Write It Down
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
Memory is such a strange thing.
My mother can remember what I served for a meal when she visited my house in 1985. She'll pick up a cake stand in my china cupboard and ask me if Ruby Hardin gave it to me for a wedding present (1983). I tell her I have no idea. I'd have to get out my wedding album and look it up. No real need to do that--she's sure of it. Pick a winter by year (or a summer), and she can tell you the weather patterns and average temperatures.
My father, on the other hand, watched re-runs of Hawaii Five O for years with the same sense of suspense as the first time around. He insisted they were "all new to him."
I seem to have inherited more of my father's memory ability than my mother's, and although I never forget a face and am the reigning house champion of a game I invented called "where have you seen that actor before?" (Yes, the "other woman" in Tombstone is also the "other woman" in House Sitter), it bothers me that so much of my life has just been forgotten.
I never thought I would forget the days I've spent with my family--playing, traveling, home-schooling-- but I have to admit a good chunk of them are lost in the gray matter that is fast turning to mush in my aging head.
John Boy Walton had the answer of course--write it down.
Writing a journal is something that I have aspired to at various points in my life. This is how I know that I have forgotten things, because I've read about some of them in the few pages that I've written and said, "Wow! I'd forgotten all about that!" And yet it is a discipline I can't quite keep.
Back in college, my room-mates and I had a calendar that had a bit of lined space on each day, and one of us, for some reason, started jotting down things that happened. We chronicled the "near dates," the wacky dorm parties, and the day that one of my roomies shaved her legs (it didn't happen often, so was a major "call the media" event). To this day, the mention of "the calendar" brings a smile to our faces. It is kept in a safe place and brought out at every reunion.
I started another calendar this year when I was given a similar one by the gas company, but I find myself writing things like. Hot. Paid bills. Did laundry. Cleaned floors. Who cares?
And if something truly interesting (or horrifying) happens, there isn't enough space to go into detail. "EMG--a new definition of hell" might be an adequate summary but lacks the details that will make a good horror story to tell the grandchildren. No, there is nothing like taking the time to actually write down a narration of events and your thoughts about them while they are fresh in your mind. Would it be so very hard to write a bit each evening as John Boy did? Apparently so, as my journal seems to skip 7 years at a time.
I wonder what happened in those seven years. Photo albums help a bit. Oh yes, we had Christmas and birthdays...and Christmas again....and...and...birthdays.
Videos help even more, as we have the details saved on tape--what the voices sounded like, the quirks of personality that can't be captured in a photo, and of course the actual happenings. But sometimes the videos themselves leave huge unanswerable questions--the "whys" of the event. I mean, why did I throw a loaf of bread at Kevin when he was filming the boys playing in 1993, while I was on the phone in the background. Why?
For want of a journal, the "why" is lost.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
Memory is such a strange thing.
My mother can remember what I served for a meal when she visited my house in 1985. She'll pick up a cake stand in my china cupboard and ask me if Ruby Hardin gave it to me for a wedding present (1983). I tell her I have no idea. I'd have to get out my wedding album and look it up. No real need to do that--she's sure of it. Pick a winter by year (or a summer), and she can tell you the weather patterns and average temperatures.
My father, on the other hand, watched re-runs of Hawaii Five O for years with the same sense of suspense as the first time around. He insisted they were "all new to him."
I seem to have inherited more of my father's memory ability than my mother's, and although I never forget a face and am the reigning house champion of a game I invented called "where have you seen that actor before?" (Yes, the "other woman" in Tombstone is also the "other woman" in House Sitter), it bothers me that so much of my life has just been forgotten.
I never thought I would forget the days I've spent with my family--playing, traveling, home-schooling-- but I have to admit a good chunk of them are lost in the gray matter that is fast turning to mush in my aging head.
John Boy Walton had the answer of course--write it down.
Writing a journal is something that I have aspired to at various points in my life. This is how I know that I have forgotten things, because I've read about some of them in the few pages that I've written and said, "Wow! I'd forgotten all about that!" And yet it is a discipline I can't quite keep.
Back in college, my room-mates and I had a calendar that had a bit of lined space on each day, and one of us, for some reason, started jotting down things that happened. We chronicled the "near dates," the wacky dorm parties, and the day that one of my roomies shaved her legs (it didn't happen often, so was a major "call the media" event). To this day, the mention of "the calendar" brings a smile to our faces. It is kept in a safe place and brought out at every reunion.
I started another calendar this year when I was given a similar one by the gas company, but I find myself writing things like. Hot. Paid bills. Did laundry. Cleaned floors. Who cares?
And if something truly interesting (or horrifying) happens, there isn't enough space to go into detail. "EMG--a new definition of hell" might be an adequate summary but lacks the details that will make a good horror story to tell the grandchildren. No, there is nothing like taking the time to actually write down a narration of events and your thoughts about them while they are fresh in your mind. Would it be so very hard to write a bit each evening as John Boy did? Apparently so, as my journal seems to skip 7 years at a time.
I wonder what happened in those seven years. Photo albums help a bit. Oh yes, we had Christmas and birthdays...and Christmas again....and...and...birthdays.
Videos help even more, as we have the details saved on tape--what the voices sounded like, the quirks of personality that can't be captured in a photo, and of course the actual happenings. But sometimes the videos themselves leave huge unanswerable questions--the "whys" of the event. I mean, why did I throw a loaf of bread at Kevin when he was filming the boys playing in 1993, while I was on the phone in the background. Why?
For want of a journal, the "why" is lost.
Beware of Summertime Invaders
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
They are as stealthy as ninjas, as invisible as air. They sense your presence even though you are oblivious to theirs. As you go about your happy lives, they are waiting. They will cross the border and attack and have you for lunch without you even knowing it. Illegal aliens? Maybe. Terrorists? Definitely.
They are chiggers.
A creature so tiny that you don't even feel it crawling up your legs. A creature so sure of what it wants, it doesn't stop to take a bite until it reaches its goal. The lazy ones go for the socks--just a few inches of shoe to climb, and its dinnertime. The more ambitious ones head upward looking for the perfect place of resistance--the tight squeeze, the dark cranny. Their god is elastic. Elastic tells them it is time to eat.
And eat they do. You will pay for that fifteen minutes of standing in the grass for at least a week-- probably two. That burning itch will wake you up in the middle of the night, and as you slather on the hydrocortisone cream and take another swig of benedryl, you'll relive the probable time of attack over and over, trying to make sense of it all.
"Did I really stand in the grass for fifteen minutes? What was I thinking? Did I really forget the bug spray? How could I have been so stupid?"
But it's too late for regrets. All you can do is plan for next time.
The idea came to me at 3 a.m. as my fingernails peeled another layer of skin off my ankles. Maybe the best defense is no defense. No resistance. No elastic. Somehow at that hour, it seemed brilliant. If one is naked, won't they just keep marching to the top of one's head and jump off?
My husband thought it was a great idea and thought I should try out my theory as soon as possible. He said he'd even stay home from work, observe, and take notes--all in the interest of science, of course. Unfortunately the heat has done a number on my trees along the road, and they don't provide the privacy they should. So I guess for now, all naked-standing-in-the-grass experiments are on hold.
But, chiggers, be warned: we can't see you, but we know you're out there waiting, and we won't forget the Deep Woods OFF again--at least not until next summer.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
They are as stealthy as ninjas, as invisible as air. They sense your presence even though you are oblivious to theirs. As you go about your happy lives, they are waiting. They will cross the border and attack and have you for lunch without you even knowing it. Illegal aliens? Maybe. Terrorists? Definitely.
They are chiggers.
A creature so tiny that you don't even feel it crawling up your legs. A creature so sure of what it wants, it doesn't stop to take a bite until it reaches its goal. The lazy ones go for the socks--just a few inches of shoe to climb, and its dinnertime. The more ambitious ones head upward looking for the perfect place of resistance--the tight squeeze, the dark cranny. Their god is elastic. Elastic tells them it is time to eat.
And eat they do. You will pay for that fifteen minutes of standing in the grass for at least a week-- probably two. That burning itch will wake you up in the middle of the night, and as you slather on the hydrocortisone cream and take another swig of benedryl, you'll relive the probable time of attack over and over, trying to make sense of it all.
"Did I really stand in the grass for fifteen minutes? What was I thinking? Did I really forget the bug spray? How could I have been so stupid?"
But it's too late for regrets. All you can do is plan for next time.
The idea came to me at 3 a.m. as my fingernails peeled another layer of skin off my ankles. Maybe the best defense is no defense. No resistance. No elastic. Somehow at that hour, it seemed brilliant. If one is naked, won't they just keep marching to the top of one's head and jump off?
My husband thought it was a great idea and thought I should try out my theory as soon as possible. He said he'd even stay home from work, observe, and take notes--all in the interest of science, of course. Unfortunately the heat has done a number on my trees along the road, and they don't provide the privacy they should. So I guess for now, all naked-standing-in-the-grass experiments are on hold.
But, chiggers, be warned: we can't see you, but we know you're out there waiting, and we won't forget the Deep Woods OFF again--at least not until next summer.
More Than a Pretty Crow
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
It's all my fault, I know.
I'm the one who sent my son, Tracy, out with the trash. If I had taken it out myself, I probably would have walked a different way--I wouldn't have seen it. But I didn't do it myself, and Tracy did see it, and he picked it up and insisted we "save it."
The "it" was a young blue jay--too old to be called a baby, too young to survive by itself. I have to admit my heart sank at the prospect of attempting to keep it alive. And anyway, weren't blue jays just pretty crows? Did we really need to save one? Wouldn't it just hog all the bird seed next winter from the more...more...special birds? Why bother?
But I didn't have the heart to leave it to starve, or worse yet, be the afternoon entertainment of one of my eight cats. It had its wing feathers so it seemed at least possible that we might be able to keep it alive for a day--then we'd take it to Wild Care. Except that we found out that Wild Care no longer existed. Thus began our three-week adventure with "Birdie."
After it kept hopping out of its bucket "nest," I put it, ironically, in our cat carrier with a stick poked through for a perch and hoisted it up in a tree to keep it away from cat paws and cat jaws.
It got hungry every hour or so, cawing and flapping its wings when we approached. Thanks to the web, we found out we could feed it raisins and raw hamburger--catching enough bugs to fill it up proved to be very time consuming. The vet told me that worms would help its digestion, and if I rolled them in dirt and sand, they would be even better.
The worms, however, must have been listening, packed their bags, and left the state. Hardly a worm could be found, so I sent my husband to a bait shop. There we got more worm than we bargained for--night crawlers so big, only a hawk could have downed them. So the squirmy things had to be cut up, and even then some of the more wriggly pieces tried to crawl back up as Birdie attempted to gulp them down. She made a funny little sound when she ate that I called her "yum yum sound." And she grew.
And somewhere in there, we started thinking of it as a she, even though the internet said that male and female were virtually indistinguishable. And somewhere in there she stopped being any blue jay--she became our blue jay.
I loved the way she stretched her wings first on one side, then on the other. I laughed every time she stuck her strange, barbed tongue out of the side of her beak when she was full, and I was impressed with her manners when I gave her a nut, which she politely laid back down in her dish. Only a pretty crow? What we learned from Birdie in three weeks continues to amaze us.
We found out that a bird poops as soon as they eat something new--evidently there is just so much room in there.
Watching her hop from shoe to shoe, and later from branch to branch, completely changed what we thought we knew about the way birds learn to fly.
Trees became more than just tall things with leaves that bring us shade--looking through a bird's eyes, they became highways in the air filled with crawly things to eat.
We learned up close how feathers grow in and how their color changes in the sunlight; that a blue jay cleans, or perhaps sharpens, its beak by striking it against a branch; and that even young birds have definite culinary tastes.
Then it happened.
I went to the small tree she had been hopping around in to see if she wanted to come down for something to eat, (at this stage she loved cat food and blueberries) but she was gone. After surveying the ground for a pile of blue feathers and calling for her in the surrounding trees, I was satisfied that she had really flown away. A sad moment, but also a sense of relief (no more hourly feedings!) and accomplishment. We really had done it--we had kept her alive until she could fly away.
Why bother? Because we could. Bye bye, Birdie, and thanks.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
It's all my fault, I know.
I'm the one who sent my son, Tracy, out with the trash. If I had taken it out myself, I probably would have walked a different way--I wouldn't have seen it. But I didn't do it myself, and Tracy did see it, and he picked it up and insisted we "save it."
The "it" was a young blue jay--too old to be called a baby, too young to survive by itself. I have to admit my heart sank at the prospect of attempting to keep it alive. And anyway, weren't blue jays just pretty crows? Did we really need to save one? Wouldn't it just hog all the bird seed next winter from the more...more...special birds? Why bother?
But I didn't have the heart to leave it to starve, or worse yet, be the afternoon entertainment of one of my eight cats. It had its wing feathers so it seemed at least possible that we might be able to keep it alive for a day--then we'd take it to Wild Care. Except that we found out that Wild Care no longer existed. Thus began our three-week adventure with "Birdie."
After it kept hopping out of its bucket "nest," I put it, ironically, in our cat carrier with a stick poked through for a perch and hoisted it up in a tree to keep it away from cat paws and cat jaws.
It got hungry every hour or so, cawing and flapping its wings when we approached. Thanks to the web, we found out we could feed it raisins and raw hamburger--catching enough bugs to fill it up proved to be very time consuming. The vet told me that worms would help its digestion, and if I rolled them in dirt and sand, they would be even better.
The worms, however, must have been listening, packed their bags, and left the state. Hardly a worm could be found, so I sent my husband to a bait shop. There we got more worm than we bargained for--night crawlers so big, only a hawk could have downed them. So the squirmy things had to be cut up, and even then some of the more wriggly pieces tried to crawl back up as Birdie attempted to gulp them down. She made a funny little sound when she ate that I called her "yum yum sound." And she grew.
And somewhere in there, we started thinking of it as a she, even though the internet said that male and female were virtually indistinguishable. And somewhere in there she stopped being any blue jay--she became our blue jay.
I loved the way she stretched her wings first on one side, then on the other. I laughed every time she stuck her strange, barbed tongue out of the side of her beak when she was full, and I was impressed with her manners when I gave her a nut, which she politely laid back down in her dish. Only a pretty crow? What we learned from Birdie in three weeks continues to amaze us.
We found out that a bird poops as soon as they eat something new--evidently there is just so much room in there.
Watching her hop from shoe to shoe, and later from branch to branch, completely changed what we thought we knew about the way birds learn to fly.
Trees became more than just tall things with leaves that bring us shade--looking through a bird's eyes, they became highways in the air filled with crawly things to eat.
We learned up close how feathers grow in and how their color changes in the sunlight; that a blue jay cleans, or perhaps sharpens, its beak by striking it against a branch; and that even young birds have definite culinary tastes.
Then it happened.
I went to the small tree she had been hopping around in to see if she wanted to come down for something to eat, (at this stage she loved cat food and blueberries) but she was gone. After surveying the ground for a pile of blue feathers and calling for her in the surrounding trees, I was satisfied that she had really flown away. A sad moment, but also a sense of relief (no more hourly feedings!) and accomplishment. We really had done it--we had kept her alive until she could fly away.
Why bother? Because we could. Bye bye, Birdie, and thanks.
Scrape, Scrape, Scrape
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
I have a recurring dream.
Men in a large truck turn in my driveway. They greet me with a big smile when I open the door and say, "Maam, we at the Last Forever Siding Company want to use your sorry looking house for our next promotion. We will reduce our usual price of a bajillion and two dollars to a mere fifty and some change. That's right, Maam, your entire house sided by us for only fifty bucks."
And that's when I do back flips across the lawn singing the Hallelujah Chorus until I get a pain in my neck that wakes me up.
And that's when I realize that the pain in my neck (and shoulder and arm) is not from an outdoor gymnastic routine, but from the tedium of scraping paint on the side of my house. A task that never seems to end.
I've been convinced two or three times that I was all finished with the scraping part and could move on to priming. But then I see a spot that seems to scream out, "Scrape me! Scrape me!" So I lift my scraper to the spot and peel off a piece the size of a quarter.
But it doesn't end there. Oh no, that's just the beginning. Two and a half hours later, my eyes are crossing, my arm feels like a noodle, and I'm mumbling, "Just walk away. Just turn and walk away."
What makes this task particularly annoying is that I already did this just a few short years ago. One gets the idea that the paint companies have been hired by the vinyl siding companies to do their advertising for them. And believe me there isn't any better advertising for vinyl siding than doing your own paint scraping, priming, and painting. And if I had a bajillion and two dollars, I'd have the Last Forever Siding Company out here in a heartbeat. But since I barely have a spare fifty, it's scrape, scrape, scrape.
Maybe the problem is that I didn't scrape it well enough the first time I painted. I thought I only needed to scrape off what would come off easily, but the other sides of the house were scraped by teens that powered all the old paint off with sheer testosterone . And their sides aren't peeling.
But this then is the dilemma--how much is enough? If I have to power it all off, I'll be scraping way past my before-it-freezes-deadline. And if I force myself to stop, will I be doing it all again in 4 years?
I'm probably being punished for the peeling paint on the Study Hall wall that I just couldn't resist picking at. A spot that started out the size of a nickel, ended up the size of a dinner plate by the end of seventh grade. I'm sorry, Mr. Jones--please let me out of paint scraping hell!
I suppose another way to look at it is that I'm out in the sunshine enjoying the last of the year's nice weather. At least that's what people tell me when I complain. However, I'm pretty sure I could come up with other things to do outside to enjoy the weather.
Let's see, there's the branches that need to be hauled to the wood pile and the fence that needs fixed because it was broken by said branches when they came down in a wind storm. There's the manure pile that needs spread and last year's hay that needs moved to make room for new. There's the trees that need cut out of the windbreak and--who am I kidding? With alternatives like that, I may as well be scraping paint!
Well, at least I'm keeping my biceps, triceps or whatever-ceps in shape. Of course, my right arm is gonna look like Popeye and my left like Betty Spaghetti. I guess I'll have to move those hay bales with just my left. I'll get right on it after this infernal paint job is done.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
I have a recurring dream.
Men in a large truck turn in my driveway. They greet me with a big smile when I open the door and say, "Maam, we at the Last Forever Siding Company want to use your sorry looking house for our next promotion. We will reduce our usual price of a bajillion and two dollars to a mere fifty and some change. That's right, Maam, your entire house sided by us for only fifty bucks."
And that's when I do back flips across the lawn singing the Hallelujah Chorus until I get a pain in my neck that wakes me up.
And that's when I realize that the pain in my neck (and shoulder and arm) is not from an outdoor gymnastic routine, but from the tedium of scraping paint on the side of my house. A task that never seems to end.
I've been convinced two or three times that I was all finished with the scraping part and could move on to priming. But then I see a spot that seems to scream out, "Scrape me! Scrape me!" So I lift my scraper to the spot and peel off a piece the size of a quarter.
But it doesn't end there. Oh no, that's just the beginning. Two and a half hours later, my eyes are crossing, my arm feels like a noodle, and I'm mumbling, "Just walk away. Just turn and walk away."
What makes this task particularly annoying is that I already did this just a few short years ago. One gets the idea that the paint companies have been hired by the vinyl siding companies to do their advertising for them. And believe me there isn't any better advertising for vinyl siding than doing your own paint scraping, priming, and painting. And if I had a bajillion and two dollars, I'd have the Last Forever Siding Company out here in a heartbeat. But since I barely have a spare fifty, it's scrape, scrape, scrape.
Maybe the problem is that I didn't scrape it well enough the first time I painted. I thought I only needed to scrape off what would come off easily, but the other sides of the house were scraped by teens that powered all the old paint off with sheer testosterone . And their sides aren't peeling.
But this then is the dilemma--how much is enough? If I have to power it all off, I'll be scraping way past my before-it-freezes-deadline. And if I force myself to stop, will I be doing it all again in 4 years?
I'm probably being punished for the peeling paint on the Study Hall wall that I just couldn't resist picking at. A spot that started out the size of a nickel, ended up the size of a dinner plate by the end of seventh grade. I'm sorry, Mr. Jones--please let me out of paint scraping hell!
I suppose another way to look at it is that I'm out in the sunshine enjoying the last of the year's nice weather. At least that's what people tell me when I complain. However, I'm pretty sure I could come up with other things to do outside to enjoy the weather.
Let's see, there's the branches that need to be hauled to the wood pile and the fence that needs fixed because it was broken by said branches when they came down in a wind storm. There's the manure pile that needs spread and last year's hay that needs moved to make room for new. There's the trees that need cut out of the windbreak and--who am I kidding? With alternatives like that, I may as well be scraping paint!
Well, at least I'm keeping my biceps, triceps or whatever-ceps in shape. Of course, my right arm is gonna look like Popeye and my left like Betty Spaghetti. I guess I'll have to move those hay bales with just my left. I'll get right on it after this infernal paint job is done.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Life With Cats
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
I think it's fair to say that I live with cats. They don't live with me-that would make them seem far too dependent. And while it is true that as housecats, they would be lost without my opposable thumbs, they are the true masters of the house.
My family and I are a bit like a lab experiment in which the animals have to figure out which buttons to push to get what they want. Each one has figured out the buttons to get out, to get in, to get milk, to get petted, to get their collars off...
Tawny has a completely different method for getting us to let her out than Zoey, Misty, or Buffy. While Buffy will simply meow at the door, Misty claws my leg if I'm working at my desk or claws on the wall if I'm not. Zoey always claws on a corner of the rug making it flop up and down in the middle of the night, but Tawny either does some fast paw action on the door or gets on the dresser to knock things off.
Getting in requires a whole different set of antics, and after leaping up to let one of the four in or out for the zillionth time, I wonder how on earth we ever got to this point...
Misty is the reigning queen and one of the few cats of our brood that we actually picked out and brought home--even though home was just across the street. She makes up for her small size with the attitude of a mountain lion and has been known to leap on the head of an intruding rottweiler without a second thought. She likes to be petted right up to the split second that she doesn't. Then she bites you.
Misty has the strange quirk of going through the laundry to find socks. Then she does that "I've got a mouse for you" call cats use with their kittens. In her mind it must be the perfect catch--easy to run down, doesn't try to get away, her people seem more pleased than when she drags in a 2 lb. dead rat...
There was a time when we put her and her two grown kittens out of the house--permanently out. We were fed up with the lot of them clawing the furniture and the woodwork. They were now outdoor cats. Period.
After a few days a sock showed up on the front step. And the next day, another. Was she raiding someone's clothesline, or had she charmed another household in the neighborhood for the sole purpose of lifting their socks? We decided it best to let her back in the house before the KBI got involved.
Picked up off the highway where she must have been rolled but uninjured, Zoey spends most of the summer outside but hibernates in the house during the winter. She gets the urge to "mix bread" on my pillow in the middle of the night--right by my ear.
Personality plus--that's our Buffy. My paper towel holder is empty--the paper towel roll hidden away lest Buffy get a hold of it in the night and tear it to shreds. I make sure nothing valuable or breakable is on the table, because Buff might just do a tablecloth slide that sends everything on the table crashing to the floor.
He was part of an entire litter brought back from a trip to the Nebraska farm where I grew up--a rescue mission of sorts. I'm his mommy and his nighttime snuggle buddy. Several times a night he curls up next to me and sticks his cold nose in my neck.
The worst nighttime offender, Tawny migrated over from the neighbors' and is as lazy about washing her ultra fluffy fur as Buffy is fastidious about his sleek coat. He tries to hold her down and give her a good bathing...at night...on my chest. Oddly enough, Tawny is the only one that likes to bathe us...our faces...at 2 a.m.
So why do we put up with it all? Wasn't getting two boys through childhood enough--to get them through nightmares and potty training, ear infections and tonsillitis? What is this masochistic need we have to never sleep?
Maybe it's because the cats are so happy to be loved. (even Misty when the time is right.) They want to be close to us, they talk to us, and they purr their contentment.
When was the last time you got that from teenagers?
by Jodi Bowersox© 2006
I think it's fair to say that I live with cats. They don't live with me-that would make them seem far too dependent. And while it is true that as housecats, they would be lost without my opposable thumbs, they are the true masters of the house.
My family and I are a bit like a lab experiment in which the animals have to figure out which buttons to push to get what they want. Each one has figured out the buttons to get out, to get in, to get milk, to get petted, to get their collars off...
Tawny has a completely different method for getting us to let her out than Zoey, Misty, or Buffy. While Buffy will simply meow at the door, Misty claws my leg if I'm working at my desk or claws on the wall if I'm not. Zoey always claws on a corner of the rug making it flop up and down in the middle of the night, but Tawny either does some fast paw action on the door or gets on the dresser to knock things off.
Getting in requires a whole different set of antics, and after leaping up to let one of the four in or out for the zillionth time, I wonder how on earth we ever got to this point...
Misty is the reigning queen and one of the few cats of our brood that we actually picked out and brought home--even though home was just across the street. She makes up for her small size with the attitude of a mountain lion and has been known to leap on the head of an intruding rottweiler without a second thought. She likes to be petted right up to the split second that she doesn't. Then she bites you.
Misty has the strange quirk of going through the laundry to find socks. Then she does that "I've got a mouse for you" call cats use with their kittens. In her mind it must be the perfect catch--easy to run down, doesn't try to get away, her people seem more pleased than when she drags in a 2 lb. dead rat...
There was a time when we put her and her two grown kittens out of the house--permanently out. We were fed up with the lot of them clawing the furniture and the woodwork. They were now outdoor cats. Period.
After a few days a sock showed up on the front step. And the next day, another. Was she raiding someone's clothesline, or had she charmed another household in the neighborhood for the sole purpose of lifting their socks? We decided it best to let her back in the house before the KBI got involved.
Picked up off the highway where she must have been rolled but uninjured, Zoey spends most of the summer outside but hibernates in the house during the winter. She gets the urge to "mix bread" on my pillow in the middle of the night--right by my ear.
Personality plus--that's our Buffy. My paper towel holder is empty--the paper towel roll hidden away lest Buffy get a hold of it in the night and tear it to shreds. I make sure nothing valuable or breakable is on the table, because Buff might just do a tablecloth slide that sends everything on the table crashing to the floor.
He was part of an entire litter brought back from a trip to the Nebraska farm where I grew up--a rescue mission of sorts. I'm his mommy and his nighttime snuggle buddy. Several times a night he curls up next to me and sticks his cold nose in my neck.
The worst nighttime offender, Tawny migrated over from the neighbors' and is as lazy about washing her ultra fluffy fur as Buffy is fastidious about his sleek coat. He tries to hold her down and give her a good bathing...at night...on my chest. Oddly enough, Tawny is the only one that likes to bathe us...our faces...at 2 a.m.
So why do we put up with it all? Wasn't getting two boys through childhood enough--to get them through nightmares and potty training, ear infections and tonsillitis? What is this masochistic need we have to never sleep?
Maybe it's because the cats are so happy to be loved. (even Misty when the time is right.) They want to be close to us, they talk to us, and they purr their contentment.
When was the last time you got that from teenagers?
Warehouse Buying to Warehouse Living
by Jodi Bowersox© 2007
I know I’m behind the times, and people have been doing it for years. I’ve heard them talking about making a Sam’s run and getting the best deal at Sam’s, but until recently, I had never been there myself. I’m talking, of course, about Sam’s Club--a big warehouse where all of your shopping dreams come true-- at least if you want whatever you want in mass quantities.
The atmosphere is, well, cold, to say the least, and actually rather unsettling. I was assaulted immediately upon entering by a woman who wanted to give me a hand spa treatment. It didn’t really seem like a warehouse club sort of thing, but I thought, sure, why not. This whole Sam’s thing is a new experience-- let’s try everything.
So I got my hands scrubbed with a sea salt solution and then soothed with a lotion in my choice of 3 fragrances. I learned that all the fragrances were in the package deal she was trying to sell me, along with a cuticle conditioner. Didn’t my hands feel great? Of course they did--use any kind of grit--uh, I mean "microdermabrasion" on your skin and it will feel soft--for about a day. How often can you use this stuff, though, before you are out of skin and have bones sticking out? The whole Spa Hand Treatment sold for close to $50. No thank you. I’ll just salt my driveway without gloves and throw on some Suave lotion when I’m done for $2.29.
I was pulled aside again by another gal who just wanted me to pick out my favorite sunroom from the six or eight pictures she was sticking under my nose. I politely picked one out, and before I could take a step away, she flipped her laminated card over and began a fast pitch.
"That one? Well, it just so happens that you can purchase that sunroom today for just--"
"I’m sorry, maam, I can’t do that," I said, moving away.
"Really? Why not?" she asked incredulously, as if money was not in the least a consideration-- as if I came from another planet where sunrooms must be shunned and abhorred. And indeed I was beginning to feel like I had come from another planet. Was it too late to just leave? But my husband was pressing on, so I mumbled something to the sunroom pusher and hurried to catch up.
I went in with a list of various items--envelopes, printer paper, paper clips...I had no idea that the smallest box of envelopes would contain a quantity of 500. How long will it take us to use 500 envelopes? Oh, I’d say at least 5 years ( and that with yearly CF fundraising letters). Did we buy them? Of course we did--the price was great! And printer paper? Well, the best deal was on a box of 5000. I think even my paper-wasteful kids will have a hard time using that up any time soon. (I did pass on the paperclips. I draw the line at a box of paperclips I can’t lift. I don’t want to have to leave paperclips to my kids in my will.)
We found seasonings, gravy mixes, and feta cheese in larger than average containers. We bought blueberry muffins to put in the freezer and took note of the huge bags of shredded cheese. We actually bought a 1.5 gallon jug of liquid soap! I know if we had put our backs into it, we could have stocked up for and waited out an apocalypse of 50 years or more. Of course, we would need a second or even a third house to put it all in, but with all that money saved, we could probably afford several more mortgages.
Hey, now I get it! If you shop at Sam’s you will save so much money you can afford a hand spa treatment AND a sunroom! (I’m going to need that sunroom to store all the extra toilet paper.) But, of course, since we spent probably twice what we would have normally spent getting all those great deals, it will have to wait for awhile. Maybe next month...okay...year.
In the meantime, I’m thinking we need to have a garage sale to clear out some things we don’t need. I mean, when you think about it, furniture takes up a lot of space that could be used for gallons of detergent and motor oil, and 40-box-packs of Teddy Grahams.
Ah, Sam’s, how did we ever live without you?
by Jodi Bowersox© 2007
I know I’m behind the times, and people have been doing it for years. I’ve heard them talking about making a Sam’s run and getting the best deal at Sam’s, but until recently, I had never been there myself. I’m talking, of course, about Sam’s Club--a big warehouse where all of your shopping dreams come true-- at least if you want whatever you want in mass quantities.
The atmosphere is, well, cold, to say the least, and actually rather unsettling. I was assaulted immediately upon entering by a woman who wanted to give me a hand spa treatment. It didn’t really seem like a warehouse club sort of thing, but I thought, sure, why not. This whole Sam’s thing is a new experience-- let’s try everything.
So I got my hands scrubbed with a sea salt solution and then soothed with a lotion in my choice of 3 fragrances. I learned that all the fragrances were in the package deal she was trying to sell me, along with a cuticle conditioner. Didn’t my hands feel great? Of course they did--use any kind of grit--uh, I mean "microdermabrasion" on your skin and it will feel soft--for about a day. How often can you use this stuff, though, before you are out of skin and have bones sticking out? The whole Spa Hand Treatment sold for close to $50. No thank you. I’ll just salt my driveway without gloves and throw on some Suave lotion when I’m done for $2.29.
I was pulled aside again by another gal who just wanted me to pick out my favorite sunroom from the six or eight pictures she was sticking under my nose. I politely picked one out, and before I could take a step away, she flipped her laminated card over and began a fast pitch.
"That one? Well, it just so happens that you can purchase that sunroom today for just--"
"I’m sorry, maam, I can’t do that," I said, moving away.
"Really? Why not?" she asked incredulously, as if money was not in the least a consideration-- as if I came from another planet where sunrooms must be shunned and abhorred. And indeed I was beginning to feel like I had come from another planet. Was it too late to just leave? But my husband was pressing on, so I mumbled something to the sunroom pusher and hurried to catch up.
I went in with a list of various items--envelopes, printer paper, paper clips...I had no idea that the smallest box of envelopes would contain a quantity of 500. How long will it take us to use 500 envelopes? Oh, I’d say at least 5 years ( and that with yearly CF fundraising letters). Did we buy them? Of course we did--the price was great! And printer paper? Well, the best deal was on a box of 5000. I think even my paper-wasteful kids will have a hard time using that up any time soon. (I did pass on the paperclips. I draw the line at a box of paperclips I can’t lift. I don’t want to have to leave paperclips to my kids in my will.)
We found seasonings, gravy mixes, and feta cheese in larger than average containers. We bought blueberry muffins to put in the freezer and took note of the huge bags of shredded cheese. We actually bought a 1.5 gallon jug of liquid soap! I know if we had put our backs into it, we could have stocked up for and waited out an apocalypse of 50 years or more. Of course, we would need a second or even a third house to put it all in, but with all that money saved, we could probably afford several more mortgages.
Hey, now I get it! If you shop at Sam’s you will save so much money you can afford a hand spa treatment AND a sunroom! (I’m going to need that sunroom to store all the extra toilet paper.) But, of course, since we spent probably twice what we would have normally spent getting all those great deals, it will have to wait for awhile. Maybe next month...okay...year.
In the meantime, I’m thinking we need to have a garage sale to clear out some things we don’t need. I mean, when you think about it, furniture takes up a lot of space that could be used for gallons of detergent and motor oil, and 40-box-packs of Teddy Grahams.
Ah, Sam’s, how did we ever live without you?
Out of the Dust
by Jodi Bowersox© 2007
If you can't stand the dust, get out of the country!
That is, in essence, what we rural dwellers are told when we complain about the offending powder that envelopes our houses, coats our window screens and rose bushes, and chokes out Aunt Sally's BBQ birthday party. We're labeled whiners and spoiled urbanites who didn't count the cost of chip and seal.
It's true it never occurred to us that we'd have to have a budget category for Dust Abatement due to constantly replacing air filters and vacuum bags, and paying our kids to dust the furniture every other day.
And yes, we were clueless as to the allergens that ride around on this dust looking for victims. I never dreamed I'd say to my kid, "You better not go outside today--it wouldn't be good for your health. Just play another couple hours of Nintendo."
I've spent 8 years checking the dust level outside in addition to the temperature and humidity, but due to the recent paving of County Road 30, I'm no longer among the ranks of the dust-covered.
I can now walk through my grass without stirring up a cloud that would rival that of the comic strip character, Pigpen.
The recent rain washed off all the bushes, and THEY STAYED THAT WAY.
I'M PLANNING A BBQ.
I'm reveling in a world that's brighter, a sky that's bluer, and air that's fresher, but I haven't forgotten those of you still "left in the dust." Allow me to do a bit of complaining on your behalf.
I'd be the first to admit that a certain amount of dust is expected in the country, but it really isn't necessary for us to live in the proverbial dust bowl where dust hangs in the air on still evenings like fog. I grew up in the country in Nebraska at an intersection of two gravel roads, and I never experienced the kind of dust we have in Leavenworth County.
The key word in that last sentence is GRAVEL. River rock-type gravel doesn't get crushed into dust in a week like limestone. And that truckload of "rock" the county dumps on periodically is at least 75% dust to start with! (The other 25% is made up of the sharpest rocks they can find. I may be paranoid, but I think they have bets on tire punctures.)
I know, I know, "You'll never get stuck on a rock road." But once it has a base of rock, couldn't something be put on top that doesn't turn every inch of our property and lungs gray?
So, country dwellers, unite! Don't let them call you whiny and clueless! Keep complaining! Keep asking for less dust in every load. Keep asking for river rock gravel. I'm no longer one of you, but I still feel your pain--just not as much as I did last week.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2007
If you can't stand the dust, get out of the country!
That is, in essence, what we rural dwellers are told when we complain about the offending powder that envelopes our houses, coats our window screens and rose bushes, and chokes out Aunt Sally's BBQ birthday party. We're labeled whiners and spoiled urbanites who didn't count the cost of chip and seal.
It's true it never occurred to us that we'd have to have a budget category for Dust Abatement due to constantly replacing air filters and vacuum bags, and paying our kids to dust the furniture every other day.
And yes, we were clueless as to the allergens that ride around on this dust looking for victims. I never dreamed I'd say to my kid, "You better not go outside today--it wouldn't be good for your health. Just play another couple hours of Nintendo."
I've spent 8 years checking the dust level outside in addition to the temperature and humidity, but due to the recent paving of County Road 30, I'm no longer among the ranks of the dust-covered.
I can now walk through my grass without stirring up a cloud that would rival that of the comic strip character, Pigpen.
The recent rain washed off all the bushes, and THEY STAYED THAT WAY.
I'M PLANNING A BBQ.
I'm reveling in a world that's brighter, a sky that's bluer, and air that's fresher, but I haven't forgotten those of you still "left in the dust." Allow me to do a bit of complaining on your behalf.
I'd be the first to admit that a certain amount of dust is expected in the country, but it really isn't necessary for us to live in the proverbial dust bowl where dust hangs in the air on still evenings like fog. I grew up in the country in Nebraska at an intersection of two gravel roads, and I never experienced the kind of dust we have in Leavenworth County.
The key word in that last sentence is GRAVEL. River rock-type gravel doesn't get crushed into dust in a week like limestone. And that truckload of "rock" the county dumps on periodically is at least 75% dust to start with! (The other 25% is made up of the sharpest rocks they can find. I may be paranoid, but I think they have bets on tire punctures.)
I know, I know, "You'll never get stuck on a rock road." But once it has a base of rock, couldn't something be put on top that doesn't turn every inch of our property and lungs gray?
So, country dwellers, unite! Don't let them call you whiny and clueless! Keep complaining! Keep asking for less dust in every load. Keep asking for river rock gravel. I'm no longer one of you, but I still feel your pain--just not as much as I did last week.
The Unique Jobs of Motherhood
by Jodi Bowersox© 2008
We all know that moms wear many hats. They wear the hats of the nurse, chef, maid, taxi cab driver, referee, guidance counselor, and friend, to name just a few.
These are hats I sort of expected to wear upon becoming a mom. There are a few hats, however, I've been forced to wear that I never could have dreamed up if I'd tried.
Who'd have thought, for example, that I, and I alone, had the skills necessary to put the Band-aid box back in the medicine cabinet and those little papers you pull off the Band-aid in the trash. I seem to be the only one qualified to do this job in my house.
Another job that I have a special talent for is turning off lights. The kids only got turning-on genes. Due to a genetic mutation, the skill required to move the hand in a downward motion over the switch was not passed on to my progeny. Hence, it is my duty to go around the house several times every evening saving the planet by turning off lights in unoccupied rooms.
Sadly, another gene gone awry in my family tree is the ability to see a mess. So I use another of my unique skills and make the mess visible to the vision-impaired by moving all items that need put away to the center of the room. The greater concentration of molecules creates a faint outline of the clutter so that, if they squint, they can actually see it. It's kind of like giving a person a pair of glasses that lets them see in infrared.
I am also uniquely qualified to shut our utility room door, which I do numerous times a day. It's right off the kitchen, and frankly, isn't the best-kept room in the house. I don't like looking into it, but due to the aforementioned vision disability, no one else sees anything in there at all, except the store of pop, which is the reason the door is opened so much. (A pop can only becomes a mess, and therefore invisible, after the last sip is drained.)
So who knew when I was wasting four years on a Theatre Degree that my real skills would only show up after having children. In the theatre world I would be just one of millions of wanna-be actresses, but here at home I'm one of a kind--I'm mom.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2008
We all know that moms wear many hats. They wear the hats of the nurse, chef, maid, taxi cab driver, referee, guidance counselor, and friend, to name just a few.
These are hats I sort of expected to wear upon becoming a mom. There are a few hats, however, I've been forced to wear that I never could have dreamed up if I'd tried.
Who'd have thought, for example, that I, and I alone, had the skills necessary to put the Band-aid box back in the medicine cabinet and those little papers you pull off the Band-aid in the trash. I seem to be the only one qualified to do this job in my house.
Another job that I have a special talent for is turning off lights. The kids only got turning-on genes. Due to a genetic mutation, the skill required to move the hand in a downward motion over the switch was not passed on to my progeny. Hence, it is my duty to go around the house several times every evening saving the planet by turning off lights in unoccupied rooms.
Sadly, another gene gone awry in my family tree is the ability to see a mess. So I use another of my unique skills and make the mess visible to the vision-impaired by moving all items that need put away to the center of the room. The greater concentration of molecules creates a faint outline of the clutter so that, if they squint, they can actually see it. It's kind of like giving a person a pair of glasses that lets them see in infrared.
I am also uniquely qualified to shut our utility room door, which I do numerous times a day. It's right off the kitchen, and frankly, isn't the best-kept room in the house. I don't like looking into it, but due to the aforementioned vision disability, no one else sees anything in there at all, except the store of pop, which is the reason the door is opened so much. (A pop can only becomes a mess, and therefore invisible, after the last sip is drained.)
So who knew when I was wasting four years on a Theatre Degree that my real skills would only show up after having children. In the theatre world I would be just one of millions of wanna-be actresses, but here at home I'm one of a kind--I'm mom.
A Population Plugged-In
by Jodi Bowersox© 2008
By now, we've all been there. We've all witnessed the woman with a carload of kids maneuvering through Kansas City traffic holding a cell phone. We've all yelled the admonition to “hang up and drive!”
We've all cringed at the lady walking through the shampoo aisle in Wal-Mart having a conversation that would rival the drama of The Young and the Restless.
We've suffered through entire meals at Gambinos listening to the booth next door talking too loudly to people not in the restaurant. We have even witnessed people dining together, but each one talking to a different unseen entity.
We've all been greeted by someone we don't know in the grocery store only to realize with some embarrassment that they weren't talking to us; they were talking to the invisible conversation partner in the Bluetooth devise sticking out of the other side of their head.
We've even tried to talk to someone while they were “talking” to someone else via texting.
We seem to be a people obsessed with multi-tasking.
When I was a teen, (I know I'm really dating myself here) the in thing was CB radios. It gave parents a feeling of security to send their kids out on the road with a way to reach them, or at least a way that the kids could reach somebody if they were in trouble. And living on a muddy gravel road, I used that radio many times to call my dad to come pull me out of the mud.
The radios were mostly viewed by the kids, however, as pure fun.
“Break 1-9 for the Puddle Jumper. This is Daisy Mae. Hey there, good buddy, what's your 20? There's a Smokey heading your way. We be gone, catch ya on the flip flop. Bye bye.”
OMG LOL! This was the texting of the '70s! And we were really annoying with it. However, there was one difference-- the radios stayed in the cars. We didn't have them strapped to our heads talking to people everywhere we went.
And while half of today's population can't shut up to save their lives, the other half is constantly listening to something. I have a guilty desire to gather up all the earbuds in my house while everyone is sleeping (I'd have to take them out of their ears if they were awake) and cut them up into tiny little pieces. Then I'd run them through a blender, pour gasoline on them, and set them ablaze.
Every time I get that “what do you want now” look as they remove a “bud” so they can hear what I've just said, the details of my plan come into sharper focus.
I may become the Carrie Nation of the new Get Unplugged Movement. An ax would be a bit much, though.... maybe a croquet mallet or a cricket bat. If I practice, I might be able to whack a Bluetooth headset across the room without rustling an ear hair. And if I miss, well, maybe I'll just knock some sense into them.
by Jodi Bowersox© 2008
By now, we've all been there. We've all witnessed the woman with a carload of kids maneuvering through Kansas City traffic holding a cell phone. We've all yelled the admonition to “hang up and drive!”
We've all cringed at the lady walking through the shampoo aisle in Wal-Mart having a conversation that would rival the drama of The Young and the Restless.
We've suffered through entire meals at Gambinos listening to the booth next door talking too loudly to people not in the restaurant. We have even witnessed people dining together, but each one talking to a different unseen entity.
We've all been greeted by someone we don't know in the grocery store only to realize with some embarrassment that they weren't talking to us; they were talking to the invisible conversation partner in the Bluetooth devise sticking out of the other side of their head.
We've even tried to talk to someone while they were “talking” to someone else via texting.
We seem to be a people obsessed with multi-tasking.
When I was a teen, (I know I'm really dating myself here) the in thing was CB radios. It gave parents a feeling of security to send their kids out on the road with a way to reach them, or at least a way that the kids could reach somebody if they were in trouble. And living on a muddy gravel road, I used that radio many times to call my dad to come pull me out of the mud.
The radios were mostly viewed by the kids, however, as pure fun.
“Break 1-9 for the Puddle Jumper. This is Daisy Mae. Hey there, good buddy, what's your 20? There's a Smokey heading your way. We be gone, catch ya on the flip flop. Bye bye.”
OMG LOL! This was the texting of the '70s! And we were really annoying with it. However, there was one difference-- the radios stayed in the cars. We didn't have them strapped to our heads talking to people everywhere we went.
And while half of today's population can't shut up to save their lives, the other half is constantly listening to something. I have a guilty desire to gather up all the earbuds in my house while everyone is sleeping (I'd have to take them out of their ears if they were awake) and cut them up into tiny little pieces. Then I'd run them through a blender, pour gasoline on them, and set them ablaze.
Every time I get that “what do you want now” look as they remove a “bud” so they can hear what I've just said, the details of my plan come into sharper focus.
I may become the Carrie Nation of the new Get Unplugged Movement. An ax would be a bit much, though.... maybe a croquet mallet or a cricket bat. If I practice, I might be able to whack a Bluetooth headset across the room without rustling an ear hair. And if I miss, well, maybe I'll just knock some sense into them.