Be Gone Evil Spirits and Egg-throwers

--I need a tripod, I guess, but it didn't stop me from going for the glow.

--We've regrouped from the egging episode--kinda mad, and I have to admit to calling the wrong mom, but, hey--anger gets the best of me sometimes. It's what you get when you've made far too many crank calls and fake pizza deliveries to me--I blame you instantly. Maybe your mom needs to know. It's official--I'm old.

--Moving on, I have to see the beauty in the holiday. There are few things I love more on Halloween than a glowing pumpkin, warmed by the candle within. Who doesn't love free candy and cute little ones who are too shy to say the magic words--"Trick or Treat"?

--I love to harass the kids too old to dress up, but young enough not to be embarrassed to ask for candy. "No costume, No candy" is my mantra. You know they are too old when they have to explain who or what they are, carefully planned out. Joe was with me, making the teens say the magic words over and over again. No wonder we were egged. I expect it will happen again.

--There is a shaving cream fight raging on the front lawn as I type--at least the smell is clean. Beats the heck out of rotten egg smell.

--How many days until Christmas.....................

Wordless Thursday?

I can't be "wordless"--not even for a day!

Anyway--I just love hydrangeas. There is no cluster of flowers that is exactly the same on one bush. Depending on where and how the sunlight hits them determine whether the bunch will be bright pink, soft fushia, or even a muted shade of pale green. I admire the diversity and personality of such a plant.

Off to work and then home to battle (hopefully not) another round of egg-throwers. Ugh.

Turn Up the Volume!

We've wrapped up the season on a high note. The Marching Astros have had a great year, winning Grand Champion at Western Illinois University (Hi, Scott!) and placing the highest ever at the University of Illinois--tying for 3rd place. Oh, I hate to see the season end. Thank goodness Em's coming on board next year for Colin's Senior year.

Enjoy the Marching Astros at Western courtesy of my new band parent pally, Stan. Be sure to turn up the volume on your speakers!

Marching Band Monday--The Alan B. Shepard Marching Astro's Season Ends

I didn't drag the camera, the bag, and all its cumbersome contents down to the University of Illinois Marching Band contest. I was starting to resemble a pack mule for a day long hike down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with all of the crap I was carrying. Preparing for a cold day at U of I entails preparation days in advance--blankets, hats, gloves, scarves, heavy parka, boots, turtleneck, sweatshirt, lip balm, etc., times 4, all crammed into the back of the van. Add to that 4 stadium seats, 4 folding chairs, snacks, bottled water, 100 Rice Krispie Treats, and who-knows-what-else we needed for survival, and we truly did look like the Ingall's family readying for a move across the barren plain. I couldn't bear to add the camera bag, I figured someone else would have to do the photography for the day.

Going to U of I is an annual event for the Astros. There is a major tent set-up, thanks to the band parents, including one very generous alumni parent who every year volunteers his time and equipment to set us up comfy. We look like we are feeding an army, with mess tents and picnic tables lined up for half a block. Everyone else sets up folding chairs and blankets intermingled with band equipment, marimbas, the giant gong, bass drum, and racks of band uniforms. Parents, students, alumni, and friends all show up to our usual spot for a day of tailgating, parading, and competing, and it was a hoot. Albeit a freezing hoot, but it was a hoot.

There is no comraderie like that of the band parents. I'm not sure if all band parents are the same, but our bunch is special. Everyone gets along, teasing each other, laughing at this or that. When the call comes to help, they nearly plow each other over to do what needs to be done. They whisper lauds of Mr. P, appreciating all that he does for our kids year after year--AND he directs the most spectacular of shows! Amazing. I have never belonged to a group less concerned with politics and so directed at accomplishing what needs to be done. It is a joy to be a part of them.

Competition at U of I is intense. The categories are determined by school size, which is our Achilles heel--we have a really large student population, but a small band in comparison. We competed against bands that were literally twice the size of ours. Add to that the funding that goes to those schools and the money they have to work with, we really have to shine in order to win anything.

The Marching Astros were fabulous in both the parade competition and the field contest. We placed higher this year than ever before, winning 1st place for colorguard and drum majors and tying for 3rd in the parade competition. We won 2nd overall for colorguard and tied for 3rd in the field competition--which was incredible if you had seen the shows. Prospect has swept nearly every category for the last 25 years, and to think we placed anywhere near them is a feat in itself. And we beat them in some areas. WOW! If it had not been so freaking cold, I think I could have cried for how wonderful the kids were that day. It was great to see them place against the toughest of competitors.

The U of I Marching Illini performed, which was spectacular! Their drumline, cymbal, and sousaphone routine is awe-inspiring. Watching them dance with sousaphones draped heavily around their necks was incredible. Geesh, I wished I had gone to school here--just to say I was a part of this. I leaned over and told Em that I thought she should try out for the cymbal line--just 'cuz they were cool. (Ok--so she plays the flute--she can switch if she really wanted to.) The sound and the show that was in front of us was fantastic! I thought of Diane's son and my cousin Kelly, who played in this majestic band. What honor in performing with them! It was great for the high school kids to see what opportunities are ahead of them, should they pursue college band. It was even more inspiring when a couple of our alumni stepped out of the bunch to come visit with them.

It was a wonderful end to a great season. To spend the day with our band friends and to just enjoy the company of great kids and parents was a nice reprieve to unsettled times. We chatted with Stan and Geri about goofy kids or the wish for a seat on the warm bus. We laughed with Maggie about her fuzzy teddy-bear earmuffs. I met "Fran's Dad" who was a surprise reader of the blog. I commiserated about the horrible economy and its personal effects with Wendy. We talked "section leaders" with Paul and Mary and flash paper with Laura. And then we sympathetically hugged the Senior moms, Jeanne and Rita, who were experiencing their last U of I trip as band parents. Ok, so we nearly froze to death out there--but our hearts were warmed by the experience.

It was okay that I didn't have photos to remember the day after all, the memories inside will last. Well, until next year, anyway.

The Sweet Sound of Swwkkkkiiisshhhh

We pulled into the driveway and waited for Em to knock on the door of Caroline's house. It wasn't too early, she should be up by 10:00 a.m.--maybe she had to set her alarm, it wouldn't surprise me. She was ready and waiting at the door, prepared for yet another band adventure with the Kautz's. Caroline comes out to the car, winter coat on, blanket in hand, and in the other hand a brown shopping bag full of groceries. She looks like a bag lady, when actually she's just prepared for another long day of band competition.

Em and Caroline are our band pallies--going with us to as many competitions as they can handle. They are fair weather fans, as they bail on us on the coldest of nights--preferring to hang out at the house instead of sitting on freezing cold metal bleachers. We miss them on such occasions, as they crack us up almost as much as they cost us in concession stand fodder. Those two are wacky, coming up with funny comments for everything. I draw the line at giggling incessantly in the back seat--it kinda gets on my nerves after a long day. I will miss dragging these two along next year, hopefully they will be on the marching field and we will be cheering them on as well.

A couple of weekends ago, Em and Caroline sat in the breezy sunshine with us at Prospect High School's band competition. They were soon joined by Hannah and Jamie, other friends with siblings on the marching band. The four of them sat further down the row, giggling, and listening to their I-pods like teenage girls do. They seemed to be in a world all their own--completely ignoring us and whoever else wasn't a cute teenage boy.

They are suspiciously quiet and I look over to see Caroline whipping a box of Ritz crackers out of her coat. She's passing the crackers out to the pals, and they are all sitting there, munching away all the while watching the spectacular bands. I'm cracking up that Caroline brings her own munchies, and nobody else seems to think it weird that she actually smuggled in a box of Ritz into the stands. "Hey, Caroline! Did you bring the cheese-in-a-can?" I'm asking her jokingly. "Ahhh. I forgot it!" she answers without missing a beat. So now I'm making this skkwiishhh sound, like the cheese-in-a-can, pantomiming her spraying cheese on a cracker. Girlfriends actually looked like they were at a cocktail party munching on hor d'oeuvres. It was a hoot.

Em starts immitating the dude on the speaker...."Drum Majors, is your band ready?" Then she makes the sskkkwiiishh sound of Caroline spraying cheese-in-a-can, interrupting the silence one and a half seconds before the booming sound of a band starting their performance. We are all laughing. If you have been to a band competition, you know that the silence of the crowd is deafening, and breaking of that silence is frowned upon by band parents galore. It is the major infraction of band competitions, cause for glaring stares and loud "sshhhing". On the scale of infractions--this one is a major offense. I cannot imagine that required silence disturbed by the sound of air-compressed faux cheese being applied to a cracker. So, we are busting at the thought of Caroline's Cheese-in-a-can whooshing and causing a major scene at the contest.

Caroline took all of the ribbing in stride, as she usually does. That's what I love about the kid. She can dish it out, but man, she can take it too. Love her. Never gets mad, no matter how much we tease her. She sat there, smugly smiling that we were all cracking up.

So, now she's climbing into the back seat of the van with all of her U of I supplies. It is going to be a very long day of parades, tailgating, and then the largest competition of the marching band season. We are hunkering down for a long day and Caroline is prepared--bag of snacks a-ready. Of course, we start in on the bag the minute she gets in. She starts pulling out cookies, candy, her I-pod, gloves and crackers. Then, the moment arrives--Caroline whips out..........CHEESE-IN-A-CAN! That's it, I'm done for. I nearly wet my pants laughing. Joe is busting. Em is dying. And there is Caroline all proud over her surprise supplies! It was going to be a good day--all because we had canned cheese. It turns out Caroline made her mom run out to the store the night before to get the cheese. All for a laugh. I love that kid. She makes me laugh every time.

I will miss her and Em next year sitting in the stands with us next year. I was a tad weepy-eyed at U of I this year. Colin is only a junior, thank God, because had he been a senior, I would have been a mess. I was sad because I only have one more year with Col in this. This is the last performance of "Classic Schizophrenia" we will ever see live. And this was the last contest that we would share the stands with Emma and Caroline. It will be Joe and I alone next year--and although it is nice to have the time with Joe, I will miss those two cracking me up. And I'm not sure it can ever be as fun without Caroline and her cheese-in-a-can.

Cat Food for Dinner

My pally, Jon Katz, has been writing about fear lately. Fear of the unknown, fear in our lives, dealing with and overcoming fear. On his book tour, he realized how many people are experiencing fear lately. The economy is in the crapper and the media just pummels us to death with how bad everything is. It is hard to not have fear in such times I suppose.

Lately, I too, have been fearful. After losing Hen, and Ruth right before that, I am fearful of losing another loved one. The pain that coincides with a death lingers and I don't ever want to feel that again. I lost my dad at an early age, and so I have always been tremendously aware of how quickly life can change and how easily you can lose a loved one. I hold way too tight to those I love, always fearing their loss. I have to constantly fight my inclination to worry about death every single time I say goodbye to Joe or the kids. I have been scarred at an early age, and it doesn't ever go away.

In these horrible economic times, I worry about finances and Joe's job. Ok, so he got a warning that he may be unemployed come December, but worrying won't change the outcome. We prepare--we've drastically cut spending, save nearly every dime, and look for new jobs for him. He scours the job ads, visits Monster.com, and calls recruiters. Both sets of parents have offered their help, financially and emotionally, which is comforting. But there is still fear. How long can we possibly go without benefits and a salary?

I wake up in the middle of the night, fearful of the unknown. I see a lot of one a.m.'s on the alarm clock lately and then the mind starts to visit dark places. I lay there worrying about things I cannot control and what could possibly happen. I don't know what it is about worry in the middle of the night--things you think of at some ungodly hour always seem so much more dismal than if you thought of them in the middle of the day. I quick flip the pillow and shut my eyes, hoping to fall back into dreamland, forgetting my fears.

I share my fears with friends, hoping that if I voice them aloud they won't seem so bad. I am all too often met with fears of their own. Jeff is losing his job too. Mike's place is closing. Tim worries about his stability at work. Will there be cutbacks? How do we afford Christmas? Heat is supposed to be ridiculously expensive this year. It goes on and on. There is no one that isn't fearful it seems. There is some truth to the cliche "Misery loves company", as I am finding that everyone is all too willing to chime in to the latest depressing news.

I turn to Katz and his blog, hoping he has some profound words to help me through this. There aren't easy answers, just the consolaton that we are not alone in fear. There are poems, stories, and pictures that encourage creativity through such times. There are quotes from Churchill and others that encourage us to embrace fear, challenges, and overcoming adversity. I find comfort in knowing that he too, has fears and that I'm not the only one. It allows me the confidence to voice them, to send them out there for others to hear, and find comfort that somehow we will come through this and we can support each other in the meantime. I think embracing fear is the first step in overcoming it.

Embracing Office Supplies

Have you ever seen these "meme's" where they ask you to dump the contents of your purse and take a photo of it? I've been seeing them lately, and I haven't dared to do it yet. Not because I pack my life into my handbag and some people I know (Mom.............), but because I think I would bore people to death. There isn't much in there, even though I usually carry an over-sized bag. It is deceiving--there ain't much in there.

I think I threw everybody yesterday at band fundraiser money counting. We meet for an hour or so to make sense of the order forms and count the cash. There is usually a good bunch of helpers and it goes really fast, but this year the crowd was kind of sparse--I think there were only 8 of us. So, there is Diane and Wendy figuring the wreath orders, while Anne, Willa, and Stan were scratching their heads over the butterbraid forms. I was opening and sorting the envelopes, then moved on to counting the checks and cash with Rita. All the while, Mr. P would pop in and ask if there were problems. It was moving along fairly well, all of us shoving the problem forms to the side to be dealt with later.

As usual, there are just some people who have problems with their orders. Forms not filled out with names, incorrect totals, cash not matching their orders, etc. There were envelopes with missing orders, envelopes with missing cash--you name it, we found it. I was cracking up at Stan who was talking to himself through the forms. Wendy was telling us the story of her name--she was the lucky one as her sister got "Bambi". We all laughed wondering what her brother's name would be--Captain Hook? Diane grew frustrated with the paperwork and had to run out for a smoke. It was all giggles and polite teasing.

Then it came time to address the problem forms. Matching the checks to orders, trying to figure out what the heck the order was supposed to be. I sat there with my stack of checks--totalled, put neatly in bunches, paper-clipped for convenience. Mr. P looks at me and says "Can you find the Pacenti check?" to which I'm thinking, and of course, I say "Are you kidding me?". It's like a needle in a haystack. I see he's not laughing and so I dig in. "Hey Stan, you wanna switch jobs?" I'm not half kidding. He just snickers. Damn. So, I start digging.

The checks are sticking together, some are falling out of the bunch. The names are blurring. What if the order doesn't match the name? How are we going to find it? Geesh, what stack is this one check in? There is like a billion checks here. Why did I offer to do checks? Grumble, grumble. Then I remember! My secret weapon of help in the purse...........

I reach in and pull out.................my RUBBER FINGERS! Hooray! I whip through those checks like a knife through warm butter. Voila! The Pacenti Check! I hand it over to the open-mouthed crowd that had formed to see the magic of rubber fingers. I didn't even realize that they were all amazed that I actually carry rubber fingers in my purse. That's when it started.

Oh, the abuse I took for those rubber fingers! "Who carries rubber fingers with them?!" "What do you use those for?!" "Are you going on 'Let's Make a Deal' with those things?!" It went on and on. I went along --"Joe loves me for my rubber fingers" I tell them. "You never know when a party will pop up and you'll need your rubber fingers." I think I will be hearing about those rubbery things for years to come. Those dirty minded people--sullying the innocence of office supplies--how dare they?! The look on Mr. P's face was priceless. It was a mix of confusion, laughter, and horror. I think I throw the guy.

I refused most of the inquiries on why I carry such strange things in my purse, the actual truth was far more boring than the thoughts. "I'll leave you with your filthy minds," I tell them. I told Willa and Stan the truth , but they just kind of looked at me, weird-like, and realized that it was just boring. I should have just left them all wondering.

So, I left the crowd and went home. My parting words were "Don't trash me when I leave" to which Stan replies "Oh, we just do that to your face". Which was strangely comforting. Sheesh. Of all people--band parents. You'd think they'd understand.

The Cottonball Sky

How deceiving it was--it looked so spring-like, so lovely. I was out in the yard this past weekend, cleaning up, preparing for winter. We finished packing the shed and clipping back the plants. Hobbes was running around the leaves like a fool and I was hoping he was running out of energy. All I could think of was a nap, and as I lay on the grass waiting for some kitten to launch a "surprise" attack on me, I looked up and saw the sky. It was endless cottonballs on blue background. It was truly beautiful. Sad to see summer go.............

Keep Your Fingers to Yourself!

Everyone comes running when they hear the commercial for the new HP computer. Joan Jett is blaring "Do you wanna touch?" and they show hands all over the computer screen. How cool is that? Just like the I-Phone and I-Touch, you use your fingers to move things about on the new computer screen. ICK! Col and Joe think this is the coolest thing. Me? I'm thinking who the heck is going to clean it? It's gross.

I have been pleading, begging, yelling, and screaming about not touching the screen, on the TV and the computer, for the last 16 years. I have never understood why boogy-fingered children felt the need to run up to the TV and touch it. What is that? We sit halfway across the room and you have to get up to point at something? I spent 16 years cleaning the TV and screaming about it, and I think they have finally, just now, mastered their self-control.

The computer is more of an issue now. Col seems to be the biggest offender, but he won't admit it. I can always tell when a friend has been over because my screen looks like a Georges Seurat painting. Except it isn't lovely--it's just disgusting. Sure, nobody notices the greasy dots while the monitor is on, but it is a harbor for god-knows-what when it is turned off. But nobody notices that part but me. Sure, that You-Tube is funny. Yes, that blog is a hoot. But do we have to touch it?! Keep your dirty fingers to yourself!

Even at work I'm fighting screen-touchers. They find me a desk--finally. Here is a computer--finally. Then I see the screen. Ick. Who knows who's been touching that screen? And where have their fingers been? I make a run for the Windex. Then I ask the eternally patient Eva for help. The first thing she does? Touches the screen! Ugh. I wait a polite minute or two, then I make a dash for the Windex again.

So, while men and children galore think this whole touching thing is fab, I'm grossed out. Sure, they aren't the ones who wipe their oily marks on the world away--they think that dirt and dust and fingerprints just magically disappear. I think I'll be writing a little hate mail to HP, suggesting maybe a little sprayer and wiper that automatically cleans the screen when you shut it down. Kinda like a little windshield wiper for the computer. Just think of the terrible diseases that can be spread by these new wonders. Imagine touch screen computers in hospitals and doctors offices. Yuck.

Don't even get me started on stainless steel appliances. Or television shows for children, like that insipid Dora the Explorer, that actually encourage kids to scream at the TV. Ugh.

The Sepia Kitten

Hobbes. Isn't he lovely? So sweet, so demure, so purry. Soft, quiet kitten sitting on a blanket in the sun.

NOT. That sweet kitten of cuddles and gentle mews is gone. Gone, I tell you. Barely a week and a half later, he is beastly. Tearing around the house at speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour. He thunders through the rooms as if he weighed 200 pounds, his tiny pink pads thumping like a herd of horses. "Horses in the House" is what Aunt Laurie calls it. Yeah, no kidding. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Tiny nails grip your bare skin through fabric as he leaps from who-knows-where to attack the string on your hoodie. Sharp needle-like claws grasp for dear life as he hangs onto your arm while missing an Evil Knieval-esque type of jump from the couch to your lap. Piercing pain from the kitten teeth dug into my hand. All of it is done in great fun, of course. Nothing mean or intentionally harmful from the little guy--he's just gotten used to living here. No more polite walking about sniffing this or that. No treading carefully between laps. No sitting quietly waiting for the next cuddle session. It's over. All over.

Poor Grace, our other cat, is hissed out. She has taken to sitting outside on the windowsill, no doubt hoping he'll just go away. No matter the weather, you'll find her out there, grumpily hoping it will warm up so she can just live out there. And as the kitten is climbing the back of my chair, I'm wondering if the windowsill may just be wide enough for me too. She looked at me sorrowfully today, almost as if she was asking what happened to Hen. "He bailed on me too, Grace" was all the comfort I had to offer her--that and a couple of kitty treats.

Its quiet again. He's asleep on the computer, warming his chin, feeling the whirring of the whatevers inside. There is peace for now. Give him 5 or 7 minutes--he'll be back in action terrorizing me or some cat toy that dares to be near him. For now, it is silent. All is forgiven and when you see his sweet face dreaming, it's almost like he is smiling a little smile.

My neighbor once told me that when you see a baby smile in her sleep it means the angels are whispering to them. I liked that. I think of that when I see Hobbes sleep--I think I feel Henry in my heart and I know he approves. It's a kind of cat whisper.

Out of Harm's Way

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

Watch Out, Hosemobile!

Nearing the End of Marching Band Season

It was another successful outing with the Marching Astros this weekend!! Competing at the Downer's Grove Marching Bowl, they were faced with their toughest competition yet. Schools from all over, some we've seen before and some we haven't, gathered on cold dewy field for some band warfare. The Astros rocked out their show and blew away the crowd, taking 1st place overall as well as awards for Best Colorguard, Best Drumline, and Best Visual. We came in 6th overall (out of 20), beating out bands in two and a half categories and some that were twice the size of ours! I had goosebumps on top of goosebumps--what fun it was!

Geesh, it was cold. Geesh, those metal stands are harsh on the old bod. But, oh, the performances were downright lovely. If I wasn't dying up there in my parka and fur-lined hat, I would have sworn it was band heaven. Watching an orange moon rising over a lighted football field, hoards of precision stepping musicians marched this way and that, playing the most incredible music. It doesn't get much better than this.

I kept poking Joe to watch the drumlines (my favorite--and my kid isn't even a drummer!) for they are so subtle in their actions. It's so cool to see them crab-walking and twirling their sticks and passing them behind their backs. I love when they switch their sticks out, putting them in their side bags in total unison. They remind me of soldiers with their click-clicking of snare drums and that little "duh, duh, duh, duh" that they do to keep time. I could watch them forever. If I wasn't so darned cold, I would.

Parents galore were bailing after their kid's band performed. They hooted and hollered and then packed up the blankets and high-tailed it out of there. It always baffles me. Don't you want to see the other bands? See what they can do? Be amazed at the talent of the students and the band directors that envision this choreography of soldiers on some hot summer night? Oh, I think they miss out--big time. Yeah, our band is great, but there are some that are incredible! Bands twice the size of ours with colorguard numbers that rival our band numbers, march intertwined, zig-zagging in and out of each other, never running into the next guy. The precision of flags a-furling and drumlines that look like miniature armies. How do pack up and leave?! What else is more fun and exciting than that?!

The evening ended with me stiff from sitting in the upright position and nearly frozen in one place, but we forgot all that when they started announcing the winners. Time after time, Alan B. Shepard was named over the loudspeaker touting this accolade and that. We beat bands that we came in second to in the past couple of weeks, and it felt good. The show continues to improve and the kid's morale is set on "high". The flames that go off in our tubas at the end of the show are symbolic of our mindset--we are ending the season in a blaze of glory.

This week wraps up the season with a final contest at U of I at the end of the week. I'm thinking of my cousin, Kelly, and Diane's son who played for the Marching Illini. What an incredible band they are--and a complete joy to watch. I cannot wait! It is the largest competition we go to, and it is a day-long event of bands competing and incredible shows. It ends with a performance by the Marching Illini which astounds me. Now if they can only figure out how to make it 70 degrees and provide barco loungers for everyone.........................

I have mixed feelings this week--it is the end of another busy successful season. Colin only has one more of these in his life as he doesn't want to play in college. Oh, I would cry, but Em is coming up and is excited about being a part of this talented group. So, I have one year with both in band and then 3 more years with Emma. Then I will cry. For right now, I will miss seeing this show and hearing the music. I will miss sitting in the cold (not!) and going to contests. I will be bored watching TV and not spending my Saturday nights in the cold and dew up high in the stands. I will be sitting next to a warm fire, with a kitty on my lap, dreaming of next season of marching band.

Ode to Band Parents

Band Parents. Is there any group more dedicated to the students? Is there any organization that does more for it's kids than these? They are nuts. Crazy nuts. Nuts for helping. Nuts for volunteering. Nuts for band. One call for volunteers and they are knocking each other over to help.

They stand in the cold waiting for someone to need them. They endure never-ending bus rides late at night and very early in the morning. They bump along the highways yelling at kids to sit down and doing last minute repairs on someone's colorguard costume. They find lost shoes and pass out plumes. They make lunch for a zillion kids and clean up after them. They bring extra blankets for the cold and hand out cash to the hungry kids who forgot theirs. They are everyone's Mom and Dad on the road and caretaker of the band director. Your wish is their command.

And all of it is done without pay or compensation. Band happiness is their payment. A winning show and acknowledgement by the judges is what they do it for. The smile on their child's face, and yours as well, is their goal. I have never encountered such hard-working, loyal, and selfless people ever.

Oh, they are fun as well. We share loads of laughs freezing our butts off at late fall competitions. There was no sympathy for our near death experience with flesh-eating gnats--oh no, on the contrary--we were the target for jokes and sympathy cards. There are inside jokes galore, all at the expense of some poor soul who did something silly somewhere along the line. And they won't let it go. You have to watch your step, as one false move means you are the joke for the whole marching band season.

I have learned to love this group. Funny, warm, dedicated and work-horses--there isn't a finer bunch.

Selling Out the Fun Way

I've been noticing lately that there seems to be an increase in "ad" cars. Ok, so the increase is a mere three or four, which is quite a jump from the periodic one I used to see on the road. Ad cars are vehicles that are moving billboards. They range from the subtle, whole body plastered with an advertised product, to the giant energy drink can rigged to the back of a mini-pick-up. These aren't your everyday business vehicles with the company logo on the sides--no--these are full blown advertisments that drive around in traffic alongside you and me. Have you seen them?

So, we're going to a band contest way up north, and we spot one of these cars. It was a boxy car, kinda like a Scion with some product name and picture all over it. It must not have been too impressive because I cannot even remember what the product was, I only remember thinking that maybe that's the route for me. Drive around (which I do a LOT) and advertise some product for cash (which I need a LOT). Sounds easy enough.

We get into this big discussion about if it is embarrassing to drive something like that. Is it weird to have everyone looking at you, reading your bumpers? Is it a "look at me" kinda thing? How much money do you think you get? Do you have to drive a specific amount each week, 'cuz I think I've got that covered about a hundred times over. And what product do you advertise? Do you have to believe in the product or do you just plaster your car with anything to make some cash? Hmmmmm...........got me thinking.

Everyone was thinking what they would sell on their car. Em's doing make-up or clothes. Caroline was doing perfume or something girly. Joe was thinking something silly, like Sports Illustrated or something--he wouldn't say. I think of mine right away and yell at the top of my lungs "Svedka!", which kind of quiets everybody. Svedka Vodka is my favorite. Not that I'm this huge boozer, but man, if I have a product I love (other than my Oreck vacuum), it's Svedka Vodka. I've learned by trial and error, there is no vodka like Svedka for my favorite, lemon drop martinis.

We did a little research one late night in Kentucky. There was the usual gang--Fain, Michelle, Joe, Cheri, Tammy, Pat, Margaret, me, a couple of stray kids--and we were all hanging out drinking lemon drops that Joe was making ('cept the kids). Mmmmm, he makes them really strong. We sit around for a few hours, pounding the double martinis down and soon I realize that I'm not seeing so well. Oh sure, they are good, but they kinda affect the vision after about 2 or 3, so I have to be careful. A black dress appears from somewhere and there is all this talk about who's wearing it and when. Next thing I know, somebody's got the thing around their neck. I'm still not sure why this dress was being passed around, but it was. I think it had something to do with the double martinis, but hey, we were having some laughs.

Cheri's husband, tired of watching the little guy all day, bails early and heads off to bed. Not that he could sleep for all of the racket we were making in the room next door, but he did. Left us to our martinis and goofiness. We continued on laughing about you name it--Me Maws, how I wouldn't hold Ricky's baby, Fain, etc.--it was a hoot. All the while the drinks were flowing, and soon, my eyes were fuzzy and the words weren't coming out so good. I don't think I was alone in this.

And then before I knew it, the black dress, still on the hanger, was around my neck and I was being shoved into the bedroom for Chris to see--even if he was sleeping. Cheri was yelling for Chris to wake up and see the dress on me and he yelled something about "sleeping". Well, that wouldn't do. Cheri then turned on all of the lights and made him look at me with the dress wrapped around my neck. I don't know why or how I got into this, but we were all dying, laughing until we nearly wet our pants. And poor Chris was just trying to sleep. I'll bet he wanted to kill us all at that very moment.

The party continued for a little more and Michelle asked us for a ride home. Joe, bartender and martini-maker extraordinaire, wasn't drinking so he drove us back to the cabins. Michelle could hardly find the key for her door and kept saying something about "losing her kids" and I couldn't stop laughing. Joe just rolled his eyes and waited until she got in safely before we headed to our cabin. There, my bed just wouldn't stay still while I tried to sleep. I hate it when the bed does that.

I opened my eyes the next day, dreading the pounding that was to follow in my head. To my surprise, I felt okay. No headache. No queasy tummy. Hmmmm.

As I walked to the pool a little later, I found Michelle on the tennis courts hopping around like she wasn't drinking last night. Girlfriend couldn't find her children the night before and now, here she was playing tennis. After a bunch of martinis. She wasn't hung-over either. We stop and laugh about the evening. We crack up about Chris and the black dress. We bust up over Joe backing into a post before the evening began. And we comment on how neither of us is hung over.

"It's the Svedka." she says. "Good vodka doesn't give you a hang-over. I swear by Svedka!" Michelle states like a expert. I'm sold. I won't buy another vodka since then. Geesh, the guy over at Binny's was right--you really should buy the best vodka you can. I'm not arguing. I did my research.

So, I'm thinking of plastering my car with ads for Svedka Vodka. I wonder if and how much I would get paid. Maybe they would just give me free vodka. Joe's in, he thinks its a good idea. Em's not so sure. She says it might be a little embarrassing when I drop her off in the front of the middle school with a giant vodka bottle on the top of my van.

Sigh. I guess the picture of me with the black dress around my neck swigging a martini is out too.

Project Runway-less

I settled in last night, blanket on my lap, kitten all curled up. We were ready for the finale of Project Runway and plopped down seconds before it was to begin. Hobbes digs TV for some reason, his little face towards the tube, ears pricked for excitement. I'm thinking they didn't have the channel set to Bravo at the shelter and homeboy had missed all the preceding episodes. I couldn't begin to bring him up to speed, so I just let him watch the finale without the benefit of my opinions or swaying him to my views of who should win.

After the designers nervously prepared their clothing lines and models, they presented their best at Bryant Park, the mother of all fashion shows. Kenley had some weird hand-painted florals and it seemed disconnected, almost strange. Oh, she had her followers who thought it all lovely, but after she was routinely rude to my Tim (Gunn), she couldn't redeem herself in my eyes. My cousin, Kelly, reiterated the audacity, and we both agreed she should be beat with a stick. Rude to Tim?! Geesh, girl got some nerve.

Korto had some funky African-inspired fashions. Yeah, she's good, but has a real tendency to overdo it sometimes. I like her, she has a huge butt and always looks great in spite of it. Girl knows how to work the booty. She inspires me for that alone. It doesn't take much.

Leanne ends up winning with her petal/wave stuff. Oh, it was lovely what she could do with fabric. She had the most complete line--including shorts, pants, dresses, jacket, wedding dress. It was really impressive, the colors muted, fabric folded this way and that. It was very wearable although I was a little surprised at how much of the same technique she used on every single piece. I thought she was the winner the minute I saw her line coming down the runway.

So, this is my thing, what bothers me--that Leanne is so boring! Sheesh! She looks like she got stuck in the rain--her hair hanging like it hasn't been to a hairdresser since the 6th grade. She dresses frumpy and seems to have the personality of a pincushion. She wasn't exciting to watch, you couldn't really grasp her creative process, and she just looks so blah all the time. How can she turn out this incredible fashion and yet be so plain in her own style? It confused me. Standing there on the runway, fresh from the excitement of winning, she looked almost emotionless to me. Yawn. I won. Yawn. Look at what I am wearing. Yawn. I am a big designer now. In comparison to past winners, girlfriend is beige in the company of neon sparkle. Yawn, yawn, yawn.

I'm lost now that this season of Project Runway is over. My Wednesday nights will have a void, somewhat filled by Top Chef, which is a lame attempt at copying PR but in the world of culinary arts. Top Design is okay, but it's no Project Runway. I can only hope that they bring on another season of Jeff Lewis and his crew on Flipping Out--he is my guilty pleasure and makes me laugh until I can't stand it. He is a head case, big time.

Isn't it sad that this is my weeknight life? I plop my hiney on the couch, wrap a warm blanket around me and settle in with my reality show "friends". I've lost my sweet cuddly kitten, as his antibiotic has officially kicked in and he is eternally on high speed now. I kind of miss the at-death's-door-I'm-just-gonna-sit-on-this-blankie cat. So, it's just me and the tube. I miss Henry, my lap-sitting cat. Don't ya just hate winter?

So, I'm wondering--what is everybody else doing? What do you watch? What is your fav? What is your guilty pleasure of TV land?

Hobbes--The Terror of Terrace Lane

The six of us stood in front of the many cages, filled with mewing kittens. One kitten was more adorable than the next, and it was nearly impossible to decide on which to even take out. You'd bend over to look at one and another was bopping you on the head through the metal bars. We were all gushing like a bunch of old ladies......

"Ooooh, look at this one!"
"I want one that is cuddly"
"I like this one! Look! Look at how cuuuuttee he is!"
"Awww, this guy wants to come home with us."

On and on it went. Aunt Laurie was pulling out them out for us, touting the merits of this cat or that one. She favored the little white one with a gray smudge on his head. Kelly was off smooching some orange and white stripey one. Em held one, Col had another, and I was talking to a couple through the bars. Joe seemed to be the only holdout--I think he was overwhelmed at the sheer numbers of kittens for adoption.

And we weren't the only ones there on a weekday night. There were adoptions in front of us in line and behind us. There was an older couple who brought in a box load of 6 kittens that they found in their yard. This place was rocking! But for as many people who were there to adopt a kitten, there were probably 10 for each of us. At least. I guessed it was kitten season. I guess Katz was right the other night when he encouraged us to adopt another when you lose a pet. Geesh, there were tons of them and there were more at foster homes waiting for a place at the shelter to open up. I could have taken 10 of them home that night, but I think even Joe would have balked at that one.

We narrowed the field down to two kittens. Cuddly--check. Cute as pie--check. Likes to be held--check. Not biting--check. Motor on--check. Off we went to the other room to get to know them a little better outside of all the other kitties.

The six of sat and watched the two kitties jump and wrestle. They tore around the room, warning us of the impending doom of kittiness that was about to descend on our tranquil home. There were ears bent backwards, eyes sparkling, and giant pounces on each other. There were major attacks on a spot on the floor. There was tearing around and big poufy raccoon tails. They were a hoot to watch, but it was so hard to make a decision on who would come home with us.

"I like the white one" Em says with her face buried in his belly.
"I like the orange" Col says, of course, to be contrary and make this all the more difficult.

I look to Kelly and she just laughs. She favored the orange one as she's had great experiences with orange and white male cats. Yeah, me too. But fresh from the pain of losing ours, I struggle to decide. I wanted to cry for the loss of Hen, but wanted to laugh at the goofiness that was before me. Joe was staying out of the decision process--holding back until we needed a tie-breaker. Aunt Laurie was leaning toward the white kitten. Of course. She always finds me the best cats--but must they all have white fur?!!!

After deliberations and endless discussions on the merits of each, we finally hold a vote. We all lean towards the white one, until the little orange one does something cute--then we all switch. Then the white one snuggles in for some human love, and we all switch back. Finally, the final vote is taken, Grace in mind, and we decide on the orange tabby--he's a little more mellow. Kelly's thrilled as this was her favorite all along. We say a quick goodbye to the white kitty--who pretty much didn't notice we were gone--and headed home.

The weekend was a holiday, so we had lots of time to cuddle and love Hobbes, our newly named kitten. He thinks he is a tiger, so we named him after the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes. He is cuddly, talkative, and very loving. He has a little kitty cold so he was kind of dragging, but today he is feeling better and taking on the world. Poor Grace has taken to living between the pillows on my bed--avoiding the kitten like the plague.

All is well, once again, in the Kautz house. We laugh. We oooh and ahhhh. We take turns nuzzling his tiny belly and kissing his little nose. What joy can be found in a tiny life! He has healed broken hearts and made us remember the good times with Hen. We crack up at his major assaults on leaves in the yard and running through the house with his mouse toy.

He is not, however, so very cute at 4:30 a.m. when he decides he is lonely and cries at the top of his lungs.

I'm Not Oprah

Steve Johnson, a writer for the Chicago Tribune, wrote an article this week about a woman trying to live her life as Oprah dictates. Robyn Okrant set out to follow all of Oprah's advice for a year, to prove that it is expensive and ridiculous to try and live up to all of Oprah's preaching. Ahah! I thought. Someone like me--doesn't think Oprah is "IT" and doesn't feel the need to tune in religiously or follow her preachy ways. Thank you, Robyn. I was curious to see her findings.

Nine months into the experiment, girlfriend has racked up some 591.30 hours and over $2800 trying to do everything Oprah "suggests". She bought a white blouse, took her 10 deep breaths morning and night, and made paella. She "pushed the girls up" and kept her mind open about past life regression. She took time to relax and relish the day. And even bought stacks of diapers and stored them in a pretty box--even if she didn't have children. Or a baby. She has done everything Oprah has told us to do to prove how expensive and how hard it is to follow her advice for the common man (woman?).

It has been consuming her life and even her husband says it gets confusing at times because she is constantly trying to do everything she is directed to do. She feels driven by the marketing aspect of it all, like buying the books she's told to and highlighting with the designated name-brand marker. Her eyes opened by how much of the "advice" is actually just marketing in disguise. She is conflicted, but on the hand, appreciates some of the suggestions to slow down and appreciate life. Not an Oprah fan, Robyn set out to just prove that living like Oprah (or anyone else, for that matter) dictates is just silly.

We've had this discussion a few times in writing class--about celebrities and who we idolize. Bev loves Angelina Jolie and I like Katz. I found this experiment particularly interesting because it absolutely drives me nuts that people actually quote Oprah like she was the Dalai Lama. I'm not an "Okra" fan, and I wince when people start doing the things and reading the books that she dictates we should. It's funny how far people go to be like their idol and we've had many talks about why we do it. I'll be anxious to read Robyn's book on her experiment--I'll be curious to see what her feelings are about this icon when she is finished taking all of her suggestions for a better life.

I'm not innocent in this following the advice of our icons. Geesh, I drove over an hour the other night in major traffic to see and hear what Jon Katz had to say. I was goofy and wide-eyed at the meer sight of the man. I went nuts this past spring when I met Tim Gunn, spending hours picking just the right clothes so I wouldn't embarrass myself to the fashion icon. No, I haven't signed onto hospice volunteering or bought myself a border collie, I have to draw the line somewhere. But where with Oprah? At the leopard print flats? The super-expensive white blouse? The voting for Obama because she told us to?

I imagine Bev and her reaction to the latest "news" from Angelina--she nurses her babies. Wow. I did too, but there was no press photos--only cracked and bleeding breasts that HURT--a lot. How come we don't hear about that part? I think of Bev if she had a baby. She is the picture of Mother Earth--she would have breast fed even without the guidance of Angelina. And she would have made her own baby food too, I suspect. Cloth diapers are a given. She doesn't need Angelina's guidance or help--she is fabulous all by herself. In fact, I think she is more interesting than Angelina or Oprah. Creative and talented without anyone telling her what she should do. Trusting in herself and expressing such beauty.

We don't need Oprah or Angelina (Or Katz or Gunn) telling us what is good and right. We already know. It is what makes us the incredible individuals that we are.

Laura Ingalls Kautz

There's been a moratorium on any spending of, say, anything over $50 these days. Preparing for a possible loss of income, we are paying off everything, stashing cash in the bank, and maybe even the mattress. We aren't stopping for a cup of coffee, buying a donut, or eating out. There are lots of discussions over what is deemed necessary and what is just plain luxury at this point. Even loading up the cell phones leads to a major discussion in our house.

Joe brought the lawn mower in to be repaired yesterday. Oh, two weeks ago, we were ditching the thing, buying a new one. The wheels are splayed and it's been conking out too much. We keep coasting it, hoping to make it until spring, but it ain't gonna happen. Joe replaced the air filter and spark plug, but to no avail. "Clunky" is still sputtering--a lawn mower cry for help. Joe finally admitted defeat and took it in to be repaired. The luxury of getting a new one is no more. If Clunky is a goner, we'll be borrowing the neighbor's until we have a more certain view of our future.

Now the van is driving funky. This is the newer of the two cars, so we have to address the issue, I guess. It's not that it is driving wrong--it just makes a lot of noise lately. It is clunking and creaking over bumps and turns. I finally figured out the best way to describe it--it drives like a conastoga wagon. Maybe a covered wagon. I think there was too many potholes hit when my student driver was learning. They have a tendancy to drift to the right, which was fine with me considering the alternative. I couldn't yell for him to avoid the potholes because that would have led him to swerving, which is really scary. So, we hit the potholes and bumped along our merry way. He has learned to look for these road demons and since has learned to avoid them, but the damage has been done. I probably need shocks or something.

Joe was going to take it in on Friday, but we've decided that a big car bill is not considered a necessary--more of an aggravation than anything. The car rides well, it just sounds bad--creaking and squeaking. Colin and I laughed about it on the ride to the doctor this morning. What else can you do? It's part of the new plan--do what's absolutely necessary, not what you think you would like done. It's serious time. It will have to wait 3 months until we know what is happening financially.

After one particular squeaky corner, I turned to Colin and asked him if he would call me "Half-pint" instead of "Mom". He gave me one of those "Are you kidding me?" looks that he gives me routinely and we both busted. "I always hated Nellie Olsen" he says, humoring me. At least we can still laugh.

It's A Boy!

There's lots of smiles and joy back at the Kautz's today! After hours of oohing and aahing over lots and lots of adorable kitten faces at the shelter, we finally took this little guy home with us. Unnamed as of yet, kitty is adjusting to life here well--resting in the warm sunshine, avoiding Grace, and cuddling at every opportunity. His motor is set on "extra loud" and is the epitomy of cute.

"What joy in a wee ball o' fur " --Irish saying

The Monogrammed Towels Will Still Work!

So, I'm thinking (instead of house-cleaning).......if I do end up running away with Katz there are only a few minor tweaks.......Joe to Jon and Kautz to Katz! Only a couple of letters. The monogram is still the same. What luck!!!!

David Cassidy, Donny Osmond, and ..........Jon Katz?!

Ok--who's in hog heaven?!!! I'm such a dork, enjoying my moment and a hurried and way-too-short conversation with Jon Katz, writer, blogger, farm owner, middle-aged guy, steer hugger, photographer. I'm still smiling after a great night at Barnes and Noble in Skokie.

If you know me, you know of my obsession with Bedlam Farm and Jon. Well, I don't think it obsession, maybe I'm just really into it--what he has to say about being creative, about "putting your lips to the world", about sending your voice out into the world. He has single-handedly inspired me to take a creative writing class, to return to my love of writing, to put my thoughts into words. He has taught me to believe in and question myself. To push myself into new territories like photography and blogging. To stop and see the world--large and small. His daily blogs, of which there are many, inspire me to continue on in a creative realm. For that--I am grateful.

It was a small crowd of about 50 people, which was great. I think 99 percent of them were dog lovers--which was creepy. Some had dog t-shirts on, Bedlam Farm hats, and some were almost wild-eyed with admiration and awe. Ok, so you can like dogs, and I do, but there is something strange about people who wear t-shirts with their dogs pictures on them. I try to stay away from those folks. But, this crowd was kinda loaded with them, and they wanted to talk to Jon, personally, about Fluffy or Muffy. I think I saw him wince once or twice. He was very polite.

When we first got there, they were just setting up. There was a short line forming and I asked the lady in front of me what the line was for. She turned around slowly and had this very strange look on her face. Her eyes were kinda big and glossed over and there was this weird smirk on her face. "I love Jon Katz," she says really slow "I have all his books". It was totally the Spongebob impression Em's been doing all week. I did all I could not to crack up and just headed her back into the question of what the line was for--we were getting numbers for book-signing order. I did a quick thank you and get away from her immediately. Joe was dying behind a stack of books. I could have killed him.

There was no shaking these folks. Now she was telling me how she reads all his blogs--yeah, hello?! And she emails him, a lot--okayyyyy. "I just love him" she kept telling me. I kept thinking "Oh, thank God! Joe will know I am NOT the weirdo here!" She and her daughter just happened to be everywhere we were and kept talking even though I wasn't really listening. I just wanted to throw up I was so excited to be there. But she wasn't the only one acting all roboty and fan obsessed. The place was LOADED with them. We found 3 seats together, separated by an aisle and quickly sat there--and tried not to laugh amongst eye rolls.

Katz came in, was introduced by a lovely woman, and started his talk. He talked of his dogs, of the farm, and of hospice. He told some great stories and had a gentle demeanor. He was soft-spoken and warm. He warned of treating your animals like children, talked of losing dogs, of mourning them, and then moving on to adopt another. He talked of the weird trend of people turning to their dogs instead of other humans for relationships. He stressed the importance of training.

Jon then read a hospice story from the book and I just sat there, mesmerized. For nearly 2 hours, Joe, Emma, and I enjoyed the evening. We laughed and smiled. We poked each other when he talked of getting a new pet right away when you lose one. We completely forgot how sad we were about Hen or how scared we were about Joe's job. Time stood still in that Barnes and Noble. This stranger came into my life and quieted my thoughts for a badly needed evening of happiness. I'm still beaming.

Question time was full of strange comments and thoughts--of people wanting to talk about their dogs with Jon. He was so not about that, but I don't think they noticed or cared. One girl asked about writing and I asked about the line of intrusion when you write or photograph someone. I think he was actually relieved to talk about that. Gosh--I think we locked eyes once or twice--I hope Joe didn't notice. Ok--so he's older and balding--I could have run away with him that instant.

I was lucky number six in line to meet him personally. Guess who was 4 and 5? Weird lady and her daughter! Ugh. I just stood behind them hoping they wouldn't start up again. But now, when she meets Katz.......... dude knew who she was! NOT kidding. He was like "Oh! I was looking for you." and gave her a big over-the-table hug! I was bummin'. Can you believe it?! Crap. I was jealous. I wanted the hug! I wanted him to look for me. Maybe I didn't have a weird enough look on my face.

It comes to my turn, and I introduce myself. "Oh yeah," he remembers me, "the blog!" he says remembering his writing about blogs that mentioned me. We had a nice conversation about photography and I thanked him for always encouraging and inspiring me to write, to photograph, and to be creative. He thanked me for the kind words and we smiled. I told him I missed his blog this week, as it had been a bad week. He asked if we were getting another cat, I told him "tomorrow", and without a pause, he said "Good!". I felt better. He signed my book "in memory of Henry" and you'd be proud of me that I didn't even cry.

We shook hands again, took a quick photo, he said "hi" to Em, and we were done. 30 seconds of love. It was enough--I am filled with sunshine today. I sent him an email this morning thanking him for a great visit. I joked that if his wife Paula grew tired of him, I would dump Joe and the kids in an instant--although we would have to work something out about the dogs in the house should they be wet and smelly. I hope I made him smile, even just a little. There isn't enough gratitude for the 2 hours of peace in my heart last night that he gave me.

I remember when I was little--little enough for a babysitter--I was reading a teen rag magazine with her when we ran across this contest. You could personally meet your favorite "star" by filling out the form. There were all these names like Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy, or Donny Osmond in little lip shapes. You had to put lipstick on the one name that you would want to meet and they would draw names from these entries for one lucky winner. I can't remember if it was David or Donny that I chose, but I remember going over and over in my head what I would say to them when I met them. What would be cool? What would be witty? Would he really kiss me?! Oh, the possibilities. I wonder now how many days and nights it took of dreaming until I finally realized I wasn't going to win.

I won last night. Ok, so it was a late middle-aged man with missing hair, diabetes, a farm full of smelly animals, and a wife and daughter. But I wanted to, and I met, my hero. We talked, smiled and shared a laugh. It doesn't get much better than this.

Random Happiness

So, I am exhausted from all of this sadness and trying to be a little more light-hearted today. Sorry to all you thousands of new readers who tuned in to find the blog really, really depressing. Nothing like logging on and being pounded with depressing and more depressing news. Hey, we can all turn on the TV or perhaps take a look at your 401 K portfolio to get our own dose of depressing. I have to find something humorous, something funny, maybe something less sad in the day.

I'm going for 10, no, maybe just 5, good things to think of:

1. KATZ IS COMING TODAY! Ohhhh, my fav blogger/writer is going to be up North tonight, and although there has been a complete ban on superfluous spending on extravagences like candy bars, coffee, new clothes, eating out, and yes, even gas--we are going to see him damn it! (You know how serious I am about this because I just cursed on the blog--which if you know me, is what I do in real life--a lot.) There is nothing that is going to stop this road trip waaayyy up north to see my pally.

Em is preparing for me to do my "Spongebob" bit, where I just stand there wide-eyed, breathing heavy, and saying "Hi, Jon" in a really creepy obsessed way. Joe is tagging along so that I don't freak out and get lost or anything. I also think he wants to see who is wife is so weird about, who the guru is and what the big deal is about him. Me? I'm planning on just the right outfit, what I'm going to say in my 2 seconds of book-signing private time, and making sure I don't burst into tears or something weird. I've been a little emo lately--I'm not sure if anyone is picking up on that.

I promise not to kiss him or jump over the table or anything like that. I know I'll be sitting there with a stupid grin on my face the whole night. I can feel it starting now. Hey--there is life again in this here broken heart!

2. I'm not crying as much today. Ok--so the "day" is early, but give me a break! I have been given to outbursts of weird gut-wrenching boo-hooing in the past few days. I think the garden actually benefitted from the watering yesterday. God, I hope the weird neighbor wasn't staring at me, she must have really thought I was a goner. Although I think she secretly enjoys our bad luck. Phooey on her, I say. Look at the garden today--after the tears, after the rain--we are SET for Spring! Those roots are well-established thanks to me!

3. Off the shelter tomorrow. Aunt Laurie has been daily reporting on the kitten population over at Animal Welfare. She has got a secret stash of sweeties tabbed with our name on them (I imagine a crate of kittens with a bunch of post-its stuck to them) just waiting for us to come hold and kiss them. Of course, her favorite is a white cat. Why?!!!! Why does she always find cats that are white for me?! Helloooo---white cat fur doesn't go with anything I own--clothing and/or furniture! Sheesh.

Poor Grace will be in for a huge surprise as she is really really enjoying this "only cat" status of late. Girlfriend is downright funny as she prances about, knowing that she is the only feline in residence now. Ohhh, it ain't gonna be so funny tomorrow night when junior appears. It will be loonngg months ahead of spitting and posturing by Grace, showing a wee one who's boss. She hates kittens. I think she is secretly "offing" every cat who comes into this house. Love her lots, but she is very competitive for my love.

4. Did I mention that one of my weirdo neighbors is moving? Well, actually she moved already--out of state, I think. I saw her car go up on a trailer behind the moving van. Yes! Goodbye weirdo coming out only at night. Goodbye fighting over the fence that is really ours. Goodbye to her creepy mom coming over to start fights. Goodbye barking dog at 4:00 a.m. Goodbye to the police that she called on us all the time. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Sure, it is scary to think of who will move in--that house attracts weirdos to live there. I think the For Sale sign says something about "Welcome Weirdos". There has been numerous. But, outside of a band of gypsies raising goats with Friday night rap concerts, I cannot imagine it being worse. Let's hope not--I'm being positive, remember?

5. Whew. It's a good thing I didn't go for the 10 happy thoughts 'cuz I'm struggling with 5.

How about good friends? Ooooh, yeah. Wow! I have been so blessed with great people surrounding me! There are a lot of new ones that I am grateful for.

Bev, who sends me powerful uplifting messages of encouragement.
Frank, who taught me to write, write, write--even if he is MIA. (Miss ya Frank)
Diane, who reads the blogs, comments religiously (pun intended), and offers support on many levels.
Laura, who fights for more hours of work for me and is the sole person who cried actual tears over Hen.
Band Parents who make me laugh.
Tammy, who sends love through email, over the phone, in cookie bouquets, and in thought waves.
Fain, who oozes calm and always makes me feel better.
The friends who emailed or came over with condolences.
Aunt Laurie and Aunt Mary Pat who help me make sense of this crazy family and life in general.
The cousins who I adore and always have a funny story or comment.
The new blogging pals--I love that you send comments of love and encouragement.
Joe, Em, Colin, Grace, frogs, fish--all part of this family that keeps me going.

To everyone of you and more--I am grateful for you! Thanks for encouraging me to be uplifted, that things will get better, that things happen for a reason. I will hold tight to our friendship, as I think things are going to get worse before they get better. But for today, maybe just for right now, I feel a little better.

Packing Up the Garden

I packed up the yard today. I cut back the perennials, trimmed their dead and dying stems with withered flowers at their ends. Snipped off the hosta leaves that once formed Hen's lair. I swept the mulch back into place at the side of the shed that once conformed to the weight of his body. I placed the coneflower gently in his favorite place. Goodbye, Hen.

Geese honked above, shouting their goodbyes to summer. Goodbye until next spring. Goodbye. Goodbye.

There were stems that still bloomed, hanging onto the joys of summer. I hated them. I cut them off at the knees, hating that they were so joyful and I was still sad. There were some I just ripped out bare-handed--angry at the world, angry at God, angry at the so many bad things that are happening to us. I don't want to remember sunny days right now, I want to pack up the garden. Pack up the flowers. Pack up and go to sleep for the long months of winter. I want to hibernate and hunker down for the cold and dark in my near future. I want my soul to rest, and hopefully, be joyful again in the spring.

We will shut down the pond soon. I'm cleaning out the hyacinths today, tossing their brown decaying leaves into the compost bin. We brought the fish in last week, before they got sick from the cold. There is sadness with the loss of so many frogs this year, with the loss of a favorite fish, Freddy. There was too much death in the garden this year and I want to pack it all away. I want to cleanse the soil and let it rest. I want to rejuvenate the yard, the garden, the pond, our lives and start fresh.

There is hope in the 3 tiny fish that survived the great spawning this year. I stare at them with wonder, how they managed to survive against such odds. I am excited to visit my aunt at the shelter later this week, picking out a new somebody to share the love we have to offer. To laugh again. To stop crying.

It's been a tough time for us, Joe is losing his job and our future uncertain. There aren't enough tears for the loss of Hen, for the scary times ahead, for the uncertainty that looms. The garden is a metaphor for our lives right now and it isn't looking so hot. If packing it all up and tossing it out with the garbage would help, I've got that covered. If crying made things better, we're on easy street. If only it were that easy.

There's No Crying in Marching Band!

There was a small window of "no crying" time this weekend, thank goodness. Well, only Saturday. The Marching Astros were once again in competition and it was lovely. The sunshine was bright and warm, the temperatures were tolerable, and it was a great day. It's hard to cry at these events because you are totally entranced by the catchy music, the flying colorguard flags, and mesmerized by crab-walking drumlines. Even if you don't win, I cannot imagine sitting there with my box of Kleenex boo-hooing. Oh yeah, there were arm-squeezing sympathy hugs and warm smiles, and I thought about crying for my dear Hen, but I didn't.

So, back to the Marching Astros. We had some tough competiton with the Waskesha High School band. They performed "la Nouba" from the Cirque du Soleil. Whew! That was tough! The music was really cool (I'm a huge Cirque du Soleil fan anyway) and the show was fabulous. We were all shaking in our boots after that one.

We performed, were a little shaky here and there. There were a few gaps due to illness and one poor soul who hurt her knee in rehearsal, but overall it was good. We won awards for colorguard and drumline, and took second place overall. A little disappointed over the loss of first, we had to admit the Waskesha show was good. It is all so subjective anyway, but it was fine marching all the way around.

How True

"No amount of time can erase the memory of a good cat, and no amount of masking tape can ever totally remove his fur from your couch."

---Leo F. Buscaglia

Grief

There are those two, maybe 3, seconds when you first wake up in the morning, when everything seems fine, normal perhaps. You haven't awaken enough to remember that your heart is broken or that your world seems to be falling apart. They are glorious seconds to those in despair, and you wish they would last forever. But, they disappear all too quickly and you are left with the day, left with reality, left with sadness.......again.

I'm back to writing, back to photographing my grief. I'm not sure how best to overcome my sadness, but I spent the last 2 days just crying. No make-up, no walking too far from the Kleenex box, no eating, no doing much of anything. I'm so sad I think my heart is broken in two. Friends have come to cry with me, come to console me, and tell me of how they understood my loss. I continue drinking water, just to fill the tear ducts so I can keep going.

It's the little things that hurt the most when you lose your pet. It's his blankie, sitting still, not getting any lovin' action anymore. It's his perch by the window, still covered in his white and orange fur, waiting for it's warm friend to come sit on it to watch the birds. It's holding the door for two cats to go out--and now only one comes. It's the kitty food bowl that is overflowing because we are now one eater less. It's the white strand of fur on your dark sweater. It's my cold lap on the couch, when it was warm with kitty cuddles just the night before. It's his gentle "brrp" when you called him. It's the pink nose, just waiting for kisses that is gone. For a little guy, there is a huge hole where he used to be.

Everyone is dealing with their grief in different ways. Colin has delved deeply into band. Leaving early to eat breakfast with the group, disappearing into the crowd at the contest yesterday. He accepts my hugs, but dismisses his own tears, saying he "needs to move on". He is hurting deeply, but struggles with his teenage handling of emotions.

Grace, the other cat, knows he's gone. She saw him and meowed loudly when she saw him collapsed and smelled his empty crate when we got back from the vet. I think that's the best I can do to communicate that he is gone. She wasn't best friends with Hen, but I think she misses chasing him around the house.

Em is better today. Hen was her kitty. Oh, they cuddled and cooed together. He walked to the bus-stop with her everyday. He chased her colorguard flag while she twirled. Weekend mornings found them all cuddled under blankets, purrs galore, and her face red from scratchy kisses. She's okay now, but I dread Monday morning when her daily routine is missing a huge chunk of kitty love.

Joe is quiet, almost angry. He doesn't want to get another cat--too pained to want to relive this horrible anquish again--ever. Henry was his buddy. They worked out in the yard together. They got up early together. Joe watched out for him like an over-protective mother. Everytime I turned around, the door would eek open and Hen would appear, held out by a long arm, and a "Hen's in!" announcing his being indoors and safe. He was obsessed with knowing where Hen was and if he was "safe". This was the one time even Joe couldn't make sure Hen was safe. None of us could. I'm not sure Joe will ever get over the loss of Henry.

Me--I'm a mess. My pally. Henny Penny. My Sweet Prince. H. Cottonball. Marshmallow. Molasses. He was walking love. His sweet pink nose. His white white. He was a "lifetime" cat--the cat of all cats in your life. Gone! And horribly, I had the agonizing job of hearing of his impending demise and holding his pink paws while he slipped away from this good earth. His blue and green eyes, staring out to somewhere better, somewhere there was no pain.

I'm not sure how best to move on. I can fill the void, the empty spaces, with another furry friend. And yes, that is what we will do. We have too many sunny windows, too many soft blankies, warm laps, and love to keep another cat in a crate at the shelter. The only way to heal a broken heart is with love--love for another being while remembering the love you lost. It multiplies the love in your heart ten fold. I can cry while I pet new fur. I can sob into a little body and remember the ball of poof we lost. We can't replace Hen, but we can love another in his memory. I will never get over his death, or his life. It is just a matter of when. When we can bring ourselves to even look at another cat without breaking down into sobs.

In the meantime, we struggle for normalcy. We escaped to the marching band competition yesterday, and it was good to be there as it isn't acceptable to cry at such events. All that lovely music and marching kept our minds from Hen. Band friends were consoling, giving hugs, and "I'm sorry"s, and understanding smiles. Laura came over to cry with me. I've kept busy, avoiding sitting on the couch in order to face the reality that my buddy isn't there. I've tucked his basket and blankie under the table, just out of view so I don't feel my heart drop everytime I pass. I took some pictures of his perch this morning, recording my grief at the sight of his favorite spot to nap and watch the birds. I can write today, which I could not do yesterday. Time. Time. Time to heal. Time to ease the terrific pain in our hearts.

Pack Up the Moon and Dismantle the Sun

Stop All the Clocks (Wystan Hugh Auden)

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought that love would last forever: 'I was wrong'

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


Henry is dead. We are devastated. His heart wall gave out on a sunny day during a peaceful afternoon nap. A clot traveled to his spine and paralyzed him. We had to let him go home............

I just loved how the sunlight danced on these pumpkins! I could have stayed at this place for hours taking photos had we not been brutally nipped and bitten by flesh-eating gnats. I have two regrets--I couldn't get close enough to the dog (he was really interesting in color) and I couldn't bring myself to photograph the old man. I really struggle with people shots, I just feel it is so touristy and tacky to take them. It is such a personal thing and I feel sometimes that it intrudes too much. It is something I have to work on.

The old man told us, as he dusted our pumpkin off, that he raises his pumpkins in sandy soil so that they are perfectly shaped. He said that they have a tendancy to form to the shape of the earth they grow on, and he prides himself in making sure they have a gentle bed of sand under each pumpkin. So much care he gives his crop and prides in its return. It will make me think twice the next time I call someone a "pumpkin-head".

Everybody's talkin' at me......

After working 4 days this week and 3 last week, I am pooped. I'm not used to this working stuff, and I am certainly struggling with the craziness that ensues now that Mom isn't at home doing everything for everyone anymore. Laundry gets done at strange hours, beds are stripped and changed at night, ironing is done during the ball game, and there are actually days when I don't vacuum--gasp! It is nuts trying to keep my house immaculate, and I have to say, though, I am doing it. Even if it is making me run like a fool and rushing everywhere.

We went away last weekend to escape the workweek and the routine. It wasn't a relaxing weekend, as we were running for and with the marching band, but at least it was an escape. Nice. I didn't have to make the beds, do the laundry or vacuum for 2 whole days! Geesh--whatever did I do with my time?!

As we strolled the campus of WIU, I noticed that I was getting subliminal messages to keep up the pace. Criminy--even the sidewalks were telling me to hurry along. Keep up with everything AND work. Do the laundry AND bring home a check. Geesh. This working mom thing is tough! God bless those of you who do this full-time! Here's a little Hoo-rah for the mom's of this world!!!

Just a Harmless Roadside Stand................