Colder than a bitch's ...

I've been watching the clock for the last hour as I ready myself for a 5-hour trek north to Minneapolis. One of my bitches is having her annual Jingle, Jangle fundraiser and the rest of us bitches decided it was finally time to get our arses up there and support her! But my left pinky finger is already frozen.

This post could've been titled 'A Cold Day in Hell,' given the insanity of driving NORTH during the winter season, but Waller's worth it, so it ain't hell! Though it is one cold mofo out there! With Monster House still torn up with all the painting, I'm sitting rather close to the dark fireplace and I can feel a bit of a draft/very cold, frigid chill (hence the frozen fingers).

But it feeds my soul knowing I'm gonna be with my bitches, soaking up their spiritual power and getting my own battery re-fueled. I have no idea or expectation about the event, only anticipation of being with my girls . . . mmmm, mmmm good!

Less news=less crab-ass

It was about 2 years ago when I found myself part of the XM Nation. I'd snagged a free subscription with my wheels and discovered that I totally dug it! Channels filled with specific genres of music, talk, politics, and then some! I loved the 90s on 9 for always taking me back to my college days. I dug the grungier stuff on Ethel and Lucy, igniting memories of my old Doc Martins and flannel. I loved the morning Bob Edwards and the afternoon Leonard Lopate. I enjoyed Mr. Mart's X Country.

I tried to quit the Nation, but like a cult, I'd already been assimilated. I cancelled my subscription, only to rejoin after a couple months. It had become a NEED. And like any good cult member, I set out to convert others and wrangled my husband into the fold.

But guilt was there and I started to feel it a year ago. The Nation felt so frivolous, such an unnecessary extra. But damn it! It was an election year and POTUS was giving me candidate info and race updates to and from work, keeping me posted until I could get home to tele! And lest I forget the 2 CNN channels (and I love me some Robin Meade and AC360). Was this frivolity? No!

With the election now over, not only has my POTUS interest dried up, but I've begun to experience how unhealthy it is for me to have all this news access. (Psst, most of the news out there is negative. Just so you know.)

As with many maladies, the symptoms don't surface until the disease has been simmering awhile. Hindsight shows that the negativity in me had been building for months, but I didn't see it until I found myself in a ginormous shit sandwich, much of which was brought upon by my sarcastic, negative fearful self. Pain is a good motivator for me, and the pain of having ALL NEWS/ALL THE TIME was really starting to kick my ass.

And I think that's what really did it, though the merging of XM and Sirius didn't help. Yesterday, I cut the string and by the time I'd left work, I was no longer in the flock. I listened to NBC radio on my drive home from work. I took in Morning Edition on my way to coffee today. And I survived.

For this impressionable, easily influenced wack-job, less is definitely more.

Kisses!

The walls are closing in

Oh House, Oh House . . .

Hickory, dickory, dock

The mouse ran up the . . .

There once was a man from Nantucket . . .

I got no muse, folks. The walls are closing in and my circuits aren't tolerating the burden of the upcoming holidays. It's a burden I place on myself, I admit, but it's crushing me! Hosting my husband's family for the holidays is something Mart's wanted to do since we upgraded to a bigger Monster House in 2005.

It's one of those fabulous old farm houses, infamous we later learned because of the cowboy who ran a horse ranch from it. Tales of saddles and other tack strewn on cool, fabulously decrepit antique furniture; car engines and oil pans staining the dining room floor; ducks swimming in the bathtub. And I'm not exaggerating. These are the stories that have been handed to us . . . and the stains, chewed wood work, and nicked porcelain are the proof!

It's a great old place, but so labor intensive! We took it on at a time when we were only half-heartedly looking for something bigger. 'Half-heartedly' because we were in the middle of some remodeling that would finally finish our work on our first home, a 160-year-old brick city girl (yeah, we like the old stuff). Then we saw our Monster House, and 4 days later, she really was ours!

Because we had to finish the remodeling at record speed, the thought of doing ANYTHING to the new place sucked ass, we just wanted to chill. But Monster House needed love. Sure, she got some electrical and water and exterior love. But the inside? Oh, her thirsty walls! A month ago, when Sidney shat up our bedroom, Mart and I dug in and started painting. Our bill is currently about $400. And that's just a bedroom, living room, and a couple of stairways! The first gallons weren't even poured! There lids were just popped and shown the walls, and the paint evaporated!

But this is such a good thing! It feels good to give her some love! I just don't know how much more I can take?! My hope for today is to finish the red living room, a portion of the stairway ceilings, as well as finish the first coat on some mauve-action in the entry. There's so much more to do, but the family's just going to have to deal! I'm done! Hopefully we'll get our "holiday fir" (a scarf to anyone who can name the book from which that comes, author's first initial is D) on Sunday so I can start deckin' out the joint in festive crap.

Ho, ho, ho, and the snow is a fallin'!

Namaste, little buddies~

Tic toc, tic toc

So, I'm experiencing another day of rising at 3 a.m. . . . I've unloaded the dishwasher, put other dishes away, and now I'm staring into the blog-o-sphere, and listening to the mice in the walls. Yeah, our two felines can't be bothered. (Bitches.)

Later today, my fellow staffers and I move back into our old office space that was destroyed last January. A major fire took out a good quarter block of the downtown in which I work. The Hallmark store that was the tall old brick building next to us, fell on our building. Except for my little corner, which took a direct hit, little was lost and we consider ourselves very lucky.

For the past 10 months, Bonnie, Bridget and I have occupied tight quarters in a great little office building where most everyone has been really wonderful to us. I did say "tight," didn't I? I don't know what the square footage of our old office was, but it consisted of 7 individual office spaces as well as both a break room and a group room. The "tight" space? Three rooms, about 15' x 15' each which served as office space, reception area, group room, break room and a little storage. But what could've been a total pain in the arse, has been very therapeutic for us.

Some of you may know me as lighthearted, free-spirited, even a little funny, but I'm not always like that. As I wrote once before, long ago, I can be a smidge of a white cunt. (Gasp!) I'm serious, though. I can be a real pain in the ass if I'm in one of those moods. And Bonnie, our glue-like secretary who keeps us operational, gets to "enjoy" that from time to time.

What the past 10 months have taught me is that I need to let others in. I need to let them get to know me so they can, at the very least, understand that on those days when THE MOOD hits, it's not them, it's me.

I have found both Bonnie and Bridget to be a shelter during the past months. When something was wrong, I couldn't hide in my office --- we've all been piled on top of each other. I had to force myself to be honest and share the pain I was in. And what I received was love, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Honestly, it's a little bittersweet to be returning to our old office, though I don't think any of us will deny the fun of having our own little corners again. But I think we're a tad tighter and really, if we can survive almost a year of living out of each other's pockets, a little space won't hurt us a bit.

So, cheers to pulled muscles, building shelves and unpacking boxes.

And now, to continue a little game started by one of my Bitches, Waller. Grab the book nearest you and turn to page 56, read.

My "Twenty-Four Hours a Day" was closest and while this little gem lacks page numbers, I took a guess and this is was the message:

I will start a new life each day. I will put the old mistakes away and start anew each day. God always offers me a fresh start. I will not be burdened or anxious.

Hmmm. . . One of this year's BitchFest themes was 'Expunge Regret.'. . Last Saturday, I reconciled with my loved ones. . . Later today will mark a new start at work. . . I'd say Waller's onto something.

Namaste, my loves~

Bad storm gone

My girl Daisy's been wondering whaz up! Without totally airing everything, let's just say there's been a lot of hurt that I've both hurled and caught, mostly with my 3 sisters. Mom and Oh-Dad were brave enough to referee a sit-down yesterday. And I've got the emotional hang-over to prove it. But after two hours, things actually look a little brighter, feel a little safer, and appear as if we will move forward toward a better idea of what it means to be a family.

But family is a weird thing, I'm learning.

A mentor of mine has tried to explain that "family" is not a spiritual term. "Family" is a term that comes from the material world, and with the material comes all sorts of baggage with how a family should be. You know what I mean: the Norman Rockwell bullshit? the Brady's? the Ingall's? the Huxtable's? All cheery and happy with a 6th sense of always knowing what the other members need at the exact right time, forever on the same wavelength and completely "getting" the others. Fictitious crap, really.

What I'm seeing is that family, while not a spiritual term, definitely comes with opportunities. For me, it's THE opportunity to see just how little I've grown.

I have 38 years of old ideas and views about what family is "supposed" to be. What I experienced yesterday was a mixture of expectation and surprise. I have a deep hope that my family will always love me no matter what, and the fact that Mom, Oh-Dad, and us girls hung in there until the proverbial David Hasselhoff was singing on a tumbling-down wall, proved to me that they are willing to love me. That expectation was met.

What was surprising was how skewed my perception is. A lot of shitaki mushrooms hit the fan this summer and the pile grew from there. My recollection of events was completely different from what was shared by my sisters. My recollection of events doesn't even include some people who were there. And that frightens me. It scares me that my memory is that selective. It's spooky that what I heard was WAY different from what was said. (So I guess it's a good thing I went and got me a shrink and a psychologist last week.)

I know there's the old adage about an event: there's her version, there's my version, and there's the truth.

But what also came to light is just how careful I must be with this blog. When I started it, it was more of a private journal where I vented my religious anger and self-righteous crap. But it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it felt like I'd swallowed the family hedge hog (poor Otis). I started taking personal pot shots at people close to me. It was usually tongue-in-cheek, joking kind of stuff, but there was an edge to it.

What I'm learning is that if I'm going to honor this penchant for writing, I must use it in a loving, positive way (thank God the election is over). What I am seeing is that when I get caught in negativity, it creates such a shit-storm in me that everything I touch turns to guano.

A few weeks ago I confessed to my doctor that I didn't want to drink, but was afraid I would (hence the additional head guys). Despite my years of recovery, my head was full of such fear and anger and worry and dread that it was manifesting itself in all sorts of harmful behavior. And that's some dangerous stuff. And I was reaping what I'd sowed.

So does this mean it's all daisies and lollipops? Any of you who know me even a tad know that I'm not capable of prolonging sickening, cavity-rich, dimple'ed BS. But I no longer look at the Litterbox as a dumping ground. It's more a platform for sharing that which is good, or changing, or happening. So, I guess I'm back -- a little deflated, a little-less angry, a lot more grateful, and delighted to report that the Magdalene heard my prayer for reconciliation . . . and she delivered.

I send you all so much love---

Namaste~

Puppy halitosis

Who knew the breath of a 2-week-old puppy was so bad. I mean, they're cute and soft and oh-so-cuddly, but skunky? I wouldn't have thought it. But, it is B-A-D. When I picked up 1 of our 7 little ones this morning, I honestly looked around to see if Bambi's pal Flower had paid us a visit.

Holy crap! And then the little fella yawned and JESUS-MARY-AND-JOSEPH! Here I thought we only needed to worry about the poop and stuff. It's tough to say where this has come from or if all puppies have skunky halitosis. Maybe Sidney ate some skunk during one of her recent escapades and it's being excreted in her milk. Great. OR (gasp!) Sidney scored with a skunk rather than a springer!!!

Well, they are cute. Here's some pix from Bath Night earlier this week. They were 15-days-old here. Enjoy (and be glad our computers can only transmit visually)!

When churches fight . . .

I just received this funny, fun fun and found it too fab not to share. Besides, it proves my theory wrong that the catholics are total nut jobs. It would appear from this little conflict between a southern catholic church and an across-the-street presbyterian church that the catholics have a pretty good sense of humor. It's certainly not the first time I've been wrong about a group . . . Enjoy!

I'm sooooo Martha!!!

Can you stand it?! I type in jest, but have to admit, I'm so friggin' PUMPED!!! I can't believe I did this! The yellow square was my first project, complete with peep hole. In progress is this stripey scarf for my son or daughter, it's their school colors. Unfortunately they both balked because it wasn't 'cardinal & gold' (a made-to-order scarf to anyone who can correctly guess why!). I started the scarf at 3:30 this morning, couldn't sleep. Voices in the head were too loud. The knitting was pretty therapeutic, but Turbo needs a nap!

Turbo's feelin' the bloggy age of 100

So today is my 100th post. And what do I got? Cramped fingers . . . I'm learning how to knit! With all the uber spinning bloggers I've met on this cyber journey, I simply needed to find out what all the hub-bub is about! So my pal Bonnie got me going. And I couldn't believe the intensity of it! After finishing a few rows of stitches, I noticed my shins were damp--with sweat!!!

I'm digging it, but the fingers aren't as nimble as I'd hoped. . .

Obama's bringing 'it' back!

Visiting Wooly Daisy this morning, a post-election comment was left by someone who said they felt a little guilty looking at President Obama running through waves all buff and beautiful. Like they were oogling their dad or teacher or something. I can empathize. I, too, feel a little weird that this sexy being is now our leader. But it so beats the alternative . . .

I never before realized that President Obama is not only returning hope to our thirsty nation, but also bringin' sexy back! Ka-pow!

Gettin' it right with Obama

I am not on a sugar high. In fact, I'm on a sugar low. No, it's an emotional hangover.

Like so many people I've talked to, Facebook posts I've skimmed, and blogs I've read, I was not alone yesterday in my fear that the election would get screwed over, again. Anyone remember 2000?

Despite my support for President Obama (mmm, feels so good), there was that part of me that had been kicked down, dismissed, disregarded, and overlooked by politicians and electoral colleges. Sure I hoped for change, but really? I must admit it: I did not believe it could happen. And I'm a white, Midwestern, middle-class, female feeling that way! I can only imagine what other demographics were feeling.

But in spite of such feelings, voting is something I've always done and knew I could not NOT do yesterday. And fortunately, millions of others flexed that muscle, too. And look! Look what we did! Change is coming!!! Change is happening!!! Change is upon us!!! Whoever would've thunk it?!

Other friends have posted portions of President Obama's (mmmmm) victory speech last night, so I won't waste space doing so here, but with Chicago only 3 hours away and a sister who lives there, what the hell was I thinking?! Why wasn't I in there!!!!

Because I lacked that fire of belief, that's why.

Eight years under Bush, when a popular vote said, "We want Gore," has drained me. A big glob of my moxy had been slowly eroded by Bush. I may have put on a strong face, but I was scared. Scared because I knew that if we didn't pull off this election, our country would be sucked off the planet into a vortex of hell like nothing we'd experienced before. Like Sarah Silverman stated in her Great Schlep, we'd be the assholes of the universe! (Yeah, I'm kind of a shiksa with my jew love. Don't worry, I married a Protestant.)

Anyway, thank God things have gone right, for once. Mmmm, make that left.

I'm so empty, ready to be filled up with the hope of President Obama (mmmmmm) and the crazy love between he and Michelle and their daughters, ready to ride this wave to heights never before reached! I'm ready!

Move On! Vote!!!

I just found this, it's my cousin's husband! Too cool! Now go vote!!!

Dog poo re-do

As God as my witness, Sidney was not scolded after yesterday's poop fest! So why, when I let her out, did she run WILD for TWO HOURS, leaving her 4-day-old babies to mew and grunt and fend for themselves?

Driving blindly around the hills of greater CharVegas, yelling until I was hoarse, I searched for Sidney. Fear of finding her smashed on the road were rising. It never occurred to me to tie her up! She was an attentive mother, she wouldn't leave, right?

Wrong-o! She and Baby Daddy Chubby went skidaddling all over God's Green Earth, rolling in road kill, draggin' ass through cow lots, and getting all fubar'ed before I spotted that happy tail, wagging as she romped in a ditch. When I pulled over and yelled for her to come, she had the audacity to look at me, hold up a front paw, and flip me her middle toe!

What gives? Through gritted teeth, I managed a sweet voice to coax her into the back of the car and back to her starving yungins.

The poop fest, while horrifying, was really not the worst thing to have happen. In fact, it ignited the long-postponed need to get out brushes and paints and work on gussying up the house for the holidays (we'll host Mr. Mart's family for Christmas). So, removing disgusting gold shag carpet, circa 1978, from our bedroom this weekend will lend itself to wall painting and (hopefully) floor staining.

Then we'll move on to the hallway and the kids' rooms and the stairway and the living room and . . . I'm thinking, "Screw this decaff crap!"

An open letter to Sidney

Dear Sidney:

What is it with your poop? Is there anything more rancid?

You know that fall has arrived. The frigid temps have made our beds extra comfy with heavy blankets and comforters. I know how much you love them. Just an hour ago, I was sleeping lusciously sound under mine. That is, until I heard 'the tinkle.'

It was the tinkle of your dog tags. The tinkle of you, our newly mama'ed beagle, upstairs. The tinkle of your dog tags signaling you'd managed to wiggle through the cat hole in the basement door. The tinkle of your dog tags sounding the need to do your business. The tinkle of your dog tags heralding the knowledge that what you were about to do had no business being done in the vicinity of your babies. It was the tinkle of a Golgathan Shit Demon.

Unfortunately, the warmth under the blankets trumped the cold outside. I'm sorry Sidney, it was early! But no warmth could combat that smell, could it? Nothing prys open the eyes more quickly and sharply than your poop. Not the best made espresso, bubbling in the Bialetti. Not the yummiest pancakes, fresh off the griddle. Not even the sound of Robin Meade's laugh! Nope. Dog poop: it got us going.

You surely knew what you were doing, Sid, as you heard Mr. Mart fly into action, running blindly through the dark. He thought he'd discovered the offense in Miss Moira's room. (Sleeping through fresh dog poop does not bode well for upcoming teen years.) Fortunately, most rooms in the house are sans carpet so the cleaning up was pretty easy.

But with the offense cleaned up, how was it that the air still reeked, Sidney? How was it that the air was so completely soiled that I'd swear it was coming from the side of my bed? How was this? That's because the air was soiled around my bed, along with some of the last remaining carpet in the house! Holy shit buckets!!! Holy sins against the olfactory senses!!! Holy that's-one-way-of-getting-rid-of-carpet!!!

I hear you now, Sidney, in your pimped out puppy den in the basement. Don't look at me that way. I'm sure it does suck to be relegated to the basement. But it's not forever, it's temporary. By Christmas, you'll be back on Mac Daddy's bed. And it's not so bad, it's quiet, it's soft, it's safe, it's warm.

I feel so violated, Sidney. So used. So shit upon. WTF?! We love you, we've shared our beds with you, we've been your midwives. And for what? For you to foul our sleeping quarters? For you to shit upon our early morning R.E.M.?

It is now 6:24 in the a.m. and you wonder why I call you Sid Vicious...I'm getting some real coffee.

Eve WAS framed!

A few years ago, I received the best Christmas present ever, from the best mother-in-law ever: a sweatshirt on which was printed "Eve was framed." Is that not the best? Does she not "get" her rabble rousing daughter-in-law? I raise this because a dear friend of mine, a catholic/jew, for one reason or another found me worthy to receive this little story. I've never heard it, but it's a goodie. Thanks, Boobee!

A Visit to Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's

Young Enoch skipped up the pathway, effervescent with excitement. Father Jared and Mother had never let him go so far from home before, all by himself! With this visit to Adam and Eve, he could prove to his parents that he was indeed a big boy, and could handle himself in the wide world, East of Eden.

Adam was out working, but Eve were very happy to see him, as always. There seemed to be a special twinkle in Great-Great-Great-Great Grandmother's eye-- she must be proud of me, too, Enoch thought. Eve brought out a delicious porridge she had just made. "Eat, eat, my child!"

"Ur-Bubbie, this is delicious! What is it?"

"Well, I've been potchkeying around in the kitchen with the new barley crop, and I came up with this recipe. Do you like it?"

"Yes, Ur-Bubbie. What do you call it?"

"I don't have a name yet. What do you think?"

"I think you should call it 'Grape-Nuts'!"

"What an odd name? What made you think of that?"

"Well, the barleycorns are small, like grape seeds, and the porridge is crunchy, like nuts."

"Oh, Enoch, you are so clever!"

After finishing the mandatory second helping, to prove to Ur-Bubbie that he really did love her cooking, Enoch broached the main purpose of his visit:

"In school today, the teacher told us that we needed to know more about our human family. All the other kids were talking to Great-Great-Great Grandfather Seth, but I decided to go all the way up the line and talk to you!"

"That's a good boychik, Enoch. It's good to aim high. For some reasons, your cousins never come to me when they get these school assignments. But I think that you will have the best report of all. What do you want to know?"

"Well, Ur-bubbie, I was hoping... what I mean is... well...."

Eve put her hand-- roughened from much work, but still firm and strong-- on Enoch's arm. "I know why you are stammering, mein Kind. You want to ask about the Hard Times, and you don't know how to bring up the subject."

"How did you guess?"

"Enoch, I have lived through a great deal, and brought many children into the world. I have nursed them back to health when they are sick; I have heard them babble when their fever is high. I know how to see the vines of a question ready to spring up out of a child's heart, even when the seeds are only beginning to sprout."

That gave Enoch the courage to ask the hard question. "The other kids were saying that it was your fault that Ur-Zayde and you had to leave the Garden. I was sticking up for you. I said that you and Ur-Zayde always made your decisions together, and that people shouldn't go blaming you. They said, I'm just a little kid, and what do I know? So I want to hear the story from you, Ur-Bubbie."

Eve patted her great-great-great-great grandson's arm again, but her voice changed in timbre when she spoke. "It was a very hard time, and we had a huge fight. Adam was blaming me, and I really thought it wasn't fair. But even worse than that, I thought that we would never have a happy moment again. I had never known sadness until then, and it was so hard... Do you understand me, or is this over your head?"

Enoch shook his head vigorously, to show that he was old enough to understand.

"But the most amazing thing happened after we left the Garden. For the first time, we began to know each other, really know each other. We worked together to grow wheat. You can still see a patch of the first wheat we cultivated. Even though we have better crops today, I still put in one patch of the first wheat, just for old times' sake. We were so tired after a day's work, that we would just drop off and sleep like babies. But I was happy, because Adam needed me, and I needed him. We couldn't just wander around and pick fruit, like in the old days. We sweated plenty to get the food that we ate. But it tasted even better, because we had worked for it."

Mother Eve went on in this vein, and Enoch drank in the stories. He wanted to know other things, too. But he was afraid to bring up the difficult subject of Abel's death-- none of the kids ever talked about it. They only whispered scary snatches of a tale, and Enoch wasn't sure if he wanted to know how much of it was true.

Mother Eve, of course, saw all this in her youngest one's face, and she finished her story: "Of course, there's a lot more you want to know, but that will have to wait until you are older. You have already grown so much! You came here all by yourself. Let's measure your height... see, you come up to the second cord on the tent-flap. Next time, I bet you'll be even taller, and I'll tell you more. Meantime, take this back to your Mama, since you like it. Tell her to come to me for the recipe." And she gave him a pot filled with Grape-Nuts, to take back home.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michael Panitz

Caffeine & Holesteins

I'm tired. I've done OK off the juice, but it's sad to report not much has changed. Only one day did I suffer any headaches (and I think that was more drama, then withdrawal). And the tremor? The whole reason for starting this little experiment? Well, I'm still shaking. In a couple weeks, I'll be visiting with my doctor and I think I'll request some further testing. While 90 percent of me is convinced this a lovely little gift passed down through generations on my mother's side, there's the 10 percent that worries wonders if it's something else.

If the caffeine was truly influencing the tremor, wouldn't you think that after 2 weeks, I'd see some results? I feel NO DIFFERENT. Admittedly, I've had a couple of slips. I love coffee. LUV it. So I have found that if the decaff is unavailable, I take a bite of forbidden fruit. Not always, not even regularly, but there's been a couple times when I NEEDED it (there, I said it). And I'm needing it right NOW!

I'm tired. And the pop machine with freshly stocked Mountain Dew is calling to me ... loudly ... from down the hall ... around the accounting office in my building. But I shall not bend. I have not had any caffeinated pop since the 12th of this month. And today will not break me. But I'm tired.

Why all this fatigue, you wonder? Well, our little farmette is quickly turning into a petting zoo. About a week ago, you may remember me reporting that the kids and Marty found where Sally, our resident Mama Cat, had tucked away her most recent litter: in the crawl space under the porch. All seven of those cute, little fur balls are thriving! Running all around, eating kitty food, and staying out from under our vehicles.

Turns out, seven really must be our lucky number because last night, our beagel, our beloved Sidney Freedman may have secured me new furniture before Christmas! Her water broke as we watched the World Series! On the couch! And it's not leather or microfiber, but good ol' cloth!

Working fast, we fashioned a birthing room upstairs where we could keep a close eye on her and by 10:05 p.m., the first of seven SPREAGLES were born (Sid is a beagel and her baby daddy, Chubby, is a springer spaniel). While it's been a few years since I labored my children into this world, I was so feelin' for Sidney. You could hear her push and groan and every once in awhile a pained howl would be launched into the universe. At one point, I think it may have been "transition," she left her quarters as if to say, "I'm soooo outta here," and jumped up on my bed (looks like Santa's bringin' new sheets, as well).

Who knew that newborn puppies were so loud?! It sounded like a pack of wild dingos in there! But by sunrise, all seven were settled down and cuddled up with Mommy, a sea of black and white. To quote my husband, "It looks like a herd of Holsteins.

So, would it be wrong to have a celebratory Dew?

The flaw with going public

For many years now, I've been told that pain is the touchstone of growth. James Joyce said, "Mistakes are the portals of discovery."

When I first started this blog I couldn't explain the 'why' of it. Sure, I may have tried, but foresight is not my strong suit. Today I understand the 'why' behind this venture and it's as the subtitle says, "a dumping ground of one's own." This is my litter box, where I unload, where I stash, where I celebrate, and where I wallow. I have no intention of sounding like some poor, tortured, artsy-fartsy soul. Rather I must clarify THE point behind this space: healing.

I cannot speak for Jane Doe or Joe Schmoe, I can only speak for me and my need to "write it out." I'm sure you can dig up all sorts of personality traits and planetary alignments to argue why this be the case, but so what. The truth is, I write what I feel and what I feel is usually not something I hide all the best. This has its perks and drawbacks.

When I started The Litterbox, I was sending out my feelings in hopes of meeting others with similar passions or ideas or experiences; maybe connect with someone further along this journey. I was guarded, afraid of anyone learning my identity because I was letting EVERYTHING out. I was droppin' the F-bombs, knockin' the church, pissin' on the hierarchy, and just venting in a hugely freeing, no-holds-barred kinda way. And it felt good.

Initially, very few people knew of The Litterbox because I didn't want to offend anyone. The Litterbox was not intended to be a weapon of harm. Again, I created it at as a vehicle for healing and as the posts began to grow, so did my confidence. I began telling more people about it. Ego-maniac that I am (yes, I'm a spade), I thought some of my mates might be interested in the stuff I was penning. Recently, I even linked some posts to my Facebook profile. In hindsight, this was not the most thought-out act.

For the first time, my identity was publicly linked to The Litterbox. I was okay with that, I didn't think I had anything to hide. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten about some earlier venting and joking I'd done at the expense of family. Yup. I fucked up, again. Months ago, hurting over long-time drama, I made some remarks about various family members. Whether they were real or imagined DOES NOT MATTER.

What matters is that by linking The Litterbox on Facebook, my family had access to all 90+ posts. The remarks were dug up and feelings were hurt. Justifiably so, and there's nothing I can do to take it back. Sure, I removed the offending posts from the blog. But this doesn't make things right. It doesn't right the wrongs done to my aunts or to my sisters or to my parents. "That horse has left the barn," a friend wrote me. I have done all I can and an "I'm sorry" just doesn't feel enough.

If there's one thing I do with The Litterbox, it's be real. I will continue to be real, to share my angst and frustrations and hurts and worries. I will continue to shout it, to show it, to sing it. I am human, I am flawed, I am fucked up, and I will never be quite right. And I'm learning to accept this about myself. I will continue to make mistakes for the rest of my days. And in spite of this, I know that I am a good person doing the very best that I can. Sometimes my best is fabulous. Sometimes my best sucks ass. But I can honestly say that I'm trying to do better, one moment, one lesson, at a time.

Much love to you all.

Searching for the Green Tara

So having edited many past posts and deleted some others, it's time for me to get back to the basics: literature! Thanks goes out to my friend and fellow blogger Miss Wooly Daisy who recommended I read Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna. She shared it after reading of my experience with Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter.

Longing for Darkness is the story of writer China Galland's search for female connections within the Buddhist discipline. I'm only a third through the book, but Miss Daisy must know my heart as she really directed me toward a significant read. Thanks, gurl! This Galland chick and I have a few things in common: we share similar catholic roots, we are both sober moms, and both of us desire female spiritual guides, deities, and gods.

So last night, with flashlight in hand (and Moira's head on my shoulder), I read of Galland's meeting with the abbot of the Dalai Lama's monastery in McLeod Ganji, India. She was sent to him by the Dalai Lama himself to learn more about Tara, who "according to the legend . . . knew that there were hardly any Buddhas who had been enlightened in the form of a woman. So she was determined to retain her female form and to become enlightened only in this female form."

While it is said that Buddhist practitioners see no difference between men and women, it is also admitted that there is some feeling of discrimination, albeit "superficial," the Dalai Lama states.

What Galland shares with the abbot is a visualization she's experienced. "After sitting for five years, some of my Christian roots began to crop up in my meditation. What has evolved is a kind of mandala in which I visualize Tara, the Virgin Mary, Buddha, and Jesus Christ."

This one paragraph is ripe with coincidences for me, but for this post, the significance that struck me is not in the presence of the Christian figures, but what Tara is doing: "I imagine Tara taking a pitcher of compassion and pouring it over the heads of all the people I love--my family, my friends, everyone, as well as all the people I don't love--that I find difficult or hard."

Tonight, after a long, afternoon meeting with Moira's surgeon, I thought of that visualization. I have no control over others, no control over their actions, their thoughts, their experiences, how they interpret, or what they say. But I do have control over myself and I must allow others the right to live according to their own will. I don't have to like it, but I do have to accept, and that's where the visualization enters: I must imagine my God, the great She, pouring warm, loving compassion over the heads of all the people I love and don't love, and trust in those oft repeated words of Julian of Norwich, "all will be well." Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but "all will be well."

Trying to 'roll' with it

I wish I could write that it's the good stuff the universe continues to bring, but with the good, also comes the bad, though I hate to use such labels. I've been slacking on my prayer, meditation, and readings. Not just slacking, rather, just not doing. "I'm fine," I tell myself. But what I'm really saying is, "I don't fucking care." And that sucks to admit, but there it is.

I don't believe in vengeful deities. I believe in gods that allow me freedom to sow my actions and reap my consequences. There's no judgement, no penance. This is important stuff for me to remember, especially during days like today when I want to blame my pain on the gods and the humans. But the universe doesn't roll that way.

Today's lesson, which I shall call, "What happens when Jenny's a lazy toad," goes something like this . . .

On my way to Coffee Klatch this morning, after dropping off the kids at school, I cruise with my decaf, talking to a sister on my celli. Suddenly I feel something in the road and then the 'thwump, thwump, thwump' of a flat tire. Grrrr. Hanging up on my sister, I draw a temporary blank on the donut in the trunk of my car. "Do I call a tow truck?" I wondered. No, my husband! Always my man in waiting, ready to swoop in and clean up my shit, he reminds me of said donut, but not to worry, that he'll come change it.

"Well, I could at least get it unpacked," I thought. So with owner's manual in hand (yeah, it took that just to get the tire unsecured from the trunk floor), I discovered changing a tire is not all that difficult. In fact, it's pretty empowering. Thirty minutes later and I called off my husband and rushed off to my meeting. (Wasn't it nice of a passerby to snap this photo of me in action?!!)

After another 30 minutes, Coffee Klatch ends. When I drove off to get a new tire, I spilled my water bottle in my lap. More specifically, on my crotch! So, there I find myself, wandering around the local box store looking as if I'd just pissed myself. Nice. It's at that moment that I notice I'm beginning to feel a little 'not right,' a wee agitated, a bit edgy, as if the winds of change may just be blowing against me.

Well, let me just say, the day hasn't gotten much better. Think freshly baked pizza, a nice cup of red Kool-Aid, and my mother's recently cleaned white carpet.

Yeah, it's gone that good . . .

Time to pray, meditate, and read!

And the universe rained down upon thee

Today is a very special day. Not only does it mark the legal partnership into which I entered with my husband 11 years ago, it also is the 5th anniversary of dear Helen's freedom from terminal brain cancer. I know she's truly Dancing with Stars today! These 2 sweets should be enough, really, but I guess the universe thought differently! The blessings just keep flowing!

First, I breathed a great sigh of relief after rushing to my tea jar and discovering the green tea I've been drinking is DECAF! Whew. Miss Daisy reminded me of the caffeinated sort and I'm happy to report, I've been doing the decaf of that awesome brew all along!

But there's more! At 6 a.m., I opted out of my tea thing, preferring some java. Looking in the freezer to make up a cup from my aforementioned 4-year-old can of Folgers instant decaf, I found it gone! In its place was a pound of whole bean decaf my Beloved had gifted me last night. While that certainly would've been much yummier than the Folgers, I didn't want to sound the grinder and wake up the house. So I had nuttin!

Turns out, he'd already prepped the Bialetti with freshly ground decaf the night before (he is a thoughtful one, that Marty). Unfortunately the Bialetti only brews one ginormous cup at a time. And I drained that before leaving for my Coffee Klatch! During the drive, I called Marty and asked if I'd be a failure for drinking coffee at my meeting. He said, "What? Are you really jones-ing for some caffeine?" I told him, "No! I just like coffee, decaf or regular it doesn't matter. But they only serve regular at the meeting!" His solution was utterly preschool in its simplicity: "get a decaf at Casey's on the way." Huh. Problem solved. No need to relapse!

Unbelievably, two more blessings would find me before the clock struck Noon.

Following my Coffee Klatch, I returned home to find my husband sitting on the cat house. Earlier in the week the kids had found where Sally, our resident Mama Cat, had been hiding her most recent litter: in the crawl space under the porch. Moving Sally and her 6 fluffy, wide-eyed, wobbly-legged hatchlings was such a treat, but by nightfall, one had wandered off and was nowhere! Well this morning, as Marty was planting garlic and tulip bulbs (yeah, he's that awesome) he thought he heard some mewing from the crawl space.

Turns out, Sally's been pulling double duty, balancing her mothering between the 5 in the cat house and TWO others still in the crawl space! So, what was once 5 little kittens are now 7! And Sally is certainly showing herself to a be a fab mum!

Think that's it? Well, hold onto your overalls! In the mail was a love letter from one of my Bitches, Diane. Having heard about Moira's cleft issue, she sent Moira a little, sparkly schwag and me? An awesome little Buddha with this quote attached:

We are formed and molded by our thoughts. Those whose minds are shaped by selfless thoughts give joy when they speak or act. Joy follows them like a shadow that never leaves them.

-Buddha

Whatever have I done to deserve such outpouring from the universe?! To have a loving husband, healthy kids, Helen in the heavens, and my Bitches still on Earth, plus all this amazing extra schizzle . . . it's too much!

In fact, I've got oodles to share. So to all of you, I send you this Celtic blessing:

May the blessing of the rain be on you--the soft, sweet rain.

May it fall upon your spirit so that all the little flowers may spring up, and shed their sweetness on the air.

May the blessing of the great rains be on you, may they beat upon your spirit and wash it fair and clean, and leave there many a shining pool where the blue of heaven shines, and sometimes a star.

Much love to you all . . .

Day 5: Decaf sucketh

Here it is, the morning of my fifth day off the juice. I hate to admit this, but up until yesterday afternoon, it had been a relatively easy trek. I'd wake and put on the tea pot for a "cuppa" and then sit back and enjoy some green tea. I put green tea right up there with communion for the ex-communicated: LOVELY! It has long been my elixir of uneasy tummies, upset hearts, and tortured souls. Since my first memories of being beached on the couch covered with a sheet and my favorite blanket, green tea and toast are about as "feel good" as commodities go. Though these days, if I even think about toast all golden and buttered, I'm libel to fall into a carb-crazed blackout. Half a loaf later and I'm sportin' a buttery crumbed beard. But I digress . . .

As I was saying, the caffeine-free life hasn't been horrible. No, it's more like I'm living in a black-and-white flick, life all Ozzie and Harriet, devoid of conflict and taste, but with a slightly decreased tremor. Wait, did I write, devoid of conflict? Well, that was until last night. With a slow-burn of a headache having set in yesterday afternoon (weird how the DTs took 4 days to hit, no?) my family sat down for supper at which time Moira mentions something white, with some orange-ish red, came out of her mouth. "That was blood," she said casually. Remember that bone graft thing I was going on about last week? It sure sounds like a chunk of bone has now left said graft. Bummmmmmerrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My baby-selfish-self just wants this behind her/us! But, no such luck. We'll know more next week when we return to the doc.

This is the kinda stuff, though, that I don't handle well. And would I handle it any better with some real Joe (not that damn plumber) or better yet, a Marlboro Ultra Mild? No. So here I sit, 6:13 in the a.m. with a cup of Folgers instant decaf that I found in the freezer. Certainly this cannot be the same Folgers decaf that I bought during the 2004 Bitchfest: "The Blair Bitch Project," can it? Oh yes it can! Folgers offers a timeline for saving coffee. Go look at the recommendations for keeping opened cans of instant coffee crystals.

Mmmmm, good to the last, rotten plop . . .

The great caffeine experiment

I feel like a heroine addict a few hours after her last hit. Things are pretty calm right now, but I know it's gonna get bad. I'm taking a 30-day leave of my elixir of life: caffeine.

I have this thing, this tremor. I have my mother and her mother to thank for it. It's been increasing over the years. I'll be eating and I'll catch eyes staring at my right hand, fork shimmying above the plate. My sisters are the worst, they love to give me hell about it. "Geez, Jenny! See a doctor!"

Thing is, I have, and I remind them of it every time we're together. Recently, the four of us sisters got together for a flick Burn After Reading (marginal in terms of Cohen Brothers, but Pitt was hilarious). I commented on how my sister Angie's hands were so still. She looked at me and said, "Jen, this is normal. Your shake is not."

As with every other time, I assured her I've talked to my doctor and have been told that other than quitting the caffeine, there's nothing that can be done. "And I tried that, for a day, and it didn't help." Then she said it, "Have you tried it for a month?" I about choked on my Mountain Dew. "A month?! No caffeine for a month?!"

She dropped the issue, but it left me thinking, "It can't hurt to try." So here we go . . .

Part of me hopes it works, it would be nice to use the video camera again, cool to take the SLR off "shake" mode, even better to not have to wipe mascara from my eyebrows. But if it works, that means no yummo espresso from the Bialetti, no thirst-quenching bite from the infamous green can, no bottomless cup during my coffee hour with friends! But there are concessions I could make, I could switch to decaf (shhh, don't tell me if there are trace amounts) and I really shouldn't be drinking any pop in the first place. So it's not like my life would become completely desolate. . . Right?

The stinky Yogi

In an effort to lighten the mood here in the Litterbox, I'd like to talk to you about Jesus, I mean, something even more personal: FARTING. While this specific topic was hit on earlier this year from one fab blogger, The Mom Bomb, at the time, I was not practicing my yoga. Now that I've resumed, however, I find I'm having similar experiences. What experience is that, you may wonder? Yoga-induced FARTING.

The Mom Bomb shared that she was FARTING in her yoga class. I, however, do yoga at home. So while FARTING during a yoga session is not an issue I'm concerned with, I find the FARTING occurring after I'm done to be the issue . . . like everyday since I resumed yoga on Tuesday.

As my family complains to me about the noxious emissions and green clouds following me about the house, I try explaining to them that this is part of the yoga package. When a person stretches and bends themselves in the variety of postures, the organs of the body get excited and stirred up and starts ridding the body of all sorts of toxins. "Then stop doing yoga!" they demand. (Apparently, my toxins are particularly offensive.)

Initially, I thought this was a passing thing (rim shot). But here it is Day 3 since I resumed yoga and the paint is peeling from my house and mice are running from my office! In researching this phenomenon, many sites discuss the yogic principle of pratyahara which means withdrawal of the senses. As I said, I do yoga in my house, by myself, alone, so my senses are totally chill. But how can I help others practice pratyahara. Others who don't give a rat's ass about pratyahara, but would like to see Jen's Ass take a hike.

On Wednesday, my husband called me at work to share what our lovely Moira said after she sparked: "Sorry, I've got Mommy's gas." And everybody laughed!!!! Oh, it was so funny!!!!!! Honestly? I don't think "Mommy's gas" is so funny! There's much stigma that comes with FARTING! And even though this has come about due to practicing an ancient art, a FART is a FART.

So, if anyone out there has advice, experience, product information, I'm all ears/eyes. Now excuse me, I gotta go to the bathroom.

How grey be the 'hard' & 'soft' of it

Who was it that said when a mother pushes out her child, nature pushes in the guilt? Obviously I've got a lot of it with Moira. She survived an early gestation with alcohol, survived alcohol-tainted breast milk, and even survived her mother's sobering up. I do not mean to write so flippantly of this, it is the reality Moira and I share.

And whenever I screw up now, my "internal critic" likes to unpack all that old guilt that I've tried to process and blow situations waaaayyyyy out of wack. Like, for instance, this new hole in Moira's mouth. Upon meeting with her doctor today, we learned that this type of opening may simply have occurred on its own. Her diet and the difference between "hard" and "soft" foods? Turns out, we were doing ok. According to the Otolaryngology Clinic, "soft" foods are "anything that doesn't crunch." Whew.

But what's this mean for Moira's mouth? Well, there remains some, if not all, of the bone graft. However, doctors won't know for sure until January when x-rays will determine whether or not it has taken root. In the meantime, we continue with the foods she's comfortable and get to take the oral care up a notch to include an antibiotic mouth rinse and use of a water pik. We'll know more in 2 weeks when we return.

Mistakes and responsibility

It was 6 weeks ago today that my 8-year-old Moira had an alveolar bone graft. This was by far the most intense surgery out of the many she's had since she was just 5 months old. My daughter was born with a cleft lip and palate.

My husband and I were of the rare group lucky to learn their unborn baby had a cleft. With this information, we were able to use the final 2 weeks of gestation to prepare ourselves, and mourn the loss of our ideal. It was a harsh blow. No parent wants their child to be anything less than perfect, no matter how delusional that may sound. And honestly, I was afraid of the ugliness of clefts.

When we were told what the doctors saw in the ultrasound, I flipped out. I thought it was the worst thing ever! Having a couple of cousins with clefts, I remembered different surgeries they went through, the scars on their lips, the language still used to describe them, and the ignorance of people who encountered them. I was so angry that I would have to deal with this.

But as the days passed, I grew more calm. I would lay, soaking in the bathtub with my arms around my belly and tell my child I loved her and couldn't wait to meet her. I would cry with fear that people wouldn't love her, that they'd be frightened or startled by her, that they'd use ugly words like "hair lip." I was so scared that she would grow up feeling like something was wrong with her, that she was less then.

So when it came time to bring her into this world, my husband and I had progressed through many stages of grief over the loss of what we'd expected and were pretty psyched to meet who we were being given! And she was fabulous from the moment she entered the world! And so tough! Being born with a cleft means you're going to have a lot of surgeries over the course of your life, most of which will occur before age 18.

At 5-months-old, Moira's lip was closed. At 1 year, her palate was closed. At 3-years-old, a hole or "fistula" opened in the soft palate so a skin graft was taken from her hip to close that hole. Then back in late August of this year, a piece of bone was taken from the same hip and grafted into her hard palate.

Her surgeon told us that the procedure couldn't have gone better. That if a perfect surgery could be had, it just did. He then drove home the importance of oral care, basically warning that if the graft failed to take root, it would likely be failure to keep the mouth clean or be the result of trauma to the face.

I thought we'd been careful. Super sensitive to teeth brushing (at least 4 times a day). Hyper vigilant with teachers that she be suspended from P.E. and recess. What we failed at was the diet. At about 3 weeks post-op, Marty and I allowed her to start eating soft foods. Foods like plain hot dogs, cut up, and soggy, microwaved chicken nuggets. Why I thought these would pass as "soft" I don't know. I have since learned that these foods are classified as "hard" and shouldn't be given until 6 weeks post-op.

This goes beyond your run-of-the-mill "oops." This was a fuck up. And this massive mistake may have cost Moira another surgery.

Last night, as I sat listening to her read, I heard it. I heard this nasally whistle of a sound that only happens when there's a fistula in her palate. My heart stopped. "Moira? Is your hole back," I asked her. "Yeah. I noticed it this weekend."

My husband and I immediately grabbed a flashlight and, yup, there's a hole up there. In fact, we can see the front of the hole above her gum and the back of the hole in the hard palate behind her teeth. I felt so numb and helpless. Still do, in fact. But let's not forget the overwhelming sense of RESPONSIBILITY. To play the "if only" game is stupid, but it's how I feel right now: stupid that a hot dog or nugget would pass as "soft."

So today, after numerous messages left with her surgeon's office, I finally got through to a receptionist at 4 o'clock. When I told her that I "heard" it, she freaked out. "Oh my God. I'll get Dr. John and have him call you right away."

Turns out, Dr. John's in China, but he wants us seen ASAP by his attending. So tomorrow we head back to the hospital, expecting no work to be done other than charting a new course of action.

I just fear all that is unknown until then.