Lucky Cat

My husband grew up in a tribe of women. Well before she turned 30, his mother had lost both her husband and her father to cancer. She moved back into her childhood home and together with her mother and several of her aunts (and, to be fair, some uncles too) she reared Jeff and his older brother.

One of the aunts was Evelyn, usually called Auntie (for Aunt E.). While her identical twin sister had married and moved 50 miles away, Auntie never left home. She cared for her father until he died and then she helped take care of everyone else—nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews. She worked at the elementary school for years so everyone in town got to know her. She was goofy and silly and high-strung and laughed easily. She could always be counted on to rile up little kids (usually right before bedtime). She was Jeff’s mom’s confidante and best friend.
Long after Jeff grew up and moved away Auntie found two homeless kittens. She kept one and gave the other one to her sister. She called hers “Lucky” because she felt the cat was lucky to be alive, and that they were lucky to have found each other. With no more small children in her everyday life she poured all her affections into that cat. She spoiled it, but not rotten. It was still a sweet cat.

One day after only a few years, the cat disappeared—probably hit by a car or snatched by a larger animal. Auntie, though, believed someone had stolen him and taken him home. I don’t think she could bear the thought that he’d suffered, or that he was dead.

Not long after that Auntie herself fell ill. She’d refused to see a doctor for many years—we learned later that she had a huge sore on her leg that had been there for ages; she was afraid of being told it was cancerous. But dizziness and fainting spells finally forced her to seek attention. It was August. Three months later, on the day after Thanksgiving, she died of brain cancer.

Was she lucky? No; she suffered a great deal in those few months following her diagnosis. She missed knowing her great-great-nieces and -nephews, and her twin has never recovered from her death.

But she’d known a lot of love and affection in her life. She’d been the most important person in her sister’s life, and then her father’s, and then even Lucky’s. And that? Was a piece of luck she’d made herself.



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Cathy is visiting today as part of the Blog Exchange. She’s lucky enough to live in a wholesome little town in the Midwest with her husband, kids, and dog. She writes (usually more frivolously) at Mayberry Mom, where you can find Heather today – please stop by!

Find links to the rest of the lucky stories at the Blog Exchange.

Blog exchange post

My partner's post for the blog exchange. She boo-booed and sent her post too late for me to post it on time. It's her first time doing the exchange so we can all cut her a little slack. Right?

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2007 Minutes in Heaven

There were myriad beautiful moments about 2007. My baby girl learned to walk. My son went sledding for the first time. My kids started a new daycare/preschool. I had FOF. I had a potentially life-improving surgery. I got a new dishwasher and a digital camera. My husband took me to the beach.

There are moments about 2008 that scare my pants right off. Healing up my wounds from surgery. Jamie getting re-elected. Some health issues I have yet to blog about because I am still working to wrap my head around them, and they remain un-specifically diagnosed. Words like laser ablation, precancerous, and dysplasia are being bandied about, and I am awash in all it means or could mean. And if one more person tells me that at least I am not dying when I tell them about my frustration surrounding my health, I cannot be held responsible. And then there's the SAHM thing. Hold me?

I rang in 2008 sobbing like a baby on my husband's shoulder.

This blog exchange is supposed to be Awards for 2007, but I am not feeling it-- why talk about Brit-Brit any more than has already been done?!?

Instead, it's my hopes for 2008.

I hope that my children continue to laugh and learn and grow. That Annie's health stays on a good track. That Jake's new, almost-four defiant attitude won't make me sit on him.

I hope that my husband gets re-elected. It means me possibly staying home, his continued happiness, and our family's continued fiscal health. Plus, he really likes the job.

I hope that my health issues get diagnosed soon and that we find a course of action that actually works. I hope that I find the emotional and psychological gumption to deal with these health issues more gracefully than I have in the past two months.

I hope that we elect a president that is wise and open, knows when to listen and when to decide, and gets us out of Iraq in a way that doesn't leave the mess for the people who didn't have any choices about what we've created there.

I hope that the economy doesn't do what I think it's going to do.

I hope that my marriage continues to grow, and my pants size continues to shrink.

I hope that God continues to provide and protect myself and my family. I hope that I can continue to have faith and grace, even if the answers I get aren't the answers I wanted to hear.

God? Please grant me grace. ************************************************************************
Dawn's not usually waxing this philosophic-- she's got two kids under four and lives in Kansas. You can find her here. Go on. This ain't her better work, as she is a nincompoop and did not send in her exchange until the last possible second.

Highlights of 2007

January - I got the news that my daughter was selected in the drawing to attend the school of our choice. Then I promptly panicked because my daughter got into the school of our choice because it meant she’d start school in July instead of September.

February - My son got a brand new big boy bed and continued his exodus from babyhood into preschooler-hood.

March - My daughter participated in our church’s talent show, wiggling her little booty with a smile on her face the whole time.

April - Craig and I attended the Blue Man Group: How to be a Megastar 2.0 concert. It was awesome. Congratulated myself on giving “Craig” such a great gift for Christmas.

May - I turned, um, another year older. 29. Yeah, that’s it.

June - Vacation “up north” with extended family. There’s nothing like spending a week letting bodily functions fly freely.

July - I became the mother of a 5-year-old who started Kindergarten within days of her birthday. I cried. My son turned 3 and drove his mom nuts asking where his big sister was every 2 minutes.

August - I attended a family reunion and survived. I also had my first two experiences chaperoning 17 Kindergartners. Survived again.

September - My daughter rode her bike without training wheels. My son started preschool. I didn’t even cry. We found out that the Munchkin is coming. I may have cried.

October - I was able to watch my children have a fabulous time trick-or-treating. They were a beautiful snow princess and Mr. Incredible. Just like themselves.

November - My son had his last visit to the ENT floor for his ears. He will miss the prizes and the admiration of the ladies.

December - Both kids sang in the Christmas program at our church for the first time. I somehow survived listening to my children bicker until Christmas. We had a fun Christmas. I saw the Munchkin during our ultrasound and he/she is doing well. I will be a mom of three in May.
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Sniff...sniff... Do I stink or something? For the second month in a row I could not connect with my partner. So, once again, this is my own post. Read the rest of the Blog Exchange posts by clicking here!

Silver

“Another day, another mess,” sighed Katherine, stooping to vacuum what was left of her daughter’s snack. Some days were like this, when she wondered if this was all her life was, an unpaid maid.

Glancing around the room, she could see that her duties were just beginning. Her daughter’s school books littered the sofa. The pink blanket her grandmother had crocheted for her for her wedding shower lay on the floor. Her husband’s brief case and laptop stood open on the kitchen table, all of which was buried in an avalanche of papers. Dirty dishes filled the sink.

The cat had barfed in the middle of the room.

“Perfect,” Katherine muttered and went in search of the rug cleaner and a paper towel. Half-way to the cleaning cupboard the telephone rang.

“Hi Hon.” Her husband Jack’s rich baritone could always soothe the savage Katherine. Of course, his seemingly perpetual positive attitude helped immensely. “I forgot my brief case and my laptop!” he laughed. “George thinks I’m trying to get out of giving that presentation next week, as if I’d let all that work go to waste!”

George was Jack’s boss, technically, but he was also his friend. The two golfed together in the summer and were on a bowling team together in the winter. “The Knocking Ten-Pins” was the official bowling team name, but “Ten-Pins” was all that would fit on their shirts, much to George’s dismay. He’d been so impressed with himself, using a play on “Rocking” using “Knocking” instead. He hadn’t taken into account the length of the name.

Katherine laughed half-heartedly at Jack’s absent-mindedness.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, “short-notice, but George gave us tickets to the Civic Theater tonight. I know how you like to see those productions…and free tickets. Didn’t you say Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight?”

Katherine mentally went through her to-do list before deciding to scrap it until tomorrow. What was one more day of filth? “Yes, Karen is staying at Amy’s tonight.”

Amy had been Karen’s best friend since they were five. Now both ten years old, they’d literally been friends for half their lives. Each girl was as welcome in the other’s home as she was in her own and often treated one another’s houses the same. Katherine thanked her lucky stars that the girls would be messing up her friend’s house tonight.

“That sounds great honey,” Katherine answered finally.

“Okay, gotta run. Seeyoulaterloveyabye.” Jack hung up after his customary run-on goodbye.
Now that Katherine had plans for the evening that involved more than putting on sweats and catching up on Survivor that left her with a new task -- finding something appropriate to wear tonight --more importantly, something appropriate that fit.

She hated to admit it, but a night out was still a novel experience in her life. She knew when Karen was a baby that she’d have few opportunities to break out of the mother role, but she hadn’t realized that this lack of a social life would extend into Karen’s pre-pubescent years.

Not that Jack hadn’t tried to get her to go out. He’d tried often but eventually grew too discouraged by Katherine’s many excuses to continue asking her regularly. Katherine made another mental note to start asking Jack out. They were in a rut and it was her fault.

“Civic Theater attire,” mumbled Katherine, peering into her closet. “Maybe the red dress.”

She pulled out the knee-length sheath and held it in front of her. The last time she’d worn it, she’d gone to her cousin’s wedding. So that made it, she tried to calculate, five years old. It was still in style, which was the nice thing about having classic taste in clothing. She sucked in her breath and checked the size. A twelve. She threw the dress on the bed. There was no way she was fitting into that one.

“Black is good,” Katherine told herself confidently as she grabbed the flowing black blouse and pants set. This one was newer, bought in the last two years. She’d bought it for a friend’s funeral.

The thought forced Katherine to sit on the bed. “Mary.”

Mary had been younger than Katherine by three years. She’d been the kind of friend that made you feel like you were a great mother even though deep-down you knew you were screwing your kid up royally. Mary was upbeat, and real.

Mary was dead. Six months after her breast cancer diagnosis and she was gone. Mary had told Katherine that she never did those breast self-exams that the doctors recommended because she’d been embarrassed about touching her own body, even in a medical way. Mary had been brought up in a strict Lutheran home with a pastor for a father and a severely repressed mother. Katherine remembered how Mary had chuckled bitterly as she mentioned her embarrassment. “Guess I should have copped a feel after all.”

A tear slipped down her cheek as Katherine checked the tag. This one would still fit. It was time for this outfit to see some happiness anyway.

Later, black outfit fitting perfectly and accessorized with her best jewelry, Katherine stood in front of the bathroom mirror applying some subtle makeup.

“What on Earth is that?” Katherine asked her reflection, catching sight of a small hint of silver in her black mane.

A grey hair. Her first.

A giggle escaped her. Mary would have loved to hear that Katherine got her first grey hair the day she’d been thinking of her. Mary would have teased Katherine mercilessly.

Katherine decided to wear her silver proudly, if only for tonight, for Mary.

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This is my own fictitious take on the Blog Exchange prompt of Gold and/or Silver since I wasn't ever able to connect with my Blog Exchange partner this month! Check out what the other participants wrote here.

Orange

There are a group of singers who celebrate the winter solstice with traditional folk songs. Every year they would chose a different region of the world – one year it was Appalachia while another it was the CzechRepublic – but would use the same storyline involving the sun being stolen away. Years later the singers took the show outside for the summer solstice and perform two free concerts near the local Children’s Museum.

It was only a matter of time before the other seasons got their due. For the autumn equinox I packed a picnic dinner and brought the kids to the subway. After riding the red line through a few stops we got off and walked to a small park. We set up our picnic blanket and listened to a man play his guitar and harmonica. We watched large puppets be laid out and people dressed all in black congregate around some benches.

A second-line band comes together at the other end other park. We moved over to watch them warm up. The bass drummer let each kid bang on her drum. Several trumpeters offered the chance to blow into their horns. Then the musicians started to play standard New Orleans tunes. The kids danced.

The parade started to form and we followed huge banners with dragons and vegetables flowing from largepoles. We processed through a university campus and ended up along a river. The bridge we were walking towards had risers on the middle where the choir in their black clothes was congregating and large puppets on sticks were swaying on either end. They all faced the setting sun as if the songs and puppetry were wishing the sun a safe journey.

We found a place for our picnic blanket and a fellow audience member immediately offered the kids a bell. The bells were rung after songs were sung. Songs that mentions rivers or water – This Land is your Land, The Water is Wide, Somos el Barco (We are the Boat) to name a few. Elegantly printed song books werepassed around so the audience could join in. The people we sat with sang heartily if not always on key.

During one song my three-year-old gasped and pointed in the opposite direction of the bridge. “Look Mommy!” she said breathlessly. “Look at the colors!” The sun had fallen below the horizon. The sky over the river was orange with a hint of pink. Suddenly all the hand bells along the river started to ring. “Say goodbye to summer!” someone yells.

“Goodbye summer” my daughter says.

“Hello fall” I reply.

“Hello fall” she echoes.

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Allison is hanging with the hip zoo animals today. Normally she writes at Soccer Mom in Denial and that is where you will find Heather’s post also titled Orange. Allison regularly posts her photos at Looking Into and is the mom of twin 7-year-old boys and a 3-year-old girl. Check out other Blog Exchanges here.

Dear Mr. President,

I am a blogger and a mother. As a mother, one of my hardest lessons has been that the age-old saying "Do as I say, not as I do" is hard to follow. Right now, my almost 4 year old is struggling with the concept of keeping his hands to himself. He has earned many a timeout for being overly affectionate with his brother (much like I understand you are at the White House) without his permission and refusing to respect his personal space when told to do so. Yet, I find myself coming up to him and tousling his hair unexpectedly and without his permission. While it is a pretty common act for a parent, it's hypocritical of me. I really need to ask his permission first. Not only is that fair to him, but it allows me to model the behavior that I expect him to display.



As a blogger, I enjoy reading posts that model the behavior online that I hope others display in the blogosphere. I have read posts over the last eleven months that have described parenting practices and lifestyle choices that differ from my own. When reading about such subjects, I try to keep in mind that everyone has a right to make the decisions that are best for their families and themselves. Don't get me wrong, on more than one occasion, I've read something that I think is just plain nuts. I've also disagreed with posts written by other bloggers. What I like about the blogosphere is that I feel it's one of the few places where there truly is free speech. As a blogger, you can say what you want when you want. You are your own publisher. However, the freedom to say anything does not mean that you should say just anything. There are times that I am disturbed by posts or comments in the blogosphere. Thankfully I haven't seen a ton of disruptive and negative behavior, but a single negative comment can change the tone of an entire post or series of posts.



As the president, every speech you deliver sets the tone for our entire nation, and you are positioned to act as a role model for all of us. As such you should act with dignity and grace. You can be a strong leader while treating those who disagree with you and viewpoints that differ from your own with respect. You cannot be a positive leader without treating others with respect. Slamming other people down is not appropriate. How can we as a society be expected to treat each other with respect if our leader, our president, cannot do so? As president, all eyes and ears are on you. I hope you understand that.



On a final note, please remember to ask permission before tousling anyone's hair.



Sincerely, Alex Elliot



P.S. I hope this post itself doesn't set a bad example.



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My name is Alex Elliot. I am a professional Mom of two cats, a dog, an ant farm, and oh yeah...two boys: a preschooler and a toddler. While I am hanging out with the Cool Zebras as part of this month's blog exchange. Heather is hanging out with the giraffes at my blog, Formula Fed and Flexible Parenting. Go check out Heather's special presidential tribute!

In the Eyes of a Child

It is late at night, and I can hear men shouting... I wish they would stop but it seems to go on and on. The men are yelling at my father, they want to come and use our house. My father said no, because he is responsible for the protection of all of the children. The men got angry, but they went away, and quiet returned. My father is a strong man and he keeps us safe. All of the grownups seem nervous.

I don't understand.

During the day, our house is very hot, so we spend our time outside. Papa says to stay close to the house, and we younger children are always under the eyes of my father, or, when he is meeting with the green men, by one of our uncles, or the men papa hires to guard our house. I don't like the green men, because they wear strange clothes, and speak in a strange way.

I don't understand.

At night, the shouting returns... this goes on almost every night, and every day for a week, men shouting and threatening my father in the dark of the night, and the green men asking my father questions in the hot light of day.

I don't understand.

One day, the green men take my father away... there is much shouting in the village, because the people don't want my father to leave... my father is the local Mayor. Why are they taking him?

I don't understand.

When the men come that night, they forced my uncle to let them into our house, and the other houses in the village. The next day the men in our houses fought the green men. There were explosions, men screaming, and lots of noise and dust. I hid under a table. When it was over, I went and looked for my mother... she was dead. We screamed and cried... later the green men brought my father home.

I'm afraid... and I don't understand.

That night, the men came back to our house... but they didn't shout. They killed my father's men and one of my father's brothers. Then, they killed my father... all while I watched.

After the funerals, I asked my uncles why my parents were dead. My eldest Uncle, our new Mayor (in my village we call him "Sheik" instead of Mayor) answered me by shrugging his shoulders and saying: "This is war, my sweet" I asked him who we were fighting, and he thought about it for a moment, then looked at me and said: "Everyone".

I'm an orphan because of "war"... So are all of the other children in our house.

I don't don't understand.

Gunfighter lives, with his family, in Washington D.C.'s northern Virginia suburbs. He is a tactical firearms instructor for a federal agency. he is active in his community and church. When he grows up, he wants to be a writer, or hand out balloons at Disney World... either would make him very happy. Gunfighter can normally be found at The View From Here, ranting on any number of subjects.

This post is part of the July Blog Exchange. This month we're tackling the prompt “In my child’s eyes”. You can find me at Gunfighter's site today, and the full list of participants can be found by clicking here.

He So Totally Rocks

When I met my husband, I knew he was super cute. Turns out the guy is way more than just good looks. He is smart, witty, caring and sweet.
When we married, I knew my husband was the one that I could grow old with, love forever and ever.

When we decided to start our family, I wasn't so sure of my husband.

Don't get me wrong, the guy totally rocks. I say this knowing that if you know him, you would totally agree. Yet I had never seen him with kids. The moment our first child was born he was nervous. It was a hard labour, full of high blood pressure and stress. She was early. Tiny. Breakable to a man that stands at 6'4. I had to fake him out to get him to finally hold her. Every time I asked him to hold her, he shied away leaving her in my arms. At last I faked pain, threatening to drop the sweet innocent baby if he did not take her. He melted.

From that moment on, my husband has been a Daddy. He worships his daughter and is head over heals for his son. This coming Father's Day will be his third, his first a father to a son. He is now a father of two. He is by far the best Dad ever. Ever since his daughter started solids, he has rose and fed her breakfast. He wakes up throughout the night and changes his son before sleepily passing him off to me to breastfeed. I am totally a spoiled Mom.

In fact, I contribute a portion of my success as a mother to his amazing fatherhood. I could not be the mom I am without his support. His nose wrinkles as he changes the cloth diapers. He supports breastfeeding. He wears our children with pride. He is part of their lives completely. I do not parent alone.

My husband ... as a Dad ... He so Totally rocks!

Happy Father's Day to all the Dads out there.

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Chelle is a Canadian girl, living it up in California with her cute husband and two adorable children. Keeping her blog Crazy Thoughts by Chelle, as a creative outlet and a connection with home. Keeping it real with her beloved Apple computer, designing blog templates and going on endless adventures with a smart, shy toddler and an ever hungry newborn.

This post is part of the June Blog Exchange. This month it is all about the Dads. You can find Heather your amazing blog host over at Crazy Thoughts by Chelle today, and the full list of participants can be found by clicking here.

Before I Write

I have to write a post about motherhood. And I kind of wish I hadn’t agreed to do it.

I know better, really.

I’ve never been able to find the right words before. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye sometimes than figure out what to say about my mother, and what makes me think the words will come now, anyway?

Because truthfully? I have a hard time describing my relationship with my mother.

I remember when I was a kid, the newspaper had a contest every Mother’s Day where you could write a letter telling about mom, and win her a free breakfast at Denny’s. It was gut-wrenching finding a way to say positive things about mom. I desperately scratched insincere words on paper, crumpled it up, started over, and wracked my brain. I wanted to be able to do it. It just wasn’t there.

So now I am sitting here repeating history. Struggling, just like when I was a kid. And why? For what? So I can prove to myself that it can be done?

I mean, when I write this post, do I share the way that my mom made me feel inadequate while I was growing up? How the comparisons she made between me and my sister were painful? That no matter how hard I tried I was never quite good enough?

Do I say that there were no sharing of secrets, very little talking over of problems, and almost no girl talks or snuggles when I was sad because it usually ended in some kind of judgment?

Is it okay to tell how I felt largely misunderstood by my mom? Can I mention that I have no recollection of her expressing her pride in me or giving me a compliment?

Is it mean to say that much of the time I wished for a different mom?

I can’t say that.

I think that when I write this post I should probably leave these unflattering unmentionables out. It might be too difficult for others to understand the full affect that my mother’s kind of mothering had on me. I wouldn’t be explaining it well and I would risk offending someone. Namely my mother.

They might not see how, even though I felt that my mother’s mothering lacked certain qualities that I craved, I did know deep down that she loves me. That she wants the best for me, although she has the greatest of difficulty showing it the way I would like her to.

That because of all this, I found inner strengths that I might not have otherwise. Strengths that I draw on daily to be the best mother, and person, that I can possibly be.

That in spite of all this, I love her, too.

I think that when I write this post I will say that. Now I just have to figure out how.
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My name is Kim and I am a guest at Heather’s place today for the monthly Blog Exchange. You can usually find me over in my space, In Full Bloom, where I rant, rave and reminisce regularly. And today you can find Heather there! If you would like to be a part of the Blog Exchange or just read about some other thoughts on motherhood, click here. And thanks for having me!

*Note: In no way do I mean any disrespect to my mother by my post. My goal in writing it is to honestly share a very real side to motherhood that many people can be uncomfortable with. Myself included. And frankly, I found writing it to be very liberating.

Seriously?

Knock me over with a feather, someone actually thought my blog exchange post was good enough to suggest that I was one of the best of the blog exchange. Whoever you are, thank you! This is my first and only "award" per se for blogging.

Frankly, I feel pretty proud. Because I like it when people think I'm great.

It feels good.

So check out the swanky new button under the "blog exchange participant" button over there on the right. (scroll down if you need to!)

Click on it to read my post if you haven't already...

My Special Little Guy

You know, my son is a pretty special little guy. Sure he’s mischievous and gets into trouble at school, but it’s not like he’s ever said “Eat my shorts” to me. And my daughter, well, sure she sometimes thinks he’s the devil’s cabana boy, but she loves him too.

Remember when we had family portraits done? I swear that boy kept messing up every picture we tried to take. My husband was ready to choke him, and good. We almost resorted to just holding up a picture of him instead of having him in there, but in the end we finally got a portrait we’re proud to put up in the living room.

It’s tough to be a mom to such a brood, but it’s rewarding in its own way. How else could I have homemaker, writer, carpenter, and curator of large mammals on my resume for the same period of time?

I just wish it wasn’t such a production to get everyone on the couch at the same time for some quality family time in front of the TV.

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Pam is trying her hand writing as someone else today, because it wasn’t enough to crash Heather’s blog, she had to do it incognito. Normally Pam hangs out over at A Boy and His Blog with her son and daughter, which is where Heather is today.

This post is part of the February Blog Exchange. This month we’re writing as well-known people or characters, so check out the rest of the participants and see if you can guess who their “voice” is this month.

Changes. . .

I’m not really into the whole New Year’s resolutions and all that, so I have to admit the first thing that came to mind with a topic about “Changes” was changing diapers!

So, in that spirit, I bring you 10 Changes That Happen in my Household. Yes, I know not everything on this list is really a “change” but humor me.

1. Diapers. I only have one child in diapers now and he’s almost 2 ½ so we don’t change nearly as many diapers as we did when my son was a baby…but he has been known to poop 4 times a day. I’ll average the diaper changes to about 6 times a day.


2. Bed sheets. I change these once a week, all three beds the same day. This is providing there were no bodily fluids spilled on them during the night at any time during that week. (I’m talking pee pee or vomit…yeah, I know where your mind went with that.)


3. Toothbrush. Mine, maybe twice a year. I know it should be changed more than that in theory (when you get sick, etc) but seriously, does ANYONE really do that??


4. Wall Portraits of my kids. Every 6 months when I can get them to sit still and both look at me at the same time. My son is terrified of the portrait studio so I’m forced to attempt this in my home. As a result, we have some interesting portraits on our wall.


5. Haircuts. Me, about every 6 months I get sick of my hair and decide to cut it and then regret it because then I’m supposed to actually style my hair in the morning and that’s really asking a lot of me. My daughter, she gets her bangs cut only, by me, and about every other month or so. My son needs his cut about every 5-6 weeks because his grows like a weed. I have to take him to a salon because I’m too chicken to try to cut it myself. Hubby? I really am not sure how often, but I’d guess about the same as my son.


6. Dusting. What is this dusting you speak of?


7. Vacuuming. I go in streaks on this one. If you count my hand vac, then I vacuum several times a day…if you mean how often do I haul out the Electrolux, that depends on how well I’m keeping to my ”schedule.” I’m currently in a non-schedule phase, so whenever my husband wants to drag out the vacuum; that is when it gets done on a large scale.


8. Contacts. I wear the 2-week disposable ones, but I change them only when they start to bug my eyes. Umm. About every 3-4 months. Bad. I know.


9. Brands. For some things, you just never change brands. Let me give you some examples… ketchup: Heinz, dish soap: Dawn Original (the blue stuff and that’s it), toothpaste: Crest (but none of the weird flavor types), mayonnaise: Kraft Mayo (no Miracle Whip for me please!), Ranch dressing: Hidden Valley Ranch. (Come on, nothing else is really Ranch is it??)


10. Underwear. Daily. Whether it needs it or not.

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This post is part of the January Blog Exchange. This month we're all writing posts inspired by the topic of Changes. My partner had technical difficulties and had to bow out last minute...so this is really written by me!! The full list of participants can be found by clicking here.

Red

My earliest memory of what I wanted to be when I grew up was a nun (obviously the financial aspect of such an endeavor never entered my mind.. I also wanted to become a librarian at one point.. yes, big, big dreams I had..). There was something so crisp and clean about a nun's habit, something very sweet about an elderly woman who would softly put her hand on your cheek, smile at you very grandmotherly, and bless you all at the same time. My father and my uncles would probably disagree having gone to Catholic school when they were kids and with that, experienced a different kind of nun than I knew who punished them with the smacking of many a ruler across their knuckles for various degrees of misbehaving. I just didn't know anything other than the pleasant-looking nuns that I saw in church every Sunday. They seemed so kind and their lives so serene. I thought how wonderful their lives must be and what a wonderful relationship with God they must have. They were second in line to speak to Him, right after the priests, of course. I thought that must be pretty special.

Growing up Catholic was confusing. I didn't understand why everything was a sin. If you miss church for some reason, it's a sin. If you miss confession, it's a sin. Heck, you are taught that you are born a sinner and I thought what a responsibility to be put upon a newborn after entering the world and being smacked on the ass, he or she was then required to ask for forgiveness for the rest of his or her life - just for simply existing! Nothing like adding insult to injury.

I just didn't see it that way. I never bought into the Old Testament, fire-and-brimstone sort of God. The 'all-loving' phrase always stuck with me and I would constantly think that a god that is 'all-loving' cannot pass judgment. A god that allows free will cannot exact punishment upon you for having chosen 'incorrectly'. Logically, these just didn't make sense to me and I started to form my own opinions of what I believed spirituality should be about. This often conflicted with what Catholicism preached and made me feel like a hypocrite to attend mass. I never expressed this to my family because we were required to attend whether we wanted to or not. You just did it. You didn't ask why.

As a child, I truly believed there was a hell where I would go when I died if I wasn't obedient, if I didn't get good grades, if I lied, stole, or didn't say my prayers. I also thought there was a bright and burning fire just below the ground we walked on that was part of the Devil's domain and water that seeped down thru the grass was helping to put it out. Any chance I had, I would do that.. changing the dog's water, gardening with my mother - and I thought I was doing good and that God would notice. I thought it could help make up for the times I was impertinent or sassed my mother. But I was still punished when I was bad.. I just figured God would make up for it once I arrived in Heaven.

Still there were times that my parents were wrong, rules seemed unnecessary or out of whack, and I didn't like the fact I was supposed to obey simply because someone told me I had to. I became quite the sneak. I once convinced my best friend in 4th grade to come to the restroom with me even though the teacher said we couldn't go together. He left the room for some reason, I made her come with me and, of course, we were caught. She cried. I thought she was taking it rather hard and rolled my eyes. I realized at that moment I wasn't exactly going to walk the path of the straight and narrow because being a good girl..? Yeah.. it was boring.

I still have a strong faith in some sort of power and within myself, but I don't go to church and I don't believe in Hell anymore. Obviously, becoming a nun was never the path for me. I question authority, more assertively than most, speak my mind, more often than some, and regularly break rules since that seems to be what they are meant for. I still do my best to put out the negative fires that may occur in life by simply trying to be a good person, but this higher power knows I'm only human and therefore, not always perfect.

This world is so black and white at times, always having to choose right or wrong, good or bad. I just think we need a good shaking up once in a while and adding the shiny red question mark of temptation creates balance on the teeter-totter of choice and helps determine where to put all our weight. Not that it makes things any easier, but it’s certainly more fun.

Should I or shouldn’t I? What color will you pick?

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Angel is a single and newly 35-year old resident of the beautiful city of Seattle. She uses ellipses (yes, only 2-dotted ones, leave her alone!) and exaggerations to tell her mostly truthful stories of her overly-dramatized life and may tell them in length. She's not necessarily a good girl gone bad, but Angel is only the name. Her parents were merely hopeful. Her site, Miss Devylish, is where you can find her regularly. Please find Ms. Heather, of Cool Zebras, kindly filling in for her today with her take on the topic.

This post is part of December's Blog Exchange. The only rule this month was to choose between a title of Red or Green. You can find the full list of participating blogs there. Check them out!