Smart advised me to place three litter boxes by Lizzie's favorite bathroom spots, and every few days gradually move them closer to the designated litter box area and then leave just one.  (This worked:)

Now look at her face.  Who can believe something so cute can be such a rascal?  We call her Little Bit, You With The Face, and A-lizzabet.  Sometimes, Sweetheart.  The most-fitting name is Trouble.  A year later she nibbles floral arrangements (silk and real flowers), tries to catch paper coming out of the printer, shreds window sheers, steals guitar picks, and uses my husband's favorite chair as a scratching post.  

Lizzie's latest habits include banging on the bedroom door during the middle of the night or walking on my back as I sleep.  The famous cat whisperer, Jackson Galaxy would say, distract her to stop bad behavior.  Yeh, right.  I'm going to get out of bed at 4 a.m. and distract her. 

Despite her mischievous behavior, Lizzie slowly helped me get over the loss of Ozzie.  But I wondered, what if Ozzie wasn't lost?  What if he found his way back home?  Would Lizzie and Ozzie get along? We were about to find out.  

Six weeks after adopting Lizzie, a neighbor who lived about one and a half miles away posted a picture on Facebook of a cat he had found.  The photo was fuzzy, but the cat resembled Ozzie.  Jim and I jumped into the car and raced to his house.  The neighbor led us to the basement where he kept the foundling, and lo and behold, there was Ozzie, minus his collar, fur matted, so skinny you could see his back bones.  He was literally starving and could barely hold his head up.  I cradled my sweet boy.  How had he survived?  And equally amazing, how could it be that we were reunited? 

The following day after meeting with veterinarian Dr. Vice, I found out Ozzie had no broken bones or cuts.  As Dr. V. put it, Ozzie just went on a walkabout.  Knowing Oz was unharmed was a relief.  But in order for him to rest and gain weight, we kept him separated from Lizzie.  Two weeks later he had regained his strength and we allowed the two of them to meet.   

At first, I wasn't sure if they'd get along.  They seemed suspicious of one another.  Ozzie and Lizzie tested each another and chased through the house.  But their interactions were harmless—no crying or fur flying.  Just pure joyous cat play.  

As I watch the two wrestle, I can't believe we have two cats. TWO!  And they are as different as night and day.  One is calm (and happy to be home) and one is well, not calm.  By now, you know which is which.  Which makes it fun and interesting.  We love 'em both.  Even if one caused us worry and heartache.  Even if one can be nothing but trouble.   

Bonne année! 

 

                                                                                                                                  Photo courtesy: Paula Engebretson

SHOW SOME RESPECT  

It bugs me when people don't reply, can't say no, can't admit they're not interested.

This happens quite a bit when I query agents.  I may not hear back after following the agent's guidelines, filling out a Query Manager form, and sending a professional query letter.  No word = no thank you.  In the past this wasn't the case.  Agents actually got back in touch through snail-mail.  But these days, agents claim they're overwhelmed with submissions and don't have the time to respond.   

What surprised me was other professionals have adopted this behavior, too.  Six years ago, when I tried to promote my book, I found that newspaper journalists, librarians, and teachers didn't have the courtesy to get back in touch with me.  None of them returned my phone calls, texted me or emailed me.  I was left hanging with the hope they'd be interested in writing a newspaper review, or having me lead a storytime, or inviting me to school to meet young readers.  Though my book was traditionally published, it didn't warrant their attention.  This was eye-opening, sad, and disappointing. 

Unfortunately, this attitude is prevalent beyond the book world and into our daily lives.  Last month, I contacted a handyman who was recommended on Next Door .  He stopped by our house to look at the projects and told me he'd send a quote.  After waiting two weeks, I sent an email to remind him.  He never responded.  Okay, I get it.  He really wasn't interested, but couldn't he have responded to my email?  

Now here's the thing.  I'd like to warn other people about this fellow.  This guy is not reliable and may not follow up.  But I won't.  He has my email and my cell phone number.  And he knows where I live.  I'm not careless or stupid.  It takes very little to set someone off.  So, I'll do nothing.  Stew, yes.  But quietly.

It's a shame some people feel that they don't need to respond, that no response speaks for itself.  But come on man, that's so rude.  And it boils down having no respect for others.  People have gotten self-centered.  They don't think about (or care about) another person's feelings.  It doesn't occur to them to be nice, to get back in touch, to send a reply.   

   

While writing this post, I found an article that was helpful in dealing with people who don't have the courtesy to say no thanks.  In "No Thanks, 3 Things You Can Do When People Don't Respond to Your EMail," I learned not to take it personally and to move on.   

This article made me feel I'm not alone.  It gave me the go ahead to reach out to other people.  People I can count on.  In the future, I will reach out to my publisher to help me contact journalists, teachers, and librarians.  And outside the writing world, I will reach out to more conscientious handymen.    

Sometimes it's hard to avoid people who choose not to reply.  The thing is, I don't have to let them get me down.  True, their rudeness gets under my skin, but the power is in my hands.  I don't have to deal with these kind of people.  When someone shows me their true colors, I can move on.  I have the choice to work with people who will treat me with the decency I deserve.   

À la prochaine!  

                                                                                                                                        Photo by Anastasia Vityukova

SEEK TO UNDERSTAND

Before I judge or make a comment, I try to walk a mile in someone else's shoes.  

This is something I learned many years ago after reading Dr. Stephen R. Covey's book, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.  Stephen Covey encourages us to seek first to understand, then to be understood.  In other words, listen to people's ideas and feelings. 

But many folks are not good at this.  They make rash decisions without looking at a situation from a different point of view.  They may never consider what a person might be going through or why they act a certain way.  There are reasons why people behave the way they do. 

Here's a good example.  

I was present at a neighborhood board association meeting where a neighbor asked if he could replace dead plants at one of the island entrances and be paid for the work.  The president thought it was a good idea, but he had forgotten that the board of directors had a contract in place with a landscaping company that oversaw caring for the islands.  Somehow, that had slipped his mind.  

When I read a copy of the minutes a couple days later and I noticed the neighbor had been given the green light to start working on the island, I phoned the president to remind him of the landscaping contract.  At that point, he realized he had made a mistake by offering the neighbor the job.  He quickly sent an email to the board and neighbors to set the record straight and apologized for the misunderstanding.  The neighbor would need to send a quote so his services could be considered for next year.   

I am hoping the neighbor had no hard feelings.  But our secretary had a fit and quit.  The way I understand it was, she thought the president had gone back on his word.  

I will not judge her for quitting.  One of her relatives was facing a health issue.  Being secretary may have been too stressful for her now.  But it seemed to me that she never tried to understand why someone would say something and then take it back.  

She may have thought the president was being disrespectful when in fact, he is one of the most warm-hearted people in our neighborhood.  What she never considered was walking a mile in his shoes.  It has become apparent to me and some neighbors that our president has trouble remembering things and keeping things straight.  Because he hides it well (or perhaps he doesn't even know himself) she never assumed he had any problems.  

In this world where the majority is focused on themselves, it's time to be more giving.  To be more forgiving.  People may be feeling physically bad at the moment or struggling with underlying health issues.  They may be facing difficult times.  So, think before speaking.  Think before acting.  Seek to understand.  There are reasons why people behave the way they do.  

À la prochaine!  

This is what I imagine brunch must have looked like at the chateau

RUDE

I try everything in my power to avoid inconsiderate people. 

But when inconsiderate people are family members, avoidance can be nearly impossible.

The word inconsiderate is defined as not caring about other people or their feelings and/or being selfish, disrespectful, and rude. Unfortunately and frankly, the word applied to a close relative and I heard it repeated often when our family attended a destination wedding in France.  

Let me elaborate.  My husband and I flew to southern France last month to attend a relative's wedding.  Like the other wedding guests, we stayed at a hotel in Avignon.  The groom and bride thoughtfully arranged for a bus to take guests from the hotel to the chateau out the country.  However, no transportation had been provided for those wanting to come to the brunch, which was to be hosted by a sibling the day after the wedding.  We were told "you are on your own."  

Now I ask you, think about our costs: airplane tickets, a hotel room for three nights, meals, and clothes to attend the affair.  The relative had a car, but she suggested that we make other arrangements:  rent a car or shell out money for a taxi or an Uber to take us to the brunch—which we found out was impossible.  Our hotel was so far from the chateau that a taxi wouldn't have had a return fare and we could not find an Uber driver who would take us. 

My husband and I made the tough decision not to attend the brunch.  We didn't complain about missing out.  We would do more sight-seeing.  But sadly, we felt like our presence didn't matter.  Even my brother decided to forego the brunch because getting there was too difficult. 

So, you might ask, now what?  How do I move forward?  This incident (and there have been so many other incidents even before this one) finally tipped the scale.  I have reached a breaking point.  I had wished that getting to the brunch could have been handled with more compassion and helpfulness.  But given the outcome, a family relationship is now strained.  

You might be wondering why I didn't have an honest conversation about my feelings, but frankly, I'd only get an argument.    

Everybody makes mistakes and deserves to be forgiven.  That may come with time.  But for now, I will have to limit contact.  Actions spoke louder than words.  Bien sûr—for sure, the actions in France spoke volumes.  

À la prochaine!  

I'm on vacation with my family for several weeks.  

Please stay tuned.  I love my followers and I'm grateful for your support.  

More confessions will continue next month. 

                                                                                                                                                Photo: Amy Shamblem

Au revoir et à bientôt! 

                                                                                                                                                     Photo: Languagenext.com 

J'ADORE LA LANGUE

After taking French classes for ten years, I'm still not fluent.  

That bums me out.  Why is this taking so long?  I love studying French, but it's a bitch to learn.  

My journey of learning French began when I was in high school.  After two years, I knew the basic nouns, adjectives, and verbs and how to construct a sentence in the present and past tense.  I loved it!  But I had to give up French in order to fill my schedule with classes that were necessary for my career path.   

I had always wanted to get back to learning French.  So, some forty years later when my husband and I planned a trip to France, I realized the need and the desire to study French again.  Language classes were offered at the Carnegie Literary and Learning Center, just a twenty-minute drive from my house.  Before the class began, I bought the grammar book and dove into the first two chapters.  But it was overwhelming.  What little I had retained from high school didn't help.  What had I gotten myself into?  Learning French was going to impossible.  However, my husband encouraged me to try the first class.  And you know what?  It was fun! 

My teacher was born in France and she taught the language well, but at times she would put people on the spot and embarrass them.  Despite these tense uncomfortable moments, I stuck with the class.  Then after three years, Madame Monique moved away from Lexington and we had a new teacher, who had a completely different teaching style. Mademoiselle Erica is more informal and the class is more relaxed.  In the course of seven years, we've studied more verb tenses (imperfect, conditional, and subjunctive) and we are learning much more vocabulary.

After ten years of class, I can understand spoken French pretty well, as long as it's not slang or spoken too fast.  For the most part, I can read and understand the written word.  But speaking the language is another story.  French is hard.  There are so many rules and exceptions.  Sometimes you pronounce the last consonant at the end of a word and other times you don't.  The nasal sounds are tricky—I'm still trying to master them.  A lot of words are pronounced the same way so you have to understand the context of the sentence.  For instance, worm and glass (ver and verre) are both pronounced 'vair' which rhymes with fair.

Recently, I've been listening to two online sources that are help me speak and understand French better:  French Mornings with Elisa  and Comme une Française  Both Elisa and Geraldine present interesting topics that teach the nuances of the language and show how to speak more like a local.  C'est fantastique!

It's nice to have alternative ways to learn the language.  These options help me pick up French a bit faster.  That said, learning the language is still going to take time.  It's me who has to change my perspective and not freak out about learning it rapidement and tout de suite.  For me, it's natural to rush things and to feel accomplished.  Bien sûr, I need to chill and have fun.  I need to study a little French each day and embrace the joy that comes with learning the language I love.    

À la prochaine!  

                                                                                                                                             Image by Judith Peck

NOBODY CARES

Nothing is harder than the softness of indifference. Juan Montalvo, Ecuadorian author

I'm beginning to accept the fact that many of my neighbors don't give a shit. 

Here's the reason why:  I am the secretary on the board of our neighborhood association.  So, when the president of our neighborhood and I sent out reminders to neighbors about our monthly meeting, only four people showed up.   

On top of that, elections are coming up and no one wants to serve as officers.  There are only three of us on the board:  the president, who is also the treasurer, the vice-president, and me.  We have been serving longer than the one-term we had agreed to fulfill.  But so few are interested in getting involved and filling our shoes. 

If it weren't for the members of board, membership dues wouldn't be collected, which help pay the electric, the water and the maintenance bills for the beautiful entrance islands of our neighborhood. Without funds, the colorful entrances that bloom from spring to fall would suffer and go downhill.  Not only that, the islands would be bare during the holidays because nobody would step up to decorate them.   

I guess our neighborhood mirrors what the world has become.  This me, me, me world where many only think of themselves.  

You might be wondering what the board has done to engage neighbors and I will tell you we've done quite a bit.  We've posted newsletters on Facebook, organized the yearly neighborhood yard sale, created attractive yard signs that neighbors can display when they pay their dues, improved landscaping, and decorated the islands to make them festive for the holidays.  

Yet each year, fewer and fewer pay dues to support the neighborhood association.  Most neighbors are perfectly fine with the few who pay the annual fee to keep the neighborhood looking good.  Last year about 100 neighbors out of a total of 400 paid their membership dues.  This year, eighty joined.  Twenty percent.  I'm not surprised, yet I'm disappointed.  If more people paid their dues and joined the neighborhood association, we could do more landscaping, have better holiday decorations, and even organize social events.  But only a handful care.  Apathy runs rampart.  And I haven't a clue for the cure.

 

C'est dommage  

A LITTLE CAT VACATION   

I feel guilty taking Ozzie to the kennel. 

When my husband and I go away on vacations, we want to leave him with people we trust.  There are several options.  We could keep him at home and have a neighbor check in on him during the day and evening, but Ozzie is social and I'd think he'd be lonely.  Not only that, he could break something or hurt himself.  

A pet sitter lives in our neighborhood.  Though this option would be convenient, I don't know her well enough to have her watch over Ozzie.  And who knows how Ozzie would feel with a stranger in the house.  So, we always leave him at the kennel.

We like Keshlyn Kennel because: 

• The cat rooms (or townhouses) are spacious and have windows to let in sunshine.  
• The townhouses have a covered litter box, a cat condo, and toys. 
• The kennel is less than five minutes away from our house.
• The staff is friendly and willing to do everything I ask such as play with him, brush his coat, and feed him dry and wet cat food. 

Still, I worry about Ozzie while we're away.  Is he bored?  Is he nervous?  Does he miss us?  Is he sad?  Do the barking dogs bother him?  (I could go on and on with the questions.) 

I rest a little easier knowing Ozzie is familiar with the kennel.  He was less than a year old when we first kenneled him and by now, he knows the routine.  In fact, the employees tell me Ozzie heads straight for the cat condo and settles right in.    

On the day of our flight, I bring out the pet carrier.  Ozzie spies it and trots away dragging his belly low to the ground, trying to make himself look small, hoping I won't see him.  Sometimes, he'll hide under a bed.  Poor baby, he knows what's coming.  He knows he's going to leave home.  I catch him and nudge him inside the carrier.  No crying or squirming, he calms down immediately.  

Once he's settled, I grab his tote bag that contains heaping helpings of kibbles and lots of cans of wet cat food (in a variety of flavors, of course).   The bags also has his toys, his brush, and a blanket.  He will have all the comforts of home.

I think about Ozzie all of the time while we're away, never knowing how he truly feels.  But the owners of the kennel tell he does just fine.  So, Ozzie might actually enjoy this little get away, this home away from home, this a little cat vacation.  He may not be miserable at all.  He could be having the time of his life.  He might even be hoping to stay a bit longer.  It's me who has to get over bringing him to the kennel.  I'm the one who has to stop worrying.  It won't be easy, but I have to get over feeling guilty about leaving my sweet pet behind.   

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Ian Taylor

 LOSS

I didn't know how to express my sympathy for an estranged friend.  

Debbie and I had worked together in the clinical chemistry lab at the University of Kentucky.  We had been good friends for fifteen years.  But on the afternoon I invited her over for coffee and dessert to tell her I was pregnant, she was more shocked than happy for me.  Maybe she felt a child was going to interfere with our friendship, that she'd have to compete.  Maybe she was jealous.  Who knows?  She left my house with the saddest look on her face.  And though she was civil to me at work, she became icy from that day forward.   

Four years later, I retired from the lab but I still stayed in touch with the lab crew.  We'd celebrate retirements, the holidays, and special occasions.  One winter, a lab manager invited everyone to her farm for a little get together.  I reached out to Debbie, trying to patch up our shaky friendship.  I offered to drive us to Mary's party.  But that day, the weather turned snowy and the thought of traveling 25 miles away on rural roads in southern Kentucky made me nervous.  

I remember that day vividly, checking the weather constantly, anxiously trying to make the right decision whether to go or not.  Driving out into the country in the snow was something I didn't feel comfortable doing.  I called Debbie to tell her it wouldn't be safe or smart to drive given the road conditions.   

But Debbie got angry at me for backing out.  She felt obligated to go because she worked in the lab and didn't want to disappoint the manager.  She felt it would reflect badly if she didn't attend.  I felt sure Mary would understand.  But Debbie didn't.  She was furious at me.  

My husband told me to move on.  Let the relationship go.  Ever since I had known Debbie, she had the habit of constantly being pessimistic.  Her negativity would bring me down at work.  In a way, it was really for the best.  To be blunt, Debbie was toxic and I was better off without her.

Fast forward thirty years.  I still stay in touch with my lab friends.  That's how I found out about Debbie's illness.  She had been diagnosed with ALS, a slow-lingering disease.  We wanted to show our support for her and chipped in to help pay some of her hospital bills.  But no one expected that she would pass away within eight weeks.  She had only retired a month earlier.  

I struggled with going to the visitation.  My husband said it might help me with closure.  Not that I really needed that.  I had long accepted our broken relationship.   

But it didn't take me long to make up my mind.  I felt going to the funeral home was the right thing to do.  To go say kind words to her family.  To point out Debbie's positive attributes, to recall her talents.  And I was able to do that for her mother and sister.  They clung onto my words and clasped my hands, wanting to hear stories about Debbie, wanting to hear good things about her.  

Afterward, I stepped into a separate room where she was laid out.  Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed.  She was dressed in a gorgeous white gown.  The casket was strewn with red roses.  But I felt nothing.  No sadness.  Just numb.  It was hard to grieve for a person who felt you weren't good enough to be a friend. 

Twenty years ago, I ran into Debbie at a shopping center.  Meeting her out of the blue startled me and made me feel uncomfortable, but I invited her to call me so we could go out for coffee and catch up.  She never did.  And now she's gone forever.  

I was told by a friend that I was brave to go to the visitation.  Maybe so.  Debbie and I had parted ways so long ago and we weren't close anymore.  Our friendship was beyond repair.  But that didn't matter. Paying respect and saying good bye felt like the right thing to do.  

 

Rest in peace, D. 

 

                                                                                                                                          Photo: Gabrielle Henderson 

LETTING GO OF REGRET

I don't always make good decisions.  And as a result, I end up having regret.  

To illustrate, last month I entered one of my manuscripts in a pitch party.  Minutes after submitting it, I knew I screwed up.  The text could have been stronger and it did not reflect my best work.  

I sulked over the manuscript for days because this submission opportunity only happens once a year.  Talk about feeling down.  And stupid.  A chance to have a select group of picture book agents request my work—gone.

When I looked back at this misfortunate circumstance, it became apparent to me that a lingering migraine had altered my reasoning.  Being foggy-brained is an effect of having a migraine.  But since I was pain-free, I hadn't realized that making good decisions was impaired.  If I had been thinking clearly, there would have been no way I would've submitted this version.  My migraine brain deceived me into thinking the manuscript was in good shape.  And I made a bad choice. 

Now, it's water under the bridge (or the toothpaste is outta of the tube, as my husband would say) and now I know (most likely) that a silent migraine served me a heaping helping of regret.    

Feeling miserable, I turned to the internet to find articles on remorse and regret.  I found a helpful post written by Gila Gam titled Reframing Regret: from Hindsight to Insight 

Since I can't do this piece justice by rephrasing, I quote Gila: 

"Beating yourself up about the things that went wrong, doesn’t help things go right. Don’t regret anything that has taught you valuable and worthwhile lessons. Replace regret with reflect. To reflect is to try and understand what your regrets are trying to tell you. It means looking for insights in order to draw lessons from the experience. The goal of reflection is to move away from regret to make better decisions and take action toward better future outcomes. 

"Remember: life is meant for exploring and experimentation. You are likely to fail many times, but    

“nothing ventured, nothing gained.” When you accept that risks must be taken and setbacks must be   

experienced in order to achieve anything meaningful, then you recognize the futility of regret because there’s a valuable lesson in everything you do. Your life’s lessons allow you to grow. The biggest risk is not to take any risks, and the greatest regret is an unfulfilled life, or a life not lived fully. 

"As you reflect upon your wins and losses, accept the whole package and seek the lessons to apply in the future. Take intentional action to keep doing the things that really matter to you. Be open to change and new opportunities along the self-actualization journey. And most importantly, once you reach success, don’t linger in the comfort zone for too long. Celebrate your accomplishments but beware of resting on your laurels. Move on to something new and continue to be relevant and have impact.

"Life is made up of a series of changes, choices, and consequences. The choices you make today will make sense in retrospect with time and reflection. The road is windy and slippery. Embrace the wobble. Keep walking and trust you will figure out your own way. So, turn the insights into foresight."

Turn insights into foresight.  That's perfect, isn't it? 

For me, that would mean paying closer attention to the effects of a migraine:  recognizing mental clarity can be lacking after an attack and then refraining from making important decisions until the headache symptoms have subsided.  But even if I'm aware, there are other ways to f*ck-up a submission: typos in a manuscript, misunderstanding the submission guidelines, or misspelling an agent's name.  So, to lessen regret, I try to turn the negative feelings into positive feelings by visualizing mistakes as stepping stones that will lead me closer to my goals. 

This wonderful submission opportunity seemed to be the chance of a lifetime and it hurts that I messed up.  But there's always next year.  Until then, I will keep going.  I will remember this situation for a long time, but without regret.  It happened for many reasons:  To learn and to improve.  To understand my limitations.  To revel in my tenacity.  I will keep moving forward along those stepping stones.  And if things backfire or don't go as smoothly as hoped, I will reflect.  I forge on to make things better next time.

À la prochaine!  

 

AN ABUNDANCE OF LOVE

I love a sweet stray named Putty.

He's at least ten-years-old.  Putty first appeared on our deck in 2013, when we had Ollie, our first cat.  Putty has outlived Ollie. 

And he still comes around.  Who knows why?  Maybe he likes the kibbles I feed him.  Or the warm yurt he can enjoy in cold weather.  Could it be he feels the love at the Mrvos residence? 

When I first met Putty, he was leery of me.  He'd only approach the food dish after I had closed the door.  But in time, he became more trusting.  Now, he'll come when I call his name.  He'll let me rub his coat, pat his head, and smooth his tail.  

It's surprising he's in rather good health.  He navigates the steps to our deck with ease and he can leap up to the railing to lap water from the bird bath (which I keep exceptionally clean). Occasionally, he'll have a nick or a scrape that heals on its own.  One time however, he had a bloody abscess that required urgent attention.  Luckily for Putty, I was able to find a veterinarian who came to our house to treat him. 

My sweet stray shows few signs of slowing down.  Just more gray hair in the black spots of his coat.

Sometimes, Putty will disappear for days and I'll worry if he had gotten into a fight, if a coyote had found him, or if he had been mistreated cruelly by someone.   

A few years ago, an aggressive stray had roamed into our yard and the two of them got into a fight.  Afterwards, Putty stayed away for nearly six months.  With the intention of luring Putty back to our house, I trapped the tomcat, had him neutered, and returned him to our neighborhood further down the street.  Putty must have sensed our place felt safer and he eventually came back to our house.       

Most of the time, Putty stays close by, either on our deck where it's sunny or on the patio for the shade.  But being a stray, he likes to roam and now that he's older, I fear he will never come back.  

Because he disappears from time to time, I try not to take him for granted—no matter how often he parks himself on the deck, presses his face against the door, and begs for food.  Just like my cats Lizzie and Ozzie, Putty will not go hungry.  

There is something calming about Putty's presence.  He brings me joy even though at times, Putty can be a rascal.  He's been known to be a menace to neighbor's cats.  He'll claim front porches or driveways as his own.  I try to remind others, he's one of God's creatures, so be nice to him.  He has lived his entire life outside facing other strays, dogs, possums, raccoons and coyotes, and all kinds of weather.  He deserves to be treated well.  He deserves kindness.  My sweet stray Putty deserves an abundance of love.    

À la prochaine! 

FLAUNT YOUR STYLE 

I'm an observant person.  It's in my nature to notice things, sometimes odd things.   

So, one summer day when I was outside for a walk, I began to scrutinize the house numbers in our neighborhood—I know, you're thinking weird.  But here me out.  I was surprised to find quite a variety.  As you can expect, many were standard and fairly common, "nothing special" as my mother-in-law would have said. Though others reflected the homeowner's personality.

Come along with me and let's have a look.  Below are photos of houses in my neighborhood.  

This house number is difficult to see.  What does this number say about the house owner's style?  

Modest.

 

And this one near the garage door instead of by the front door?

                                             Unconventional.

Here's another:

Bold.

And this one:

                                Welcoming.

                                                                                                               Flashy.

And lastly:  

                                                                          Laid back. 

The variety of house numbers gives our neighborhood a welcoming, homey vibe.  But I get the feeling that I'm one of the few that even notices them.  They are probably one of the last details anyone would think about when buying or building a home.  And yet, the International Association of Certified House Inspectors (InterNACHI) has guidelines, especially so that emergency responders can locate them.

Here's their suggestions:   

• Be sure numbers are visible (at least 5 or 6 inches tall) when approaching from either side of the house.

• Remember script numbers or numbers that are spelled out can be difficult to discern. 

• Use numbers that contrast with the background.  Brass or bronze numbers are difficult to see. 

• Trim back shrubs or trees that hide numbers.   

• Keep flags and decorations from covering up house numbers. 

Many neighbors could give a sh*t about following the recommendations.  I'm not judging them.  It's their choice.  Some people however, understand the importance of having house numbers that can be easily found.  And some of these neighbors had gotten a little fancy.  I've noticed folks had balanced readability and creativity.  They had combined safety with flair.  They found a way to thoughtfully flaunt their style.

 
À la prochaine! 

 

                                                                                                                                                                      photo by HLS-44

Vulnerability left me open to anguish and sorrow.   

MON COEUR ÉTAIT BRISÉ  

I

All you had to do was tell me

why you kept me in the dark

and strung me along, 

while you played the field

and sowed your wild oats. 

Betrayal hid inside a drawer

where her words filled pages 

not meant for my eyes. 

You assumed ignorance would shield the truth. 

But I, too 

could keep secrets. 

II

All you had to do was tell me

why our bond failed.    

With a weak past 

and a troubled present, 

our future was doomed.  

It's said that blood is thicker than water. 

But it thinned out, 

seeped out,  

puddled. 

I alone couldn't stop the bleeding.  

The door to reconciliation closed. 

And nothing but arrogance was to blame.

III

All you had to do was tell me

why you had to sever ties.

Was it me?

Was it you?

Was it him?

Ours was an otherworldly love— 

one that should have never ended.  

But with shitty timing on Christmas day 

you slipped away without any explanation,

unaware of the devastation you left in your wake.  

Mon coeur était brisé. 

Now, decades fly by and still I ask why,

when all, any one of you had to do, was tell me... 

and that would have been enough. 

À la prochaine! 

Tags: Heartbreak