Excuse Me, I Need to Vent Now

Lately, my entire life seems to be in a holding pattern. I'm circling and circling, waiting to land. Last summer, that exact same type of plant you see above (a mandevilla) spit out hundreds of gorgeous, pink flowers. This year? Nothing. That is the story with many of the beautiful plants I purchased and nurtured this spring. It's TOO HOT in Iowa for the plants. They are stressed. They can't handle it. So they are all refusing to bloom.

It's the same with the rest of my life. I feel like I'm *stuck* right now. My body is refusing to listen to my brain. My irrational emotions conflict with my rational thoughts. I know certain things to be true, but I feel the exact opposite. No likie. The heat doesn't help.

It's interesting to me that excessive heat for long amounts of time can morph me into Evil Blondie. I'm SO TIRED of being HOT. I want to play outside. I want to go fishing. I want to lie in the yard swing and read a book. But because I am a delicate redhead, the minute I step outside, I go into Meltdown Mode. My glasses fog over. My camera lens fogs over. I immediately begin sweating in an ugly way. Every part of my being screams to run back inside where it's cool. I. Hate. It.

Being stuck inside has made me start twitching about all kinds things:

• Why are there so many stupid people in the world?
• Why are there so many bills on my table?
• When is Webster going to stop horking up his sister's hair?
• When am I going to get a new staircase?
• Where is that guy I'm supposed to meet who is going to make life grand?
• Is that mole skin cancer?
• Why is my ear whoosh so much louder in the summer? (Oh yeah, because I'M HOT!)
• Why can't I have a Magic Fairy that will come over here and clean my house from top to bottom?
• Do I really have to take out the garbage AGAIN?
• Why isn't life fair?

ROAR!

*cranky*

I don't even have the energy to remind myself of the good things in my life right now. That's how crabby I am. Oh well. I can't be all sunshine and roses all the time. Right? RIGHT!?

Meep.

Killing Kate: A Book Review AND Author Fun

A while back, I was looking for interesting bookish things to do in Omaha. I found The Bookworm, which is an indie book shop that has a TON of different book fun book clubs. While I was on their site, I saw a notice for a book signing by a woman named Julie Kramer. Her latest book is called Killing Kate, and it's a mystery novel set around a black angel statue in Iowa. IOWA? I perked up. I got all excited. I emailed her and asked her for a review copy? Yes. It came a few days later and was promptly snatched up by Ma while I finished reading a different book. Then I got my turn, and I really, really liked it.

So today, I took Ma with me to The Bookworm for Julie's signing:


She has a background in television journalism, so she was very interesting, open, witty, and fun to listen to. Most writers? They are a little more reclusive and look like they are going to DIE when they are in public. When I used to work at a bookstore, I saw more than one writer look like he/she might break out in hives and faint at any moment. Julie looked very comfortable while she chatted with us. She told us about working in the news, the publishing world, and her feisty main character in her series, Riley Spartz.

Also? Julie is very good at marketing. Check out these chocolates she gave us:


And considering how HOT it's been in the Midwest, this water was a huge treat. I drank it all rather quickly:


When Julie was finished speaking, Ma (the sweet dear, thank you) ran off to buy the other books in the Riley Spartz series:


Killing Kate is the fourth novel featuring Riley Spartz, but I honestly didn't mind jumping into the middle of the series. I missed nothing. I didn't feel lost. I'm excited go to back and read the other ones, but it is definitely NOT one of those series that will leave you bewildered if you start in the middle.

Spartz works at Channel 3 in Minneapolis. She is eager to cover a murder mystery involving the younger sister of one of her old college roomies. There is a bewildering "chalk fairy" around the body. Why? It turns out there is a connection to the Black Angel statue in Iowa City, Iowa. Fun fact: Iowa has two black angels. There is one in Iowa City and one in Council Bluffs. I've been to and photographed both of them--they're awesome. Even though Spartz is in Minnesota, there are fun tidbits about Iowa in this book--such as a mention of Jodi Huisentruit, whose disappearance still baffles me all of these years later. I enjoyed having little Midwest nuggets in my book.

There is also a ridiculously funny side plot involving a dog that dies after being left in a hot car. I think that's what I enjoyed most about this book. Sure, there is a mystery going on, but there is also quite a bit of humor. It's the perfect mix of serious/sassy. I stopped reading mysteries a long time ago because I felt they were too predictable and kind of soap opera-ish. Julie Kramer has single-handedly destroyed my notions about mysteries. They can be very, very good. It's also enjoyable to learn about the ins and outs of television news. It's a wild world, people.

If you're looking for a great summer read, check out Killing Kate or start at the beginning of the series, which I'm excited to now do. I got a picture with Julie (which sadly is on Ma's camera, not mine). Then I got all of the other books signed, and Julie left me personal messages in each one. I wanted to be able to show them to you, so I asked her to use my blog name. This one in Stalking Susan is my favorite. It says:

For Blondie--

I'll try not to write "Bashing Blondie" but I can't promise.

Julie Kramer


Love it! And that title? I would buy like 100 of them and give them to everyone I know.

Thank you to Julie Kramer and Simon & Schuster (who has just signed Julie for two more Spartz books--whoot!)

My Own Wee Butter Cow

image c/o Iowa State Fair

This year, the Iowa State Fair is celebrating 100 Years of the Butter Cow. For those of you who don't know, a butter cow is a giant cow made of butter. People make all kinds of butter creations for state fairs. I highly encourage you to do a google image search for "butter cow" and take a peek. I'll wait.

*waits*

Yesterday, I was on Twitter chatting away with my friend Rayne when she suddenly started a butter cow game. See, sometimes people on Twitter (and also on Facebook I have since learned) substitute a certain word into the title of a song, movie, or book. So this started happening with the butter cows. Such as:

• Silence of the ButterCows
• Zen and the Art of ButterCow Maintenance
• The ButterCow Always Rings Twice
• ButterCow in the Garden of Good and Evil
• Stranger in a Strange Buttercow

Since a lot of people had no idea what a butter cow was, Rayne and I were quite confusing to many of our followers. The poor dears. I knew exactly what I was talking about, so the more titles I saw in my Twitter stream, the more I started laughing and laughing and laughing. I have been a *tad* stressed out lately, so this kind of silliness was EXACTLY what I needed. The sound of my own laughter filled Farmhouse Villa. It ruled.

I went to my parents' house for dinner last night and told them all about the Twitter butter cow madness. They didn't think it was quite as funny as I did (I started laughing hysterically all over again), but they appreciated the story. For dinner, Ma was making turkey burgers and corn on the cob, so there was plenty of... butter.

I decided to make my own tiny butter cow. I borrowed a pair of latex gloves from my mother's cleaning supplies (Hello, Dexter?), part of a butter stick, and some toothpicks. Butter? It's slippery. And melty:


I quickly learned there was NO POINT to the toothpicks. Instead, I just sliced little bits of butter and squished them together. I was very grateful for my gloves. Ma watched with amusement while I worked my magic. I even made utters. When I was finished, I added a big pile of cow poop under it for authenticity:


It immediately started melting (I'M MELTING! I'M MELTING!), but I tried to stand it up with my knife anyway. It fell over:


But from this angle, it kind of just looks like it's lying down:


Now I understand why they make the big butter cows in cold, refrigerated rooms.

Happy Friday!

Maggie May Is Getting Old and I Don't Like It

Ma and I have a debate over whether or not Maggie May is mine or hers. I say she is MINE. After the beloved family cat, Wilbur, went to Kitteh Heaven when I was in high school, we got 3 kittens from my Auntie. Two were black. I wanted the calico one, who grew into the adorableness you see above. My sister named the black ones. I named Maggie. The black ones met unfortunate demises in the garage. Maggie was the Smart Kitten who knew to stay clear of vehicles and garage doors.

Much like Harry Potter, Maggie was The Kitten Who Lived. And she has basically lived longer than any kitteh who ever dared to live on Nerdtopia land. Considering that we got her when I was in high school and I graduated in 1995, that means Maggie is roughly... 17? 18? So she is old.

I've gotten this dark feeling lately like Maggie might not be around much longer. It's a nagging feeling I get when I see her walk slowly up the garage stairs. She used to run. She always wants to be in the garage. She used to love to be outside.

Given, she's had some outdoor run-ins over the last few years with crazy critters. She had to get a few stitches last year when a psychotic squirrel or raccoon or something beat her up. There are also some mean/territorial farm cats that wander around on my family's land. Maggie is too old for such shenanigans. So maybe that is why she likes to be in the garage so much. Also? We give her treats when she goes in there. TREATS!

But I do know that kittehs only live so long. There will come a time when Mother Nature takes back my beloved darling. I'm hoping that writing about my fears will make them stop torturing me every time I look at her.

I love the way she meows with a crackly voice that barely makes a sound. I love that I have a whole slew of photos of us sitting together on the back stairs. I never get mad when she drools on my leg while I rub her belly. And I find it amusing that every time I park the Corolla in the back area of my folks' house, she wanders over to sniff it and then mark all the tires with her scent. That Corolla? 'Tis mine.

Oh, sweet Maggie. Keep on keepin' on, dear heart. I realize you are going a bit blind and are getting a bit creaky, but we still love you.

Love,

Your REAL Mother

Taking a Stand--And Winning

In this great big giant world, it's hard to feel like I make any difference. My presidential vote doesn't "really" count. I read each day about corporate shenanigans I am powerless to change. Sometimes I wonder what the point is of trying to make a difference when it comes to laws, communities, and social structures. My parents raised me to believe that I could do anything I wanted in life as long as I tried. By the time I got to college, I believed in that message. But there was a catch--stupid people can do whatever they want, too.

Last weekend, my parents were out of town. I was going to stop by their house to get something when I noticed a sign in the ditch on their road. Of a uterus. WTF? As I kept driving, I noticed more signs. They were professionally done by a regional business. As I drove, I noticed more and more signs. They were anti-abortions ads. A LOT of them. They went all the way down a quarter-mile stretch to the end of the road where my great aunt and uncle live. There was one right across the driveway from where my cousin's CHILDREN live. I flared. I POOFED out all of my feathers. I was really, really, really mad.

A.) Anti-abortion signs, even when they aren't graphic, don't belong near children of any age.
B.) Since MY FAMILY owns all of the houses on the road, it inadvertently looked like they put them there or gave permission for them--they didn't. (*disclaimer: I don't speak for my immediate or extended family on this issue, but I do know they would never put up signage*)
C.) I am pro-choice and have severe issues with the way pro-lifers do their business.

I felt helpless. My parents were out of town, so I didn't know what to do. The signs were quite large. They were double-posted into the ditches on the side of the road. It was like 150 degrees outside. Could I even make a dent if I tried to pull one out? Was it legal to pull them out? Could I get in trouble if I pulled them out?

I called Pa, and he explained to me that the ditches are owned by the county--not property owners. Therefore, if someone puts a sign in a ditch, they have to have permission from the county. My county? It's a little conservative. But there is NO WAY they would have given permission for these signs methinks. That would be making quite a strong statement on behalf of a LOT of citizens. Pa said I could pull them out, but I would have to leave them in the ditches--which means the company would just stake them back in the minute I drove away. Or, I could end up in a confrontation. I felt more helpless.

I got back to my own house and called my cousin to make sure he didn't give some kind of random permission for the signs? NO! So then I got more mad. DON'T MESS WITH MY FAMILY OR ITS ROAD!

My cousin's kids are little. They don't need to see these signs and wonder what they mean. They don't need to be suddenly asking my cousin about the random baby faces on the road and why they are asking to not be killed. The more I thought about it, the more FURIOUS I got.

I looked up the county's phone number and gave it a call. Answering machine. It was a Saturday.

*crickets*

I sent an email to one of the councilmen expressing my concern about the signs and my desire to have them removed.

*crickets*

Then I called the cops. Yep, I did.

I looked up the sheriff's non-emergency number and gave it a jingle. I explained to the dispatcher why I was calling. She said she would have a deputy call me back. Ten minutes later, a kind officer dialed Farmhouse Villa. He said he was aware of the signs and people had been commenting on them, but I was the first official complaint. (This didn't surprise me.) He said he would check into it and if they didn't get permission, they would be fined. He was really, really, really nice to me. I felt happy. Not helpless.

When I drove to my parents' on Sunday, all 15 signs or so were gone. What happened to them? I don't know. But they were gone, and that's all I wanted. I have no idea if they were gone because of me or the police or the company or a vandal, but they were GONE. And I felt powerful.

I *almost* did nothing. I *almost* told myself that nothing could be done, that my small opinion wouldn't matter, that I was going up against a big company and my voice would be drowned out. And you know what? It's possible that I would have just left the damn signs if I didn't feel so mother-bearish about the kids seeing them. There are other anti-abortion signs in Farmsville. They p*ss me off, but there is nothing I can do about them because they are on private property (but in a public way, of course).

Also? I was scared of calling the police. You don't call the po-po unless you are serious. The only other time I remember calling the police was in Chicago when I dialed 911 because a psycho driver was almost running people over right in front of me. That is a really good reason to call the cops. Signage? I wasn't sure. I made it clear that this was a non-emergency, but I still felt strange calling the police to make a complaint. Was I going to sound like a crazy person? But the officers were so professional, nice, and serious that I felt fine afterward. It turns out you CAN call the cops and they will listen. Who knew?

In the aftermath of all of this, I feel pretty good. I have strong opinions, but I rarely voice them around Farmsville. Around here, I am in the minority politically, religiously, and in just about any other way, so I know when to pick my battles or keep my mouth shut. Most of the time, it's not worth it to stir the pot in a sleepy farm town. Wackadooness is just a part of living here that I've come to accept. But this time, I was ready to make my voice heard. Even on a police recording device. Because it was wrong. The signs were illegally placed. Go ahead and put your signs about whatever you want wherever you want--as long as it's LEGAL. This time, it wasn't. So I did something about it.

I learned more than one valuable lesson from this experience. But the most important one was that I still CAN make a difference if I try. I think I'll keep trying.

I encourage you all to fight the good fight when you encounter one. You might be surprised at what happens. I sure was.

Juan Carlos Joins Farmhouse Villa

I am proud to present my new family member. His name is Juan Carlos, and he now joins the Blonderson family line of Hispanic bettas. I had Pez and Diego (may they rest in peace). Now, I'm all about Juan Carlos. He is BEAUTIFUL. He is called a "dragon scale" betta--he's basically super shiny. He loves his little plant, so it's hard to get photos of him. Perhaps you can see the coloration better here:


Yeah, so getting Juan Carlos? Huge pain in the a$$.

The story goes something like this... It was Sunday--Auntie's Day. I was all excited to have a holiday about ME. WHOOT. But Little was nowhere near me and my parents were out of town, so I was kind of ho-humming around the house. I knew I wanted to get myself a special treat, so I decided to finally replace Diego, who went to betta heaven over a year ago. I hopped in the car to go uptown.

These things went wrong:

1. I got all the way to Petsmart and then realized I'd forgotten my wallet at home.
2. My car gas light came on.
3. My cell phone was dead.
4. No wallet = no gas + no cell phone = no one could come pick me up if I ran out of gas. Luckily, the Corolla can go quite a while on an empty tank.
5. It was F*CKING HOT outside.
6. I was sad because no one was with me to celebrate Auntie's Day with lunch.
7. I drove back home.
8. I stopped to get gas and a huge Asian lady beetle landed on my arm and BIT me SO HARD that my arm welted.
9. Did I mention that I also was going to Petsmart because the litter boxes are too small for my kittehs, so they started pooping off the side of the box on accident? No wallet = no litter or litter boxes, either.
10. I went to my parents' house to cool it down for them because they were out of town. Inside their house? 86 degrees. It takes a looooong time to cool down their house because they have a ski-lodge type ceiling and lots of windows.

By the time they got home, I was distressed. Grumpy. Hungry. Fishless.

So being good parents, they drove me uptown again and helped me get a 42 lb bag of litter, two new jumbo boxes, and Juan Carlos. Then we went to Culver's to eat a butterburger. YUM. I brought Juan Carlos in and he sat with us while we dined. I couldn't leave the poor thing in the car because I didn't want a fried fishie.

Then I brought him back home and have been worried about him ever since because GRETCHEN has her eye on him. I cluttered the bookshelf where he is located so she can't really get UP there, but boy can she stretch and pretend and watch him like a hawk. But since he tends to now rest in his plant, she mostly doesn't see him. I bought her a new mousie toy thing to try to distract her. It's quite amazing. It looks like this:



Awesome. (She keeps trying to carry the main mouse away to no doubt hide him under my bed covers, but the whole contraption is too heavy. Score for me.)

But Auntie's Day wasn't a total wash. Just when I thought I was going to start crying, Little called to wish me Happy Auntie Day. I was so happy to hear her little voice that all of my sadness went away. I told her all about Juan Carlos and she gave me suggestions for how to keep him safe from Gretchen. She is a smart one, that girl. I think I will keep her.

The Girls of Murder City: A Book Review

My free review copy of The Girls of Murder City: Fame, Lust, and the Beautiful Killers Who Inspired Chicago by Douglas Perry (Thank you Gabrielle Gantz and Penguin!) is all crinkled up because I've been carrying it around incessantly. I have shown all my friends. I took it to the watering hole. I've been prattling on about it to my parents. Basically, I was completely fascinated by and obsessed with this book. And guess what? I've never even seen Chicago. It doesn't matter. I now know the true story--and it's a whopper.

The Girls of Murder City focuses on two women who were charged with drunkenly murdering their lovers (one was married and the other divorced) in 1920s Chicago--during Prohibition. Belva Gaertner and Beulah Annan were the two prettiest and classiest women on "murderess row" down at the po-po station. It was a crowded place. It turns out all kinds of women were murdering their husbands and lovers--and popping right back out of jail because the all-male juries at the time basically refused to convict pretty girls. Seriously? Yes.

I love a good true crime story, but this book also gave me insight into old-school newspaper coverage. Maurine Watkins, the reporter who covered the trial for the Chicago Tribune, jumped right into the manly world of crime reporting and slayed it. Watkins was AWESOME. (Oh yeah, and she later went on to write Chicago.) Back then, reporters could go in jail cells to interview the incarcerated, so Belva and Beulah put on quite the show. Watkins saw right through them.

Douglas Perry recreates the 1920s scene perfectly. I could vividly picture all of the characters and the madness that surrounded this trial. Fresh off the Casey Anthony verdict, I realized that media sensationalism has been here all along:

"Court fans--Beulah fans--had begun arriving at the courthouse two hours before the doors opened and rushed for seats as soon as they were allowed inside. A large crowd didn't make it into Judge Lindsay's courtroom; bailiffs had to force the doors shut after the room filled past capacity. The lucky ones who did get in sat on windowsills and stood on benches. Unable to see from the back, young women, throwing propriety aside, asked to be boosted up by strange men."

Women were supposed to be quiet and meek back then. These murderesses threw a wrench in all of that. They certainly weren't alone because the jail was filled with "girl" gunners at the time. I find it interesting that even though women have been offing their enemies since the beginning of time, people still find it horrifying when a female commits a "male crime." Even now in 2011, it's "shocking" when a woman murders someone. It goes against everything that is feminine and pretty and good. Interesting. Why? Food for another post.

The Girls of Murder City is available in paper now, so hook yourself up. I won't tell you what happens to the murderesses because reading about them was so enjoyable that I refuse to spoil it. Even if you've seen the movie, you will want to read about the real deal. There are many more characters to enjoy besides Belva and Beulah--all sorts of wacky people doing wackadoo things. Oh Chicago, you've always been such a wild city. I'm amazed I escaped you unscathed...

(Also? Props to the cover designers. Love it.)

Auntie Expansion: Adopting Other People's Kids

I am taking my Auntie role to a whole new level, people. I now am the proud Auntie of two four-year-old twin girls. WHOOT!

This weekend, my college roomie came into town with her daughters and hubbie to go to the Omaha Zoo. I met up with them for dinner and got to marvel at the energy that wee children have. Even after swimming all afternoon in the hotel pool, the girls were still on fire! RUN! PLAY! GO!

I told my roomie (I forgot to get a fake name from her again!) about how I would like to be an auntie to her girls and we asked them if that was OK. Yes? YES! I was so proud.

Before leaving them, I gave my friend money for each girl to get a present at the zoo. I told her she wasn't allowed to reject the money because I said so. The girls told me thank you, and that was that. I promptly forgot about it.

But today? It was like heaven. I got a text from my friend with a pic of the girls at the zoo holding their new stuffed animals. The note said, "Thank you Auntie Bon Bon!" I almost cried. For reals. I adore all of my friends and their children, and it meant so much to me to see a special photo just for me. *blushes*

Now I will have to officially adopt all of my other friends' children. That's a LOT of kids, people. But whatevs. It's totally worth it because I will have this smile on my face for the rest of the day.

Awesome Homemade Bookmarks

I've been spending a lot of time on Pinterest finding fun DIY projects. I recently was led to a post called "page corner bookmarks." They are AWESOME. So I made a couple of pretty ones with my pretty paper. I intend to make more of these one day with Featherplume, who has graciously agreed to be my Art B*tch. (YES!)

It's kind of hard to tell how they work with these photos because I forgot to take a pic of one IN a book, but they tuck onto the corner of the page in your book--so smart and easy:


Regarding the monster bookmarks--I tried to cut out circles for the eyes, but as you can see, I am not good at cutting circles (maybe because I'm a lefty using righty scissors for my whole life). Anyway, I put on googly eyes instead. I'm sending this one to Little, who also lurves to read:


You can find the directions and template for how to make your own with the above link. Trust me, they are worth it. I used the measurements of 6 inches by 3 inches, but you can make them smaller or larger. Good times. GO CRAFTING.

Celebrating Being an Auntie

I just accidentally stumbled upon a web site that very well might change my life. I love it when that happens. I got a tweet alerting me to a BlogHer article called The Truth About Childless Women. I related SO MUCH. True, I don't have my own kids and I don't know if I will, but that doesn't mean I never want them or that I don't think about it. Maybe someday if I find the right fella. For now, all of my maternal love goes straight to Miss Little. I adore the above photo of us because I remember that day clearly, and she was laughing so hard. And don't we just look adorable in the Iowa sun? Now, she's 7. GROW SMALLER.

Anyway, after reading the BlogHer post, I went to the author's site and landed at Savvy Auntie. Um, people?

Pay attention:




Also:



That's right. It's Auntie Day THIS SUNDAY!!! WHOOT!!! No lie--just last week, I looked at my parents and said, "Why isn't there an Auntie Day?" Dude. There is.

I just sent an email to my sister, brother-in-law, and parents telling them that one of them can go ahead and buy me the Savvy Auntie book for my Auntie Day present. I *know* they will fight over who gets to do it.

(crickets)

But in all honesty, I'm so excited to find this site. I love being an aunt. I constantly show people the picture of my niece that I keep in my wallet. My friends hear ad nauseum about her. My bosses and coworkers hear about her. I spend my time thinking up fun projects for her. Even though I don't get to see her super often, she is always on my mind. A boss I hadn't talked to in 4 years emailed the other day, and Little was the first thing he asked about. That's how I roll.

Little is my heaven. I brag. I sometimes pretend she's mine (much to Dorothy's chagrin). It's all in good fun. I know I'm just an auntie. But that phrase has now taken on a much greater meaning.

To all of you who are mommies, think about the special women in your life who serve as aunties and tell them they are loved. According to the Savvy Auntie site, aunties are:

"Aunties by Relation; Aunties by Choice; Great-Aunties; Godmothers; Cousin Aunties; Long-Distance Aunties; StepAunties; Single Aunties; Married Aunties; ParAunts (aunts who become the parent when one or both parents is no longer able); Straight Aunts, LesbiAunts; Teen Aunties; Child Aunties; Special-Needs Aunties; Teacher or Coach Aunties; Nanny Aunties; Fairy GodAunties; and Aunties to the World -- the BenevolAunts who give so much to children they've never met. And there are also the Bon VivAunts, the GourmAunts, the BohemiAunts, the ConfidAunts, the Aunt-Rageous Rocker Aunties, the Crafty Aunties, and the eco-loving Auntie Earth among others. What a diverse group of positive influences for America's children!"

Damn, we are everywhere!

Give the Auntie in your life a little love this Sunday. I will be... um... totally alone... so... I will just have to treat myself. Maybe I can get a special Skype date with my little darling... Rock on.

Yep, Still Whooshing

I got a very touching email from a fellow whoosher this morning inquiring as to whether or not I was having my ear whooshing correction surgery. No, I'm not. Sad. You can read why here: Accepting the Whoosh. It boils down to money. I don't have money. I have HUGE medical debt because of testing I did on the whoosh that I'm still making payments on. Each month, I toss a few quarters at that bill. It will take forever to pay it off. So I keep whooshing. Every single heart beat every single day. Forever.

It's now been... 5 years?

There is a whole community of Facebook people dedicated to the whoosh thanks to my dear friend whooshER. There are even whoosher meetups! I am not a Facebooker, so I can't see or link to the site. Just go to whooshers.com and click on the Facebook page to join. You can also follow whooshing news on Twitter via that site. There is a whole HUGE GIANT WORLD OF WHOOSHERS out there. We are in every country--probably on every street corner. In a way, it's very comforting.

Most of the time, I want to rip apart my own neck and tear out the blood vessels. True story. I'm kind of like a vampire about it. But then I remember that I have whooshie friends all over the place, so I am not alone. There are people out there in the world who know exactly what I'm talking about and are probably hearing the exact same sound. It inspires me to hear that people are working to fix the problem, meet together, and explore new doctors and means of handling the whoosh. I am proud of all my brothers and sisters of the whoosh who fight this dreaded sound each and every day. Keep fighting the good fight!

Maybe one day I will come across a cheaper solution than surgery or come into a big wad of money or something. I will keep dreaming. But for now, I'm waiting... and whooshing...

To read all my posts about the whoosh, click here.

Gretchen the Scaredy Cat

This weekend, Little, Dorothy, and Beloved came to visit. We went to the zoo and did crafts and hung out with Blondersons. Everything was going just fine until Little wanted to visit the kittehs.

(record screeches)

Even though my darling Kingie was stuffy about who he let pet him, he was still mostly sociable. Kind of. Gretchen? Hell no. She does NOT like visitors. At all. She FLIES through the house and hides under my bed until they leave.

Little remembers holding Gretchen when I first got her. (She must have still been drugged from having her uterus removed or something.) I have photographic evidence:



OMG Gretchen was so tiny back then!

That would NEVER happen now.

See, my father? He comes over to fix things. He nailed a dartboard into the wall. He pounded on the bottom of my chair to try to keep it from eating the carpet in the home office. He hung off a ladder and drilled new security lights into the side of the house. Also? Some random boys came over one day to LOUDLY install a new toilet. There is a Lawn Boy who shows up every few weeks to LOUDLY mow the lawn. My Land Father came over last winter to LOUDLY rig up the front stairs with steel. It's a Pavlovian response. I can't blame her.

Grandpa = Loud Noises = Scary = Bad Man
Front Door Open = Someone Is Coming Over = Scary
Any Male = Loud Noises = Scary = Bad Man

I can get Gretchen out from under the bed when my mother comes over. I go in there and coo at her until she comes out. Then I pick her up and hold her while Grandma pets her. It works for a few minutes. Then she usually runs away with her tail down. Creeps along the carpet like a panther. Is something LOUD going to happen???

Sometimes, I can catch her by surprise when Pa comes over. Gretchen likes to sleep under the covers in my bed. I go and feel for a lump, pull her out, and hold her in my arms. But even though she will let Pa get a few pets on her head, once she sees him, it's over. LET ME DOWN!

I thought things probably wouldn't go very well with Little. She is tiny, but she has a lot of energy--a loud "presence" if you will. I had left the door open to prepare for her arrival, which set off the initial fear. Gretchen ran under the bed. I sat on the couch like nothing was going to happen. I tried to fake her out. Nope.

So the family came over, and Dorothy and I sent Little and Beloved out to look at the goat and sheep while we tried to wrangle Gretchen. (Meanwhile, Webster rubbed our legs and meowed and begged for attention, but we ignored him because we've "been there, done that.") Dorothy and I ended up both in my bedroom searching because Gretchen had positioned herself behind a box, so I couldn't see her. Finally, I reached in there and drug her out!

I had just gotten her to the couch when Little and Beloved came in the door. Little was so excited! Big smile! Yay! And then Gretchen FREAKED OUT. She gave me a good scratch right under my belly button that started immediately bleeding. She flew out of my lap and ran under the bed for good.

Little = Scary = HIDE FOREVER

I felt really bad when I saw Little's face fall. Dorothy piped up, "But you got to SEE her!" This was true. She made an appearance. I will just take some videos to show Little what Gretchen is like from afar.

It's disappointing that I have kitteh who is afraid of strangers. I understand why--no one ever comes over without making a LOT OF NOISE. I don't have people who stop by just to hang out. King and Webster were used to being around other people. Even though King is gone, Webster has an ongoing love affair with my parents--and just about anyone who stops by. He's shameless like that. Gretchen? She is a one-woman cat.

I read up on Maine Coons when I first got Gretchen, and I learned that they tend to be fiercely loyal to one person. I guess I am that person. Because when I came back here last night after a long day, she had forgotten the Little Incident. She came running to me when I opened the door and tangled herself around my legs. I crawled in bed and she jumped in and cuddled up on me and purred and purred and purred. Little will just have to take my word for it--Gretchen is a true cuddlebug.

Related = Pa just came by to drop something off. Gretchen saw him out the glass door and GROWLED. First time I've ever heard her do that. Fascinating...

Childhood Urban Legends

Lately, I've been getting a lot of ticks on me. They fall from the trees when I'm outside watering the garden and come inside with me. Yesterday, I discovered one crawling on my jeans. I picked it up, put it in a dish, and lit it on fire with a lighter. That is really the only way to kill a tick and know it's dead. They have a mysterious way of coming back to life when you "think" you have killed them. Even though I consider myself a lover of nature, there is nothing quite as rewarding as the pop of a tick when you light it on fire. That way, I know they are gone and won't latch on to me or one of my precious kittehs. DIE TICK DIE!

*sorry*

*violent*

Since ticks have been around, I decided to suck it up and sheepishly ask my parents if the rumor was true... When I was a little girl at summer camp, someone told me that if a tick gets embedded in you, it will keep going and eventually make its way to your heart and kill you. Yes, you can laugh. Go ahead, I'll wait.

(waits)

But whoever told me this was totally serious, so therefore I believed it. I had a tick that buried itself in my back when I was at camp one year. My counselor had to dig it out, and I still have a scar all of these decades later. Apparently, I also still have the fear of ticks making their way to my heart.

My parents assured me that that doesn't happen. Then Ma said, "Where do you get these ideas?" I responded: "Camp." Kids are mean. They tell you all kinds of things. And when you have a "creative" or "wackadoo" mind, you believe them.

I started listing off other dumb things that kids told me over the years that I also believed. I'm annoyed because I can't remember them right now. On my own, I decided that if I accidentally pushed on my eyeball, it would fall into my belly. I started bawling because I bonked my eye and was convinced it was further back in my head than the other one, teetering on the abyss. Pa had to sit me down and explain that that wouldn't happen--he lacked to mention there was bone behind my eyes, so I totally didn't believe him.

I know I'm not alone on this. What crazy sh*t did people tell you when you were little that you believed? I can't be the only one who believed in Deerman--half man, half deer. Right? RIGHT?

Happy Friday!

Mental Health via Glitter Nail Polish

(Wow. My pinkie is SO much shorter than the rest of my fingers. I've never noticed. Also? It's interesting that I STILL have a writer's bump on my middle finger after all of these years of working on a computer.)

I've never been particularly feminine, whatever that truly means. For me, it means "dolling up." I've never been one to wear a lot of makeup, high heels, or daringly low-cut dresses. I used to live almost entirely in skirts because I tend to overheat, but after living in the Windy City and having to literally hold my clothes ON for years, I gave up and went back to jeans. I live in the country, people. I garden. I have to scoop snow. At some point, you stop being girlie. You start living in tank tops and jeans. You stop painting your fingernails because they always have potting soil crammed under them anyway.

Recently, I've decided to become a bit more feminine. I painted my nails dark red and then put red glitter polish over that in an homage to Dorothy Gale. I tried to take a photo for you above, but you can't really see the glitter. It doesn't translate well to photographs. Anyway, now my nails are pretty, and they make me feel pretty. Then I made some homemade earrings. It's amazing how earrings can brighten you up. They are subtle, but fun. Girlie.

Because I work from home, I don't feel the need to pretty myself up each day. I can live almost entirely in comfy pants if needed. But living in one's comfy pants year-round can do bad things to one's mental health. Eventually, you just feel like a big lump. It's not a good feeling. So painting my nails and putting on earrings is a sign to myself that I care--that I'm worthy of prettiness even though I'm just chilling out.

I can usually gauge my mental health by whether or not I feel the need to do my hair. The other day, I found myself putting in these little buns that were inspired by a hairdo I saw on Pinterest:


I usually put two sloppy buns in my hair with hairbands to clean the house or something. These buns were done with bobby pins when I was fresh out of the shower. (My hair is MUCH more manageable when it's wet.) Even though I was just running errands in Farmsville, I felt sprightly with my little hair buns. Purty, even.

What is that? Is there a new swagger in my step?

I can tell that I'm coming out of a Dark Time because I want to make the effort to look nice--even if I'm just going to go watch 24 at my parents' house. I don't foresee a drastic makeover in my future, but it does feel fun to have on some sparkly nail polish. I hope this Happy Time lasts a while because it feels damn good. Go, self, go! You can do it!

Paying It Forward

I made a CD for my car recently filled with empowering music. It makes errand-runs so much more fulfilling. One of the songs is called "Looking Out" by Brandi Carlile. She has an orchestra in the background on the version I have. It's loud and beautiful and exciting and uplifting.

So I share, yes?

This is an acoustic version with Amy Ray from the Indigo Girls. Perfection. Listening to this song reminds me that someone loves me. I know who those people are, but I often forget when I'm feeling lonely. It's nice to know that I belong to someone.

To all my bloggie friends and readers, this one goes out to you. Enjoy!





Looking Out
by Brandi Carlile

I went out looking for the answers
And never left my town
I’m no good at understanding
But I’m good at standing ground
And when I asked a corner preacher
I couldn’t hear him for my youth
Some people get religion
Some people get the truth
I never get the truth
I never get the truth

I know the darkness pulls on you
But it’s just a point of view
When you’re outside looking in
You belong to someone
And when you feel like giving in
Or the coming of the end
Like your heart could break in two
Someone loves you

I lay this suitcase on my chest
So I can feel somebody’s weight
And I lay you to rest
Just to feel the give and take
I got a new interpretation
And it’s a better point of view
While you were looking for a landslide
I was looking out for you
I was looking out for you
Someone’s looking out for you

I know the darkness pulls on you
But it’s just a point of view
When you’re outside looking in
You belong to someone
And when you feel like giving in
Or the coming of the end
Like your heart could break in two
Someone loves you

I am afraid of crossing lines
I am afraid of flying blind
Afraid of inquiring minds
Afraid of being left behind

I close my eyes I think of you
I take a step I think of you
I catch my breath I think of you
I cannot rest I think of you

My one and only wrecking ball
And you’re crashing through my walls
When you’re outside looking in
You belong to someone
And when you feel like giving in
Or the coming of the end
Like your heart could break in two
Someone loves you

If You Build It...

Lately, I've been feeling crafty. I have strong urges to CREATE things with my bare hands. I thought about taking a class to learn how to make some jewelry, but classes are always at wonky times in wonky places and cost more money than I'd like them to.

Yesterday, I threw in the towel and picked up some jewelry-making supplies while I was in town. The catch-all store in Farmsville really does have just about everything. Now I have these lovely blue earrings with pale pink on the bottom. I also made a different pair, but my cell phone photo of that one came out too blurry to see close up.

Over the years, I've dabbled in different forms of art. I took a watercolor painting class in Oregon, so I (kind of) know how to do that. I've always wanted to learn how to paint in acrylics as well (on the To-Do list for YEARS). I like making collages, homemade cards, miniatures, and crocheting things. I may not become a Jewelry Master, but I can try.

Being crafty on one's own is fine and all, but I enjoy sharing the experience with someone. When I was at my parents' house the other night, I said, "I want to start a Craft/Art Club, but I don't have enough friends." We laughed about it, but then I realized that I really DO wish I had a little group to make things with.

And who is the perfect person for a Making Stuff club? Featherplume. We could craft/art together. She could choose a project and then I could choose a project and vice versa. She is an art teacher and has a brilliant mind, so I think this is a great way for us to bond.

Dearest Featherplume,

Will you be my Art B*tch?

Love,

Blondie

(I kind of feel like I just proposed in public. *blushes*)

Parenting as a Non-Parent

Last night, I went to my parents' house for Sunday night laundry, dinner, and 24. While I was there, Little, Beloved, and Dorothy skyped us to say hello. We needed to take a look at her chompers because Miss Little has lost her second front tooth, making her even more adorable than she normally she is. But Little had also had an "incident" earlier in the day, so we heard about that as well.

I believe my niece is perfect and all, but she IS a normal kid and everything, so sometimes she gets in trouble. I think Dorothy was seeking my assistance in teaching a valuable Life Lesson, which I was happy to help with. Sadly, my parents' skype system went all wonky, so I got frustrated and ended up listening from over on the couch, so I didn't get to help that much. It's OK. I will see her soon, and we can chat about all kinds of things. Life Lessons coming right up!

In an inadvertent way, the problem involved me. I made something for Dorothy years ago that she gave to her daughter. Said item became "lost." Dorothy wanted me to tell Little that we have to take care of our possessions because they don't always magically reappear (so true).

I felt very happy that Dorothy thought to call me to help Little understand the value of our personal belongings. Much like myself, Little gets attached to inanimate objects that are important to her. (Good girl!) And while it's true that I would have immediately gone to 50 stores searching for replacement craft parts, I do agree that Little needs to be careful with things that are important. I'm still learning this lesson. Gretchen snarfed the chain of my beautiful new blue jay necklace the other night and I spent a whole day relocating it. The lessons--I am still learning them, too.

I was proud that Dorothy called me to have me chat with Little. She's done this a couple of times before. I think it shows progress with our relationship as sisters. See? When I was a brand new auntie, Dorothy let me know on a regular basis that I didn't know ANYTHING about parenting because I'm not a parent. FEATHERS POOFED. It wasn't just Dorothy. Oh, no. Many of my mommy friends lamented to me that I was completely in the dark about raising children due to my lack of offspring. As a childless person, this often hurt my feelings. My friends would come to me for advice about love, work, home decor, which books to read, how to deal with family issues, pet advice--almost anything. But never parenting. She doesn't have one. She doesn't get it.

I acknowledge that there are some elements of parenting I do not understand. I'm not going to pretend that I fully get it. But I'm old enough now to have friends who have kids in their teens. In fact, Sprinkle's son has me on speed dial and regularly texts me. When Sprinkle is out of town, I drive by or stop at his house to make sure he's not in trouble. (He's 16. My how he has grown since I met him. And his voice dropped--WTF?) When I see him in town, he stops to chat with me even if he's with his friends--which one would think would be UNcool. I guess I have a little bit of cool left in me after all these years.

When I lived in Chicago, I helped Coco and Pinkie with their tots. I started babysitting when I was 11. I used to work in the church nursery when I was in junior high. When I was 17 and working at a summer camp, I was in charge of the 2-3 year olds during family camp week. I worked at a portrait studio where it was my job to make the children smile. I've always been surrounded by kiddos. They are everywhere. And I tickle them.

I joke around a lot about Not Liking Other People's Children, but I do. I coo at babies in restaurants. I smile at toddlers in the park. I've had a lot of experience interacting with young humans, so I usually know how they tick. Heck, my entire career has been all about teaching children, which requires a fair amount of reading and study. I'm also stuck smack in the middle of two generations at family get-togethers now. There are The Old People and The Kids. I'm the remaining (local) single/no-kids family member, so I often find myself playing games with the younger set. On the 4th of July, I lit my fair share of punks so they could light tiny tanks and sparklers. Good times.

But still, despite all this, many people still don't think I know anything about raising children. I offered my opinion about Little's trouble to my parents last night, and both of my own parents looked at me with raised eyebrows and basically ignored what I said. I temporarily POOFED: How come my opinion doesn't matter just because I'm not a parent? But then we went back to watching 24, and it all went away. Jack Bauer stole my pity-party.

Now that Little is getting older, I hope that Dorothy will call me if she needs help explaining something to her daughter. I relish in my role as an auntie. In fact, my old boss contacted me the other day and the first thing he asked about was Little. We haven't talked to each other since Little was probably 3, so I found it amusing that he remembered her. (Of course, my entire cubicle used to be decorated in photos of her, so it shouldn't surprise me too much.) I sent him an updated photo and he marveled at how much she has grown. Yes, she has. She is becoming a girl now, no longer my little baby.

Little and I have already had a few "unique" conversations. After my last breakup, I had to explain to her that I was no longer dating the man she'd met. She had questions, so I answered them. We sat on my parents' bed surrounded by Barbies and I let her ask whatever she wanted to ask. We also had a heart-to-heart when I had to put down my beloved Kingie. That one made more sense to her because she's been through a few kitteh deaths. She asked me once why I'm not married, and I did my best to explain. And I'm sure as she ages, she'll come to me with more queries. I hope to help give her good guidance as she enters that awful stage known as Tween. (Lord, help us.)

So no, I'm not a parent, but my opinion does matter. I can give advice, too. I've dealt with many kiddos over the years, so I've gathered plenty of information. And I'm "outside" of whatever family dynamic is going on, so sometimes I can see things a bit more clearly--with less emotion or personal feelings about the situation. I have no desire to be the carefree "cool" aunt or friend that is so often portrayed in movies. Oh no. It takes a village. And dammit, I'm part of that village. Amen.

Assessing Farmhouse Villa

Yesterday, a county assessor showed up to assess Farmhouse Villa. I was amused by what they had on record for my home--since they had clearly never been inside of it. They said I have 3 bedrooms; I have 2. They said I had ceramic tile somewhere in the home; I don't. They said I have new windows. Um, no. Also? I have a patio. Even the assessor said that was just a slab of concrete where you can park your car. He also scoffed at the listing of fancy siding and told me that I "obviously" have original wood siding. Since the house is over 100 years old, that is some seriously ancient siding.

He also discovered that my "full basement" is more like a "concrete cellar." He changed the classification to reflect the truth. Farmhouse Villa is an old soul. Probably not worth the price he had listed, which made my eyeballs pop out when I saw it. Farmhouse Villa is very, very cheap. And the assessor? He said the price would be going down because the house was last assessed in 2006 before the mortgage crisis. And because I don't have ceramic tiles I guess.

I've been living in this home for 4 years. I looked up a handy mortgage calculator and realized that I would be paying $100 LESS each month if I just bought the damn place. However, if I bought the place, I would have to put in city water (since I share the well with the neighbor), get all new windows (they are a wreck), and insulate the walls (she's a drafty home). Since living here, I've gotten a new furnace and roof, so I know those are up-to-date.

Overall, it wouldn't be a bad starter home. I have always had grand ideas about what I would do with my attic, which runs the full length of my house and is totally empty, wasted, propane-sucking space. It would be an AWESOME attic if had the money to finish it out. But the repairs on Farmhouse Villa would cost more than the current mortgage. Interesting.

For many, many years, I beat myself up about not owning my own property. If you've been following this blog, you will know that it was a huge dream of mine. That was part of moving back to Farmsville--I wanted to OWN. I wanted to anchor in and grow a life here. I felt that owning my own property was an essential part of Being an Adult. That my life was somehow less-than because I'm a renter. I've been renting places to live for 17 years. All of those rooms, all of those landparents. My rental experiences have been so nightmarish in the past that I was about to crack in half if I didn't have my own house, dammit.

But then I moved into Farmhouse Villa. She's a lovely estate. Yes, old and creaky. Yes, horrible peeling wallpaper, goofy water problems, and random critter entries. The ceiling in my home office looks like it's going to cave in at any minute. It's not, but it looks like it. I have a mustard-colored 1970s refrigerator. I can't open half of the cabinets in my kitchen because they are swollen shut.

If I had the cash, I would pay someone to thin out my trees because every time a good wind blows, limbs come crashing down on my house. This winter, the wind blew a gutter so hard that it folded in HALF. I now have no gutter on that side. And did I mention that the front stairs caved in last winter and still haven't been replaced? There is a plate of steel holding them up. (Note to self: Call landfather to remind him his dude never showed up to fix the staircase.) (My landfather is awesome. For reals.)

Despite all of her nonsense, I love this home. She has given me the security and privacy I was seeking all of those years in crowded apartment buildings. Even if I don't have an anchor, I have a nest. I've never inquired if Farmhouse Villa might be sold to yours truly because of one cold, hard, glaring reality: Home ownership is ridiculous. It's super expensive. Just when you think you're good, something HUGE breaks. I've made Dorothy divulge the costs of every repair in her home over the years for my own knowledge and learning, so I know exactly how much it costs. Even the tiniest thing, like a bathroom redo, can run into the thousands.

And when you own the home, you suddenly become obsessed with keeping it perfect. For example, I knocked a salt shaker on the floor in my parents' house recently and Ma went running to get the vacuum to vacuum up salt on a white carpet (in her defense--she's been waiting 30 years for her new carpet). I've seen my friends do even stranger things in their homes. It's like the house and its upkeep becomes a part of them. There is no separation. And then it becomes a wicked ball and chain. Heavy. Annoying. Too much. And they can't sell it. And God forbid you buy a house WITH someone and then something goes wrong. I've seen very, very bad War-of-the-Roses-type things happen in those situations. Ugly.

So I've pretty much changed my mind about owning. Do I still want to? Yes. Am I incomplete if I don't? No. It helps that I rent a whole house. The lack of neighbor sounds has calmed my nerves quite a bit. I've learned that you can make a rental a home. I feel safe here. I'm comfortable. I have my little garden that gets to regrow each year. I have kind neighbors who check in on me during storms and scoop out my driveway when I get snowed in. And even though I don't benefit from it financially, I keep up the house and make little improvements here and there to make myself happy.

The assessor was amused by my Wizard of Oz magnets. He commented on some of my art. He kindly ignored the mess. Even though he became momentarily fixated on my 1950s swirl shag (he knew EVERYTHING about this house just by looking), I think in the end he saw what I see--my home.

A Solo Date for the Single Gal

This is one of many (dusty) stacks of journals I have around Farmhouse Villa. I was thinking of them yesterday because my cousin Kira and I had a phone date this week in which she interviewed me about journal writing. She's taking a class and needed someone she knew for sure kept a journal. Guilty as charged. I not only have a public journal here on the blog, I still keep a private journal. Wouldn't you just lurve to get your hands on THAT. (I crack myself up.)

Kira went through her questions, and I went back in time to when I first began keeping a journal as a young girl. We reminisced about when we lived together in Oregon, and I would often end up with pockets full of cab-company notepad papers that I had scribbled on when I was out at the bar. I mentioned to her that I often use my journal also as a kind of scrapbook. I tape envelopes in the back of journals and stuff things inside of them. Here is the journal I kept when I lived with Kira--complete with envelope and one of many cab-company pages:



The little fortune taped on reads: "Rome was not built in a day. Be patient." The cab-company note reads:

There is a woman here with a take-apart head. A barbie I met as a child. She had those arms and feet that could be twisted around on gigantic balls. Hair: one side blonde/silver, the other very dark brown. Tonight this woman was singing karaoke--belting out notes, never knowing how similar I found her to my flippy-head barbie. Showing one side and then the other, bending out of proportion, never staying the same.

What was the purpose of writing this down? There wasn't one. I was simply capturing a memory. Sometimes that is the purpose of journaling and sometimes there is more--long chapters of heartache or fear. It depends on the mood.

Anyway, Kira and I have been BFFs our entire lives, but it meant a lot to me when she said my journal writing inspired her. WTF? I inspire someone? She reminded me that my unique traits are something to be nurtured. I should find myself "interesting" instead of "strange." With that in mind, I took myself on a solo date last night. It was fantastic.

I went a restaurant called Upstream in the Old Market in Omaha. I sat at the bar next to some men who were chatting about baseball. I ordered my favorite, gigantic caesar salad:


I brought The Girls of Murder City (which I will be reviewing soon) along with me, so I was able to eat and read and eat and read and enjoy the sunlight coming in through the window. It was relaxing and fun to be out and about on a random Thursday. I had a couple of conversations. I was flirted with. Oh my!

I remembered that I used to go out ALL THE TIME by myself. In fact, when I lived in Oregon, my friends got mad at me one night because I wanted to go out by myself when they were playing a board game. I distinctly remember my girlfriend saying: "You would rather hang out with complete strangers than us?" I didn't know how to tell her my answer was "yes" without hurting her feelings. It had NOTHING to do with her. My journal was in my purse. I knew there was a band playing that I wanted to hear. I didn't feel like staying in. So I went. I remember that as a turning point in our friendship. She didn't love me as much after that.

Once people know me long enough in real life, they realize that even though I complain about being lonely quite often, I will actually flourish in solo situations. I'm taking the time to remind myself of this fact. Oh yes, I've done this before. Oh yes, I enjoy this. I had a great time with myself last night. I left Upstream and walked through the Old Market. I went to Mr. Toad's, which somehow I've never been in before. I sat there and had a beer, looked out the window, read my book, and felt very free.

Last week, Shrinkydink and I had a fantastic phone session. She reminded me of many truths that I have recently chosen to ignore. As I sat in the booth staring at strangers walking by, I felt those truths sink in. I needed that time by myself out of my element to remember who I am. And guess what? I am awesome.

After a while, I went to one of my favorite Old Market stores and looked for a treat. I like to buy little gifts for myself sometimes. Recently, my sister Dorothy reminded me that one of the blessings of being single is that you don't have to explain any purchases to a spouse or children. So true. So I didn't feel one bit bad about buying myself this bird:



Because inside the bird, there is a necklace:


An adorable, tiny bird:


With little gold feet:


I bought the necklace to remind myself that I am special. I get to have date nights--even if they are just with myself. I get to have nice dinners uptown and a beer in a very cool bar. I get to lollygag and pet the horses who are waiting to give carriage rides. Perhaps I will take a solo carriage ride the next time I go back. Why not?

When I got home, I dug the Mr. Toad's coaster out of my purse, found my current journal, and slipped it into the envelope that is taped to the back cover. I didn't write any words in the journal last night because I didn't need to. Sometimes, we don't need words to remember the happy days.

Medical Muses: A Book Review

No matter how much I tried to keep her out, Gretchen INSISTED on being in the picture somehow. That is her tail--extra poof.

A wise sage over at W.W. Norton was kind enough to send me a free review copy of Medical Muses: Hysteria in Nineteenth-Century Paris by Asti Hustvedt. Loved this book. Loved. It.

To be clear, "hysteria" is not one of my favorite words. I remember first learning the meaning of this word sometime in high school. It was attached to the uterus, hence the operation "hysterectomy" to remove one's uterus. Hence boys telling girls or men telling women they were being "hysterical" when they had a natural emotional response to some uncomfortable event. Oh yes, the women. They are such crazies.

Medical Muses promised to explain the history behind the movement in Paris back in the 1800s that culminated in "hysterics" basically preforming live-act circus shows for the general public at the Salpetriere Hospital (there are fancy accent marks on Salpetriere, but I have no idea how to make them in a blog post--forgive me), care of Dr. Jean-Martin Charcot. Was this guy just an a$$hat? That's what I wanted to learn.

It turns out Charcot was not only NOT an a$$hat, he was a dedicated doctor who was searching for a physical cause for hysteria, which can be loosely defined as physical, emotional, or mental illnesses that appear to have no known cause. This was before Freud. This was before we knew that your body can and will break out in hives if you just think about it long enough. This was back when you could check yourself out of the hospital on Tuesday and get work there as a "ward girl" on Wednesday. Amazing time in medical history. Again, love it.

Hustvedt has done some seriously meticulous research to tackle her subject. She read the archives, visited the locations, and dedicated time to searching for answers. She focuses on three of the most famous hysterics of Salpetriere--Blanche, Augustine, and Genevieve. The book is divided into these three women and what happened to them. Within each section, you get a healthy dose of history, medicine, psychology, and, well, wackadoo.

For instance, take a look at this contraption--the Ovary Compressor:



Charcot believed the roots of hysteria were NOT in the uterus but the ovary. Solution? Press on that ovary for a while with this handy belt. (What?)

I make light of it, but Charcot was totally serious--and Hustvedt is totally serious in her analysis of the contraption and how it was used with the various patients. This isn't a book to mock the hysteria research from the 1800s. This book tells it like it was--plain and simple. I enjoy historical books that tell me what happened and why. Thank you, Hustvedt.

As a grown woman who deals with mental health issues, I was not offended in the slightest by this book. Even when Hustvedt made connections from old-school hysteria to modern conditions in her Epilogue (which I was waiting for the entire book and let me tell you, it was worth it--well done), I wasn't remotely ruffled.

You know what? Yes, I freak out sometimes. Is it "hysteria"? I don't know. I don't think so, but I don't know. "Hysteria" has been tossed aside because it's too offensive. Hustvedt rightly points out that it may now be known as anxiety or depression. And even Charcot--the man behind it all--believed that MEN suffered from hysteria as well. So no, I didn't get my feminine feathers ruffled. Just the opposite--I was intrigued and entertained.

I dog-eared about half the book to share quotes with you, but now I can't choose my favorite tidbits. You will have to read them for yourself. Go get Medical Muses. You'll enjoy it--I promise.

Thank you W.W. Norton for publishing ANOTHER great book. I look forward for what's to come.

Casey Anthony: Media Circus or Humanity?

This morning, I read a piece by Ken Tucker on the EW site called "TV news goes bonkers over Casey Anthony verdict..." In the article, Tucker details the reactions of different members of the media. Then he says:

"I’ll be honest: I haven’t followed the Casey Anthony trial on TV; details about a murdered child are too upsetting, and I try to avoid them. But I was certainly aware of the repulsively excessive media coverage of this case, and so I watched a lot of what’s been aired since the verdict came down this afternoon..."

Exactly.

I usually thoroughly enjoy Ken Tucker's columns. Not today.

Ken Tucker is not alone. I've been reading reactions from all kinds of folks. People are so horrified about the "media coverage," but they have not followed the case. They do not know the details of the case. They don't want to hear about Caylee's death because it's "too upsetting."

So it's better to just forget about Caylee Anthony and turn a blind eye to what happened because it's ugly? Is that how the media (and regular citizens like myself) should respond?

As I stated in my post yesterday, I'm upset because of Caylee. I think that is why most people are upset. It's a compassion-based, human response to a horrible death. Sure, there are some people out there who are digging in deep about Casey, but I feel the majority are simply angered and disappointed that there will be no justice for Caylee. As I told a friend last night, my dead cat King had a better ending than that poor child. THAT is why I'm upset.

People have asked me throughout my life why I read books about the Holocaust or murder or horrible diseases or racism or the plethora of other "negative" topics I've studied at length. Why read about X or Y? It's so horrible! Yes, it is horrible. And that's why I'm reading about it.

I don't want to pretend that bad things don't exist. I don't want to be ignorant about important topics.

I think that if all of the people complaining about the media went back and read the details about what happened to Caylee Anthony, they would be upset, too. But they won't. Because it's not pretty enough.

And Then Blondie Came Unhinged About Casey Anthony

Sweet Caylee Marie Anthony. I hope you find justice one day.

I've been sitting here in the silence of Farmhouse Villa wondering how to best express my thoughts on the Not Guilty verdicts in the Casey Anthony trial. To be clear, I listened to the judge's instructions carefully. I even downloaded them and read them to make sure I understood them right.

The jury instructions stated that if they found that Caylee Marie Anthony was dead and that Casey Marie Anthony was there when it happened--even if it was an ACCIDENT--that she would have to be found guilty. There were many options for guilty verdicts. Somehow, she was found Not Guilty on all charges--except lying to law enforcement. Since she's been in jail this whole time, she could get time served and WALK out of jail on Thursday.

(deep breaths)

I am disappointed and furious for a number of reasons. And yes, I'm taking this personally. I realize that's weird. I know, I know, I need to "get a life." But look UP there at the top of my screen and then think about this with me:

• Caylee Anthony was not even 3 years old when she had her nose and mouth covered in three pieces of duct tape. Let's hope the chloroform came first.
• Then she was placed in 3 separate garbage bags.
• Then she was placed in a laundry bag from the Anthony home.
• Then she was dumped in the woods, where she sat for roughly 6 months.
• During that time, animals ate her.

As was stated in the court, she was "gnawed." Is this brutal to write on my blog? Yes. Is it hard to read/hear? Yes. It should be.

By the time they found Caylee, she was dismembered and gnawed--nothing but a clump of bones in a garbage dump. Her defense attorneys admitted in their opening statement that Caylee died on July 16, 2008, and that CASEY WAS THERE. Her own attorneys said it! She wept about it during opening statements. So how is she not responsible for the duct tape, garbage bags, laundry bag, and dump site?

The prosecution pointed out that Caylee had to die when she did because she was becoming verbal. She wouldn't have been able to lie for Casey. So true. There was no job, no nanny, no friends. Casey's whole life was a lie. At least Caylee never got the chance to learn that sh*t from her mother. She will maintain her innocence. For that, I'm grateful.

I am upset about Caylee's brutal demise. I've had a few nightmares about it actually. But how about Casey Anthony? I've been watching her closely. Oh, yes I have. Is she mourning? Hell no. I've seen a lot of this:



And this:


And this:


And this (Oh, isn't he cute? Maybe they can go out on Friday for a date.):


Meanwhile, Casey's mother is devastated by the loss of her granddaughter. I put up this photo below to show the bracelets Cindy Anthony has been wearing in court. Each day, she has some kind of Caylee jewelry on. She is a wreck:


At least Caylee's grandparents and uncle mourn her and take her mother's case seriously.

I have no idea why Cindy tried to take the fall for Casey by claiming she searched for "chloroform" on the computer while she was actually at WORK. (She denied "how to make chloroform," which was proven to be on the home computer lest we forget.) I am curious as to how she feels now. Happy that her daughter is off the hook? Sad because she helped cause reasonable doubt that led to the Not Guilty verdict in her own granddaughter's death? I saw Cindy sob on the stand. That is a destroyed woman. I cried with her. I cried for her. Yep, I totally did. How can your heart not go out to the Anthony family? Yes, they are weird. Yes, they are a bit dysfunctional. If you could have seen the nuclear Blonderson family circa 1993, you would have seen a whole lot of dysfunction, too. That doesn't mean we kill our kin OR let them get away with murder.

I think Casey killed Caylee because grandma Cindy was THIS CLOSE to taking custody and kicking Casey to the curb. Not in evidence? Hundreds of checks Casey stole from Cindy. Cindy providing food, shelter, and clothing for Caylee. Casey was up sh*t creek with her family. Solution? No more Caylee.

I truly believe this jury fell victim to the CSI Effect. Everyone is waiting for the DNA--the smoking gun. I read a LOT of true crime. I follow a LOT of criminal evidence. There usually isn't DNA. True story. It's hard to find trace evidence. I don't know why everyone thinks it's so easy. Especially in the Florida heat when a HURRICANE blew through the crime scene while Caylee was rotting. And you know why it smelled like a dead body but there was no blood in the trunk? Think about it: THREE GARBAGE BAGS AND A LAUNDRY BAG. I've said it before, and I'll say it again--my garbage bags don't leak. And they certainly wouldn't leak if there were THREE of them.

The jury doesn't want to speak to the press, so we will have to wonder what happened. What made them think she was Not Guilty on all charges? I don't know. Maybe it's because Casey had her chair down to the floor to make her look tiny and innocent while she faced the jury the whole time? Maybe they didn't like the lawyers. I don't know. I could speculate myself into a whirlwind. It's time to stop. Amen.

So what now for Casey Anthony and her family? Lee wasn't around unless he was called, so I think he's now lost his family forever. George and Cindy bailed after the verdict, so I don't know how they feel. Cindy did have a hint of a smile on her face when the Not Guilty verdict was read, so I have no idea what that means. George Anthony already attempted suicide back when this whole thing happened, and now he will forever be known as the molester who dumped his granddaughter in the woods (*according to Casey*). I feel horrible for this family. But I think Casey will LOVE it. I think she will do interviews and go on reality shows and make a grand parade of her innocence for the rest of her life. Actually, I know what she will do because I read her jailhouse letters to her cell buddy. She will buy an RV and drive around the country and eat her favorite foods and watch her favorite movies and find hot men. Good times.

To be clear, I am somewhat of a pop culture junkie. I like my trash magazines. I enjoy a good scandal. But this case has nothing to do with that in my mind. I have followed this case since 2008 when Caylee was simply "missing" because I saw a People Magazine picture of her in the grocery store one day and fell in love with her little face. I was a new auntie, in love with my own niece, bowled over by cute little girls everywhere. This was the picture I saw:



Caylee was born in 2005, so she would be 6 years old now. I love girls at that age. They are SO silly and adorable. I wonder what Caylee would be up to now? Certainly, she would have become stunningly beautiful. You can tell by how cute she was even as a toddler. I wonder what life she could have had?

Then again, when I stop to really think about it, maybe it's best this way. It would NOT have been a "Bella Vita" for her.

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In honor of Caylee's memory, let's all take a moment to look at some faces of missing children in our own states to see if we recognize anyone: National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.