The Story Thus Far

One week from tomorrow, my husband and I take custody of our third house in 18 months.

Our first home here we had to abandon lickety-split due to mold that had progressed to the mushroom stage, which tormented me for the six months after we escaped it with the Sinus Infection from Hell.  The house we chose next was an emergency Dear-God-we-don't-want-to-live-with-our-parents decision because of said mold. We would likely have been happier in the long run if we'd swallowed our pride and stayed with family for a month, since right after we moved Sam got a fantastic new job that had, you know, reasonable pay and actual benefits. But we did not want to be Those People. You know, the couple in their mid-to-late-twenties who boomerang back home. Again.

Instead we chose a house that cost more and yet was smaller than the apartment I had in Dallas. In addition, it ended up being completely flea infested. It took us six months to finally beat the terrors back--just in time to move to our current residence. I swore to any and all who would listen that I was not moving again for at least three years. I was tired of moving. Just as importantly, our bank account was tired of moving. This house came with a roommate--a friend we'd both known for years--and thus would be a chance for us to financially recover from grad school/multiple moves.

Then two very important things occurred.

A) We found out that our family will have a new addition this summer. (Translation: baby!)

B) We were informed after the new year that our current landlady would not be renewing our leases come August, and if we wanted to move out earlier that was A-OK with her. (It's not for any bad reason--she has family moving back this direction and wanted to let'em live here. Completely understandable!)

Visions of trying to move while either 9 months pregnant or with a newborn immediately started haunting me. Nuh-uh. Ain't happening. I told this to Sam, and thus we began what I expected to be a 2-3 month endeavor.

We found a new house within the week.

This is definitely not what I'd call an emergency house, either. No, we're talking full-blown "Hey! Grown-ups live here!" type of house, with plenty of room for us and the baby and visitors. Though no roommate. (He has no desire to live with a newborn that isn't his.)

"Holly, that's great and all, but why are you writing this, here, now. You abandoned us. In July. Of 2011."

The truth of the matter is I've wanted to get back into blogging for awhile. I even told Sherri last November that I was planning to start back up, as I felt mentally and emotionally settled for the first time in forever. (Trust me, most of my blogging at the Flea Trap would have been whining. I prefer to whine in private.) Then I found out that I'm pregnant, and pretty much that's all I've been reading about and thinking about and wanting to write about. I am just paranoid enough that I didn't want to say anything in such a public forum though until I was in my second trimester--which just so happened started this past Monday.

"Oh no. Are you saying you're going to be only a Mommy Blogger now? But what about the cats! And cooking! And D&D! And random stuff from the internet! And series that you say you're going to do and then only do a few posts of!"

No worries, my friends. All of those things will happen as well. But, for the most part, this blog was my way of keeping friends and family up to date with my life. And the new baby will definitely feature in what they're interested in. And, honestly, I'm hopeful that there may be some other expecting or new moms who stumble across what I'll be writing about. But my interests have always ranged fairly far afield, and I'm sure they'll all shine through from time to time. (Aren't you glad you missed my sarcasm and insight during the election season?)

So let's see if I can get back into the swing of things, eh?

Ecclesiastes 3:4

To everything there is a season, and the season where Dr. A and Mrs. B led the theatre department I graduated from has now passed.

When word spread that these two ladies were leaving the department, Laurel from A Little White Noise began coordinating a surprise party to celebrate their combined 29 years of teaching. In the end nearly fifty people would come by to see Dr. A and Mrs. B, either at the actual event or later in the evening as the festivities moved elsewhere.

It was strange to get to see so many old friends from that time in my life, particularly because I've moved so far afield from theatre. Unfortunately, I did not get to stay as late as I wanted to, due to the utter exhaustion I was feeling from a week of staying up until 3 am.

Admittedly one of those nights was because we went to see Thor (and I echo Sherri's high marks for that movie!). However, the rest of the week I was wrapped up in putting together a slideshow set to music. Laurel had contacted me the week before the event to put it together, and unfortunately I didn't get the message and a chance to start work until Monday, when the event was Friday. This lead to a week of late nights: collecting photos, tweaking photos, finding music, changing music, splicing things together, inserting new pictures, and eventually burning it all off.

Yes, that was the week I didn't blog anything. What tipped you off?

Still, in the end it was worth it. Everyone seemed to enjoy the slideshow, especially Dr. A and Mrs. B.

Throughout the weeks leading up to "The Festival," I found myself reflecting back on the four years I spent with them. Like many of the theatre students, I had a close relationship with them both. They each in their own ways taught me how to harness my independent streak and channel it in a useful manner. They opened my eyes to possibilities in myself that had never occurred to me before--talents and skills that would have remained dormant without their inspiration.

Most importantly, they showed me that one can be a Christian and yet still live in the world and influence the people around you. Too often Christians hide themselves away from the world, creating and performing only for other Christians. They taught me that we can use our gifts and talents out in the "real world," surrounded by all manners of people and lifestyles that "the church" would not approve of, and still bear witness and remain ourselves.

When I first went to college, I was a young Christian in pretty much every sense of the phrase. Had the Christian university I attended stressed "Christian Theater," I could easily have ended up the type of Christian Artist who looks down upon Non-Christians and abhors the sight or sound of anything potentially thought-provoking or outside of my comfort zone.

That or I'd have gone crazy and moved to a different school after a couple of  years.

Instead, I found two teachers who did not hesitate to teach us all that theatre encompasses. Sometimes, this led to them locking horns with the administration. Sometimes it meant upsetting their students by forcing them to consider ideas and lifestyles completely foreign. And sometimes it meant teaching us how to compromise so that our message could be heard, even if it wasn't as overt as originally intended.

While it's true that I've left theatre behind in the sense that I sincerely doubt I will ever design, direct, or run a show again, these are all lessons that I apply each and every day to living. I'm able to acknowledge and contemplate ideas without rejecting them out of hand. It influences my writing, conversations, and debate styles. And all of those skills that they developed and honed in me--organization, design, communication, construction, sewing, drawing, analysis--make me better equipped to handle life as it happens.

Our time together wasn't always perfect. There were times when they made mistakes. There were times when their students (especially me!) made mistakes. But we grew together, and we grew well.

So, here's to Dr. A, Mrs. B, and legacy they've left after 29 years of teaching!

Photo taken by Rebekah Byland

¹ There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: ² a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, ³ a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, ⁴ a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, ⁵ a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, ⁶ a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, ⁷ a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak, ⁸ a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
--Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Disconnect

The above video is of Mike Rowe from Discovery's Dirty Jobs speaking before the Commerce, Science, and Transportation Committee on the importance of trade skills/jobs. He makes excellent points about how, in general, this type of knowledge and job is looked down upon by American society, and how important it is that people understand and realize the value of it.

He also make a fantastic point about the disconnect many people have about where the conveniences of their lives come from. They don't think about where food comes from, how electricity is generated, or who makes their clothing. This, in turn, leads to a devaluing of the people and processes that bring them into existence--even though everyone wants/needs them.

Another point touched upon is how there are actually many jobs currently available in skilled labor (~450,00 jobs), but there is a lack of qualified workers. One thing he mentioned that especially rang true to me is how the average age of a third of the skilled labor workforce in Alabama is over the age of 55 and looking to retire, with no one to replace them. This did not surprise me at all, as one of the things my Papa talked about for years before he retired was how Boeing would soon be in a world of hurt because their maintenance people were all aging out of the work force, and there were no noticeable upcoming replacements.

Really I'm not doing the video or Mr. Rowe justice; just click play and watch it.

This too, shall pass

"Do you mind if I step out to smoke while you set up the next board?" Hip Gamer asked as Never Too Old started pulling out a new map and arranging mini-figs on it.

"No, go ahead. It'll be a moment," Never Too Old replied.

Hip Gamer and Something Catchy went outside while Sam and Curly milled around getting drinks and chatting with Never Too Old. Walking Hyperbole had left earlier that evening to rescue Adorable Nurse from a flat tire, so Curly was filling in for him.

I stayed in my chair, feet tucked under me to try and keep them warm. The weather had turned suddenly cold and wet that day, and the house was protesting the abuse. Pulling out my iPhone-turned-iTouch, I first checked in on Facebook and then scanned over Twitter to see what was what. As I idly made my way up the series of tweets an announcement that President Obama would soon be addressing the nation caught my eye.

That's strange, I thought to myself. Why would he be having a press conference this late on a Sunday night?

About that time, Hip Gamer and Something Catchy returned and took their places at the table, and the quest to rid the temple of invading Gnolls resumed.

My character (Moira, not Annie) had just buried an arrow in the shoulder of a Gnoll when the sound of Mario catching a mushroom filled the air. All eyes turned to Hip Gamer as he pulled out his phone to check the text message.

"Holy crap," Hip Gamer said, surprise plain upon his face. "I'm glad Rapier Wit keeps an eye on the news. Osama bin Laden's dead!"

"I had wondered why the President was holding a press conference..." I mumbled to myself, pulling my phone back out and accessing my list of political blogs.

Everyone babbled atop one another as more details of the raid emerged. Poor Never Too Old kept trying to push us through the encounter so we could wrap up for the night, but I at least was distracted from the game.

It was difficult to wrap my brain around the idea that bin Laden was dead. 9/11 occurred my senior year of high school, and in many ways was the defining moment when I entered into the adult world. That day marked the first time when I could truly understand the implications of a major event. Nearly ten years later, the man responsible was finally taken down.

The euphoria of the moment startled me.

It is a bizarre moment to realize that you are celebrating the death of another human being. But I also recognized that I would have felt that same euphoria had I heard that we had captured bin Laden, as opposed to having killed him. It wasn't that he was dead--it was that that particular chapter of our history was now, hopefully, closed.

An end of an era, if you will.

Pink

After yesterday's post with those adorable girls in their Easter fanciness, I was struck by the stark contrast between the subject matter and the dying autumn leaves:

Just a bit jarring, aye?

And so, I decided to tweak the background for the blog. I'd spent time looking through various templates, per Sherri's recommendation, but I actually like the layout of the blog as it is, I just wanted to change the background.

I started thumbing through some of the pictures I've taken in the past month of the arrival of spring. Roses, irises, trees, kitties, lettuce, sunsets.... I had plenty of pretty items to choose from. Eventually I opted for this picture, which had previously served as my desktop wallpaper:

I did a little bit of fiddling, and that's how we wound up with the very girly background. (Yes, my inner sixteen-year-old is not impressed.) Of course, once that was done, I needed to change the font colors and so forth so that it all complimented one another. Because I'm thorough like that.

Spring has finally arrived at my work in progress!

The outhouse

Last Christmas when I was home, I asked my parents if I could borrow some of their old pictures. Several years ago I spent a winter going through pictures and scanning them in, but there were still many that I had missed. I had hopes that there might be some which had survived the fire and that I could archive.

I've been working on it off and on since then, and a little while ago I came across this picture:

Taken sometime around 1970, if I were to make a guess.

This, my dear friends, was Grandpa Howell's outhouse.

Grandpa and Grandma Howell were my paternal great-grandparents. They lived in a small town in Kansas and raised twelve children in a ramshackle ol' house that I have the vaguest memories of. It wasn't until some time after my father was born that they got indoor plumbing in that house, and even then Grandpa Howell still preferred to use his outhouse.

I've heard lots of stories about that outhouse.

For example, it was apparently a Halloween tradition in that particular small town in Kansas for the kids to try and sneak into Grandpa's junk yard and knock over the old thing. Grandpa Howell would spend the whole night camped outside with his gun, ready to scare off any teen dumb enough to try it.

As you can tell from the picture, it wouldn't have taken much to knock it over.

There's also another story that my dad likes to tell about certain little boys deciding to send some kittens swimming down there, and Grandma Howell having to fish the poor things back out. Apparently there were quite a few tanned hides that resulted, and that mama cat would have nothing to do with those kittens for weeks.

Don't get any bright ideas.

Then and Now

Eight weeks ago, this was the view out my front door:

So snowy. So cold.

So bleak. So desolate.

A frozen wasteland, if you will.

But that was then...

and this is now!

The trees are blooming.

The grass is green.

And there's color everywhere!

Wandering Toe

Growing up, my father often told me that his family line frequently manifests a "wandering toe." We have a hard time staying in any one place for a great length of time; we're always looking to the next horizon, wondering what's over the next hill.

We have a long tradition of migrating ever further west, first across the Atlantic, then to Tennessee, and on westward to Kansas, Nevada, California, etc.

More recently, my Grandpa Norman, my dad's dad, worked with a surveyor's team in Kansas and Oklahoma back in the 50's. The majority of the oil wells throughout this area were originally surveyed by my Grandpa Norman. Dad attended over twenty elementary schools as a result, before they finally settled out in California when Dad was in high school.

After Dad graduated from high school, he spent the next thirteen years or so wandering from one machine shop to the next, while his eldest brother went into the navy and off to see the world. When I myself graduated from high school, I headed into theatre, which meant that every six months or so I moved to some place new. Even when I was in college, I was doing summerstock.

Last week it hit me that I was still in one place. My eyes kept drifting to the horizon, my mind wondering what was out there and where we should go next. Texas? Arizona? Washington?

This is not to imply that I'm unhappy where I am--I love living in this small town, close to friends and family. As much as I may complain sometimes, I love this cute little house and the garden we've planted in the back. I love making this house a home and taking care of Sam. This is, quite frankly, the happiest I've ever been.

And, eventually, the itch passed. By the time Sam and I collapsed into bed Saturday after doing our planting, my energies were focused back on the here and now, and the restlessness from the previous week was gone.

I think Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz got it right:

"If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!"

"We were no longer good society."

I really don't know what I think of this. It's both splendid and awful at the same time.

Flotsam and Jetsam

My parents came down to see us this weekend.

(This is why I wasn't posting.)

I'm always glad when my parents come to visit, or when we get to go visit them. I realize that this is not the case for everybody--some people deeply dread seeing their parents--but I always really enjoy it. Somewhere along the way I grew up, and my parents and I realized that we genuinely liked each other, rather than just putting up with each other because we're family and ergo love one another.

Blessings abound in my life.

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The tax return finally came in on Friday!

*le happy dance!*

This means that Wednesday the pieces and parts for Frank's replacement will arrive on my doorstep. This is a happy circumstance.

Viiiiiideoooooos. Muuuuusic. Photoshoooooooop....

This really makes me extremely happy. I've missed being able to clean up pictures and post things for ya'll.

Especially recipes.

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I hate food poisoning.

Sam and I have reached a place that whenever we eat out, nine times out of ten we get something and split it. This helps with both a) costs and b) portion control, since I'm too old for the kids' meals and too young for the senior menu.

The downside is that if we get a hold of some bad food, we both go down for the count.

Unfortunately, this means we also missed Something Catchy's Oscar party, which sucked.

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Words with Friends finally succeeded in invading my life.

I've known about it for well over a year, but for one reason or another I never bothered to put it on my iPhone.

While Mom and Dad were down, I got to talking to my Mom about it, and before too long we both had it downloaded and had started a game.

Needless to say, within 24 hours I also had a couple games going with Adorable Nurse and Literary Cat.

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Fact: I lack will's discipline when it comes to the 356 days of blogging idea.

Though it took some time, I've finally made my peace with that.

Still, I find it amusing and exciting that by the end of February I already have more posts this year than I did for all of 2010.

If for some reason I suddenly stop blogging for months on end now, it will be because I posted this. I don't know why that would happen--I really enjoy doing this--but whatever the external excuse would be, the root cause would be this little segment.

That's way my luck runs.

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Sam and I have decided to try and plant a garden this year.

I have no earthly idea what I'm doing. With our luck, there'll either be an overabundance of produce, or not a single thing will survive. Personally, I'm hoping I take after my Grandpa Jim, who used to grow orchids in his hothouse on the farm.

My husband an I talked about doing a garden last year. (For the record, it still makes me giggle happily inside when I get to call him my husband.) We were poor and living in an apartment, however, and by the time we moved to our little house, it was too late to jump in. This year, though, we decided to make the attempt.

You can blame the movie Food Inc. and the book The Hundred Year Lie for that.

Hard sacrifices

I grew up in a union house.

My mother, once upon a time, was a union steward at Ma Bell (yes, back before they broke up into the Baby Bells we all know today). My father has been a proud member of the IAM union for well over 30 years, and even though he's now retired, he still pays his dues to the union.

Papa went on strike five times during his time at "the flying-B ranch," if I remember correctly. As a child, I didn't really understand the significance of it. It just meant that every four years my Daddy would vote on a contract, and sometimes that contract was bad and my father would be home a lot more than usual.

As I grew older, going on strike in my head meant financial worries and stress for my parents--would we be able to pay our bills, have food, etc. The food, of course, was supplemented by the union. Cereal, beans, rice, peanut butter, flour, sugar, canned corn, canned green beans--anything that had a shelf life and was cheap. But the rest of it... I knew families that lost houses, or cars, or got way behind on bills because they were on strike.

My parents lost their first house due to a strike. It's why I grew up in my home town.

But, for all of that, I never remember either of my parents expressing regret for "going on strike." They also instilled in me the idea that it was The Right Thing To Do when necessary.

I remember how angry my parents would get when the local media would try to present the strike as an argument over wages. My father told me more than once that it wasn't about wage increases, but what was happening with the benefits. In the sixties, seventies, and eighties, the company (in exchange for not raising wages at the time) agreed to pay for their employees' insurance, to provide pensions, and to ensure that a worker could not be arbitrarily laid off because they were making too much money in comparison to younger workers. Later on, as health costs started rising and pensions became rarer and rarer in industry at large, they would try to take those away from the workers. And the union, because they could negotiate their contract for the group as a whole, could go on strike and force the company to honor previous agreements and ideas.

Because these people were willing to put their homes and families' well being on the line, they would walk away with a better contract than what they started off with (or, at least, one that wasn't worse than the previous). And because the big manufacturers in the city would provide benefits or increase wages for their workers, the smaller industries in the are would follow suit to a certain extent, and everyone benefited.

Too often, people who go on strike are presented in the media as these lazy, greedy people who are trying to screw businesses out of profits. In reality, these are often people who work in dirty, dangerous, and/or tedious jobs, and oftentimes would work more than 40 hours a week at it. And they'd put everything on the line to help their fellow workers out.

I started thinking about all of this, because I've been keeping an eye on the situation in Wisconsin, where the governor there is trying to push a bill through the legislature to remove the right for public employees to do collective bargaining, a.k.a. have unions. I've also been reading about the thousands of protesters who've been storming the capitol, even to the extent where the governor has been forced to do government business at a nearby corporation because he could not get into the capitol building.

I confess, I did a bit of cheering in my living room this afternoon when I read about various members of the state senate who have gone out of state to prevent there being a quorum so that the legislation does not pass.

Basically, I wanted to let my little part of the world know that I support the workers in Wisconsin. Because I do understand what it's about, and I'm proud of them for making hard choices.

After all, I grew up in a union house.

One step at a time...

Today, in many ways, marks the true beginning of the new year for me. Oh, yes, we had wonderful New Years celebration and we are already three days into 2011, but today is the day all of my friends and family are back home and going about their normal lives. It's also the day when Sam and I get back into the saddle regarding diet and exercise.

Yes, there will be much whining tomorrow about how my thighs hurt after exercising on that blasted bicycling machine.

Here are my goals for Monday, January 3, 2011:

• Take down and pack up all of the Christmas decorations
• Put the furniture back in place in that corner so all of the music stuff is no longer cramped together
• Clean-up and post some pictures from my new camera
• Dishes and laundry
• Post to my blog
• Look through my new cookbooks and start making this week's meal plan
• Head to the gym with Sammy tonight
• Play more Final Fantasy XIII

We'll see how many of these we manage to accomplish today. It's a packed list, but I think it's doable. Just waiting for my hair to finish drying before taking the plunge. 

Hope you're all equally productive!

Failing Illusions

Christmas when I was six. 

There comes a time in the life of every child, when they learn that Santa isn't real. For some it happens as they approach middle school. For others, it happens much, much earlier.

I figured it out when I was 4 years old.

My grandparents had moved back into town the previous summer, and were now living in a small retirement complex where my Grandma Nena still lives to this day. My parents had driven down with my brother and I on Christmas Eve, or perhaps the day before. After 20-odd years, some of the details are hazy in my mind.

I do remember the tree that was set up in the corner of the living room, positioned so you could see it whether you were in the living room or the kitchen. Presents were piled up beneath the tree, and I happily helped my mother unload our presents from the car to put under the tree.

The day progressed, and there was much laughing and talking, food and card games. While the adults were playing bridge (or perhaps it was hand and foot?), I played in my Grandmother's bedroom, chattering at myself the whole time. In the course of my play, my doll fell off the bed onto the opposite side of the room, and when I went to retrieve it, several presents wrapped in brown paper and ribbon were piled on that side.

Confused, I pattered back out to the living room, announcing, "Mama, Mama, we missed some of the presents that need to be under the tree!"

I imagine the panicked looks that the other adults must have been exchanging, but I honestly don't remember them. My mother looked at me with a surprised expression, "Where are they?" she asked.

"Next to Grandma Nena's bed! Come look!" I told her, leading them to her bedroom.

But when we got there, there were no presents.

I was now genuinely upset. "But they were there! I promise!"

"Well, if they were, they're not now. But it's time for dinner now, sis," said my brother as they lead me back to the front room.

We settled in and around the dining room table, and soon all thoughts of the mystery presents disappeared from my head. After dinner, Grandpa Jim insisted on all of us piling into the van and driving around town, looking at all of the pretty houses glowing with Christmas lights and good cheer. When we got back to the house, Aunt Di read my brother and I the Christmas story.

Soon it was time for presents, and I fleetingly thought of the packages I'd seen earlier, but they never made an appearance that evening. Before long it was time for little girls to be in bed.

The next morning, there was much excitement because, of course, Santa had been to visit during the night. When my sleepy head padded out to the front room, what did I see beneath the tree?

Brown paper packages tied up with string.

Growing Up

Editor's Note: I meant to post about this earlier, but 3-day weekends have a tendency to make everything go wonky.


Over the weekend, Sam and I attended a local community theatre production of Little Women, based on the novel by Louisa May Alcott. As we walked back to our car after the show--dodging other drivers and trying not to freeze to death--it struck me just how much my relationship with theatre has changed over the years.

Ten years ago, my only real exposure to theatre was the productions our high school had performed and the occasional trip to Crown Uptown in Wichita. Had I seen this production then, I would have thought it fantastic and highly enjoyable, especially since it was based on one of my childhood-favorite novels.

Five years ago, I was on the verge of graduating from college with a bachelor's in theatre. Had I seen this production then, I would have spent the whole time picking apart the acting done in the show. While there were many splendid moments in the show, not all of the actors were strong throughout, and many of the character choices did not match the image I had in my head for the characters. Most likely I'd have attended with several of my fellow students, and we would have spent the next day ridiculing it to our classmates. Not because it was a bad show--because it wasn't--but because all of us at that time were very much theatre snobs, and would have insisted we could have done it better.

Two years ago, I had come to the decision that I needed to get away from theatre, at least for awhile. I'd injured myself during my latest gig, and was finding in myself a desire to settle down. During that time, though, I'd done multiple professional shows and seen Broadway/West End shows. This production of Little Women would never have registered on my radar, and had I seen it then, my focus would have entirely been upon all of the little technical slip ups--the dark spots on stage, the lamp that kept flickering in and out--as well as the mishaps with lines and entrances.

This weekend, however, I had what I consider now to be the better response. It actually made me happy. Yes, a part of me did notice the parts that weren't perfect. However, I had an absolute blast. It was fun for me to see people--many of whom were untrained for this--experiencing the joy of being on a stage and interacting with the energy of the audience. I loved all of the little details that were in the set design, and highly impressed with the period costumes that they'd managed to piece together. Overall, it was a very merry experience.

And I realized that this is what I missed about theatre, and why I had burned out. I missed the absolute joy that comes from creating a good story, and seeing people grow and do better. Having been away from it for the past couple of years, I was able to appreciate the way the whole community came together to enjoy what their local thespians had managed to put together to present to them.

More importantly, I came to the understanding that even if I never actually work in a theater again, I want to be that person who goes to the local plays, musicals, operas, concerts, and art shows. It may not be Broadway, the London Symphony Orchestra, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it is still the arts, and still needs to be supported and cultivated.

It was a happy discovery.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

The lights were dim in the house. Sam and I had curled up on the couch with a couple of mugs of coffee, intending to kill some time while we waited for our food to settle. Our intentions were to go to the gym a little later in the evening,

Dinner was put away and cleaned up, though the cats were still prowling about waiting for their food. We'd decided against playing a game, because invariably when that happens, we end up playing games all night and never complete our errands. Nala hopped up on Sam's lap and started rubbing her head against his chin, which slowed down his coffee intake considerably.

The screensaver kicked on on our computer, which in turn is hooked up to our new television (a Christmas gift from Sam's grandparents). We talked about our day. Sam told me how the design was going on the new website, the FedEx class he's taking to be able to ship chemicals, and the excitement of actually selling a spa at work; I told him about the potato soup I made up on my own that day, the latest internet scandals and memes, and of course all of the cute things the cats had done to entertain me.

After a bit, the screensaver popped up one of the videos I have from my college years. Sam commented on how one of these days I'd have to narrate these videos so he knows what's going on, since the screensaver doesn't play sound. Instead I woke the computer up and actually started playing through some of those old videos--will helping Sherri with her contemporary math class, Sherri maiming Mama Cow, Walking Hyperbole calling Adorable Nurse while Rapier Wit bounced to Mario Kart music in the background, Tiger when she was a kitten....

It was a wonderful opportunity to allow him a glimpse into my life back then, and the way many of our mutual friends interacted as college students. While Sam's first year and my last year at our Alma Mater overlapped, we never met one another. He came to be friends with all of my friends the following two years, due to his friendship with Rapier Wit. 

(At least, that has always been my contention. 

Sam insists that he and I met each other during a trip to Bartlesville to see our friend, Living Life, in The Complete Works of Shakespeare: Unabridged. He recalls details of the trip that he would only know if he went with, but none of us remember him being there. What's more, he insists that he and I rode in the back of the car and talked the whole way there and back.)

Steadily we worked our way through my senior year of college, watching more video snippets: College Players dressing up as pirates, street performers in London, rehearsals in Dorland, and a trip to the Renn Faire. My redheaded husband was growing sleepy, despite the coffee in his system, though he swore he wasn't bored looking through my memories. Still, I figured I should wrap it up, and so at random selected one last video.

The camera was panning across a table full of people, and I was pointing out who some of the people were that featured in stories I'd told him. 

"Of course you know who that is. And that's Drew." I pointed out.

"Wasn't he in the music program? I swear he worked as an assistant for my Dad or something." Sam asked.

To be honest, I couldn't remember the exact details, though yes, I did know he'd been involved with the music program.

"That's the guy who played El Gallo in the Fantastiks with his girlfriend. And that's--wait a minute! Is that you?!"

As the camera had continued to pan down the table, there was this shot:

There before our eyes was proof that Sam and I actually had crossed paths during college. 

I remembered vaguely that there was a guy Rapier Wit had known when he was in Jr. High/High School that had shown up at our college, and obviously that guy was Sam. Still, it startled me to realize I  had video and pictures of Sam from before what I think of us our "official" meeting. 

Meanwhile, Sam was oblivious to the shock running through my system.

"I remember that. He had called me asking if I wanted to go to the Renn Faire, and I had told him, 'Sure, when is it?'

'Um, we're leaving right now.'

'Man, there is no way I can go right now, I'm in the middle of something.'

Then he told me to meet y'all for food afterwards."

Reading the Fine Print

Sam and I have come to a very sad, very disheartening realization/decision. We're going to have to find J.J. a new home.

We both love J.J.--he's an absolutely adorable dog, very smart and very playful. Unfortunately, he is not a good fit in regards to our cats. J.J.'s first instinct is to hunt--he has what is called a "high prey instinct." As such, if you toss a toy, he doesn't just want to fetch it--he wants to rip it to shreds.

The last couple of days have been very rough, especially Monday. When we awoke Monday, this is what we saw out of our back yard:



It was a very, very rainy day. So rainy, in fact, that this has been termed a once in 500 year flood. Because of this, we had to keep J.J. inside all day. This was very rough, as J.J. is a high energy dog that needs to burn off lots of energy, and he did not want to go outside into the rain--even to do his business. This meant the entire day I spent in the back room with J.J., trying to watch for signs that J.J. needed to eliminate and to keep him from tearing up everything in the house.

We were doing okay in the morning. In the afternoon, though, he was becoming very aggressive towards me--constantly biting at my fingers and toes, even when I was trying to distract him with his chew toys. By the time Sam returned home from work, I was a nervous wreck from trying to deal with J.J. all day.

Eventually we got through it, however.

Yesterday (Tuesday), the weather was much improved, so we were able to let him be outside. This made the puppy happy, as he very much wants to be outside where he can run around and burn off energy.

Unfortunately, however, he was still being very aggressive with me--particularly after I'd had Nala in my lap for about an hour. When I brought him in that afternoon, he was aggressive/snappy at the cats as well, and had I not been there I think he would have figured a way over the doggie gate in order to chase them.

Last night Sam and I had a long conversation over what to do about J.J. We both like the dog and want him to be happy. However, we don't really want a strictly outside dog, as we're both inside people. (Sam's sunburns from that first day should have hinted at that.) But J.J. wasn't happy whenever we'd bring him inside, as he needed space to run around. More importantly, we didn't feel comfortable about having him around the cats.

Then we did a little research, to see if there was a way to keep him and train him with the cats. As we read, however, we found that the two breeds of dogs that have the hardest time with cats/other small animals, are hounds and terriers.

J.J. is a Beagle (Hound) / Jack Russel Terrier (Terrier) mix. No wonder we were having such issues with him wanting to attack things!

The two of us both still want a dog, but we need a dog that is a better fit for our home. We do not regret taking J.J. home at all--someone needed to rescue that puppy! However, we don't want to keep him long term. Therefore, we've put out ads in a couple of different places for J.J., in hopes that we can find him his permanent home. Once that's done, then we can look at finding a dog that will fit in with our lives.

Still, it makes me very sad that we will have to part ways soon with J.J., as he's a very lovable puppy.


To err is human, to forgive, canine.
--Unknown

New Digs

Consistency and I, well, we've always had an off-again, on-again relationship. Sometimes, consistency and I are like that couple who are constantly talking to and touching one another. Codependent, if you will. Other times, however, we're like that couple who are "in a long-distance relationship but still like to see other people."

Thankfully(?), the addition of J.J. has led to my, personally, having to stay consistent and follow a schedule; this aids in my desire to blog. Why it works, I don't know, but it does!

Now, as I've mentioned numerous times, Sherri also has a blog now. So I was checking out her page, and loved the way it looked. Personality, life, joy... so pretty to look at. Plus, I follow several other blogs through Google Reader, and after looking at Sherri's I went to check out their pages. Will's is simple and clean, with a gorgeous lighthouse, which I think is perfect because I think of Will and I think of beaches and curiosity. And sharks. But not jellyfish.

I peeked at Kelly's, and hers at least is laid out the way I remember--all those lovely books! Not to mention more "professional" sites such as Whatever, WWdN: In Exile, Boing Boing, and Pioneer Woman....

All of this to say that I became dissatisfied with they way my blog looked. So, I changed it! My home is brimming with life these days between family, friends, cats, and a dog, and I wanted to share that feeling with all of you.

I hope you enjoy it.

Also, because I felt the need to share.....





Design is an opportunity to continue telling the story, not just to sum everything up.
--Tate Linden