The Eeyore Within

I have a (former) friend who is a complainer. I call her Eeyore behind her back. Eeyore, if you recall, is the donkey from the Hundred Acre Wood where Winnie the Pooh and all his friends live. Eeyore is perpetually unhappy, complaining about everything. Being around Eeyores zaps my energy and brings me down. What a drag. Don't they notice they are sucking the air from the room? What my friend has taught me, is that I never want to be an Eeyore.

Of course sometimes I feel like Eeyore, I think we all do. Life gets complicated and makes us weary. When someone asks, “How’s it going?” it's so much easier to say “This sucks," than "I'm full of joy today!" and break into song. Yes, finding inspiration in the daily struggle is often a chore. In my line of work, I meet medically fragile children. It’s a privilege. When I am feeling Eeyoreish, I think of those children and I remember that my worst day is still pretty good compared to their situations. Sometimes I think about Tina.

Tina was 16 when she was diagnosed with bone cancer in her arm. Even after chemotherapy and radiation, she needed an amputation. To make things worse, she would need it amputated at the shoulder joint which would mean no prosthetic would be possible. She would live the rest of her life with 1 arm. But Tina and her family were gracious and grateful. They were SO pleased that the amputation would saveTina's life. Prior to surgery, Tina went to Glamour Shots as bald as could be, and posed in a tiara and sleeveless blouse, showing off both arms as a perfect pair for one last time. She was beautiful. She hung this picture on her hospital door to share with the nurses during her stay when they cut off her arm. She never once complained. She remained optimistic and cheerful right until the end. As a reminder of her spirit, her family buried her in the sparkling tiara a week before her would-be graduation.

As sad a story as that is, I am inspired by Tina. She reminds me that no matter how bad things feel, my problems are always petty and life is wonderful and amazing every minute I get to live it. Even with its heartbreak, its complexities, life is a GIFT! We get to wake up every day and unwrap its mystery. None of our problems today or tomorrow are as big as Tina’s. We have nothing to complain about.

Other times, I think about the Watsons. They are parents to four children, two girls and two boys. The girls are healthy, but both boys have a genetic condition called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Their condition has progressed so they cannot move at all, except their eyes. They need ventilators to breathe. They are 5 and 2 years old. I recently spoke to their mother, Erica. Erica remarked to me how blessed they are as a family; how fortunate their family is, and how happy they are. I said “Erica, this is remarkable to me – with your sons fighting for every breath, how do you find yourself blessed?” She said, “When our first son was born, they told us it would be a miracle if he lived to be 5. He did. We are the parents of a miracle and we are so happy about that.” Erica inspires me. To find so much good in so much tragedy is uplifting.

When I feel my Inner Eeyore start to surface, I remember the struggles of Tina and the Watsons. The more I squash the urge to complain about life, the easier it gets. I’m not going to lie – I still have some work to do. I still complain. But I recognize that complaining forces me to dwell on the negative, and letting it go sets me free. When I feel good, I notice people around me feel good. Erica’s attitude is contagious! Tina’s spirit is contagious! Every time I think of them or tell their stories, I feel inspired to be a better person. To complain less. To not sweat the small stuff.  My worst day is still a pretty good day.

The Yellow Bus

I was reminded today of Grandpa’s yellow bus. I saw an old school bus parked in a field with long grass growing up around it. I thought about my Grandpa's bus.

After he retired from farming, my mother's dad drove a school bus for Conestoga Valley School District. He would back it into his driveway at the end of the day, and park it in the same place. He used to keep a large wedge of wood under the rear tire, although it didn’t appear to me that the bus would ever roll anywhere.

I loved that yellow bus. It was a funhouse to me! Grandpa kept the sliding doors slightly ajar, but I was small and had a hard time prying the rubber flaps open to hop aboard. The steps were high and black, and the driver seat was big. I would sit tall in that big seat. He kept a lightweight jacket on the seat-back, and sometimes I would wear it while I pretended to drive the bus. I adjusted the giant overhead mirror so I could see all the way to the back. For many years, my feet could not reach the pedals, but it didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I could flip all the bright red and yellow switches to make the lights work - headlights, tail lights, hazard lights, warning lights – who knew which was which? Over and over the flashing switches would blink on and off, making a ticking sound like the turn signals, and I would pretend to drive that bus. As best I could, I shifted the long, metal gear shift and flashed those lights, stopping to let imaginary kids in and out of the door with the big black flaps. To close the doors, I had to leave my driver seat and use two hands to maneuver the heavy silver handle. No matter what, I figured as long as that big block of wood was under the tire, I would be okay.

I would run fast up and down the aisle just for the sake of it. Sometimes I would tap the tops of each seat as I ran by to see how fast I could go without missing a seat. And sometimes I would jump out the emergency exit at the back because there was a pretend fire.

Grandpa always kept his bus very clean, and it smelled like vinyl and rubber. I would go from seat to seat and flip the cushions up from the back to find combs, barrettes, chewed gum, sticky dirt-covered sourballs, and pencils in the cracks. I never found money like I wanted to. I also never understood why Grandpa could keep a drawer full of candy in his desk in the house, but never any on that yellow bus for me to eat.

Then there was Easter. Never fail, every year an Easter egg was ALWAYS tucked inside the bus's exhaust pipe for us to find on our hunt. Sometimes there was an egg on the bumper or the tire, but never inside the bus.

Me finding Easter eggs behind the yellow bus, Easter, 1974. 

I remember riding with him one day, in the afternoon. I sat in the seat behind him, against the window. I could look up in the overhead mirror and see Grandpa’s face. I was very quiet, and nobody sat with me that day. Two big kids, probably 5th graders, tapped my head and I turned around in my seat. They asked me what my name was, and if I was a boy or girl. I told them I was a girl and my Grandpa was the bus driver. I must have been five, because that was the year I had a boyish Dorothy Hamill haircut. They were nice, and one of them gave me a ruler. I don’t remember if it was the same time or another time when I was riding the bus, that Grandpa told the kids to behave. Since I was in the front seat I didn’t know what was going on in the back, but I know Grandpa was mad. He told those kids to sit down or he was turning that bus around and going back to the school – Is that what you want? To go back to the school and have your parents come for you??  I was scared because I never heard Grandpa with anger in his voice before that, and probably never after that. Things must have resolved, because he didn’t turn the bus around. I sat there, riding in the seat behind him, watching his face in the overhead mirror. One by one the kids got off the bus until it was just me and Grandpa, riding home.

I was 12 when he died, and the yellow bus disappeared from his driveway. It left behind strange shallow oval divots in the pavement where the tires used to be - a quiet tribute in the blacktop to the man and his bus.

My grandparents, me, and the yellow bus in the background. There are only
two bus pictures in my entire album, both from the same day in 1974.

Myrtle's Gift

In the year since dad's death, some unexpected items have turned up around the house as mom sorts through his belongings. Among them are a pair of new-in-the-box river waders, countless pocket knives, and someone's gold crown (as in dental work, not royalty). "What do I DO with all this?" Mom often asks. Most of the pocket knives went as family Christmas presents. The gold crown went for scrap ($21!). The river waders are still up for grabs.

Another strange item was a ring. Mom asked me to look at it. "Have you ever seen this before?" she asked. It was a man's ring with a black Trojan or Roman soldier on it. Not my area of expertise.

"No." I said, "Where did you find it?"

"It was in the safe deposit box. I haven't been in the safe deposit box in decades."

I rolled the ring between my fingers. It felt light, but looked heavy - the discolored band may or may not be gold, and my guess is that the engraved Trojan is hematite. When I flipped it over, I noticed some engraving on the inside. "Oh look!" I exclaimed. "It says MRP to LJU 12-25-45! Aunt Myrtle gave this to Uncle Lloyd for Christmas after the war."

Uncle Lloyd was my dad's uncle. He was the eldest of 5, born on a Lampeter farm in 1910. He joined the army in 1941, and fought with the Allies in Europe. I need to read the yellowed newspaper clippings for the whole story, but Uncle Lloyd was wounded while rescuing other wounded soldiers under German artillery fire in Belgium or France in 1943. He was awarded a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his actions. Uncle Lloyd's sister gave birth to a son in 1943, my dad, and named him after her heroic brother.

Uncle Lloyd in Europe during the war, mounted on weaponry. Weiner jokes are timeless.

Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Myrtle in Pennsylvania, date unknown.

Uncle Lloyd and Aunt Myrtle were 36 when they married, and had no children. I don't have any specific memories of Uncle Lloyd, who died in 1981, but I do remember Aunt Myrtle. She was tall, gangly, cheerful and always wearing cat-eye glasses. She outlived her husband by 13 years.

This 60 year old ring - a gift between lovers - has perhaps spent half of its life in a safe deposit box. But this week, I wore it to work. A vintage accessory last worn by a World War II decorated veteran saw the light of day.

It's All in the Name

<A story from 2011. As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent: Me.>

I got married and made Gershwin my last name. Shannon Gershwin. I kept my middle name the same, and moved my maiden name to the middle. Shannon Lee Jones Gershwin. Simple enough, yes?

Not at the DMV.

I had to renew my driver's license. When I changed my name and changed my license to match in 2006, there was no problem. Today, Mr. Carter, the DMV agent, had issues with my name. 

Mr. C: (studying computer screen) There you are. I couldn't find you in my database under Gershwin.  You are under Jones.

SG: But my last name is Gershwin, not Jones.

Mr. C: Jones-Gershwin then?

SG: No, Gershwin. Here is my license.

Mr. C: Well we can put the hyphen on the new license.

SG: There is no hyphen. There's only 1 last name. Gershwin.

Mr. C: But in the database it will automatically hyphen because you can't have 2 last names in the database.

SG: I don't have 2 last names. I just have 1. Gershwin.

Mr. C: Do you have your marriage certificate?

SG: No. Since my current license has been correct for the past 5 years with my married name, it didn't occur to me that I would need it today.

Mr. C: Well, I have to verify the name change.

SG: They verified the name change in 2006. My current license is correct. I don't understand what is happening.

Mr. C: Well the hyphen is going to be in there.

SG: Why? It's not in my current license. There is no hyphen. My name will be wrong on the license if there is a hyphen.

Mr. C: I can't change the database without proof of your name change.

SG: But I didn't change my name since 2006 when they correctly printed my license. I don't understand why it wasn't a problem then. Please don't make me come back on another day.

Mr. C: Hey Judy, can you come over here for a second??

Mr. Carter gets Judy involved, who showed him how to move my names around. Then he sends me to the photo lady. The photo lady gives me my print-out. With a hyphen.

SG: Excuse me, Mr. Carter?

Mr. C: Yes?

SG: There's a hyphen.

Mr. C: You said there was no hyphen!

SG: Right. I mean there's a hyphen here on the printout.

Mr. C: I took that dang hyphen out. Lemme see that...

And back to his desk we go. He summons Judy and fixes the hyphen. Again.

SG: Are you going to charge me another $32.00?

Mr. C: Not unless you give me any more lip.

SG: Thanks.

Mr. C: You have a nice day young lady. 

Back I go to the photo lady. All is resolved. From the DMV, I head across town to the travel agent, Mary, who needs to see our passports before booking international airline tickets. I give her the passports.

Mary: So now do you go by Gershwin, or Jones-Gershwin?

SG: Gershwin. Just Gershwin.

Mary: Okay, I just have to make sure your airline tickets match your passport exactly.

SG: Well the passport says Shannon Lee Jones Gershwin, so does it matter?

Mary: What did we do for your trip to Ireland last year?

SG: I don't know, but it worked.

Mary: Well your credit card says Shannon Jones Gershwin and your AAA card says Shannon L. Gershwin.

SG: A lot of American documentation doesn't accept 2 middle names. It's not a problem in Europe, I guess I should move there. I wonder if George H. W. Bush ever went through this.

Mary: I'll look up your file from the trip to Ireland.

SG: That would be great.

Mary: So why does Marty's passport have an R for a middle name instead of his full middle name?  That's highly unusual.

SG: I don't know why it's like that. Nobody called Interpol on our honeymoon, so I guess it's no problem. 

Mary: Why did they put Marty instead of Martin? They aren't supposed to allow nicknames on passports.

SG: It's not a nickname. His name is Marty. Just Marty. It's not Martin. Birth certificate says Marty...

And so went my day.

Christian Love Gone Awry

Mom emailed me this story last night. It's a story too good not to share - classic Mom!

We had Maundy Service at church tonight. First a potluck dinner. (I told Fellowship Committee you said hi and they said "Get your butt up here we need you!") After that we have a service up in the sanctuary and communion. I was busy during dinner, but I noticed that this unkempt woman with no teeth was at the potluck. (No she did not come with the bearded lady you are always asking about!) So Louise and I had to do some cleaning up, and we got into service late. They were singing. We sat in the last row of seated people and I noticed that the unkempt lady was sitting across the aisle and back a few rows by herself so I went over to her (trying to do the friendly Christian love thing) and asked her if she wanted to come over and sit with me so she wouldn’t have to be all alone. So she did and seemed very happy to share my songbook and Bible. At the end of the service, we introduced ourselves and I gave her a hug. I invited her to come to Sunday School, and she could be in my class (the bearded lady is in my class so why not have one with no teeth) and come to church after Sunday School. Ok, so then I no more than get home and pull into the driveway and unload my dishes when my phone rings and it is Louise telling me that the toothless lady’s house has bedbugs, and I should be careful I didn’t now have them. So I went into the garage and undressed. Naked, I ran upstairs and went right into the shower imagining bedbugs falling off of me as I was going up the steps. I then went into the garage and carefully took the clothes down to the basement and put them into the washer (I hope I don’t ruin my new pink sweater). I swept off my shoes as they had cutout holes and I imagined the bedbugs just getting into those holes. Now I feel itchy all over and in my hair I can feel things crawling around and all for trying to show my Christian love!!!  I can’t stop scratching!!! I hate to get into my bed tonight with my NEW MATTRESS. Oh dear!

Morrow Mountain Misadventure

Wanda picked me up at 10:00 on Sunday. Before we left the house, I told her, "I think I am going to exhume my old hiking boots for today's hike. I love my Salomon hiking shoes, but I need to revive my old L.L. Beans if I want ankle support in the Grand Canyon this Spring. I haven't worn them in about 6 years since buying the hiking shoes, so I wore them around in the yard this week. I don't think they will rub or pinch."

She suggested I bring my Salomons for back-up. I replied, "You know how I hate to carry things on the trail."

"You can keep them in the car for afterwards - you don't have to carry them in your pack."

"Nah, it'll be fine." Famous last words.

After a long, winding drive, we arrived at Morrow Mountain State Park just before noon. We always start our hikes with empty bladders, so we parked at the facilities at the entrance. As we exited the toilets, I stepped on something. I felt it stuck to the back of my boot. I looked down as I walked. I couldn't believe what I saw.

"Wanda, LOOK!"

I had stepped on nothing. The thick sole of my right aged hiking boot had split in two. It slapped like a flip flop when I walked, hinged under the ball of my foot.

"What on EARTH!?! They were just fine the other day! And look at the other one!"

The second boot was flopping just as completely by the time we reached the car. "Oh my God," I said, "we drove all this way and I can't hike with these."

Wanda pondered as I oozed apologies for not taking her advice. If I had brought my shoes, we'd be on our way up the mountain. I felt so foolish. What a waste of gas.

"Let's drive back to Badin and see if there is anything there. If we could buy duct tape and fix them like in Wild, would you hike?" Wanda asked. 

Not at all in favor of hiking in boots held together with tape, but too guilty to fuss, I said, "Sure."

Image courtesy the internet. Not my boot but you get the idea.

Badin's population is less than 2,000. Not only were there no duct tape or shoe stores there, nothing was open on Sunday but church. Wanda pulled up Google Maps and we decided to go 7 miles farther, into Albermarle, hoping it offered footwear. Or duct tape. If not, we would bail out on Morrow Mountain and head home.

We were looking for WalMart per Google, but I saw Hibbitt Sports first. "Let's try Hibbitt. I hope they are open." We pulled into the strip mall and she parked her Honda. Crossing the parking lot, I felt like I was wearing scuba flippers. I had to lift my knees high like a majorette with each step and thunk-slap, thunk-slap, thunk-slap my way along. Wanda was greatly entertained by my march of shame, and I attracted stares from a few shoppers who skipped church. By the time we entered the store, we were both laughing. Each step I took left black crumbles from my soles on the carpet, like a trail of crushed Oreos. We laughed harder.

We walked the perimeter of the store, my knees still high, to the "Women's Shoes" wall. No hiking footwear, but plenty of sneakers. At the first bench in the shoe section, I took off my boots and selected a shoe from the wall. The salesclerk, a strapping buck of 25, brought me a pair in my size. They fit, so we eagerly trotted after him to the check-out counter. It felt good not to march. I put my boots on the counter as I paid. He saw them and asked, "Do you want me to put these boots in the empty box?"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT. You can keep the box, and you can keep the boots, thanks."  He picked up the boots in a two-fingered pinch and daintily dropped them in the can. We left the store, and returned to Morrow Mountain. "Thanks for being so patient!" I told Wanda, "Barring any middle-aged menstrual emergencies at the summit, I think we salvaged the day!"

"Don't jinx us," she giggled, and we started up the trail.

New sneakers, minutes after purchase, from the passenger seat of Wanda's car.

What I Am Thinking During Yoga Class

Oh no, I am almost late and it's packed! Two spots left - do I unroll my mat up front beside the instructor, or back in the corner? CORNER, definitely. I need to be earlier next time so I have the option of strategic mat placement. Hiding is preferred.

Okay, all settled in. She has a voice for Public Radio - sleepy-soft. Oooooom. Tell me a story. Yes, release the tension. Oooooom. Spine straight. Unclench jaw. Palms up. Is this the same soundtrack as last time? Sam Smith, always Sam Smith. Lean to the right. I could do this at home. Why don't I do yoga at home?

Up. Reach reach reach. Swan dive into forward fold. Oh Lawd I need a pedicure. Pumice emergency. Up into Flatback. Chair pose. I wish I had an ass like the girl in front of me. Forward fold. HOW did cat hair get on my mat? Does the cat hair have to be EVERYWHERE? Flatback. Chair. She has a 25-year old butt. I have the butt of a 25-year old couch cushion. Forward fold. Should my knees be bent this far? Maybe I can just grab that snaggled toenail and rip it off. Nope. Seems attached. Pedicure.

Down to the mat again. Plank. I like plank. I like any position that does not involve bending at the waist. This is because I am shaped like an oak barrel which does not lend itself to comfortable bending or twisting. Lift arm and opposite leg. Balance. Am I the oldest one here? They are all so young this time. Where is that mid-50's couple? Switch sides. Balance. Good girl. Is this Stevie Wonder remade for yoga? Whose idea was that? I wonder if he knows. Stevie should never be imitated. Downward-facing dog. Must not fart! Pinch pinch pinch! Must! Not! Fart! Lift which leg? Good, that is helpful.

Lunge pose; hands on mat. My belly is in the way. Why is my belly always in the way? Chin buried in cleavage. What now? Elbows to the floor? Pinch pinch pinch. Reach through where? Oh!Oh! Am I supposed to get my shoulder on the floor? Twisted child what? I am so tangled - Oh! Oooooh this feels nice. I think I got it. But how am I going to get up?

Okay, back onto all fours. Cat, Cow. The yoga poses everybody can do. Her young butt is nice but Cow position in those tight spandex pants reveals ALL of the curves and folds of her undercarriage. It's a little upsetting, frankly. Cat, Cow-avert-my-eyes, Cat, Cow-avert-my-eyes. I am glad there is no one behind me staring into my couch cushion. Horrifying thought. Ease up. Ease? Herky-jerky yoga is more my style.

Oh God we are turning! NO NO NO NOW I AM IN THE FRONT AND IN THE CORNER FLANKED WITH MIRRORS EVERYONE CAN SEE ME NO NO NOOOOO. Oh, look at that - I am not the oldest one. Bonus! Turn feet, warrior pose. Triangle. Oh GOD my belly is like an accordian rolling and unrolling with the bending. Is everyone looking at my belly? Stay calm. Avert eyes in the mirror from the girl next to me because I have seen her spandex lady bits. Turn feet, repeat. PLEASE can we turn back around? I can't handle all these mirrors. Humiliation. Blind yoga. That's what I need.

Down to the floor. YES! Is this Hall and Oates? On my back. No one can see me now. Knees to chest. Grab ankles. Accordian belly pushes boobs into my windpipe. Yoga is for thin people. Release (but don't fart). Repeat. Corpse pose. Rest. AMEN.

Resolutions Update #1: Retrievers

Marty brought in today's mail and tossed it on the kitchen table, where it usually lives for a few weeks until it accumulates and we finally toss it. "You got a card," he said. It's strange to get a card when it's not Christmastime. I opened the card and started to read it. "Oh!" I gasped and tears immediately filled my eyes. "What is it?!?" Marty asked, confused. I told him my story:

Earlier in the week, I took Moby to the Pet Hospital for a yearly check-up. He had eye surgery there in 2014. They only treat emergencies and special cases - Moby gets his regular care from the place around the corner.

In the waiting area, I sat next to a quiet middle-aged man in a camouflage baseball cap, well-worn cowboy boots and jeans. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands splayed with his fingertips touching. I could feel his distress in the silence. His vet came out to chat with him, and I overheard their conversation. His dog was recovering (from something) at home and going on therapeutic walks with the man per the doctor's orders. Yesterday, the man came in from the barn and the dog was lying on the kitchen floor in pain. Since then she isn't putting any weight one of her legs. The vet advised to give the dog a week of rest before further treatment, and she would be right back with prescriptions for pain. She exited the waiting area. I said to the man (like an annoying busybody), "Your dog has a bad leg?" He looked at me, with a half-hearted smile, "Which one?" he answered. I was puzzled. "Which leg?" "No," he responded, "Which dog? I have two retrievers. One had surgery last month and re-injured herself at home. The other one is having surgery today on his elbow. I can't believe this is happening all at once." I asked if this was a genetic condition. "No. Just a run of bad luck." Then Moby was called to the back. His exam took 15 minutes.

As I paid Moby's $35 fee, I looked around for the man in the waiting area. He was gone. I asked the receptionist about him. I described the man and his retrievers to the girl at the desk. She knew immediately who I was talking about. I asked if I could donate to the balance on his account. I told her that my New Year's resolution was to periodically benefit the life of a stranger, and today I chose him. She said, "Sure you can donate! He paid his balance this morning, but today's surgery will cost $3,800." I donated. I told the clerk that she could tell the man about the donation if she wanted to, from "an anonymous stranger." It didn't seem like much of a contribution toward a fee that big, but I felt that it was definitely enough to make a difference in the man's spirit and ease his burden. The look on the face of the assistant was priceless. "He has spent a lot of money here this year and it's only February. Thank you so much." I walked to the parking lot smiling to myself and feeling good about anonymously helping a dog-loving stranger.

In today's mail was a card from the Pet Hospital. It was full of messages from the employees there, including "Valerie at reception," gushing their thanks. They told me how much they care about the man and his dogs, what a wonderful choice I had made for my act of kindness, and how inspirational my New Year's resolution is. I had no idea that my decision would impact so many more lives than that of one sad man in cowboy boots.

The Little Red Hen, Dutchified

In honor of the previous post, I present to you a revised version of the childhood classic, The Little Red Hen with Pennsylvania Dutch flair. (Note: Many words are presented as they are pronounced in Dutch Country)

The Little Red Hen lived on a Lancaster County farm. On this farm, she was friends with the pious pig, the plain cat and the yoney frog.  One day, she found sprouted potatoes in her root cellar. She said to her friends, "Who will help me plant these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I'm prayin' to the Lord Chesus."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am goin' to sewing circle."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "It's time to churn ice cream. Butter peekin."

"Praise Be, I'll go on and plant 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint, and she planted the potatoes herself.

When the potatoes were grown, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me dig these patadas once't?"

"Not I," said the pious pig, "I have Bible study - the book of Cheramiah."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I am bakin' shoofly pies, raisin pies and whoopie pies for the bake sale."
"Not I," said the yoney frog, as he stirred his fragrant cauldron of apple butter over the open fire.

"Praise Be, I'll go on and dig 'em," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

When the potatoes were harvested, the Little Red Hen asked her friends, "Who will help me peel these patadas?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "I have to sing in the choir."
"Not I," said the plain cat. "The milk's turnin' so I need to make smearcase."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "The ot hoss needs cleant."

"Praise Be, I'll peel and boil 'em myself," said the Little Red Hen without complaint.

She peeled and boiled and mashed the potatoes. She made from memory her grandmother's potato fastnacht dough. Then she asked her friends, "Who will help me fry these fastnachts?"

"Not I," said the pious pig. "It is well (it is well)! With my soul (with my soul)!" he sang.
"Not I," said the plain cat. "I need to redd up the table and wash the dishes."
"Not I," said the yoney frog. "I need to wash. I'm sour."

"Praise Be, I'll fry 'em myself, "said the Little Red Hen without complaint. She fried them and shook them up in a paper bag full of cinnamon sugar. When she was done, she generously filled a giant plate high with fastnachts. She wiped her wings on her dirty apron, took off the apron and hung it on the back of the door. She carried the plate to the porch and asked her friends, "Who will help me eat the fastnachts?"

"I will!" said the pious pig.
"I will!" said the plain cat.
"I will!" said the yoney frog.

"Komm Essen!" said the Little Red Hen. And she shared her fastnachts with all her friends because she made 30 dozen and her friends were all such hard workers. "You dare eat them til they're all," she said.  And they did.

What Did You Say?

English is delightfully idiosyncratic. And regional. And sometimes just plain wrong.

Anyone who has traveled  through or lived in several areas of the country recognizes these differences quickly not just by the accents we bear but the words we use. There is the ever-popular 'pop' versus 'soda' debate, 'hoagie' versus 'sub' and 'shopping cart' versus 'buggy.'

I was born in Pennsylvania Dutch Country, and lived in the Upper Midwest, South, and Deep South during my adult years. I have been caught with the wrong terminology several times, or questioned about what I am saying. Some of it is clearly Dutchie. My favorite Dutchism is "to rutch" as in "Children rutch in their car seats," or "By the end of the 2-hour wedding ceremony, I was rutchy."  It's a great word, meaning to squirm or the inability to be still. Throwing a baseball with my dad was always "having a catch" not "playing catch."  I think this might not be Dutchie, but I do think it is regional. I "call in sick" but I do not "call out sick." What does that say about me?

Some of my personal "isms" are only isms in the wrong part of the country. For example, from life in the Midwest, I say "kitty corner" instead of "catty corner". But I REFUSE to call Duck Duck Goose "Duck Duck Gray Goose" - sorry, Minnesotans, that's just WRONG. I have picked up some clear grammatical English horrors as well. From West Virginia, I learned to say "It's pouring down the rain." From North Carolina, I learned to say "I might could do that." 

Over time, I have generally cleansed my verbal palate of Pennsylvania Dutch terms, like "rutchy," and you will no longer hear me saying, "Are you a sophomore now, or a freshman yet?" (yet meaning 'still') or "I'll be right back - wait here once" (no meaning at all, just an extra word).

It has been a long time since I was reprimanded for an ism, but it happened this week. It was a word choice I have been using as long as I can remember, and never knew it offended the ears. I thought, "How am I this old and never knew?" I was among friends when I told a story about a time when "the electric went out." The group all perked up their ears. "What did you say?" They thought I was trying to be cute. Um, no. Until I was confronted with my error, it had never occurred to me that 'electric' is not a noun. Poor grammar is never cute after the age of 4.

When I got home, I emailed or texted about 20 friends and family in all areas of the country. WHERE did I pick this up? I asked them to tell me what caused a blackout or what the purpose of a generator is.  As it turns out, in the South, everyone refers to electricity as power. "There's no power." They often call their power bill "the light bill" which makes me crazy, but I digress. North of Virginia, power is referred to as electricity. "The electricity is out."  And one lone person responded that a blackout happens "when the electric is out."  AH HA! The culprit was MOM! I should have known. I unwittingly had blurted a colloquial Momism to 10 people! "Ugh," I groaned. I thought I sanitized my grammar years ago from all of its Momisms! I learned the hard way that "it's all" is always inappropriate (as in 'the sugar bowl is empty; the sugar is all') and "let's get left" (as in 'we are late, let's get going, we need to get left).

I will now be more generous with my friends and their isms. When Jo says "Dog, go to your pent!" I won't let it drive me bonkers. When Susie says, "I wanted red but I landed up with blue," I will smile and nod. And I will remind myself that there is no such thing as electric.

Chicken Bones and Christmas Carols

On Saturday I texted food-phobic Kathleen to torture her: "Lunch=10-day old rotisserie chicken bits in couscous. Now I am boiling down the carcass until I get a nice good broth."

"Yuck."

"Some people drink bone broth because it's so good for you. When it cools it's like jello from the collagen."

"Okay, you're grossing me out."

Because she is a concerned friend (and a scientist), she emailed me 2 studies that discuss gastric distress, diarrhea, and debilitation from food-borne bacteria. She explained, indignantly, "They recruited people to drink E.coli!  Who would DO that?" I might do that regularly in my kitchen, I'm not sure. She has decided I have a genetic immunity to E. coli.

I always share my "I grossed out Kathleen" successes with Mom, because I learned all my food habits from her. I grew up on bone broth, and lots of stuff much grosser than that. Mom's reply was lovely:

You know what I had to think about the other day when you said that Kathleen was turned off about your boiling the chicken bones for broth? I just remembered all those times when I was a young girl that I rode my bike over to Anna Rohrer’s house to give her chicken bones!! She always seemed really happy to see me with those bags of bones, and let me come in. She had an icebox and I was always so happy if I was there when the ice man came and put this HUGE block of ice in her fridge. How cool - we just had a boring electric fridge, no big ice block!! I would often ask Mom if I could ride the bones over to Anna’s whenever we ate something with bones in it. Sometimes she told me, “No, not these bones."

Anna lived down the road. She was not married, and took care of her Mother. Her Mother lived with her and she always wanted to talk to me. She always sat on her rocking chair and I sat on a little stool that she probably rested her feet on when I was not there. I remember thinking she was SO old but I wonder just how old she really was. I bet not that old! I wonder!

Anna and her mother lived on the end of an Amish house, Joe King's place. They were not Amish, they were Mennonite like us. I think Anna had nothing, and Joe King just gave her a place to live. The whole neighborhood would give her things, so basically we all looked after Anna Rohrer and her Mom. She came to our house to use our phone, and Mom gave her stuff from the garden. Even if she had nothing, Anna used to be a giver with the little she had. This always amazed me. At Christmas time, she would take my sister and me and another farm family’s 2 daughters (we were all the same age) down to southern Lancaster County. She knew very poor people there. The four of us girls would go door-to-door with Anna and sing Christmas carols to these people and Anna gave them each an orange. "Where did she get those oranges?" I thought. The houses we went into were indescribably terrible. I have a picture of the 4 of us girls taken right before we went on one of these trips. I put it out at Christmas just as a reminder of our Christmases with Anna. So anyway, chicken bones have nice memories for me.

Anna's chorus, about 1955.

The Book, Chapter 2

Chapter 2
DATING: CHOOSING A MATE

Obviously there is no such thing as the ideal mate, therefore the Single Woman exists. Many people continue to ask us, “So why are you still single?” and to avoid a lengthy and exhausting explanation we often retort, “I just haven’t found the right guy,” when in reality, the right guy hasn’t found us. Why? Because the wrong guys won’t leave us alone.

There are many different types of men. The good, the bad, and the ones who continue to haunt our subconscious. Men also come in great variety, each with their own fortes and weaknesses.

The Innocent

This type of man appeals to our nurturing side. He is often younger than we are, and not yet jaded by the trials of life. We are attracted to him because we seek a softer edge. They amuse us at first, but ultimately we want to grab them by the scruff and shake sense into them. We want to scream that indeed he WON’T get rich selling Amway, and moving out of his mother’s house IS a good idea.

The Guilty
The Guilty Men are usually older than us, and often married. They are found in droves in the workplace. They seek to fulfill their own needs to be attractive and bolster wavering manhood. They achieve one of two reactions in the Single Woman: curiosity or disgust. If the man is attractive, curiosity results from the possible danger of the relationship, whether it be an illicit affair or to spark gossip among friends and family. The disgust reaction results toward the Guilty Man with the bad comb-over who winks and tells you he likes your dress, darlin'. There’s the coworker who runs into you in public, saying “I thought that was you! I recognized you from behind.” The Guilty Man may behave extremely inappropriately in a moment of frustration. For example, after happy hour with a group of other coworkers he may tackle you in the parking lot for a quick feel or persuade you to let him walk you home and then linger in your bushes when you reject his doorway advances. In any case, the Guilty Man is never a good choice because he is truly not interested in you but in himself.

The Desperate
Often times we don’t realize he is desperate until it is too late. The Desperate Man will bend over backward to charm, schmooze, flatter, flirt and pull out the stops just to get you to go out with him. Once this is achieved, however, we realize his level of desperation and wish ourselves elsewhere. The Desperate Man will tell you stories of playing paintball with his young nephews and expect you to take interest because it is his most interesting hobby. If he feels the date is going well, he will say that the moment should last forever, or that you are the moon and the stars. Although the Single Woman may appreciate this, the moment is always ruined by the broccoli in his teeth or the whitehead he hasn’t realized has boiled up on his neck.

The New Divorcee
Our hearts go out to the New Divorcee.  We want to comfort him in his recovery, but must be aware of assuming the role of the Rebound Single Woman. We are taken in by his woeful tales of cheating hearts and love lost. We allow him to cry on our shoulder, but we need to be strong and say: “Get a therapist.” This is ultimately what they need, and the Single Woman should never attempt to fill that role. If she does, once therapy with you is finished, so is the relationship. The New Divorcee with children is another story. Beware the man with a pregnant 15-year old daughter or full custody of his brood. The Single Woman is never ready for that, and guess what – neither is he.

The Idiot
This type of man differs from all the others because he briefly has us contemplating never dating again. The idiot is sometimes a stranger, honking and waving suggestively as he roars by on the highway. More often, he takes you to dinner and various racial slurs and homophobia surface at inopportune moments. He may make remarks like “you’d be sexy if you did some sit-ups”, or “Wow, you can drive a stick-shift?” The Idiot often surprises us by appearing normal at first and revealing his shocking idiocy after an almost-perfect date, or even after a string of successful dates. The Idiot may have stalking tendencies, like the neighbor who gets fed up with your “no thank you” refusals for a lunch date and leaves candles burning on your porch or cards on your windshield. He thinks he’s being romantic to win you, when in reality he’s just caused you to purchase pepper spray and keep it close.

The Bitter
The Bitter Man is resentful of secure, independent women. He proclaims to be a modern man, but truthfully seeks a woman who is needy, insecure, and assumes a mother-like role. When this does not happen, he becomes bitter. His mother is his version of the ideal female, and therefore no one else can ever quite measure up. No one can ever sacrifice enough for him, or treat him with enough respect or adoration. He truly does not want a partner, but a subordinate. The Bitter Man may be bitter when you meet, or evolve into a Bitter Man as the relationship continues. If the Single Woman is smart, it will not take her long to detect these qualities and she will bolt in a hurry.

The Almost-Ideal
This is the best type of man we can hope for. He is as close to perfect as we can expect – is polite, funny, has good hygiene and a steady job. Although he does not recycle, watches too much television, and vacuums his carpet yearly, he loves his mother but does not live with her. Sometimes we pick fights with the Almost-Ideal just to be sure he can fend for himself, but most importantly, they are our friends and we grow to love them dearly. We adjust to their imperfections, they adjust to ours. 

The Book, Chapter 1

I got a text from Jo. It simply said, "Chapter 416: Beat Your Children Often." Since 1996, Jo and I have been writing "The Book." It started out as our own little Survival Guide for Women. I was going to write for The Single Woman, she would write for The Married Woman. Jo thinks we now have enough material for 3 survival books - Single Women, Married Women, and Raising Children. Of course she does not and never has beaten her children, but has thought about it. Often, apparently. Especially in their adolescence. Since it's been 20 years since we started The Book and we have pulled together half of 1 chapter, I think we need to get the first book written before we get lofty ideas about a trilogy.

When Jo and I met in 1996, we were from opposite worlds. Although we were both in our mid-20's, I left home for college at 18, had lived in several states and dated a spectrum of men. She commuted to college, never moved out of her parents' house, and married the only man she ever dated. She loved to hear my sordid tales of failed romances and bad dates; I loved to be with her family and loved being part of all their holidays, weddings and baby showers. I thought how nice it would be to have such a large, close family; she dreamed of how nice it would be to move away from them. We made a good pair then, and we make a good pair now.

Jo was there for the best of my Dating Years. She saw me date them all, from the high school drop-out Christian zealot who dropped to his knees in front of me to pray to God to ask for strength in avoiding temptation while we were making out, to the anesthesiologist who drove a convertible Porsche (which I mistook for a Mazda Miata, whoops) and called me "Doll." Her family tried to fix me up with every single man they knew, including Jo's brother. No thanks. Years before, in college, Lynn called me the One Date Wonder - I would date anyone, but rarely twice. Lynn warned me about Carl The Snarl, our dormitory Housing Director when we were sophomores. He flirted relentlessly until I finally agreed to a date. He picked me up on a motorcycle - surprise!!!- and drove us to a party while steering with one hand, caressing my bare leg with the other as I struggled to keep my dress from flapping off. It seemed I had a decent relationship once every 5 years, and countless dates with One Date Losers during the years in-between. I got married at 35.

Jo, on the other hand, grew up very rural, the youngest of five including two prim and proper sisters. By my worldly standards, Jo probably had slim pickins in the Eligible Bachelor department, but found someone who suited her. They moved from their parents' homes to a trailer in her parents' front yard as man and wife. Her mother-in-law treated her cooly, but Jo found joy in decorating her own place, invited me often, and believed in deep, undying love. She divorced his ass 10 years later. She remarried at 40 to the second man she ever dated, who had full custody of 3 children and an ex-wife who, let's just say, is in every way so very, very far from perfect.

Hence Chapter 416 will be Beat Your Children Often. Or Whatever You Do, Don't Remarry. In the early days, with limited life experience, our chapters of The Book were much more lighthearted before the realities of marriage, divorce, and stepchildren jaded us. Our original Table of Contents was this:

Section 1, The Single Woman
1. Mom's Couch: Not as Comfortable at 30 as It Was at 20
2. Dating: Choosing a Mate
3. What's Wrong with Everyone Else's Mate

Section 2, The Married Woman
4. How to Be Married to Another Woman's Son
5. How to Raise a Son Fit to Marry
6. Good Responses to "Are You Pregnant Yet?"

Section 3, The Childless Woman
7. How to Raise Children
8. How Other People Should Raise Their Children

Now we can add Chapters like:
9. Hope for an Arranged Marriage: Blame Your Parents When It All Turns to Shit
10. Men Are Useless: See Chapter 9
11. Divorce Solves All Your Problems
12. Food Solves All the Problems that Divorce Creates
13. Get a Personal Counselor: See Chapters 9, 10, 11, 12
14. Love Your Body but Tweeze Often
15. Widowed Mothers
16. Men Are Still Useless

Over the years, we have named a thousand chapters. We have a lot of work to do.

Resolutions for 2016

The New Year inspires us to improve our lives. We reflect on our mistakes and our goals and we resolve to achieve something. I try to make one or more resolutions each year, primarily to entertain myself. If I grow as a person in the process, that's just icing on the cake. My favorite New Year's Resolution was the year I declared I would watch every movie that won the Academy Award for Best Picture. I had already seen some and crossed those off the list, but there were over 50 remaining on the list going back to 1927. I watched every single one. I rented, I borrowed, and I purchased from Ebay on VHS. That was the year Million Dollar Baby won, and I have continued to watch all the winners since then.

This year I was thoughtful and contemplated what I want to achieve. I decided I would make a resolution in each of 4 areas of life: Physical, Mental, Spiritual, Community.

Physical: Touch My Toes
I can't touch my toes. I can barely touch my knees. One year I had plantar fasciitis and the doctor said it was from unusually tight ham strings. "The entire kinetic chain needs work" he told me. I went to physical therapy briefly, which did wonders for the plantar fasciitis, but I still can't touch my toes. Resolution #1 = Touch my toes comfortably. Planting my palms on the floor earns me bonus points.

Tight stretch, January 17, 2016

Mental: Read Books
I love to read. I don't make time for it. I like to buy used books at yard sales and at Goodwill. I like fiction and non-fiction alike. Now the books are just becoming part of the clutter in my life. Resolution #2 = Read 12 books that I already own, and pass them on. Note: the first book is Circle of Friends by Maeve Binchy. 150 more pages to go!

Spiritual: Give Thanks
I am about to begin a study at work that requires me to recruit patients for whom there are no more cancer treatments available. I will talk to them regularly, and then their cancers will win, and I will document death after death. When I have studies like this, it forces me to stay grounded and be positive and remember not to sweat the small stuff. The people I meet in this study will be a constant reminder to me of how fragile and fleeting life is. Resolution #3 = Be continually and verbally thankful (pray).

Community: Pay It Forward
This is the resolution I can't quite describe. Yet. I think I will know when to act as opportunities arise. This might take the form of volunteerism, or buying groceries for a stranger. Resolution #4 = At least quarterly, make a direct positive impact on the life of a stranger.

Cheers to 2016!

Power Ball Fever

The Powerball lottery is estimated at $1.5 billion right now. It's been the top news story for more than a week as the jackpot grows and nobody holds winning tickets.

We rarely buy lottery tickets, maybe 3 times in the last 15 years. But today Marty texted: "Did u get us lottery tix today?"

We joked earlier in the week that we need to get tickets. So did millions of other Americans. The odds of winning are one in 292.2 million, according to the New York Times. To me, that's the exact same chance as "one in umpteen zillion." Our odds of winning are entirely fictitious. I am just as likely likely to run into Scooby Doo in Gotham City on the way to the Oscars. I replied to Marty:

"When is the drawing? Get them on your way home unless the drawing is tonight."

"It's tonight."

"For Pete's sake, how many?"

He wanted five. He asked me to do this because he knew I was working from home. This is the problem with working from home. People don't think you're working. I may be doing laundry, but I am also running spreadsheets while boss-ordained tasks crowd my day. The only difference in working from home versus working from the office is basically whether or not I shower, dress, and put on make-up. Today I did none of these but dress. I wore a 10-year old sweatshirt with a stain on the front, track pants, and fuzzy orange-striped slipper-socks. I had bed head. Sexy. Briefly I thought about changing clothes for my errand, or putting on mascara. Then I decided I didn't care. Nobody goes to the QualityMart except to buy gas, cigarettes or Red Bull, and at least one of them was bound to be less showered and more stained than me. I slipped a pair of blue floral clogs over my slipper-socks, and chose a wool coat suitable for church. On the 60-second drive to QM, I applied lip gloss that I found in the console. There. Now I was presentable.

I waited in line, and passed the time by trying to fluff out the flat spot in the back of my greasy hair. A guy asked me if I knew where the kerosene was. No. Why does he need kerosene? I felt like he might use it to burn felonious evidence in his creepy backyard. But his hair looked clean, which was more than I could say for myself.

I bought 5 machine-generated tickets, and 1 ticket with my own selection of numbers. I started with sacred number 4, and then combinations of numbers 2,3,5. These are my 3 lucky numbers - not alone, but in various combinations with each other. So much of my life involves mixtures of 2s 3s and sometimes 5s - the highways near my home town, the house I grew up in (before and after they changed the rural delivery number to a house number), former apartment numbers, phone numbers of loved ones, and my birthdate. It would be highly unlikely that the winning Powerball number would be 04-23-35-52-53-32 (one chance in umpteen zillion to be exact) but somebody's got to win so it might as well be me.

I texted Marty a picture of the numbers. He studied them. He didn't like them. He bought 5 more tickets on his way home from work after all.

The drawing isn't until 11:00 p.m., but I will miss it. I will be in bed, dreaming of Scooby and me frolicking together in Gotham City with my Oscar for Best Hair.

Home Sewn

I remember the first pair of new jeans I owned. They were dark blue Wranglers with yellow loopy stitching on the back pockets. We bought them at Good's Store run by Mennonites. I wore them on the first day of school in Mr. Kern's 5th grade class.

Until then, Mom sewed all our clothes except underpants, winter sweaters and hand-me-downs. This is why I remember it being a big deal to have jeans like all the other kids. We had homemade dresses, pants, tops, pajamas, bathrobes, Halloween costumes - you name it. She even crocheted us slippers - a new pair every year.

The last time I wore a jumpsuit. Or yellow. 1978. Probably bell bottoms.

The benefit of home sewing was that sometimes Mom took me to the fabric store to pick out the material and buttons I wanted for a new dress or blouse. Everything fit properly. Everything was coordinated. But then I reached the age where I started to notice that other kids had things I didn't, like jeans. Not denim pants like the ones Mom sewed me, but actual jeans with stitching on the back pockets and a thick leather tag emblazoned with a brand name affixed on or near a buttock.

Mom's sewing machine was in the basement, along with twenty years of fabric remnants, boxes of zippers, buttons, trim and other materials. In fact she was sewing in the basement the day I was home sick from school and shouted down the steps to her that the Challenger had exploded. My favorite things she sewed were turtlenecks. Every time there was a cute jersey print for sale, Mom made me a turtleneck. I had turtlenecks galore - flowers, apples, frogs - every color and pattern imaginable to fit my every mood. And there were a lot of vests.

I recently found a vest in the back of my closet that Mom made for me in high school. I kept it all these years, not to wear, but because like the dodo bird and the passenger pigeon, it was the last of its kind and I knew it. It is constructed from floral upholstery fabric (?) in the front with a shiny polyester back panel with anchors patterned in the fabric. It is impeccably sewn, complete with coin pocket. And it still fits. Not in flattering way, but the buttons do close and that's what matters. A girdle, perhaps?

Study fabric for a sturdy girl.

I don't remember Mom ever wearing a vest, but she kept her kids clad in them for a decade. Dozens of photos of cotton, plaid and fake suede vests with bright multi-colored buttons pollute the old photo albums. One of the most prized childhood outfits was a vest and skirt combo. I was 5 years old, and it was an Easter outfit. Mom posed us on the walkway that year, I think to capture her masterpieces moreso than her dapper children. Regardless, she documented the moment in time as we squinted in the sun. My sister and I wore matching striped pastel vests and skirts, and my brother wore a blinding white plaid suit. Our posture and beaming smiles show my brother's and my pleasure, but my sister is less enthusiastic. Mom has since purged her sewing supplies to make room for other hobbies, and I have learned that store-bought jeans (and vests) are not what they are cracked up to be.

Reflection

I had the misfortune of standing in front of a window, just at the right time of day where I could not see outdoors, but could see only my reflection. I watched myself don my coat. As I slightly arched my back to put my arm in the sleeve behind me, I saw it in the glass - that pesky sliver of bulbous belly flesh peeking from between a rising sweater and an exhausted waistband.

I had a flashback to about 2011, when I was putting on a coat in the lobby where Susie and I used to work. I was approaching my peak weight, and stood in her office saying goodbye for the day. Dr. Decker, a mousy, introverted PhD who had not seen me in two years, came out of the meeting room and saw me reach back for my coat sleeve. She smiled. "Ooooooh," she said as she reached toward my belly, "Is there a baby in there?"

I looked down, following the direction of her outstretched palm, and slid my arm into the coat. "No, but you can touch it if you want to," I replied with sincerity. She declined.

Hello again, Belly. It's been a while.

In 2014 I counted calories diligently and ran 3 times per week for 6 months. I lost 40 pounds. I dropped 3 pant sizes. I kept if off for 8 months. All of it. I felt fabulous and looked awesome, of course. Then I spent a month watching my dad die and lived on Emotional Eating. Mom and I cycled between anxious nausea killing our appetites at the hospital during the day, and starvation each evening as a result. Nightly, we returned from the hospital to eat ice cream while watching Downton Abbey. The daily routine was comfort - hospital, cry, ice cream, Lady Mary's social dilemmas. Repeat. I gained 5 pounds and an English accent that month. But all my clothes continued to fit.

In June, we convened as a family, in Pennsylvania wilderness. It rained the entire time, making for a whole lot of wet, cramped togetherness. During confinement, I gained 5 more pounds from a cocktail of Goldfish crackers, peanut M&Ms and 1,000 hands of Skip-Bo while sitting on my ass.

Now the holidays are here. I stopped getting on the scale. I am up a pant size - a size I purged from my closet in 2014, so I wear the same stretch denim skirt to work two or three times a week. I pondered this dilemma tonight over a 500-calorie serving of Ben & Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio. (That reminds me, I've been meaning to suggest to them Eggnog Cookie flavor.) I need to get out of this feeding frenzy. Ice cream is NOT my friend. NYPD Blue re-runs are not cardio-smart. I know better than this!! Why am I allowing this to happen? Complacency stops NOW (well, after the Pistachio Pistachio and Christmas cookies are gone). Strap on the running shoes, and unstrap the feedbag! Lady Mary would never stand for this - she and I have too much moxie to fail.

Lady Mary!  Lady Mary!  No more ICE CREAM for you!!!

12 Days of Catmas

To the Tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

On the first day of Catmas, my felines shared with me...



Moby: #1,2,3,4,7,11,12.

1. Dehydrated constipation

2. Two enemas

3. Ketoacidosis

4. Four insulin units

5. Straaaaaaaaaaay cat won't leave my deck!

6. Broken leg two places

7. Shots shots and more shots

8. Parasitic treatments

9. Diarrhea daily

10. Antibiotics

11. Hissing at each other

12. Twelve million vet bills

I'll give you a break from cat posts for a while. Merry Christmas. 



Scram: #5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12.