I've always said that PSMing is a grieving process, and while I absolutely do not mean to minimize the actual unbearable loss of a child, I stand by my belief that being a post-single mom can, at times, be a distant second.

I had picked a really good theme for January: intuition. We'll get to it, because it is so important. We single moms transition from factual, methodical, list-making machines to thinking of ourselves as unproductive and useless. We slowly begin to think from our hearts, not from our heads, and learn how to listen to this new place, this intuition. Ah, change. Is there no end? But, I need to put that aside for a minute because I've been blindsided with a PSM trifecta and feel the need to expose myself a little related to the depths of pain we PSMers can experience. This has been one helluva quarter.

In November, a friendship of 11 years ended with a long series of nasty, name-calling, and, I need to say because I never responded in kind, incoming texts. So, my ruminating began (and has yet to end). Is the quality of my friendships so low that they can end so quickly and with such meanness and no second thought? Am I that unworthy? Am I that bad at being and recognizing a true friend? I admit I didn't have a lot of experience at any kind of adult relationship while raising my son. I was so driven, so financially focused. And, after all, and I know other single moms and post-single moms understand this: I had a best friend. My Spawn. (Poor kid.)

In December, I lost a dear friend and fellow PSMer to alcoholism. 2012 was her 5th year of recovery from Stage 3 breast cancer. She had a 17-year-old daughter who was just looking into colleges and a 20-year-old son who had recently transferred to a school 90 minutes away. She was alone over the Christmas holidays, as was I, but we didn't check in with each other in time. We were supposed to go to the movies the Thursday night before Christmas, but she couldn't go because she said the kids were coming over. Patricia was the coolest gal pal I ever had. Just cool. And inspiring and positive and supportive and so fun and funny. We clicked. I knew she was fighting a battle but really thought it was something we could overcome once she got through that initial blast of aloneness. I was wrong. I value the fact that we met through the local PSM group here in Indianapolis and that I think we were a huge help to each other her last two years here. We got tattoos together in October and had such a fun time that day. She taught me so much about empathy and patience and kindness and openness and peace and acceptance. I loved her and told her so and for that I am truly grateful. And so sad.

This brings us to January. In less than two weeks, Spawn, recently college graduated (a year early if you're thinking you lost time somewhere), is road tripping to Nevada for a year-long job as a botanist for the Bureau of Land Management in Lake Tahoe. Yes, I know, the lucky bastard. LOL. I'm ecstatic for him. And proud. Yes. Yes, I am. Yes. Definitely. But it's damn near the west coast. I'm in the midwest. I'm from the south. This is no place I've ever been before, so I feel even more distant not knowing anything about what he's going to experience. What if he gets lost? What if a cowboy wants to fight him? (He's not a fast draw.) What if he runs out of Burger King coupons? What if he gets nibbled on by a bear? For the first time, I can't get to him in a day. Of course, I can by plane. Of course. But it still feels a world away.  Mostly, though, he's just gone....again. When does all this leaving stop?

I usually like to pinpoint a Stage so I can identify it, get to know it, and work through it, but I can't even pick one. Though, I know I'm not irritated or anxious, because I haven't resorted to watching Brady Bunch episodes yet. Jane Austen movies, yes, but not the Brady Bunch. I suppose that's healing and hopeful. Rehab. And talking to you has helped. :)

It's officially a tradition. My holiday-themed repost from 2004. It's probably my most favorite memory of my father.  

=================

I was seven years old and at the age when, way back then in simpler and slower times, most children just begin to seriously contemplate the logistics of Santa Claus’ annual visit. I had asked a million questions that Christmas season, but no explanation made sense.

I announced at the dinner table that Christmas Eve that I would be staying awake all night. I intended to prove once and for all that there was no Santa. After all, I was too grown up for this nonsense. With whom did they think they were dealing - a 5-year-old?

My parents agreed to the plan, but insisted that I still go to bed on time, explaining, for yet another year, that Santa only visited sleeping children and thinking, of course, that I wouldn’t last too long anyway once my head hit the pillow.

I reluctantly participated in their charade but I was confident that I would prove how silly this whole concept was. I knew there would be no signs of Santa that night.

I lay in my bed with the drapes open, staring out my window. I watched. I listened. And I waited. And waited. I refused to give in. I would not fall asleep! I was sure hours had gone by.

All of a sudden, I saw a tiny red light moving slowly across the sky. I jumped out of the bed and ran to the window for a closer look. Then I heard the bells. I saw the red light travel to the top of our neighbor’s roof and stop. The jingling stopped too. It was dark and I couldn’t see much, but there was no mistaking that light.

After a bit, the light took off again for the sky and the sound of jingling bells got louder. I couldn’t tell where Rudolph was going next, but I was positive that he was headed for my roof. I ran back under the covers and pretended to be fast asleep. I sure did hope that Santa didn’t see me watching him from my window!

Needless to say, I was a firm believer in Santa Claus for two more years.

_______

My father told me when I was a teenager that he and his best friend who lived next door had done all this from his friend’s deck. We were positioned on a corner lot and the back of our house faced the side of theirs. I had a perfect view of their roof and deck from my room. They had actually lain down on the deck so I couldn’t see them and shone a flashlight with red bulbs across the sky and onto the roof. My mother always insisted on a ridiculous amount of Christmas decorations, so they had no problem finding loud bells to jingle.

Today, I am the same age that my father was in 1970. As a parent, I can appreciate the desire to preserve our children’s innocence. And, as a middle-aged adult, I understand the power of Crown Royal on a winter night and the intense need for something fun, silly, and different to do.

See, my mother was happy until 1968. I mean, how could you not be happy? Get a load of those curtains! But 1968 was the year our little family moved to Atlanta for my father's new job.

It wasn't that she didn't like Atlanta, she just didn’t want to. No city could compare to her Memphis, where she had spent her entire and fairly charmed life, and to which she would always feel an unwavering loyalty. (Apparently, that whole racial upheaval going on in the 1960s didn't affect her outlook. But it must have my father's, because he thought it was time to go. And she would never quite forgive him for it.)

She was homecoming queen of her high school and a sorority queen in college. She was president of this club and that and knew just everybody there was to be known. She was, more often than not, the belle of the ball. In Atlanta, there would be no ball. Just us kids growing older. But before I turned five years old in 1968, I was the happiest daughter in the history of daughters, because I had the happiest mother in the history of the whole Universe.

Sterling Drive - Our First HouseThe summer before we moved, I was four and my brother was eight. He was out of school, and every day was like a birthday party. My mother and I would wet sponge-stick S&H green stamps into these books that plumped and ruffled as they dried, and we’d shop in the catalogs for all the things we would buy. Sometimes, we would sit on the porch and paint our toenails and brush and fix each other's hair with a million different multi-colored thick yarn bows and shiny ribbons and plastic ball ponytail holders, while my brother played with his friends in the yard. On particularly good days, we would dress up and pretend to be in beauty pageants. As I grew up, I came to hate all these things (which put another crack in her already broken heart), but back then, all I knew was that my mother was smiling.

Every so often, we would go places. We would have lunch with people, we would take her mother, who didn't drive, to appointments, or, on really special days, we would go shopping at Sears. The Sears on Poplar Avenue was something to behold (the picture doesn't do it justice). It was gigantic (I swear!) and white and all brick and had a huge, long walkway leading up to it like it was a castle. The walkway was covered to protect shoppers coming and going from the parking lot. It was lined with little Bradford Pear trees and ran the whole length of the parking lot, which, back then, felt like miles.

On our way in to the store and before getting in our car to go home, my mother would sit on a bench and watch us run up and down that walkway over and over and over and over. She'd apologize to the poor passersby trying to use the path for its intended purpose. But she would smile and smile. And laugh. When my mother laughed, everything else in the world disappeared. She was always ashamed and would cover her mouth, but she was never more beautiful than when she laughed.

As if the walkway weren’t enough, right inside the store’s front door was a candy counter. Someone would inevitably open the door for my mother, and we'd follow her inside hoping for the best. The smells of nuts and candies and chocolates and gums were so strong that you could taste the air. The whole area was decorated in red and white checks and there were a million glass displays of all kinds of goodies. My mother would always pretend that we were in a hurry and didn’t have time to stop. And we’d beg and plead and pull on her arms and her purse and her dress and anything we could grab a hold of until she let us pick out one thing each. She loved watching us try to choose. We'd press our noses to the display cases and run our dirty little kid hands up and down each and every one. We'd pick one thing and change our minds and start all over again. And she'd laugh some more. Then, the man with the paper triangle candy-man hat would scoop and weigh and pour our gold into little paper bags and hand them to us to take home. Outside, we’d thank her profusely, and she would hold our little bags while we took one last spin around the walkway.

But 1968 clipped her wings and she was never the same. I grew older and she grew more lost and lonely every year. She tried so hard in the next twelve years before her death, but she was never happy like that again. And neither was I. 

Holmes Circle - My Grandmother's HouseI took pictures this time, but I'm not sure I should have. My memories are better, bigger, newer, and sunnier. Although, this house on the corner of Central and Greer has always been my favorite. Central and GreerAnd it's where I turn to go to my grandmother's house (which was red brick when they lived there), where we spent every summer until I was twelve and she came to live with us in Atlanta (her husband died in 1970, just two years after our fatal move). I didn't understand their overwhelming sadness about that day at the time, but now I think I do. Neither of them had a home anymore. I'm not familiar with this sense of belonging, but apparently, it's something I long for and that I feel nowhere else.  So, Memphis, I'll see you in a couple of years, and I'll take my little drive, have my little cry, and think about the time I felt part of something really good.

So, as I was saying, you could smell her breath when you opened the door. It permeated the entire house (all 900 square feet of it), like death. I imagine. So, I grabbed my little plastic finger and the breath spray she likes and attempted to get near her to rub her teeth and gums a bit. She hates it, but likes it, but hates it, but likes it, so I can usually get a few swipes in there before we both get cranky. But not this time. There was a big pink blob of something jutting out from the front of her mouth. I knew I had to investigate, even though I was foaming at the mouth from the stench. She wouldn’t let me near her mouth long enough to know exactly what was going on in there, but from the outside, it looked like the beginnings of one of those tumors on the TLC people who have to be cut out of their homes. We hightailed it to the vet where they ordered emergency-ish (this was Friday and surgery could wait until blood work and Monday rolled around) dental surgery to remove it and do a professional cleaning.

She did fine. She lost 16 teeth in the process (I know, I know, this is where you have my permission to beat me up for being a bad dog owner, but I refer you to the above mention of a prior discussion about surgery in which I was told not to do it) and now gums canned food, but all is ($900 worth of) well.

Well, until last week. (This post is not really about her teeth – it’s all just PETA court evidence that I do at least try to take care of the dog on most days.) It’s no secret that Sabrina and I have issues. Think two old ladies sharing a semi-private room at the home. When things get ugly, they really get ugly. And the middle of the night is when we tussle the most. Sunday night, she started this fake throwing up business. (You know the kind where they swallow incessantly and do a little dry heaving.) This dog is not out chasing vermin or digging up worms anymore. She’s on a 30-foot tie out that gives her access to the same little patch of condo land that she’s on every.other.freeking.day.of.her.life. In other words, what she could get into was beyond me and frankly just ticking me off.

She went under the bed to do her swallowing/gagging routine, and I couldn’t take it. I decided toot sweet to put her in the bathroom for the night. I sat down on the floor beside the bed and went for her collar and, as usual, she tried to bite me. So, I grabbed my slipper, conveniently sitting on the floor next to me. In theory, I would hurl it at her ass like a simultaneous spank and shove towards me so I could grab her. In actuality, the old gal turned her head to bite it and she got hit in the left eyeball. Yes, the edge of the rubber sole smack in the eyeball. She yelped once, but that was it. She did move toward me, so I grabbed her collar and put her in the bathroom to dry heave all she wanted. And I went to sleep.

The next morning, she looked like death warmed over. I don't think she slept all night. And her eye? It was either going to sink into her head and come out the other end the next day or shrivel up and pop out and land on the floor for me to slip on later. It looked horrible. Thing is, though, that she wasn't rubbing it or shaking her head or crying or anything. And she was eating fine (that runs in the family). My son, who was there that afternoon, said that he'd give it another day. By that night, though, it was red and hazy and altogether not right, and I swore she had internal injuries. As one who goes to the dark side, I started googling doggie head trauma.

At bedtime, I held her and petted her and cried like a baby and prayed to The Baby Jesus. For me, really, more than for the poor dog. "Dear Baby Jesus. Please don't let me have killed this dog with a slipper. How can I possibly explain that? I'm a good person. Please don't let her die from my killing her. And, really? I just spent $900 at the vet. Oh, and that stupid $50 memory foam bed for her hip. Oh, and the new little treats that she can gum. I spent like $10 on those. Seriously. Please, please, please don't let her die."

Sabrina looked up at me all pitifully, yet somehow smugly like she was enjoying the show, and kissed my hand. Then, we went to sleep and the next morning, I was prepared to take her to the doctor first thing. But, she was a whole new dog, none the worse for wear and wanting to play. So, thank goodness and The Baby Jesus, now I can tell the slipper story from the comfort of home and as a near-death close call instead of from an undisclosed location and as a homicide. I’m not cut out to be on the lam, really.

Waaa. They say that all good things must end. They must be from Indiana. And they probably said this upon return from a glorious road trip to a better and more civilized world.

I want to tell you all about my trip. It was heaven. But last things first, I'm thinking you might need a good laugh in this heat, and I have the antitode: the story of my first two days back.

Pull up a chair for some background...

I have more than a few neighbors at the condo. They are nutty. Entertainingly so. (Really would be a good HBO pilot. I need to get on that.) Except for Nightmare Neighbor Charlotte. She's just nutty without the entertainment. Plus, we hate each other. She asks me every chance she gets when my lease is up. And I always tell her that I'm thinking of never leaving. You may or may not know about the banging of pots and pans, the slamming of anything slammable, and the dragging of dead bodies that goes on in her condo next door. You also may or may not know about her four (no more, no less, come rain, come shine) daily strolls around the parking lot which put her outside wandering in circles a lot of the day. I'm grateful for the walks, though. Less dead body movement. You may or may not know that she is the "condo street representative" and kills even more time typing up notes for people about things she doesn't care for. She passes these notes out on her strolls, putting them in our tubes (little mailbox cylinders under our business-that-matters mailboxes). Some of us have had full tubes about things she doesn't like. Keep in mind for later that ivy is near, if not at, the top of her list. Charlotte and slips of paper. All day, every day. Well, when she's not banging and dragging things.

Two or three months ago, she started entering my gate (I do leave it open, my bad, but funny, most people do the same, including ol' Char and who cares) and walking in my patio and looking at my foliage. Just staring. Perusing. Like one would do at a botanical garden, maybe. Admiring the flowers. Er, weeds. (I'm a renter, not a planter.) Right before I left for my trip, my godsend of a dogsitter was in my living room, and we were exchanging instructions and niceties. Char came up to the screen door like she wanted to join the conversation. "Someone's at your door." "Oh, Lord. That's my neighbor." I asked Char what she was doing, and she skeedaddled. Well, skeedaddled is the wrong word. She's 4 feet tall, 80 pounds, older than dirt, and sports Mr. Magoo eyeglasses, a cane, some kick-ass special shoes, and a hunchback (childhood polio). After she had finally gone, "Do you have issues with her?" "Oh, honey. I can't tell you about it all, because I have to leave in 4 days."

So, a day or two after cleaning Charlotte's nose print off my screen door, I was putting my trash out and she popped out from around the gate.

Char: I need you to keep your gate closed. Your weeds are embarrassing for my visitors.

Me: What visitors? You don't have any visitors.

Char: Well, that's your reality.

Me: I'm not closing my gate, because I let my dog out on the tie-out and need it open. For God's sake, FIND SOMETHING TO DO!!!!

Char: I have plenty to do, but there is thistle in your ivy!

There's what in my say what? I blew up. Blew the fuck up. I had had all I could stand. Let it all go. Stopped short of calling her a cripple. 'Cause I'm claiming Christian like that.

After it was over, I was clear that there were three things she needed: 1) a closed gate, 2) thistle out of the ivy, and 3) me not to let my screen door slam because she could hear it when she was in the kitchen or outside (which is 23 out of 24 hours a day, remember). There was just one thing that I needed: 1) For Char to DIE.

So, I happily prepared to leave for my trip that June 19th Sunday morning and guess what? Char's car was missing. For the first time in over a year. Did I mention that she never goes anywhere? Come to find out, the bitch had the audacity to go out of town the same day!!! Can you believe that? What a Universe. I could have enjoyed the break. (However, my dogsitter informed me that there were workers - and odd, questionable looking ones at that, one with a missing eye, or maybe it was a lazy eye, I can't remember now - at her house replacing her kitchen counters. That wouldn't have gone well for me either.) I told my Spawn about this and he said, "Oh, didn't you hear? Rumor has it that she's going to Boulder for some creativity event thing." Seriously, nobody loves me.

Oh, right, the reentry. The minute I crossed the Missouri River, the humidity was paralyzing. Windows up and AC on. The east. When I reached the Indiana border, I turned on the radio. Will never do that again. Menards commercials. Meijer sales. Broad Ripple. Ugh. Who cares. Picture sinking shoulders.

Then, at the complex, I wheeled my suitcase to my condo corner and saw it. My gate was closed. When I pushed it open, I saw that my ivy had been killed, pulled up, trimmed, you name it. Just a flurry of ivy activity. Some thistle was brown and dead and some was missing. And I was saving it!!! A piece of my little table right next to the perpetrated ivy area had been broken off and placed in a matching chair. The piece was mysteriously in the shape of a hand. A small, old, bitch of a hand. Then, I opened my screen door and noticed something shiny and new. A new spring-y thing. Installed and everything. And adjusted so the door can't close completely. She had work done!!!

But do I say anything? Nope. I let it go. For almost a whole day.

The next morning, workers had returned to her condo. I didn't expect less. I mean, you hire a man with one good eye to do some counter work, there are bound to be mishaps. So I headed to the store. Screaming kids, big huge fat Indiana families shopping in herds and huvarounds. Then. I made the mistake of a lifetime. I hope you're still reading, because this is the memory that I'll have on my deathbed and I'll need someone to pat my hand, virtually if necessary. I went to Qdoba for a chicken taco salad. I love Qdoba's chicken taco salad. I thought it might relax me. Make me feel better about apparently being roommates with the Indiana world again.

I pulled up into my parking space at the strip mall. Had my right hand still on my keys pulling them out of the ignition and had just started to open my door with my left hand. Two men, probably my age so knowing better, pulled up pretty quickly into the spot to the left of me. Pretty close, too. But before the driver came to a good stop, the passenger opened his door to get out. He turned his head in shock to see me (like what? there are other freeking people in the world?) and my door that he had just hit. I took the keys in my right hand, threw them up in the air a bit (as one does when they're at their limit), closed my door, and tested the Heavens (in the privacy of my own front seat) about what the hell else I could see today. The passenger man got out, stood at my closed window, and yelled, "You know, Midol might really help your attitude." To which I replied, "GO. Just GO. Please, just GO." But he wouldn't move. "I would've apologized to you. There's no damage. But seriously, Midol." Again, "GO. JUST GO."

Then, came his partner. Passenger man was a joy compared to this guy. Driver man came around the car, headed straight towards me holding his key like one would a pen they were getting ready to write with and said, "You are a fucking C*NT. How would you like it if I took this key and just ran it all up and down your face right now?" (There really is no answer to that question.)

The passenger man had moved to the right front side of my car near the strip mall sidewalk to go to Qdoba. I looked at him and said, "Nice choice in this one." And I said, to the c*nt man, "It must be hell to be you." (I know, genius, right?)

So, he said it all again. C*nt. Key. "Upside" my face. Then, he told his partner to get my tag number (what exactly did I do again?). I called him a moron - okay for the blog court records, a fucking moron - and that was the first time I thought he might really key "upside" my face. I looked for my phone to call 911, in case. His friend finally got him to leave. And as I drove away, I noticed a slew of people on Qdoba's patio. Families. Women. And several children. I'm sure the parents will never forget their kids asking them what a c*nt is.

That experience made me decide that I really needed to just start giving back to the world. And not in a good way. So, I wrote a scathing email (as a good passive-agressive does) to the homeowner from whom I rent and copied ol' Char. I told her that this was the final straw and that if the old bat didn't leave me alone and leave my stuff alone, I would call 911. The homeowner was livid, I was glad to know, because after all, I've been money in the bank. She called Char who denied all of it and said that she would be taking this issue to the condo Board to discuss. (I'd like to attend that meeting. "I've been staring at my neighbor and trespassing and messing with and breaking her stuff and she complained to her landlord. We need a letter....I'll put it in her tube.")

Then, I went to the Dollar Store (more punishment from the Indiana public, but it had to be done) and purchased the ugliest patio decorations I could find. God bless America patriotic stuff. And a lovely arrangement of fake red carnations in a plastic cemetery marker cup. Put it all around the gate. This now serves two purposes: 1) it keeps her grubby hands off my gate, and 2) it strokes her out that only she (and her imaginary visitors) can see it and that she can't NOT see it.

I think it's clear who won this battle. Right? I mean, if you ignore the fact that I've thought of little else since I've been back and spent a few countless hours recapping it here and to anyone who will listen to me, it's so clear that I won.

The third day, I spent rental house hunting online. I visited a top contender the next night and, after seeing the hot tub on the neighbor's deck about 20 feet away and hearing the thump-thump bass of a house two doors down, the conversation ended like this: "Will you clean and patch holes and make it rent-ready when you move?" "Uh, yea, I guess, if you want."

And that, my friends, is a reentry. Some might say this is karma biting me in the ass. Perhaps I deserve it for making fun of poor Charlotte. But, trust me, she is the devil, and I've been told she's been given to me as a gift of material. That's how I've chosen to look at her for my own sanity. And sometimes, people think I just make stuff up. Seriously? Nobody is that creative. I'll get a picture of her soon as Exhibit A for the blog court. 

The next post will be a happier one about the exodus and the stay on the moon. And it could be even longer!! :)

Click on the image to see the thumbnails. Then, click on the thumbnail to start the lil' slideshow. If you're so inclined, that is.  

ru·mi·nate
Pronunciation: /'r{uuml}-m?-?nat/ 
-nat·ed ; , -nat·ing ; 1  :  to chew again what has been chewed slightly and swallowed :  chew the cud  2  :  to engage in contemplation  

I'm about to leave for a three-week trip to Boulder, Colorado!! Ask me when my last three-week trip was. Go ahead. Ask. The answer is NEVER. One week at a time, maybe, what with work and the single mom bank account. The trip originally started as just a weekend to attend the eagerly anticipated Original Impulses: Creative Boulder, but then an extended house sitting opportunity generously presented itself. It's been a bit of a struggle getting to the point of acceptance that I can indeed do this, but I'm here now and actually excited.

In recent weeks, I've turned it over and over in my head how I shouldn't, I appreciate it but I couldn't possibly, go. I've hesitantly brought it up in friendly conversations only to be told how wonderful and divinely timed the whole thing is since my last project, thankfully, ended June 3rd. No contract would dig anyone being gone that long anyway. Friends say spend time writing, spend time on your projects, spend time on YOU. Say whaaaa?? Mostly, people act like it's no big deal. It's an extended vacation. So what? People do it all the time. Get over yourself. Just do it. (Freekin' Nike.)

I have been referred to as an "overthinker" a time or two. I think it's the single mom in me. Or it could be that I was raised by two overthinkers. As someone who plans and worries and then plans and worries some more, I want to make sure I consider all the consequences of every little action. But it's been paralyzing, too. Recently, a friend emailed and said, "Stop ruminating!! Everything's fine." Fine?? Well, if I knew what ruminating meant, maybe. So, on top of all my other worries, I had to find ruminate in the dictionary. Then, I had to think about the origins of the word and how it's used in a sentence. Thanks, friend. At least that took my mind off vacation for a few minutes.

Vacation. I have it all mapped out. Well, sort of. I'm driving and will stop in Hannibal, MO, to visit Mark Twain's boyhood home and museum first. Then, I'm going to Red Cloud, NE, to visit Willa Cather's hometown. Then, Boulder. Colorado. Forests. Mountains. Creeks. Wildlife. Walks. Outdoorsy people. Creative types. Hippies?!?! I bet they don't ruminate much there. Well, not in a worrisome way, anyway, and not without pot. Wonder how much a nickel bag goes for nowadays. And if drug dealers take Discover. See? If it's not one rumination, it's another.

One of the things on my list involved socialization. Of me. Being a contract and freelance writer (and mostly technical) can be a lonely life, and I've been jonezin' for more local interaction in my daily routine. So, I landed a new project that I thought might be the answer to this wish list item. The gals I met with to discuss the job were lovely and friendly and funny and nice. At first. It's been a week and now, they're all up in my business. And frankly, I just don't trust them. There's entirely too much conversation and way too many personal questions. And then there are low cubicles - the lowest I've ever seen (from afar, becuase I have never had to sit in a low cubicle before). Picture the bobbing heads and conversations ALL DAY LONG. People popping up and down constantly to stretch, to run to and fro. Every time involves a conversation and, if you're lucky, an impromptu meeting. I've never been more exposed. (Speaking of exposed, the big corporate office-y talk is around watching and waiting for other people to leave their desks with their computer screens open. See, you MUST hit Windows-L or suffer some consequences. Those being this: if someone sees your empty cubicle and open screen (which dear god, they do, because this is what people do there - mind everyone's business), they, and I am not exaggerating, jump up and down and point and giggle at you, and you must then immediately send out an email to the department telling everyone that you will bring donuts the next day. If this happens a certain number of times - I'm not sure how many - you have to bring pizza. Oh, can it get any more fun!??! I think not. They just laugh and laugh and laugh and have more and more discussions about how fun this is for the rest of the day.)

Did I say I've never been more exposed? Well, I take that back, because secondly, this weekend one of my new sweet friends, Lisa Zawodny, has a photography business and offered me a photo shoot. I am trying to get through this life with as little evidence of my face as possible. BUT, the issue was forced, and everyone knows me to be a caver. You might notice some new photos here on the About page, if you peruse. But just don't. Really.

I will share this particular picture below. It's obviously my WTF expression. Remember that part about the folks jumping up and down at the exposed computer screens? This is how I look while that's going on. In fact, I'm pretty sure I walk around most of each day with this look. Unfortunately, it's probably the best look in my repetoire. I know it's my most comfortable. But this is really a statement about Lisa's talent. How she captured this at the exact moment I was mouthing, "You want me to do what?" is beyond me. If you're local to Indianapolis, check out her work here at MLZ Photography and here at Pawsitive Pets Portraits. Fantabulous!!

Here are a couple more that I'm not comfortable with either. So there. I might as well be naked. I'm still waiting on the answers to the other four things on the list. God help me (and thus, you!) in June!!

First, there was the raccoon. Or squirrel. Or groundhog. Or gopher. Or, and this one makes me squirm the most, big honkin’ army boot wearin' rat. I’ve no idea what it is, really. All I know is that it was loud and fast and mad and scared and couldn’t get out of the crawl space no matter how many things it crawled over, clawed through, or scratched on until the wee hours of one Saturday night. He's returned twice just to torment me.

Then, there was the cat. Also in the crawl space. I’m not a cat person. Translation: I hate freeking cats. I equate having one in the house to being in an abusive relationship. I didn’t feel bad not one bit about it howling. (Besides, I wasn’t totally convinced it was a cat. I really thought it was a Sasquatch type creature that wanted to eat me alive.) I did, however, worry about the smell, if it died. But, my friend, Pamela, damn near started crying when I told her about it on the phone one afternoon, so I walked AALLLLLL the way around the buildings and pried open the door to the crawl space to let it out. I stood there for 30 full minutes. I swear. Once, I even called him, “Come on you stupid freeking idiot cat!!” Nothing. I closed the door (the memory of the ratsquirrelcoon was still fresh) and went back inside. As soon as I put a movie in the machine to watch, the damn thing started howling again. So, I, a 47-year-old civilized woman, leaned out the back window, popped out the screen and worked on the door with a broom until it finally opened and idiot cat came moseyin' out. I guess because then it felt like it. It stopped for a minute to look up and give me the evil cat stink eye like he would get me back for what I had done to him. I saw said cat on top of a fence outside just the other day, and he stared me down as if to warn me to watch my back. I reminded it that I had saved its ugly stupid life. But it just kept staring.

Now there's a bird. It keeps hurling itself into my office window. Every day from sun-up to sundown. I read online that it could be seeing a reflection of the trees and such and thinking it’s going to hurl into some cool new vegetation, so I taped plastic garbage bags to the panes but it's obviously insane and doesn't understand. If only I could train it to hurl itself at Nightmare Neighbor Charlotte, I could enjoy some peace again.

The only positive is that I did get a moment's kick out of a mental picture of me as Snow Stinkin' White. I have a few years on her, of course, but the sentiment in the picture is the same. The dwarfs aren’t pictured, but that’s because they’re actually all rolled up into the one Dopey, Noisy, Gimpy, Loony, Wacko Next Door Nightmare Charlotte who I'm pretty sure can't be captured on film. (Just so's you know, I’m a pretty nice person. People even talk about it, they do. But this woman is the devil. So, if you don’t hear from me anymore, Charlotte turned out not to be the dwarfs but the wicked queen.)

Update: Mr. 5am Hooty Owl is back again this year and perched in his favorite tree. Guess where? Oh, and the woodpecker is drilling on the chimney box as I post this. Pamela tells me that's a symbol for opportunity, but she can't be trusted. Cat lover and all.