Cause for celebration

I won't feel quite so bad about eating chocolate now. Dark is not my favorite, but I'll manage somehow.

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20070324/hl_nm/heart_chocolate_dc

His Week Versus Mine

The Hubby has returned home. You might even say “triumphantly”. He had happy hour while he networked one night. He made his instructors happy that he asked so many good questions. Finally finished with his class, he drove home today.

Meanwhile, I have been dealing with a killer migraine all week. It started gently enough on Monday as just a mild annoyance at the back of my head. Little did I know IT was planning to HURT me.

I awoke Wednesday to Middlest screaming, “I’m going to throw up!!!” As the day went on, the other two fell out also. The migraine kicked it up a notch. Isn’t it lovely how stress and worry can fuel a headache?

Thursday began with Attack of the Killer Migraine Part IDon’tKnowJustKillMeNow and children that felt WONDERFUL. They didn’t have to go to school, so OF COURSE they felt wonderful. I loaded them up and off to the chiropractor we went. I apologized for any germs we might be leaving behind, but I felt like my head was going to explode. Even after the adjustment, the migraine was so bad (How bad was it?), I had my face covered with a dish towel during nap time. As the children played noisily all day, I promised they WERE going to school on Friday, whether they started puking again or not. I. HAD. HAD. ENOUGH.

Friday got everyone off to school and I headed back over to the chiropractor. Since this time I wasn’t in severe pain before he touched me, the doctor did a much better adjustment. I finally made it to the grocery store. I had a sub sandwich at my favorite shop. I reluctantly picked children up from school. We survived Friday night.

Oldest had to go to a school function early on Saturday morning. The younger two and I went to go see the baby chicks at the feed and seed store. We got a bonus visit from a Momma Cat. Middlest kept asking where her babies were. “She’s had enough, so she walked away from them. Maybe their tummies will empty out a bit and they’ll appreciate her more when she decides to go back.” The store owner grinned at me. “I’ve been a cat owner all my life, until last August,” I told him, “Then in November I found out I was allergic to cats. No wonder I always had bad sinuses.” Middlest and Youngest were allowed to pet the cat all they cared.

“She just showed up her before Christmas. I can’t believe anyone would throw her out. She is just so loving.” He paused his work to watch the kids play with her a minute. I’m sure that had I not told him about my allergy, I would have been pressured into taking a kitten home. Maybe another day. (Big sigh.) More allergy shots for Janie first. I like breathing through my nose.

Then Hubby drove up. Our days have once again meshed. My “back up” is here at last. Hey! Not to mention, my package I’ve been waiting on. Gotta go run play with pretty things!

One thing I don't want to hear whilst eating

If I don’t multi-task, I get nothing accomplished. I fixed my lunch and called my mother. As usual she did much of the talking while I chewed. Then she started telling me about my father’s aunt, describing the leg wound the old lady has. “It’s got an odor again, but she has a doctor’s appointment...”

“Mom!” I protested.

“It’s not like its gangrene. The doctor says a deep wound like that has to heal from the inside out, so there’s a scab they have to keep removing.”

I choked on my food. “Mother, you are killing me over here! I’m TRYING TO EAT.”

“Well, she’s getting better at any rate.” Thank GOD. I don’t think I can take much more. I don’t suppose that my tortilla wrapper was spinach green helped.

Random Thoughts for Blogging

I want to remember stuff to write whenever the mood to blog hits. So far they do not coincide. Why do I always think of the good stuff after I power down the computer?

Don’t you just hate the feeling of “I must have forgotten to pay something”? I have money left over…


Mom reported, “I had a nice conversation with your older brother this morning. ‘Captive audience’ thing and all that. He asked for a ride to work, so we went to pick him up. He had no choice but to listen to me and he did actually answer in multiple syllables.”

Enough randomness... I demand order! (At least that's what I tell everyone about my crochet projects.)

Jewelry for fun and profit

I took the plunge and ordered some jewelry items for resale. I agonized over the chosen list. Several catalogs were consulted. Many, many things got trimmed from the initial wish list. I opted to not purchase a ring for myself at this time. I put off a couple of SCA type purchases.

Hubby was patient and helped me set up a spread sheet. I had done spread sheets back in college, but every one I’ve used since then was set up by another person. I entered all the items from the order on my little spread sheet. Now I have a much better idea of how much to charge for each item. When they arrive, I will decide what needs to be priced up or down. I’m already planning a new spread sheet set up for the next time. I will pre-program a range for the retail markup so all I will need to do is pick a number and slap on a price tag.

I hope the next sale day is very profitable. Thus far, my hobby has failed to pay for itself. In fact, it got quite expensive. I made things that people admired, but no one would buy. It was quite disheartening. I quit buying supplies and resorted to giving away the things I had made for presents. It was so hard not to take out my frustrations on potential customers when they would ask, “How much would a blah-blah necklace cost me?” “More than you are willing to pay,” I would think to myself, then attempt to politely explain the cost of the supplies and components, not to mention my labor.

I’m hoping the spread sheet will help me to arrive at a fair selling price. Overcharging means you sell little or nothing. If customers find out you lowered asking prices after they made their purchase, there are hard feelings. Undercharging means the cost of the item will come out of my pocket and there will be no profit to reinvest into a business.

I’m just glad I learned some of these hard lessons before I plunged head-long into a failing venture.

Ginger the Long Haired Hamster

As a long-haired golden hamster, Ginger is a little golden puff ball. She was a rescue hamster. Someone had bought her, then returned her to Petsmart. A sign in the store mentioned a hamster to “inquire about adopting.”

Apparently, store returns or escape artists cannot be sold at full price. Once a hamster has left the safety of its cage, it could become pregnant or carry disease. If you ever want a free hamster (or other rodent), watch for those signs! I had to fill out adoption paper work, just as if I was purchasing her. The only catch was that she was not guaranteed like a regular purchase.

It is my theory that golden hamsters of the long-haired variety have a thing about socks. That would be socks a person is actively wearing on their feet. I have been nibbled several times by Ginger, but the pro at sock nibbling was Goldilocks (God rest his soul).

Many moons ago, I was deeply engrossed in Never Winter Nights. Playing online means “you screw up, you die”. Even if death is not permanent, it can have severe penalties. Suddenly, my foot was being attacked! Goldilocks had reached through his exercise ball and snagged my sock. Then he hauled the sock into the ball and began nibbling on it. As I looked down to disengage myself from this attacking rodent, my character was attacked by a dragon!

Some nights it just doesn’t pay to log in.

Ginger had an odd quirk at first: she refused to jump back into her cage. I would have to find a flat surface to turn her out of her ball, then scoop her up and place her into her cage. She managed to escape my grasp several times. I wondered if it was old age and aching joints, but I think now it was simple fear. When she finally came to the realization that I wasn’t trying to hurt her, Ginger began jumping from the ball.

Now I simply hold the ball next to the cage. The hamster crawls from the cage into the exercise ball. Both hamsters roam the house at the same time. One of their favorite games is “knock the top off and escape”, so I use pieces of tape to secure the cover. They don’t seem bothered by the other’s presence. When it is time to go back to bed, I open the ball and hold it next to the cage. They crawl down and hop the last few inches to the cage bottom.

I have to admit hamsters are adorable little varmints.

Jackie the Hamster

Jackie is a short haired, golden hamster. Her actual coloring is cream and white.

Tonight the box fan blocked Jackie from her usual destination: behind the downstairs toilet. It’s not like there is anything there to explore. You see one linoleum floor behind a porcelain toilet, you’ve seen them all. I think she must be searching for more cake icing.

Many months ago, Hubby brought a cake home from a Masonic function. He opened the front door, dropped the cake box on the foyer floor, then returned to his car for the rest of his stuff. I picked up the cake box and carried it to the kitchen. Later I put Jackie in her exercise ball while I cleaned her cage. I noticed she was enamored with the foyer for a change.

What was the bright blue on her exercise ball???

Icing! Some icing had come out the box when it hit the floor. Jackie was rolling back and forth across the spot, squishing icing up through the ventilation holes. I grabbed the ball and returned her to her cage. The ball went to the bathroom sink for a good soak.

For some reason, Jackie spent a LONG time on her exercise wheel later that night. Sugar high hamster style?

What I’m listening to: two hamsters chewing their way out of their Habitrail cages. Thank God for wire bars.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Three: Rhonda visits

I had a dear friend when I was young. We knew one another from the second grade. Rhonda and I got along well. We were buddies, pals, and partners in crime. When we discovered how wonderful telephones were, we spent many hours chatting on the phone.

I envied Rhonda’s long telephone cord. (This was the age before cordless telephones.) The long cord allowed her to roam all over her house. Meanwhile, I was stuck sitting at the proper “telephone table.”

This little metal torture device had a small table for the phone to sit upon. Just beneath that was a rack large enough for one city telephone book. The seat was a joke. Anyone other than a child had to sit perfectly still, lest the whole thing decide to tip over. The telephone table was shoved into a corner of my parents’ dining room. This stabilized the unit and provided zero privacy. Exactly what a pre-teen wants, no?

With the long telephone cord, Rhonda could wander through her house, go into her room, or even hide in the bathroom. “Ignore the running water. You don’t hear a thing,” she would say. She read excerpts from her dad’s Playboy magazines. “I cannot believe any woman would say this. Just listen and tell me what you think…” We spent many a hot Summer day simply talking. We were best friends.

I went to my bathroom and cried when my father called to say that Rhonda had died. It was just before her 30th birthday. I was a whole seven weeks OLDER than Rhonda. How could she be dead?

We had grown apart after we married. Rhonda married the weekend before I did. I was her bridesmaid. She fixed my hair for my wedding, then drove me to the service. We tried visiting or calling, but our husbands hated each other. Jerks. So we lost touch. I heard she had a son. I don’t know if she ever heard about my kids.

Early one morning I dreamed about Rhonda. I visualized her at her old house, hiding in the bathroom, telling me secrets on the phone. I realized something was not quite right. Why wasn’t I in the dining room of the old house? Hey, we aren’t teenagers anymore! Suddenly, the answer hit me:

“Rhonda! You’re dead!”

The dream dissolved around us. We were standing in a white mist. She moved towards me as she laughed at my ignorance. “Janie,” she teased, “Don’t you know? I can visit the people I love ANY TIME I WANT TO!”

I woke with a start. This was important news, even if Rhonda had been dead two years. It took me a few days, but I got the courage and acquired her grandmother’s telephone number. I talked with her MawMaw and shared what I had dreamed. MawMaw informed me that the dream had taken place very near the anniversary of Rhonda’s death. At her encouragement, I called Rhonda’s mother and told her the news.

We cried together. It was wonderful, sad news. Rhonda was still aware of us and still cared enough to check up on us. Rhonda was safe in Heaven, waiting and watching. One day we will join her.

Spooky the Tuff Little Ghost

As I said the other day, the Ghost Van spawned the creation of business cards featuring a friend of Casper the Friendly Ghost. Here he is, Spooky the Tuff Little Ghost:

http://www.toonopedia.com/spooky.htm

The maker of the business cards drew a ghost VERY similar to Spooky. After reading the entry I remembered that his girlfriend's name was Poil.

Look long enough and you can find anything.

The Jerk looks for license plates

The Jerk made his first appearance in my blog in “Snakes on a Crowbar”. There’s no good way to introduce The Jerk, so I’ll just jump in with another story.

Have you ever watched license plates? First you look for every state and the Canadian providences. Then one looks for every letter of the alphabet to start a plate. Starting numbers are an additional category. Different states use different formats for their plates. Vanity plates are yet another source of amusement.

For all the years of the Ghost Van, Uncle John looked for license plates. (I think he still may do it on long trips, but at his age he doesn’t take many trips. The World Traveler became a Homebody.) The Ghost Van was set up with a little table built upon the center hump that most full sized vans have. A clipboard was fixed into place so that it would not scoot nor slide during travel. More than one mechanical pencil was tethered to the clipboard so that he would always be able to find one.

The Jerk wasn’t around for the Ghost Van, but he heard some stories one day. He was especially fascinated by the prospect of wasting large chunks of time by organizing license plates. On our next long SCA event commute, he decided to bring a clipboard. The Jerk wanted to be like my Uncle John and personally write down all the license plates he saw.

Have I mentioned yet he was/is a terrible driver?

So here we are, far, far from home in a strange city, driving at night. At a stop light, The Jerk sees a plate letter he hasn’t written down yet. The light turns green. He stomps the gas and looks down to write. The car in front of the car in front of us brakes to turn right. He is not looking. The accident is mere seconds away...

In desperation, I scream “STOP!!!”

The Jerk stops our van, turns to me and tells me once again what a bitch I am.

“There is a reason why an ex is an ex.”—Montel Williams

Hello Kitty is cool; Barbie, not so much

My son has never had a problem with pink. He happily uses the pink Kool-aid cup. He likes pink cars and other toys.

When asked to go pick out a dish for a meal, he irritates his sisters by getting one of their Hello Kitty plates. Hello Kitty is cool in his book.

The surest way to anger him, I have seen, is to attempt to make him use a Barbie plate. We have a variety of Barbie dishes and he hates them all. "Disney Princesses" does nothing for him either. He has a Dora the Explorer plate that he enjoys using, but Dora has companions like Boots and Backpack along for the ride.

Today he shocked a store manager when he picked out a pink balloon with a pink string. She asked, "Are you SURE you want a pink balloon?" I told her about Hello Kitty love and Barbie hate and the lady seemed to calm down a bit. I think she would have understood more had she heard him tell me as we headed back over to the pharmacy that...

"My pink balloon with the pink string will go with my pink medicine."

(He was just prescribed amoxicillin for strep throat. Oh the joy...)

The Ghost Van

Uncle John was in the Army. He enjoyed driving home for long weekends, so he purchased himself a plain, white, panel van and customized it. First he went off to the van “topper” place in Georgia and had a fiberglass top put on. They cut away all of the roof, except for a shelf over the front seat. On top of this shelf, Uncle John placed his CB equipment.

For all of you babies that were not alive in the era of the Citizens’ Band Radio, it would take MANY pages of stories to attempt to explain the flavor of the era and HINT at what you missed. I will suffice to say for today: it was WAY different. The closest thing I can liken CB users to today would be linked cell phones where all the users can hear everything everyone else is saying. Cell phone users today subject the rest of us to hearing one side of the conversation, but back in the CB Radio Era we could hear it all. Some of it was not suitable for children’s tender ears, and our ears WERE more tender back then. Ah, the memories…

At any rate, Uncle John now had a hard metal shelf (the original van roof) for all his CB equipment. He sat in the driver’s seat and positioned everything important within his (considerable) easy reach.

I must pause at this moment to tell you, Dear Reader, in case you did not know: Uncle John is LARGE. I mean LARGE. I once watched Earl Sir Kane (of SCA fame) take two steps backwards and start using a lot of “sirs” after I introduced them. Kane might have been a big boy, but Uncle John is bigger. In his teens, Uncle John weighed in at 180 pounds. He was also 6’6”, which made him a virtual bean pole. Uncle John joined the Army and when he graduated boot camp “in the best physical shape of my life, I weighed 225 pounds.” He was at that point sheer muscle and bone. Then the Army sent him to Germany “where they spell beer with an I”. His weight grew and he spent a few years arguing with the Army as to how much weight he had to lose. At the end of his Army career, Uncle John weighed over 350 pounds, but at the time of the Ghost Van, he was keeping his weight well below 300.

Those of you unfamiliar with CB equipment and its foibles might not realize that CB antennas did not work well through sheet metal. Most vehicles had large antennas proudly standing on their back bumpers, swinging through the air, attempting to take out low tree branches or errant signage. Uncle John’s van now had a fiberglass top. It was just perfect for placing two long antennas, one down each side. After a nasty moment when the antennas broke free and touched one another while he was on air (Can we say “interference”, children?), Uncle John used MUCH strapping and duct tape to hold them in place.

Uncle John now had “The Ghost, the van with the invisible CB.” He even made business cards with a little ghost, a friend of Casper the Friendly Ghost. I don’t recall the character’s name now, but the one with the cigar. Uncle John loves cigars, so this little ghost was his perfect mascot.

The Ghost was further customized with a twin bed. Uncle John built a plywood box and placed the twin mattress on top. He hid camera equipment and other important things inside and the average Peeping Tom just saw a twin bed. An iron pipe was placed across the back of the van as a clothing rack. It was only held in place with a few nails and I had the displeasure of having this iron pipe break free and hit me on the back of the head during one memorable ride. Apparently, the iron pipe did not like being used as a hand-hold and it smacked me because I was the closest. I had a goose-egg for several days. Ouch.

Now Uncle John had the perfect vehicle for those trips across America for his long weekends home or for visiting any place in between home and where he was stationed. He did a lot of sight-seeing and picture taking. We sat through hours of slide shows and it was many years before I realized his carved, wooden “pointer hand” was pointing with his middle finger, but I digress.

When Uncle John would get tired while driving, all he had to do was find a safe place to park. He had the bed to flop on for a long nap. Being a male, bathroom facilities were not much of a worry and this was before the era of “you can’t park at Interstate rest stops”, so he often parked at them. He usually packed food and water. I’m quite positive he had weapons for protection.

What did he do for amusement on these long trips? There was always the CB to talk on and listen to, but Uncle John had a hobby. He looked for license plates.

Driving through puddles

The other day I hit a puddle as I rolled to a stop at a red light. Thankfully, my window was up. As spray went all over my window, it reminded me of something that happened when I was a teen.

We were all learning how to drive. Learners' permits were like rare jewels. We were cautioned against "joy riding", but we did it anyway.

I was always one of those people that saw the worth of a seat belt from the start. I can recall cars that did not come equipped with belts. Dad's 1973 Chevy Nova was our first car with factory installed seat belts. We used them. Maybe not "religiously", but I was taught to always put on my safety belt and I almost always did.

So one fine, warm day I found myself out on a joyride with Nanette. Nanette was older and therefore used every opportunity to rub our noses in the fact that she had had her learner's permit longer than the rest of us. In fact, her parents had signed the paperwork for her to get a "restricted" license. Nanette could drive without an adult over 21 in the vehicle. Oh, the joy.

Nanette did not see a reason to wear a seat belt. As usual, I had my belt on. We were, as I said, joyriding through our subdivision when Nanette hit a puddle. It was a deep puddle. This sprayed water all over the driver's side of the car. Water shot inside the car because, it being a warm day, Nanette had her window down.

Nanette decided this was a good time to get away from the spraying water. How, you might ask? By attempting to crawl into my lap! While Nanette was still shrieking from the surprise of becoming suddenly wet, she slid across the seat towards me. I shrieked back, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???"

"I got wet!" she squealed, as if this answered everything.

"But you are driving!" I screamed as I shoved her back across the seat. My side of the car was not a good position to work the controls! We were still doing 35 MPH down the road, if not faster.

*Sigh*. At least we lived through these things.

This incident proves the benefit of "having your vehicle firmly strapped to your ass", as I heard a pilot say on the Neal Boortz show. Belted into the driver's seat you are always in a better position to ACTUALLY CONTROL YOUR VEHICLE IN AN ACCIDENT. Imagine.

As the water dripped down my side glass and I clicked on the front wipers, Youngest squealed from his safety seat in the back, "Do it again, Mommy! That was fun."

You have no idea, son. None at all.

The Joys of the Mystery Allergy

I awoke Tuesday morning at the normal time and noticed small bumps behind my ears. My fingers brushed against that spot as I put on my glasses. "Hmm," thinks I, "perhaps this is the beginning of an allergic reaction?" I got the children ready for school and sometime before 8 AM I took a Zyrtec (antihistamine).

I went off to church and helped set up the Red Door Sale. After his school day was done, Youngest had a doctor appointment. Looking in the mirror after using the bathroom, I noticed my face was bright red. It was also starting to prickle.

We raced home and I called the allergist's office. They were at lunch, so Youngest and I had our lunch. I decided it was time to take the "rescue pack" of antihistamines. The nurse asked if I was able to drive over safely. I called Hubby to go pick up the girls from school and headed over to the allergist.

I passed Hubby inside the Midtown Tunnel. "That's a Saab. Looks just like... Hi, Honey," I waved as we passed him.

The allergist looked me over. My regular doc was not in, so I met the younger guy. He said there was no clear cut "this is what is wrong" that he could point to. "Food allergies usually happen within two hours of ingesting the allergen," he told me.

"Well, that should eliminate food. I woke up with the bumpy ears at 6:45. I had oatmeal and tea for breakfast and coffee and pretzels at church. Nothing else. Nothing weird or different."

Tired as I was from all the antihistamines rushing about my system, I still fixed dinner. I laid down for a bit and Hubby took the children off to karate. I got up and cleaned three 30 gallon bags of toys from Youngest's room. (It looks as if I might FINALLY succeed in taking more items to the Red Door Sale than I bring home.)

So, as of today, the bumps are still behind my ears. They still itch if I touch them. My face is still prickly if I think about it or touch it.

I wish to GOD I knew what caused this. I wonder if my shampoo is partly to blame?

Any and all ideas are graciously entertained.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Deux: Jake leaves a message

A good friend was having a hard time in life. It looked like just a rough patch to his friends, but Jake decided life was unbearable. Jake decided to kill himself. Then, with great planning and preparation, he did so.

Weeks later, as the details of his problems emerged, we all realized Jake had shared tiny portions of his problems with us. Unless we had all gossiped horribly about him, none of us had a large enough piece of the puzzle to realize he was about to kill himself.

I tell you this so you will realize Jake's suicide was a complete surprise.

As a friend of his widow, I wanted to do something, anything, to help her. I had a small child. (Oldest was yet to turn one.) A high-strung child did not need to be around a group of people actively grieving an unexpected loss. Hubby made the decision for me that I should do their laundry.

One more "drip in the bucket" or "straw that broke the camel's back" was that Jake's washer had broken down the week before. Laundry had piled up as they had attended to other matters. Hubby thought I could best help by getting the laundry done. Their house would be neater without a mound of two weeks laundry. The widow wouldn't have to deal with laundry when other matters were more pressing.

At first I was a little mad at Hubby. I wanted to HELP. Sure, doing laundry was a sort of help, but I wanted to be over at the house actively helping my friend. So, just a little grumpy, two days after Jake's death, I began to sort their laundry and run it through my machines.

Oldest went down for her afternoon nap. I sorted more laundry. I felt a presence in my kitchen. As I looked up, it was like someone pulled back beyond the doorway. I was sure I had imagined it. I began to think of things Jake had shared with me in the months prior to his death. "As a paramedic I saved people's lives, so if I die, I know I still made a difference." Things of that nature bubbled to the surface.

"Why did you have to do it, Jake?" I demanded of the air. "You talked to me, but didn't tell me you were THAT troubled." I ranted along this subject until I realized the presence in the kitchen was not of my imagination.

The first impression of an answer I got was "I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident."

"NO!" I snarled at the kitchen, "going out into the yard and blowing your brains out IS NOT AN ACCIDENT! You most certainly DID mean to do it." I wiped away tears, then realized Jake was trying to say something more clearly. I quit screaming at him. There was a baby upstairs attempting to nap, after all. Life was moving on for me. I still had to deal with all of life's little problems: sleeping babies, a dead friend's laundry, the living widow's laundry.

After a bit, I realized what Jake was saying. He didn't realize until he had the clarity of death to see:

Many people loved him.
Many people liked him.
Many people were damned hurt that he did not confide in them that he was having problems.
Many people were damned mad at Jake for taking his own life when he still had so much life left.

Jake had not understood.

And most important of all, Jake was sorry. Jake was very sorry for all the people he hurt. He didn't realize how many people cared that he was gone. "It was a mistake" was the correct message.

Jake asked me to tell his wife he was sorry. I explained that she was too distraught to listen right then, but in a few days I would tell her about all we had discussed.

A couple of days later, I was feeding Oldest her lunch. Her highchair was near the bay window. Oldest kept looking out the window, then back at me. A tapping on the glass started. I looked to see if a bird was pecking the pane. I could see nothing, but Oldest kept giving me a strange look. What does she see? I wondered. I felt Jake's presence again. "No, I haven't forgotten to speak to her," I informed him. "She's almost ready to listen. She can talk about you without automatically breaking into tears. I'll talk with her tomorrow."

The tapping stopped. Oldest quit staring out the window and went back to her food.

I shared the message with the widow. I've shared Jake's message with other people. I've even encouraged others to just talk to him, because he can hear us now.

A few years later, a book at a store yelled "Buy me!"

"Why in the world would I want to buy you?" I asked the book, then turned it over to read the back. It was about messages from The Other Side. I bought the book.

As I tried to read the book, Jake's presence was... annoying. "That point! Yeah, that's a good one! That page. She needs to read this. I wanted to tell her this. Buy a copy and send to her."

"Could you just SHUT UP AND LET ME READ?" I asked more than once. "I promise I will send her a copy of this book." I could literally not put the book down until I was done. I contacted her and got her correct mailing address. She had the opposite reaction to mine: a page was all she could digest at once. She, too, felt Jake's presence as she read this book.

Now I have to go dig up the book to send to someone else hurt by Jake. They need to hear Jake's apology for themselves. He didn't mean to hurt you, either.

Cats have no handles: A different look at cat washing

I cannot clain the credit for this post, but I think it to be wonderfully right on many points. I hope you enjoy this goody from the internet. --J

Some people say cats never have to be bathed. They say cats lick themselves clean. They say cats have a special enzyme of some sort in their saliva that works like New, Improved Wisk - dislodging the dirt where it hides and whisks it away. I've spent most of my life believing this folklore. Like most blind believers, I've been able to discount all the facts to the contrary - the kitty odors that lurk in the corners of the garage and dirt smudges that cling to the throw rug by the fireplace.

The time comes, however, when a man must face reality; when he must look squarely in the face of massive public sentiment to the contrary and announce: "This cat smells like a port-a-potty on a hot day in Juarez."

When that day arrives at your house, as it has in mine, I have some advice you might consider as you place your feline friend under your arm and head for the bathtub:

* Know that although the cat has the advantage of quickness and lack of concern for human life, you have the advantage of strength. Capitalize on that advantage by selecting the battlefield. Don't try to bathe him in an open area where he can force you to chase him. Pick a very small bathroom. If your bathroom is more than four feet square, I recommend that you get in the tub with the cat and close the sliding-glass doors as if you were about to take a shower. (A simple shower curtain will not do. A berserk cat can shred a three-ply rubber shower curtain quicker than a politician can shift positions.)

* Know that a cat has claws and will not hesitate to remove all the skin from your body. Your advantage here is that you are smart and know how to dress to protect yourself. I recommend canvas overalls tucked into high-top construction boots, a pair of steel-mesh gloves, an army helmet, a hockey face mask and a long-sleeve flak jacket.

* Prepare everything in advance. There is no time to go out for a towel when you have a cat digging a hole in your flak jacket. Draw the water. Make sure the bottle of kitty shampoo is inside the glass enclosure. Make sure the towel can be reached, even if you are lying on your back in the water.

* Use the element of surprise. Pick up your cat nonchalantly, as if to simply carry him to his supper dish. (Cats will not usually notice your strange attire. They have little or no interest in fashion as a rule. If he does notice your garb, calmly explain that you are taking part in a product-testing experiment for J.C. Penney.)

* Once you are inside the bathroom, speed is essential to survival. In a single liquid motion, shut the bathroom door, step into the tub enclosure, slide the glass door shut, dip the cat in the water and squirt him with shampoo. You have begun one of the wildest 45 seconds of your life. Cats have no handles. Add the fact that he now has soapy fur, and the problem is radically compounded. Do not expect to hold on to him for more that two or three seconds at a time. When you have him, however, you must remember to give him another squirt of shampoo and rub like crazy. He'll then spring free and fall back into the water, thereby rinsing himself off. (The national record is -- for cats -- three latherings, so don't expect too much.)

* Next, the cat must be dried. Novice cat bathers always assume this part will be the most difficult, for humans generally are worn out at this point and the cat is just getting really determined. In fact, the drying is simple compared to what you have just been through. That's because by now the cat is semipermanently affixed to your right leg. You simply pop the drain plug with your foot, reach for your towel and wait. (Occasionally, however, the cat will end up clinging to the top of your army helmet. If this happens, the best thing you can do is to shake him loose and to encourage him toward your leg.) After all the water is drained from the tub, it is a simple matter to just reach down and dry the cat. In a few days the cat will relax enough to be removed from your leg.

He will usually have nothing to say for about three weeks and will spend a lot of time sitting with his back to you. He might even become psychoceramic and develop the fixed stare of a plaster figurine. You will be tempted to assume he is angry. This isn't usually the case. As a rule he is simply plotting ways to get through your defenses and injure you for life the next time you decide to give him a bath. But, at least now he smells a lot better.

Are we there yet?

Gripe number uno: Split nails of any variety are NOT FUN.

I've been dealing with the index finger nail in various states of damage for the last month. After becoming damaged while still under the cuticle, the nail tried to peel down a layer. Of course this snagged on everything. I tried getting a professional to apply acrylic to the nail after regular nail polish gave up several times. I went to bed one night and awoke in the morning to a broken acrylic! Of course this managed to damage the real nail underneath.

When I finally deemed the peeled section to be close enough to the tip, I trimmed the whole nail close and carefully removed the big chip. A VERY thin layer of nail remained to protect the nail bed. This VERY thin layer decided to split yesterday. Rather than a nice, neat, side to side break, it is doing it's best to head all the way up to the cuticle! Oh, the agony!

Gripe number deux (yes, I switch languages when the mood strikes): Packing for SCA events is a pain in the rear. Also, all this packing makes my back hurt. The sad thing is I am merely going "up the road", rather than across the "kingdom" to attend said event. I'm attempting to yard sale various items my family no longer needs or wants.

I hope to convince a few newer people to buy some of my stuff. "Look! It's already made and ready to wear! You can take it home and trace it!" The problem with SCA folk is that they all think "I can do it more cheaply myself." *Sigh.* I am not a slave laborer in a third world country. You are NOT going to buy my stuff for Wal-mart prices, so just get over it!

Gripe number son: "Son" is both Japanese for "three" AND the subject of this gripe fest. The Boy-Child has decided the proper response when told not to do something is a full blown temper tantrum. Yes, I believe in a well-timed smack on the butt and have been delivering said smacks when he cranks up to full volume and refuses all logic. Screaming that makes other children wonder who is killing him is simply NOT ALLOWED. I happened to be at the school when he did it Tuesday. He repeated his performance this afternoon. This is a power play he WILL LOSE. I guarantee it.

The only good thing I can think of RIGHT NOW about going to an SCA event is the seeing of old friends. Children will be elsewhere! Yay, me! Perhaps this stress will be relieved when I set up the tent, get unpacked, and kick back to talk to a few friends. I hope to God it will be so.

Don't bug me, I'm packing... Wait! Bug me, I'm packing!

I'm wandering about the house, gathering up all the old SCA related items that my family no longer needs. Some one asked, perhaps a little worried, if I was quitting the SCA. No, I'm not "quitting".

When you've participated in something for about 20 years, you replace stuff that "will get you by" with better stuff. You have children and your chest wall grows. (Weird, but true... my armholes on my old dresses no longer fit.) You make and aquire things for children. Children grow. You decide you really don't like the thingy you made and you replaced it with a new thingy, but the old thingy would be good for another new person.

My sewing skills have improved. (Can I have a "Thank GOD!" everybody? ) I've learned a lot about historic clothing construction. I could teach a class on "Sewing Mistakes I Have Made" and would keep most people entertained for a couple of hours.

Now if I can just convince a few newer people that they would like to buy my creations, I will be SO HAPPY!