A Tale of Two Cats

I intend to blog about Simon Theodore, aka Little Brother, aka Uncle Simon, aka The Paw, but before I tell you about him, I have to tell you about the First Cat of the Turtle Household.

Once upon a time, the Turtle had only one cat. Her name was Timmi, and she would tolerate no competition.

Some of you may be wondering about Sugar, but she was a fursibling, not a furbaby.

Timmi came from the vet, and originally from the VA. She had been adopted as a kitten from a lady who died shortly thereafter, and the family intended to have her put down. Nice family. She stayed at the vet's for 3 months before I adopted her at six months old. Yeah, real nice family. Her one redeeming feature was a long, fluffy tail.

I am a sucker for a fluffy tail. Timmi lived before smart phones, so I have very few pictures of her. She wasn't terribly photogenic anyway. I drew a lovely one and finished it in marker. This is what her soul looked like.

I hear Big Brother laughing at me.

Timmi was a snuggler. She wanted to be carried around like a baby, and she slept in my lap whenever I sat down. Much of Star of Justice was written with Timmi in my lap.

Timmi was a sickly cat. Around seven years old she got sick enough to stop eating, seriously enough that the liver got involved and I resorted to a feeding tube until she recovered. She used up all nine of her lives before she was done, and I am convinced that on one occasion God miraculously healed her.

Eventually, her colon stopped working, and there was nothing more to be done. Somewhere around the age of thirteen, Timmi took the Long Step and broke my heart. I think this happened in late 2004, early 2005. I'd have to check my records and I don't really want to.

I had been mourning her sickness and dreading her passing for years. I had no idea how hard it would be to lose her for real until it happened.

A house with one needy cat became a house with no cat at all. I came home every night and wept for hours, pretty much every time I sat down and she wasn't there.

Mom needed to break up her two stray Siamese sisters, so Toffee came to live with me (after an unsuccessful re-homing attempt with a former neighbor). Although Toffee was needy, she was no Timmi, and the crying continued. For months.

Then, in July 2005, came Simon.

Disappointing Books

Thanks to MTV's (who would've thought?) The Chronicles of Shannara, I'm rereading Terry Brooks' Sword of Shannara and Elfstones of Shannara. I first read both of these somewhere between 10 and 14 years old (I know I read Lord of the Rings in Hawaii when I was 12, but I can't remember if these came before or after that). Barely remembered Sword, so I'm thinking I read it once and Elfstones more than once.

Sword is... well, it reads like a first book. Lots of unnecessary words. A more than passing resemblance to Lord of the Rings (Elder Brother was less kind in his opinion on that). Omniscient POV that irks. In short, a good story made harder by less than stellar execution. If I can finish this second read, I won't pick it up again.

Elfstones was smoother, as happens when a writer continues to hone his skills. I hadn't realized how much Star of Justice pays homage to Amberle Elessedil, who was my favorite character.

I'm also rereading Mansfield Park by Jane Austin. I say "rereading" only because I find evidence in my copy that I read it in 2008. I have literally no memory of anything from the book. If it weren't my handwriting in the margins, I would swear I'd never even seen it before. Since I'm halfway through and unable to find a single character I like, I'm not sure I'll finish it, either.

I remember loving the Arrows of the Queen triology by Mercedes Lackey when I was young (although her Companions were a total rip-off of Anne McCaffrey's dragons). I reread it as an adult and threw the books away because the writing was so poor. I'll never read anything of hers again.

I wish I was able to pick up a book and just read it. The books I finish anymore are rare. Too much effort for too little reward. I find myself wishing the author would just leave these people alone and let them live out their little lives in peace and quiet. Hardly the stuff of legends.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Prayer Garden

A little over two weeks since the election. The amount of time it takes most New Year's resolutions to fall by the wayside. How are you doing?

My prayers have slacked a bit. Could be the holidays. More likely, I'm not used to endurance prayers.

When I wrote Daughter of Anasca, I was studying prayer as taught by Jim Cymbala of the Mormon Tabernacle*. If you didn't see it in the story, you weren't paying attention.

Now I'm reading Destined for the Throne by Paul Billheimer, originally published in 1975, revised in 1996. Hardly new thoughts, but new to me. I don't know that I agree with all the conclusions but I do agree - emphatically - that intercessory prayer matters, and the state of our world is a sad reflection of how seldom and how poorly Christians pray.

When God doesn't answer my prayer of the morning by dinner, I'm inclined to believe he didn't hear me. I forget that God is a God of timing, not just time. His timing is perfect, and his plans always blossom at the perfect moment.

I have a medicine bag given to me by a former boss with a feather bead on it. I was told certain tribes believe their prayers are carried to heaven on smoke and feathers, and the bead is the symbol of those prayers. While that is a beautiful image, my prayers aren't smoke that vanishes. They have substance.

TT: The "search" feature on this blog stinks. I know I've written about this before (House of Prayer), but it won't pull it up. I had to go straight to Google, and found results in the top five.

Prayer builds on itself. Choose your image, or perhaps the image changes depending on the prayer. Prayers become a house, a wall, a ladder. Or a garden. I like the garden idea. Some prayer is the hardscaping, some the plants, some the fertilizer. What if my prayers really do create a garden in heaven, a place I will one day walk, and recognize, and rejoice over? If that happens, I want that garden to be as big and beautiful as I can make it, not a tiny, feeble chicken-scratch patch of dust.

I decided before the election to pray. I haven't changed my mind. I don't stop eating because I miss one meal, and I won't stop praying if I miss one day. That prayer garden means too much, and my world needs those prayers too badly.

If I'm hearing mainstream Christian media clearly, and it's mostly what I listen to, this urge to return to prayer is something God is telling us to do. It's showing up in too many places as the exact same message to think otherwise. We are God's church, and his Spirit calls us to oneness. Is it too hard to believe that oneness should be in purpose first, i.e. to turn to God and pray for a change in the hearts of his people and the unsaved?

Pray, Believer. Pray for God to call us to oneness, as he is one. Pray that he limits the evil that runs so rampant, and strengthens his children to produce good fruit in accordance with his will. Pray that demons are bound, and their prisoners are set free in Christ. Those are my top prayers.

May God bless you and keep you and give you peace.

Keep the faith.

*A friend pointed out I meant "Brooklyn Tabernacle." Yep. That's the one I meant. Hard day, folks.

A Stay of Execution

That sums up my feelings on this election.

Worldview-wise, I am a traditionalist. I believe in a supernatural Creator of awesome power, who designed me specifically to serve and worship him by choice. I believe the Bible literally, except in those instances where it specifically tells me it is being figurative. I am a conservative, who supports the Constitution as written, and the Republican platform as written. I believe there is nothing new under the sun, and sin for every generation is the same-old story in new wrapping paper.

I believe the vast majority of people have no idea what they believe or why. When confronted with questions about how they arrived at their views, most flounder about and walk away confused or retaliate with meaningless cliches. I've done a little of that myself when confronted with completely new thoughts.

TT: I'm still mulling the whole "Holy Spirit as she" issue, but I cannot reconcile it to my worldview. I won't argue the gender of a spirit, but I also have no need to find my "femaleness" in my God. I'm made in his image. I don't need part of him to be female to make that true, and referring to any part of God as "she" summons images of Gaia and Isis and paganism. Sorry, ladies. I'm a female male chauvinist. I don't see that changing.

I was prepared for a Clinton win. I believe the Supreme Court decision legalizing unnatural marriage was the death-knell of America as I knew it. I know that anti-Christ rules a one-world government that cannot emerge until America is dead.  I know we have sacrificed our firstborns at Molech's altar thanks to Roe v. Wade for 40 years. I know we practice adultery and fornication under every spreading umbrella of a free wifi coffee shop. We are Judah before the exile, and who better to lead us into destruction than Jezebel?

My prayers before the election were for God to sustain his children and allow persecution to purify us of all unrighteousness. There are many today who say "Lord, Lord" who do not know God, and more importantly, are not known by God. Persecution separates sheep from goats, and American Christians are long overdue to suffer for our faith.

My hope before the election was that God would be merciful and give our nation a little more time for the homeschoolers to grow up and take over. I believe he granted that hope, and a day later, I'm as surprised that he did as I am every time he relents over Israel and Judah and gives them another chance.

A day after the election, I see the most ungrateful, corrupt, self-involved flesh-worshippers in the history of the world acting out the temper-tantrums of undisciplined children. I see those who should be buckling down in repentance for our apathy, and mourning for the lost, instead crowing over a worldly victory. Why God bothers with us at all is a continual question for me. But it is not my place to question God's reasons. It is my place to not squander the time I have been given.

So, whether Trump turns out to be Nebuchadnezzar, Cyrus or Josiah, I will step out boldly. I will pray daily for God to move the hearts of his people to be actual salt and light instead of a freshwater lightshow of pick-and-choose paganism with a Jesus-flavored coating. I will pray for the hearts of our leaders to turn toward the people they represent, instead of their own glorification and enrichment. I will pray for the heart change that must come before an end to child sacrifice. I will pray for God's truth to spoken and lived, his whole truth, that he is both loving and just. We have forgotten the "just" part, and one day soon, it will devour us whole as he gives us over to the depravity we are determined to indulge.

My hope is not in this world. My hope is in Christ, now and always.

Keep the faith.

The Continental Divide by Tommy Nelson

Yes, I agree with him, and with his right to speak.

The Continental Divide by Tommy Nelson

Fast and pray for our nation.

Prayer Updates

Toffee has resumed eating. In typical cat fashion, she doesn't want the wet food the vet specifically recommended but the dry food she has eaten for most of her life. It is certainly cheaper and easier to feed her dry food so I'm not complaining. I'm also hoping she doesn't read this blog and change her mind.

(She's on the table while I type, so I'm good for now. I don't think she knows my computer password.)

Simon has decided he likes the wet food. I do not believe he will ever go back to dry. I have accepted this and open can after can because at least he's eating and not throwing up.

Second Dad's situation is not good. It will take an honest-to-God miracle for his physical healing, not a thank-you-God-for-medical-breakthroughs miracle, which are amazing in their own right, don't get me wrong. I believe in supernatural miracles, so I have no doubt such healing can come. Second Dad is optimistic as ever and determined to do what he can to help with nutrition and vigilance.

I've already reported on Swamp progress.

The work situation is entirely in God's hands, and I pray for serenity, courage and wisdom. I thank God for his daily grace and provision.

I am grateful for your prayers, and for God's mercies. I don't know if I can say I'm at peace, but I have found a place of calm acceptance for the time being. I am taking one day at a time with the knowledge God is already in the future and I'm just walking toward him.

Can I pray for you this week?

Happy Thursday, dear readers. God will meet you where you are.

Forty-Five

I tried to write this last night, but I was too tired to make my fingers move. Don't believe me? I went to bed at 6:15 and mostly stayed there. Each time I did wake up, I applied pain relieving oils, so this morning was easier than expected.

Getting a code violation for weeds is not only frightening; it's insulting. There were weeds, yes, but not enough for a code violation, and the "brush pile" was a compost pile. Years of work completely failing to look like years of work grates on my artistic sensibilities. Of course, a sense of betrayal and paranoia creeps in as the time passes. Who is watching? Who am I trying to convince? Should I cave and conform, plow it under and settle for hated grass?

A week without another violation letter or fine has helped a bit, although knowing that such a letter could come produces a sense of dread with each approach to the mailbox. My trauma is a small-scale version of Second Dad's battle with melanoma. When will the next bout begin? Should I fight? Do I have a chance of winning? I have screwed my courage to the sticking place and decided to see the violation as a wake-up call. I have been slack this year. I do love my yard, and spending time in it, even if Hippy Neighbor Down the Street stares at me while he smokes.

(He's the one who sound-proofed his house within a week of moving in because he "plays the drums." Should I ever vanish, check out the house three to the south and the long-haired dude living there. My parts may be in his basement. My soul will be with God.)

My birthday happened this week. Forty-five. Close to paying off the mortgage. Wondering what the future will hold. If I had a husband and kids, I'd be ready for a mid-life crisis, but, really, how many of those can one person have?

In continuation of my birthday tradition, and with some need since my Leaf Hog died last year, I bought a Predator 6.5 hp gas-powered chipper-shredder. It was on sale; what could I do? I will no longer have compost piles that can be confused with brush piles. I can once again steal other people's yard waste with impunity. I doubt the 3 hours of break-in time was supposed to happen on the same day, but it did. There is something cathartic about turning dead things into life-giving things, and I could use a little catharsis.

A big Thank You to Younger Sis for helping with assembly, which turned out to be a two-person job when one person not only doesn't have the right tools, but has the finger-strength of the average chicken (Chickens don't have fingers? Yes, that's the point). Also, many thanks to Big Brother and Little Sis for getting it out of the van. Elder Brother was at his day job, or I'm certain he would have come, too.

I need to purchase additional tools for maintenance purposes, again proving that every major purchase leads to minor purchases. I also need to watch a few more YouTube videos of men using this machine. I do not test limits, but men seem to live on the principle of "what exactly can I shove into this before it breaks?" My horizons expanded, I can tell you. Had I watched some of those before assembly, it wouldn't have taken three hours to put the kickstand on.

In all, a good vacation, full of physical activity and very little mental effort - the exact opposite of my day job.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Hope you put your trash out.

God's Answers

Have you been praying? I have.

Second Dad's appointment in Texas was cancelled because it was with the wrong department, and scheduled for next month. One of my prayers was that God would make the path obvious, close the wrong doors and open the right ones.

As we prepared for next month by scheduling other tests and biopsies here, Second Dad went into the ER with a severe kidney infection that would have incapacitated him while they driving to Texas. He was in the hospital with his regular doctors for all his tests, and one of them was able to perform plastic surgery during the biopsy to repair the head damage from the removal of the melanoma.

While they were there, MD Anderson rescheduled them for next week, so the travel plans are back on, and God remains in control.

Toffee started eating again, although she's off again thanks to her vet visit. I'm waiting for her test results now.

I spoke with the city code officer, and believe I have solved the issue to everyone's satisfaction. I will find that out tomorrow, too. On a side note, I'm used to The Swamp hating me, but it's never gone so far as to try to get me jailed. I may have to reconsider my plans and turn the front yard back into stupid, unsightly lawn because that's all stupid, unimaginative people can understand. I do not speak of the code officer, but of the person I believe turned in the code violation.

The cough abates slowly. I fear I've damaged myself permanently, but it's a bit early to beat that drum.

The work problem is with God. I have no solution.

In short, God is listening, and He is acting. I will continue to pray, and I hope you will, too. Jen S., I'd love to know how things are going with you.

How can I pray for you this week?

Applaud the jellyfish.

The Prayer Cat

This is Toffee. She's 16 (or so). She was a bully in her younger days, although she's become the victim as she has aged in a house with five other cats. She chews her food, and her jaw makes startlingly loud grinding noises while she does. She loves to be petted, her meow sounds like nails on chalkboard, and she wets outside the litter box when she's upset. I try very hard not to upset her.

She is wired wrong in the head. Her eyes don't work quite right, although that doesn't stop her from climbing The Heights. She's the cat who fell on me and my burrito one lunch hour last year. The scars are still visible on my right hand.

Like all animals that aren't wired quite right in the head, she has enjoyed remarkable health. No tartar, no diseases. She even missed out on the flea epidemic of 2007.

A week ago, she stopped eating.

Well, not stopped, exactly, but her volume fell to maybe 20 nuggets a day, 5 per meal. Cats, unlike dogs, will not eat when they get hungry enough. If they stop eating, they don't start again, their livers shut down, and they die. It's a mess.

I had a can of wet food left over from someone else's momentary freak out, and she ate it. I had that conversation with myself that no one thinks I have: the "am I willing to do X or is X too crazy/not worth it?" argument usually had between spouses.  I drew my line and got more wet food. Being a cat, she stopped eating it as soon as I got a two-week supply.

I learned she will eat it - as long as I sit right beside her and pet her the entire time. This morning was 40 minutes to eat a third of a can. To maintain her weight, she needs a can and a half a day.

This is ridiculous. I cannot spend an hour and a half each day coaxing a 16 year old, ashamed-to-admit-not-my-favorite-cat to eat. I have been less than patient the last couple of days while I again had that "am I willing to do X?" argument with myself with new parameters. It's not like I just have to be in the room (the separate room closed off from the five other protesters living in this house who also want the new food stuff). I literally have to sit quietly next to her while she licks the bowl clean, petting her when she slows or gets restless.

However, the one other thing I can do during those times is pray. I can pet while I pray, and I certainly have an hour and a half's worth of things to pray about lately.

We go to see the vet Saturday to make sure there isn't a medical reason for this. I suspect it's the stress of too many houseguests too close together that threw her off, and I should be grateful she's not wetting outside the litter box.

I can't do this forever, but I can do it for a while. Long enough to see if she'll pull out on her own or is just ready to take The Long Step.

Just call her The Prayer Cat.

Push button. Receive bacon.

My Week in Prayer Requests

Been one of those weeks when the hits keep coming. I'm asking for prayer. Let me know how I can pray for you while I'm closeted with the Big Guy.

The hard stuff:

Second Dad was diagnosed with melanoma. He and Mom are on their way to MD Anderson for additional tests, prognosis and possible treatment.

I was served with a city code violation for -get this- "weeds, annual grasses and vegetation more than 12" tall." Since 95% of my yards are spring-blooming perennials more than 12" tall, I can only assume the code officer doesn't know what those look like. I have until Sunday to appeal, "correct" the problem, or face $499 fine and 179 days in jail for non-compliance. I'll be calling today for more details on the situation.

I have a problem at work that I am both responsible for and completely unable to control that has made my eyes numb from stress for the first time in three years. It won't kill me, but it's trying.

I now have two cats turned finicky eaters: Simon and Toffee. I am about ready to kiss them both good-bye and let them starve to death.

The cough is back. I believe this is week eight, but, frankly, I'm too tired to count.

The good news:

The weather is supposed to be nice until Sunday. I have a handy friend with a chainsaw and a chipper who is helping me tidy up (since I doubt the garden awareness of the code officer, we're trying to make it look more like what people expect to see in a garden instead of my "prettyish little wilderness").

I have super, supportive bosses who are ultimately in charge and act like it.

I've lost 5 lbs and the desire to eat, so the cats and I can starve to death together in a final bonding ritual.

All the house guests are gone home. I'm hoping this will solve some of the not-eating issues.

The cough mostly shows up morning and evening, so it doesn't keep me awake and doesn't interfere with work.

Thank you for your prayers. Let me know how I can pray for you.

The Power by Frank M. Robinson

I haven't coughed in 3 days. Last night, I start coughing again. Back to hot honey and lemon juice, which are not doing my teeth any favors, let me tell you.

I watched The Power with George Hamilton and Suzanne Pleshette as a child. IMDB says it came out in 1968 (before I was born) so I probably saw it on HBO sometime in the early 80s in my preteen years. I have a vague memory of writing fanfic about it, although that might be mixing it up with Scanners, another telekinetic thriller that left an impression and an obsession with movies starring Michael Ironside. I was young enough not to notice the movie was based on a book.

Amazon now sells The Power as a DVD, so in my very recent rewatch, I learned about the book. Amazon also provided a dealer of the unrevised 1957 version so I didn't have to cope with the "updated" 90s version that has come out since. The reviews were disappointed in that one, and preferred the original.

I hate revised books, btw, even when its the author's idea. You published; it's out there. Cope by writing another book if you're that unhappy.

Normally, I like the version I encounter first. If it's the book, I like the book better. If it's the movie, I like the movie better. I'm torn on this one.

I liked the book a lot. It was tense, dark, logical and tightly written. I didn't mind where the movie varied. Some made a lot of sense - the removal of Marge as a companion, for one, which added to the tension. Even knowing how I expected it to end didn't make it boring, because there were enough differences I wasn't sure it would end the same.

It didn't. It ended as most early scifi ends, on a sour note.

I like the movie ending better. I suspect, in the future, I will treat it as William Goldman treated the end of The Princess Bride as read by his father. Don't know what that means? Read the book. It's good, and the movie makes a lot more sense after.

I have two other gripes. First, the protagonist is "Jim" in the movie and "Bill" in the book. I have no idea why, and it annoys me when names get changed for no obvious reason. Maybe George didn't want to play a "Bill." Second, a tendency to run-on sentences. Should I read it again, I may just add a few semicolons in my copy.

Those are small, very personal gripes about what was otherwise an interesting adventure, so I give the book 5 stars.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Spoiler: A dog is killed in this book. Normally, that would make me close the cover, pitch it in the trash and never think on it again, but, frankly, I could see it coming, it wasn't dwelt on, and it didn't seem to be thrown in just to get me upset. I've moved on with my life, but I'll understand if that's too much for you.

The Layers of Friendship

Growing up, I was a one friend per year kind of person. I had one specific friend in school, and one specific friend outside of school (only because she attended a different school). I ignored most other people, and tended to ignore my friends except during those specific "school" or "play" times.

I was not a nice child.

In college, I learned about variety in relationships, specifically proximal friendships, meaning you're friends because you're in proximity to each other. Most friendships fall into this category, btw. Close when physically close, and separate when separated. These can be intense relationships, but they rarely outlast a change in distance.

I've made deals with several friends since learning this. We will never recriminate on why we've fallen out of touch. Each meeting will begin with the enthusiasm of a dog greeting an owner, no matter how much time has passed. It works great, as long as you really mean it. Which I do.

When I think the word friendship, though, I think of something more. That C.S. Lewis definition of "What! You, too? I thought that no one but myself..." A similarity that goes beyond working in the same office, or attending the same Sunday School class. A similarity of worldview.

I have tried to expand my friendship base as an adult. To be friendly with those not like myself and enjoy our differences. It is useful to measure life against a different viewpoint, and one of the benefits of a true friend is enough difference in perspective to keep conversation interesting.

However, some perspectives are just too different. I may love, admire, respect a person, but if the differences in our worldviews are too pronounced, they move out of the friendship circle into the proximal friendship circle. This may be a sudden shift or a gradual decline.

I have heard friendship likened to a well (although maybe a money jar is more accurate). A friend must contribute to the well before drawing out. If more is drawn out than put in, the friendship cannot last.

In a perfect world, I could be friends with everyone. I could handle all differences and never find opposing viewpoints toxic. I do not live in a perfect world, and I am far from perfect. I do not find comfort in contention. I will do my best to minister daily to the world around me, but my friends enjoy a special, peaceful, pleasant place in my heart, and I will seek them out for that reason.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Finish What You Start

I can't say this enough.

It isn't an issue for all writers (or people, for that matter). Some exist who write a story, give it a good once-over and publish that sucker. I can't rightly say I admire that, but I can say they're on the right track.

Some of us agonize over every word. We neglect story for the art of implementation. Every day, sometimes in mid-sentence, we see ways the story could be different, better, deeper, more lyrical, whatever. Yes, my daily experiences add layers to my thoughts like rings on a tree, but that doesn't mean every story has to be the sum total of my entire being. It's not possible.

A newspaper is old news before it hits the stands. A story is the same. It's a snapshot of my desires at the time of writing.

Make an outline. Write quickly in whatever style you prefer. Follow the outline when the muse isn't musing, and make something happen when you're bored. The goal is to finish this story. I recommend stuffing as much melodrama as you can manage into your first draft because emotion is what makes most readers read, and it's nearly impossible to add emotion later.

The young writer laughs at the thought of not being able to write. When I was a youngster, you couldn't keep me away from the keyboard. But you also couldn't make me finish a single story because I got bored and wandered off to the next exciting thing.

Now I am old. An old woman with a dozen half-finished ideas that keep getting in the way when I'm trying to write something worth reading. Had I finished those when I was young, I would know them for garbage and move on. As it is, I keep puking them up and stalling on the chunks.

Sorry. Hope you weren't eating breakfast.

Finish what you start. It is worth the effort.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Cats and Litter Boxes

When you wake up at 3:38 thanks to a full moon, and check FB on your phone app, and see that a Friend posted something meant to be funny that instead triggered your uptight-over-zealous-cat-mommy gland, you don't comment on the post and ruin the joke. That's rude. You write a blog post to relieve your angst.

Here it is.

If a cat pees outside its litter box, either 1) the cat is sick, or 2) something in the environment is causing severe stress for the cat and needs to be addressed.

Cats are generally fastidious creatures who prefer cleanliness more than you do. This is why they burrow into clean laundry, sprawl on freshly opened newspapers, and plant themselves in sanitizing sunlight. It only takes one or two tries to litterbox train a kitten, and if they miss, it's because they were too far away when they realized they had to go or they couldn't manage to get into the box.

Make sure the cat isn't sick. Cats generally don't drink enough water, so urinary infections can happen, requiring antibiotics. It could also be a sign of kidney failure, and that means the death of the cat, and you should treat them with respect until their last breath, you callous scum. Keep lots of clean, fresh water available in different sized bowls at various heights in the house (and NEVER put food and water next to the litter box. Would YOU like to eat where you crap?). I always use glass bowls because some cats can get "black acne" from plastic. I use wide bowls, brandy snifters, fish bowls and plant cache pots. I like the shapes and all of my six cats seem to like drinking in different ways.

The easiest solution for most peeing issues is to add a litter box to another area of the house. Older cats, like older people, have to go NOW, and they may not make it if the box is stashed away in the basement or a door gets closed accidentally. It's also nice when you clean the box regularly. If you're having trouble getting all the clumps out, imagine how hard it is for the cat to cover its business. A smelly box is generally an overflowing box. The general rule of thumb is one box per cat, plus one. This is because some cats will guard the litter box and not let other cats use it. Where would you go if a bully blocked the bathroom?

Cats are sensitive to their environments, and when a cat gets upset, peeing can be the first sign. New people or pets in the house, a change in schedule, a change in litter or food: just about anything can cause anxiety depending on your cat. Do some research and find a way to help the cat adapt. My Cat From Hell offers a lot of advice on this subject (I can't watch much of it because I want to beat most of those owners to death for being selfish morons).

Use your brain before you start screaming. Cats, like people, don't come right out and tell you what their problem is. They expect you to figure it out. A good cat parent does, and fixes the problem rather than the blame. A bad cat parent takes the cat to the shelter to die, or kicks it outside to die. I hope all bad cat parents burn in Hell, but I admit I am not rational on the subject of cat care.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Too Adult?

I've often complained about how dead my inner child is. I blame graduating from college, and all that "life" that happens afterwards. You know, the part where you work really hard to improve your circumstances until you can afford all the things your parents used to pay for (for all the lemmings out there, that's how it's supposed to work).

Anyway, I've noticed a trend in my TV viewing habits, possibly because I'm watching things that went off air before I was born or hit puberty. Rather than just watching the show, I want to know about the making of the show. I'm going to IMDB daily for research. Was The Virginian shot in Wyoming? Where did they get the cattle? Were they used multiple years or did each batch go off to slaughter after filming? Did they boast in line about getting hog-tied by Doug McClure or James Drury? Were the same cowboys or cowboy footage used in Bonanza? The High Chapparal? The same guest actors show up in all the shows, oftentimes as different characters in different seasons, so the same could happen with the horses, too, right? Although, the horses seem as distinguishable as the wardrobes. Does anyone else get tired of the men wearing only one set of clothes for 9 to 14 seasons? The coats I understand, but the same shirts and pants? Was that a budget decision?

What was NASA's position on I Dream of Jeannie? They can't have been pleased with Roger Healey.

Are these adult musings? I used to be able to watch a show and follow the story. Or maybe these shows don't have stories, so I look for the stories about them. Maybe this is the resurrection of my inner child and her relentless questioning.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Pain Is Pain

I've kept my pain comments to a minimum this year (if you don't think so, you aren't living in my body). Until this morning. This morning I received permission (in an odd way) from a Friend I identify as the most long-suffering of the chronic pain sufferers among my Friends (although I doubt I know how many such Friends I have).

She started a conversation about how pain is different for everyone and there's no point comparing pains. It had an Apostle Paul quality to it. I haven't posted this year because of all those Friends who hurt far more and far more often and far longer than I have (according to FB, this is Year 3). It feels insulting to them to gripe about my pain when theirs is likely worse.

However, there is no comparison. Pain is pain. The same way I would never mock someone grieving the loss of hamster because it isn't a person (my inclination with such mockers is to punch them in the throat). The grief is the salient point, not the supposed worthiness of the cause of the grief. Besides, I would grieve a hamster more than most people.

So I'm going to write about my pain this year this once, and then fall quiet again.

Here's something I also grabbed from my Friend:

Four years ago, I fell on my left knee on my driveway in early Spring. It began bothering me at the first Realm Makers conference in St. Louis. I believe that was four years ago. I remember clearly because the 4 hour drive there set it off, and I prayed I had enough ibuprofen to get me home. The drive home was torture, even with ibuprofen.

The knee has flared ever since, but two years ago, my left jaw began to hurt in a way my tooth splint didn't correct. Although not debilitating, I was desperate enough to seek physical therapy, which cost over $800 and failed to help in any significant way other than to confirm I'm too rigid and need to relax.

I began Classical Stretch last autumn, which did help me relax, but has not lessened my pain. It taught me to keep moving through the pain, and that was valuable because the pain increases. In addition to my knee and jaw, my back has joined in. Nearly all the time. I cannot lie down for any reasonable length of time. I've found myself considering the purchase of a recliner, which I hate, because it might hurt less than my bed, which is adjustable. I'm grateful for insomnia because it means I don't wake up in more pain than I laid down with.

January was the last time I wasn't in pain every single day, and I suspect that was because January had no weather fronts to speak of.

Have I exhausted every medical recourse? No. I haven't even sought an official diagnosis of arthritis because I don't know where to start or how much money I want to spend to get one. Do I take meds every day? No. Some days I'm willing to power through because the pain is only a 3 or 4, and I don't want to ruin my liver or become victim to the law of diminishing returns over that. Some days, I have to take drugs to keep the pain at a 3 or 4.

I find myself wondering if OxyRub or OmegaXcel really work like the infomercials say, or whether there'll be a lawyer commercial in 5 years telling me to call for the payout because of some horrific side-effect the FDA didn't know about. Then I wonder if the side-effect is worth it for 5 years of no pain. I wonder if my insomnia is really night pain I've almost gotten used to.

Have I become a chronic pain sufferer? I guess I have. Grandma Turtle lived the last decade of her life with debilitating rheumatoid arthritis, and never once did I hear her complain or snap at anyone. I hope I can live up to her example.

Mom heard about a stem cell pain treatment center in Manhattan, and I've requested an application for consideration. I have plenty of fat cells for them to harvest. We'll see how it goes.

That's all I have to say about that. For now. For all of you who hurt, too, I'm sorry. I'm praying for us.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Still Writing

I've added another 5 pages. Five pages in a month isn't much, but it's more than 1 page in a year.

My aim is one to two sentences a day. They don't have to be good. They just have to be story-relevant. I can write them at any time during the day. I've taken to leaving my WIP open where I left off, so I can write the moment something occurs to me. If I write more, great. If I don't, I've at least got my two sentences.

I have a lot of reasons writing has become so hard. The cats are an automatic initial six reasons (literally as I write this sentence, Skamper picks himself up from the floor across the room and stations himself between me and the keyboard with his enormous fluffy tail directly in front of my face. ARRGH!). I have trouble pacing myself at work, so little brain is left after hours for creation. I've found The Waltons and Bonanza on INSP from 6-8. Doesn't matter. Two sentences don't take that long to write, and INSP commercials are long and frequent.

Editing is easier than fresh writing. Maybe you aren't old and weary enough to know this. Good for you, whippersnapper. I, too, was young once, and I never believed the words would stop, either.

Finish what you start. Once sentence at a time.

Applaud the jellyfish.

I Am Writing

Naturally, the moment I excuse myself from blogging, I get the urge to blog. I have ignored it and opened my WIP instead.

I wish there was a way to open to where I left off. I'm using Word (old, old Word - 2003, maybe?) and it always opens to the first page. Like it's supposed to. Except I now like the Scrivener feature of opening to wherever I left off. This is probably a google search in the making.

I am writing. Not every day. Not huge amounts. But at least a sentence, and sometimes more. My page count has moved from 75 to 80. They aren't polished, but they're written.

Sounds pretty small. That would have been an hour's work back in my SOJ writing days. But life was less complicated then, and I had fewer cats, and no need to truly use my brain at work.

My only goal at the moment is to write something everyday. I took Lioness' advice and printed a calendar to track the days I write. That should help with the "one sentence or 10 words" goal. The big trick is to just write something.

Even writing this, Skamper is pacing in front of me, head-butting at random, purring loudly. Cats are hellspawn, sent to plague, torment and distract writers. This is why wizards don't have cats as familiars. They couldn't get a single spell formulated.

Push button. Receive bacon.

PS. Skamper moved to the back of the chair, and Miss Kitty jumped up to block the keyboard and headbutt and climb me. sigh

Gone Writin'

I finally remembered to turn the furnace on after our streak of warm weather, and I have cats sprawled across every vent to prove it. This is why I wear socks.

With Farmville out of my life, politics making it impossible to stomach nearly any form of electronic media, and the busiest time of year at work compounded with my recent promotion, I am stressed. The kind of stress I would usually rely on my mouthpiece to counter, but the mouthpiece didn't fit after the crown, and it didn't seem to be working that last year anyway, so I'm searching for a new stress-combating strategy.

Fortunately, it's Spring. Swamp Time. Time to be out in the muck battling the Curse and cursing the battle to make one space somewhat vital for an all-too-brief span. That takes care of the exercise portion of stress release, but it doesn't help with the emotional portion.

I'm writing. In the morning during my normal blogging time, and in the evening after Swamp Time. I have no idea how long it will last, or whether anything useful will grow out of it, but I'm doing it.

Therefore, for an undetermined time, I will be writing elsewhere in what I hope to be a productive and stress-reducing manner.

Enjoy your Spring.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Marketable Skills: Responsibility

I considered calling this one Accepting Blame, except my general rule is fix the problem, not the blame. Unless you're the problem. Then the blame is yours, too.

When interviewing for a job, generally you are given a list of job duties that you are expected to perform on a routine basis. This is rarely a comprehensive list, but it will cover the minimum expectations of both you and your employer. Meaning, if you can't do these things on a routine basis with a minimum of mistakes and no supervision, you should be fired.

If you are a server at Sonic and can't make change, you should be fired. If you work at a phone bank answering calls all day and regularly forget to turn on your phone or yell at back at frustrated customers, you should be fired. If you data-enter numbers, and you regularly transpose them, you should be fired.

The above paragraph makes the mistake most employees make: it assumes it is your employer's responsibility to remove you. Wrong. It is your responsibility to remove yourself. A person of integrity who agrees to perform certain tasks in exchange for money, who discovers he cannot perform those tasks, should refuse payment and find another job better suited to his skill set. Unfortunately, the workplace is full of lemmings who would rather be told what to do than lionesses who solve problems, especially when that problem is herself.

I do not mean people cannot make mistakes. People are people, competent or not, and everyone has bad days. When those happen, own them, do your best anyway, and expect to have some messes to clean up later. That's normal. But the consistent failure to do the minimum your job requires is unacceptable to everyone: the customer who can take his business elsewhere, your co-workers who have to bail you out while still doing their own jobs, and your boss who's literally paying you to cause problems she doesn't need.

If you make simple mistakes on a regular basis that cause extra work for everyone, you can expect to work in a hostile environment. I recommend accepting responsibility and doing what you need to do to get your act together. If you don't, your boss will do her job and fire you, and you will have only yourself to blame. If you're a lemming, that won't stop you from blaming everyone else anyway.

Push button. Receive bacon.

The Wind in the Willows

I've heard of this story, but never read it. I believe Disneyland has a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, but my motion sickness made that impossible.

I bought a very used book at a charity drive, and, after reading one too many Lovecraft horrors (the nightmares started), picked it up for a stroll on the brighter side. I'm halfway through, because life got busy as it usually does, but far enough to say a few things.

One, charming prose. Some truly lovely sentences in there that beautifully capture the image or moment.

Two, welcome innocence coupled with strong moral character. Friendship, hospitality, generosity, hard work, and hard winter rest - a concept I heartily endorse - are illustrated in each story. Even flighty Toad has a good heart.

Three, while I generally don't care for short stories, these are just the right size for reading before bed. Since I haven't slept through the night in about two weeks, I don't have a lot of eye stamina for long bouts of reading.

The hardest part of reading these stories comes from me being too adult. Rat has a boat, a brace of pistols and a cudgel. Mole has Italian sculptures in his burrow. Badger eats ham and bacon, and wears slippers. However, they are animals, and the stories don't dispute their size. Would a rat-sized pistol even fire? Where does Badger get his ham? How do they earn their money? Children don't worry about this sort of thing (except me. This is exactly the kind of thing I worried about as a child). I keep derailing as I try to categorize the logic of the world. Alice in Wonderland is the closest I can come.

The illustrations don't help. Toad's carriage is people-sized, pulled by a horse, and contains a bird in a cage they later carry away. What bird is small enough to be carried in a cage by a toad? Toad is tried in a human court of law, and held in a human prison, if the pictures are to be counted as accurate, which they probably aren't. The author does make some attempts at reconciling the inconsistencies, since they have to coax the horse to pull the carriage when the horse would rather be part of the party, and Badger does explain that humans built what eventually became his burrows. Still, I've stumbled more than once as my brain balks at pure fancy.

I wonder if Mom never read me this book because these are the questions I would have asked as a child, and didn't want to deal with it at bedtime. Can't blame her, if that's the case.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Marketable Skills: Flexibility

This isn't easy for Turtles, and it isn't easy for some humans. Most of the time, things go as expected. That's why we're surprised when they don't. No matter how carefully you plan your work day, something is going to come up to derail it. That's when flexibility is useful.

Sometimes, the network goes down, taking the computers with it. Sometimes, the freezer goes out, leaving you with a potential loss of income and product. Sometimes, you get a bitter, jagged-edged disappointment instead of the news you want. You have to deal with these issues with calm courtesy (and hopefully some humor, which I haven't covered) instead of allowing the potential avalanche of disaster to crush you.

I think of Randall from Monsters, Inc. twining his monster-snaky way around obstacles with spineless ease. Computers are down? OK. Computers haven't always existed, so grab a pen, paper and calculator and do what you can, even if it's get a phone number to call them when the network is back up. A broken freezer might lead to half-priced ice cream, a call to a repair service and a trip to get ice from the gas station. Bitter disappointment is harder, but for a Christian, all things work together for good for those who love the Lord (Rom 8:28), so God will use even disappointment in His grand plan. You don't know the future. Don't bemoan the present.

Flexibility is about remembering your goal, and finding another way to reach it, preferably without panicking. Don't Panic isn't just advice for Hitchhikers. Or maybe it is. Aren't we all hitchhikers in this crazy galaxy?

If by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you 

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, 

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 

But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, 

Or being hated, don't give way to hating, 

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise. 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; 

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; 

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same; 

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss; 

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone, 

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 

Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, 

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 

If all men count with you, but none too much; 

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! 

It's true of women, too, and it's probably something you should post at your workstation and memorize. I knew it once.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Marketable Skills: Mind Your Business

Yes, it seems odd after harping on how important it is to be aware of your surroundings and courteous of your co-workers that I would tell you to mind your business. However, I don't mean mind your beeswax. I mean put your mind on your own business and keep it there.

It is very easy for humans to compare themselves with other humans. What is she doing? What is he getting? Why do they get X and I don't? That's not fair!

TT: Along with The Goblin King, I have to ask I wonder what your basis for comparison is? For all the life I've lived so far, I've never known any of it to be fair. I'm living proof life isn't fair, because I'm blessed above and beyond the norm, and way more than I deserve.

Even Peter asked Jesus what about John? (John 21:22) Jesus told Pete flat out, "If I want him to remain alive until I return, what is that to you?" Meaning, mind your own business, Peter. I'm dealing with you, not John. I'll deal with John later, and it has nothing to do with you.

Talk about slap-down from the Savior.

As recently as yesterday, I would have said I have a pretty good handle on this skill. Between a very harsh lesson in my 12's, 6 years of therapy school about boundaries, and a natural tendency to not give a hoot and a half about other people's problems since I have plenty of my own, I'm good at minding my own business. In fact, when I start looking around for how co-workers may not be doing their jobs the way I would, I know I'm compensating for feeling out of control in my own life by trying to bring order to someone else's. Not helpful. Certainly not cool.

Today I had an extremely sharp reminder that I don't get my way all the time. I'm not in control of anything, really, except my attitude, and that's going to need at least one night of sleep to adjust. Things I thought were my business aren't, and things I didn't think were my business now are, and the whole world looks different than this morning, more of a yellow grey, with a bit of an acrid taste at the back of my nose. Time to reread Joseph's story.

Ah well. For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?

Mind your business, and do your best at whatever job God puts in front of you. Your reward is in heaven, not here. Some days, that's all the hope we have.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Marketable Skills: Empathy

This one has been a little hard for me lately, which is no excuse. The skill exists regardless of my feelings. It is a thought exercise, not an emotional one.

Empathy is the ability to put yourself in another's place, even if you've never directly experienced what they're experiencing. Most people are completely incapable of doing this. This explains some of the incredibly stupid and hurtful things people say with good intentions at funerals. If you've experienced loss, you know it's better to keep your jaw clenched shut until you get home.

I've heard that people who read fiction have more empathy because they've experienced other lives through the written characters. Whatever. Good excuse to read fiction, as if you need one.

Your universe revolves around you. This is completely normal. However, at some point, you should realize that this is how every person experiences life. We are all little Suns thinking the entire universe rotates around us, when, in fact, we're lucky if we're one of those bits of shattered planet that circles Saturn or Jupiter.

When you understand you are not the Center of the Universe, you can start imagining what it would be like to be your customer. You work at Walmart (or don't. I mean, have you ever been asked where to find something in a store? It's because I have a "pleasant resting face," I know it is). Anyway, your customer needs X. You had a million things to do before the customer ever walked up. Congratulations! You now have a million and one. And you're going to treat Million and One like Number One because that's what you would want if your positions were reversed. If you needed X, would you want an employee who brushes you off and waves a vague direction with a mumbled reply, or one that leads you to the spot and hunts down the item? I will settle for clear directions and a specific pointed direction, but I'm more independent than most.

An old lady with a quavering voice calls in, and your heart sinks because she's going to take forever to help. Do you think she doesn't know that? Do you think she's not embarrassed by the quaver in her voice, or her slowness? She remembers when she was a fast, young whippersnapper like you, and she could leave you in her dust back then. She's someone's grandmother, for goodness' sake, not your personal hobgoblin! Show respect, treat her with the kindness and patience you would want extended to you (or your grandmother) in the same circumstances, and let God sort out the rest.

Empathy allows you to put your issues on hold, and help someone else in a calm, courteous way because that's how you would want to be helped. Empathy is essential in good communication, and it's quite useful in customer service.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Why I'm Writing Marketable Skills

Perhaps this should have been the first post, except sometimes I do things for a while without knowing why.

1) As I creep toward the management level, I see how rare most of these skills are. Typical employees only have one or two. Good employees maybe four or five, and good attitude is usually at the top.

2) I am frustrated by how rare these skills are (and that is most definitely feeding into the increasing snark of these posts). I haven't yet touched on a single skill that should not be practiced daily by an adult human in any aspect of his life. Yet, they aren't. Being courteous, considerate of others, and calm; having a good attitude, taking initiative and communicating your needs clearly: are these really that hard to do?

I work customer service. I trained as a therapist for 6 years before going into administrative fields (that's another post about don't indenture yourself to higher education for a career you may not pursue). Even before I started thinking management, I thought service. How can I serve the customer, my co-workers and my boss today? That's what adults think.

But we don't rear adults anymore. When 26 year-olds can be claimed as dependents by their parents for health insurance, when people with children come home and play video games instead of helping their children with homework (and who can when government education is now designed to make the parent obsolete?), when no one takes out the rotting trash because it's someone else's chore and you did yours already, we have a problem.

We are a nation of thoughtless brats doing our own thing, and screw anyone who gets in the way of our fun, and that goes twice for The Big Bad Boss. Newsflash, all you would-be socialists: the State doesn't give two biological waste deposits how you feel about your job. You'll get your "free" college, but you'll spend the rest of your educated life paying back the government in the job they give you while they take increasing percentages of your wages because they've run out of "rich people" to steal from. You don't want to be responsible for your own life? You won't be. You'll be told what to do, where to go, how much you'll make and how much you'll get to keep, and when you complain, it will be about how the Tea Party made all this happen (because providing scapegoats for the unhappy populace to blame is how socialists stay in power. Until the military outnumbers the disarmed civilians, that is).

That's why I'm frustrated. That's why I'm snarky. But it doesn't matter. Your brains barely understand human speech, let alone reading comprehension, so I'm ultimately writing as stress relief for myself, not as a way to convince you.

Applaud the jellyfish.

Marketable Skills: Communication

This is a skill that can be learned in school. In fact, you will almost never see it in the real world, so I recommend taking a few classes in case you're one of the vast majority of lemmings who has never written or spoken a coherent sentence. It will be years before you truly grasp what you're doing, but you can fake it until then.

Communication requires you to 1) know what you're trying to say, 2) organize your thoughts to maximize the impact of how you say it, and 3) know your audience to maximize their retention of what you have to say. Like when Peggy Hill wants to get Hank's attention, she mentions propane.

Rule 1: Communication is your responsibility. You are the one with something to say, and no one else, frankly, gives a rat's hind end about it. If you want to be heard, you must make your presentation clear and compelling.

Rule 2: Have a plan. Think before you speak or write. I seriously do not have the time to listen to you stammer and mutter around whatever point you have.*

Rule 3: Keep it brief. No one is going to wade through four dense paragraphs of anything to get the point at the last sentence. NO ONE. You don't do, so don't do it.

As a writer, this stuff is kind of basic for me, but it is a total freaking mystery to most of the world, who seem to believe all they have to do to communicate is open their mouths and let whatever unedited nonsense passing through their white matter at the time pour out. That may work for the significant other who just wants to get to the fun stuff, but it does not work on anyone else, so stop it.

Communication is hard work. People today are generally dumb as a bag of hammers and shallow as a rain puddle in Arizona. They aren't used to thinking at all, so you have to think for them in what you communicate. The proof is how easily lemmings believe anything they hear on TV. They're like that chick who knows they can't put anything on the Internet that isn't true. A news reporter can't possibly lie. He's a reporter.

Which leads to the caveat. There is great power in communicating well. People do tend to believe something written down, no matter how ridiculous, just because someone took the time to write it down without emoticons and punctuate it. If you are one of those communicative people, you can quickly rise to a position of authority over lemmings. Use your power wisely, because to those whom much is given, much is required (Luke 12:48), teachers will be judged more harshly (James 3:1), and causing little ones to stumble leads to serious consequences (Matt 18:6 and Mark 9:42).

Push button. Receive bacon.

*This attitude absolutely does not fly in the work world. You must practice patience in your dealings with the everyday, whether customers, co-workers or bosses. We'll cover that later.

Marketable Skills: Situational Awareness

Yesterday's post didn't cover it.

Yesterday, I lost 8 minutes of productivity diagnosing a problem with the printer that turned out to be lack of paper in the tray I needed. Have you noticed a theme in this posts? Refill the freaking paper tray, people!

However, I'm as much to blame because I didn't use situational awareness in diagnosing. I know we have a paper problem at work. Checking the paper level should have been my first thought instead of my last. Alas, I'm an optimist. I keep hoping someone else will start doing it, too.

Unrealistic expectations are the cancer of the interpersonal relationship.

Situational awareness has two parts:

1) Notice what's going on around you at the moment. In college, I learned the phrase be here now, and it applies everywhere. Pay attention to work when you're at work. Think about what you have to do and how you're going to get it done quickly and correctly. The second is more important than the first, but that's kind of like saying love is more important than hope.

This is hard for lemmings. They're usually thinking about the next iPhone fix. Smokers are usually thinking about the next smoke break. Anal retentives are thinking about how far away the bathroom is. I get it. I was addicted to Farmville for six years. I feel your pain.

Screw your pain. Focus on your work. Yes, it's hard. So is being an adult, and adults have to work to earn money to live. Until we all become socialists, anyway. Then we will work so others can live and we can die of starvation and curable diseases that no longer have available treatment resources. Welcome to Utopia, Sunshine.

2) Think ahead about your work issues. When you know a certain problem is common, like being out of paper, think about how that may affect your current project (or the project coming up you'll need special paper for) and make sure you have paper before you start. If what you do affects other people, plan your day to make their day easier. Save yourself time and frustration and come out looking like a rock star to your boss.

Ex: you stock produce. People can't buy produce if it isn't stocked. Plan your work so that when the store opens, customers can buy produce and checkers can check them out. No produce = no checking = unhappy customers and co-workers.* If you fail to plan ahead this way, your day will be spent putting out fires you set instead of calmly acting like an expert produce stocker who, yes, just happens to have those fresh kiwis you're looking for, sir. Here you go. Have a great day.

In a perfect work environment, everyone looks for ways to do their job better, everyone plans ahead and communicates their needs, and everyone is considerate of everyone else's time. That's being professional.

I have never worked in a perfect environment. I just do what I can to make it as perfect as I can, and hope to lead by example.

Addendum: don't hack off your co-workers unnecessarily. You share space with these folks at least 40 hours a week, and they have the power to make your life hell. It's like arranged polygamy. Whenever possible, plan your day to make theirs easier, and your day will be easier as a result. No one enjoys working with a Incompetent Cranky Puss, and even lemmings appreciate thoughtfulness. Well, some of them do.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Marketable Skills: Initiative

I've had to move a number of cats off my desk chair lately. I should probably open the laptop.

I considered a post about situational awareness, but initiative may cover it.

Once you enter the work environment, you will find yourself surrounded by mouth-breathers: people who stand and stare with their mouths open and wait to be told what to do, even when they're supposed to be the expert. Such people should be ashamed to breathe at all, but, sadly, they are the majority. I have on numerous occasions (not generally in writing) referred to them as sheep, lemmings, or Sunshine.

These folks are both the bane and the backbone of the workforce. Not being one of them should make your promotion a certainty, unless your immediate supervisor also happens to be a mouth-breather. In that case, you are working to impress her boss, and replace her. I recommend practicing competent kindness with co-workers during your ascension and a benevolent dictatorship to prevent a stampede.

The main problem with those lacking initiative is their failure to act when action is required. Whether it's simple inattentiveness, fear of fill-in-the-blank, or contemptible laziness, they will not step up and do what needs doing when it needs to be done. This can be as small as refilling the paper tray or as serious as allowing a customer's issue to escalate to the point of needing a manager. Most "manager-requiring" problems can be solved with the kind but firm application of store policy, unless store policy is "find the manager." In those cases, I recommend finding another job, preferably the manager's so you can change store policy. That's a stupid policy, unless your entire workforce are sheep and completely untrainable.

TT: I've found behavioral conditioning quite effective. Of course, you can put an iguana on a piano, but that doesn't mean it can play.

Initiative first requires you to pay attention to your surroundings. Look for things that need doing, and then do them, whether or not "it's your job." Sometimes it's not your job because no one thought they had to tell you to do something so simple.

At first, it will be small things like getting extra pens out of Supply or answering a call to help check at the front when you normally stock produce, but it will escalate to writing directions for tasks that should have directions, proposing the implementation of rules to save time and/or money/ the removal of rules that hinder productivity, or creating a job for yourself out of things that have always needed doing but no one saw before (yes, I've done that repeatedly. It's wonderful). You are on the ground floor, and your attentiveness here can bring you to the attention of those above you, for good or ill.

Caveat: the reward for doing a hard job well is to receive a harder job to do, usually with no more pay. This is why is it imperative to do all you do for the Lord. Lack of reward here means bigger returns in Heaven. That's not greedy; it's Biblical (Matt 6).

Push button. Receive bacon.

Checking In

Haven't had much to say lately, although I've been thinking a lot. Not much of it healthy.

I've been reading, too. Started with Anne McCaffrey's Crystal Singer trilogy, moved to Lloyd Alexander's Prydain Chronicles, and resumed reading HP Lovecraft to recover.

Lovecraft's The Case of Charles Dexter Ward is terrifying. Even if you haven't seen the B movie version The Resurrected with Chris Sarandon (for some unfathomable reason called Shatterbrain in the US) to provide horrific images to supplement Lovecraft's indescribable horrors, it's scary. Anything that takes place underground in the dark with open pits full of... well, it's scary. Enjoy.

This is Swamp Time for the Turtle, and I've been outside in earmuffs a lot. I'll be planting peas in another week and hoping for even better results than last year since I'll be planting them in spaces previously occupied by peas. Seems peas like being where other peas have been.

I cut through a clematis by accident yesterday, and had to take some time out for self-loathing and a bit of ranting. It's a young clematis and will no doubt come back just fine, but it was already budding, so I've delayed flowers by two months at least. Even seasoned gardeners screw up massively and hate themselves for it.

I've been going over my budget obsessively as I examine and reexamine how quickly I can pay off the mortgage. My contract says no penalty for early payoff. I doubt that's a standard clause, since everything I've read says it has to be in the contract to be true. I don't know if I was smart enough to put that in, my realtor was smart enough to insist on it, or God covered me.

The busy season is gearing up at work. I have plans to keep it under control, but life keeps getting in the way of my plans. Doesn't matter. The Turtle can teach rocks stubbornness. I will not be thwarted.

That's about it. Since I downgraded cable, I'm staying off Facebook more to avoid TWD spoilers. And politics. And general mass stupidity. The groupthink is getting painful out there.

Push button. Receive bacon.

Marketable Skills: Courtesy

I'm not talking about the yes, sir and no, ma'am practiced at your custody hearings. I mean actual courtesy.

Please and thank you do top the list. How hard is it to add please, and say thank you? Olympic gold medal hard, if a visit to Walmart is any indicator. Start at home, and practice with your pets. Say please when you call them to dinner and thank you when they come inside after doing their business. The animals won't mind, and it will become habit for you. Using those words regularly and without sarcasm softens both your voice and manner. While you're at it, try to mean the words. People know genuine courtesy when they hear it.

Think of others. You're not the only person who uses paper, so make the time to refill it, or any other supply you notice may be lacking. No, you don't always have the time right then, but do it when you do. God will notice, even if no one else does. Hold the door for the person behind you, man or woman. Nothing in your silly life can't wait 2 minutes. Help the person at the grocery store reach the top shelf. That's why God made you tall.

Make requests, not demands. Rarely do you have the authority to order another human to do something, unless you're a drill sergeant. You can ask them to do something, and if you ask nicely, and it isn't a ridiculous request, they're likely to do it. You're the same way; you know you are. We all like to be asked, not ordered.

Open your mouth when you speak. Your words are important. Don't mutter them. Don't garble them. Enunciate. Mumbling is dragging your mouth the way shuffling is dragging your feet. Both are lazy and discourteous. Don't do it if you are physically capable of doing otherwise. Most of you lemmings are, if you'll put your phones down long enough to let a thought form.

Do unto others as you would have them do to you. That actually is in the Bible: Matt 7:12, unlike many of those pithy proverbs Grandma chirped at us like "God helps those who help themselves" (patently false) and "Cleanliness is next to Godliness" (you made that up). The Golden Rule is about courtesy. The world isn't here to serve you. Quite the reverse, Jesus would say, so be polite in your service.

Courtesy dovetails nicely with calm. Practicing genuine courtesy while remaining calm is a combo that will fast-track you to management.

Caveat: courtesy alone isn't worth much. The incompetent can please and thank me to death and fail to solve my problem, which leaves them in the dust as I seek satisfaction elsewhere. Competence has a higher XP, but without courtesy, competence leaves customers cold.

Applaud the jellyfish.

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.