Category: Life

Kitten Cuddler Update

I have good news and bad news about my bid to become a Kitten Cuddler at the county animal services center.

Good news: I did not babble too much during the interview and have been offered an opportunity to volunteer at the shelter.

Bad news: I know it will come as a shock to my readers, but I am not qualified to be a Kitten Cuddler. Kitten Cuddling is a Level 2 volunteer position, and I must first attend an orientation and log 20 hours as a Level 1 volunteer. 

The bad news isn’t terrible; in fact, it’s wonderful news, but “good news/wonderful news” doesn’t carry the weight of “good news/bad news.”

I’ll still be working with felines, learning the routines, feeding cats and kittens, and cleaning cages. I am beyond excited. The next orientation is scheduled for an evening during the first week of August, and I can’t wait!

Thanks for all of the positive vibes sent my way. I’m sure that’s what kept me from sharing embarrassing details from my youth.

Peace, people!

Tears as Prayer

i pray,
Father, forgive me for my sins.
i pray,
Father, thank you for these blessings.
i pray,
Father, let me be my best self today.
i pray,
Father, please protect the ones i love.
i pray,
Father, guide us through these times.
i pray,
Father, my words are inadequate.
i pray,
Father, my tears will say what i cannot.
i pray,
Father, I ask these things in the name of Jesus Christ, your son.
amen.

  

Kitten Cuddler

My weekdays have become boringly predictable:

Rise, eat, blog, cruise Facebook, send a positive message to President Obama on Twitter, eat, do some chores, blog, cruise Facebook, check email, help Studly Doright build stuff in his new shop, eat, watch Ray Donovan or True Detective while enjoying a glass of wine, read in bed, try to sleep, have a hot flash, get up, change p.j.s, go back to bed, sleep, repeat.

Hopefully tomorrow my life will change. I have an interview at the Animal Services Center in Tallahassee to become, wait for it, a volunteer Kitten Cuddler! I have mad skills in this area, and I hope the volunteer coordinator recognizes this.

Often during interviews I provide way too much information. The question, “could you tell us a little about yourself?” often begins innocently enough with me giving my work experience and somewhere towards the end with a recounting of my first sexual experience. Awkward!

It’s as if my mouth and brain are waging a battle and my mouth has the upper hand. My brain begins saying, “Shut up! Just shut the hell up!” While my mouth keeps spewing my life’s history.

Keep me in your thoughts tomorrow. And if you’ve got any skill in telekinesis, please put a seal on my lips.

Peace, people.

  

Cavity

i was chatting
with a friend
then glanced
down at my wrist
oh dear, i sighed,
look at the time
“i must go and have my
cavity filled.”
at her startled look
I wondered
what i’d just said,
then giggling,
my face turning red
added, “at the dental
office.”

No Immortality

I haven’t responded to a Daily Prompt in over a month, but I thought this one: Finite Creatures: At what age did you realize you weren’t immortal? was thought-provoking.

As a small child, between the ages of three and five, my family and I lived in a series of rental homes. Dad hadn’t yet been elevated to the position of Piggly Wiggly manager, and Mom was a stay-at-home parent, as far as I can recall. At any rate, she was at home the day I came running in the front door crying my eyes out.

“Mommy! I’m going to die!”

“No you aren’t sweetheart!” she said, hugging me.

“Yes, I am  _________________ said I was going to die and Mr. Bugs is going to die and you and Daddy are going to die.” I hiccuped between sobs.

I remember Mom sighing. I know now that sigh meant, “That little brat _______________! Now I have to explain death to my baby.”

My mother was very good at explaining tough things, much better than I ever was. She sat and cradled me in her lap and said that _________________ was right, that everyone dies.

“Even dogs?” I whispered, hoping Mr. Bugs was immune.

“Yes, but Mr. Bugs is a puppy,” she said. “He’s going to live a long time. And you’re just a little girl. You’re going to live a long time, too.”

Of course then I had a bunch of little girl questions:

“Does it hurt to die?”

“What happens when we die?”

“Why do people and dogs die?”

“Will you and Daddy die?”

Mom answered my questions that day as best she could and for many days after. I became obsessed with death. 

I believe this is why I never had that feeling of immortality that most kids and teenagers experience. I never was a daredevil, never a rebel. Caution was my middle name. Death my dread.

We were Christians and the promise of eternal life was always there, but I sure didn’t want to lose this one. I remember vividly _____________________ sitting in his swing, calmly informing me I was going to die. I don’t remember his name, but I’m blaming him for dampening my youthful exuberance.

Stupidhead bunnyfart ___________________!

  
Peace, people!

Blame the British Open

My Monday has been a most unproductive day. Laundry has gone undone, dishes have been ignored. Heck, I haven’t even showered yet! I blame it all on the British Open. Normally it would have been over and done with yesterday, but rain delays messed with the schedule.

The final groups should be finishing their rounds soon, so I might be able to at least shower and make the bed before Studly Doright gets home from work this afternoon. Except, the leaders’ scores are tight and there is a very real danger of a playoff!

Thank goodness Studly is a golfer and won’t think ill of me for watching the Open all day. In fact, he’ll probably high five me.

Walking St. Andrews

on golf’s
most hallowed ground
men strive for the
claret jug
battling nature’s
elements
and unimaginable
pressures.
accompanied by
ghosts of
Bobby Jones and
Tom Morris,
wide-eyed
amateurs and
stone cold
professionals
stride historic
fairways on their
way to cross
Swilcan Burn Bridge
at St. Andrews
hoping finally
to lift
the jug
joining the most
elite of
fraternities.

 

The Swilcan Burn Bridge is perhaps the most famous of golf icons.
 
 
One of my favorite winners of the British Open, Nick Faldo poses with the claret jug.
 

Contemplating Pizza

When I graduated from high school in 1975 I weighed a whopping 115 lbs. At 5’8″ I was one skinny chick. I was also fairly shy and unassuming. 

Forty years later I’m proud to say, I’m still 5’8″ tall. Yep, I’m pretty proud of that. Plus I can still wear the same earrings that fit me back then, not to brag or anything. 

On a day to day basis I don’t give my weight much thought, but in late October the group of people I went to school with in Floydada, Texas, is having its 40 year reunion. I’m pretty sure I can’t get down to 110 (or 120 or 130 or…), but it’d be nice to lose 10 pounds or so. 

I probably should start working on that right away. Or maybe I’ll have another slice of pizza.

Oh, I’m not that shy and unassuming anymore either.

  

Peace, people!

Stars and Gripes

it isn’t easy being red,
white, and blue
sometimes we’re a target
other times we’re ridiculed
and now that we are growing
outside of old constraints
many of our own folks are
lodging new complaints.

they say we’ve wandered,
become too secular
but our founding fathers
were quite particular
refusing even then to
name a national faith
knowing well the tyranny
that lay along that path.

for if we honor only
Christian ideals
on government buildings
and official seals
then how can we expect
those of other creeds
to be willing taxpayers
when we ignore their needs?

  
Peace, people!

Everything Goes Better with Coke

One of Studly Doright’s coworkers, Mr. Z, found this beautiful piece of rusty history on Craigslist.

A little elbow grease
 
The asking price was $1100. Mr. Z really wanted it, but didn’t have anyplace to put it. Mr. Z decided Studly needed it for his new shop.

“No way!” said Studly. “I can buy a small fridge for $400.” 

A couple of weeks later Mr. Z told Studly the seller had come down to $600, but Studly remained steadfast.

Mr. Z remained in contact with the seller who was becoming more anxious to sell the machine. Finally he agreed to Studly’s price, and we are now the owners of a 1961 model Vendo56 Coca Cola machine. 

  
I can’t wait to stock it with Summer Shandy and Blue Moon!

Sick Euphemisms

seldom am i ill
now i’m green around the gills
under the weather

trying to refrain
from blowing copious chunks
feeling dyspeptic

weak as a kitten
way down in the old dumpster
sick as a puppy.

euphemisms all
describing one ugly truth
i feel craptastic.

  
Someone needs to sing Soft Kitty to me.