Marketable Skills: Calm

We live in a society of drama queens. No task is too small to bemoan, no slight too slight to take offense. When you work in the world of customer service, and let's face it, all work except politics is customer service, one of your best skills is remaining calm.

Customers show up with all manner of baggage. Their particular problem with your company at that moment is just the tip of the iceberg, and if you are not careful, you may collide with a lifetime of therapy-deserving issues with a single sentence. When this happens, remain calm.

1) Focus on the immediate problem. Ask questions, slowly and carefully, and listen to the answers. Bring all your knowledge of how your company works into the situation. How did this situation come about? This moment is not about assigning blame. Some customers will begin with it's all the company's fault; some begin with apologies for how they screwed up: neither is relevant. Your goal is to correctly identify the problem and solve it, not assign blame.

2) Slow down. Angry and anxious people speed up. Their voices rise in pitch and volume. The words pour out of them because they expect an argument, and they've geared up for the fight. You're not going to fight with them. You don't have to. You're going to calmly diagnose the problem and present them with their options. Sometimes this means letting them vent a bit, but even that works for you. Once a customer feels they have been heard, they start to calm down, too. Keep your voice level and slow. Not insultingly slow, but normal slow. If you keep your cool, the customer will join you in the Land of Calm.

3) Be genuine. When you begin practicing this skill, and you will practice it every day you live, it will feel false. You don't want to be calm when someone yells at you. You want to either yell back or slam the phone down and hide in the bathroom. You will not do either. You will breathe deeply, focus more on them than yourself, and solve the problem. You may get thanked, you may not, but you will keep your job and probably rise to manager rather quickly, because this skill is rare indeed among the Commonwealth.

One caveat. You also have baggage, and that will come into play with some customers. When your usual calm slips, it may be your own issues being triggered. Hopefully, you will be able to tag-team those cases without prejudice because of your stellar service record. However, if it happens with every phone call, I recommend real therapy and possibly a job change. You have issues.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Marketable Skills: Attitude

Imagine for a moment you're self-employed. Don't get too cocky. As the saying goes, the self-employed soon learn he works for a jackass.

However, to one extent or another, everyone is self-employed. You are your own manager. You decide how you spend your time at work. You choose to be industrious, cheerful and competent, or you choose to be slovenly, recalcitrant and vicious. If you were your boss, which employee would you choose to keep?

The Duke's Handmaid beautifully illustrates the idea of the willing slave. Is it slavery if you choose it? I'm not saying be a slave, but I am saying attitude goes a long way in making drudgery into delight. Choosing to be happy, to do your best, to treat each day as a gift from God is hard. Some days I don't feel like it at all. However, I try to keep a few things in mind.

One, God made us to work. Before the Fall and the Curse, God put Adam and Eve in the garden to tend it. That's work. Our bodies are designed to move. Our brains designed to think. Work allows us to do both. It is a privilege to be healthy and mobile. I know a lot of Friends who aren't. I don't consider work something to do until I retire. Work is what I do. It gives me a reason to get up in the morning, and wears me out so I can sleep at night. Work makes me strong, and smart. Work gives me opportunities to glorify God in other peoples' lives. Work is a gift.

Two, I chose this job. I don't live in Russia, or China. The government doesn't yet assign me a job (although all you socialists out there are trying to change that, bless your brain-damaged little selves). If I hate my job so much I'm miserable day in and day out, I need to pour my energies into finding another job. Good heavens, people, stop hanging around a place you hate. Is your life really so miserable you don't know what's like to not be miserable? *shakes head* I guarantee a change in self is the only way you'll really solve your problems, but try another job if you're not up to that challenge.

Three, I have a job. There are lots and lots of folks out there right this minute who don't. They don't know where their next paycheck is coming from, or when. I am grateful that is not one of my problems. I have plenty of others.

Check your attitude. Christians, especially, since we have so many Biblical directives on this point. Is your daily work gratifying to your Master? Do you strive to do everything for his glory and in his service? You don't have to be a pastor to serve God, and your witness in a "normal" setting can have a huge impact on the unsaved.

I serve God first, but He likes it when I do a good job for my human bosses and co-workers. Love your neighbor as yourself.

Finally, most bosses will keep a cheerful fool just because good attitudes can make all the difference in getting through a tough day. A cheerful and competent employee? That's gold.

Applaud the jellyfish.

My Dad on... Eating From Bowls

Dad was not a teacher. Mom holds that title. What I learned from Dad was mostly caught, not taught. With a couple of exceptions.

How to Eat Pudding

1. Pudding is served in a bowl with a scoop of whipped cream on top.
2. Using the back of your spoon, frost the pudding with the whipped cream, covering all visible pudding surface. Keep it as evenly spread as possible.
3. Start at the edge and scoop pudding spoonful by spoonful from the wall of the bowl inward, creating a reverse donut. The goal is to have a tower of whipped cream-topped pudding in the middle of the bowl as the last full bite. Take your time. This is the only dessert you get.
4. Lick the bowl.
Exception: if the pudding is still warm (as in, Mom made it on the stove) eat it as fast as you can, 'cause duh-am! that stuff is good. Dad never said duh-am! but he would have agreed with me. After washing my mouth out with Lava soap.

How to Eat Original Cheerios Because Your Parents Don't Want to Feed You Commercially Sugared Cereals (or Maybe Because Dad Like Original Cheerios)

1. Fill the bowl with Cheerios and milk. DO NOT fill it so full of milk that Cheerios fall out of the bowl. This is a skill to be mastered, like pouring beer without spilling foam.
2. Using the back of your spoon, dunk the top layer of Cheerios into the milk to dampen them.
3. Sprinkle sugar on the dampened Cheerios. The sugar will now stick to the Cheerios so you get sugared bites instead of having to wait to eat the sludge at the bottom of the bowl. You may sprinkle sugar on each layer of Cheerios until you are done, 'cause the sludge at the bottom is kind of the best part.
4. Drink the milk from the bowl after the Cheerios are gone and lick the sludge from the bottom.

There was a lot of bowl-licking with Dad, except in restaurants. Learned that one the hard way.

Push button. Receive bacon.

My Dad

I don't talk about him much, but he's on my mind a lot. Maybe every day. It's hard to quantify something like that because the moment you ask "have I thought about Dad today," you have.

Dad was 5'6", which means I am 3 inches taller than he ever was. His driver's license said his eyes were hazel green, but they were the blue hazel that ranged from bright blue to gray-green depending on his shirt. I have his eyes. I have his near-sightedness and motion sickness, too. I wish I had his nose.

Dad finished the basement in the old house, including a free-standing gas fireplace with a suspended hood, but his favorite medium was metal, and his favorite projects were "things with engines." He built boats, trailers, cars, docks and an airplane. Many hours of my life were spent riding in Tolbert's Toy, a barely street-legal dune buggy he made himself.

Dad loved to ski slalom, chase hot air balloons, and go to Dairy Queen for banana splits. He loved cats (although you had to catch him at it) and kids, and they loved him back fiercely.

Dad spoiled me rotten. On Saturdays, he would be up and working in the garage by 6, and I would climb into his side of the bed to watch cartoons on their bedroom TV. I could call, and he would come all the way to the back of the house to change the channel for me. He brought my teddy bear to the hospital before my emergency appendectomy, and he once brought me some pads in a paper sandwich bag on an overnight youth trip when my period showed up early, and Mom was unavailable. OK, those last two aren't proof of spoilage, but just fond memories.

Dad never talked about growing up. He had a scar on his arm that he told me was the result of a wasp attack. That I believed him shows how young I was. Mom later said it was a knife scar from a gang fight, and he was terribly ashamed of it. He probably wouldn't like me sharing that, but he's not here so I'll share what I want.

Dad was incredibly strong. Mom told me they once came on an over-turned semi wreck, and Dad climbed onto the hood and pulled the windshield out with his bare hands to free the driver. I know there were jars we had to throw away after he died because he had twisted them shut.

Dad used to drive me to school because I didn't want to learn to drive, and he saw no reason I should have to. We listened to Larry Burkett together.

Dad worked for the State. I often wonder if he ever walked outside on his lunch break, or if we would lunch together now, and I would tell him about my job, and he would give me advice. Dad had amazing tact, and a true talent for getting along with jerks. Not that I work with jerks.

Dad would have been happy that I published two books, but I doubt he would have read them. His tastes were more biographies and technical journals. Maybe he would.

I don't talk much about my Dad, but I miss him. I miss him more every year he's gone. I know he would love his grandchildren, and would make spaces in the garage for stray cats and baby possums, and chase hot air balloons and stop for banana splits. I'm glad I have his eyes, and his motion sickness, and his tact. I wish I had his strength.

I should stop now. I can hear him: You'd better quit that crying or I'll give you something to cry about.

You kind of did, Dad, but I love you anyway.

Applaud the jellyfish.

The Things I Don't Say

During my blog review, I was surprised at how many details I left out. Some of those posts are so vague, I'm not even sure what life events I was talking about.

The same with my paper journals from the last 20 years. Not that I've journaled a whole lot on paper, but when I did, they are fairly general topics, and very few names, unless they are prayer requests.

Pretty sure I learned this as an undergrad. In the therapy field, the written word can get subpoenaed, and becomes part of court history and what feels like the entire world reads it. If that isn't enough to make a person's palms sweaty, well, you're a lemming. Write whatever you want. You won't notice when it bites you.

Of course, it should have been Harriet the Spy and Biloxi Blues that taught me to keep my pen shut, but my adolescent journals are not nearly so close-mouthed. God forbid, should any of them be published posthumously, my deepest apologies to all slandered. I was a child ranting about childish things.

Why don't I destroy those? Shrug. They're part of my history. Perhaps the nieces will realize Aunt Robynn makes mistakes, too, and not just in her close-minded clinging to guns and religion. I come from critical stock. I've worked hard to prune that branch.

Fact is, I write when I'm upset, and that's a terrible time to commit details to paper. Bad enough I say things I shouldn't. Writing them down is as close to permanent as we come in this life. I don't need that following me around like a time bomb.

Push button. Receive bacon.

9.99

I read a book review, went to find the book, and - sure enough - the ebook price is $9.99.

I can't pay $9.99 for an ebook. I can't. I have 300 page print books in my library with $2.95 stamped on the cover. Yes, they were purchased in the 70's, but that's where my values are.

When I like a book, I will buy a print copy. The zombie apocalypse won't see me lacking in good reading material (thank you, Dale, for the heads' up). I won't know if I like a book unless I read it first, and that's what ebooks are for. They're the sample to decide if that story is worth $15-$20 more dollars and valuable space in my 823 square foot house. If it isn't, I only spent $2.99 to find out. That's $2.99 you the author wouldn't have had from me if you'd priced your book at $9.99.

You might say the library is where I should read books first, but I haven't stepped into our library since they installed metal detectors. If I can't bring my machete, I'm not going in. Zombies can appear anywhere, people. ANYWHERE. Call yourselves scholars, she mumbles.

The most I ever paid for an ebook was $8.99, and it was Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. I resented it deeply. Yes, I bought a print copy, and I didn't bother with an ebook for the next one.

If I ever charge $9.99 for an ebook, you have my permission to call me out for a hypocrite, and any other nasty name you care to level my way. If I won't pay it, I won't ask you to pay it, either.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Stretching and Zombie Skulls

I resumed Classical Stretch this morning.

I had to quit during my extended bout of vertigo that started over Christmas. Couldn't handle most movement for over a month. The funny thing was, during that month, my back didn't hurt. At all. Which was a tremendous blessing because I don't know how I could have lain completely still to combat the motion sickness while my back screamed at me for lying completely still.

However, my back was so pain-free, I started wondering if the stretching was causing the pain. I mean, I stretched for three months and had extreme back-pain all that time.

I needn't have worried. About a week ago, the back started hurting again, enough to wake me up at night, and follow me to work during the day, despite oils and aspirin. I'm starting to wonder if I should see a doctor. I mean, what are the symptoms of bone cancer?

TT: A co-worker asked why I thought it was cancer. "I always go worst-case scenario first," I assured her. She rolled her eyes and suggested I might start with a chiropractor.

The part that hurts doesn't even seem to have a specific name. I've looked really hard. The whole muscle is called the latissimus dorsi, but only the part that sits between that dimple in the middle of the backside and the top of my hips hurts. How does that part even get stretched?

Anyway, I have to do something physical. There is no point going into The Swamp when it's frozen, and that's where I work out my stress. For the first time, I'm wishing I had a set of weights.

TT: I did go out last night and spend 10 minutes hacking at the tree stump with my new-to-me mattock, thinking about zombie skulls (and a couple of not-yet-zombie skulls) with each chop. Have I mentioned people frustrate me?

I'm sad about how much flexibility I've lost in 6 weeks, but that's OK. I'm in this for the long haul. Like life.

Push button. Receive bacon.

An Inconvenient Life

I'm having one of those Elijah moments, when the stress has ebbed, and I'm really, really tired, irritable and depressed. I should be happy and grateful for the lag, but I'm not. I know what's coming, I know how little time I have to do things that need to be done yet keep getting pushed to the back-burner, and it annoys me.

I'm not a Type A personality, no matter what the folks at my day job think. If I were, I would have 10-15 books written at this point, and most of them published in the last three years. I try to live my work life cheerfully and efficiently, and I succeed for the most part.

Have you ever noticed how inconvenient it is to do the right thing? I use "right" here in a broad, non-religious sense. I could as easily say the "nice" thing. The paper is almost used up. The nice thing to do is refill it, but that's inconvenient, so leave it to the next guy, who has just as much work to do as you do. The nice thing is to let that car that's been signaling for a mile pull in front of you, but that could mean you miss the light and then you would miss the first 5 minutes of How I Met Your Mother, and that just can't be allowed to happen, so screw "nice." The nice thing is to pull that worm out of that puddle, but God forbid you get your hands wet and/or dirty. There are other worms. That one can drown.

People, in general, suck. Adam and Eve chose self over others, and their children have been doing it ever since. Even the first church couldn't sustain selfless giving past the first generation of believers.

I have a guiding rule about interpersonal relationships: be nice. It becomes increasingly hard to live that rule in a society of hypocrites that shoot off at the mouth about how we should all be taking care of each other yet have no problem cheating on taxes, or texting while driving, or stealing anything that isn't tied to someone's back. Don't see the problem? Then you're part of it.

However, your actions don't trump my choice. I will be nice, and you can all go to Hell in your handbaskets.

Push button. Receive bacon.

A Step Away

Somewhere in this blog I've mentioned the Gillhams, Bill and Anabel, of Lifetime Ministries. Can't find the post at the moment, but I will eventually.

Bill Gillham was a psychologist and minister, and made a career out of teaching that there is no "Old Man" after salvation, so the fight isn't between the New Man and the Old Man but between the New Man and Sin, "Sin" being an exterior personification of evil, much as Wisdom is personified in Proverbs. I'm not going to do justice to a lifetime ministry in one blurb, so I'll leave it at that.

On one of his videos, he said we always talk about Heaven being "up there" or "away yonder," but what if Heaven starts an inch above the ground? What if we walk through Heaven every single day, but we can't perceive it because we're still in our unresurrected skin suits? Would it make a difference to imagine yourself moving through Heaven as you move through your day?

Randy Alcorn makes the argument that this physical world will be resurrected, too, so we are, in effect, occupying the space Heaven will eventually occupy. I suspect Heaven is already here, but phase-shifted.

Anyway, it makes a difference to me to imagine Heaven around me all the time. I find peace in the thought that no matter what step I take, I'm stepping into Jesus, like Michael J. Fox's character in The Frighteners steps into ghosts. Only not ectoplasm-y.

I am a creature of moods, like Rosamund in The Lost Princess. Sometimes they shake me in their teeth, and all I can do is clamp my jaws shut and wait for the next mood. I've been there a few days, but I'm coming 'round. Heaven is a step away, after all. Why should I be moody?

Push button. Receive bacon.

I've Been Reading

The first month of 2016 has been a bit much at work. Three people left us for new jobs, The Powers That Be have rearranged other jobs, and I am training four people on four different "desks" (sets of job duties). I've never done this kind of training before, and my students are varied in skill sets and aptitude. Fortunately, they are all adults willing to try, and that is half the battle.

My hourly mantra, both spoken and prayed, is "we will get through this," and the proof of my enforced confidence is... we are. Everyone is learning, and adapting, and gaining competence, and the world is settling into a calmer pattern.

In the past, this kind of brain fry would involve Farmville clicking for hours in the evening, but I gave that up as being not only unhelpful but demonstrably harmful.

Anne McCaffrey's Crystal Singer kept coming to mind - the tale of a woman driven to be The Best in whatever difficult, prestigious career she could find - so I read that this weekend, and was relieved to discover I still love the book.

TT: Sometimes my younger-self feelings don't match my older-self worldview anymore, and I've lost some favorite enjoyments as a result.

I've moved to Killashandra, and will finish off with Crystal Line eventually. It's been nice to turn off the electronics - except for the blanket - crack the spine of an old scifi novel, and remember why I love Anne's style. Add some Benedryl and Bayer back and body aspirin, and I've even managed to sleep through the night two nights in a row. It's a miracle.

Push button. Receive bacon.

House of Prayer

I am a pray-er. I pray a lot. Not usually in specific, on-my-knees sessions, but throughout the day and night, an ongoing conversation with God covering requests, emotions, thanks and rants. Proverbs 3:5-6 is one of my favorite verses. I take the "in all your ways acknowledge him" part very seriously, expecting him to "direct my path."

TT: This was why it was so hard for me and him to be on the outs in the Winter of 2012. How do you stop talking to someone who's been in the room with you for 30+ years?

I take my example from Moses, who was "a friend of God." I talk to my friends, and I rarely hold back. So, I pray.

God recently reminded me he answers prayers long-term.

See, some of my prayers are immediate, like "God, I need that notebook for work. Please show me where it is." He did, btw, within minutes.

Most of my prayers are long-term, and I don't expect to see the results in this life, like "God, protect Big Brother and all of his Siblings in Black and cousins in emergency services. Protect them mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically from all that comes against them today." I have no idea how God actually does that for all the law enforcement officers in Topeka, but I know he's working on it, and I thank him every day Big Brother comes home well.

Years ago, I studied prayer under Jim Cymbala of the Mormon Tabernacle. Not personally; it was a devotional. Pretty sure he compared prayer to building a house. Houses are built one brick at a time. You don't lay a brick and expect the house to be finished. You keep laying bricks. Just because I don't see an instant result doesn't mean nothing is happening. My house of prayer won't be finished until this life is over and the next begins. God is kind to let me see results now, but he is kinder to produce results. That's why I pray.

Keep praying. Pray for the big issues and the little ones. Tell God your hopes and fears. He already knows them, so don't hold back. Our goal isn't to make God do something; it's to open our eyes to what he is doing, every day.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Wait and See

Have you heard the story of the old farmer who had a beautiful, well-trained horse? The whole village said that was good. The farmer said, "wait and see."

The horse runs away. The village says you were right, having a horse was bad.
"Wait and see."

The horse comes back with six wild horses. The village says you were right. The horse running away was good.
"Wait and see."

The farmer's son breaks his leg while breaking one of the wild horses. "You were right. Getting those horses was bad."
"Wait and see."

The kingdom goes to war, and all the sons are drafted, except the farmer's. "You were right. The broken leg was a good thing."
"Wait and see."

The point of the tale, of course, is we can't really tell what works for us or against us until the very end of the story. The meaning of each incident was affected by what went before and what came after.

My nature is to draw conclusions from facts. That isn't changing. I am learning that what seems a disaster might be opportunity, and what feels like an end may be a beginning. False expectations ruin more lives than actual problems.

I don't have all the facts. I don't know how God will use your life or mine. I only know that He has, and He will continue.
"Wait and see."

Applaud the jellyfish.

Mortgages, part 3, or The Happy Part

I got another end of year report from my mortgage company. The escrow account estimates.

See, insurance and taxes are paid out of the mortgage. At least, mine are. I don't know if that's normal or not.

All that money I've paid? I forgot a portion of it is insurance and taxes. Almost a third of the refinanced mortgage payments, actually, if my estimates are correct. That means in 10 years, almost a third of what I paid to the mortgage company was taxes and insurance, not interest. I would have been paying that anyway.

So, I haven't been wasting my time, or money, paying ahead on principal. The mortgage company isn't lying about what I've paid on the principal. That huge amount breaks out into smaller, reasonable amounts. I just had to take a couple of weeks and marinate on it.

I still wish I'd known to get a 15-yr, fixed rate mortgage with 20% down, but I did what I could at the time, and it wasn't horrible. I still have a real chance of paying this off in 3 years.

I'm not likely to ever "make the money back" by selling the house, but I never intended to sell the house. I bought this house for life. We like each other most days, and I like to think we respect each other the rest of the time.

So this is probably the last post about the mortgage for a few years, but I will absolutely let you all know when the last payment is posted.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Mortgages, part 2

So there I am with a new 30 yr, lower interest fixed-rate mortgage on the same amount of money, no PMI, paying extra on principal. Larry would be proud. I didn't know Dave yet.

I thought that was fabulous, so I put it on auto-pilot.  I met Dave, heard I'd still done it kinda wrong, shrugged it off, and lived my life for the next 10 years.

This winter, I ran some year-end reports. I do this every year, but this was the year I paid attention to the mortgage. I used a mortgage calculator from the Internet (and we all know those have to be true), and learned I might be able to pay off the mortgage in 3-6 years.

I got nervous, and excited. Could this be true? Was I really that close? I could be gazelle-intense (a Dave phrase) for 3 years, if it meant ending the mortgage. Hope in the future revived.

Then I ran some more reports.

I was stunned. HOW MUCH money had I paid on this house already?! Quicken doesn't lie, and I'm very careful about categories, so there it was in black and red. The first mortgage, the refinanced mortgage...

Where was my savings? Why wasn't the house paid off with those amounts? Were they lying to me about how much I owed? Who kept tabs on mortgage companies and how did I complain?

I got instantly depressed, then angry, then depressed again. The money was gone. I'd been duped. Again. Like Lavender Squeak, only with way more 1000's of dollars.

I ran more internet mortgage calculators and couldn't find the same results as the first one. I got more depressed as the time stretched far into eternity. Eight years feels like an eternity compared to three.

I used the mortgage company's calculator, and decided those folks just plain lie. They're like credit card companies. They probably call me a deadbeat because I pay early.

That's where I sat for a week.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Mortgages

You thought I'd moved on, didn't you? Nope. Just got real quiet while I kept worrying at it.

This is advice for the young people, who don't bother to read anyway, so I guess it's really for me to get off my chest.

I grew up listening to Larry Burkett of Crown Ministries on the radio on the drive to school. RIP, Larry. I'll hug you long and hard when we meet in heaven.

When I bought a house, I knew to get a fixed-rate (as in the interest rate remains the same through the whole life of the mortgage instead of going up and down with interest rates in the market) mortgage and pay extra on principal with every payment. I also knew to specify "principal" when I paid, so the money didn't get applied somewhere else, like interest. I knew to buy less house than the bank said I could afford because the bank is only in it to get the interest, and the bigger the loan, the more I pay the bank in interest over the lifetime of the loan.

I bought my house with a 30 yr, fixed-rate mortgage and paid extra principal on every payment. Not crazy extra but as close to $100 per month more as I could get by rounding up.

I hadn't met Dave Ramsey, also a Larry Burkett student, before I bought my house. I started listening to him years later, and it took a while for him to make sense. I get it now.

Dave says to put at least 20% of the cost of the house down in cash to remove the PMI (mortgage insurance) which is a huge portion of those initial mortgage payments.

I didn't have 20% at the time I bought the house, but God was kind, and between what I paid down with extra principle, and the house value going up, I was able to refinance in 5 yrs with a lower interest rate and no PMI.

I kept paying that extra principal, knowing the sooner I paid off the loan, the less interest I would end up paying the bank. I felt good about myself.

More tomorrow.

Push button. Receive bacon.

A Survey of...Daughter of Anasca

1. What’s your word count? Aiming for 100K. Haven't quite cut it that much yet. 

2. How long until you finish? Depends on when it gets published.  

3. If you have finished, how long did it take you?  Feels like 400 hours, but less than that, probably. 

4. Do you have an outline? I thought I did. That was most of my problem. 

5. Do you have a plot? See answer above. 

6. How many words do you typically write a day? skip, 

7. What was your greatest word count in one day? skip, 

8. What was your least impressive word count in one day? skip to my lady...

9. What inspired you to write? This one? Dare I say it? ElfQuest. And some movie involving Maureen O'Hara and Errol Flynn involving shepherds and ranchers.

10. Does your novel have a theme song?
Little John & the Band from the Robin Hood Prince of Thieves soundtrack This is the song running through my head during Dyana's fight with the boarase.

11. Assign each of your major characters a theme song.
Dyana: Annie's Song by Roger Whittaker. I can't believe I found this version! I love it!
Glorya: Love Has a Hold on Me by Amy Grant
Cahnar: I Will Be Here by Steven Curtis Chapman. I don't like this version. It's too slow, but, again, it was all I could find on YouTube. 
Spidraax She's Like the Wind by Patrick Swayze Yes, this could be Dyana's theme song, but it isn't.

12. Which character is most like you? Glorya.

13. Which character would you most likely be friends with? Glorya. 

14. Do you have a Gary-Stu or Mary Sue character? No. 

15. Who is your favorite character in your novel? Harimer. 

16. Have your characters ever done something completely unexpected? Yes. 

17. Have you based any of your novel directly on personal experiences? Not this one. Can't think of a single thing in this one. 

18. Do you believe in plot bunnies? Don't know what they are. Sound delicious. 

19. Is there magic in your novel? Two kinds. 

20. Are any holidays celebrated in your novel? Is marriage a holiday? 

21. Does anyone die? Yes.

22. How many cups of coffee/tea have you consumed during your writing experience? 4 per day on average. 

23. What is the latest you have stayed up writing? 11 PM. 

24. What is the best line? Oh, so many...
"What do you suffer in this arrangement?"
Before Cahnar could speak the word poised on his tongue, Harimer interrupted.

"Hamstring her. Height means nothing if she cannot walk."
"Thank you.That is the kind of help I want." 

25. What is the worst line? I suppose all the lines I don't giggle about.

26. Have you dreamed about your novel or its characters? Not these. 

27. Does your novel rely heavily on allegory? No. 

28. Summarize your novel in under fifteen words. There are worse things than marriage. 

29. Do you love all your characters? Yes. 

30. Have you done something sadistic or cruel to your characters specifically to increase your word count? No. I like hurting them for no reason.

31. What was the last thing your main character ate? Dyana? Poisoned fruit. 

32. Describe your main character in three words.
Dyana: reckless, headstrong, spitfire.
Glorya: cautious, determined, righteous. 

33. What would your antagonist dress up as for Halloween? Herself. 

34. Does anyone in your story go to a place of worship? Yes. 

35. How many romantic relationships take place in your novel? Two. 

36. Are there any explosions in your novel? Not this one. 

 37. Is there an apocalypse in your novel? Not this one. 

38. Does your novel take place in a post-apocalyptic world? No. 

39. Are there zombies, vampires or werewolves in your novel? No. 

40. Are there witches, wizards or mythological creatures/figures in your novel? Witches, yes. 

41. Is anyone reincarnated? No. 

42. Is anyone physically ailed? Not sure what this means. Disabled...actually, yes. 

43. Is anyone mentally ill? So very many. 

44. Does anyone have swine flu? No. 

45. Who has pets in your novel and what are they? No pets. 

46. Are there angels, demons, or any religious references/figures in your novel? Demons, yes. And plenty of religious references. 

47. How about political figures? These are princes and princesses, so, yes, I suppose. 

48. Is there incessant drinking? A liberal application of potions, yes. 

49. Are there board games? If so, which ones? No. Do have some hakisak, though.


50. Are there any dream sequences? No.


51. Is there humor? Boy, I hope so. 

52. Is there tragedy? Absolutely. 

53. Does anyone have a temper tantrum? So many. 

54. How many characters end up single at the end of your novel? Most of them. 

55. Is anyone in your novel adopted? Depends. Can in-laws count? 

56. Does anyone in your novel wear glasses? Nope. Not invented. 

57. Has your novel provided insight about your life? It was no walk in the park, I'll tell ya that.  

58. Your personality? Bits of me all over the place.

59. Has your novel inspired anyone? Quick, somebody comment! 

60. How many people have asked to read this novel? Nine? I gave it to eight of them. *evil grin*

61. Have you drawn any of your characters? Yep. Check out my website Elementals page for the little sketches. The big drawings won't fit on my scanner. 

62. Has anyone drawn your characters for you? Not to my knowledge. 

63. Does anyone vomit in your novel? Not in this one. I had enough of that with my first. 

64. Does anyone bleed in your novel? Everybody. 

65. Do any of your characters watch TV? Doesn't exist. 

66. What size shoe does your main character wear? Dyana: 5s. Glorya: 8s.

67. Do any of the characters in your novel use a computer? Don't exist. 

68. How would you react if your novel was erased entirely? I'd kill myself. After I killed whoever erased it. With a spoon. It would not be pretty. 

69. Did you cry at killing off any of your characters? No. 

70. Did you cheer when killing off one of your characters? No. 

71. What advice would you give to a fellow writer? Don't pour new wine into old wineskins. You'll end up with a mess. 

72. Describe your ending in three words. Happily until sequel. 

73. Are there any love triangles, squares, hexagons, etc.? Yes. 

74. On a scale of 1-10 (1 being the least stressful, 10 being the most) how does your stress rank? I don't understand the question. Where's my spoon?


75. Was it worth it? Totally.
Don't know if this survey was...

Bone Broth Recipe

Normal people call it "broth." That's really all it is - homemade broth.

This is my third Winter using bone broth, and I am willing to swear it's why I haven't gotten the creeping crud in that amount of time. While the rest of the office sounds like a Nyquil commercial, I'm doing fine.

I originally tried it for my teeth, but that was a bust. Turns out, it increases tartar, which is why it's important to buy antibiotic-free animals. I use chicken, but this could be done with anything that has bones. According to the blood type diet, chicken is poisonous to blood types B and AB, so those folks should definitely use something else to make their broth.

You're looking at 16 hours for this. I usually start the chicken between 10 and noon on a Saturday, debone it for dinner, and cook the bones overnight.

Chicken Bone Broth recipe

1. Cook a whole, antibiotic-free fryer chicken in a crockpot for 6 hours. Keep in mind, you'll be dissolving this sucker to ingest. Don't skimp on the wholesome goodness. Then again, you'll be making this once or twice a month, so don't be crazy, either. Don't add anything to the pot except the bird. It will cook just fine by itself.

2. Debone the chicken. This takes about 20 minutes if you haven't over-cooked the bird and you're being measured by seven animals trying to decide which would taste better - the bird, or you if you don't hand it over. Use the meat any way you'd normally use chicken.

3. Put all the bones back in the crockpot. I also add whatever skin and fat I haven't offered to the furbabies.

4. Add water. How much depends on how concentrated you want your broth, and how much space you have in your crockpot. I generally add about 6 cups. Enough to easily cover the bones.

5. Add lemon juice for blood types A, or vinegar for blood types O. The acid breaks down the bones, and that's why you're doing this.

5. Cook bones for another 10 hours. You can smash them up a bit after 5 hours, if you're awake.

6. Strain into another container to cool. A colander works fine to catch the bones and big chunks. I put that stuff into the trash because even though the bones are soft enough to crush with my tongue (I've tried it), I don't take risks with giving bones to my furbabies. The broth will form tallow on top, and aspic (jelly) on the bottom. These things all melt back into broth when heated, so don't be a sissy.

7. I separate the broth into 2 cup containers, and freeze all but one. I add broth to anything I'm cooking, and I've been known to just heat a cup and drink it if I feel I need an immune boost. You'll need to add salt if you do this.

You can add garlic and ginger to the broth for additional immune boosting, but I don't because the cats lick my bowls and garlic is poisonous to them.

That's it. If you can get over the ick factor of ripping apart a carcass, you, too, can enjoy amazing health benefits.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Not Fair

Sarah: "It's not fair!"
Goblin King: "You say that so often. I wonder what your basis of comparison is."
Labrynth

He's right, of course. Life is seldom fair, yet we all innately expect it to be. Why is that? If we evolved by chance, why do humans expect the universe to balance the scales, the "good" to be rewarded and the "bad" to be punished? How do we even define "good" and "bad"?

I generally mock those who live according to their feelings. I've asserted consistently that mind must rule over emotions. Emotions aren't bad. They are the sauce over the rice and beans of real life. But you can't live on sauce.

TT: I do understand some people process the world differently than I do, and their emotions lead them to conclusions just as accurate as my observation-based conclusions. I am not speaking of those people.

I really can't put into words how much my feelings have altered because of Heaven. Instead of looking at a budding plant and seeing its inevitable, meaningless death, I now look and see a future perfection. Don't worry, my feelings whisper. Every effort here will one day translate into beauty there. All life comes from God. No life is wasted. No life is lost.*

That reads as sort of new agey, but I assure you, I mean that one day, humans and the universe will be restored to what we should have been: physically, emotionally and spiritually. A flower that grows now has a purpose that translates into eternity. I may not understand it, but I believe it. I've always believed it, but I couldn't justify it biblically. Randy justifies it.

Now, Randy readily admits where his imagination takes over from scripture. He's not my new guru, and I don't take everything he writes as gospel. A lot of it is extrapolation, and some of it is a bit far-fetched. However, he extrapolates from the goodness of God angle instead of the meanness of God angle.

The first lie ever told was "Has God told you not to eat of any tree in the Garden?" Gen 3:1. Meaning, is God so cruel he made all of this and then won't let you enjoy it?

No. He isn't that cruel. His creation was good, and one day, it will be totally good, for all eternity.

Push button. Receive bacon.

*This has implications for those who reject Christ's gift of redemption. They, too, will exist physically for all eternity, but their existence will not be glorious. Jesus said more about hell in his earthly ministry than he did about heaven. It is also real, and terrible, and unending. Choose life, dear readers. Choose Jesus.

I Love Earth

While editing year 2012 of this blog, I accidentally republished a post from that time. If you're wondering what fixing pets has to do with playtime - nothing. Total accident. Probably. Not sure I want to dwell on it for hidden meanings.

Best to move on.

I love this earth. I feel like I'm not supposed to say that, being a Christian, but the fact is, I like being alive. Most of the time. When I'm alone. 

I like breathing. I like working hard in The Swamp. I like bugs and squirrels and the crane that visits every Spring. I don't care for a lot of stuff in the world, including tornadoes, but overall, I love the world itself. I think God did a good job making something that has survived everything we've done to it. 

For years, I've felt guilty about how much I love my furbabies. About how much I love the Kansas sky, and composting, and watching living things live. I'm told that my home isn't here, and I felt I was being unfaithful to God for wishing things could be different. I didn't want to go to a gold-paved heaven city when there was so much here that would be good if not for the Curse. 

So I lived sad, and angry, and guilty - even though I don't believe in the feeling of guilt - and I tried to confess it away or rationalize it or just pretend it wasn't true. In short, I've been miserable, and God wouldn't help me understand why He would make all this for us and then let us destroy it, and I was supposed to be OK with that. 

TT: You know, it's kind of like Lavender Squeak, now that I think about it. 

God spoke to me through Randy Alcorn. Sorry to sound corny, but that's what happened. Randy put into words what my heart has been trying to tell me for years that my mind couldn't grasp, even though I scoured the Bible looking for proof. 

Jesus redeemed the world, too. The universe also gets to resurrect, with all its skies and gardens and squirrels and whatnot. The city is one part of heaven, but heaven will be everywhere. All the universe will be heaven. A perfected universe that we can't ruin anymore. A place to work and enjoy and love for all eternity, just as I will love the One who gave it to me. Yes, creation fell when we did, but it also gets to rise when we do. God didn't abandon it. He saved it. We all get to live forever. 

I'm crying as I write this. I can't help it. My soul is coming back to life. The dry bones are turning to flesh. God is good. I just couldn't feel it. Until now. 

Applaud the jellyfish. 

Playtime

When I was young, mom occasionally sent me to my room to clean. The room cleaning was more  relocating the "nesting materials" that ended up piled around my seat in the living room or basement than removing actual dirt. I come from a family of "nesters."

Of course, I'd trudge off to my room to "put things away." When mom came in four hours later to check on my progress, I'd be smack in the middle of playing with all the stuff I'd moved.

Let's forget for a moment that "playing" is the "work" of the child, and "cleaning up" is like "stop thinking." The truth is I'd forget why I was there. One minute, I'm putting away dolls, the next Barbie-as-Ramana-the-Time-Lady would be hopping into her shoebox TARDIS with K-9 and robot Chester (my own invented character) to battle aliens on another planet.

Had the same problem last night, Day One of Final Edits on Star of Justice. After going through my usual reluctant-to-sit-down routine (I should put that coat away. And move the laundry piles closer to the machine. And at least run water for the dishes so they can soak. And I may as well make some tea and change into comfy clothes if I'm going to be sitting at the computer all night. You know the drill), I got my bum in the chair and started.

Then I panicked.

I'm not proud of it, but I had that "what am I doing?" moment I knew would show up eventually.

I don't have enough time. The book is too big. I'm going to miss something huge and be a laughing-stock. Not that it matters since no one is going to read it anyway, and I'll go down in history as "the woman whose enormous book never got read except by that guy from The New York Times who gave it an awful review."

OK, so even when I panic, I panic big.

But who should show up at just the right time? Jesus. Oh, He didn't look quite like Himself. He had big, crazy hair and front teeth like Chiclets and a tendency to leap before looking, but it was Jesus all right. I'd know Him anywhere.

So I calmed down and set to work and what do you know? Work turned into play. I remembered how much I love these characters and that's it not as bad as I feared and one bite at a time is the only way to eat a dragon, if your tastes happen to run to cannibalism.

Don't Ask

While I'm composing my next thoughts on heaven, I'll write about something that contributes to my longing for heaven.

A while ago, a friend inadvertently answered a question I've had for a long time. Why do people buy pets, and then not spay/neuter them?

I've never bought a pet. Mine all show up at my door as strays. The products of humans behaving irresponsibly. Fool that I am, I adopt them and care for them as family, but I can only do so much, and at the moment, I am past my limit. The idea of breeding more animals to end as strays that no one might care for angers me in a simmering kind of way that explodes on occasion. I don't talk about it, but it's there. It's part of the wrongness I walk through daily.

I've heard the argument about children learning the circle of life by watching a cat give birth. Unless the instruction includes the gruesome end of those kittens as coyote or raptor food, or roadkill, after a year of life on average, don't talk to me. In fact, I don't care what you're trying to teach them. What you're teaching them is its OK to be irresponsible with a life entrusted to you.

Well, this friend mentioned she advised her friend who bought a puppy to breed her to make her money back. This was a perfectly reasonable thought to her. Spend money on a dog, make money back on a dog.

What I heard was "I adopted this child. It was a very expensive adoption, so I'm going to pimp her out until she has a baby, and then I'm going to sell the baby to offset the cost of the adoption. It doesn't matter who I sell the baby to as long as they can pay. I may even keep one of the babies and pimp her out, too. And when my adopted child has finally earned her keep, I'll let her give up prostitution and be a real part of my family."

I can't tell my friend this. She would be shocked and appalled that I would think such a thing. I was shocked and appalled that she didn't.

My question was answered, but I wish it hadn't been. This is one answer I don't want to live with, but it is a perfect example of what I absorb every day. Until recently, that taint has had nowhere to go. It settled into my bones and sloshed around until being around people makes me long for death - theirs or mine, I don't care.

And that is an excellent setup for tomorrow's post about heaven.

Push button. Receive bacon.

A Lost Detour

I just finished bingewatching Lost for the first time, mostly because I tend to like Bad Robot productions. I have a few observations.

The show is aptly named. Nobody knew what was going on most of the time. Especially the writers.

Sad eyes and wistful smile aside, Kate is the most selfish and fickle person on the show. Whoever she ended up with would lose.

I've never seen a show improve so much with the deaths of three characters: Boone, Shannon and Michael. It became positively likable once they were out of the picture.

The most consistently poor decision-maker and Expert Victim status is a coin toss between Michael and John Locke.

Almost all of the drama of seasons one and two were people failing to ask Sawyer nicely for something. It was a physical relief when an actual villain showed up in season three.

TWD's The Governor remains my most hated TV villain, but he walks arm-around-shoulder with Ben Linus.

This is the only show I can think of where the show itself is a character.

I'm guessing Claire disappeared because Emilie de Ravin got pregnant and took time off from her fictional baby. Ironic.

If this were a video game, the only character with a chance of winning is Sayid.

Hurley is proof that humorous sincerity is the hippie-ride of life, taking you where you need to go and occasionally smashing through human roadblocks.

In the dead of Kansas winter, I would rather watch Hawaii-based Lost than New York-based Person of Interest, even though I like POI more overall.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Spirit vs Flesh

Spirit is good and matter is evil. This old idea finds new ways to express itself. During the writing of the New Testament, it was "gnosticism," and those writers, especially Paul, argued against it constantly. The main premise is whatever the body does has no effect on the spirit. The spirit can be completely pure, whether it resides in a serial killer or a newborn infant.

Seems someone is always trying to dilute or pollute God's truth (Can you say "Satan?" she writes in her Church Lady voice). The Bible never says the body doesn't matter. Jesus goes so far as to say if your hand causes you to sin, it's better to cut it off than go to hell because of it. That's one example. Randy Alcorn gives many, many more because one of his main arguments in Heaven is that Heaven is a physical place because humans are physical beings. We were created with bodies, and those bodies are part of what we are.

Early Christians went against culture by burying their dead instead of cremating them because they believed the body would resurrect with the person. Like Jesus. His body went with him back to heaven, even though he'd been only spirit prior to the incarnation (that's a big word for "turning into flesh). I have no issues with cremation in general because I don't think the God who created everything from nothing is going to have trouble recreating any body at his second coming. I prefer the idea of rotting in the ground until that happens because I'm a gardener and recycler, but that's likely another post.

I lived as a gnostic for many, many years. I believed I was a Christian even though I did none of the things Christians are supposed to do - give regularly to God's work, assemble together for fellowship and worship, make disciples, pray regularly, study the Bible. As long as I was saved, I didn't have to do anything more than ask forgiveness if I messed up to much.

The day my hypocrisy - that's what it is, really, to speak one way and live another: hypocrisy - came home to me, I made some changes. I resumed Bible study and prayer. I began to put my checkbook to work for God, even though the sums were small at first. I added "Jesus" to my daily vocabulary, determined that if I was ever to be beheaded for my faith, there would be plenty of evidence to convict me. I wanted to "store up my treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy."

My goal is for both my spirit and my body to serve Jesus faithfully as one unit. I want my body to join me in eternity, perfected, like I will be. I'm going to need it. I hear there's a garden, and I want in on that action.

Push button. Receive bacon.

More Thinking About Heaven

I rarely thought about heaven. I've read the Bible, maybe four times all the way through, and way more for certain sections. Pathetic, yes, but I think of it as an area for growth. I've read the obvious heaven parts, in Revelation, mostly, about New Jerusalem: big cube founded on twelve precious stones, gates of giant pearl, streets of gold, river in the middle, yada, yada.

I believe John is being literal. I don't read this as poetry. I expect New Jerusalem at first glance will match his description.

I'll be honest. Never cared for the idea. I don't like cities, or crowds of people. Don't care about golden streets or jeweled foundations. The Tree of Life has possibilities, and I always figured the sea creatures would live in the big river, since there's no more sea. On the whole, I accept that God made this city I'm supposed to be happy about, and it's probably more interesting than it sounds, but I figured He'd let me visit, and I could make my home somewhere else on the New Earth that New Jerusalem comes out of heaven to land on.

I'm not alone in this attitude. Most people have an idea of heaven that is either based on that brief description by John, or by completely ridiculous church traditions that have more to do with Renaissance paintings than Biblical accuracy.

No wonder it's easier to focus on day-to-day life. Who wants to live forever walking around a golden city in between church services?

Enter Heaven by Randy Alcorn. He scoured the entire Bible looking for glimpses of Heaven, and he found them. In the law, the psalms, major and minor prophets (so nicknamed for the size of their books, not their relevance), the gospels, and the epistles*. Almost every book in the Bible has something to say about heaven and what it will be like. We've just failed to look for it.

And those glimpses... well, it's got the Turtle thinking about heaven. Happy thoughts.

Push button. Receive bacon.

*If you're not familiar with the jargon, flip open a Bible or google "Bible table of contents." "The law" refers to the first 5 books of the Old Testament, "the major and minor prophets" start with Isaiah and end with Malachi, "the gospels" are Matthew through Luke, and the "epistles" (or "letters" start with Romans all the way to Revelation, which is prophecy.

Thinking About Heaven

I feel almost back to normal this morning. Thank You, Lord. The vertigo dance gets old before it starts. I'll keep up the symptom treatment for a while, just in case.

I promised to write about Heaven by Randy Alcorn. It's unlikely I'll use just one post, but I have to start somewhere.

The book is a long exhortation about how heaven is a physical place, and a physical, resurrected Earth will be part of it. If Randy is to be believed, this is not normal thinking among Christians of his vast acquaintance. Hence, the book.

I'm a Biblical literalist. I assume the meaning is literal unless context indicates otherwise. Jesus goes out of his way in the gospels to prove he has a body when he comes back from the dead. Randy lists those passages, so I don't need to.

If I have not always believed in a physical heaven, I no longer remember when I didn't. It makes perfect sense to me that a physical, resurrected Jesus should exist in a physical place. He didn't shed his body after resurrection. He told us he is the firstborn from the dead, and we'll have bodies like his after we are resurrected.

This is one of those moments when the Turtle publicly displays how insane she is. Except I find it more insane to claim a written set of beliefs (I am a Christian) and then not live according to them (I don't do any of the things Christians are supposed to do based on their holy book). I believe the Bible. I don't always understand it, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. So, yes, I believe Jesus is both God and man, that he really died as a man, and that he really came back to life by his own supernatural power as God, and because he did, I can, too.  That is the foundation of my beliefs. Someday, we'll all find out if I'm right.

I've run out of space, but that's the gist of Randy's book. I'll cover why I'm reading it later.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Stupid 7 Habits of Highly Effective People

As I was reviewing this blog, I found my problem.

April 1, 2011. Apparently, I was reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (curse you, Dave Ramsey, for the recommendation! or was that the year we started a book club at work?) and somewhere in there, it recommends being passionate about your work.

TT: Maybe it was Rabbi Lapin's book. They covered some of the same areas.

Anyway, that seems to be the moment I decided to start mastering my job instead of just being a pleasant, dependable employee. I did quite well, too, up until the moment I quit.

ARGH!

How was I to know how seriously I would take this new life tack?

When I started my new job at the state, I quickly mastered my assigned duties, and moved on to mastering other things in the office. I asked questions. I looked for problems and ways to avert them before they became my problem. My new boss wasn't big into telling me what to do. She wanted us to discuss options and synergize (my word). Well, the turtle is nothing if not willing to play by the rules, so I ran with the new rules of "figure it out" and mastered it. Perhaps too well.

My work motto for the last year is "be the solution, not the problem." As in, don't tell me all the ways you think you're thwarted. Tell me what you can do. Then do it with cheerful efficiency. Why are you talking to me about it?

In short, I now think like management. It's a real bummer. But it has led to my other motto.

No employee is paid what they're worth. They're either overpaid, or underpaid.

Good thing I'm not motivated by money.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Vertigo

Every once in a blue moon, I suffer from vertigo. I think of it as "motion sickness I can't stop." I'd have to check Quicken to remember the last time I had it because I went to the doctor. He couldn't help me. It went away eventually, but it was a long, miserable month of wishing for death.

This is my fourth day of vertigo. It is improving because the attacks are mostly limited to the few seconds after I sit up. If I can remain vertical, the nausea subsides and I can slowly, carefully, uprightly move on with my day. By evening, I'm mostly normal. Until I lie down.

If I remember correctly, last time I changed my diet to mostly rice and ground turkey to help with the nausea. I've already started that.

My back is killing me. If I can't bend, I can't stretch, and the turtle shell is screaming. This entire situation is somewhat intolerable.

TT: Within the last couple of years, I have finally realized "you can't survive everything." It was a sobering thought, and it surfaces more often than not nowadays.

Once upon a time, my allergist told me that sinus runoff causes nausea, but the best way to deal with it is to get up and get moving. The nausea will subside. He was right, and I've spent most of my adult life out of bed because of that advice.

But I can't just feel urpy and not try to fix it, so in these hours since Sunday when I'm trying not to move and staring at the ceiling, I consider my options. I'm taking Claritin during the day and Benedryl at night to dry up the brain pan. I'm avoiding wheat like ebola.

And I'm going to clean the basement with hydrogen peroxide, vinegar and baking soda (not all in the same bottle). I have fifteen year old wooden pallets down there that have been flooded every Spring, so it's a good bet the Black Death is growing under them despite the dehumidifier and fans. Mold is my only real allergy (although it's plenty, let me tell ya), and it may be seeping up through the vents at night to kill me.

Besides, the floor is concrete. If I start puking, it'll be easy to clean.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Goodbye, 2015. You Were Wrong

I don't mean wrong as in right vs. wrong. I mean wrong as in "unsuitable or undesirable." I tried very hard to get along with 2015, but my feelings say I hated it.

The weather was wrong. Too much rain, too many clouds, too mild. No wind, except for the severe weather threat (meaning strong tornado chance) every 7 days starting in March, taking a brief break at the end of September into October, and ramping back up with tornado outbreaks from Thanskgiving through Christmas. That's insane. Normally, I catch a break in winter and summer to recover from from my tornado issues. No break this year.

The social climate was wrong. Everybody's upset about something and bitching about it at the top of their preferred social media. Can't get on the computer without reading about who hates what, or who's being intolerant or how suicide and gender-swapping surgery are admirable, and if you disagree, you're a bigot and deserve to be beaten with a rubber hose.

My attitude was wrong. I spent the first five months of the year furious, and the next three grieving. Thankfully, God reminded me about forgiveness, so I've been working through all that, but strong emotions take a toll.

My body was wrong. My back has twinged before, but this year it decided to become a full-blown weather barometer, and I've had to adjust my definition of pain. My mouthpiece stopped working for reducing jaw and neck pain, which is fine because the crown made it impossible to wear anyway.

A few good things happened, mostly in the last three months.

Forgiveness, for one. That's a daily exercise, but totally worth it.

Daily exercise is another. I found Miranda's Classical Stretch in late September, and I'm growing longer and more flexible all the time. Days started with stretching are good days.

As a result of the increasing hostility on Facebook, I quit Farmville and limited FB and computer game time. That has made such an improvement in my overall mood and cognitive capacity, I strongly recommend all my Friends start reducing their online and/or gaming time and see what happens. I'm almost convinced that my general depression was being fed by too much mindless computer time.

I now have a line-of-sight end date for the mortgage payments, which gives me a short-term financial goal and a wary hope for the future. It also gives me something to work toward for the next 3 - 6 years, and I like that idea a lot.

I started reading Heaven by Randy Alcorn. That book has made such a dramatic impact on my mental state, I'll likely devote several posts to it. Next year.

In short, a few good things crammed at the end, but mostly drawn-out, emotionally exhausting wrongness. Not my favorite year.

Goodbye, 2015. Let's not call each other.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Blog Review

I've noticed a few things as I've been reviewing this blog.

I usually post when I'm cold and unhappy in the dark of Winter, occasionally upset by current events. If I'm too upset, I don't post at all because I don't want Mom thinking I'm suicidal.

The fact is I was suicidal once, and I never will be again. I'm not chemically unbalanced, and my life is lived on the melancholy side of things. It doesn't bother me anymore. Not in a kill-myself way.

I do have an obsessive bent. Blogs topics focus on one thing for two weeks to a month and move on. Thankfully, I have the self-control to not obsess with money on a new thing. If I can hold off buying for one month, I usually snap out of it and move on. Things that stick with me longer than that are life habits. The Blood Type Diet (11 years this January), cats, excelling at my day job. Essential oils and "natural" living (like bone broth) are the newest at slightly over two years, but they've stuck.

I want to add "writing" to that list, but I've almost decided to give it up. It doesn't make me happy, and I've chronicled my growing aversion to the task over the last four years, using every excuse in the book for why I have trouble producing. On the other hand, I've written stories for most of my life, and perhaps one "season" where my writing happens more at work than at my home computer isn't a failure. And it has definitely been happening at work.

I'm not nearly as detailed as I thought I was in this blog-journal. In my quest to avoid unprofessional TMI, I've left even myself wondering what I'm referencing on some of these posts. Something was going on, but I can't for the life of me remember what the fuss was about. That's probably good. Do I really need to dwell on past unhappiness when I have a whole world of future unhappiness to anticipate?

Finally, I worry. A lot. That and pride are my big Jesus-working-on-it issues. They're kind of the same thing. Pride says I can control everything in my life. Worry says I control nothing. A kind of inner tornado that never lets me rest.

Ah, well. If I were perfect, I wouldn't still be single.

Push button. Receive bacon.

I Hate Waiting

I spent yesterday waiting for the winter storm to arrive. Woke up at 2:47 AM and waited to hear if the storm would affect when I had to go in to work (it did), and now I'm waiting to go in to work.

Normal people slept through the night, woke up just enough to hear "work delay" on the TV or radio, and went back to sleep for two more hours.

I'm not normal. I can't go back to sleep once I wake up, especially if I'm waiting for something to happen. Not only did I not sleep after 2:47 AM, I can't take a nap until I have to leave. So I blog.

Reading through this blog, I realize I've been waiting for a while. Years. At least 20. Not sure exactly what I'm waiting for, but I suspect it's the end of the world. I've pretty much expected the world to end in my lifetime, and I keep being surprised it hasn't happened yet. It's why I never wanted to marry. Why I never wanted human kids. What's the point? The world's going to end.

I go through the motions of living. I bought the house. I published two books. I keep a job so I can feed the furkids. I mean, if I'm wrong and the world doesn't end, I have to live. I'm not willing to kill myself.

But it's just motions. None of it means anything to me. I have no sense of accomplishment. Just the waiting.

Paying off the mortgage has become my "next step" goal. Something to keep me occupied while I wait for the end. Not the best goal, maybe, but it has possibilities.

Anyway, happy Monday. If you're lucky enough to be normal, enjoy your life. Never know how long you'll have it.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Vomiting Cats

I said on Facebook I was tired of vomiting cats. What I meant as an adjective reads as a verb. I was (jokingly) advised to stop eating cats.

Little Brother and I have been fighting over his weight. For nine years, he's been my Chunky Monkey, and the struggle was to keep his weight down to something between 19 lbs and 15 for what is a 13 lb body frame. This year he seems to have developed chronic pancreatitis, and the struggle is to keep food down and his weight from dropping like a dead sparrow. His last weigh-in was 12.3 lbs, and I'm doing everything I can to keep it there, including giving him Pepcid daily, moistening his food, and feeding him six to seven times a day in smaller portions so he doesn't throw up. When he feels good, he beats up Caleb. When he feels bad, he's better behaved. Not the best punishment-reward cycle for keeping him healthy.

Miss Kitty has joined the vomiting crowd, mostly because she wants to eat her entire daily intake at breakfast, and her tummy isn't big enough.

Skuttle has projectile vomited weekly all her life, but because she's very overweight, it's hard to get a vet to pay attention. She should be a 10 lb cat, but she's probably 13 lbs with a pouter-pigeon figure. Even when I do get some weight off, only her waist gets smaller. Adding a splash of water to her food right before I serve it has helped slow down her eating and slow down the vomiting, but it hasn't stopped entirely. I suspect there's something wrong with her intestines, like a kink that would require elective surgery to find and unknot. That isn't going to happen.

Add Skamper and Caleb, who also eat too fast and too much, and some days I am cleaning up everything I've just fed them fifteen minutes before. Those aren't good days for any of us. Especially at $70 a month for prescription food.

But this is my hell. I chose it. I have no business being upset about it. I have eight years left with Simon at best. Less, if I can't get him stabilized. That thought brings no comfort, either.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Why I'm Too Old to Go to Theaters to Watch Movies

I said I'm too old to go to the theater to three different people, and all three asked "What does that mean?"

Theaters are too loud. I don't live my life with earbuds implanted in my aural canal at volumes intended to melt my brain. I don't need Dolby surround sound for anything that happens on screen. I resent surround sound in real life. It keeps me awake. Even if I take ibuprofen before going in, I always leave with a splitting headache that lasts the next 24 hours.

Theaters are too cold. The kind of cold that requires a coat, and a face mask if I thought I could get away with it and not be shot for a terrorist. I don't like being cold, and I don't like shivering in the cold for two and a half hours in summer. I have this problem at work, too, but I get paid to be there.

Theaters are too crowded. I don't like to be jostled. I don't like stepping over or around people. I don't like people bumping into me as they step over and around me. I am not a rat on a sinking ship. I will not tolerate feeling like one. Addendum: sitting absolutely still to avoid touching my neighbors exacerbates the back pain I will automatically generate by sitting for more than an hour. Ibuprofen doesn't prevent this, either.

Theaters are too sickly. When was the last time you went to a movie someone didn't cough through? Usually the someone right behind you. Not that I can hear them. I just feel the spray.

Movies are too high-flying, twisty-turny, upside-downy camera work. Seriously. Think of a recent movie that didn't have at least one scene where someone dangles from "fill in the blank" while the camera flies all around them, presumably on the back of a deranged fairy. Add the "shaking" of a hand-held camera (a pox on The Blair Witch Project for that little indie affectation) to up the excitement level, and my fellow patrons will get more half-digested popcorn excitement sprayed on them than they bargained for. I've spent good portions of movies with my eyes closed to avoid motion sickness.

Movies are too dependent on the special effects or soundtrack to be enjoyable with my eyes closed. Guardians of the Galaxy, the last movie I saw, is a perfect example of a so-so movie made ridiculously popular because some people can't get over the 70's. I was over it the minute I was born in it.

Finally, it is too expensive. I am not willing to pay $11.50 for a matinee show where I will be yelled at, frozen solid, alternately pummeled and stretched on a rack, exposed to Typhoid, nauseated and bored for three solid hours.

When I want all that, I can ride the bus to work.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Colossal Failure

The Guest Room didn't work. Twice I awoke to Caleb pawing at the door with enough force to rattle it in the jam. It was just as irritating as him sleeping on me, and he seemed to take his new quarters as undeserved banishment.

To be fair, I don't know if the second awakening at 2 AM was because of Caleb, the furnace kicking on, or the pain.

The furnace now regularly comes on at night because the furnace guy said keeping it much lower at night than during the day was hard on the machine. Well, not lowering it at night is hard on me because I wake up from both the sound and the sudden flush of heat. Maybe I can close the vent before bed.

The pain wasn't just my back but everything connected to my spine. My feet, my hips, my back, my shoulder blades. Even my crowns. Which doesn't make me happy because the next step for those are more expensive root canals. I'll be putting that off for the mortgage's sake as long as possible. I finally got up around quarter to 3 to slather pain lotion on myself. I think I slept a bit after that before the alarm - and Caleb - woke me up.

Shouldn't the stretching be helping with the pain? Isn't that the point of exercise, to make me healthier? Are the exercises causing the pain, or would the pain be even worse without them?

This is the fourth time this year my pain levels have been there. The first three came before weather fronts that did not lead to severe weather for my area, btw. I haven't been watching TV so I don't know if there's a system moving through or not.

Miranda says being fit doesn't stop back pain because she's flexible and strong, and she still suffers. I guess this is just the way it's going to be for the Turtle.

I'm annoyed about the guest room. I wanted to move the other cats upstairs in the winter, but if Caleb without claws can keep me awake, what would six cats with claws do? Sorry, Jackson Galaxy, I don't have 12 days to go without sleep while they get trained.

Push button. *yawn* Receive bacon.

The Journal of My Life

Caleb has a better than 50% chance of sleeping in the guest room tonight. At least 3 times I awoke from a sound sleep to a 19 lb cat squeezing me off my twin bed. Even when I shooed him to the foot, he was creeping back up to my shoulder before I fell asleep again. With my new back issues, I have to be able to roll over when the pain starts, and I can't do that when he's occupying my space.

Our agreement is he can stay upstairs at night as long as he acts like the dog he's named for and let's me sleep. If he can't uphold his end, I see no reason to uphold mine.

I started rereading my blog from the beginning, adding spaces between paragraphs for easier reading, and, yes, correcting spelling, even though six years ago I said I wouldn't correct stuff. I'm sure I didn't mean spelling.

I didn't know what I would do with the space six years ago. I have come to appreciate it for the journal it is. I don't share a lot here, because some things are too private or too unprofessional to puke onto the internet, but, for the most part, this is me working stuff out by writing it down. I don't really care anymore if anyone else reads it. I'm not giving advice to anyone but me. I'm not trying to spark discussion, because I've found most written conversations on the internet to be extremely uncomfortable and prone to misunderstanding.

I'm just trying to cage a few thoughts before they're gone forever.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Hump Day

This year is rapidly spinning to a close, and I'm glad. I've tried very hard to get along with 2015, and all it's done is give me colossal wedgies. Fine. You'll be dead soon, and I will dance on your grave.

I'm training two people at work on two different jobs. Neither of these jobs is my job. I just know how to do them, and I know how to teach people. I am fully capable of training with grace and accuracy, and occasionally humor. However, the last two nights I've awakened from dreams where I'm doing some endlessly repetitive work task. Meaning, my conscious mind isn't feeling it yet, but my subconscious is telling me to take it easy or I will blow an artery.

Happily, I've felt no desire to return to Farmville. I've not immersed myself in solitaire, bubble spinner, TV or chocolate. Instead, I've classically stretched, I've resumed writing, and I've added an official prayer time to my day, in addition to my regular conversations with God when I'm alone but doing physical tasks that don't require deep thought (like driving, dressing, and walking). I'm petting and snuggling cats rather than yelling at them.

So far, my jaw, neck and back pain have not increased, and I'm not using any pharmaceutical pain management.

Consciously, I'm doing what I can to manage stress. God will have to manage the subconscious.

Applaud the jellyfish.

A Turtle Tale

After everyone ate dinner, I opened Scrivener and found a place to start writing. I added maybe five sentences. They're garbage, they took an hour of procrastinating to write, but they're something. The story moved forward. Then I went to bed.

Once upon a time, I wrote. All the time. I kept a paper notebook and a laptop handy and I used both constantly. I never finished anything, but I started lots of things. I wrote my million words. That was twenty years ago.

I got a job, I bought a house, I adopted a couple cats. I stopped writing because I was busy and exhausted and I never finished anything. What was the point?

One summer I had some time, and I was curious if I had matured enough to finish something. I wrote Star of Justice. A monster book that poured out of me in a few months (and then got polished for years). I finished it. I felt like a genius, and a real writer, and I was satisfied.

I wrote Daughter of Anasca. It was much harder, but I did it. I felt like a genius, and a real writer, and I loved my second book as much as my first, although in different ways.

I tried to write the next book, but I couldn't gain traction. I couldn't pick a plot. My new job took far more energy than my earlier job. My couple of cats turned into a demanding clowder, and they didn't like it when I wrote. I remembered how obsessive I was writing my books, and I didn't want to fall into that pit again, even though I have no reason not to because everyone else I know is moving on with their lives without the Turtle.

I stopped writing. For years. I let my brain atrophy with computer games and weekend TV commercials.

Last night, I started writing. It was hard. It felt horrible. I didn't like it. I did it anyway. I'm going to keep doing it until I have a crappy first draft that I'll shove in a drawer for a year while I write the next crappy first draft.

Somewhere in there, I hope I start enjoying it again. Or maybe the world will end and save us all. Might as well write while I'm waiting.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Cutting the Cable

I have proved to myself that too many hours of computer games is bad for the Turtle. Went overboard yesterday morning, and by 5 o'clock, I was irritable, depressed and apathetic.

I play games when the TV is on, or I turn the TV on when I want to play games. Probably chicken and egg. Except for The Walking Dead and The Librarians, during which I never do anything except watch, I'm not actually watching TV. I'm listening, and I have a radio for that. I also don't watch new shows because CBS canceled three shows in a row after three episodes each years ago. I learned not to trust networks or their audiences. 

I don't DVR. If I don't have time to watch it when it airs, why would I have time later? With Cox's switch to all digital, I'm paying full price to watch one TV when I'm home. It makes no sense. 

I'm steeling myself to give up cable TV. I got it when the government forced all TV off antenna channels because The Swamp gets no reception for the new kind of antenna, and my weather issues require access to TV during bad weather. On the other hand, the more paranoid station in this area has moved most of its weather coverage online, so I may be able to do it. 

I've heard Cox had a basic, basic package of just local channels in 2012. I don't know if they still offer it because their website blocks any service less than I have now. Whatever. I know where their store is, and I'm not afraid to use it. 

Friday is the day I will either downgrade to local channels or remove TV altogether from the Turtle household. I can use that money to pay off the mortgage faster, and avoid the temptation to fry my brain cells on the weekends. That's a win-win. 

Applaud the jellyfish. 

Dangerous Hope

Now that the initial terror of an emotionally measurable end of the mortgage has ebbed ('cause we all know it will be back), I'm getting a little excited about the possibilities.

Excitement makes me nervous, and not in the synonymous way. Keeping my expectations low is what keeps the Turtle happy with life. I'm a born cynic, after all, and I can make the return of Christ a gloomfest if you give me half a chance. The moment I make actual plans, life will smack me with a 4x4 (such as Lavender Squeak the Van), and I will not pass "go" and collect my $200.

However, since life will progress until I die, I may as well have a sketch for the future. I'm already considering how to shave down that six years without eating beans and rice, or cats.

There are only 3 things to do with money: save, spend and give. A balanced life does all three.

Save: Without the mortgage, I could get my retirement up to 15%. I could get my emergency fund to what I consider fully funded. Dave Ramsey says everyone has a "security gland" that begins secreting anxiety when certain things happen, like the emergency fund being too low. I haven't yet experienced what I consider the "right amount" of emergency fund. I suspect six months of expenses in cash would do the trick, but I don't want to be greedy.

Spend: I could vinyl-side the house. I could build that screened-in porch I crave, and maybe add a foot or two to the kitchen while I'm at it. I could take friends to lunch and pay for both of us, or bribe the nieces to visit me. I could be a Realm Makers sponsor and force them to come to Topeka for a conference.

Give: I could give equally to my current charities, and maybe add one or two to my monthly giving instead of just what I can manage here and there. I could give spontaneously to those opportunities I hear about on AFR, or be that anonymous matching donor for pledges. Who doesn't want to be that anonymous donor?

Well, we'll see how life goes. No point getting too excited. Something horrible is bound to happen and screw it all up.

Happy Friday! Push button. Receive bacon.

Glimmers

I stopped Farmville a couple weeks ago. I have no concept of time, so I'm a little fuzzy on the when. I also drastically reduced my bubble spinner and solitaire time, aiming for no more than an hour during the week and an hour or two on the weekends. No point giving up one thing to replace it with something equally bad.

I did this because I was worried about my brain on constant computer games. I noticed the day after a solid day of playing games was an irritable, weepy, pain-filled day. Took two years to notice, but I blame the self-induced decline of my mental facilities for my lack of perception.

The increasingly depressing and volatile Facebook atmosphere finalized my decision. Have you noticed how angry Facebook is lately? Everybody's upset about something. Where are all the funny cat videos? And I mean funny videos, not people scaring cats with cucumbers.

I backed away. Time to remember my computer is for writing, not "push button, receive bacon" stimulus-response. I want my brain back

TT: Y'all do understand the "push button, receive bacon" thing, right? It was one of those amusing sign manipulations about the hand dryers in restrooms? I'll have to find the thread and post it.

I resumed blogging, unless the morning just gets away from me as mornings sometimes do. I've been reading books instead of turning on the TV. I'm currently reading Randy Alcorn's Heaven, which would explain my numerous references to the Cursed world. It's rather soothing and hopeful overall. Helping me rebalance my bleak perspective.

Anyway, last night... I picked up my WIP (laughable designation since I haven't progressed in a year) and typed the outline into Scrivener. I didn't get any farther because the Spawn of Satan I call furbabies all decided to come see what Mom was doing and stop it immediately. However, I did something. More to the point, I wanted to do something. My brain is waking up.

Push button. Receive bacon.

The Wonder of Vitamin D

I'm a sunshine girl. That's why God put me in Kansas. I don't care if the sun is "up there somewhere" behind a mile of clouds. If I don't see it, it may as well not exist.

Three years ago I learned about vitamin D - the sunshine vitamin -, but the lesson didn't stick because 2 years ago I forgot about it and turned into one of the non-Reavers by January. You know, the ones who stopped. I scared a few co-workers and one boss before Mom reminded me about vitamin D again.

That's what life with no sun does to the Turtle. It qualifies as "depression" if you use the dictionary meaning of being squashed or flattened, in this case by never-ending cloud cover. It doesn't qualify for the mental health definition because, while I quickly pass through irritable and weepy, I always land at an emotional dead zone of zero energy. I'm not actively suicidal, but I'm also not actively alive. Life without sun is pointless.

TT: There is a DSM-IV diagnosis for such a state, but the DSM books are coding manuals for how to bill insurance while treating a client, so I don't take them seriously most of the time. I don't take much seriously anymore.

Vitamin D doesn't cause euphoria. It doesn't replace the sun, or make me want to see it less. It does allow me to continue living. I get up and move around when I take it. That's a miracle.

The recommended dose is 5000 IUs a day. It is possible to overdose and cause liver damage, but you really have to try. I started in October, and I haven't lost the will to live yet, even through that seven day ice/rain storm at Thanksgiving.

Kansas winters have been gloomy and snowy in the past years. I believe this is a cyclical occurrence, not global climate change, because I remember winters of my childhood being gloomy and snowy, but not winters of my twenties and thirties. What goes around comes around. Of course, I'm also willing to believe it is the birth pains of a world nearing the end, and that works, too. I'm tired of living in a Cursed world, as tired as Rand when drawing on a tainted Source (Wheel of Time reference there).

Good thing I have that vitamin D.

Push button. Receive bacon.

The Number of Man

Every year or so, I evaluate my financial goals. I've learned not to do it more often because either 1) I get depressed, or 2) I seem to trigger a universal "you're not allowed to get ahead" reaction that causes my plumbing to go south within a month. When it happens enough, I can be taught.

If my math is correct, and we all know my hate-hate relationship with math, there is a reasonable chance I could pay off my mortgage in the next six years. As in, own my own home free and clear.

This terrifies me. Seriously. Weight in the pit of the stomach, trouble breathing, hard to concentrate on anything else fear.

I should be thrilled. From the day I signed those papers, I've paid ahead on principal deliberately to shorten the life of the mortgage. I got rid of PMI early by refinancing so I could pay that amount on principal instead. I know that if you only make the "scheduled" payments, you end up spending way more for your house in interest than most people ever think about. Like up to a third or half of the loan over 30 years.

TT: I wasn't listening to Dave Ramsey when I bought this house, but I followed the advice of his mentor, Larry Burkett of Crown Ministries, to buy a 30-year, fixed rate mortgage with a payment I could easily afford (not the loan the mortgage company is willing to give but far lower) because houses create their own expenses. Had I known Dave at the time, I would have lived in a low-rent apartment without animals and saved every penny until I could either buy a house with cash or pay half in cash, finance the rest for 15 years and pay it off in 7. Sounds impossible, but people do it every day. Just not the people on those home shows we all love to watch.

Six years is a third the life of a cat. It's a first grader. It's the shelf life of a Twinkie. It's just not that long. But a lot can happen in six years. I could lose my job. I could suffer a serious disability. The house could get hit by a meteorite.

Worse, I could actually pay it off, and have what I've wanted since I started listening to Dave Ramsey - that mortgage payment available for other things, like retirement, charitable contributions and new sneakers every year.

Going back to the first paragraph, I can be taught, and what life has taught me so far is anytime I come into money, I run headlong into an expense that takes that money away. I should be grateful that God provides a way to meet my needs without debt, but I worry. I worry about what I will need that mortgage payment for in six years.

Randy Alcorn says we don't get to know security in this life because it would prevent us from relying on God. If that's true, I should expect my life to be one continuous struggle after another.

Maybe the jaw isn't nausea after all.

Push button. Receive bacon.

PS. Randy Alcorn was quoting C.S. Lewis from A Problem of Pain. Gonna have to reread that.

I'm Not Rigid; I'm Nauseated

Yesterday morning was so chaotic, I didn't get a workout, and I felt it all day.

This morning, I decided to join Miranda's "zero-impact cardio" workout to make up for it. I believe this is the same workout I tried two months ago and nearly puked five minutes in. I decided at that time it wasn't my lack of fitness that caused the nausea, but motion sickness. Cardio without jumping means a lot of rotation of the body in the same place, and that is bad news for the Turtle.

So, this morning, while trying to keep my head absolutely still while spinning the rest of me, it hit me. I'm not rigid; I'm motion sick.

I live my physical life by two rules: 1) Eyes forward. 2) Don't change the angle of my head.

If you suffer from actual motion sickness - and aren't just using that excuse to sit in the front seat - you know that the fastest way to empty your stomach is to turn around and look behind you while moving. Or glance to the side. Or, change the angle of your head while moving so your ear fluid is no longer level with the horizon. The severity of your condition chooses under what circumstances these rules come into effect. For me, it's any time I move. I've actually caused an attack by tipping my head back too far while lying down.

I puked my way through life for 13 years while my friends' parents threw me in the backs of their 70's station wagons on the way to somewhere. When the inevitable happened, sooner rather than later, and spoiled everyone's trip, I wasn't invited back. Which is fine, because I don't want to hang with people who don't believe me when I tell them something so crucial to my own well-being, such as "If I don't sit in the front seat, I'll throw up."

It's no wonder I've developed neck muscles that lock my head into an "eyes forward, head level" position. It's self-defense. The wonder is that it's taken me this long to realize it.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Stress Release

Yes, I promised an AT&T rant, but I'm not in the mood.

This morning, Miranda and I did a "stress release" workout that left me impatient and annoyed. I didn't want to breath deeply for two minutes, or align my spine for five minutes, or any of the stuff she wanted me to do. I wanted my stress released now without all the silliness. I did not feel calmer at the end. I felt like I'd wasted my time.

One of the reasons I'm staying away from computer games is this growing impatience issue of mine. I have wondered too many times in the last couple of years if the ease of "click" to reshuffle, or "click" to harvest, plow and plant is creating some kind of instant gratification expectation that real life can't meet. When expectations aren't met, frustration results. And yelling. And neck pain.

My turtleness includes patience - unless it's food-related, then get out of my way because I will hurt you to reach the buffet table. This loss of patience has me flummoxed and, naturally, impatient with myself.

This year I have had trouble breathing. More than once I haven't been able to "fill my lungs" enough, for days at a time, unless I open my mouth. While it might be a deviated septum, it's not asthma, or heart issues. I'm perfectly healthy, and have no trouble working in The Swamp, even though the mold out there should have killed me a long time ago. I believe this shortness of breath is a pre-pre panic attack kind of thing, an early warning system that I have to get my stuff together before I lose it in a real way.

Please forgive me as I dabble a bit in nonsensical eastern philosophy stuff for a moment.

I did a (very) little research into chakras when I started with essential oils, mostly because while I was familiar with the concept, I wanted a bit more general knowledge. I took a test that told me my yellow chakra was blocked. That's the energy one that relates to breathing and living life. A block here can result in rigidity and failure to enjoy life. Sounds familiar.

I learned this after I was noticing my breathing issues, so it isn't a self-fulfilling prophecy kind of thing. While I don't intend to find a guru and spend my life under a baobab tree examining my navel, when I start hearing the same thing from multiple sources, I try to listen. Two physical therapists have told me I'm too rigid. This test told me I'm too rigid. My own body is telling me I'm too rigid to allow breath into my lungs. It's a problem.

Adding daily exercise is step one. Reducing computer game time is step two. Practicing breathing may have to be step three. 'Cause life only gets worse, and I'm not one to take Valium.

Applaud the jellyfish.