Inspired by the Beauty and the Brains

This stunningly gorgeous NASA image shows part of Europa, which is one of Jupiter's moons. The fascinating thing about Europa, which has captured the imagination of astronomers for centuries, is that it's covered in ice. Lots of ice. And so, like any good curious scientists, they think about ways to get under the ice. To the water.

I caught the last 10 minutes or so of a program last night called "Europa: Mystery of the Ice Moon" on the Science Channel. Everyone on the program was so well-spoken. Ah, the beautiful vocabulary of the PhDs of this world... But anyway, I was particularly taken by a guy named Mike Cameron. Turns out he is the brother of James Cameron, and he invented all of those fancy cameras that James used to make Titanic. Mike is still interested in underwater photography, and he made a film about the deep-sea vents in our oceans (which are mind-blowing).

Mike was talking about Europa and how scientists could eventually tackle getting through the ice to what is below. And then he said, regarding visiting the ocean vents:

"...I became keenly aware that life wants to exist in extraordinarily harsh places."

I was taken by this statement. Yes, it's true. Life finds a way (yes, that's a quote from Jurassic Park).

Show me the most hazardous, coldest, hottest places on Earth, and someone else can show you people or animals or insects or microbes who find the weather just fine. Show me someone who has lost everything physically, emotionally, or spiritually, and someone else can show you thousands of people who have risen above all of their hurts and losses and come out on top. Yes, life wants to live no matter how bad the conditions get--what a wonderful statement. It stuck with me as I drifted to the Dreamtime.

But what I truly admire about Mike Cameron is that he'll most-likely NEVER see the results of his hard work regarding Europa. He's engineered a probe that could study the water under the thick, icy surface. But it would take decades to get the funding, build the machines, and embark on that particular journey. And then to get to Europa, it would take...well... I'm not good at the math. It would take a LONG TIME.

But Mike works on his projects anyway. He's inspired by past research and eager to share his skills and knowledge with those who come in the future. That is the beauty of inventors and explorers. They think about things others cast aside as fantasy and find ways to make it real. I love that. It makes my brain whirl with ideas.

What is out there? And what can we learn from it? And who are the next brave souls who will actually take us there?

Tale of the Creepy Electric Deer

I didn't take this photo. I snagged it from google images. Because right now? It's freezing outside! I woke up all night to the sounds of the storm that was going on--and is still here. Wind. Rain. I fell asleep to the sound of some dude harvesting corn out in the field in his giant combine. The bright headlights swung little patches of light all around Farmhouse Villa. I thought to myself, "Self, why is that farmer still in the field??" And then I remembered that Pa has been helping Eagle and and Eagle's father with all of the harvesting for weeks now. Because it was a wet summer. And the crops needed more time to grow. And so everyone is STILL HARVESTING. And will be for quite a while. It's been a strange year indeed.

I bet you're wondering what this all has to do with the electric deer, right? Have no fear--I will tie it together for you.

A) The farmers are harvesting waaaay later than they should be.
B.) The deer hang out in fields.
C.) Because the combines are STILL in the fields, the deer are being pushed out into the roads and yards.

For example, when I come home from running into town at dusk, I usually find 3-4 deer at the top of my driveway. Like every night. I sh*t you not.

I don't want to hit a deer. I really don't. But the odds are against me. According to State Farm's stats on deer collision, I have a 1/104 chance of hitting a deer as an Iowan. Those are WAY better odds than the lottery. And I just happen to live in prime deer country. Last night, my mother and I went to Council Bluffs. On the way there, I counted about 10 deer in the fields. On the way home, I stopped for one that was in the middle of the road. And I waited. Because there is always more than one. But for some reason, this deer was alone. Rebel.

For those of you who live in cities, I can't begin to explain the full on panic and adrenaline rush one gets from a deer suddenly popping out of a ditch and running straight in front of your vehicle. When you're going like 55mph. It's very jarring. I know plenty of people who have encountered such a deer and the deer has simply jumped OVER their car. Like it's on an obstacle course. More often than that, however, they simply stop right in front of your bumper with a 2-second warning. Kaboom!

I love deer. My mother has a spiritual attachment to them. Ever since I've been a little girl, my mother has said, "Oh, come quick! It's a deer!" and dragged me over to the window to watch them eating in the yard or field or just walkin' by like they own the place. I have a healthy respect for these majestic animals. And I used to get my feathers quite ruffled by the thought of killing one. I was totally anti-hunting. But then I moved back here. And almost hit like 1,000 of them. Oooooh, yeah. There is such a thing as Population Control.

My neighbor's yard is notorious for having a lot of deer. It's on a corner and there are a lot of woods attached to his property. At certain times of the day, you're guaranteed to see 4-5 deer pop up off the side of the road and run across. It's a tried and true Deer Run that's been there since I was a little girl. I'm always wary of this corner. I drive very slowly on the way to and from my own driveway because most accidents happen within a mile of your own home because you Stop Paying Attention. Not Blondie. Oh no. This is where I pay attention The Most. The deer are out to get me.

And then each holiday season, this neighbor gets out like 20 light-up deer--like the one shown above. There are a couple of pretty little trees that go with it. He puts them all around his property. They are supposed to be festive and decorative, but I see them mostly as a reminder/warning. Slow down.

There is one that swivels its head. I get to the end of my driveway when the sun has gone down and there it is--turning right and left. Right and left. So lovely. So twinkly. But sometimes I feel as if it's mocking me. Come on, Blondie. Come toward the pretty lights. And then I'll send a live friend out to GET YOU!

But in all seriousness, I must say that I spend a good part of each day thinking about deer. When I'm going to or from anywhere, I know when Deer Time is. When I turn into my own driveway, I often have to stop for them to figure out that those headlights aren't gonna go away. Same at my parents' house. They are EVERYWHERE. And no matter how beautiful they are, they can kill you if you slam into them simply going the speed limit. Or if you swerve for them and someone is behind you. Or if you just aren't Paying Attention.

So now I find I have a love/hate relationship with the deer. I still get just as excited as my mother when I see them. We saw two in her front yard the other night. We both ran to the window and watched them. We said, "Pa, come look!" And Pa said, "I've seen deer." Yes, he has. And so have we. And we will continue to see them every day. Probably in the road right in front of us. And even though that swiveling-headed light-up deer in my neighbor's yard can send shivers down my spine as I think about its live counterparts, I still admire its subtle beauty. Right to left. Right to left. You are getting veeeery sleepy.

And the deer know it.

Surrounded

I swiped this image from PostSecret.com. It resonated with me because I used to feel so very lonely in my giant Jungle City sometimes. And even in smaller cities. I remember feeling alienated in Portland even though I was surrounded by people I actually knew. Sometimes, no matter how many people are around, you just feel achingly alone.

This weekend, I was reminded that I'm not alone at all. On Friday, a few different friends from separate circles texted to see if I wanted to go out. I was actually exhausted on Friday from a long work week, so I went to bed at 10pm. Saturday, I was up bright and early with the cats, but then I lazily read my book, took a short nap, and watched Twilight to drool at Edward. I used to dread weekends alone in Chicago, but now I found myself happy to have Blondie time and do whatever I wanted to do without anyone knowing or caring or commenting about it.

Saturday night I went to the bar and met up with a bunch of people--a whole slew of them that have interesting personalities and hilarious life stories. I found myself laughing and snorting with wild abandon. A flicker of the goofy, silly, happier Blondie popped out. I thought, "Yes, I know how to do this. I feel fine." And then yesterday, I went to Nerdtopia for 3 loads of laundry and a chili dinner. Mmmmm. And my mother was in a super silly mood, so the whole night was filled with giggles and randomness and the American Music Awards. It was a lovely weekend. I feel refreshed and ready to conquer my Monday.

Being single on the holidays used to conjure up these horrible anticipations of feeling alone and sad and things. But now my mother and I are planning our list of ingredients for the Great Blondie Cooking Show on Thursday. I don't feel any pressure or nervousness about it. I do know FOR SURE that I'm going to have to swat away my mother's hands as she tries to do the cooking for me. She's already made some "I" statements. When I make the turkey, I... When I make gravy, I... She is in for a rude awakening. Because I am making the food. (snickers)

And I am so happy to be HERE making that food. Not flying in from the Concrete Jungle. Not casually inviting myself to someone else's Turkey Fest because I have nowhere else to go. Oh no. There are no more sad Thanksgivings. There may be "awkward" Thanksgivings in my future, but I don't ever want to be miserable on that day ever again.

So this year I will not be sad. I will be eternally thankful that I am not the one who wrote on that postcard and sent it in to PostSecret. But to whoever it was, I have a little message for you:

You can change your circumstances. Find your courage, and do it.

Journal Circa 1997

When I get bewildered by my present-day life, sometimes it is fun to go look back at old journals. The one shown above escaped my college house fire with only a little water damage. It was tucked safely somewhere, I guess. And so this morning, I read an ancient entry:

12-13-97

I was aware of my jewelry tonight. On my left hand, I wear a thick silver ring that I got in the Ozarks. It has flowers and (silver) vines on it--engraved in it. On my right hand, I have a thin, silver band that has a copper rope-like pieces every so often. The left hand (the one I write with) is the big clunky, funky ring. The right hand ring is the soft, elegant ring--with ropes of color going through in little bursts. You would never think for a moment that one person would wear these two rings. I guess I have these 2 sides. What a f*cking Gemini I am. The dominant side is all clunky funky--ready to have fun and f*ck the seriousness of life with my in-your-face flower metal. Then there is this little delicate side that only comes out for special occasions.

Fascinating for so many reasons:

• I have neither of those rings anymore. I lost them both in the fire. I remember the clunky funky one perfectly, but I have zero recollection of the softer one.
• How interesting that even at 20 years of age (when I hadn't had any therapy of the sort that was worth a damn), I was very self-aware. I already knew that I was guarded--secretive about my soft underbelly.
  

This journal is very expressive of my mood and style at that age. It's got a faux tiger cover--it's soft and sexy and edgy. I often think of my old self in college and kind of wish I could get back to my mindset then. I was very Sure of Myself. I thought I Knew It All. The sucky thing about college is that you DO learn a ton of info and you DO think you know it all and then you graduate and realize you KNOW NOTHING. Especially when your first electricity bill comes or something.

Ah, good times.

As I am reading through this journal, I see most of it is about writing (oh, I was so in love with writing back then) and reading and b-o-y-s. You could say I was a little boy crazy. I didn't have boyfriends or boy friends in high school, so college was a brave new world for me. I'm so glad I took advantage of that time now--to explore and be crazy and dance like no one was watching. I'm far too reserved for such shenanigans now. I'm old. It's OK. I like the old Blondie better. I have wisdom now.

This new wisdom tells me that it's so important to keep learning about myself. To always strive for self-awareness. To seek and find what is truly needed in life and never settle for less. Now I giggle as I read some of these old passages--and tear up at others. I trace my fingers along quotes or pictures I glued to the pages. I admire myself for being so brutally honest with no fear that anyone would ever read this journal but me. I am proud that I at least tried to understand my own actions--even if I really didn't at the time.

So I'll keep trying. If I could do it then, I can do it now.

Blondie Does Turkey

Well, it's been a kitteh-filled week. Sick of Kingie stories? I am. Let's move on.

The holidays are upon us. I just realized that next week will be a short week because the company I work for has the 26th-27th off for Thanksgiving. Ahhhh, Thanksgiving. I love me some turkey.

For those of you who have been reading me for a while, you'll know that I made Thanksgiving dinners in Chicago a few times. With a little help from Boston Market. This year, I'm going to go ahead and do the real deal--the whole meal. No cheating.

My mother has been begging me for years to take on the Thanksgiving duties. She always says, "I can't WAIT till you have your own house and realize how much work it is to feed 30 people!" My answer to this?

A.) I will never own a house.
B.) The family would never come to my house. I'm not the Alpha--that's all Eagle.

So poor Ma might never get her day to rub my face in a dinner party. However, I did agree to make Thanksgiving dinner for Ma and Pa. At Ma's house. My only stipulation was that it had to be at her house so I could use her dishwasher. I refuse to make a whole Thanksgiving dinner without a machine to wash the mess I make.

So this week, I need to get prepared. I'm not going to make a whole turkey. No one likes the dark meat anyway. So I'm going to get two turkey breasts. I have a Thanksgiving recipes book that will help me make the mashed potatoes. OK, who am I kidding? I'll just buy the Country Crock Garlic Mashed Potatoes because they ROCK. But I'll make some sides--green bean casserole and stuffing if they want it. Gravy. Mmmmm. Rolls. Deliciousness.

About dessert. Hmmmm. I don't like pumpkin pie, but I think my father does. I will have to talk to them about dessert. I'm leaning toward an apple or cherry pie. And then we will stuff ourselves to the gills and sit back and rub our bellies and read our books and fall asleep. And then wake up and eat more.

Oh yes, I also told Ma I would only agree to make the Thanksgiving food if we didn't have to start at like 5am. She agreed. We moved the time to between 8-9. I will be sure to document the process for you. I will also be making them participate in the annual viewing of Home for the Holidays.

And since that one time in Chicago I bought a frozen turkey breast and then didn't realize how long it takes to unfreeze and had to try and microwave defrost it (a MESS), I will be sure to do my grocery shopping SOON.

Gobble gobble.

What are you doing for the holiday?

The Symbolism of Kingie

Momma needs to go shoppin'. I need some Pill Pockets. I've tried these once before with King and had much success. I'm hoping it will work again.

It seems King Blonderson has gotten himself a bladder infection. We have ruled out everything else, and his blood work was relatively normal (with high cholesterol, of course, because he's... um... large).

I am SO HAPPY.

Not happy about the water bowl spillage twice already this morning, but happy that my kitteh is not diabetic or dying of some random disease. Others who know me? Perhaps not so happy. See, the only one who loves Kingie is me.

I will admit it--Kingie is very standoffish to a lot of people. Well, everyone. He's a momma's boy. He doesn't go to guests. He looks annoyed when my parents attempt to pet him. He pushes his paws violently up against the chest of anyone who tries to pick him up. Then he looks at me, MARS, and begs me to hold him instead. It's like having my very own 2-yr-old. Except King is 13. And feline.

I've often wondered about King's history. When my ex and I first adopted him, he slept in the bathroom for like 2 months. He didn't like either of us. He had 3 names: Bubba, Buster, and Jo Jo. All 3 were on his paperwork. The cat adoption place was trying to get rid of the Jo Jo name from his original owner. I remember every so often saying, "Jo Jo?" and his ears would perk up and he would look right at me. But after about 6 months of calling him King (the ex chose that one), he started to respond to it. Also, by then I'd put him on a diet that helped control his irritable bowel syndrome a little better. His coat got shinier. His eyes started to twinkle. He actually came out of the bathroom and played with toys. And then he started the "hugging." He wraps both paws around my neck and hugs me. I love it.

His back is really sensitive. He doesn't like anyone to pet it. He bristles, and you can feel his spine through his fur very easily there. Once, when Little came to visit, she petted him there (well, she was like 2, so she kinda smacked at him accidentally in that well-meaning-toddler way while thinking she was petting him), and he actually hissed at her. It was the first and last time I've ever heard Kingie hiss. I've decided that long ago in his previous life, someone must have hit him on his back. Someone abused my Kingie. That makes me very sad.

There are many reasons why people would not want to have a cat like King:

1. He has irritable bowel syndrome
2. He is missing a tooth and has TERRIBLE teeth (no, I can't afford a dental)
3. He's antisocial
4. He has back dander
5. He licked all the fur off his belly and legs and gnaws on his own legs sometimes (nervous habit called "barbering")
6. He requires special food for his IBS; wet food twice a day
7. He does a seek-and-find mission for plastic when he's hungry, eats it, and then barfs it back up

I could go on. I really could.

But here's the thing--I love him. And I get so sad that other people in my life don't get to see his sweet side. My parents have seen the way he will come snuggle on me and get his hugs. They've seen the photographs of King sleeping on my head. But they've also had to scoop my litter and help me carry the special food in cases from the store.

At night, Kingie comes into my room while I'm reading in bed. He stares at me from the floor for a while. He does everything in slow motion (except eating), so it takes him a while to figure out how he's going to jump up there with me. And then he spoons into my chest and tucks his little head under my chin and falls asleep. After about 10 minutes, he wakes up and remembers he needs to go Drink More Water. Then he usually comes back and sleeps on my laundry on the floor. And then when the sun is ready to rise, he goes for my head. And kneads it.

When I was in therapy in Chicago--the beginning when I was a horrible mess--I used to tell Shrinkydink that I had a giant hole in my chest. We did a lot of imagery work, and I complained about this hole for months. I literally pictured myself with a hole. Like this:


In the hazy fog of imagery work--or perhaps I was even hypnotized--I would look down and see the chair I was leaning against through my chest. No one was in there. Not even my parents. Not my sister or my friends or my coworkers. I was so sad that their hands went right through me to the other side.

After a few months of working on my issues, we decided to revisit the hole and check its progress. (Seriously, I know this all sounds a little weird, but my therapy literally saved my life.) We hadn't done the imagery for a while, so I closed my eyes and we worked our way there. And when I looked down inside of my hole, Kingie was in there. Like this:




Still no friends, family, etc. Just Kingie. Sleepin'. My big, fat furbaby had crawled in there. Webbie was nowhere to be found.

To this day, King is the only thing that sits in the hole. It's a smaller hole now--not so raw and gaping. But this part of me that relates to King kind of works like this: we are misunderstood. People don't always "get" us or even "want" us. Most people would probably cast us aside or "put us down." But if they would just stop and really look at us, they would see that despite all of our armor and castle walls, we are extremely loving. We just want someone to hold us and pet our heads and say, "I love you, too."

So that is why I tolerate all of the crap that comes with being King's owner. I deal with the high price of fancy food and yearly blood work. I clean up his giant man poops and laugh when he snottily sneezes in my face. I hold him up so that others can try to pet him and get his attention. And I put ice cubes in his water whenever I can. I think King knows that we are on the same team. And I will continue to always do whatever I can to give him a long, happy, contented life. Because when I was down at the lowest I've ever been before, he crawled in my chest hole, snuggled up, and promised to stay there.

Letter from King

Dear People,

I am not pleased. I had to spend the night at the VET with Other People's Animals. So not cool. Yes, the doctors and nurses were nice to me, but come on. They wouldn't let me sleep on their heads.

We are still not sure why I'm BEGGING for water and dumping the water bowl out. It's as if something comes over my body and I must do it. Perhaps I have been possessed by a Demon Kitteh?

I do not have diabetes, which is nice. What is wrong with me is currently Undetermined. But I did have a pee test, a blood test, and thermometer shoved up my pooper a few times, so this had better be SOMETHING. Ahem. Just something simple, please.

Because, as Mommy can tell you, I don't do pills well. I hold them in my mouth for up to 10 minutes at a time and then spit them out somewhere hidden. Mommy has found half dissolved pills in my past. No likie.

I am now resting flat on my back on the living room floor. Very happy to be home. Getting a bath from Webbie.

Peace OUT,

King