A Shovelful of Spring

For the one out of tenth time, the weathermen were right and snow fell in Kansas. Seems it's unusual to have an accumulating snow at this time of year. I shoveled about two inches off my driveway and six inches off my deck (difference between sheltered from wind and not). While it was an easy snow to shovel - dry and fluffy - I managed to strain my lower back for the second time this season. I'll be stretching gently throughout the day.

Two weeks ago, I planted paper egg cartons with dwarf bush peas, mixed basil and purple, yellow and green beans and put them in my guest room greenhouse. The big seeds sprouted in two days (ignore the package germination times; I've not yet found them to be accurate), and the basil finally pushed up Saturday. The trick now is providing enough light to keep the little buggers healthy until April. I plan to buy a stick-up grow light in the next few days, probably after the snow melts. I have more seeds to plant, but those are cool-weather seeds and they can go outside sooner than yellow squash and zucchini.

The Swamp is taking shape. Thanks to increased moisture this year, I'm moving dirt like a pro.

TT: Odd that I've shoveled lots of dirt for several hours over several days without injury, yet a few shovelfuls of basically whipped cream frosting should cause muscle distress.

Unfortunately, the arborists left more clay than soil in their efforts to destroy my yard, so the dirt I'm relocating is not what I would hope. I've been wracking my brain and my bankbook in my plans to get some real dirt faster than I can make it with no green stuff and no water to put in my compost piles. Then God decided to be kind.

One of my co-workers has three horses, a yard of chickens and a willingness to share poop. Once I get some directions, I'll be shoveling like a ranch hand. Here's hoping The Swamp appreciates my efforts by providing more than 14 peas this year.

Since chicken manure is "hot," (high in nitrogen, I guess), it'll go into the existing compost piles, which are in desperate need of some heat. They pile the horse manure for their own gardens, so it should be able to go straight into the garden without distressing the neighbors. Should this influx of natural fertilizer work, I'll post pics of new grass, thriving peas and a field of basil for the bees and my pesto. Should it not work... Well, God willing, there's always next season.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Enjoy the weather, whatever it is. If you're in Kansas, it'll change in 5 minutes anyway. 

New Life

I love Spring. Had I married, I would have done it on the Vernal Equinox.

Just finished a Bible study series using The Life, by Bill and Anabel Gillham. Interesting stuff. My favorite Bible study leader loves the Gillhams, so I've seen samples of their videos previously, but this time we went through all of them.

Here's the nutshell:

The Fall broke the spiritual connection between man and God and plunged man into spiritual death. Christ's sacrifice restored the spiritual connection. When a man accepts Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come. Bill's favorite verse is Gal 2:20, and you can read that in the link.

OK. We become new. What does that mean? Why, then, do we continue to do what we do not want to do, like Paul laments in Romans 7?

Dr. Gillham, in his Oklahoma way, says we become "spirit critters" when we accept Christ but we remain in our "flesh suits." Our flesh suits have spent however many years being trained to act dead to Christ, because that's what we were, but our flesh doesn't control us. Christ indwells us through the Holy Spirit and Christ leads our mind and will.

Sin can attack from the outside, but it isn't in me anymore. Christ is in me. Christ leads my mind and will. Sometimes sin wins, because it uses first person singular pronouns when it attacks to make me think it's my idea, but my acceptance by Christ remains secure. I am His; He is mine.

That's just semantics, right? What difference does it make?

It's the difference between "good me" fighting "bad me" vs. sin trying to squeeze back into a space already fully occupied by a risen Christ. The war was won by Christ. The little battles are won by allowing Him to occupy my flesh suit and teach me to be the spirit critter He raised from the dead when I accepted His lordship.

Naturally, the videos go into far more depth, and provide the scriptural teachings and in-depth illustrations that bring the idea to life, but I thought I'd give you a taste since I may be writing more about it as I continue to ponder.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers, and Happy Spring. The old has gone. The new has come.

Dream a Little Dream

I awoke from a story dream this morning. One of those dreams that sort of makes sense, that has tension and characters and possibility for a writer. Hasn't happened to me in a looooong time.

Put my schedule off. First, because I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to see how it played out, which isn't easy to do with Focus on the Family interrupting on the alarm clock.

Second, because I had to write it down. I have to write it down. I'll absolutely forget the whole thing before I shower if I don't. Of course, I had to capture the feelings when I wrote it down. Details don't matter much in dreams, although some details make it fun. It's the feelings I'd convey later, should I play around with this subconscious plot attempt.

I started fleshing it out. What would this story look like? Who are these characters and why are they here? Should I stick with the reality of what I saw or go for some symbolism, which, let's face it, is what comprises most dreams? All kinds of choices.

Farmville got in the way (shocking). Kept having freezing issues with the program.

Thinking about this potential story got me thinking about Price of Justice, and Rhami's dilemma, and how easy it would be to solve. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Is that what I want to do, though? Is it good drama or real life? I should write a short story about how Rhami wed Galena. I could publish it in a collection with other backstory shorts set in Ah'rahk. What would I call my publishing company if I ever self-published? What would my publishing logo look like? Why can't I find anything to wear? Don't I know I have a meeting today with strangers? I have to look professional. I've got to get gas, too, maybe at lunch. The weatherman says snow is coming mid-week, and it will be the one-in-ten chance he's right if I don't put gas in the van.

Yep. That's how it goes sometimes, and that's why I'm glad I wrote it down.

Happy Tuesday. Sweet dreams.

Back To Work

If not posting is any indication, the vacation went well. For three days, bright, sunny weather called me out of bed at the crack of dawn and I hit the ground running until the sun ran out and the heat retreated south. Then I stayed in bed with the covers drawn over my head. Eh. I would have done that anyway most Saturdays.

The problem with vacations (and one reason I forget to take them) is the catching up required upon return to the daily grind. I'm curious about how many messages I'll have in my voice mail. My last day off garnered four.

The weather has turned mostly gloomy and cold again, and I'd much rather spend those days in the office anyway. I don't feel like I'm missing anything outside. I do hope the sun makes at least a brief appearance daily. This Turtle feels his absence. 

I did seed a patch of The Swamp, which sounds simple but required moving dirt from here to there with a shovel, hoe and rake while removing the snapped branches and churned up rocks that led to such despair last season. Ah, well. New year, new plan, new strength. God willing, the moisture will continue at a useful pace and I can put my Swamp in order.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Love God and love your neighbors, for all the commandments are summed up in these.

Vacation: Day One

I often forget to take vacation. I never go anywhere (on purpose) and I rarely do anything (on purpose), but I have learned I must get away from my daily job, whatever that is, no matter how much I like it or I become very, very cranky. Everybody needs a break. Even God.

God has provided (if the weatherman is to be believed) three beautiful weather days for my vacation. I intend to make good use of them in The Swamp. You might think March is a bit early for working in the garden, but last year I planted tomatoes in March and harvested in April. Of course, last year was weird.

This year has been more normal weather-wise, so I likely won't be planting, but the compost needs turning and dirt needs moving and dead plants need removing and ground needs preparing - all that sort of thing. Since I also need exercise and plenty of sunlight for mood enhancement, this should work well.

At the moment, I'm waiting for the plumber to replace the main shut off valve in my house. It isn't broken, technically, but it failed to perform to standard during last week's toilet valve replacement. I'd rather deal with it in controlled circumstances than wait for it to blow up on a holiday weekend and cost me time and a half plus the water bill.

I've discovered it's very easy to round up cats when you don't plan to do it. They can't anticipate what you don't know. Everyone but Caleb is in the guest room, and none of them are happy about it. They'll thank me when the scary man invades their basement hideaway and makes loud noises and bad smells. Or they won't. They're cats, after all.

I'll also be dropping off the tax stuff at the accountant's. Let's hope that all goes well, shall we?

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. The plumber arrives.

Random Tuesday

The honeymoon's over. I woke up 20 minutes before my alarm. I got up and broke a nail on my bedroom door frame. Here's hoping that's the worst that happens today and not an omen. My vacation starts tomorrow, so mostly, I just have to live through today.

Last night, I learned the best way to cook raw black beans is in a crock pot. Alas, I learned it too late to save the onion. I also spent two hours concocting a layered, meatless casserole that turned out to be bean dip. It tastes OK, and the black beans add crunch, but I'll need to rethink that idea.

I'm starting to feel like a cemetery auditor. Not sure exactly what that means, except when I get to work, I have a plan for the day, I execute the plan, and normal people react like I know what I'm doing. Doesn't mean I do, just means I'm fooling the masses. Maybe that's how it works in any job. I have learned the answer to nearly every question is "check the statute." Isn't that the answer to nearly every question anyway?

The cats continue to gain familiarity with the catwalks. Miss Kitty is up there 60% of the time, and the rest join her at various times throughout the day. I can't remember the descriptive phraseology, but cats have territories that relate to time. A cat may choose a sunny east window in the morning, move to a southern exposure in the afternoon and camp out on the vent in the evenings and he won't care that another cat has taken one of his spots after he vacates it. That's a good thing. The more spots I provide, the less chance they'll all want the same one at the same time. Except they're cats and that's how they roll. Anyway, Miss Kitty, Skamper and Skuttle have all played tag in 3D, so I'm getting value for my investment.

I will finish my taxes tonight. I don't care anymore if I get back everything I've got coming. I just want it done.

Farmville has added yet another farm - Atlantis. I'm sure Caprice is thrilled but it's officially too much. To keep morning play at the one hour I've allowed myself, I'll have to ignore 3 or 4 farms from now on, and stop harvesting most of my buildings. I may catch up on the weekends. I may not.

Since I've officially stopped paying attention to word count, I'm writing again. That's good.

Happy Tuesday, dear readers. Keep a nail file handy. You may need it.

That's It; I'm Fat

I love Daylight Savings Time (even if it is an example of government over-reach). This is the first time in two months I've slept in. Yes, I consider 5 AM sleeping in.

I'm hesitant to say the depression is over, but it sure seems over. I'll finish my second bottle of Saint John's Wort and give life a try on my own again. Same with the 5-HTP, although I might continue taking that one for another bottle. The problem with that is it works best on an empty stomach, and my stomach is almost never empty.

Which brings me to my point. I'm fat. Oh, not the "downward side of fame" actor fat, but more the "fourth season of prime time hit" fat, where the steady paycheck is assured and you don't have to look good for it (Have you watched Castle lately? Come on, Nathan, I expect more of you).

Those who know me in person may raise a skeptical eyebrow, but I assure you, a 5'9" frame and loose clothing hide a multitude of sins. I'm not seeing it in my face yet (just the sagging jowls and neck wrinkles of typical aging), but that will come. 

My clothes tell me I'm fat since I don't own a scale. Scales are liars. Don't trust them. Don't associate with them. Don't even let them in your house. A scale can make you think you're fat when you're not. A scale can make you think you're fit when you're not. Best to avoid them.

My problem, of course, is the age-old problem of many fat people: too much of the wrong food and too little exercise. I've managed my weight most of my life by choosing food wisely and limiting indulgences, but I suspect the age has come when that's not going to be enough. Exercise, my old enemy, must be engaged and harnessed if I have any hope to avoid the Marlon Brando trap.

I'm saying "fat," but odds are I'm just "over-weight" at this point. I was within acceptable limits at my physical in January, so my current state is doubtless too much wheat. This always happens when I consistently ignore my blood type diet. I've followed this diet for about 10 years and maintained my weight without difficulty by sticking to the "80/20" guideline, eating more "beneficial" foods than "avoids," and the barest minimum of exercise.

I have a health assessment coming up in early May. I plan to up my exercise quotient and lower my wheat intake over the next two months to see if I can get a better score than I did at the doctor's in January. Nice to have a goal.

If you know your blood type and have trouble with your health, you might just check out that website. It's done me a world of good at very little cost (I got the book used on Amazon). If you don't know your blood type, you can find out by giving blood. That's how I learned. 

Happy Monday, dear readers. Thank God for it. He likes that.

Pressure Cooker

P.A. Baines may have been born in South Africa and live in Holland, but I get where he's coming from. This post was cooking before his comment on yesterday's blog.

I don't like pressure. Never did. After my nervous breakdown, I like it even less, and in my utterly control freak way, I do everything in my power to avoid it.

Except getting published.

On the other hand, what most new authors don't understand is that first book rarely gets noticed. You're mostly writing to family and friends, and accidentally gather a fan or two. No problem. Not with the first book, anyway.

The pressure builds.

First, the expectation to write something else. For you younger, on fire writers, that's no problem. You're raring to go. (I've never written that before. Is that a colloquialism, or do normal people know what I mean?) The clock is ticking from the moment your book goes on sale. When's the next one coming out? What are you writing now? How much have you written? Gaargh!

Second, the expectation the next book will be at least as good as the first book. Should be better, really. I mean, you have all that practice under your belt. You've got it down.

Third, the expectation that you won't screw up the characters other people now love. Don't you dare kill so-and-so. Don't you dare ruin that happy ending I imagined. Don't you dare reveal that secret and spoil the magic.

If you manage to survive all these expectations and actually produce something that, by the grace of God, gets published and doesn't land you in the looney bin, you're expected to do it again. Only now the expectations are higher, because you met the last ones. It's like that Mario Bros. game where the cavern ceiling collapses on you for eternity.

There's no way out of this trap, except death. That's why Robert Jordan died, you know. Too much pressure. Watch out, Brandon Sanderson. You're next.

Happy Wednesday, anyway. The sun is shining, and that is always good.

I Just Felt Like Writing

You know that scene in Forrest Gump when he's been running for a while and a reporter asks him why and he says, "I just felt like running"? No one believes him, of course. Why would any intelligent person go through all that hardship and discomfort just because he felt like it? Only the people who know Forrest (maybe two? at this point) know why he's running.

When I was younger, I drew all the time. I have the sketchbooks to prove it. I was pretty good, if I do say so myself. Why did I stop? Because the feeling went out of my drawings. Somewhere in college, I stopped drawing emotion and started focusing on technique and the result was a taxidermist's dummy compared to a living bird. I can see it happening in the sketchbooks, and I could feel it happening inside me. So I stopped. I rarely pick up a pencil anymore because the result is disappointing.

Is writing the same thing for me? I couldn't stop myself from writing Star of Justice. If you'd tied my hands behind my back, I would have written with a pencil in my mouth. I finished Elementals, and it's as full of life and emotion as anything I drew in my teens, but it was a knock-down, drag-out to finish it.

Now... Now, it all feels dead and lifeless. The technique is OK, but I've lost the emotion. I look through all the story beginnings I wrote years ago and it's like thumbing through my sketchbooks.

Professional writers are all about the discipline, the outlining, the Butt In Chair that gets it done. Stop whining about your muse and study your character if you're stuck. Polish your technique. Focus on excellence. But if the result is a Frankenstein's monster parody of life, why bother?

I've been dragging Price of Justice along by the hair for two years. I'm half done, as far as I can tell, and I don't care whether or not I finish. The story mocks me with it's two-dimensionality; it's caricaturic nature. I just don't feel it.

I'm torn between giving up and pushing on. I don't care about making money or my name on a cover or a bestseller list. I care about a story I love. If I can't write that, I'm wasting my time.

Maybe I just felt like writing.

Angry Morning

Ever wake up angry? My eyes opened at 3:59 AM, and I knew the struggle had begun. The struggle to keep the day from being an angry day.

I hate waking up too early, because I can't go back to sleep. As the Earth tilts toward the sun, I'm waking earlier every day. When Daylight Savings Time starts this Saturday, I won't notice. I might even get an extra minute or two before the alarm goes off.

The sun was out Saturday and I didn't mind that sleep eluded me. I was busy, busy with chores. The sun vanished behind a film of clouds Sunday and I could barely drag myself out of bed. Still couldn't sleep, though. I could lie there with my burning eyes closed and wish I could sleep, but that was it. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be dreary and cold. I'm tired of dreary and cold, especially when I can't sleep through it.

Was it ever possible I slept through a night? It seems impossible.

My mouthpiece is part of it, I'm sure. I have an alignment later this month. Hopefully, that will help.

Everything else I want to write is just angry complaining, and I don't need to spread that around on a Monday. It's all illusion anyway. I have nothing to complain about, really. My life is great. It's just my mood that sucks this morning, and, by the grace of God, that will change for the better.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Enjoy what you can and let the rest go. It's just dragging you down.

Financial Squeeze

Been a while since I didn't have to get up early and shovel my driveway. At least, it feels like it's been a while.

Part of me wants to share minor life details, like Skamper is back on The Heights. Part of me wants to rant a bit about life. Part of me is hungry and wonders why the turkey sausage and eggs aren't cooking.

How are the rest of you surviving? I got a raise in September, have no debt except my mortgage and I'm just scraping by. At least, it feels like I'm just scraping by.

I use Quicken to keep track of my money, and by the time I schedule the necessities from gas, pet food, utilities, mortgage and tithing, I have nothing left over for groceries. I still need to file my taxes and this is the first year I wonder if I'll owe the government. That raise probably moved me to a new tax bracket.

I'm not complaining. I'm one of the very few Americans who's in a good financial situation. All the years of listening to Larry Burkett and Dave Ramsey, putting money aside, living (mostly) within my means, and a few providential circumstances mean I'm not frantic every second of every day wondering how I'm going to feed the cats. However, I know most people aren't like me, and I can't imagine how they're making ends meet. I guess they're not.

One thing I have learned listening to Dave is it's never too late to start managing money, and managing money always means managing yourself first.

I've fallen off the wagon plenty of times. I can be extremely frugal for a long time and then -wham!- I can't control myself any longer and buy supplies for a catwalk (I always have the money when I do it, but it means I might be tight somewhere else for a bit). I've learned to let off steam in little ways, like a Melted Snowball once a week, to avoid those big wonk-outs.

The emergency fund is also a lifesaver. A thousand dollars kept in reserve for when the unexpected creeps up, like a cavity where there was no cavity 6 months before. I can't plan for everything, and the emergency fund stops an emergency from becoming a crisis that will bury me. The trick with the emergency fund, though, is to replenish it whenever you use it, so you might be tight for a bit afterwards. Hey, at least you don't owe 17% interest on a credit card.

I'm praying for all of us, dear readers, but the solution is complicated. It involves changing yourself, changing the culture and changing the political climate that says the government should own everything, including you and your money. Prayer is the only way to change any of that.

Happy Thursday. God is generous, and He's waiting to bless You if you'll cast your burdens on Him.

Change of Mood

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a mood can change.

Skamper was happy with The Heights until, this morning, he got a windchime caught on his big fluffy tail and scared himself silly. I have no idea how big a setback this is, but his mood toward catwalks has definitely soured.

I woke happy and ready to dig out my vehicle, only to find a thin layer of snow needing my attention. I checked the state worker website for office closures, found none and moved my schedule up 30 minutes to allow time to get to work and beat the rush.

Apparently, while I was showering and cooking breakfast with the TV off, the state announced the office would delay opening until 10. I didn't know that. I happily cleared off and warmed up the van and got on the road by 7:15 as planned. I arrived at work at 7:25 and found out I didn't have to be here for another 2 hours and 45 minutes. Guess where my mood went?

In George MacDonald's The Lost Princess (or the retitled reprint The Wise Woman), Princess Rosamund's biggest fault is her slavery to her moods. She is a brat because the moment she becomes unhappy, everyone else must be unhappy, too, until she is made happy again. This is the flaw the Wise Woman must repair.

The fact is, nothing has changed. My careful plans went exactly as I wanted. I got to work, I beat the rush, and all is well. I left my house in order and the decision to go home for lunch is no different now than it would have been.

However, perceived circumstances changed. With different information, I believe I would have acted differently. The fact that I didn't and can't now causes anger and frustration. Those emotions are only heightened by the importance I personally place on my time, and this feels as though my time has been stolen by my job.

I wish I'd checked the website again later in the morning. I wish I'd read the ticker tape at the bottom of the TV (not that it would have helped since it was off by the time that notification started running). I wish I'd listened to a local radio station. Lots of opportunity for regret.

Have I learned? Yes. Before I pull the van out of the driveway from now on, I'll check the website. I'll look at the ticker tape. I'll call a blasted local radio station. I won't be caught again.

My life is my responsibility. The only person I should be mad at is me. Believe me, I am. (Although, I harbor a bit of snark toward the idea that an hour is adequate time to adjust travel plans in inclement weather. If you have far to travel, you'd be a fool not to be on the road early. I don't have far to travel, but anger is rarely rational)

I'm hoping this post cools me off and changes my mood, because, like Rosamund, I ain't happy and I'm inclined to show it. However, also like Rosamund, I'm learning to control myself regardless of mood. It's part of growing up.

Be well, dear readers.

Monday Morning Update

Simon and I are fighting over my chair. Our compromise over the last week has been he sits in my lap, which works until I have to get up. Maybe he's telling me the linens need to be changed in the other cat spots.

Skamper has joined Miss Kitty in The Heights. This morning, he used the scratching post to climb instead of jumping on shelves, and he and Miss Kitty played tag in 3D. No one fell off, but I'm going to attach a few more carpet bits up high for better traction, just in case.

Improvements may happen tomorrow if I'm off work again. Another big snow storm rolls over my state today with another 8 to 12 inches expected in my area by 6 AM tomorrow, plus 30 mph winds and possible ice. God gave us three warm days after Thursday's storm to melt (a bit) and clear off driveways and sidewalks, so I'm mostly ready. I also won't complain about the snow because 1) we didn't have any last winter, and 2) we need the moisture desperately.

That's all the updating I have time for this morning. Happy Monday, dear readers. Keep water and blankets in your cars and a full tank of gas (yes, I know it's expensive, but would you rather freeze to death for running out of gas?).

Moving Up

The catwalks were installed Saturday, as my FB Friends are fully aware. While Miss Kitty and Caleb (oddly enough) have taken full advantage from hour one, the others have reacted with skepticism, fear and disdain. They're playing hard to get, is all.

The top beam is 7 feet up (and needs to be painted - little miscommunication between me and Big Brother - ehem). One end touches the wall beside the front door, the other hangs over my computer desk. The overhang seems to be the biggest draw and possibly the favorite spot, which poses a problem since there's only the one. Cats. Sigh.

Simon hopped up there this morning on walkabout. I'm rather impressed with his thorough exploration. He doesn't jump well, but he did love the top of the fridge in his younger days.

You can see I've wrapped the bare pole in pic one in carpet and sisal rope for scratching and climbing ease. I'm doing the same with the second support post at the opposite end of the high beam.

I've hung wind chimes from the shelves because I'm crazy and the cats don't have enough ways to irritate me without being able to lean over and ring my chimes.

Speaking of irritating, Simon has come down from The Heights (oooh, think I just named them) and is squeezing himself into my lap and into my way while I type. Cats. 

Oops. Time is ticking away and getting pics into this post has taken too much of it. Check out my FB album Building Projects for more pics of the latest crazy from the Turtle. 

Big snow storm supposedly coming in the next 24 hours here in the Midwest, up to a foot of snow across most of the state. Prayers are appreciated for those southern areas looking at ice storms and severe rainy weather. Wouldn't mind a prayer for me, too, cause I could use a snow day. Didn't get much sleep this weekend and my mouthpiece needs an adjustment.

Happy Wednesday, everybody. Stay safe.

Teacher Wanted

Had an interesting discussion last week. The kind where your worldview accidentally gets challenged and leaves you pondering for a bit afterwards.

I met someone suspicious of "spoon-fed private school graduates" because "they don't know what the real world is like." Contrarywise, this person approves of "big university graduates whose teachers couldn't speak English" because "they know how to dig out solutions for themselves."

Huh.

This person had no idea I'm one of those spoon-fed private school folks, so the conversation was refreshingly frank. Was I spoon-fed? Is my incessant desire to find a mentor in every job and skill I undertake because I'm accustomed to "being taught"?

There is a benefit to being able to problem-solve in less-than-ideal situations. A good grade in a class of 400 may mean more than in a class of 3. I would argue it depends on the quality of the 400 and the 3, especially in this age where we regularly celebrate mediocrity.

However, the conversation started with the ridiculous cost of higher education and how a "bursting bubble" is on the horizon. We Americans can't afford the high price of college anymore, nor the debt incurred in pursuing it.

My minor is in education. I would argue that a teacher who can't speak the language of his students, and doesn't teach them the subject matter that is the whole purpose of his job, isn't worthy of the high wage he gets paid. Getting good grades in such an environment isn't a testimony to the brilliance of the student; it's a condemnation of the inadequacy of the professor. I would also have to wonder at the wisdom of a student who continues paying such a price for such a pitifully inadequate service.

Wow. Am I a snob, or what? 

In the end, my worldview remains much the same but I'm glad I had the conversation. I can be taught. I prefer it, in fact.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers. Enjoy the sun.

Winter Cleaning

I was surprised to awaken just before my alarm clock this morning, meaning I'd slept through the night. Been a while since that's happened, pretty much since I started that "health challenge" at work that asked whether I'd slept 7 hours. The challenge is over, so I guess the pressure to sleep is off. That, or taking my old teddy bear to bed with me worked. Dear Puff. I'm so grateful God brought you back to me.

The catwalk project was delayed thanks to a double-whammy of flu and studying. Good thing I hadn't bought steak. We've rescheduled for some evening this week.

Last week was spent cleaning and rearranging in preparation for the catwalk. The cats seem to like the new configuration even without the catwalks. That's a good thing. Unhappy cats fight more.

Little Brother Simon has been the main motivator for this stint of cat-related activity. He's my street tough, and his attacks on the other boys are coming more frequently. It's possible he has some sore teeth, and we're checking that out, too, but more likely it's just the eventual result of too many cats in too small a space.

TT: He's in my lap being all cuddly at the moment, the gooberhead. I really hope the catwalks improve his humor.

I'm reading A Memory of Light, too, the last book for Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. This has been a 20 year journey for me. Odd to finally see it end.

I've put my own writing on hold until that book is done. I can't write while I'm reading in my genre.

The good and bad part of Brandon Sanderson finishing the series is I don't like his writing style as much as Jordan's, so I don't despair while reading like I used to. However, the story isn't hurting me like it should. I can't tell if that's because I continue taking Saint John's Wort or because the author doesn't have the ability to engage my emotions. Doesn't matter, I guess.  The result is the same.

Happy Monday, dear readers. I hope to check in more often this week.

Catwalks and Leverage

Borrowing Big Brother's truck turned into a sibling shopping spree.

Have I mentioned Big Brother was a contractor with a degree in interior design? He's built just about everything you can imagine except a working lightsaber. Some non-working ones, but no laser beams yet. He looked at my drawings and got that "genius" face. The one where all the squiggly parts of his brain turn what I imagine into something that will look cool and work.

See, if you attach a 7' post to a 5' shelf and attach that to the wall, when a 20 lb cat jumps onto the post, you have not a shelf but a lever with applied velocity that rips out part of your wall and falls onto your computer table.

In short, disaster.

However, Big Brother has the knowledge to negate that leverage and moreover offered to build the entire structure for me. He has not made such an offer to Little Sister (because they don't have cats) and was not pleased with me for putting this idea in her mind.

TT: They have a vaulted ceiling in their front room. Can you imagine the catwalk configurations with that kind of space? Mwaahahahahaha! ehem.

Now, while this is more awesome than my wildest dreams, it also means I must move up my readiness schedule by two weeks. Therefore, the house is torn apart and I have 10' boards drying all over the place.

Do you know how hard it is to keep a cat off a board because it's wet yet not traumatize them so much they won't walk on it when it's turned into their "private jungle gym?" Big Brother had a few looks for me about that, too. We have a crazy aunt who hoarded cats. 'Nuff said.

I must also decide what furniture leaves, and that's the hardest part so far. My stuff may look like crap, but it has sentimental value. Plus, it's all cat-friendly, the importance of which should be obvious by this time.

Happy Monday, dear readers. Make it a great one.

Catwalks

This morning I turned over my calendars and got new insights into God's Word, zombie extermination and the world of the Fey. Snapshot of my life, right there.

A new month heralds a new obsession for the Turtle. Furbies didn't pan out as hoped, but this one has hovered in the back of my brain ever since I bought my house. I'd just never seen it done well before.

March's Cat Fancy magazine featured a story on homes that excel at cat-friendliness. One of them is The Cat's House in San Diego, owned by Bob Walker and Frances Mooney. I'd never heard of it, and it's remarkably hard to track down anything picture-wise online. I found YouTube videos from Animal Planet, and some books on Amazon, but I guess they're cashing in on the fortune and keeping pics to a minimum. Can't blame them. They care for up to 10 cats at a time.

What fanned the spark of desire into a flame of determination was a picture of their first "project": a scratching post room divider. The post is a floor-to-ceiling rope-wrapped support beam with a narrow catwalk anchored between it and the wall. The cats climb the post to get to the catwalk where they can lounge seven feet above their humans.

In this instance, the couple hung a picture from the bottom of the catwalk and painted everything bright red, which I wouldn't do (even though I kinda wanna), but the idea is fantastic. I'll be ordering their first book which appears to contain plans for what they did early on, but the scratching post looks fairly no-brainer, so I intend to build one this weekend. If all goes well, I'll incorporate a series of high catwalks and window ledges in every room as my budget allows.

So glad I didn't spend that $50 on a Furby.

The Jobby of Writing

Words are not my friends today, so go see what I wrote yesterday over at

The New Authors' Fellowship.

Love Your Work

I've hit the 5 month anniversary for my new job, and I'm finally finding my footing. This vocational shift was a big one (auditor? Really?), and I suspect will continue to surprise the snot out of me when I least expect it.

However, I am determined to do well.

Job satisfaction is important to me. More important than salary. I know, that's insane to most people, but I would rather enjoy what I do than make a ton of money in a job I hate.

You may say I have that luxury. I don' t have a family to support. Hello? Six cats and a dog? A home mortgage? A Farmville addiction. I have bills, too. I just refuse to be miserable 8 hours a day 5 days a week.

I've had jobs that weren't great. Jobs that were stepping stones to better jobs, and once to a worse job. Everybody has to do something they don't enjoy some of the time no matter what job they have. However, your opinion of what a job is and should be has a huge impact on how much you enjoy your work. 

See, I don't consider work a result of the Fall. Adam and Eve tended the garden before they sinned. That was work. We're supposed to work. We're supposed to do something with our lives and skills and creative natures. Work is good, which is why I refuse to accept the common notion that work is something you do until you retire. 

I love my work. I don't fully understand it yet, but every day gives me another puzzle piece to fit into the grand picture of what it is I do. I will be competent in my job. I will do the best I can, and not just the "good enough for government work" minimum.

Happy Monday, dear readers. It's a good day to go to work.

(Except the weather is supposed to be so nice today, I'd probably prefer to work in the garden. Oh well.)