“Photography records the gamut of feelings written on the human face, the beauty of the earth and skies that man has inherited, and the wealth and confusion man has created. It is a major force in explaining man to man.” – Edward Steichen
The bride and groom hesitated. A room full of reception guests held their breath waiting for the answer.
Awkward silence dragged on.
“Uh, we don’t know?” The bride offered, finally.
Mercifully the MC seemed to sense the faux pas and appeared set to quickly move on to the next question. The relief in the room was palpable until he got the next question completely out.
“So who snores the most?”
Another awkward silence. The bride and groom turned to look at each other in disbelief.
Granted, it was a second wedding but there were four (yes FOUR) pastors present at the reception plus two sets of parents in their 70’s and 80’s, deeply religious people. Three fourths of the room sat frowning disapprovingly, their arms crossed. The rest leaned forward grinning in amusement, not wanting to miss a single word.
Always know your audience….
Every year around this date I especially find myself marveling at love…
Love that is gained and lost, and found again. Love that is unrequited and unrewarded and yet still persists. Love that claws its way through the heart and lodges itself there against all logic and stays regardless of physical presence or absence. Love that endures despite being utterly spent, never quite reaching the point where it simply cannot love anymore.
For over twenty years I have loved this love. At times gingerly, even tentatively, and at other times fiercely and with conviction. Is it more valuable for bearing all of the scars and scuff marks, the wear and tear of time and hurt? Is it more precious for simply surviving?
But then, all love is precious.
No matter how thoroughly I chew it, the kernels always come out again whole. If you can recognize a food upon coming out of your backside it should be calorie free, right?
How does that even happen, anyway? I chewed it. I chewed it GOOD for crying out loud!
Maybe it isn’t really a food….
Raccoons are not cute
Neither are possums or armadillos or squirrels. Don’t even try to argue the point with me because it’ll get you absolutely nowhere. I used to be like you, in love with all of God’s creatures.
Not any more.
I am not against wildlife, mind you. I am content to share my yard. If an animal wants dig up and trash my potted plants over and over again looking for God knows what, I am cool with that. But so help me, if one decides to crawl into the attic or walls of my house and DIE, we will have words and many of those words will consist of only four letters.
Here’s the thing….
I love my house. It is not a big house but built in the 1940’s it has tons of character. It is big enough without being pretentious or too expensive to cool in the hell heat of summer. It is located in the center of a little city/town. Best of all, it’s completely paid for. No mortgage.
Now, the thing about old houses in this area is that they are built on pier and beam, meaning there is a crawl space under the house that could fit a grown man on his hands and knees. As you can imagine, animals like that area quite a lot, too. Warm or cool depending on the season. Hidden. Food nearby. What’s not to love?
Shortly after buying this house, the first hint of odor wafted through the walls upstairs. Within 24 hours it was very clear an animal had died somewhere. I searched everywhere to try to find that carcass. Never could find it. Do you know how long it takes the stench of a liquefying animal to burn off?
About five days, as it turns out.
Now, I am certain I am not the only one this happens to. Dead animals in your walls is of those dirty little secrets no one ever wants to admit to for fear of being judged… like enjoying oral sex. But it happened to me and my house several times a year for a number of years.
Dead animals were not the only problem, though. Hoards of bot flies would descend upon the house from time to time like a plague straight out of Egypt. You know how flies are. 2-3 buzzing about feels like a lot. This was over fifty. Inside my house. All at once. Bot flies like dead animals. They LOVED my house. I am a pretty good shot with a fly swatter now, after all of that practice.
Almost as bad as the flies and the stench was waking up to an MMA fight in progress in my ceiling in the dead of night. And did you know that chewing sounds are magnified by sheet rock? Sounded like some sort of jack hammer. The sleep deprivation was real, people. I would hear loud noises in the yard and run outside only to find entire families of animals, specifically raccoons, scrabbling up the side of my house.
How were they getting in?!??????!!!
Finally, I was at my wits end. My family and I had endured QUITE enough and I was ready to torch the place, paid off or not. How could I in good conscience pass off this to someone else?
So I scoured the internet for advice, all of which was most unhelpful. Those animals practically scoffed at the nauseating stench of the red fox pee that was sprayed all over the house and property. The only thing it deterred was me. You name it, I tried it.
The man of the house took to using one of those *humane* traps, thinking if we could catch them before they ended up in the walls and attic that might help. We placed *inhumane* traps throughout the attic crawl spaces that could be reached. We caught dozens of raccoons, possums, and armadillos. Animal control knew my voice well.
“Yeah, yeah. We know who you are and where you live…” the man on the other end of the line would growl.
Something tells me that they were not taking those animals *away* to release them.
One day, whilst bemoaning the vermin issue with a neighbor who was experiencing similar issues, I was informed that an old lady down the street was feeding the raccoons by putting food out for them at night. Rarely have I felt a desire to do violence against another fellow human being but this was one of those times. She did die eventually but not by my hand…
You know what seemed to work? Chicken wire. Chicken wire all over the eaves and attic vents. Chicken wire along the base of the house. Chicken wire anywhere an animal might try to weasel its way inside.
And…. that lady down the street? She stopped feeding the wildlife….
Over twelve years ago I met an artist.
What she had was a gift. I never had to tell her what to do. It was like she just knew. Left to create on her own she did the most amazing work.
Today was my last appointment with her.
My hair stylist is retiring and I am grieving. She was the first and only person to ever take charge of my hair and make it look GOOD. She made me feel better about my hair, about myself. I cannot put into words how important and life changing that was.
When I ask patients what they do, often I’ll get the, “I’m JUST a…. fill in the blank.” Hair dresser, office worker, mail handler, Mom, etc. I hate, hate, hate that phrasing.
Never doubt that what you do has an impact. No matter what your job happens to be, it matters to someone.
It matters to me.
Maybe I will find someone just as good.
Maybe I won’t.
I loathe this kind of change so it will be a growing experience regardless but for now, I grieve. She was an artist in the true sense of the word and she will be missed.
It happened suddenly.
I was going along like I always have, working on several posts at once, when BAM! Out of the blue….
The frickin’ well dried up.
There’s a string of half written posts saved in my que but when I go back and read them, they sound incredibly lame, like something I would roll my eyes over if someone else posted it. Seriously. So embarrassing.
Why? I have asked myself this over and over again. Is it possible that I have simply burned out? Is there just nothing left to say anymore? Am I too happy in my current life to stir up anything angst worthy enough to post? Is it a time issue?
Or is it something else…
And then I realized that just like I had been in the habit of blogging and reading for so long, I was suddenly out of the habit. Do you all know how much time I put into this every day? Newbies have no idea. Then life happened and here I am, weeks later. People are noticing how quiet I have been and honestly I don’t even know what to say to them.
So I don’t say anything at all.
The words are coming back, though. I just have to do things differently in order to preserve my sanity. Please bear with me as I try to figure out exactly what “differently” means….
In the meantime, I am not dead nor have I suffered from some terrible tragedy. My fingers are all intact and I am working my way back. Thank you to everyone who took notice and said something and even to those who didn’t.
I love you all!
… someone who makes you a cup of coffee the way YOU like it instead of the way THEY want you to like it.
It sounds so simple but the truth of that statement evaded me for longer than I care to admit. There is peace in the knowledge, though…. peace and love.
So, to that man in my life, thank you for being my hero and saving us from the house fire… both literally and figuratively. I love you!
I find that I am more and more conscious of my own nose hair. What is interesting about this is that I never, ever notice the nose hair of other people and if I did happen to see some bits poking out of a nostril it would not gross me out. So WHY on Earth do I care about my own nostril hair?
Is this because my nose hair is getting longer?
Perhaps I am growing more and more sensitive about the change of appearance that comes with aging and I am finding myself more interested in controlling the things that I can have some influence over?
And then I wonder if there are people who do care about other people’s nose hair and if so, why do they care? What else do they do in their free time?
These are the thoughts I have on a Sunday morning after yet again having one of those pesky hairs ripped from my poor tender nostril by the stupid nose hair trimmer that is supposed to CUT the stupid things. I swear, next time I may as well just tweeze them out….
I moved to listen to her heart and then her lungs.
“That sort of thing is how he won the election,” I murmured, careful to keep the judgement out of my voice. I quickly changed the subject back to her persistent nausea.
My clinic is not the place for political debate. It is for healing.
At the end of the visit I picked up my computer from the counter across the room and caught his face leering back at me from the magazine rack again. I always moved him to the back of the stack but somehow, just like a bad penny, he kept turning up again at the front. How many pelvic exams had I done in this room with him looking on? I have tried to remain neutral publicly but I just could not take it anymore. I snatched up the magazine and threw it into the biohazard bin while the patient walked out of the exam room.
I wish he would shut up.
Does he even hear himself? The things he says? How he appears to others through his tweets?
“Watched protests yesterday but was under the impression that we just had an election! Why didn’t these people vote?” Donald Trump
I imagine there were women out there marching who did vote for him. That does not mean that they cannot stand up and protest. That march was not just about Donald Trump, even if he wanted to think it was.
I did not march yesterday but oh how I wish I had. Do I agree with everything the Women’s March was said to represent? Maybe. Maybe not. But I do stand as a woman who is more than a pussy, a woman who believes she deserves more respect and equal pay and better rights. A woman who believes that people have the right to kindness, love, safety, and respect regardless of religion, gender, sexual orientation, skin color, or country of origin.
This was how he should have responded from the first instead of as an after thought:
“Peaceful protests are a hallmark of our democracy. Even if I don’t always agree, I recognize the rights of people to express their views.” Donald Trump
So I say this:
Unite us. Stop dividing and provoking. Be someone we can respect, even if we do not agree with you.
Act like a president.