Pulling My Stepstool Up to the Mountain

Yesterday took a tough turn. I hit a bump I know exists but usually avoid. But my e-course homework had me placing my step stool next to that inevitable bump cum mountain. I stepped up, took a look, agreed it was the same mountain I have assumed I can not climb, stepped down and walked away crying.

Everyone has their pockets of mental puss stored away which they pray to avoid. My puss is of the technological variety. I am an artist and I like arting. However, when my art mandates the use of technology, especially that which I don’t know how to use, I feel helpless. This in turn makes me angry which then may or may not lead me to tears. And I assure you, pregnancy has not produced any storm clouds greater than an average emotional moment for PMS.

So, helplessness makes me angry and vulnerable. Why? I dunno. Maybe I don’t want to have to ask for help. Maybe when I have, I was ignored or turned down. All I know is that I avoid things that take me there. And guess what creating a blog is full of having to know how to do? Technological stuff.

Sure I forget to credit myself for all the things I can do that others are bewildered by. Like making biscuits and gravy from scratch. Or visually filling up a storefront window with a budget of $5. Or writing  in my journal .

This morning, I returned to the computer this morning. Did I mention the mountain episode took place on the computer? Don’t act surprised. I spent at least an hour and a half on Pinterest pinning as I therapized my visual brain. And then I headed back to the technological hell place. I am ashamed to admit all I needed was to print out a couple of words in a chosen font.

The special font manipulation program I downloaded first needed some sort of framework installed too. Gave up on that tack and barely acknowledged another precious hour wasted. I would not give up today. Did I mention there’s a deadline? I went back into Microsoft’s plebian publishing program and poked and poked and finally, there it was. Now hurry up and press print before it disappears.

It wasn’t really about the font you know. The font represented the greater picture of what I want to do with my blog, my writing, and my life. And I feared failure just as I did for anything else I’ve ever feared to fail; because it meant more to me than I was admitting. And I expect I should do it well or not to attempt it at all. Today, I practiced don’t panic and do it anyway.

You’ll understand a little better when you see the product of all of this effort. I will explain the rest of the story then. Thanks for putting up with my humanity.

Done Decorating

Many others suffer from the same love/passion/obsessive compulsive disorder of redecorating for seasons/holidays/bouts with boredom (/ wrists) as I do. So here came the fall/Halloween season and I still hadn’t brought the boxes down from the attic. No excuse is ever good enough but here’s mine.

Since I’m four and a half months pregnant in an almost over the hill body, my back aches. The concept of making it hurt anymore by hauling things down and around was unappealing at most. I even warned my husband,”If you see a new box somewhere, you need to ask me if you can do something with it for me. Otherwise, I’ll move it the next day and you’ll fell badly that you didn’t offer to hump it instead.” Deaf ears. I did it anyway.

At this point the top of the attic steps has become a repository for numerous boxes of baby stuff, florals, lamps, and Halloween stuff. That’ll be another day of shuffling things about up there. But the Happy News is, I’ve Redecorated. I humped it down, ow, ow, ow. And then it took two rounds of ‘spend time with my stuff so it will tell me where it goes’. But it’s as good as it’ll get with a week to spare. Pictures start now. The only picture of last years decorations I felt was OK to share is first. The rest show how much better it looks now.

Last year’s mantel-scape.

My living room post makeover.

This year’s mantel-scape. From across the room, my son said he liked the log under the pumpkin. “What’s all that for?”, he asks. “Because I can”, I answer.

The bar/buffet top features my new skull on a silver platter plus my table arrangements from last year. And my black aperitif set.

Gnarly, dude.

Meanwhile out on the porch.

I took this arrangement to church for the Fall fest buffet table. Thought I’d snap a picture of it out there. There’s also a Fall fest that happens at a local State Park. My Mom took my son last weekend and they came home with the scarecrow they had made. He was promptly placed on the bench on the front porch. And wouldn’t you know, the next morning, when I opened the shades, I scared myself.

Happy Falloween everyone.

Buddy Buddy Butthead Revisited

As today marks the year anniversary of the return, after a weeks abrupt absence, of our cat Butthead, I felt the urge to share the story once more for those who missed reading it the first time. It’s a good one. Enjoy.

At 9am on a mid-October Saturday, my husband had called me at our home in Denton from his cell phone. Neither of us recalls the reason for this call. Before the line went dead, he utters the equivalent of “Freaking cat” and probably more unheard expletives. Our cat Butthead had stowed away in the back of a moving truck loaded with lighting equipment bound for a wedding at the Tidewater Inn, twenty minutes away Easton, MD. It took me five minutes to grab my kid and run out the door.

This near twenty pound terrified cat charged out of the tailgate opening like a locomotive, tore across the parking lot, and bounced off M. Randall’s shop window on the opposite side of Harrison Street before he disappeared. After searching for more than an hour, we endured my kid’s soccer game, informed Talbot Humane, and headed home.

As we drove home on Matthewstown Road, a squeak escaped me as I held my tears. He must have heard me because my son wailed,” I don’t want him to be gone. I still want to play string games with him. He’s my brother”. “I know you’re sad and I’m so sorry” was all I could say. I was painfully aware I could make no promises for his return. Helplessness is hateful.

I made a flier, ran it off, and we returned to Easton to commence the ‘Bring Home Butthead’ campaign which would gain a following. As I went from door to door with my lime green fliers, I was overwhelmed by the support of so many fellow pet-owners as they acknowledged the hole I felt. Butthead bugs us as only he can. My husband says spend a day with him and you’ll know where he got his name. But he’s still family and like a dog, he waits for the school bus with us.

By Wednesday, I had done all I could. I’d even walked through Spring Hill Cemetery one night and paid for a radio ad. I didn’t know where to stand now. If I stopped my search, I would be giving up. I contemplated the inevitable lesson in letting go of control, grieving, and entertaining acceptance. I revised my promise to myself. I would have to deliver thank you notes to everyone even if I didn’t find him.

My cell phone rang the next Saturday night. Her name was Ria and she was standing in the Historical Society’s garden petting Butthead. I sped out of the house knowing the search was over. I hugged Ria and her friends after I’d shoved Butthead backwards into the carrier. My thank you note to everyone I’d spoken to read, “7 days and 12 hours later, Butthead came home. Thank you so much, each and every one of you, for your kind words and support as we searched for our cat this past week. I am grateful for and humbled by your concern and community. Sincerely relieved, Shalagh Hogan, Butthead’s Mommy”. And there was a resounding “Yay!”.