Monkey

Ah, the hidden joys of downtime. Unemployment does have its unique set of fringe benefits, if only one has the energy to seek them out.

As the days bled into weeks, the weeks into months, my husband encouraged me to get out. Of the house. At least once each day. I had become an insufferable wench. His evening arrival often coincided with a verbal onslaught from me.

“What did you do today?”

“Any cute girlies flirt with you?”

“How many test drives did you do?”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“How many times did you pee?”

Ridiculous I know; but I craved interaction.

Husband would walk through the door, go straight to the couch and pump up the volume on the TV so as to drown out my queries.

On the other side of town, my dear friend is attempting to work from home with a six-month old forever latched to her boob. Not so convenient when one is a technical writer. Trying to reach around a newborn noggin to reach a keyboard was definitely NOT working.

I rang her up one day (at the urging of aforementioned husband). She was up for a visit. And needed to get some work done.

I scurried to my truck and trekked over there, posthaste. Little Monkey was prone on his playmat, occupying himself by batting around a series of plush animals suspended over his head by string.

Friend and I ate artfully prepared chicken salad and then Friend. Just. Disappeared. I heard the door to her office click shut and knew I had been set up.

“Really?”, I thought to myself, “I know next to nothing about kids. What do you even do with them?” Monkey was still on the floor, so I joined him. We spent the next three hours doing fun things like bouncing in an Excersaucer sort of contraption, going for a walk, swinging on the porch swing and napping.

When this child was expected, I knew that I would love him, for he is the long-anticipated child of my friend. What I didn’t know is how IN LOVE I would be. For someone who never wanted kids, I ache when I can’t he near him. I have to see him once a week. I love that he smiles at me when I walk in the door, that I can make him giggle. Who knew?

If I were working I would have missed out on a tremendous opportunity for which I am forever grateful.

Recession

So the economy in Southeast Michigan has been tanking for a long while.  I always felt blessed to have a job.  Then it hit.  Mass layoff at work.  The news was delivered by a teary supervisor.  Some were let go immediately.  I got sixty days notice.

This has been tough.  I am conditioned to get up and go to work.  I still get up; but now I head straight for the laptop and search, search, search.  I don’t know where my nect job will be; but I know it’ll happen eventually. 

A fair severance package has helped.  As has the support of friends and family.  Yes, I have down days.  Thankfully, these are the exception, not the rule. 

Do I have fears?  Yes.  Are there ways to conquer them?  Absolutely.

This is but a passing storm; but we are making lifestyle changes that will last much longer than this blip of unemployment.

I am having a great time working with Bernie to come in below budget each month and it’s wonderful to actually see the results.  We haven’t lost anything, not do we feel deprived.

Just yesterday, I visited the Salvation Army Thrift Shop with a friend and came away with a pile of work-worthy clothes (with tags still on!) for $16.90.  I totaled up the tags when I got home and found that, if I had purchased the lot at retail, the total would have been over $200.00.  I love a bargain.

I have learned to make a game out of grocery shopping.  Coupons and store cards are my friends.  Yes, it takes some time; but hey, I’ve got lots of that right now.  We buy in bulk, have switched to store brands and purchase only sale items.  Our efforts have paid off to the tune of $350 in savings this month.  Are we eating filet mingon?  Heck no.  We are learning new ways to prepare what we can afford and the results have been tasty.

This situation has taught me that,while we may not always get what we want, we will forever have what we need.  And if it took me losing my job for us to learn that lesson, then it was worth it.

New, better adventures await.

Chuck

“Oh my God, save him, save him!”.

My mother’s scream ripped through the haze of a hot July evening. Seven little words spoken and my innocence was lost.

I looked out of the window and saw my grandfather lying still on a patch of freshly mowed grass, my father bent over him, hammering on grandpa’s chest in a rhythm that eerily matched my mother’s screaming.

Six years old and alone, I considered my next move. Run outside? Beat a path to the phone and follow the emergency instructions posted next to it? Cry? Scream? Bury my head in my pillow?

I don’t remember how I got there; but suddenly I was in this fray of huddled humanity. Everyone present focused on the singular task of breathing life into this hulk of a man. And then suddenly, my father began screaming at my brother and I, begging us to leave, to wait in the driveway for the ambulance.

It seemed to take forever. I only remember minutes of utter silence and then the paramedics arrived, heralded first by the wail of a siren, the crunch of its tires against the gravel. A blur of blue and white, the medics half-rolled, half carried a stretcher to the backyard and skidded to a halt.

A whirlwind of motion and voices ensued. My mother still pleading for Grandpa’s life to be spared, my father taking control of the horror and my Grandma standing stock still, eyes unbelieving but her heart knowing that her husband was gone.

Time lapsed and I found myself under the glare of fluorescent lights, being hugged hard by my grandparents minister. A man who always reminded me of a grizzly, I took comfort from his whispered prayers.

A doctor entered the room and confirmed our worst fears. I don’t remember much except a feeling of grief and an immediate undercurrent of anger washing over the space. My parents and Grandma were whisked behind closed doors and we waited while they did whatever it is people do when cleaning up the detritus of a life cut short.

Somehow, we got back home and my brother and I were tucked into bed. I had almost drifted off when I felt a weight on the side of the bed. My mother curled up next to me and said “This is the worst day of my life”. For years I wondered if she realized that I had heard her utter those words.

When I grew up, I would think about that a lot. And over time, I came to realize that it’s good to be strong; but it is just as important to admit when you’re hurting. And that is what I carry with me today.

 

Friend

February.  The month in which Americans celebrate Valentine’s Day & President’s Day.  The month in which we wait with fingers crossed to see if that groundhog will just once announce that winter is drawing to a close.  A month set aside to celebrate the achievements of George Washington Carver, Harriet Tubman and the often unheralded struggles of other African-Americans.

As this the shortest month dawns, my thoughts turn to friendship.  February may be all of the things I listed above; but most importantly for me, it is also Friendship Month.

Webster’s defines “friend” as “one attached to another by affection or esteem”.  I thought about that; but I realize that a true friend is actually much, much more.

I once heard someone say that it is better to have one or two friends than to have ten people you know.  I totally agree.  I am one of those people.  I do not just have friends, I have intimates. 

There are two people in my life whose actions have gone above and beyond that of what I would term a “friend”.  These people have seen me at my worst and even now they don’t mind having me around.  They anticipate my needs, keep my head above the water when I feel the waves crashing in on me, have been (and continue to be) a tremendeous source of strength to me.

These are friends who cooked for me when I was too tired to eat, brewed countless pots of tea to keep me warm, poured mug after mug of warm milk when my tummy was upset, doled out Tums (and even weeded out the intolerable green ones) when I felt like I might implode.

These are people who let me borrow their dog to cuddle with when I had been kicked out of my home and the thing I missed the most is my beagle in my lap.

These friends offered advice when it was sought and did not judge if a different direction was decided upon.  They wiped my tears and held my body still when it is wracked with sobs.  They had the uncanny ability to something totally inappropriate and make me laugh so hard through mytears that snorting is truly the only option.

Most importantly though, these friends listened and when questioned on something, they give thoughtfully crafted and loving responses.  It may not always be what I wanedt to hear; but I knew that it is what I needed to hear.

These two people are the reason I survived what I did and I will always love them for it.

I am proud to celebrate them here today and I hope that every person in the world is touched by someone like them.

Dear Dogs

An open letter to my Labrador and his cohort The Beagle.

Dear Big Black Dog and Little Bitty Tri-Colored Hound,

Please know that I love you very muchly.

I cannot imagine life without you.

That said, we have a few issues.

Firstly, that warm air that comes out of them there vents in the abode is not just for you.  Please cease laying wholly on top of or in front of said vents.  That stuff is a mite expensive and we’d like to share.

Secondly, we know that you like to stick to a schedule.  However, running and hurling your bodies at the foot and sides of our bed on weekend mornings has got.to.stop.  While it does guarantee that one of us will cave and get out of bed, it also guarantees that we will be ticked off about it.

Specifically for the Beagle:  No, you do not deserve a treat just for waking up.  You are not the second coming of Christ and momma needs her coffee first.

There are times when we actually leave the house.  Upon our return, please do not assume that it is supper time.  And stop with the antics.  Up to and including: a)  Barking your heads off  b)  Running in circles  c)  Blocking the entire view of the television.  d) playing the in and out game.

Again for the Beagle:  I know that you are small and that you get cold.  This might be less of a problem had you not pulled the weather-stripping from the door yeaterday.  Sit in your corner and think about it for a moment.

To the Labrador:  We appreciate that you like to play with the Beagle and are pleased when she responds to you.  Kindly remember that you ALWAYS start it and stop hiding in the corner when she stands on the stairs and barks at you.  For goodness sakes, you outweigh her by 80 pounds.  Please get over thyself.

Finally:  those things on the bed are called quilts.  I am a little tired of replacing them.  I am mortified that the people at Bed Bath and Beyond are on a first name basis with me.  Because I have to replace a quilt every two weeks or so.  You may lay on the bed, but stop the infernal digging already.

That is all.  Please take note of the above so that we may continue to peacefully co-exist.

Love,

Momma

Commercial

So, I hate commercials.  Except those old Outpost dealies involving rabid wolves, tattooing of innocents and hamster launching.

I ecspecially loathe that Billy Mays person.  Why must he yell so?  I always yell back at him to “please use your inside voice”.  Seriously, the man just riles me.  I will not buy any of his products on principle.  Bernie did once sneak some of that “Kaboom” into the house and hey, it’s pretty great.  But I digress.

So Sunday last, we were watching the Lions lose and there’s old Billy yapping his trap about some sort of burger press thing.  I commented that it looked a bit heavy and the conversation took off from there.

A:  That’s just disturbing.  It so awkward.

B:  Yeah, you could probably kill somebody with that thing.  And them burgers look mighty teensy.

A:  Oh, so I could call in to work tomorrow claiming that I was laid out because you hit me upside the head with an “As Seen On TV” product?

B:  Um no.  Because after that happened, you could just order one of those “Shamwow” cloths to stem the bleeding.

A:  Oh yeah.  And then I could close the gaping wound with “The Bedazzler”.

Good times once again at Casa Hound.

Election

I sit here listening again to President-Elect Obama’s acceptance speech, my keyboard slick with the remnants of happy tears. 

I remember sitting with my friend in a coffee shop five years ago and saying “Did you see that guy Barack at the DNC?”  and both of us remarking then that this man was someone special, someone who could change things. 

I always say that I drank the Obama Kool-Aid that day; but it’s not really that.  I am not blinded to the fact that, while he is an amazing man (Imho), he is still just that, a man.  A human, not a messiah.  And while I did get wrapped up in his campaign and did cast my vote for him, it was not because he is God-like.  It was simply because I agreed with him. 

To me, he is a catalyst for change.  Plain and simple.  The best man for the job that needs to be done now.

Godspeed President-Elect Obama.  My prayers are with you.

Rapture

I have a dilemma.  A big, messy doctrinal conundrum.

I am a Christian.  Specifically, I am a Lutheran.  I was raised in the most conservative branch of the Church and for 35 years, nothing and no one could sway me.  I went to church every Sunday, was involved in activities, pretty much planned my schedule around what was happening at church. 

Then I married Bernie.  He would attend services with me (and still does every once in a while); but we were building our life together and I was asserting my independence.  I am ashamed to say that weekly services went by the wayside. 

Then the crap hit the fan two years ago.  I truly didn’t see it coming.  One day things were okay (I knew Bernie had a drinking problem, I did not know that it had all but crippled him at that point).  I was so stunned that I couldn’t move.  Literally couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat.  God was there with me through the mess; but I couldn’t reach out to him.  I knew that people were praying for us; but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to God.  I was so ashamed.  I forgot the “grace” part of the God equation.

At my mother’s urging, I reached out for help to my church.  At that time, I didn’t know if my marriage would survive.  Bernie let me know that everything was my fault (dream on guy) and that he wished to divorce me.  I let it be known that I would honor my marriage vows; but I was told by an individual in my Church body that if I were to be divorced, I too would be excommunicated.  I questioned this with other people in authority and heard that this person was wrong to say that to me. 

As difficult as it is to admit, I haven’t attended a WELS church in over two years.  “Hi, my name is LitHound and I’m a lapsed Lutheran”. 

Time wore on.  Bernie finished rehab.  We slowly began to rebuild.  Stopped a foreclosure.  Bernie got a new job.  I salvaged mine.  Through all of this, God was there.  But again I could not approach His throne of grace.  Not even to say “thank you”.  Selfish on my part, I know.  Who else but God brought us through that?

Things were looking up for us; but I had a niggling feeling that something was missing.  I wanted church back in my life.  Through many stops and starts, I did finally find a place where I wascomfortable and yet, something was holding me back.  I would anticipate attending this church and then, I would retreat.  Literally, I would go there, sit in the back pew and leave before the Benediction.  I was still unfulfilled. 

Looking back now, I see that I was afraid.  Fear of the unknown (a new way of doing things, absorbing and trying to apply the lessons taught be someone unfamiliar to me, a switch from a very conservative Church body to a quite liberal one) kept me from embracing this congregation.

And then, I did stay through an entire service.  I was greeted warmly.  I met people.  I was invited to a Women’s Bible Study.  I attended that and met even more people.  I finally feel at home again.  I do have many questions to ask regarding doctrine, practice and the like; but I think this is it for me.

I have come to realize that one’s relationship with God is intensely personal.  No one can see into the heart of another.  And so I continue on my journey.  With a new sense of peace, a willingness to be involved and a happiness I haven’t felt in years.

I am blessed.

Rut

I love to cook.  Lately though, I’ve stalled out.  I’m just bored with my recipes or some such thing.  I read cookbooks like they’re novels and still can’t come up with anything new. 

All of this lack of motivation has me thinking about previous kitchen disasters.  Two stand out in my mind.

Firstly…

The first happened when I was in the seventh grade.  Da had undergone major back surgery and was off all summer recuperating.  DaMomma reluctantly re-entered the work force.  To help out, I began to cook healthy, well-balanced meals.  (In truth, we gorged each evening on heaping stacks of pancakes)

I decided that I needed to change it up a bit and so prepared the following menu:

Pasta Salad with Peas – No sauce, just bowtie pasta cooked a wee bit less than al dente and half-frozen peas.

Jello Pudding with Whipped Topping – Artisically presented in parfait glasses with a sprig of what I thought might be mint (actually it was mary jane that had grown through our fence from the neighbor’s backyard).  What I failed to understand was that I had opened up a box of INSTANT pudding and instead of reading the directions (hey, I’m a Daddy’s girl), I boiled the shit out of this mixture for no less than 45 minutes.  I pretended to not see the charred bits of pudding suspended in the rest of the glop, slathered each serving in Cool Whip and put the pan in the sink to soak.

My parents choked down that meal with strained smiles and I was relieved of cooking duties for the rest of the summer. And it took my mom no fewer than four weeks to get the burn marks out of that pan.

And the kicker was…

Shortly after Bernie and I were married I decided that I would make lasagna from scratch.  The key to this is to remember that I am GERMAN and we generally eat bland, boiled food (like pudding!) and so I had no idea how to use fresh garlic.  Instead of using 2 cloves like the recipe instructed, I used two whole HEADS of the stuff.  You could see chunks of garlic floating to the surface of the sauce. 

Bernie was a trooper.  He ate a piece, asked for seconds and had the shits for a week.

Now I’m hungry.  Is 5:00 a.m. too early for leftover pizza?

Levity

Today is an anniversary of sorts.  Two years ago tonight, I conquered my agorophobia.  I faced a problem.  I went to my first Al-Anon meeting.  It was fantastic.  I can’t recommend it enough. 

To sit and listen to people who have the same issues.  It’s so cathartic.  And to spill my story and have people laugh LAUGH! at me.  What great medicine.

The road there was not an easy one.  I was in a dark place.  Bernie had essentially lost his mind, told me that he hated me, was making plans to leave our home.  The tension was so thick.  I tried my best to stay out of his way; but I didn’t want to leave for fear he might harm himself, change the locks or do something else utterly crazy.

I knew we had to get him into a rehab program.  (People, what hell that is.  The whole process simply makes zero sense.).  I also knew that I needed to get help for myself.  I was seeing an addiction counselor and she suggested, no demanded, that I go to Al-Anon.

That afternoon, I was at my breaking point.  I called our local AA/Al-Anon exchange.  The woman on the receiving end of my call made me smile in a way I hadn’t for what seemed like weeks.

Listen in on the conversation:

“Hello, this is The Lit Hound.  Are there any Al-Anon meetings in the area today”.

“Why yes dear, there’s one tonight at 7 at Saint Francis Church.  Do you know where that is?”

“Yup, sure do.  Is it in the basement?”

“Oh no dear.  It’s in the RECTORY  Which is in the REAR. Oh, and be sure to go to the right room.  There’s an AA Meeting there at the same time.  That could be a little confusing for you, no?  And be sure to bring your own coffee.  Those alkys don’t like to share.”

Madone.