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

 

                                                                                                                                             Photo: Simply Recipes

A LITTLE HOLIDAY COOKIE DRAMA  

I bake holiday cookies in October.  Way before Halloween.  

People look at me as if I'm crazy, but honestly, this way I'm not rushed during the holiday season.  Getting a head start and doing one batch a week makes baking more fun for me.  

I make five holiday favorites, beginning with the easiest recipe, the chocolate crinkles.  Then, I move on to the more time-consuming recipes.  By mid-November, the Christmas baking is finished.    

I rarely have trouble making the holiday treats, but this year, I decided to add a new recipe:  Grandma's butter cookies.  I was shocked to see a pound of butter is used (that's four sticks!) so I halved the recipe.  Referring to my late mother-in-law's recipe, I noticed that the baking time was missing.  It only read to bake until brown.  Okay, most cookies take about 8 - 12 minutes to bake, so I put them in 10 minutes.  And afterward?  Pale, blah-looking cookies.

I kept them in the oven for 5 more minutes.  That ought to do it.  

Nope.

I baked them an additional five minutes.  

But they never turned brown, even after 20 minutes in the oven.  I was getting frustrated.  

My husband Jim asked, "What's wrong?"

"I can't figure out why these butter cookies didn't get brown."

"Did you follow the recipe?" 

"Of course," I said indignantly.  

And then I remembered...

I had separated the yolks from the eggs and added them to the batter.  But I had forgotten to brush the cookies with the egg whites before baking. 

This was like the time I set out three eggs to come to room temperature to make a pound cake, and then forgot to add the eggs to the batter.  In my defense, I was distracted by two hungry cats and I didn't realize something had gone wrong until after the oven timer went off.  Needless to say, the finished product looked like toffee. 

I thought about the sad pound cake while staring at the failed butter cookies.  Jim told me he'd work on them.  He found a basting brush and covered the already-baked batch with egg whites and put them back into the oven.  The batch browned nicely, giving Jim another cooking story to lovingly tease me about. 

Trying to forget about the butter cookies, I turned my attention to more familiar recipes like peanut butter blossoms, bird's nest cookies, nut horns, and sugar cookies.  Since I had been making these for many years, I had no fear that they'd turn out well.  But of course, Jim taste-tested them, just to be sure.

Photo: Cookie Connection

After baking each batch, I freeze them for the holidays.  When Christmas rolls around, they will be ready to be placed in tins for our family and neighbors.  With six different kinds, there will be plenty of variety for everyone. 

Sometimes, I get defensive when people ask why I begin baking so early.  They just don't get it.  It's what I do.  For me, October is the perfect time to start holiday baking.  Having baked two months in advance allows me more time to enjoy the holidays...

and I bet you were thinking...more time to go shopping for gifts.  

Actually, that's not the case.  As you might guess, by August, half of my shopping is done! 

  

To my faithful readers, thank you for reading my blog. 

Wishing you a sweet holiday season. Joyeux Noël! 

BANISHING FEAR WITH LOVE

Putty was injured and I didn't know how to help him.    

Nine years ago, this gravelly-voiced, black and white stray showed up on our deck begging for food.  My husband and I have been feeding him ever since.  

Over the years, I've noticed minor cuts on Putty, nothing serious.  But one day not long ago, I noticed Putty was limping.  At first, I thought he had broken his leg.  There wasn't an apparent wound, yet he could only walk on three paws.  Putty squinted.  His wounded leg quivered.  He showed little interest in food.  I could sense his pain.  Being Sunday, I had to wait a day to call my vet.  But when Monday rolled around, the veterinarian was unable to make a house call until Friday.  I didn't think Putty could wait that long. 

I called my neighbor Sherry who also feeds Putty.  She gave me the name of her vet because he makes house calls.  But when I phoned him, I got an answering machine.  Dr. MacDonald wouldn't be back in town until Wednesday.  I left him a message about Putty's condition.  My poor kitty appeared to be suffering, he was barely eating, and he would have to wait two more days for help.  

On Wednesday, I noticed a smear of blood on Putty's hip.  As he limped on our patio, I finally saw the cause of his injury.  There was bloody abscess about the size of a half dollar on his hock.  I was sick with worry.  This did not look good.  Luckily, Dr. M. returned my call.  He could come out to our house, under one condition:  I'd have to trap Putty.  

This was easier said than done.  

"Can you pick him up?" asked Dr. M. 

"Uh, no."  And in my head, I'm thinking:  Are you kidding?  This is a semi-wild cat who didn't always trust me.   

But the vet needed Putty in an enclosed area so he wouldn't run off.  I told him I'd try to trap him.  I loved Putty and was determined to get him the medical attention he needed.  

My husband and I backed our cars out the garage.  I moved bins and tubs around on shelves and blocked places where a cat could hide.  When every area of the garage looked safe, I pulled out a can of tuna.  Putty was in the backyard.  I wondered if I could tempt him with the tuna and get him to hobble over to the driveway and into the garage.  I worried how to keep him contained in the garage once he was inside.  Luckily, he did manage to follow me.  I got him as far away from the garage door as possible so he wouldn't make a run for it and motioned to my husband now, quick, close the door.

And we had him safe inside.  Dr. M. arrived in five minutes.  Finally, Putty was going to get some attention.  But when I opened basement door to the garage, Putty was nowhere in sight.  Sh*t!  I walked the perimeter of the garage.  No Putty.  I was so embarrassed.  Where was that cat?  Had he squeezed out of the corner by the garage door through an impossibly narrow opening?  I looked again on the verge of panic.  But there he was, trying to hide against the back wall of a shelf.  After coaxing him down, he moved to another corner of the garage, where the vet could work his magic.  

I was concerned Putty would not be a cooperative patient.  But Dr. M. wrapped Putty in a blanket and then in a calm voice, he told me I'd be his assistant.  My job would be to hold Putty while he prepared the injections.  I slipped on garden gloves to protect my hands, but Putty hissed at me.  The vet said the gloves were probably scaring him, so I had to help bare-handed. 

Putty's razor-sharp claws had scratched me more than once and now that he was scared, he was likely to bite.  I was terrified.  Mortified.  I really, really did not want to do this.  And there wasn't much time.  Who knew how long Putty would stay put?  I was a nervous wreck.  But I had to pull myself together.  So rather than stressing, I focused on how much I loved Putty and centered my attention on helping the vet. 

Dr. M. showed me how to grab onto the scuff and wiggle it to distract him as he inserted the needle.  Believe you me, I wiggled the hell out of the scruff.  After the antibiotic and the pain shots were given, he removed the blanket.  Putty was free to go.  With that, I opened the garage door and he limped away.  

Before Dr. M. left, he handed me an oral antibiotic that I would need to give Putty twice a day.  Good luck, I'm thinking.  If Putty was traumatized, he may never come back.  I could have scared him off for good.  My sweet little stray.  

But that night, Putty returned and he wolfed down all of his food with the antibiotic in it.  I was so relieved to see him come back the next day and get more antibiotic into his system.

Surprisingly, within a day after the injections and a day's worth of oral antibiotics, Putty looked better.  His eyes were brighter.  He could put weight on all of his paws.  

Putty still has a long way to go, but he'll get the care he needs and all of the food he craves.  Looking back, I was surprised how frightened I had been.  I was scared of being hurt and afraid of letting Putty down.  But through this experience, I found determination can conquer fear.  And anything is possible with love.

 À la prochaine! 

 

                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Simran Sood

ENABLING, DEPENDENCE, AND GUILT   

I let others burden me with guilt.    

It happens because I allow it to happen.    

Back in my twenties, I was stronger.  I dated a guy who threatened to stop seeing me if we didn't become intimate (I was a virgin and we had only been dating for a few months).  I wasn't even sure he loved me, at least he never told me.  Then he had to nerve to say, and I'm not making this up, there was no guarantee that afterward he'd still date me.  Really?  That was going to convince me?  I told him to get lost.  Screw him (pun intended).  I wasn't going to let him lay a guilt trip on me.   

But I've softened over the years.  Become a pushover.  It's really not becoming.  It's not strong and it's not who I want to be.  

Having no backbone, I allow people to lay guilt trips on me, like the person I'll call Tim.  Tim volunteers to run errands for elderly members of our family.  One time, Tim notified me that he had a scheduling conflict.  Not wanting to disappoint Tim but wanting to be supportive, I filled in for him and drove 160 miles to help.  A few months later, he needed my assistance again.  I hesitated to reply.  

This time, it bothered me.  Why hadn't other options been explored?  Couldn't he have asked someone who lived closer to help out?  I needed advice.  One girlfriend basically told me to suck it up.  Wow, that surprised me—I thought she would rally behind me.  But another friend told me (and let me preference by saying she's super honest and blunt) I was being used. 

I finally realized that Tim had enabled elderly folks to become dependent on him.         

An enabler is not necessarily a negative label.  According to Healthline.com , the term “enabler” generally describes someone whose behavior allows a loved one to continue unacceptable patterns of behavior.  

Healthline.com says, "Many people who enable others don’t do so intentionally. They may not even realize what they’re doing.  Most people who enable loved ones don’t intend to cause harm.  In fact, enabling generally begins with the desire to help."  

But how did helping get so out of hand?        

I don't have an answer for that.  But I needed an answer for this troubling situation.  Fortunately, the article gave me some direction.  I learned it's okay to support the enabler, but not in ways that back the dependence.  

So, the big question is, what's going to happen if Tim has another conflict?   

In the past, I've said yes to appease and to avoid arguments.  I let myself be imposed on because I wanted to be a team player and didn't want to cause hurt feelings.  But if Tim won't consider other options, the best thing I can do for myself is to set boundaries or say no if need be.   

I'm sure my behavior will be looked upon as heartless and selfish.  But I have to stop worrying about how others will perceive me.  I want to focus on becoming stronger.  It will take practice to remain firm.  But if I want to be happy, I have to put an end to being burdened with guilt. 

À la prochaine! 

 

WAIT, WAIT, DON'T TELL ME

I'm not a fan of surprises.  

But recently I attended two events with my husband where I let myself be open to surprise.  I didn't read any reviews or research the shows to find out what to expect.  All I knew was at the van Gogh venue we'd be seeing Vincent's art, and at a historic home in Lexington, we'd be watching a play written by Chekov. 

The Van Gogh Immersive 

I'm a big fan of van Gogh.  I've read about him extensively, and I've gone to many museums to see his famous works.  My husband and I even had the opportunity to go to the van Gogh museum in Amsterdam (one of THE best art museums I've ever visited).  But here, in Cincinnati, there was uncertainty and excitement—we didn't know what paintings would be displayed and how they would be presented.   

At the entrance, we found a bust of van Gogh suspended in midair and on it, paintings were projected onto the face.  A little further down the hall, we discovered a wall covered with 3-dimensional golden sunflowers, where people posed to have their pictures taken.  Of course, we obliged.

Onward into the next hall, we viewed his most famous works: canvases of sunflowers and self-portraits.  Besides each one, little cards gave details about the paintings. 

We shuffled into the adjourning room where the The Bedroom had been recreated.  No doubt, Vincent's spirit welcomed me to sit and rest my feet.  After we posed for pictures, we went into a stairwell where the steps and walls were painted in deep blue with yellow-glowing stars.  It was as if we were floating in the skies of the painting The Starry Night. 

And then, we opened a curtain and stepped into a large room where scenes of his paintings were projected on all four walls.  But it didn't feel like we were inside a room.  It felt as if we were outside in a field at dusk with people sitting on lawn chairs and benches.  We dropped to the floor on a blanket and watched the images flow from the left wall to the front wall and around to right side and then to the back of us.  We were awash in the art of Van Gogh.  And as the music played and Vincent's quotes were read, I felt his highs and lows, a full range of emotions of a man who suffered for his art. 

Uncle Vanya

Like the Van Gogh Immersive, I had no clue what to expect from this play.   

On a hot summer night my husband and I were greeted just outside the parking lot and escorted to the garden of a historic house in downtown Lexington.  Twenty chairs had been arranged alongside a flower bed.  We were invited to take a seat.  And then, the action began and we were part of the set! 

Two cast members were seated at a table while another actor slept on a blanket on the grass.  Casual conversations began and slowly the plot was revealed.  As other actors entered the garden, the drama unfolded.  With every line of dialogue, we were getting to know these characters, their relationships, their troubles.  After the last line of the act was recited, an usher led us into the house and upstairs through a darkened passage. 

Upon reaching a bedroom, we heard thunder rumbling as we were seated against a back wall.  A storm was brewing (figuratively and literally).  Actors burst into the room venting and sobbing.  The tension had increased and each character grew more miserable—many of them having fallen in love with someone who didn't love them.  

When the act concluded, we were ushered back to the garden for the intermission and refreshments.  Afterward, we were escorted to a dining room.  We sat against a back wall watching as the tension came to a climax.  So much emotion and unease.  So much gloom and doom.  Just when we hoped things would get better, a character waved a gun, and we were abruptly led to a parlor for the last act.  I wanted the play to end on a happy note without a murder.  At least one of my wishes came true.  There was no violence.  But as the final lines were recited, we found that the characters had changed.  Their lives would be harder and probably sadder, and yet somehow a gleam of hope prevailed.   

Upon reflecting on the play, I found that though the audience was a feature of each scene, we didn't participate.  We were merely dropped into the middle of a Russian manor.  But we did have a role—to observe the actors up close.  And being part of the set, I got to know the wants, loves, goals, missteps, and misfortunes of each character.  

What one gains in an immersive art or theatre production is personal.  There really isn't a middle of the road feeling.  You either like it or not.  For me, the experiences will likely stay with me for a long time because I allowed myself to welcome something new, something original, something daring.  By being surprised and not knowing anything in advance, I experienced the art and the drama more deeply.  I became aware of the energy and creativity needed to pull off these shows, and I left feeling humbled by talent.    

 À la prochaine! 

 

 

It may not look like it, but they really do like each other.

THE KING AND THE QUEEN RULE THE CASTLE

I never imagined I'd be taking care of two cats. 

That wasn't the plan.  Though I believed Ozzie, our adopted tabby, would want a brother or a sister, my husband Jim convinced me that Oz would never want to share his domain with another cat.  We were a one-cat family and Ozzie was king of the castle.  

And then Ozzie abandoned the castle.  The basement door was accidently left open and just like that, he disappeared.  

From the day he was adopted, Ozzie had always been an indoor cat.  He didn't possess the skills to survive outside.  I was devastated and heartbroken.  I imagined the worse—it was November and the temperatures were plunging.  How would he stay warm?  How would he find food?  How would he make his way back home?  

After ten days, I was beginning to lose hope that he'd return.  Nevertheless, my husband and I drove to the Humane Society hoping someone had found Ozzie and dropped him off.  But Ozzie was not in the room for lost pets.    

On the way home, we stopped by PetSmart.  I wanted to see if a kitty would brighten my mood.  And then I spotted a black and white five-month-old kitten named Abby.  I couldn't resist.  She had the same name as our daughter.  We adopted her on the spot and changed her name to Lizzie (double z's in honor of Ozzie).

It was an impetuous move.  I didn't know if I could love Lizzie as much as Ozzie.  

Seven weeks later at the end of January, I got a call from a neighbor who saw a picture on Facebook of a cat she thought looked like Ozzie.  When I took a look, I wasn't sure if it was our pet. The picture was fuzzy.  Still, it was worth looking into.  My husband located the address of the person who had posted the picture.  To our amazement, the address was only a half a mile away.  We dropped everything and raced to the townhouse.  We were ushered to the basement and there was Ozzie, all skin and bones, too weak to meow, to limp to hold his head up.   

When we brought him home, our plan was to take him to the vet to have him checked out, feed him so he could put on weight, let him rest, and keep his curious sister away.  Which she obliged.  She must have sensed he was in bad shape. 

In two weeks, he gradually got stronger and Lizzie was over with being patient.  She had to check out her new playmate.  Which for Ozzie, was something he hadn't anticipated.  He had overcome the ordeal of living outside in the freezing snow and ice, trying to forage to find food, and now he had to contend with an energetic kitten.  Let me tell you he wasn't in the mood to be pounced on by Lizzie.  This was new to him.  He had never played before and having no claws, he had no way to defend himself.

Gradually, and upon Lizzie's insistence, he got the hang of rough-housing with her.  As he put on more weight, he grew bigger than Liz and he could wrestle with her, pin her down and nip at her paws.  From the sound of her squeals, you'd think she was in pain and she's had enough, but she always came back for more.  

On top of Lizzie's playfulness, Ozzie has to put up with her piggish eating habits.  If I'm not present to guard Ozzie's food, she would gobble her kibbles and then shove him out of the way to eat from his bowl.  Being a gentleman, he would simply sit and watch her chow down. 

During the day, Lizzie climbs into my lap as I write and Ozzie hangs out behind my computer.  At night, Lizzie gets more wound up and nips at my toes and calves.  Ozzie snoozes or watches his wild sister.   They may wrestle a bit, and Ozzie may even instigate it.  And when they settle down, I give them both chin and belly rubs.  I gaze at one and then the other, at one who survived the unimaginable and at one who had been called Abby.  Who would have thought there'd be two cats in the Mrvos household?  Life in the castle changed.  The king lives peacefully (for the most part) with the queen.  

Things come and go and come back.  Things grow and grow and what's left is love, an abundance of love.

 À la prochaine! 

WHAT UP WITH DAT?

I get pissed off when people can't say thank you. 

For instance:  Several years ago, my husband and I received a graduation announcement from the son of a couple we used to see on social occasions.  We had lost touch with them.  But twenty years later come one May, we received the announcement that their son was graduating.  We sent a check and a card.  But the graduate never bothered to send a thank you note.

More recently, we received a graduation notice from the son of a couple we had known three decades ago.  Three decades ago!  We only stay in touch with Christmas cards and they live hundreds of miles away.  WTF?  Or as Kenan Thompson of SNL would say: What up with dat?  

Maybe they sincerely thought we'd like to know about his achievement.  But honestly, it felt more like they were asking for a gift.  And if we were to send a check, what are the chances we'd receive a thank you note?  I'm pretty sure the graduate would never acknowledge the gift.  Now, I could be wrong.  He may be a very nice kid who plans to tell friends and relatives he's grateful they thought about him at this momentous occasion. 

But my gut feeling (and cynicism and experience) tells me otherwise.  

Ingratitude happens on many occasions.  Take weddings:  My husband and I drove nine hours to Washington, D.C. to celebrate a cousin's wedding.  We sent them an expensive gift and never heard a peep from them.  Take birthdays:  We sent generous restaurant gift cards to our nephews.  Neither one of them wrote a thank you note.

I'm not sure why ingratitude is so prevalent.  Have parents forgotten to teach their kids to say thank you?  Or do kids feel they don't need to say thank you?

According Theology of Work, "ingratitude wrongs the one who should have received thanks. But there is another penalty that is paid when we are ungrateful. We lose the opportunity to delight in the blessings of our lives. We deny ourselves the joy that comes to us when we give others the joy that comes from our thanks. Ingratitude deprives the one who should offer thanks of a deeper, richer, fuller experience of life's goodness. So, ingratitude hurts the one who should receive thanks and the one who should give it. Not surprisingly, therefore, it also fails to nourish the relationship between the two parties. Whereas, a word of thanks can build intimacy and trust; thanks neglected creates distance and guardedness."

When I was young, my mom insisted that we write thank you notes for the gifts that we received.  My husband and I taught our daughter to do the same thing.  This may not be the practice these days.  Attitudes have changed.  And then again...

My husband thanks me for the meals I cook each night.  Writers thank me when I waive the editorial fee.  Friends and grocery clerks thank me when I surprise them with flowers or a gift card. 

So, when I think of those who are less grateful, I remember others who are appreciative.  They may say thank you by writing a short note, giving me a call, or sending an email.  They get it.  Showing gratitude is not hard.  It's a beautiful gesture and it's the right thing to do.     

À la prochaine!