I went to the dentist today and I found out officially that I'm falling apart.

Thinking back on it I now realize it all started about late last spring when I decided to dye my hair red. No, wait. It started when I decided to get bangs. They were cute, too. For a minute. Maybe a little bit of a hassle, but I thought I looked younger, yet sophisticated, which is a very delicate balancing act. And that started it. The personal grooming taste went from one cute little change just to shake things up a little and hide the growing amount of gray all the way down the running-into-becoming-a-red-head-along-the-way-hill. Oh, and for those of you who lived through that phase, I'm sorry. Thank you for telling me it was great. It wasn't. I know that, you know that. It was very sweet of you to say otherwise, though.

Don't get me wrong, I know that hair really has nothing to do with teeth. What you need to understand is that I'm not just talking about teeth. I'm not just talking about hair. I'm talking about my youth. Yes, my youth! The one thing I never thought about has crept into my mind of late. And only because it's saying good bye. So, I freaked out for a minute, then, after looking at multiple pictures of me as a clown, I mean redhead, and having a more difficult time finding colors to look good in besides green, I decided to be proud of who I am at all ages. I decided that I will wear the gray and call it silver. No, I will call it sparkle. My hair has sparkle. And I will be beautiful because I accept myself as such, without the outside influence of the media, the starlets, the ideas society has inflicted on us on what is glamorous and beautiful. And I will be okay with getting older. I mean, I don't have much else to do, do I? And, if it's just the hair, what the heck - that's such a small part of getting older. Right? I mean it is pretty obvious, but what the heck, I will wear it like Rogue, from X-Men, and be beautiful. No problem.

But there's more to getting older than gray hair. (Of course there is, but let us all remember that I am just now facing this fact.) There's also the body, or the wearing down of the body. This is where my tooth comes in. My poor tooth: another clue, more physical evidence to my aging body. (Okay, maybe I'm being little melodramatic, but I've never done this before and it's freaking me out!)

Now let me give you a little history about this bugger in the absolute Siberian back of my mouth. I got a cavity when I was 16 or 17 while I was wearing braces. This is common and it wasn't that big of a cavity, but one day, when I was 23, 6 years after the braces came off, while eating a hamburger, the filling came out and part of my tooth broke. This was not fun and not pleasant. Also, I didn't have dental insurance because I worked as a waitress, was attending college and was a single mom. So, money was more than tight. It just was not there. Until I was 26 and started a job as a receptionist. As soon as that dental insurance kicked in I marched right over to the nearest dentist, opened my mouth, pointed to the tooth, and demanded that they fix my poor broken tooth. Or, rather, I went in for multiple appointments, including a root canal and was soon happy with my fixed tooth, cap and all.

So, here I was, proud that I saved my little molar and did the right thing. I pshawed the fools that said I should have just had it pulled after all the running around I did to fix it. I puffed out my chest and proudly exclaimed that I was going to keep my teeth. I wasn't going to be toothless. I apparently had no idea that 7 months later my cap would come off. And more of my tooth would break. And, once I fixed that, it would come off again a little more than a year later. And then, after extensive work on rebuilding the cap and a new screw to hold it (the idea of screws in my mouth to hold onto a piece of ceramic, or whatever it is that looks the color of tooth enamel, still scares me), just about 2 weeks back from the date of this posting the cap came off again! I was eating a soft, delicious piece of white bread when, pop!, the cap came off, screw came out, and my poor little tooth became defenseless. Again. Just a few days later another piece of the actual tooth broke off. Don't ask me how, I'm still in wonder that there was that much tooth in the first place. I mean, this is the biggest tooth you ever read about or what?

Off to the dentist I went, with cap and attached screw in a crumpled kleenex. (What else was I supposed to put it in? It grosses me out just thinking about it.)My new dentist, who, by the way is a large man and by large I mean about six-foot-three-inches and easily 250 lbs with hands bigger than my entire head, peered into my mouth using his mirror on a stick and a pokey stick. Then he opened my carefully crumpled present in his larger than life hand, giving the impression he was working with a miniature fairy cap.

"This tooth has had a lot of work done on it." He said with a smile on his face."Yup." I replied. He was an observant giant.

"I can't put the cap back on. There's not enough tooth. And there's an infection." His smile stayed on.

I wonder, is the smiling and talking without moving your lips a part of the dentist training or is it a reaction to the obvious money pit that my tooth obviously is?

And of course there's a small infection. It couldn't just be that I don't have a cap on my empty of nerve-endings tooth, but there had to be an infection. Think about it. I like alcohol, scotch and wine most of all. I drink cranberry juice once a day. Chocolate is my best friend. Scratch that, it's my life support, my only true addiction, without it I could not breathe. You get the picture. Anyway, of course there is an infection. So, since there's really nothing in the tooth and nothing to build onto and glue the cap to and so therefor nothing to keep, we're gonna pull the sucker. Oh, and, by the by, the dentist was very impressed that we even had that cap on there in the first place. He didn't even understand why we bothered to cap the tooth as there was so little to it. Isn't that a lovely thought?

"You mean to tell me I could have pulled this tooth the first time they put a cap on it and I would have been fine?" I asked once he was doing that creepy talk-and-smile-without-moving-the-lips thing."

"Yeah. We'll you still want to try to save bone. So, blah, blah, blah..." And they he went into a whole explanation of why I want to get an implant. Tooth that is. Remember, I was at the dentist's office.

But can you believe it? I could have saved myself a root canal and TWO replacements of the cap! Not only would my insurance company have benefited from that, but think of the time and anxiety it would have saved me! Not to mention all those broken bits. Could have just gotten rid of the whole thing. Battabing! Done.

But really, here's the kicker: should I get that implant that costs all of this money? I mean, do I really need to? That's more pain and more money. And this tooth is in the way back and would not affect any part of my bone, only a slight shifting of my teeth. I'm used to that. They've never been really stationary, even before the braces and bridge (yes, I already have two fake teeth, but you would never know and they are only there because the genes I inherited decided to pull a fast one and not give me those two teeth. Weird, I know). Then I look at my celery and peanut butter snack and think about how difficult it is to eat it right now. That, coupled with the fact that I still have at least 30 good years in me I figured I wouldn't go Redneck just yet. And please, do not take offense in that term and the direction it is going. Really, I speak from close personal experience: trailer, mullet, missing teeth. And I loved it. It was a blast. So understand that while I don't want to go that route, it's only because I've been there and I prefer uncharted territory. So, I decided to go for it. I'm going to get that implant. Tooth implant. I'm going to save that bone. I'm puffing out my chest and letting everyone know with all my pride so very apparent that I will not have a space where a tooth should be. Granted, it's not a real tooth, but it's the next best thing! So, even if I am falling apart, I can keep it partially together with more screws and glue, just less hair dye. I'm going to go ahead and pretend I'm not growing old and falling apart, I'm going to simply rebuild my youth!

Meanwhile, I promise not to talk tooth talk any more.

I have always lived partially in a dream world. Not just any dream world, but a specially crafted and insulated dream world. Occasionally I open a window and peer out. I take stock of the outside world and all it has to offer, all that it is missing. Then, I shut that window nice and tight and live in my little world until I feel that it is necessary to view reality again.

This little fact about how I choose to live is often thrown in my face as an accusation, usually by those that feel it is wrong to be so oblivious to all the ugly, horrible truths that create reality. These same people want to see the hard, sharp claws of life and hold onto that pain that the lacerations inflict, rejecting complete healing. They tear at the scabs and the scars, trying to cut out or keep open all the hurt that was purposefully or incidentally pressed upon them. They take all that was a burn and look around them for any sharp tool or branding iron of the present or future and worry at the past wound. The healing almost never comes and so they never see the beauty scars can lend to their world, their lives. And because I do not choose to see my pain, my scars, my past hurts as something ugly, because I choose to see how beautiful I have and will become, how the scars have shaped and formed me, becoming tools, experiences that I can give and use to make not only my little world better, but influence others as well, I am accused of dreaming and not seeing.

What these people don't know, what they refuse to see is that I'm not completely oblivious. What these people don't understand is that I do choose to see reality. Only, I choose to allow it to transform me into something stronger and better than what was in my place before, no matter how much it hurts, so that I can face the monumental as well as the trivial. So that I can keep opening that window and continue to change and grow and become. So that I can keep dreaming and living in my carefully created and cherished life.

I realize that I could remain in my cocoon and be safe, allowing the padding of my dreams, wants, and desires to weave a web about me. I could very easily allow this, but then what would happen to me? I would rot. The sweet, sugary threads of that which is only hopes and dreams would begin to disintegrate, fall on my skin and eat me away. I would be nothing but a wisp of a person. And this is not who or what I want to be.

So, it's not that I don't want to be a part of real life, only I want it on my terms. And, since it is my life and my options are endless, I live that way. Funny how I never realized any of this until recently, within the past few years. Funny how it takes 30 years to realize I can do what I want. Nothing holds me back but myself. I just wish everyone knew this little secret.

Who was your favorite character on Sesame Street?

This is a tough question. At least for me it is. I mean, at one point I totally loved cookie monster. I related to his fanatical desire for cookies, you know? It's one of the reasons I don't keep cookies in the house. I love them, don't get me wrong, but I think that my love for cookies may be a little on the obsessive side. It's more than difficult for me to have just one cookie, especially if chocolate is involved in anyway. And forget about Oreos - even the generic hydronated chocolate wafer cookies that are similar, but not quite the same. I love to have a tall glass of milk and alternate from twisting them open and licking out the insides, dipping the plain chocolate wafer into the milk to eating the cookie in two bites and washing it down with two or three delicious gulps of milk. Ah, satisfaction to the max! Like I said, cookies don't stand a chance in my home. I have no self control. So, as you can see, I can completely relate to the Cookie Monster's motivation: his love of cookies.

Of course, after having my son and discovering I can mimic the Elmo voice (yeah, i know, creepy) and then, after watching the cute little bugger, I fell in love with him. He was just so terminally cute with that voice and genuine concern for people, his desire to please and often hitting the mark. I couldn't help it. Plus, it really helped that it seemed as though he was just pulling everyone's leg with the whole cutsie routine. I think anything that is that cute with that kind of voice has to be pulling some kind of sham. It's not a far stretch for my imagination to invision Elmo strapped to the nines, smoking a cigarrette and nursing a bottle of whiskey, sans glass. Of course my minds eye sees all of this as the "private" Elmo, as if he does this behind the scenes, but when he's on TV he shows his usual over-elated, high voiced, sweet little self. For some reason, I really dig this dual personality I've given to the Sesame Street character. I refuse to believe he's all sugary sweet. No one is. Except, I suppose, the fictional characters we create. So, I guess Elmo could be all good and no bad. Only, that supposition really creeps me out. More than my "talent" of not only talking with an Elmo voice, but also using his vocabulary and grammer.

My third contemplation is Ernie. He definitely has charm. I can relate to his personality in many ways, right down to the laugh. See, since I was a little girl I have often laughed Ernie's laugh. This is not a concious thing at all. In fact, I really don't know where it comes from or why I do it. In fact, it's a bit embarrassing. Here I am trying to be graceful, sophisticated, lovely, adorable, lady-like when someone says or does something funnier than all get out and I laugh so hard I start making this sound like a snort, but it's from the back of my throat. No, milk does not usually come out of my nose. Although there was this one time... but I digress. Let's just say it's definitely a talent I wish I did not have. The good news is that I am not alone: I have heard one other person do it, besides Ernie. Unfortunately I cannot direct you to them as I have lost contact with them.

Of course, Ernie's laugh is not the only reason to love this well-known puppet. He has charm, a simple sense of humor, and a desire to be good, although he unfortunately fails, and pretty continuously at that, to meet the expections of his room-mate, Bert. In a nutshell, that's me. I don't seem to have a problem charming people, my humor is still stuck on word play and simple children's jokes, and I want so badly to be a good girl, only find myself short of the goal. So, I guess it's a fair assessment to say that Ernie is my favorite. Simply because I get him, or, rather, I get the puppet's "character". *

So, who's your favorite Sesame Street character?

*Just a side note: I know Ernie's not a real person. None of these characters are real people, but for some reason, as I sit here typing up this little blurb, I find myself writing as though they are real. And I guess that's what really puts Ernie in the forefront of all the characters. His foibles, his silly laugh, his simply sweet sense of humor, his love for his rubber ducky... If I didn't know better I'd say he's real!

Okay, I'm a terrible mom. I just typed up my son's paper for English class. No, I didn't write it. I just typed up what he had handwritten. Did you know that 7th grade teachers want the students to turn in typed up rough drafts? It's absurd, if you ask me, but who am I to say. I'm not the teacher.

Again, I digress. See, I honestly don't think it's bad that I typed up this rough draft. He's done all the others and I've insisted on it, although it does take him quite a bit of time. However, when he began his usual pleading of me to type this paper up my cloudy and sleepy mind came up with the cleverest idea since, well, let's just say for a bit now. Oh, it's so very clever. You are going to love this: I sold my typing skills to the boy for the payment of one toilet scrubbing. And not a sometime-in-the-future-scrubbing. It's a today scrubbing. Yes! My toilet will once again be clean. It's been since the last time I had a clever idea. I'm going to have to really start eating some avocados and other brain food so I can get these ideas coming on a more regular basis. It would be nice to have a cleaner home and if I'm not going to do it, I can definitely barter services to get the child to do it. See, I'm an awful mom.

I'm sure you have all seen the television show The Wonder Years. If you haven't, you really should. It is an excellent show and I would continue to campaign its virtues, but I think the link has pretty much summed it up for me. And my blog isn't about television shows, it's about Cay's Place - my place. Which, if I do say so myself, is a pretty cool place to be. There's quiche, cookies, cocktails, crafts, and lots and lots of books. Oh, and there's the Bug. He's the best part of the whole experience. Only, my Bug is growing up. I know, of course he is. He can't stay young and innocent, wide-eyed forever. And I really don't expect him to. It's just that this stage is a little tougher than when he stopped using a sippy cup. It's a tougher age than when he started to ride his bike to school on his own. It's even tougher than the first day of school. I mean I cried and everything when I dropped him off at class for kindergarten. I was a total sissy. Of course I didn't let him see me do this. It was completely on the down low. Gotta keep the sissy-ness to myself, after all.

But this stage... Now this stage is what I call the "Wonder Years" stage. This is the beginning of the end of his childhood, essentially. Maybe I'm being a bit dramatic here or maybe it's not dramatic enough. Because see, soon he will be a teenager. Soon he will not need his mother as much. And this last statement is true even more so because I have raised him to be so independent. Not only does he get his own water, but I have taught him a little bit of cooking. In fact, and here I go bragging a bit, the other day, he made scrambled eggs for me and served me breakfast in bed. And he's only 12! I swear, he had good grades, his room was clean - well, as good as it gets, there was nothing amiss. It was just because he loves me. What a doll, eh?

But I digress... Back to explaining my... my... well, for lack of a better word, my woe. I'm not upset about my child growing up. I'm proud of that. In fact, I couldn't be happier or more proud. He's an amazing, fun, sweet, and extremely smart individual. What it is is this: I'm sad that there's an end coming to his childhood. I'm going to miss the "kid". And, while I know it's going to be just as sweet to watch this new phase of life with the directional decisions that will affect his life with more depth then the kiddy choices of all blue or all black legos for the ultra-mega space ship, I still feel this feeling of loss. I'm going to miss the cuddles, the kisses, the need. I'm going to miss the hand holding just to be close, the unquestioned trust, the soft spot just above the upper lip that I would pet with my index finger, saying, "Gimmie the lip! Gimmie the lip!.. ahh, the lip!" I can't pet that lip anymore. Two reasons: one, it embarrasses him (of course. If you didn't catch it before he's 12. Everything I do embarrasses him and, don't tell him, but often times I do it on purpose. Hey, I have to get my kicks somehow, right?) and two, in a year or two stubble is going to grow out of that spot. It won't be as fun then. See, it's all of these little things that I'm going to miss. Mostly, though, it's the need that I've been fulfilling all these years and that sense of identity. I'm a mom. I wash clothes, make lunches, organize schedules, buy a lot of bandaides (I mean a lot!), sacrifice my desire for diet soda so that the child is not tempted to drink it all and then act as though there was no way he could have consumed it all even though I did not have one drop and all of the soda is gone. Frankly put, I'm not educated on how to not be the need, how to not fulfill a need. I've been doing this since I was 20. And, although I am trying, facing the fact that one day he won't need me at all is a bit bitter on my heart. That is, until the next time I decide to make a chocolate cake and find a finger groove in the icing where the cake meets the pan. Yeah, I'm sure I'll be looking forward to living alone at that time. Meanwhile, I'll continue to steal bear hugs and kiss his cheeks with lipstick - in public, just so he knows exactly how much I need my Bug, even if it is just to embarrass him with how much I adore him.

So, I'm currently helping Bug with his research on his next English paper. This paper is to be about a place, any place in the world, and how it is significant to us. His previous assignment was about a person, any person from history, born before 1970. Bug chose Hannibal for that paper. Of course when choosing this particular historical figure, Bug thought Hannibal was the cannibalistic serial killer, who was the protagonist in the movies Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, and Hannibal Rising, none of which he's seen, mind you. We soon found out that Hannibal is a real person and is NOT a serial killer. In fact, he is not only a Carthaginian general that lived from 247 to 183 BC, but he managed to accomplish one of the greatest feats in military history when he marched on Rome. His strategies are still used today and, honestly, now that I have done the research with Bug on this great general, not only can I pretty much tell you what was so great about this man I had never heard of, but I have added him to my list of people it would be cool to have lunch with.

Now that you are armed with this information. Guess the place my twelve year old son wants to write about. Go ahead, guess! I double dog dare you! I bet you will never get close...

Okay, I'll give it to you: Buchenwald.

For those of you that do not know what or where Buchenwald is, it is one of the largest concentration camps that was built during the Holocaust and is located in Germany. And, frankly, because I like to be frank with you good people that make up my fan club, I got depressed within 30 seconds of reading about this horrific place. So depressed that not only did I quit the little bit of research that I did on the internet and told Bug that "I found the information, at least two sites. So, now you need to do the research and come up with something. I'm done", but I provided a link for you good people here on my blog. Misery loves company right? So, although I want all of you to be happy and whatnot, I do not want to carry this information alone! Nor do I want to help Bug with this paper. I mean, it was tough enough to focus on all of the boring military mumbo-jumbo when helping with the last paper and here I've got to face yet again ( I took a class called Facing History and Ourselves in highschool that delved about shoulder deep into the cruelties of the holocaust - no wonder highschool was so emotionally tough for me!). So, basically, I'm complaining to you my lovely fan club.

But do not worry yourselves too much. I will survive. Yes I will come out of this radiating joy! My triumph will be the new recipes that I accomplish. See, I'm not just checking out the horrid research that must be read by Bug, but also, I'm checking out another cook book. I'm going to be cooking up a storm. It's the only true way to overcome any type of depression. And I can't eat all this food by myself! So, anyone want to come over and eat?

Happy New Year! And I sincerely mean it. Personally, I'm quite excited about this year. I'm not sure what it is. It could be that I have actual goals, resolutions, accomplishments that I want and can and will accomplish. It could be that, after taking the last few days to look back at where I've been and who I was, then looking at where I am and who I have become, I can say that I did not just arrive here, but purposely set a destination and have arrived closer than I really thought possible. It could be that I've reorganized my life in all aspects, down to bill filing, and am ready to face the new year with renewed vigor and preparation. Or, it could be the 3 cups of coffee I drank before 10 am. Okay, so I'm a bit wired. But I will still maintain that I am excited for this new year, no matter the motivation!

With that being said, I will now share with my fan base - I know, it's really just my family and maybe two of my friends, so, those of you who read this blog, spread the word, okay? If I get a larger fan base I just know I'll be more motivated to write more about my so very interesting life and ideas. But I digress, as I was saying, I will now share with my fan base the resolutions that I have for the upcoming year. Now, those of you who love me and talk to me at least weekly... okay, all of you in my fan base, you need to hold me to it. Because that's what love is, right? Making sure we stay on track, or at least reminding one another that we have fallen off the tracks and that it is so much easier to drive that train when we are following the tracks that are built specifically for us.

So, here they are:

1. Organize all of my project ideas. Oh, and organize my recipe clippings, too. All of these pieces of paper floating around my house are driving me bananas! Sure, I could just throw them away, but then I would be frantic looking for them, knowing I that I just had that recipe or that I had always wanted to try to make that mosaic table but never did and now I have no idea how, even though I went ahead and bought all this china from the thrift store.

2. Actually work on my project ideas. And, along with this one, I need to have at least two new, somewhat complicated projects finished by the new year. I mean, what's the use of collecting information on how to make a lampshade if it just sits in my new, beloved "Ideas" binder?

3. Use the God given talents to create gifts that truly suit my loved ones. Why go buy something that I know is not going to be used. Plus, according to my sister and her husband who received a knitted afghan blanket from me for their first Christmas as a married couple, these kinds of gifts are not only treasured, but named as well. Tigey currently lives on the back of their sofa when not in use.

4. Make something just for me. I mean really, just for me. Don't I deserve to have beautiful things too?

5. And, just so that I'm not considered a completely shallow ninny who only thinks of the physical realm of my world (and that would be by my own thinking), I am going to work on being a better person. As in, how can I handle this situation better so that everyone comes out feeling better about themselves? How can I handle that situation with more maturity? How can I love more? This one, I realize will require a lot more prayer, but I think I can do it. And, somehow, I think the projects will help.

Now, all that being said, I know that no matter how much we plan and design to do this or that with our lives, God really is the one doing the planning and providing the opportunities for us. I mean, that country song that says, "if you want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans" is so very true. However, I also believe that God gives us talents and passions and that when we follow these gifts our lives are showered in blessings. In other words, if I stay on track, I know that I will end up blessed beyond my wildest dreams.

(P.S. I can't wait to look back on this year. It's so exciting to see what was accomplished, even in terms of the unexpected achievements! Oh, and this coffee buzz is rockin'!)

I love Christmas trees. I love the lights, the pretty bows, the individual decorations that mark milestones in the life of a family. One of my favorite parts of Christmas is sitting in front of the lit up, fully decorated tree, with all the house lights out, contemplating the simple beauty of the season, of the complexities of the human heart, of the very tree before me while sipping hot chocolate or some steamy chai. It is a tradition that my mother and I had together and one that I carry on, often alone as my son has been too young to fully enjoy this little tradition until recently. And, owing to the fact that trees are expensive and we simply cannot indulge our desires in that avenue, I thought I would not have that tradition at all this year. It did not phase me at all. I am so full of the spirit this year that having nothing, or close to, will not phase me. I will give what I can and trust that God will make it more than I ever dreamed it to be. Just like the story of the feeding of the crowd with just a few fish and a few loaves of bread.

So, I was not going to have a tree. Instead I was thinking of all the wonderful ways I was going to decorate my home. Last year I had moved and did not have the energy or space to decorate, but this year is different and so my excitement and spirit are high. And, as I came in from my lunch of shopping for ideas for gifts and sat down in my cube, my spirits rose even higher. There on my floor was a four foot plastic tree in a box. My office Secret Santa had decided to give me my present early according to the attached note. Immediately I turned away from my lunch partner and grabbed at my tissues. Tears had welled up. I don't know if my Secret Santa will ever know how much they have touched my life. Just to make sure that they know how very grateful I am I told all of my office friends, letting them know exactly how much the thought means to me and to thank my Secret Santa. There's no way to truly express my gratitude or to show how wonderful they have made my life by this simple gesture. I pray that they are rewarded with blessings upon blessings.

I'd like to take this time to introduce the newest member of our family, Kelly the dog. She's loyal, cuddly, and smart. Unfortunately, I believe she has a touch of ADHD which causes a bit of a problem when playing fetch as she will start to drop the ball and then stop, turn around as if she is changing her mind and then stop again, turn back to myself or Bug, act as if she is dropping the ball and then start all over again with her little dance.

Of course Kelly and Bug get along perfectly in this area. See, I will often send him on an errand such as brushing his teeth or grabbing a book off of a shelf and he will turn away from me to do it, walk two steps, then turn back to me, walk two steps, turn away from me and put his hands on his head and look forlornly into a room. Of course he has a faraway look on his face before he looks forlorn. Yes, I do save him from this bereft feeling of having no idea what so ever of what he is doing. It's a pretty terrible feeling. I know, I have it all the time when I'm coming out of a daydream and find myself at some task or another. Unlike my son, though, I can usually follow a thread of thought back to where I was in order to figure out what I am doing. With Bug it usually takes questioning what he is doing. I would just direct him again, but he remains in his lost world with these directions. Plus, isn't it better that I teach him how to find that string of thought to find his own way? That's what I thought. Besides, where would the fun of being a mother of a child with ADHD be if I couldn't watch and enjoy the show on occasion?

But I digress. This blog is about Kelly and how she was placed so perfectly in our lives. For some time now Bug has wanted a four legged, furry friend. Unfortunately we rent and so are limited by our landlord on what type of canine that we could bring into our home (no breeds of a violent reputation). Now, as cute and cuddly as I find these dogs, I understand that reputation preceeds these creatures and that this will often cause conflicts socially for them as well as for us. So it wasn't a problem to go along with the restriction. A small dog would work perfectly for us, but I didn't really want a rat that barked and my little sister said she would beat me with her laptop if I got anything lighter than her laptop. A mixed breed of some sort would be perfect. But of course all we were finding were Rottweilers and Pittbulls, Chihuahuas and dogs bigger than my house.

So, I bided my time. I took Bug to the homes of friends with dogs. I volunteered Bug to babysit dogs. And we even visited a couple of shelters to "play" with dogs. (Okay, the last thing we did only once.) Of course all of these things did not make up for having our very own pup, but it would have to do. We just could not find the perfect pup for us.

I was about to give up hope and had actually not thought seriously about adopting a dog for a few months. Bug and I were settling into the life of wishful dog thinking and dog borrowing when we decided to visit a dear friend as they were moving from the Bay Area to Washington. My friend and her son had two dogs, one Chihuahua that almost never stopped barking and one Chocolate Lab that I had never met. I had forgotten about the Lab, her presence had only been made known within the last couple of months. So, when she came bounding up to us at the front door I was pleasantly surprised. She was beautiful and friendly and we fell in love immediately. Of course I was my spunky self and immediately exclaimed,"Oh, she's beautiful! Can we take her home?" I always get myself in trouble with these remarks. This instance was nothing new as my friend responded with,"Really? You want her? We are looking for a home for her. We can't take her to Washington."

Come to find out, my friend had Kelly because the old owners (aquaintences of some sort) duped her. She had agreed to watch the dog for a weekend so that the original owners could have a pool party. Of course, when the weekend was over and it was time to pick Kelly up, the old owners simply said that they didn't want her anymore and so were not going to pick her up. So, my animal loving friend kept her until she couldn't keep her anymore. And that's when I came into the picture with my quip that was meant more as a compliment, but ended up being a door opener to a complete blessing.

Now we have Kelly. Can you believe it? An absolute perfect blessing as she is six years old, already trained in so many ways, completely adoring of Bug (it is his dog, after all), and full of energy which gets us off our couch and out into the great world of walks and parks. Everything happens for a reason and I am in full belief that Kelly came to us at the perfect time. So, join me in welcoming our pretty pup!

I need a cookie. Anyone have a chocolate chip cookie they are willing to part with? It's for the good of the nation, trust me. There is plenty of evidence to prove that a Cranky Cay is not what you want. Or a sad one. You know the saying "cry me a river"? Well, let's just say the Mississippi has nothing on me! So, hand over the cookie and no one gets hurt. For now anyway. But, if you truly want to stay safe, keep an arsonal of cookies available. And when you see the tick in my lip as the beast begins to take over, start chucking them in my direction and RUN! Because there is no telling what will happen if you stick around: you'll either lose a limb or end up drowning in the puddle of tears.

Anyone have a chocolate chip cookie?

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.