Yup. I'm moving. Unforseen events have forced me to change locations. And jobs. And immediate social circles (well, that had been changing anyway). Hey, I knew 2006 would be a year of change, only I had no idea the change would be in every aspect of my life.

I must admit, I really wasn't looking for a change. I knew I needed one: I hated the job that I no longer work more than I care to admit (can we say BORING??) and, though my apartment in the 1920's style home was "charming" in terms of architecture, it lacked heat, proper screens, and a yard. Also, the prompting of my move to the island, a growing friendship that promised a new circle of friends and a supportive network, had long since evaporated, causing the chill to linger in my non-insulated, mouse riddled apartment. I know, the mice should have been company enough, but I don't speak Squeek and the little rodent has since died.

Of course I looked for ways to make my life work, to make lemons out of lemonade. I have been doing this dance for years and so just kept on dancing. But I don't think God wanted me to dance those steps anymore. See, though I was still trying hard to make the colors of my rainbow bright enough to see, God apparently decided that good enough was not enough for me. So, I lost my job, had no savings to fall back on, and was not finding a job while I was employed (applied, applied, applied, nada, nada, nada). Of course we all know that no money means no rent means no apartment.

So, I called my sister, my little sister, that is. She gave me the same temporary agency number she gave me a year and a half before. Nothing had changed except my thinking. Desperation opens your mind to all sorts of possibilities. So, I called. And, within two days of loosing the job I hated for the last two and a half years, I got a job. Not just a job, mind you, but a job doing corporate relocation. Foreign familiarity. A total and complete answering of prayers: silent, spoken, and merely felt prayers. I never dreamed that a prayer of mine, a prayer for me would ever be answered so ovewhelmingly. My cup runneth over.

And so I am moving. I found a charming duplex: larger than my victorian charmer with an entertainer's back patio, a garage for my Black Betty, and a large front yard. The absent landlord of my Alameda apartment is letting me out of my lease (smart move, I could have taken them through the ringer with lawsuits) and I am already making friends and creating a network. My cup runneth over.

Guess I've been just a little busy, what with rebuilding my life and all. And, though I have been absent for a bit, and I may be absent for a bit more, I promise I will be back. Think of me as the Cayminator. Or not. Yeah, probably not. But I will be back.

I dreamed about Guns N' Roses last night. For those of you that don't know, Guns N' Roses was one of the most prolific rock bands during the late 1980's and early 1990's. It featured Axle Rose as lead singer (I had a huge crush on that skinny red head - thank God I matured!), Izzy Stradlin on rhythm guitar, bassist Ole Beich (although I only remember Duff McKagan, his replacement) and drummer Rob Gardner who was later replaced by Steven Adler (again, this is the performer I remember), oh, and one of the greatest guitarists of my time, Slash.

Now before you go up in arms claiming that Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Santana, or even Stevie Ray Vaughn (amoung others) are the greatest, let me just explain that I'm not stating that he is the best ever, just one of the greatest. He can make his guitar talk, shout, scream, and even lullaby. And, now he does commercials for Saab. Although I do think that is a bit of a sell out, I am forgiving of it simply because I understand the desire to eat and food must be payed for somehow. Also, I'm a bit thankful that he is back in the public's eye, sharing his wonderful talent with us. Not only does the public get to experience him and his music once again, it also gives me a chance to teach Bug about the wonders of Guns 'n' Roses, how they fit into the history of music, why they became so popular, and the effect that their music has had on the music industry up to this point. This wonderful music history lesson had great potential and went a little like this:

I look at my son and say,"Bug, do you know who that is playing the guitar on that commercial?"

"No, but he has really wrinkly hands. It's gross!" He replies, but continues to stare at the TV.

"Yes, honey, he's getting old and that's what happens. But did you know that he was the lead guitarists for the band Guns'n'Roses?" I say as I sneak a look to see Slash's hands, which are rather wrinkled.

"Oh. Yeah. His hands are really wrinkly." Continues to stare at the TV.

"Yeah, well, his name is Slash and he was VERY popular when I was a teen ager. I even have some of their music. I can play it for you sometime, well... I can play a couple of songs for you because, well, you know, language."

He looks at me briefly,"Oh. That's okay, Mom."

Pause.

"So, Bug, isn't it cool that one of the greatest guitarist of my time is on TV."

"I guess."

While it didn't go as I thought, with my Bug staring at me in fascination as I explained the roots of rock, blues, guitars "talking", how politics and sociology played into it all, I did at least finally understand how it feels to be a parent, how I am now the uncool one (although, coolness was only in my own mind anyway), and the significance of all those history lessons my father gave to us at the dinner table, during a TV show, while making rootbeer floats, riding in the car, tying our shoe laces... These lessons are still around, only now I listen more attentively and have a few of my own. Which means that I know that I am planting a seed and because of this I will not give up. I mean, I have to do something to get him away from the insidious hip-hop that has infested his interest. Although, I sometimes I get pulled into the bump, bump, bump and even learn the words to an occassional song. So, I guess it's not so bad, but before he invests his musical interest into just one genre, I want to make sure I'm there to show him all the other genre's and their histories, their roots, which are all planted in the same soil.

But I digress. I was telling you about my cool dream. Although, now it doesn't seem as cool. I'm not sure how meeting the band, having the hotel room next to them, going to the concert by way of walking down a highway in the woods (because there was a fire on the road so we couldn't use our cars), then having to wait on the side of the road with the band is not cool. But it just doesn't compare to the realization that my paents' sharing of their knowledge, their personal experiences and history and how it has shaped my world is one of the many ways that these wonderful people have shown me and, of course, my siblings their deep love for us. But this sharing of knowledge and history is not just a showing of love, it's a passing of legacy. The child will eventually become the parent, the aunt, the uncle, the grandfather or grandmother and they will, in turn, have stories for the child. The realization that I have become that legacy, that I am passing it on just as my father did is monumental. No, wait, it's not just monumental, it's cooler than cool, possibly the coolest.

I just wanted to take this time to share a little information concerning my favorite butterfly: The Monarch.
Not only are they poisonous to predators, but also, they migrate. Check it out:


Unlike most other insects in temperate climates, Monarch butterflies cannot survive a long cold winter. Instead, they spend the winter in roosting spots. Monarchs west of the Rocky Mountains travel to small groves of trees along the California coast. Those east of the Rocky Mountains fly farther south to the forests high in the mountains of Mexico. The monarch's migration is driven by seasonal changes. Daylength and temperature changes influence the movement of the Monarch.
Fall Map (40K)In all the world, no butterflies migrate like the Monarchs of North America. They travel much farther than all other tropical butterflies, up to three thousand miles. They are the only butterflies to make such a long, two way migration every year. Amazingly, they fly in masses to the same winter roosts, often to the exact same trees. Their migration is more the type we expect from birds or whales. However, unlike birds and whales, individuals only make the round-trip once. It is their children's grandchildren that return south the following fall.

You can find this and more interesting information at www.monarchwatch.org. Although, it doesn't mention that Monarchs take up residence in the eucalyptus trees along the Santa Cruz, California coast, merely a two hour drive from my home (if you drive with way Mr. Peevyhouse drives, which we all should, lest we desire to receive the muttered-behind-closed-doors-and-car-windows comments). Which is yet another reason to retire in the Santa Cruz Area: Monarch Migration. Imagine the site of Monarch's flying out in the Spring and then returning in the Autumn, bringing all of those beautiful colors with them, as if they are painting the trees with their wings.

Yes, it has been awhile. But, hey, I didn't promise that my gift of words would be delivered to you on a daily basis. Though I do know how you so look forward to my prose. Okay, enough of stroking my own ego. A whole lot of nothing has been going on and I have been exceptionally busy at work running in my little hampster wheel, which has caused me to be physically exhausted and mentally running in circles. Yes, I know the mentally running in circles is not uncommon with me, but when you add the physical exhaustion you get a very non-productive Cay on your hands.

So, let me start with our recently aquired pet. I didn't have to purchase anything to gain this tiny, cute, cuddly pet. I only had to leave my kitchen window open. And in order to rid myself of my little friend, all I had to do was put out a green little square of poison. Or two. My smarter than smart Dad gave me the wonderful poison, my more than resourceful stepmother promised it would work, she had experience and tales of tails to back it up. The poison went to the creature's habitual visitation corners and was eaten everyday, per my ever observant son. He checked not just daily, but twice a day and report back to me, flashlight in hand. Yes, the mouse had eaten more of the poison blocks. Yes, there are pellets, lots of them. Yes, he should die soon.

Now here is where it gets interesting:

One feeding, the box said.

One whole block is gone, and one is 1/4 of the way eaten.

Four of my family members have contributed to the demise of this little creature.

And yet, the mouse is still alive.

I think we need more poison.

Maybe a few traps.

And a big, strong, sexy man named Sven to clean up the mess for me... Okay, maybe I don't need the last part, but I'm definitely not going to be the one to pick up the dead mouse if it ever does die. Because, let's face facts, it just might not. It could be one of those radioactive mice that can live longer than a cockroach*. Don't laugh, stranger things have happened. And if it is radioactive, I think I should find a way to get it on MY side. You know, name it, be nice to it, stop screaming everytime I see it, let alone hear it.

Not only do I have a mouse that has inhabited my home and scared the you-know-what out of me, but also I have discovered a spider in my laundry room. Of course, it was actually discovered the day the mouse moved in, but I just have not mentioned it here as I am realizing with each telling of the discoveries that I have grown peculiarly squeemish. (Why is that? Can anybody give me a plausible reason?) And, seeing as how I never viewed myself as such and discovering myself to be (drat!), I am hiding from you all exactly how much I am. And if you followed that sentence, then you get a brownie!

Anyway, back to the spider. Once I steadied myself and then studied the creature I came to actually like the markings, not the spider, but the markings. Bug and I have even taken pictures with my camera phone. (Still need that cord to download them!) He, or she - I don't think it cares either way - has a beautiful golden color on it's legs and body with horizontile black strips on the legs, and black stripes going toward the center of the body on the torso. Then, right in the middle of the torso is a white, almost silver, cross. Quite interesting. I pray everyday that it is just a common garden spider and not some crazy Amazon spider that will grow to the size of my hand and eat my face in my sleep. To insure that my son and I are in no danger I seek out it's current web when ever I go into the laundry room. I think Bug is doing the same thing, because he always runs back up the stairs, yelling,"Mom, lemmie use your phone to take a picture! Quick! I found the spider!"

Maybe we should name it with all of the attention we give it.

Other than my two unwanted, but definitely settling in pets, I have not had much, but my rambling thoughts to pound out here on the keyboard. I will probably sit down one of these afternoons and wax philosophical, or wan, or wax, wan, wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off...



*I have personal experience with these creatures as well. Not only are they extremely bold and too dumb to die, but they grow to huge proportions. Oh, and they can live for nine days after you cut off it's head, finally dying due to starvation. Yuck!

Mice are cute, huh? They have those teeny, tiny little paws and the sweet little whisters and the furry little bodies. Yeah, they sure are adorable... in cages. Or maybe as food for a larger animal. See, mice do not evoke much empathy from me. In fact, they tend to put me into histrionics. I practically jump onto dining room tables. Go ahead, laugh. Get your giggles in, but I know what mice are capable of. They can chew through almost anything, carry all sorts of diseases, run faster than a speading bullet, AND leave little pellets wherever they go. I think it's the pellets that truly disgust me.

Anyhow, we now have a mouse. I'm not sure how cute he is as I have only seen him twice, and without my glasses, at that.

The first time I saw him was out of the corner of my eye as he crawled into my kitchen through an opening in my kitchen window and then fell to the floor behind the kitchen trash can, which is only two feet tall, and the recycling basket. I let out a bit of a scream, more of a should I exclaim out of fear because I saw a something drop from my window or am I hallucinating since I don't have my glasses yet and my mind and body are playing tricks on me for not taking care of my eyes. So, I went to investigate, armed only with my voice as I stated out loud to no one in particular as no one, but myself was there,"I know that is NOT a mouse."

I repeated this a few more times as I inched my way across four feet of my tiled kitchen. Then, my courage kicked in and I moved the trash with my foot, jumped back, jumped forward, kicked the can again, just to jump back again. Nothing. So, just to be sure I knew what I was dealing with, I picked up the recycling basket and out scurried the dark furry thing, giving me my second fuzzy glimpse of my new friend and pal and causing me to jump back with a scream. Yes, I screamed, not once, not twice, but my signature three screams, during which the mouse ran into the living room and hid under my TV armoir.

Great, just great. Here I was, cleaning my house and preparing for a new (used, but new to me) sofa and loveseat, and a mouse has taken up residence. Nice. Wonderful. Great. And, to top it off, I could not calm down after pacing for five minutes in my kitchen, AWAY from the living room.
I grabbed the most useful tool I know of in a situation such as this: my cell phone. And, weilding it like the weapon it can be, promptly called my dad.

"Hello." He stated, knowing it was me. I could hear the laughter in his voice. See, I'm the daughter that gets the giggles, and knowing that he would laugh at my histrionics, but unable to contain myself I replied.

"Dad? There's a mouse in my house." My voice was a bit higher in pitch than normal.

"Honey, don't play with your food." He didn't bother hiding the laugher now. I just ignored it, knowing that I was giving him a great story to tell at the Thanksgiving Dinner Table with my future husband sitting there.

"Dad, really, it's a mouse. I'm scared. I don't like them. They are scary. What do I do?" As if he could come through the phone and get rid of the hairball. I roll my eyes at myself now.

"Well, you could feed it poison. Then it would die."

"But, Dad!" I almost whined, or maybe I did whine,"I hate dead things even more than I hate mice." I believe that I even stomped my foot at this.

"Well, honey, I can bring you some poison tonight that the mouse will take to his hole and share with all of his friends and family and it will kill them all away from your home."

"Okay. Okay, but only if you PROMISE they won't die in my house! Oh, that is sooo disgusting."

I don't think he really promised, but he did state yet again that the mouse would go back to his den and share the poison and die there.

So, my dad came, brought poison, we placed it in the spots my dad said the mouse would be exposed to it and there for eat it. Then, to celebrate, my father took us out to ice cream, otherwise known in the presence of children as B and R. And you know what, for a minute, I didn't even think about my new pet. All was good and clean and right in the creamy delisciousness of that ice cream. And I didn't so much mind sleeping alone in my home that night as my father drove off with my son, taking him to play with my nephew for a day. Maybe it was more of the exhaustion that the day's ruckus had caused, but I'd like to say that my father's poison so specially placed and the creamy ice cream allowed for a very peaceful and completely restful night, despite the rummagings, chewings, and poopings of the mouse.

It's Friday morning and I feel the Wild Thing inside of me waking. By this afternoon me sweet and quiet side (yes, it exists) will vanish. Then I will be a Wild Thing and I will gnash my terrible teeth and growl my terrible growl. Of course I won't be just ANY old wild thing. I will be Max, King of the Wild things.

Yes, Max. I can relate to Max. I've often been sent to bed with no supper and visited the Land of the Wild Things. The fact that Max not only knew to visit the place, but was KING, well, come on, that is cause for admiration to say the least!

And, once I have become King of the Wild Things, or Queen for those of you who need to be gender specific on your titles, I will go home and eat leftovers, foregoing my motherly responsibilities of making a well balanced meal, and possibly allow my son to stay up, beating me at card games. Watch out world. It's going to be WILD!

Middle School

Yes, my child is in middle school. He shows all the signs including, but not limited to, his preocupation with video games, stories of the very dramatic happenings in his social life with the girls he likes or doesn't like or just plain happens to know, socks conveniently left in the living room to provide yet another reason for me to nag him, and the ever present blow out.

The blow out is the best part. Or maybe I should say the most obvious symptom of his new disease - Middleschoolitis. For example, the other day Bug and I were standing at the kitchen table reviewing an article sent by my mother in Colorado concerning lavender, and how it can be used in recipes. Bug has shown an interest in cooking more and more lately and even stated that he wants to be a chef when (or if?) he reaches adulthood. I, personally, liked the idea of him becoming a designer of video games, but I'm sure he'll change his mind a billion times before becoming what God intended for him anyway.

So, there we were, looking at the article together, bonding, feeling close, discussing fascinating topics such as the places we know of that lavender grows, when I happen to ask if he had vacuumed the livingroom rug. His response is that he did not because he just did it three days ago. I then explained that the rug needed attention again and to please do it. And then it happened. His face squirmed and wrestled with itself before finally settling on a look of absolute disgust and unbelief. He then took two steps back, splayed his hands at his side and yelled at the top of his voice,"Now I hate you, Mom!"

Well, seeing as how it obviously is a moment by moment choice for him as he didn't hate me then, but he does hate me now, I did the best I could to keep my face from showing any hint of the amusement I found at his choice of words, told him that he can hate me while he vacuums, and then went into the bathroom where I could silently snicker behind the closed door. Yes, silently, because what is worse than telling a middleschooler to vacuum? Laughing at them. Oooooh, that is the worst, and the "hate time" might just last a whole 30 minutes.

Ah, yes, you gotta love being the mother of a middle schooler. If there is nothing else, there is entertainment.

Because this is the first post of my first official blog I find that I do not know necessarily how to begin. The same thing happens to me each time I start a journal, a poem, an essay or any other project of any sort. I sit, pen in hand, poised to begin the greatest writing peice of all time, just to end up staring at the page. I cannot begin. I cannot put ink upon the paper, strike any thought down no matter how unoriginal, sad, angry, or cheery. I cannot even doodle. I am simply rendered incapable. The blank, emptiness of it all stares back, mocking my pen and I. My thoughts go into overdrive and then sputter to a standstill as they are frozen with the mere possibility or impossibility of it all. Of course don't ask me which as I can barely recall any thought process during those times. It's almost as though martinis have been shot directly into my bloodstream and I black, or, more appropriately blank out during those sessions.
It's not that I am unsure of myself or of my projects. Ask anyone that knows me, confidence is my middle name and if I do think that I cannot do something I end up researching the beast to death in order to figure out if my skills can conquor it, then often try it so as to claim yet another victory (I rule out overly fun items such as sky diving and bungee jumping as I like to keep all my body parts with m at all times and also, I do not like to pee my pants - been there, not what I call comfortable). So, when I set out on these project you can be sure that I know I can do it and I know what the creation will eventually be. I mean, I am sure of the middle and possibly the end, though that is really almost as uncertain as the beginning, yet I am unable to even pretend to know what the beginning is or how to begin the beginning. Maybe this is because I feel as though I am always in the midst of it all. I cannot find where any of my stories began and I am nowhere near the end of any of them. They are all tied together, linked by characters, places, and sometimes events that host the smaller events or vice versa.
When I think about it, in my little universe all events, all stories, are somehow tied together and the possibility of finding the beginning, never mind the end, can only be measured according to one's ability to untangle the strings of stories. And maybe the people that are the real story tellers, the real writers, are those that see the trees seperate from the forest, the skirting of the field, the drawing of the thunderstorm, the rising of the sun as individual events, without even trying. The full grown fir does not distract them from following the story of the baby fern at it's base. They can tell you that this is the way it began and this is the way it ends. That's fine. In fact, that's downright dandy. For them. As for for me, I'm the middle girl, always looking around in wonder at all the stories that never seem to begin or end, just one very long story in and of itself. Trying to capture as much of the story as I can. And, although it can be a little overwhelming to be in the middle all the time, I kinda like it. And I hope you do, too. I hope you totally dig it.