I Fought The Yard and the Yard Won

Once upon a time, my husband and I were very diligent about keeping our yard up. We have moved many times over the years and have always made sure our yard had a modicum of curb appeal, in case we ever had to sell. Well, I guess we are never planning to leave this home because we have done a sorry job of yard maintenance over the past four years. Our excuse is that we are hooked to our computers like a ball and chain and can't get outside long enough to accomplish anything. You'd think we'd hire someone, but you have to watch them like hawks to make sure they don't murder your azaleas. I keep thinking that if I have to supervise them, I might as well do it, but then I don't. A conundrum to be sure.

My men-folk were gone for the whole week. So, I took it upon myself to rehabilitate my yard. For several evenings, I tore myself away from my computer work and donned yard working clothes and put my hair in the requisite ponytail. I dragged the lawnmower all over the yard, weed-eated the weeds out of the cracks of the sidewalk, gave bushes a haircut, planted flowers in pots, and pulled weeds out of beds. Bugs, mainly mosquitoes, were attacking me for putting them out of their homes, but I forged on. I was so proud of my accomplishments. I even did this on Saturday evening when everyone else was going out to dinner and a movie. I dug into the weedy jungle under a large oak tree in the front yard. There were vines growing all through the mulch and weeds, weeds, and more weeds. I put on some gloves and began to excavate the gnarly invaders. When I stepped back all sweaty and dirty with an aching back to look at my yard, I was indeed proud. I had made a dent in the overgrown mess. I went inside, cleaned up, got a glass of wine and glowed in the knowledge that I had done good.

Alas, my friends, the yard was laughing at me. It had a secret. It had hurled upon me its most evil villains and I would soon realize its wrath. The next day I noticed a black spot on my elbow surrounded by an angry redness. I didn't know what to think about it. Was it a tick? Did a rock hit me while I was weed-eating? Hmmmm. Slowly, in the recesses of my mind, I began to recall some articles I had read long ago about spider bites. The pictures with those articles showed something very similar to what I was looking at on my arm. Also, there were clusters of red spots trailing along my forearms. Blasted! I had gotten into poison ivy and a brown recluse spider had gotten me! It was not pretty!

I have suffered dearly over the past week. My arms have been on fire and I had to get two shots in the bum to kick start some heavy duty anti-biotics and steroids into my system. I am very thankful to my friend, who is a doctor, for helping me so quickly after I discovered my battle injuries. My arm might have rotted and fallen off without her expertise. I'm not sure how I would have explained to my family upon arriving home to find me missing a limb. I'd have to explain to them, "Well, what had happened was..."

So, as I am typing this blog, my forearms still itch and I am constantly fighting the urge to rake my finely, manicured nails across them. The yard won and gave me scars to prove it. I'm thinking I might sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea and just supervise others from now on. Although, if I have to supervise, I might as well do it myself! I think I see a weed...

The Seamstress Made Me Do It

I'm tired. My mother-in-law would cringe that I wrote this for the public to see. How puny and whiny of me! But, I am. I work more than full-time running a business that employs several others, plus I keep my husbands' appointment and travel schedules. I am a single-mom (because my husband travels the globe). I have a 100 year old house in constant need of repair. I have two dogs and a cat, plus various other critters that keep invading my home through invisible holes. I have a teenage son involved in every sport in his school - need I say more?

Today, I determined that I am going to have to learn how to hem a pair of baseball pants. The horror! The last thing I have time for is sewing! I was forced to take Home-Ec in middle school, but I swore that I would never touch another sewing utensil again - God as my witness! The sight of a sewing machine makes me cringe. It's like math, it makes no sense to me. Give me a paint brush and some paints and I can make you a lovely picture. Give me a cookbook and some ingredients and I might be able to make something edible - although my son might beg to differ, I think most days I could do it fairly well. But, don't make me sew! My husband has made the mistake of approaching me with a button in one hand and sport coat in the other while stating, "Honey, you can just sew it back on for me." He withered quickly as I looked at him completely bewildered at his silly assumption and said firmly, "I most certainly will not. I do not sew! I do not, do not, do not SEW!"

I have managed all of these years to keep my commitment not to sew intact. But, today, I may have been undone.

There is only one place in my 'blink of an eye' town to get alterations done and I'll be darned if I can ever catch them open! Their sign states they are open for business Tuesday through Friday from 9am to 5pm and on Saturdays by appointment. So, I was there at 9am this fine Tuesday morning with my son's baseball pants in hand to be hemmed by this fine seamstress. The doors were firmly closed and the "Closed" sign still in place next to the hours that stated they should be open right now. There wasn't a car in the lot. I was confused. So, I thought I'd wait a few moments, maybe she got delayed. Then, another car drove up and it was another customer who said she had spoken to the seamstress only the day before who promised to meet her here promptly at 9am. No seamstress. We waited. Ten minutes later, still no seamstress. I left to do other things. I came back 30 minutes later and the same customer was still waiting - no seamstress. I gave up. I called the business number several times only to get a message that said the mailbox was full and "Goodbye." I went by again later in the day and this business had never opened up. I guess she doesn't need our business. To be fair, maybe she has the flu. But, it seems strange that some misfortune occurs on exactly the same days as I have something for her to mend. Because, this has happened several times when I try to take garments to her.

Now, woe is me because I have to pick up the dreaded sewing needle! I have a thousand other things to do, but tonight I'll spend hacking off extra material from my son's baseball pants and proceed to make a crooked hemline on each of the legs. It's likely one leg will be longer than the other. My son will look at me with total disgust, because in his eyes, I am just dumb and old. That part's nothing new, so I can probably stand it. I hope the other mothers won't judge me too harshly. Remember, ladies, I'm tired and lacking the proper skills for this. Sewing just isn't my thing, my Home-Ec teacher would attest to that, if she's still alive. But, my Art teacher would tell you that I sure could paint a pretty picture. Maybe I should just cut off the bottoms of those pants and glue the hemline! It's sort of like painting - problem solved! One leg may still be longer than the other, but my son will just have to stand crooked. I think he can make it work, he can just say he's tired!

The Accidental Cat Lover

In early July of this year, the heat was unbearable and I had been keeping my cat, Izzy, inside more often. One night I put her out but she didn't show up for her breakfast in the morning as usual. By the 6th day of her absence, I was panicked. I had a mini-breakdown when my husband dared to say to me, "Well, Honey, she is an old cat. I don't think she's coming home." Suddenly Izzy was my beloved cat and how awful for him to say she is dead and never coming home! I couldn't bear the thought! I cried myself to sleep worrying about her thirsting to death and lying helpless under a porch somewhere. My husband slept on the couch.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate cats! Dogs, I love. Cats, I despise! I thought it unfortunate that my husband chose to bring me a kitten ten years ago after we'd had a massive disagreement. He had come home from a trip to Miami and claimed the mother cat had been "eaten by an alligator" (we lived in South Florida) and the poor thing needed a home. That night, he and the cat slept on the couch together.

For many years I have tolerated this black-haired, green-eyed cat we named Izzy. She has some behaviors I find annoying, like pawing and clawing the spot where she intends to lay, which is typically on MY lap or stomach. I thought it particularly obnoxious that she gravitated to me when I was the one person in the house who glared at her. My son loved her and wanted her to love him, but she merely tolerated him carrying her around like a sack of potatoes. My husband reminded me on a regular basis that her mother had been eaten by an alligator and we should love her. I glared at him, too.

I berated Izzy to anyone who would listen. "She is a weird cat, who has lazy tendencies and appears to be a bit on the mental side." And, "she is not at all clean! She sheds clumps of hair all over the place and licks herself raw!" Her presence in my house was a constant thorn in my side. Dogs are loyal companions, bark at strangers, come when you call and look at you with adoring eyes no matter what you've just muttered under your breath. Dogs are useful!

As Izzy got older, she developed a skin condition that causes clumps of her hair to fall out in the summertime so that she is very nearly bald by August. She also developed food allergies so that she hacks up her food regularly. I've tried changing her diet and keeping the fleas at bay, but nothing stops the mass exodus of her hair. In fact, she resembles Bill the Cat.

Now, I could have left her in Florida when we moved and no one would have been the wiser. I could have mumbled some vague untruth about her escaping from my grasp on moving day. Instead, I gave her a heavy sedative and drove her 550 miles to our new home. I was sorry though when the drug wore off and she started howling in the back seat. I stopped at a Rest Area on I-75 and seriously considered opening the door and pushing her out! I didn't.

After we reached our new house, I kept hoping she would try to find her way back to our old home in Florida because I heard cats do that sometimes. She didn't. She laid on every outdoor chair we have - leaving a body print of herself for good measure. I was stuck with her.

Today, it's been three weeks since her assumed demise and I was thinking that it's nice not having cat hair congregating in all the corners of the house. I was checking on my garden around mid-day when I heard a familiar "ik, ik" on the other side of the fence in my neighbor's yard. I looked around and my eyes landed on a pair of large, green eyes staring back at me through the bushes.

I said,"Izzy?" She "ik-ik"ed, then "YOWWW"-ed at me more vigorously and, I thought, 'I'll be darned, it's my Izzy!' I went around the fence calling to her and she ran to me like she was as surprised as I was. I carried her into the house and was grateful I had not given away her food. She was terribly skinny and in need of a good meal. There were no indications on her about where she'd been all this time. It's a complete mystery as to what happened to her. But, she seemed happy to be home and spent the day stabbing everyone's laps with her nails and cleaning herself in her ill-mannered way.

I just smiled and thanked God to have her home. Tonight no one is sleeping on the couch, Izzy may get to sleep on the foot of my bed. Perhaps, I am an accidental cat lover.

Nightmare on Milledge Street

Over the summer I had been hearing mysterious noises in the walls of the second story of my house. My husband convinced me it was birds for a while, but I had this foreboding feeling that it was something else.

Last month I hired Handyman Dave to do some much needed repairs to my office and house. While he was replacing a light fixture on the second story landing near my office, I heard his ladder shudder in a way that wasn’t very safe. Then, I heard him say in a murky tone, “Mrs. Blount, You have rats.”

I peered around the corner at him, “Rats?”

“Yup, one just ran across the vent here.”

“Ok. Well, I’ve got rat poison. Will you put it up there for me?”

I got it for him and he found the access door to the attic just outside my son’s bedroom, poked his head up there to place the box of rat poison as I supervised from several feet away. Then, I heard his muffled voice say, “Mrs. Blount. You have bats.”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about!?”

“I can smell the guano and … hear that sound?” He pulled his head from the access and replaced the door. Sure enough, I heard the sound I'd been hearing all summer long - scratching, fluttering and muffled screeching sounds.

I stood there in disbelief as I pondered what to do next. Action. Yes, I needed to call somebody. Luckily, my sister gave me the name of a pest control company to contact.

I made the call and within a few days a pest control truck arrived in front of my house. When the man got out of his truck, he stood there a moment and said, “Yes 'mam, I smell ‘em. They’re all over the neighborhood.”

I said, "Are you the bat man?"

He responded, "No 'mam, I'm the Bat Specialist!" Then, he whirled around and I noticed he was wearing a cape with the letters “BS” emblazoned on it! Those particular letters didn't impress me much, but I had to hope that Bat Specialist is what they meant.

The Bat Specialist walked around the house and immediately discovered the bat access on the roof. A plan was made for his return to insert some kind of contraption that would allow the bats to leave the house but not be able to return. Then, once they are gone, he would return to plug the bat hole completely to prevent the bats from coming back to roost in my house.

The day finally arrived when the Bat Specialist (cape billowing) installed the bat pipe to my roof. He encouraged me to go out at dusk and watch the bats leave for the last time that night. I was so intrigued by this idea and at dusk I did exactly that. I ran out to my backyard to watch the bats' mass exodus. I waited and waited. Finally, I heard some scratching and screeching at the roof line, but nothing was exiting through the pipe contraption. I was worried. Why weren’t they leaving yet? More scratching and louder screeching. Horrors! They were trapped! Not one bat managed to get out that night. I went back inside and bit my nails and worried about what was going to happen next. My husband wasn’t home and my son’s bedroom is upstairs.

I made my son sleep downstairs that night – just in case. I slept with one eye open and listened as the bats continued to screech for most of the night. It was a horrible sound.

The next morning, I crept up the stairs to see if any had gotten inside. Sure enough, there was one fuzzy, black bat clutching the edge of the attic access exactly where Handyman Dave had been last week. I ran back downstairs and called the Bat Specialist. He was asleep! And, at 9:00am, he seemed rather unconcerned at my plight and said to call him back if MORE got in! More!!! I was a wreck.

Thank goodness my accountant was coming that day so I wouldn’t be all alone with the bats. In fact, the accountant proved to be a hero by removing the bat for me before he left for the day. Imagine that?! An accountant as a hero!

That evening I attended my son’s football game, so we weren’t home at dusk. We were excited and carefree after a big team win upon arriving home. I had forgotten all about the bat problem and had begun to settle down with my computer to continue working in the living room and my son had gone upstairs to his room. In my peripheral vision I thought I caught some movement in the hallway. I looked up just in time to see a large winged thing swooping past the doorway.

“Bat!” I screamed. I tossed my computer on the couch and crept toward the hallway. I called out, “Stay where you are, Jeb, there’s a bat down here!”

He yelled back, “I see it! I’m on the stairs. I’ll get the rackets!” Teens and weapons! Good gravy.

“No! Stay away from it! I’ll call your uncle and cousins to help! Run, run away, keep running!” (Monty Python’s, The Holy Grail) Jeb armed himself with two tennis rackets and was ready for battle. He knew this might be the one time he had license to break things in the house if in pursuit of the bats from Hell and to save his mama. I can’t say he was wrong.

Meanwhile, I was still in the living room armed with a cell phone in the right hand and snarling, mini dachshund in the left, desperately trying to call my brother in law. He is the only one close enough who has had plenty of experience battling bats along with my teenage nephews, and I needed them all to come rescue us.

As I was talking on the phone, the bat in the hallway apparently heard me. It suddenly flew into the room heading straight for my forehead! His beady, blood red eyes locked with my surprised, chocolate colored eyes. He zoomed toward me and I flung my head back Matrix-style, narrowly avoiding collision. Unfortunately, my arms also flung out dropping my cell phone and tossing my surprised dog to the floor as my feet flew up simultaneously. I landed on my backside staring up at a rather triumphant bat.

I quickly scrambled to my phone yelling, “Can you hear me? Hello!?” only to discover I had somehow placed my brother-in-law on hold. I tried to push the button to unhold the call as I commando crawled toward the dining room door, ducking my head each time the beastly bat dive-bombed me. After reaching the other room, I slammed the door shut against the screeching bat and noticed my dog, Peanut, staring indignantly at me from across the room. I could see that she was considering which shoe she would poop in later to punish me for daring to drop her on the floor.

I ran to the kitchen to find my son snickering and brandishing his tennis rackets. I ignored his mirth as he coughed that he was going in after the bat in the living room. I’m glad he thinks this is so funny. “I’ll get a wet towel to throw on it!” I said. Suddenly, I heard my phone ringing somewhere.

“Hello.” I said.

“We’re coming. What happened? I heard a scream and then a thud! I thought an intruder had gotten in and attacked you!” yelled my brother-in-law.

“No! It was the bat, you fool! The bat dive-bombed me and I fell down!” I said.
Silence. I’m sure I heard a bit of snickering on the other end just before he said, “OK. We’re on our way. Lock yourselves in a room.”

I guess I’m the only one who realizes these aren’t butterflies hanging out in my house?

I got the wet towel and Jeb and I headed toward the living room. He eased the door open. Swoop, swoop, swoop. There is nothing so creepy as a big, freakin’ bat swoopin’ in circles around your living room light fixture. Jeb moved into the room with his rackets and I stood at the door with the towel. The bat immediately swooped at him and Jeb swung, but missed. I screamed – that was my contribution.

I said, “Do you want to use the towel to knock him down?” He tried it and missed again. That thing was fast!

We left that room and headed upstairs to get more rackets. We heard a scratching sound in my office. Jeb moved in, rackets outstretched. Again, I hung by the door. The sound seemed to be coming from the closet. He slid it open and - HORRORS! - another bat flies out and straight through the other door to Jeb’s bedroom! Jeb opened the attic walk-in access door and two more swoop out of there and start dive-bombing him.

I screamed, “Get out, get out!”

Jeb yelled, “I can’t, they’ve got me trapped!”

As I considered how I was going to rescue my son, I saw him swing both rackets several times until he finally made contact and knocked one bat flat against a futon. The other bat had flown into Jeb’s bedroom to join the first one. We both ran toward the stunned bat and Jeb trapped it between the two rackets before it could get its’ bearings. I ran ahead down the stairs and opened the front door with Jeb close behind me. He goes to toss the bat outside only to discover the bat isn’t there. We have no idea where it went! Either it fell out in the house or we missed it flying off outside as soon as we got to the door. We have no idea but it was very disheartening after all that work.

It occurred to me about that time that the attic door was still open and that’s where the bats had migrated to after being trapped on the other side of the house the night before. That air draft was leading them to that door to get out! I had to go back up and close it. Jeb refused to go back up anymore and I didn’t blame him. I took the rackets from him and told him to go to the kitchen. I marched steadfastly back up the stairs and saw that three bats were busy swooping in circles around the light in Jeb’s room. I slammed his doors shut and then crept into my office and quickly slammed the attic door shut too. I went back downstairs to wait in the kitchen for help.

My family did come, but were only able to find one bat and remove it. They were very disappointed and so was I. The rest of the bats had hidden themselves well to await another opportune time to attack me. I packed up myself and my son and slept at my mother in law’s house that night. Then, I went to the beach for the weekend for much needed R&R.

Meanwhile, the so called “Bat Specialist” came back and fixed his rather imperfect bat removal contraption and assured me the bats would be able to leave THIS time. I was afraid to believe him and was not holding my breath. But I was holding my back which was a little stove up after my Matrix moves.

It took several days, but eventually they did leave. We had a few more nights of battling with the leftover bats, but by then my son became very apt at slapping those suckers down (only stunning them) and putting them outside to go on their merry way.

I am completely traumatized, but my back has recovered from my fall at least. I still sleep with one eye open and listen for the telltale screeching and scratching that accompanies the bats' presence during the day. I fear I will hear that sound even when it is no longer there. Halloween approaches, bats still swoop around the street lights in the neighborhood and, our house is the Nightmare on Milledge Street.

Don’t close your eyes, My Pretties! We’re watching you!! Screech, Screech, Screech!

Last hours

When my mother died last year, it was a tragic experience for me even though she was elderly and had been sick in recent months. I lived 10 hours away and didn't realize how quickly her illness had progressed. She was good at keeping secrets about herself right up to the end.

I got the call that she was in the hospital on a Sunday afternoon. She'd been in the hospital several times in the past couple of years, but usually released fairly quickly. This time seemed different. I didn't take any chances and threw essentials into the car and headed north. I felt frantic that I wouldn't make it in time. No one had said she was dying, but I think I felt it sort of like a distant ache. The thought of not being able to see her made me feel completely desperate. So I drove as fast as I thought I could get away with on I-75 and prayed hard through my tears. I hoped that she knew I was coming.

I made it to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. One sister was there and one was still on her way. There was no way to prepare for what awaited me in my mother's room. She looked like a child. She had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis only six months earlier and now could barely breathe. I tried not to appear shocked, but I was. It was all I could do not to sob for her right there.

Instead, I walked over and took her hand and said, "I'm here now, Mom. I'm here to stay with you." I spent the next several hours making sure her oxygen mask stayed put, helping her brush her teeth, wash and brush her hair, take small sips of water and small bites of food.

I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my brain just couldn't believe this was real. I kept thinking that the doctors are going to tell me I can take her home soon. I was trying to figure out which room in my house to put her in that she'd be comfortable. I vascillated between knowing she was close to death and thinking she's gonna be fine just like always. I didn't want to see the signs that this was it. I also wondered if she knew how bad her condition was. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything I wanted to say. If I'd known these were truly her last hours on this earth, I would have. There were so many things I wanted to ask her about.

My mother, in a last burst of energy, had sent me on an errand to get some things for her from her house as if she believed she'd be fine, too. I was coming back to spend the night with her again. When I returned to her room, the nurses were all quiet just outside her room and they said they were sorry. It didn't register for me. I just smiled politely and moved toward her room. I found my sister holding my mother's hand, but the oxygen machine was silent. A priest was in the room. Mom was gone.

That scene still haunts me. I never thought it would be so hard when my parent died. We think to ourselves all along that when our parents die it will be natural because they will be old and will have led a good, long life. We think it'll be sad, but death is a part of life, right? No. It's much more impactful than that. It's hard to reconcile that my mom isn't here at all anymore. I missed my chance to say what I needed to. She'll never know.

While my sisters and I were cleaning out my mother's house, I found a picture of my mother as a cheerleader for her high school. It is the best picture of her posing with her fellow cheerleaders with their arms thrown up in the air and they have big smiles on their faces. I realized I hardly know anything about that young girl in the photo. I wish I'd asked.

I know you've heard it before, just like I'd heard it before. But, here's hoping that this time you'll really hear it. Tell your loved ones again that you love them. Listen to your parents' stories about their lives before you came along. Don't wait to say what you need to say. What if those last hours come before you're ready and then they pass you by?

Oh, that photo of my mother is sitting prominently on a table in my living room. That young girl has a smile like mine. I see her every day. I think she knows.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

I, personally, am hoping for a better year myself. 2009 was a tough one. I know I haven't posted in a long time, but I was rather busy. My mother passed away last July and it's taken this long for me to come out of the fog of grief. Following my mother's death, I left my wonderful job in Florida as a Licensed Mental Health Counselor and moved back to my hometown in Georgia. I miss my job, but I really needed the break.

Florida and Georgia don't reciprocate licenses, so I can't practice here until I take the GA state test. I'm feeling unmotivated to do that right now, so I'm doing something different and am enjoying it. I get to stay home like I've been dreaming of for the past couple of years and I get to spend more time with my family.

Speaking of family, I have two sisters who live relatively close by and we have begun to relate on a deeper level in the past year due to my mother's illness and subsequent death. Sibling relationships can be so complicated, but as time goes by we begin to realize how important we are to each other. We are the only ones who can really understand and appreciate where and what we've come from - and, overcome. I feel lucky to have them now more than ever.

This past year has given me a lot of material that I'd like to expand upon in future posts. Topics like grief, sibling relationships, parent/child relationships, loss of parent, and so on.

I look forward to sharing with you and hope you will eventually feel comfortable commenting on my topics or asking questions. Until then, may common sense be your guide and peace of mind follow close behind.

Center Stage

Last month my family experienced a bit of medical drama. My son was playing second base during a very intense baseball game. The score was 3-2 in our favor in the 4th inning and all of us in the stands were cheering for our boys to hold their opponents back.

The other team has a great player who stepped up to bat and we were all nervous about him hitting a homerun. Instead, he hit a high pop fly between the second baseman (my son) and right field. My son backed up intending to catch it, but didn't call it out. The right fielder rushed forward with the same intention and didn't call it out. The inevitable occurred and my son fell backward and hit his head on the right fielder's knee. He got up a bit dazed but seemed to be okay. In an extaordinary feat, the right fielder actually came up with the ball and the play was saved! We groaned and then cheered in unison. The coaches ran out and asked all the right questions and my son gave all the right answers and the game resumed.

Another batter came up and popped another fly ball to my son who caught it for the third out - like a pro! The crowd was ecstatic! Then, suddenly my boy began to cry and appeared to be in distress. The coaches all ran out and talked to him but couldn't make sense of why he kept talking about what he'd forgotten.

The parents around me were all expressing concern, so I went to the dugout to see what the hullabulloo was about. I admit to thinking that my boy was over-reacting as he usually does as an 11 year old. I was ready to tell him to "man-up"! But, I quickly assessed that he didn't know what he was talking about and his brain circuits seemed to be on standby. His team mates could see I had suddenly gotten serious. They packed up his gear for him as I questioned my son and then I stood up straight and announced quickly that we were leaving for the hospital.

I couldn't walk fast enough as my mind replayed the recent tragedy about that actress, Natasha Richardson, dying of what seemed like a minor head injury on the ski slopes. I can't explain the way all my motherly instincts kicked up a notch when I realized my child may really be in danger. I had horrible visions of a tiny blood vessel in his brain leaking slowly as we raced toward my car. Everything seemed to move in slow motion although I was told later that I had moved myself and my son out of there with lightening speed. My heart was in my throat as my baseball friends helped me get our stuff in the car and wished us God Speed as I spun out of the parking lot.

My son continued to sound like a broken record all the way to the hospital. He kept repeating, "Did I get hit by the ball?", "Where are we going?", and "Are we going to the game, now?" til I thought I'd scream in frustration. I started off answering his questions truthfully, but when I realized he wasn't retaining my answers, I just started saying "yes" to all of them instead of wasting my breath. It turned out, after spending four hours in the emergency room with some strange people and $1700 later, that he had a mild concussion with amnesia and was going to be just fine. He has never remembered the actual incident, but since it's not necessary for college, I figure that's alright.

The lesson here: In baseball, always call, "I've got it!" when going for the pop fly. And, try to avoid the ER on Friday nights if at all possible.

Most of our friends expressed appropriate concern by calling or texting the next day to make sure our son was alright. However, there's always those one or two people who get all caught up in other people's drama and insist on making it there own. The coach, for a short time, blamed himself for letting my son continue to play after the collision. Guilt, Guilt, Guilt! I was able to convince him finally that he needn't lose any more sleep about it.

Another parent (I'll call her Patty) apparently was crying at the field after we left it - as if my son had died. She made up a story that my son had hugged her in his delirium and lamented to her about how he couldn't remember anything. (He was never anywhere near her during the whole incident.) Patty also told several people (not present at the game) that my son had been violently ill on the field after his fall. (Not true and ewwww!)

I began to feel like our experience had be intruded upon and made a spectacle of by someone else's unwarranted needs and behaviors. Granted, it was a disconcerting situation, but it was not tragic and I resented anyone trying to make it so. For the next two weeks, every time we ran into someone from our baseball field, I found myself subjected to the most bizarre rumors.

Most of us appreciate a little sympathy or empathy, but stealing another person's drama to gain center stage...oh, please! If you find that you are one of these people, try noticing the reaction you truly get from those who have known you a while - averting or rolling eyes, stepping away, mumbled "oh, really's"- to your seemingly amazing stories. Is that really what you are shooting for?

The lesson here: Being on center stage when you haven't been called there can have the effect of making you an outcast.

Redneck Whisperer

There's the Horse Whisperer, the Dog Whisperer, the Sales Whisperer, and now...the Redneck Whisperer!

My husband and I practice a rather disconcerting method of communication. Disconcerting to others, at least. For us, it is just our way. We have been together for most of our lives and have always bantered with teasing and incessant sarcasm. I imagine, to others, that it must sound like we are always on the verge of a major argument, but a major argument between us is rare. We know where the lines are drawn and are usually careful not to cross over. When it does happen we are quick to address it and all is well.

One day, we were bantering about the traditional roles of men vs. women regarding the household chores - an age old argument. I was trying to help him understand that I am tired of working outside the home and doing everything inside the home on top of it. A woman can only do so much before cracking up and I was feeling fairly close to going on a major shopping spree for therapy! So, we were discussing the benefits of his helping out and it went something like this.

Me: "I am feeling overwhelmed lately with the housework and would really appreciate some help from you."

Beloved Spouse: "Uh, huh." As he stares at his computer screen.

Me: "Hello! Did you hear me?" Looking a bit peeved.

Beloved Spouse: Looking up at me finally, "Sure, Honey, what was that again?"

Me: "I said I would really appreciate it if you could start doing your own laundry seeing as how you work from home and all. It would be easier for each of us to do our own laundry and that way you can't complain about the moldy smell when a load gets left in the washer too long. You'll be here to get it done yourself."

Beloved Spouse: "Um, yeah, I guess so. I'm just so busy, though. But, I see what you're saying." He smiles wryly at me then and adds, "Maybe I could get my girlfriend to help me out..."

Me: "Uh, huh. Tell her while she's at it she can do mine, too." Not the least bit phased, "And, maybe I should get out the old iron skillet and knock it upside your cheatin' head." (Imagine what you will.)

Beloved Spouse: "That's my little Redneck Whisperer!"

I have to admit that I like the title! It made me smile and, as I said, all is well. He's doing his own laundry, sort of, and I'm happy with his effort.

What a Woman Wants?

I've been reading a book of essays, Women in a Man's World, Crying, and it is really making me think. Some of the essays are about how women have fought to be equal and the effect it is having on us now - both good and not so good.

I admit to feeling proud of our hard fought almost equality, but also admit to wondering how much good it's done for us in the end. I love being able to have a career, but there are more days now when I would love to just stay home and spend time decorating my home, taking my child to school, picking him up from school, having time to actually fold laundry before putting it away, ect.

Instead, I run to work, work, then run from work to school activites, then to sporting events, making dinner somewhere in between, picking up the living room in between that, and finally climbing into bed to read a good book only to fall asleep in the middle of the third paragraph from exhaustion. The next day looks pretty much the same. I wonder...is this what our predecessors intended?

January Blues

November and December are so full of excitement and activity that January seems almost disappointing once the decorations are down and put away in the attic again. I love all the glitter and shine of the holidays! It makes me smile to walk around the neighborhood and stand in awe of all my neighbors creative accomplishments with blinking lights and Christmas lawn decor. Now, after the 12 days of Christmas are done, all the lawns are bear and rather sad looking.

January is a time for re-evaluating our goals and starting anew. Some of us get overwhelmed with the prospect of it all. We ask ourselves, "What do I want to do differently this year than last?" And, "What is still left undone from my previous list of goals?" It can be enough to make one want to sit down on the couch and escape into M.A.S.H. or I Love Lucy reruns.

I've read a few articles and blogs lately where people are touting "unresolutions" instead of resolutions. I'm on board with that line of thinking. It certainly makes it easier to talk about what you won't do (inertia) versus what you will do (take action). People seem to naturally lean towards inertia for some reason. I have to work hard to convince my clients to concentrate on what they can do. But, what if not doing something is a good thing and leads to something positive. I suppose it's all in how you look at it, right?

Let's make it a game! I'll start.

I will not clean up my son's room for him just because I can't stand it anymore.
I will not waste my mind or time watching silly TV shows when I could be reading a good book.
I will not obsess over being disorganized as it's fairly obvious after all these years that organization is just not in my DNA.
I will not miss an opportunity to play boardgames with my family just because the laundry is piled up. (They can help me with it after I've beaten there socks off in Monopoly. I'll even pay them with my fake millions!)
I will not get frustrated about my son's baseball schedule because he's growing up and I will never get this opportunity again.
I will not say "Yes" to things that bring out my passive-aggressive tendencies.

There. Now it's your turn. Happy New Year!

Middle Age

Last month I had the privilege of turning 40 years old. Most of my friends also turned 40 this year, so together we have crossed over the invisible line into middle agedom. Although, all of my older friends asure me that 40 is really the new 30-blah, blah, blah. It all seems a thinly veiled ploy to convince new 40 somethings that we are not really aging.

However, as I sat on the floor with my 11 year old son this past weekend to play Monopoly, my aching back and knees proclaimed loudly and obnoxiously that I am definitely not 30! Another loud indication that I am no longer 30 occurred when my hairdresser called last night to remind me that I am due for an appointment to cover up my rapidly graying hair. I noticed in recent photos of myself that my once smooth and supple skin is now endowed with fine lines and subtle sags.

Yes, I am 40. There are some negatives to this aging process, no doubt. But, there are also some positives I have been discovering little by little. I am more confident and self-empowered than I was when I was 30. I will shamelessly argue with that 20 year old cosmetic girl who is trying to convince me that I would look good in flourescent, sparkly green eyeshadow! I will boldly make a nasty hand gesture at that 25 year old boy in his souped up mustang who thinks I'm not driving fast enough and dare him to hit me because I know I have better insurance than he does. Being 40also means that I can say "NO" to people about things I don't want to do and not have to feel guilty about it. I love that one!

You know what? I think I'm going to like my 40's. The benefits are looking pretty good. Being 40 may bring with it a lot of freedoms that I couldn't comprehend in my earlier years. I'm grieving the inevitable loss of my young face and body, but at least I'm rewarded with a deeper knowledge of who I am on the inside. So, Middle Age, bring it on, I think I'm ready.

The bed you made...

Recently I was working with a client (I'll call him Jacob)who was in the process of divorce. It was a familiar scenario to many I've heard in the past and that's why I felt this would be a good story to share.

Jacob told me his love story and it's eventual demise. He and his wife had married young and had practically grown up together. They each came from broken homes and were very familiar with each other's family histories. He said he fell in love with her immediately and thought they'd grow old together - unlike the pattern in their original families. Jacob stressed how he never wanted to put his children through the pain of divorce that he had suffered, yet it was happening anyway.

Jacob admitted that he had made the typical mistakes of a young married man in that he spent too much time working to increase their wealth and not enough time paying attention to his wife on a personal level. He worked two jobs and renovated their fixer-upper home in his spare time. His new wife also worked full-time and attended school. He said he thought he was doing the right things in providing for them and trying to make their home a nicer place. They had all the nice toys a young couple could want. He admitted he never asked her what she needed from him, he just assumed all was well.

Thirteen years and three children later she told Jacob she was done with their marriage and there was nothing he could do to undo all she felt he had ruined. He claimed she listed one offense after another dating back to the beginning of the marriage. He stated, "I was flabbergasted because I couldn't even remember half of what she said I had said to her that hurt her feelings. I wish she had told me then and I would have fixed it." Apparently, one of the offenses was that he had told her she'd better never get fat. He admitted that he probably made that insensitive statement within the first two years of their marriage when he was young and stupid. He said he'd never say that now, but she holds it against him as if he just did.

The couple attended several couple's therapy sessions in the past year, but she conveyed to him in their last session together that there was no hope in saving the marriage no matter how hard he tried. It's true that he couldn't fix their marriage all by himself and it seemed obvious that she wasn't willing to take ownership for her own mistakes. At that point in our session, he teared up as he said to me that he never got a chance to say what he wanted to her. He wanted to tell her that he loved her more than anything and was willing to do anything to make her happy again. He wanted them to grow old together and be grandparents. It never got said because she made it clear on that day that she was already gone.

I have interviewed many elderly, married couples over the years who have stressed to me that the secret to their lasting relationship is forgiveness and fortitude. One couple said they live by the sage counsel handed down to them by their grandparents, "You made your bed and now you have to lie in it. It's your responsibility make it work for yourselves and for your families." I know this sounds rigid, but I have to agree with the exception of extenuating circumstances.

Truthfully, we all, men and women, make stupid mistakes within our relationships. We make insensitive and hurtful statements and act out our most selfish and bad behaviors with each other. The keys are to call each other out on it (in an adult manner), work diligently at adjusting our own behaviors, live in the present, let the past be the past, and encourage growth as individuals and as a couple.

Before considering divorce, ask yourself if there's really anything that can't be rectified or forgiven? Will the grass really be greener on the other side? Is the financial havoc worth it? If you have children, is it worth their emotional well-being?

The bed you made may be messy, but lie in it, even wrestle in it until you find the position that you fit.

Traces of leaves

Over the Labor Day weekend, I was doing some Fall cleaning and tackled one of my closets in an effort to become better organized. I found a mound of old notebooks and memorabilia dating all the way back to my high school days. I sat on my floor for hours reading old newspaper articles that I had written for my high school paper, old college essays, class notes, etc. It was a surreal walk down memory lane. I'd forgotten how naive and idealistic I was back then.

For instance, I found an autobiographical obituary I'd written for one of my journalism classes and was surprised to find I had once thought that I would write 12 novels by the time I was 63 years old. I even had two titles picked out and one of the titles, Traces of Leaves, was going to win me a Pulitzer Prize. I'm a little behind!

My goal for this past weekend, however, was to de-clutter my life a bit and let go of unnecesary stuff. It was tough, but I tossed out 90 percent of all that clutter I'd been holding on to for twenty years or more. Afterwards, I felt a deep sense of relief to not let those material things take up space in my closet or my head. I realized I don't have to keep old school notes/tests to remind myself how smart I used to be. I'm still smart and, even better, I'm wiser. I don't have to win a Pulitzer prize to make an impact on the world. Every time I smile at a stranger, actively listen to a troubled client, help my son with his homework, I'm leaving traces of leaves on the world that last.

I encourage you to let go of the clutter, either in your mind or in your closet, and focus on what's important to today.

Letting Go of Trauma

A colleague and I recently attended a seminar on rapid trauma recovery. I relish learning new methods of treatment and gaining new perspectives. The concept of this therapy is to help the client tell his/her story several times until it becomes just a story about the facts without attaching meaning to the facts anymore. Each time the client tells the story, the counselor encourages the client to be specific with the details and facts and refocuses him so that he doesn't get lost in the feelings of terror. The client is reminded over and over again that she's in a safe place now and that the traumatic event is in the past.

Most PTSD sufferers get stuck at the most terrible moments of the trauma and can't get past that section. The feelings then take over and cripple him and the cycle keeps repeating itself. Counselors can teach a patient to focus only on the specifics of the event while encouraging her along the way and reassuring her that she is safe. Thereby, creating successful desensitization and moving past the traumatizing moment.

Wouldn't it be nice to yank the power away from the event/offender and give it back to yourself? The traumatic event is in the past and should remain there. It only has power if we give it up. A traumatic event, as terrible as it might have been, doesn't define us unless we allow it to do so. It's so freeing to focus on today and all of the possibilities of today. It's completely useless and energy draining to let the past control every future moment. Why not let it go? What do you have to lose by smiling and having a good day? Nothing, really. Except the ball and chain of the past. Let it go and let it sink into the past where it belongs. Take a chance and decide now to have a good day!

Naysayers, beware!

Last month my son was completing his fifth season of little league baseball. I admit to being a typical biased parent when I state that, in my eyes, my son is a talented baseball player. I attend every practice and every game with great enthusiasm. I also suffer the inevitable ups and downs of our teams progress throughout the season along with all of the other hopeful future MLB parents.

During one of the last games, my husband and I were faithfully planted in our lawn chairs stuffing our faces with hot dogs and cheese fries while intermittently shouting, "Go, Padres," in hopes of inspiring them to do something other than play with the dirt under their spiked shoes. Our team wasn't fairing so well as the score was 6 to 1 in the third inning with no outs. Our son plays short stop, first base and third base extremely well and occasionally has been called on to pitch at the end of a game when the main pitchers have met their pitch quotas. However, he has a tendency to crack under the pressure after two or three batters, so pitching has never seemed to be his forte even though he wants it to be so with all of his heart.

On this day, the coach decided to put my son in to pitch. My husband and I nearly choked on our cheese fries as we watched our son lope from short stop to the pitching mound and take the ball from his coaches hand. My husband stood up and said, "I can't watch this! The pressure is too much for me." He strolled over to one of the assistant coaches and said, "What is he doing?! Jack won't be able to handle this pressure!" The asst. coach gestured for my husband to settle down and said the coach knows what he's doing and it'll be alright.

Obviously, my husband and I were projecting our inability to handle the pressure of our son being under such scrutiny in,what seemed like at the time, such a harrowing situation. He was completely unaware of our doubt and if he had any self doubt, he overcame it successfully. Our son deftly proved us completely wrong by striking three batters out in a row! His team came back to score three runs and he continued to pitch like a pro over the next inning keeping his cool and the opposing team from running up their score. The Padres still lost by two runs, but they rallied spectacularly and my son was at the center of it.

I was so ashamed for doubting my son's ability and learned a valuable lesson about being a 'naysayer.' My husband's and my overreaction to our son being put on the mound came from our own of fear of failure as well as a natural, parental inclination to protect our son from public ridicule or failure. When we buy into our own fears and stand in the way of our children trying new things, especially when its not their 'forte,' we deny them the experience that can lead to success even if it's through failure. I pledge to do my very best not to engage in naysaying again. I may relapse occasionally, but I know the key is being aware of this human flaw which makes it more likely that I will recover from it more quickly.

My goal is to be a naysayer, no more!

Meet the Author Day

Yesterday, I attended my son's school for a "Meet the Author" day. The kids in my son's class had each written a book and were sharing it for the first time with their parents. I admit that I was a bit frazzled and impatient when I arrived as I was in between clients and feeling a little put out in the middle of the day. Then, the look of joy that spread across my son's face at the surprise of seeing that I made it was enough to engender gladness despite the inconveniences for me.

His teacher began with clapping her hands and the children followed suit as they turned their attention to her. We parents just stood in bewilderment at her ability to control our children so efficiently. She gave us instructions about where to gather to share our children's stories and then pointed out the refreshment area (of which I was thrilled to see chocolate there)! I sat down at my son's desk and noticed the inside of it looked alarmingly similar to his messy bedroom. I felt the urge to start cleaning it out for him, but resisted and folded my arms over the desk so that I couldn't see the broken crayons hanging over the edge. He stood next to me and proudly opened a white book illustrated with a large, black spider. The story began with a man innocently purchasing a spider at a pet store and bringing it home to his two daughters. Obviously, no mother exists in this story. The spider grows inexplicably during the night and then devours the father. The girls get away, but are then charged with trying to save the town from the fate of their father. At the end, there are bloody, spider parts and human body parts being blown up and flying over the heads of the girls as they run for their lives. My heart couldn't take much more as my mind raced over all of the names of my therapist colleagues to determine who could see him the quickest. In my state of panic I almost missed it when he read the part called "About the Author" with his innocent looking picture above it. He explains to his readers that he and his father share a terrible fear of spiders and this book was a way of facing his fears! How amazing is that?!

He looked to me for approval and I smiled the smile of the proudest parent in the room. I also felt a pang of shame at nearly overreacting. His teacher approached us and asked me what I thought about his book. I told her I liked his attention to detail, his illustrations were very nice, and above all - it was scary. She winked at me and my son smiled as if he felt his job was done. I wondered if I had just gotten a glimpse of a mini Stephen King in the making. I grabbed several chocolate cookies from the refreshment table and determined I'm keeping that list of colleagues close at hand.

A Man Named Blue & A Dog Named Cashew

My husband has decided that he wants to be called Blue and he is asserting that he has a dog named Cashew that doesn't actually exist. Yes, I know, this sounds a lot like an identity problem and possibly a psychotic break. However, I think it's more about crossing into his forty's (i.e., midlife crisis), a bit of boredom, and even more about getting under my skin.

My son, husband, and I took a mini-vacation over spring break to visit the Kennedy Space Center. At the end of a long, educational, and fun-filled day, we stumbled upon a wonderful restaurant in Cocoa Beach for dinner. My husband grunted as he considered the specials on the menu and then, with a gleam in his eye and a bit of spittle at the corner of his mouth, he proceeded to describe to me the prime rib special topped with blue cheese and butter sauce that he intended to order. The redneck drawl he affected indicated to me that "Blue" was in the house. Over the past month, my husband has adapted this alter ego he affectionately calls Blue. He insists that if I were to call him by this new nickname that the power of suggestion would cause everyone to do the same. He has always wanted to be a quirky, mysterious character who derives wonder and awe from the ordinary people in the world. Now he has a name for this character.

Our conversation about Blue gorging himself on the fattiest meat of the cow sparked a new conversation about the differences between delusional disorder and schizophrenia. As I tried to explain the difference between the two disorders, I realized how similar and confusing these illnesses can look, even to a counselor. Criteria for schizophrenia includes "bizarre" delusions, like aliens living in the closet and performing surgery on you every night. Whereas, delusional disorder is characterized by nonbizarre delusions, such as having a dog no one else has seen. Just because no one has ever seen the dog doesn't mean it doesn't exist somewhere. My husband has been insisting to myself and our son that we have an invisible dog named Cashew. Now, we do have a real dog named Peanut who considers me the Alpha dog in the family. Therein lies the rub. My husband doesn't like not being the Alpha dog, so he has invented Cashew the dog to be Alpha dog to. He asserts that if he suggests enough to us that we have a "Cashew," then I will accept it as true, get a real puppy he can name Cashew, and Cashew will, by default, choose my husband as Alpha dog and overthrow my reign!

As bizarre as this all seems, this actually is a mini power struggle between myself and my husband, also known to himself as Blue. So, my womanly wiles and psychological training thrust into overdrive. I smiled prettily, as he stabbed his bloody, blue cheese covered cow, and assured him that he is the Alpha male of my heart as well as this whole family. And, as the grease dribbled down his chin, I added, "Honey, I think we should increase the life insurance policy on you, Blue and your dog named Cashew."

Acts of Kindness

Most counselors will agree that the married couples we see on average usually seek counseling for the same reasons albeit the details of the circumstances may differ slightly. Some of those reasons tend to be feelings of betrayal, disconnectedness, boredom, and loneliness.

When we originally were attracted to our mates, we were attentive, open, caring, giving, and thoughtful of their needs. We went out of our way to make sure our significant other knew we loved them as often as possible. But, then marriage comes and babies and life. Now we are more focused on the children, work, the household, bills, plumbing problems,etc. When was the last time you said "I love you" out of the blue or gave a funny greeting card just because? I bet it's been a long time.

Think about how you treat your friends? You call your best friend on the phone daily to just say "hi." But, you call your spouse only when you need an errand run for you. When friends come over to visit, you hide all the clutter in the closet and make a special dinner just for them. Your spouse comes home and you get mad because he/she wasn't there all day to help clean up and then he/she expects dinner. How backwards is this?

Familiarity breeds contempt doesn't it? Think about how nice we are to our friends and even strangers, but how thoughtless and mean we can be to our own spouses. What if we used some of that kindness on our spouses instead? What if we could remember to treat our spouses like they were friends instead of the enemy? Isn't that what we strive for in life, to pick a life long mate who we can sit on the front porch with and share our most sacred thoughts, past regrets, future hopes and dreams?

Mutual respect and friendship are the most valuable benefits of marriage. Yet, we destroy them and then wonder why our sex life has diminished and loneliness and despair prevails. Repairing a relationship isn't as hard as we make it out to be. Little acts of kindness go a long way in building the love connection we all crave.

The Wisdom of the Rooms - Book Review

I just read a new book,The Wisdom of the Rooms, by Michael Z. It's a wonderful book of weekly reflections with inspiring messages that can apply to anyone and everyone whether you have an addiction problem or not.

One of my favorite quotes from this book is "there are no victims, only volunteers - you always have a choice." How many of us have become victims in our lives at one time or another and voluntarily give up our power to a harmful vice, situation, or another person? Michael Z's words help us to hold the mirror up and face the truth so that we know it's in our power to choose differently.

Another favorite quote is "my mind is like a bad neighborhood - I don't go in it alone." This made me laugh out loud because there are days when I'm obsessed with my own disturbing thoughts and it would be better for me to get out of my own head, or take a muscle bound friend in with me to beat down the monsters!

So, I'm recommending this as a MUST READ! It's simple, yet chock full of wisdom in every room. Also, check out his website at www.theWisdomoftheRooms.com for more of his weekly quotes.

Nature vs. Nurture?

For several years I have been interested in criminal psychology and have pondered whether people are born "bad" or created by their environment. One of my guilty pleasures is reading psychological thrillers and one of my favorite authors of that genre is Jonathan Kellerman. However, lately I have been even more intrigued with the idea of nature vs. nurture. I've been reading "Evil Genes" by Barbara Oakley as well as another book about the personality similarites of several infamous serial killers. Both authors discuss the possibilities how "bad" people become the way that they are and the impact on society.

I have to admit that I am wondering why I'm so fascinated with this subject. But, I think that it boils down to wanting to understand the workings of the human mind and determining how much control, if any, we truly have over our emotions, personalities, reactions, good/bad behaviors, etc. It seems that we like to believe that we are such unique individuals in control of who we are and what we do; and, yet also like to attribute so much of our makeup to Aunt Jean or Great-Granpa Albert. How is it that most of us are driven to be good people and have such loud consciences that we can't possibly ignore? Yet, there are also those people in the world who couldn't care less about harming others and go out of their way to do so. Are we born with this or did we learn it from Uncle Pete?

The evidence seems to be some combination of the two, nature vs nurture, that make us who we are. Some people seem to be genetically pre-disposed to rage, poor judgment, and limited conscience. Add to that a dysfunctional family environment and a time bomb is created amongst us. The challenge is how do we recognize them before they wreak havoc on our society.