Ashes and Beauty

Who knew fire could renew, not just destroy?

It’s been exactly one year since my last blog post. I figured this would be a fitting time to try and re-enter my blog; introduce myself to it again, see if I can attempt to make room for it in my life once more.

My fingertips have missed the feeling of the keys beneath them. My heart has missed the honesty it is allowed to show here. It’s like my life inside out—this blog bearing witness to my guts and innards. Ewww. I know. I get it. No one likes to look at guts and innards. Let’s just look at the pretty stuff please.

So, where did I go after my last post in 2012? What has happened to keep me so far away from this hobby I had come to love? Well…

My grandma died on this day last year. That much you know. Two weeks later (to the day) my other grandma (Grandma McCauley) died as well. And in between those two weeks, two of my chickens were eaten by hawks. I thought about writing a blog post titled, “How to lose two grandmas and two chickens in two weeks,” but that really is such a niche market I didn’t think anyone would be able to relate. And not that losing chickens is even comparable to losing two grandmothers you dearly loved, but when things start dropping dead in such a small amount of time, everything feels equally important.

I think the coffee maker shit the bed that week too. And the iron.

I had already planned a trip to Arizona later that month (originally to see my grandmothers one last time and show them my recently published book project) but instead I ended up attending both of their funerals. I guess if there has to be a benefit of dying within two weeks of each other, it was that I could go to both services in the same vacation. My Grandma McCauley would have appreciated the cost savings in that.

One evening in May, I found out that a neighbor who had lived one house away from us (their family had only just moved the previous summer) died in her sleep. She was only a couple years older than me. She just died. Went to sleep after her night shift at the hospital (she was a nurse) and didn’t wake up. Her daughter and son (good friends of my children) found her when they got home from school. Yes, she had a heart condition, yes they knew about it, but nobody knew that morning would be her last. Her daughter called my daughter that night on the phone. I listened in. “Did you hear about my mom?” she asked my daughter. “She died today and I found her.” That’s pretty rough shit for an 11-year-old to hear. And literally hours after it had happened.

On June 21^st, my Aunt Debi died. She was just 10 years older than me.  I was very close to her—her amazing photographs fill my walls with close up shots of my children as babies. Our family. Their smiles. Her passing less than one year from her being diagnosed with aggressive brain tumors. The good news is that while I was in Arizona for the Grandma funerals, we spent time together: had breakfast out, did a little shopping, got pedicures. Vented. Chatted. Ran errands. We managed to squeeze in quality time before her headaches and fatigue kicked back in and I returned her home to sleep. I wasn’t able to attend her service though, which I deeply regret.

In June I also found out that I didn’t get a job that I was really, really hoping to get. I came in second to a guy with more advertising experience. Which of course is nothing really, after losing your Aunt. It’s not a brain tumor after all. It’s just a job. But I still wanted it.

At the end of August, my marriage ended. He moved out in September. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m the one that filed. I’m sure he’d want me to publicly own that, which I have no problem with.

I also lost two more chickens to hungry hawks. Fucking hawks. Not that losing chickens is the same as losing a husband you still loved, but again…things start to feel equally important when they happen so close together.

2012 was a year of losses. Of grandmothers and chickens, friends and aunts and husbands, jobs and dreams, and illusions. Depressing, I know. Who wants to read about all this shitty shit? How could I possibly blog about what was going on in my head, or my heart, or my life? Where’s the funny in the kind of year I had?

Well, I haven’t gotten to the good part yet. Hang in there. I haven’t told you about the miracle yet.

Because after a person has that kind of year, especially culminating in the loss of 13 years of marriage, you reach a point where there are two options: despair or prayer.

I tried despair and couldn’t do it. Too dark. Plus it reminded me too much of my morose teenage years except without the cool 80’s clothing.

I brought everything that’s happened in the past year; all the ache and pain and loss and yuck and questioning and worries and obsessions and dead people and marriage issues and I laid them all at the foot of the cross.

Yes, that cross.

I know. I’ve never really blogged about my faith or my religion and maybe that part of me is new to you. You weren’t ready for this turn all religious-y. That’s okay. That’s where you’re at. But if you quit reading now you’re going to miss the miracle part.

And after I laid all this stuff before the cross (quite literally, on my hands and knees in front of the blessed sacrament during adoration one day) I let it go. All of it. I gave it all back to God to take care of. I couldn't do it anymore. The weight of all those things was just too much. 

And I found something. Well, a lot of somethings.

I found myself.

The me that I buried under roles and expectations and life and worries and regrets and fear. I got her back.

I also found peace. And joy. And serenity. And Truth. And happiness. And contentment. All those things I’ve been fighting to find for so long, came to me once I let go.

2012 was quite possibly the worst year of my life to date.

2012 was also quite possibly the best year of my life to date. How is that—that such a beautiful, wondrous existence is possible even amidst the flames that have turned so much to ash?

That, my friends, is the miracle.

“Now I can trade these ashes in for beauty
and wear forgiveness like a crown
coming to kiss the feet of mercy
I lay every burden down
at the foot of the cross.”

(lyrics from At The Foot of the Cross, by Kathryn Scott)

My Letter To You

Dear Grandma Stone,

Last night I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a clean towel from the closet, started to dry my face, and stopped. I took a long, sweet, inhale of that towel which smelled exactly like the ones I’d pull from beneath your bathroom sink as a child. That wood-soaked, fresh-laundry smell, hinting slightly of shelf liner and extra bars of soap, transported me back into your house, into the hall bathroom, and I was 5, 7, 13 again, stepping out of your shower and onto the yellow carpet. There were the Picasso-esque New Orleans jazz players on the wall at my right, the brass floor rack that held extra towels by the double sink, the soap dish that cradled mysteriously shaped soaps I was always too scared to use. I didn’t want to mar them. I used the pump dispenser.

And when I went to bed last night I couldn’t get you or your house out of my mind. Was it because it was your birthday and I hadn’t called? Was my obsession motivated by guilt? I laid in bed for over an hour and walked through your home in my memory. Like a 360-degree video clip I scanned each room; the walls, the contents of the cupboards, the index card labels on each box and carton written in black sharpie. Walking into your home always filled me with such a sense of peace; the smells, the quiet jazz station playing from the radio on the counter, the cleanly order of each room, dusted and sparkling perfection. Your home was one of the few places I felt I could truly escape, even amidst the turmoil of life and work and motherhood, and no matter my age, where I could stretch out my arm for the soft caress of your fingers. I imagined all this and for a brief, fleeting moment, felt like things were still as they were. And you still lived there on Manhatton Drive and I could still go to you for respite. In your presence I could always breathe deeply, unencumbered by life.

Dad had taken me through your home when it was empty and cleaned, the walls sterilized with fresh white paint, the new windows draft and rattle free. Walking in sucked the breath from my body as if every beautiful thing and all the magic and all our history in those rooms had been wiped clean, existing only in particles of eraser dust on the crisp, virgin carpet. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to that house then. I’m not really ready to say goodbye to you now.

Is that why I imagined your home so vividly last night? Did you know about today somehow, and send me those beautiful memories to help make today easier for me? It did a little. I think.

You’d be glad to know I’m surrounded by you in my home. I go to bed and wake up every morning seeing your painting; the nude you painted in art class hangs in gold frame on my ice blue bedroom walls. It’s the most perfect place for that piece, the room bringing out the best in the aquamarines and browns. I stare at that painting and try to imagine what you were like at that age, try to imagine you painting it, what you might have been wearing, the strokes of your hands as you laid the oils on canvas. Your other painting hangs in my living room, your dishes are in my kitchen cupboards, I pour tea from the crystal pitcher you gave me, your beautiful crèche adorned my holiday mantel. You are everywhere here. And yet, you live most vibrantly in my memories of plywood play sets and green felt advent trees, red suitcases filled with special toys, and dolls from faraway lands. Wicker ducks and chickens that laid candy once a day, and a closet full of strange and exciting toys I’d never seen and didn’t have at home. The smell of your lipstick and Bill Blass perfume. Your closet that housed a menagerie of necklaces and jewelry. The way you set a beautiful table. Your gift for gracious hostessing. Your bible verses and quotes on the side of your refrigerator. Your never ending lists of things to do, to make, to order, to cook, to prepare for.

I was coming to visit, in three short weeks (now three long weeks), to hold your hand and sit by your bed and keep you company. I would have brought you chocolate covered ginger even if you could have only smelled it. I wanted to show you the book I just published, even if I only read you a few pages. In my heart, did I suspect this might happen? Perhaps. But even when we know what the future holds, it’s still difficult isn’t it Grandma? And although I know there was rejoicing in heaven today when you got up there and that this day was the best of your life, right at this very moment it doesn’t console me much.

I could wax poetic forever about the childhood memories you gave me and the endless ways you made me feel special. But the value of those recollections matter to no one but my own heart. And now, in heaven you know them all. There is nothing left to say except I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. 

I love you.

I'll miss you.

Rachel

It's a....BOOK!

Rachel Vidoni and her new baby, Little Changes. 

 I just wanted to let you all know, officially here on my blog, that I had my baby. Well, it was a joint labor really, but the book that Kristi Marsh and I have been working on for the last year and a half arrived in the mail two days ago, in actual pages. With a binding. And amazing illustrations. It was certainly the longest labor of my life; 13,148.7 hours. Not that I was counting. And while I didn’t need an epidural, there were quite a few hours in there that required numerous glasses of wine and a lot of sustained breathing exercises.

When I first signed the contract (over margaritas and Mexican food) to ghostwrite/edit this book, I had little idea of what it would entail, but was excited for an opportunity to actually be part of a book-writing process. Kristi didn’t really know me. I didn’t really know her. I didn’t know much about the book she wanted to write and I had absolutely no clue how to work on a project of this nature (which I’ve kept a secret until now). Honestly, I didn’t know if I was even capable of such a feat, but the book proposition presented itself, so I pretended I was an expert writer who could transform anything she handed me into spun gold. 

Which of course, I did.

Not very humble sounding, is it? That’s terrible, I know. I’m not a big one to toot my own horn, but after a labor and delivery like this one, I’m pretty proud of the book we created and I want to show it off to the world—just like a first-time mom holding up her newborn baby. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I know. How much more narcissistic can I get?

Well, a little more is always possible apparently. 

Little Changes; Tales of a Reluctant Home Eco-Momics  Pioneer

 That’s my name right there. The little blue one under the big pink one. My name is in print on the cover. 

The honest truth is that it’s a fabulous story. It’s easy to make a delectable, mouthwatering burger when you are working with 100% grass-fed, free-range, happy meat.  Little Changes has an amazing and important message. Somewhere around the middle of the project Kristi asked me, “Why are you doing this? Why are you working so hard for this book and for me?”

I honestly didn’t have a very scientific reason for her. The contract I signed notwithstanding, I worked on this book because I believe in its message. And more than that, as the project continued, I had this gut-feeling that this book was going to be big.

As in, BIG.

And just so you know, I’m going to be blogging about this book A LOT. Mostly because our marketing budget is, well, smaller than we had hoped. Which is why I’m relying on my family, friends, and the three other people that read this blog to help me spread the word. And if you are a blogger/writer and would like a copy to read and review on your blog, PLEASE leave a comment or send me a message. I’ll make sure you get a copy pronto.

As things have progressed and the book is in our hands and so many AMAZING opportunities are coming her/our way, all I can say is;

HAVE YOUR ORDERED YOUR COPY YET?

It’s not too late! You can do it HERE. 

The First Test

The forgotten trumpet. 

It’s January 3^rd, and I was already given an opportunity to put my only New Year’s Resolution into effect. As is typical, this morning my son was late getting out the door, with my husband waiting for him in the driveway, car running. My son always announces that he’s “ready” for school, even though he’s sitting at the table, barefoot, sporting bed head, with cereal milk dripping from his mouth as he says it. The time between the words, “I’m ready,” to his butt actually hitting the passenger seat is about 10 minutes. At least. Such is the life of pre-teens.

About 20 minutes after he left, the phone rang. I was elbow deep in my daughter's french braid so I let the machine get it. I heard:

“Mom. It’s me. Can you bring my trumpet to school? I need it. Thanks.” Click.

I finished my daughter’s hair and assessed the situation. I was dressed and ready, but my four year old was on the couch in her pj’s, and another daughter who needed to get to the bus stop in 15 minutes, and it was colder than a witch’s….well, it was just really, really, cold outside. We’ll leave it at that.

I flew through the house, grabbing his trumpet from his room, his music folder strewn about his floor, trying to unhook my parka from the closet, mentally checked the fact that I had 15 minutes to get there, drop it off, and return home or either my middle daughter was going to miss the bus, or my four year old would be home alone, and it was getting hard to breathe, and I realized…

Hey. I have choices here. Am I making this decision On Purpose?

No. I wasn’t. I was trying to be a good mom. You know, that good mom who brings the trumpet to school when her pre-teen son should have been getting his things together but was instead watching cartoons on TV at 6:30 a.m. I was doing what I’ve been trained and conditioned to do, which is rescue people/children from situations they get themselves into, and while certain circumstances do call for a mom to bring things to school (medication or a project that won’t fit into a bus seat) this was not one of those times. So I shelved the instinct to be good, and settled for what I do best, and that is mediocre. I was selfish and chose sanity over saving my son's arse. Sealing my decision with a grain of reality, I also rationalized that band was only the first period of the day. Chances were good that even if I got the damned trumpet to school, the class would soon be ending and he wouldn’t be able to play it anyway.

So I made a different decision. I hung my coat back inside the closet, grabbed a new cup of coffee, and had a very pleasant, non-stressful morning. Making that decision On Purpose was so liberating! I made another decision On Purpose and moved my son’s trumpet and music folder to the front door where he would see it when he left for school the next day. You’re welcome son.

The best part about my decision? When my son came home he asked me, “So, did you get my message this morning?”

“Yep,” I replied.

“You just didn’t feel like bringing it?” he asked.

“Nope. I didn’t have time. Did you get in trouble?” I asked, silently hoping for some logical consequences here.

“No. I just changed the subject and my teacher didn’t say anything else about it.”

Well, no consequences, but overall the experience was win-win. My son didn’t get into trouble (this time) and I had a fabulous, productive, stress-free morning.

On Purpose. 

My Only New Year's Resolution

This year I’m only making one New Year’s Resolution. Broad enough that many things could count toward its progress, yet vague enough that if I miss the mark in some areas, I won’t feel like I’ve failed. My goal for 2012 is simple really;

Live Life On Purpose.

What kind of ridiculous resolution is that? you may be asking. How the heck else do people live life? On accident?  

Yes. Exactly my point. For a long time I’ve been living my life on accident. But no longer.

I’m no philosopher—heck, I’m mediocre across the board—but it occurs to me that many people want results in their lives but don’t actually want to change anything. We make resolutions to lose weight and then refuse to seriously cut out the calories or forgo the pasta and refined sugar. We vow to work out and exercise more, and then show up at the gym twice a week and only when it doesn’t interfere with our other commitments. We want the payoff without the pay; the prize without the contest rules.

Albert Einstein said it best when he said that, Insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

2011 showed me I’ve been insane for a long, long time.

But no longer! It’s a new year and I’m a new person and I’ve been given another chance to get it right. The good news is that everyday I wake up I get this chance again. It really doesn’t just happen on January 1^st. That’s purely American Marketing talking.

I HATE exercising in the cold, but I know that I feel better when I go for my walks which clear my mind and help me put things into perspective. I’m going to go walking as much as possible, even when it’s snowing and freezing and I’m swearing under my breath about how damned cold it is. Normally I would stay in bed and relish my warm covers. But now I’m going to pull my sorry ass up, blindly yank on four layers of clothing, and go walking. On Purpose.

I LOVE posting my writing here on this blog, but tend to shelve this desire when life gets busy or stressful. But writing actually frees me, see, and even if I’m tired or stressed, maybe by writing and actually posting, I’ll get rid of some of the weight on my shoulders and feel better. Normally I would choose to sleep, but I’m going to resist that urge and make a decision to write. On Purpose.

2011 also made me realize that for far too long I’ve given the reigns of my life to the wrong people. There I’d sit in the passenger seat of my life and order the drivers around, telling them which way to go, yelling when they’d go too fast or when they’d fly by the patch of flowers I wanted to stop and admire. I’m not sure why I gave up those reigns or what I hoped to gain, but I’m in charge of driving my own buggy and taking care of my own horses and oiling my own leather saddle. It’s taken me a long time to find that joyous part of me again. I’m going to live each day with the joy and excitement I’ve shuttered for years because other people wouldn’t be joyful and excited with me. Or out of fear that they’d think I was crazy. Stupid. So what? So what if I’m the only person dancing in my living room to Lady Gaga while wearing my fuzzy, drawstring pants and sporting morning bed head? So what if no one laughs at my jokes, or acts silly or goofy with me? This year I am resurrecting my authentic self, dusting her off, and letting her shine once more. On Purpose.

My resolutions don’t involve doing anything more, or anything less. I’m not counting calories. I’m not striving to be more patient. When faced with a decision I’m simply going to ask myself, “What have I done in the past? Did I get the result that I wanted? Did my old actions/behaviors bring me joy? Is that what the REAL me would have done?” And based on those answers, I may make a different decision.

A decision made On Purpose. Not because I've always done it that way. Not because it's acceptable. Not because that's what other people want me to do. 

The only thing I’m giving up this year, is insanity.

Who's in YOUR driver's seat? How are YOU going to live differently in 2012?

The Girl Who Played With Fire in 2011

I figured it would be well worth my time to take one last stab at posting in 2011. Being December 30, I’m pretty happy that I didn’t wait until tomorrow to try and write this. While stress and procrastination do tend to help my creativity, it doesn’t exactly make me the nicest mother ever. Feeding my darling children takes a backseat when mom has a deadline and I end up declaring cereal the main course.

2011 hasn’t been a great year. You can tell from how often I’ve posted on my blog…when silence hits here on my page of musings, you can be sure of one thing: I’m busy. Or stressed. It’s not that I’ve run out of ideas, mind you, or that I’ve stopped coming up with clever things to say or that nothing important is happening in my life. On the contrary, silence is the biggest indicator of my dysfunction; of life handing me so many things to deal with, think through, and process that I simply cannot fathom sitting still for two hours to write them down. Or that sharing the goings-on would be a breech of the marital confidentiality agreement, which I don’t remember signing, but operate within nonetheless. Very often the cacophonous noise in my head and in my life leaves me silent. Speechless. Any spare moments I have I use to sleep. Avoidance is my salve.

2011 started in tears. Quite literally, honestly, in tears and questions and deafening silences. The rug of reality I firmly stood on was ripped from beneath my feet and I fell, hard, onto a cold cement floor and struggled to get up for months. At the height of this struggle I found myself sitting on my couch, in the silence of midnight hours, in such a state of shock that I quite literally felt something inside myself break. It was a tangible pop or rip or shatter—a noise I can’t define—but I remember that moment as being so void of answers and so black and so painful I did the only thing that came to my mind, the absolutely only thing I knew to do. I opened my bible and started reading.

Whatever broke inside me, started a migraine headache that didn’t go away for six weeks. Dr.’s looked, MRI’s were ordered, the audiologist suggested, the neurologist assessed, and after all the tests were analyzed and the dots connected; the answer was crystal clear.

Nothing was wrong with me. Healthy as could be.

Must be stress.

They eventually went away, those headaches, but for two months my operational level was barely functional. Ibuprofen became my new best friend.

Those months of learning to stand again were like that scene in The Truman Show, where Jim Carrey’s character rows the boat in the ocean, trying to prove to himself that the life he’s living is real and not a construct of another's creating, only to hit the backdrop where the sky meets the ocean’s horizon. And he knows. Nothing was what he thought.

That’s pretty much how my 2011 has been.

And yet, this year has been wonderful. I’ve written more and worked harder than ever before. I finally finished a book project I started on with Kristi Marsh, and now have a tangible product containing a funny, poignant, and inspiring story. I’ve fulfilled my life’s dream of publishing a book, even amidst the broken glass surrounding me. Accomplishing a life dream is monumental in the best of circumstances, but the fact that I have been able to complete this during one of the most difficult years of my life leaves me feeling empowered and strong.

This year I also found something I had lost for a long time—misplaced really. Myself. And I’ve given up something I held onto dearly, for fear that being without it would leave me vulnerable. Control. And in that moment on the couch when I broke—when that tiny plastic piece snapped inside me—and the only thought in my head was read the bible, that moment set me on the path that has saved me. That has led me to find the beginnings of peace. That all is well. Even when things are terrible—all is well. I don’t have any more answers than I did before, but I do have the peace to exist without them.

2011 burned through my life like a forest fire, getting rid of dead wood and allowing the conifers to release seeds into my charred earth, ready to start new life growing. With a little time and rain and sunshine and patience, a new forest will take its place. It’s not a wishful hope but a certainty. Instead of grieving for the devastation, I search through the blackened remains for tiny, green sprouts. They are already there, those sprouts. Miniscule trees and bushes waiting to rocket forth in 2012, changing my landscape in ways I can only imagine. For my last post of this year, I wish everyone joy and peace in 2012.

Would you share with me? What is your biggest triumph and trial of this year?

Eggs, Cocks, and Peckers

The first little brown egg of many. Compliments of Julia.

Well hello. I didn’t use an exclamation point there because that would imply energy, or excitement even, and since I am just coming out of my blogging coma, energy is not what I have.

Yes. Three months is a long time to not post. Summer hit and the kids were home all the time. I feel like I tripped over a sand bucket somewhere around mid June and by the time I stood up, the kids were back in school and September was half over. Or maybe my memory is playing tricks on me. I am getting old. Next month I’ll be almost 40.

And since I left off in June with chickens, and since so much has happened in three months, I figure chickens is just as good a topic to start with as any. Because something really exciting happened a few weeks ago:

A few of my girls started laying.

No, not my daughters. They are only four and ten. My other girls; the feathered, beaked, worm-eating kind.

My husband came into the bedroom one evening and said to me, “Get your shoes on and go check out the coop.”

“Did you find an EGG?” I asked, with childhood excitement.

“Go see for yourself.”

Well, even though I had already showered and my hair was still wet, I threw on my mucking boots and ran across the lawn to the coop. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that this is significant for a couple reasons; I do not go anywhere after I shower where I might encounter chicken poop, and my hair was wet. I do not go outside at night when my hair is wet for fear that bugs might fly into my hair and get stuck there. Yes. I understand that I am a tad off. Nonetheless, out in pajamas, wet hair, and mucking boots went I, to see what my husband was talking about. There, in the nesting box by the window (those chickens are a little like me and no doubt appreciate the peacefulness of a cool breeze) was a little brown chicken egg.

And when I say little, I mean little. Like it might take three of these suckers to equal one Grade A Large egg. Size notwithstanding, my excitement was something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I wasn’t simply excited for the fact that we would now always have some type of food source (breakfast for dinner when groceries run low!), but this egg was a symbol. A sign. Proof that I hadn’t (in some way) screwed up when raising my chicks, that I had in fact done something right, that clearly all the yogurt, bananas, fruit peels, and pasta I had given my chickens wasn’t in vain and had actually provided them the nutrients they needed to lay eggs. There is a section in my brain that understands that chickens the world over lay plenty of eggs without these things and that my role in this process wasn’t needed in any form, (a lot like a birthing coach, who while he/she feels pretty important in the birth of said baby, is really just a prop in the room because the baby is coming whether he/she is there or not) but what the hell. I’ll take any type of credit I can to prove I don’t suck. And now I know I do not suck when it comes to raising hens. (The jury is currently out on my role as human mother.)

So now we have eggs. On a normal day we get about three because my Auricanas aren’t laying yet, and of course, they lay the blue-green eggs. Everyday my youngest yells, “What color are the eggs today mom?” When I tell her they are all brown, she smiles and yells, “I’m SO excited for the blue ones!”

And while she is excited to gather eggs, freshly laid and still warm, she is a tad reticent about being around the chickens in flip-flops.

Because chickens are chickens and when the hens see little tiny toes with bright pink toe nails I’m sure they look quite like worms with pink hats on. And being good hunter-scratchers that they are, they want to make sure they aren’t missing a tasty morsel so they go after tiny pink toes with their beaks. You can imagine how well this goes over with a four-year-old. 

In fact, back at the end of June, we discovered one morning that one of our hens was in fact, a rooster. “May” was her his name (short for Maynard now) and May liked to go after little toes, but also after little girls (both the feathered and the human kind). Because we didn’t bargain for a rooster, and the last thing I needed was more chicks running around, we found May a nice farm out in Middleboro. Really. (Not the proverbial “farm” in the sky, but an actually farm with real people farmers. Promise.)

A few weeks ago, while watching the hens eat bugs and scratch around in the mulch, my youngest said to me, “Mom, you know how we got rid’a May?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, can we get rid’a Blackie and Julia too?” she asked.

“Why would you want to get rid of Blackie and Julia?” I questioned.

“Because they are peckers,” she said. “And I hate peckers.”

Ahhhh, yes. It’s a pretty good attitude to have all in all—hating peckers, I mean. Unless they lay eggs. In which case I’m happy to overlook their peckerness. I’ll get rid of the cocks, but the peckers I’m keeping. Because I frequently run low on groceries and need to serve breakfast for dinner. 

Chicken Update: The Girls in June

Well, they aren't laying eggs yet, but the girls are getting used to their new digs. I try to let them out to roam around for a few hours each day...although I try to stay outside with them. When we were working outside on Sunday, Molly wandered up the hill behind our house (into the neighbor's back yard) and was chased around by a cat. The sqawking and sound of ruffled feathers alerted me and I went running to her rescue. Needless to say, the rest of the day the group hung out in our own yard.

 This is Giraffe. I'm pretty sure that she's my Rhode Island Red. 

Still waiting to see what happens to Julia's feathers.

Milly has beautiful blond neck feathers. 

Her and Molly are the largest chickens so far, 

and the ones who are the slowest learning to fly around. 

Blackie is still my curious girl. She's also the one most I hold most of the time because she's not as flighty.

 A rare moment when I grabbed hold of Milly.

Remember that little yellow ball of fluff, so stereotypic of baby chicks?
Yep, that's her above. I'm thinking that Julia is my Buff Orphington,
but we'll see. She's pretty good natured and is
another one who will let you hold her.

The girls out for their daily forage. Molly is front and center,
scratching up the leaves looking for worms and bugs. 

Thankfully, there are a TON out back.

 A side view of Molly. I love her feathers! She is one of my Americauna's, 

and should lay blue-green eggs come October.

The inside of the completed coop! My husband did such a fabulous job on their house! They sleep in the nesting boxes every night, and use their chicken door to access their porch. At night, we shut up the porch and close the door to the coop, preventing any predators from access to the inside.

Here's their outside porch. They spend a lot of time on the roost and love

 to scratch around for bugs in the dirt out here. I like knowing they always have 

access to sun and fresh air, on days when I can't let the roam the yard. 

This is a treat I gave them the other day: Greek yogurt, bananas, and arugula. They LOVE bananas and arugula, although the yogurt was new for them. Mostly they just walked around in it, but I'll introduce it again. Yogurt is supposed to be really good for chickens, and you know, it helps keeps those chicken-yeast-infections away.

I know I haven't posted much lately, but I've been busy working on a writing project. I'm trying to be better about posting more often, but it ebbs and flows. I'll post a garden update in a few days; it's raining now (so sick of the rain) and I'll wait to take pictures of the garden when it's sunny. So far, though, I've planted summer squash, zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, green beans, garlic, cucumbers (slicing and pickling), beets, shelling peas, and sugar snap peas. The blueberries are looking wonderful, and the blackberries are budding out well too. My raspberries as always, are a pain in my ass, and we'll see if I keep them in the garden after this year! Oh, and did I mention 10 pumpkin plants are now taking off in the back yard? Looks like it will be a fun fall!

Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks

Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on therapy, as well as his feelings about picking zits. Don't read the zit one if you're eating. 

When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me:  “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully:  “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess:  “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are not good princess material.  

My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a desire to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance.  

My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening.  

And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses. 

Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass.  

So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate.    

Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways:   the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year:  we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”

That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now:  “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)

Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples:  

“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?”  

 “Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”

“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”

I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)

If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies.  

So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance.  

Four Year-Old Manipulation

With enough bows, clips, and saliva, you too can have this look.

My youngest daughter turns four in two weeks, and while she knows exactly how to inflict you-never-play-with-me-guilt, she’s yet to figure out how to use threats appropriately.

I mean, any good mediocre mother worth her weight in wet coffee grinds knows how to threaten a kid and get results, right?

My soon-to-be four year old desperately wants long hair (just like her best friend at school, and Kiki and Mirena on Fresh Beat Band) which is fine with me. The poor girl didn’t inherit any thick, lush hair genetics from my husband or me, consequently her hair is thin and wispy and requires a sufficient amount of saliva to keep it in place. Keeping it ultra short is not only darling on her tiny, pudgy face, but also a great way to make those locks look a bit thicker. Sadly there aren’t too many cartoon characters or TV show personalities that have short hair (unless you count Dora and while you may want to speak Spanish after watching her show, you definitely don’t want to replicate her head) which is why, my daughter now wants to have long hair. Like her best friend. And Kiki and Mirena.

I don't mind if my daughters have long hair, but I do mind them looking like field mice nest in it. My rule is that females in this house can have long hair as long as it’s fixed for school—that is, having some type of comb or brush go through it and making sure it is pulled back out of their eyes.

But my daughter does not particularly like to have her hair fixed. Especially when she is tired and hasn’t had her morning coffee breakfast yet. We had yet another battle of the wills this morning when I finally used my mom threat.

“Fine,” I said to her. “If you don’t want to fix your hair then I’m going to cut it.”

She was silent. I’m thinking that she’s going to finally cooperate.

“Do you want me to cut your hair right now?” I asked, smug smile on my face.

“Yes,” she replied. “Cut it.”

Shit. I hadn’t planned on that response. But it was 8:00 a.m. and I did have my coffee so I quickly switched to plan B and did what all moms do when their threats backfire and said, “Fine. I’m going to get some scissors.”

I searched the kitchen where we keep scissors and the junk drawer where we keep scissors and even my daughter’s craft desk where there are always scissors, but guess what I never found? I had great visions of my marching back into that bathroom with a pair of sharp, pointy cutting utensils and pretending to cut her hair—an effectively loud snip! snip! to startle her into fixed-hair submission, but now I had nothing. Just empty threats. Empty threats can work, mind you, they just aren’t very good for story telling later.

When I walked back into the bathroom, ready to tell her we’d have to wait on our haircut, she said, “I’m ready to fix my hair now.” And we proceeded with two ponytails and a barrette. Easier than I thought but it could have had a more exciting ending.

As parents we know what will motivate our children; what works for some doesn’t always work for others. We figure out exactly what will devastate our kids the most—losing video games, being grounded from friends, no TV extra chores—then dangle it just above their heads or take it away all together to produce the desired behavior, or as sufficient punishment for some misdeed. Parents hone this skill with time so that eventually we can even make it sound like losing the item was the kid’s idea. Those moments are pure parenting joy.

But my youngest doesn’t quite know how to hit below the belt yet. Her threats inevitably still only affect her. Most days if she doesn’t get her way, she threatens:

“FINE! THEN I’M NOT GOING TO PLAY WITH MY FRIENDS OR EAT MY DINNER!” Which is okay with me because that’s one less playdate I have to supervise and meal I have to make. Another one of her more popular threats: “FINE! THEN I WON’T HAVE ANY DESSERT AND I WON’T PLAY WITH YOU!” Again, these are okay with me since we’re trying to cut out needless sweets and I’m off the hook for  Polly Pocket pretending.

Tonight I told her she couldn’t have any more snacks which  included chewing gum, when she yelled, “FINE!” THEN I WONT BE A PART OF THIS FAMILY!”

This was a threat I hadn’t heard before. I’m pretty impressed that she’s clearly stepping up her game and trying to find the salt for my wound. Sadly, that one didn’t work on me either. I’d miss her if she left, don’t get me wrong. But in the evenings while I’m trying to make dinner, I fantasize about the day when everyone is gone and I don’t have to prepare a meal that is healthful and colorful with the five available items in my pantry, when I can in fact, resort to a bowl of Raisin Nut Bran in front of the TV. So if she’s not a part of the family anymore this time will come much sooner.

Sure. Maybe it’s not a good thing that she’s constantly threatening things when she doesn’t get her way. And I probably should be concerned that she uses the word FINE with such vehemence; I really don’t know where she gets that little tid bit.

Fine. I do know where she gets it. But one thing she hasn’t gotten from me is how to use threats appropriately and then how to follow through with them when they backfire. Maybe she’ll learn those things when she turns four.

The Usual Run of Things. Shocking, I know.

Todays' Guest Post is from Tara over at Two Hands and a Roadmap. I'm pretty sure that we are twins, separated at birth and raised in two different cities. If you like my humor, you'll love Tara, because she swears and has mediocre goals just like me. Plus she preserves tomatoes and cans fresh peaches. Another reason to love her! I'm guest posting over on her blog today, in case you want to take a read. Enjoy!



I should be offended by this. I should rail against gender stereotypes in general and the use of "Mr. Mom" to refer to a man who nurtures children and keeps house in particular. I should, at the very least, be disdainful of the country twang and cliches.

But I'm not. I enjoy this song. It makes me happy to know there's someone out there as bad at the stay-at-home thing as I was. With a procrastinating nature, a fundamental inability to stay organized, and a phobia of the telephone, I wasn't exactly a natural. Plus multi-tasking is physically painful to me. Make dinner while entertaining toddler? No way, no how; I could do one or the other, period. It all added up to a hot mess of crayon-marked walls and smoke detectors announcing that dinner was done.

Now that both kids are in school full-time  and I'm away at work -- leaving my husband in charge of a lot of morning household tasks -- you would think I have limited opportunities to screw stuff up. Yet I manage, over and over.

A classic bonehead maneuver involved an elementary school Christmas party that I volunteered to organize for my younger son. His teacher gave me a list of names and numbers of people who had signed up at the beginning of the year to bring stuff to the party. My job was to call them (uh-oh), and organize all the dishes coming in from different parents (holy crap). Oh, and not to lose the list. Teacher chuckled as she handed it to me; it seems the parent who volunteered to run the Halloween party LOST THE LIST and the whole party had to be run in a most unacceptable way. How ridiculous. We're not letting her do that again. Ha ha, freaking ha.

The smart readers just figured out where this is going.

I shoved the paper, cleverly stapled to thick purple construction paper to make it unlosable (um, ha?) in my van and forgot about it. Plenty of time.

Two weeks later and a mere three days before the event, I decided I'd better remind the people who signed up (in September, remember) to bring stuff. I knew I'd have to apologize for being so scatterbrained and late, but it would be OK.


The paper was gone. Gone. While I sorted various piles of paper in my kitchen and office, I imagined the humiliation of calling the teacher and telling her that another mother has lost a party signup sheet. I saw my picture up in the teachers' lounge, with blacked-out teeth and surrounded by epithets scrawled in Sharpie markers. When I had to move my paperback copy of ADD-Friendly Ways to Organize Your Life to continue searching, I had a private laugh. It sounded like the giggle of a madman.

I finally found the paper. It was on the floor of my van. There were no staples. No thick, purple construction paper. It was a regular printout, on green printer paper. I picked it up and marveled at my ineptitude. There wasn't much time, though, to figure why I had mentally manufactured such a strange and erroneous detail. I made calls; I made apologies; I made recommendations for party contributions. I did not lose the list. My mind is another matter altogether.

So if you need me, I'll be the one folding laundry and laughing like Renfield. It's the only multitasking I can manage.

Chicken Update Part Deux

Suffice it to say, the chickens are growing rather rapidly and can now eat their weight in chicken mash. I also need to change their water at least twice a day because they insist on pooping in it. They bring the concept of "water with floaties in it" to a whole new level.

Julia, once the cute, fluffy, yellow chick you think of on Easter and color in springtime coloring books is now the epitome of ugly. Her snowy dander is now being replaced by orange tinted feathers and if you didn't know what stage she was in, you might think someone ws plucking her feathers instead of new ones growing in. I'm 70% certain that she's my Buff Orphington, even though that's the chicken my middle daughter wanted. I'm pretty sure that Giraffe (middle daughter's chicken) is in fact, the Rhode Island Red.

Here is Giraffe. She actually has beautiful color and her feathers are gorgeous. I mean, if you can call a chicken in this tween stage gorgeous. It's all relative.

All the pictures I have of Blackie are out of focus. That's because she's nosy and wants to see what the camera is all about. Her feathers are coming in black and white..slightly reminiscent of houndstooth pattern. Poor Blackie seems to get picked on by the other chickens. She's a tiny bit slow, I think, and you know how chickens pick up on things like that. She also always has poop stuck to her butt, which I'm sure is why the other chickens cluck and cackle at her, wondering why the heck she can't poop with dignity like the rest of them. Needless to say, when I hold Blackie, I always have a towel.

May is the flock bitch. I'm sorry to say it, but she's clearly got Napoleon Syndrome, and she throws her weight around acting like she's the chicken in charge. She forces the other chickens out of the food and the water and then waddles her fat butt up to take their place. Blackie is usually the target of most of her scorn, but she's an equal opportunity bee-otch. I'm pretty sure you won't see her sleeping outside during the winter; she'll have the best roost in the chicken coop and she'll let everyone know it. All I have to say is that her eggs better be gorgeous. (They are supposed to be blue-green.)

Here are the girls going after the food I just put in their cage. Mind you, they have food in this thing 24 hours a day, and yet when they run low they squawk like they haven't been fed in years. A lot like my kids, come to think of it. I can't wait to put the chickens outside because it will be six less things-that-breathe complaining that they are hungry.

Yep. The girls still live in this pack n'play, which is now covered with a baby gate so they don't fly out. Much like taking their first baby steps, the tweens can now fly a bit and a couple of them have made it to the edge of the playpen. The last thing I need is to clean up chicken poop from flying chickens, so gated they have become. And here's a toast to not getting rid of all the baby paraphernalia!

 This, ladies and gentlemen, is the new door for my chicken coop! Isn't it beautiful? The open part will be covered with chicken wire eventually, and it hinges on the left so the door can open almost all the way around the wall. In theory, this should make it easy to clean the coop. That remains to be seen since the chickens aren't outside yet. But dang the coop is looking good!

Hubby installed the shelf a little differently than planned, but I like it even better. The shelf will stay where it is and the nesting boxes will be removable  for easy cleaning. Under the nesting boxes Hubby cut a chicken door that will lead to their outside back porch. We'll be able to open and close this door from the outside.

Here's what the door looks like on the outside. Once cover this area with chicken wire, the girls will have access to outdoor air and sunshine during the fall, spring, and summer. During the winter I think they'll want to avoid the snow.

This is the new sliding door that closes in the coop and the storage. The other door was rotted and warped. Hopefully this new door will also keep out the predators looking for a nice chicken dinner.

Here is the old door. Pretty sorry looking isn't it?

Thoughtful Thursday: Progress

Photo Credit: Jared White Photography

We spend a lot of time building. Most of life is about building something; a life, a career, a resume, experience, knowledge, an empire. We see building things as a sign of progress, an attempt at making things better, a way to conquer ignorance, or earn more money, or provide a future for children you have or hope to have.

We are all architects and engineers of our own design.

Most of what we spend time building are walls. We construct houses to keep out the elements, reinforce doors and windows to keep out thieves at night. We build fences around our lawns to define what is ours and ensure our privacy. We work in cubicles designed to give us our own “space,” to hang pictures of our children and set our hand painted coffee mugs that hold pencils and pens. These spaces are sacred.

When our hearts break for the first, and second, and third times, we build walls around our heart to protect it from possible trespass. Maybe these walls are little at first, but time adds mortar and experience adds bricks and before you realize what’s happened there’s a six foot wall in front of you and you don’t remember consciously building it but there it is just the same. And you’re not sure how to take it down or if you even want to, so you don’t. That wall feels safe somehow. You come to love that wall and feel safe within its shadow and you spend so much time caring for that wall it becomes one with you and you with it.

We build walls of Coach purses and Jimmy Choo shoes, plastering the gaps in the drywall with labels and dollar signs and rings with many facets; sports cars and boats and flat screen TV’s, man caves and pool tables and high end Italian leather shoes imported from Florence. These walls travel with us protecting us from the negative impressions of others, keeping us safe from the fear that we won’t measure up. Or that we don’t belong. And it’s proof that we’re building something big.

We live our lives and make more money and build more walls to define our space and we sit in our private backyard around private pools and bask in thankfulness that we can’t see our neighbor’s ugly back porch. Because our neighbor doesn’t value space like we do, clearly isn’t building success like us. We toil in cubicles making money for the corporation who signs our paychecks and we hope that making more money for the company will earn us a larger cubicle with more space to call ours. Where we can have more privacy and be even more productive.

And the walls around our heart make us stronger and independent and those are two traits we admire and respect so we search for someone to love us who is also strong and independent. Who doesn’t want to love someone who is strong and independent? We assume this common ground will be ties that bind us together, but all it really means is that someone picked up their wall and set it right next to yours. You chisel away tiny holes in the brick and mortar for communicating and holding hands, but you both keep those walls erect because you remember what it was like when you were 13 or 28 and your heart broke into a million pieces and you were humiliated. But now that you found someone with a wall just like yours who is strong and independent, that can’t possibly happen to you again. And if it does, well, you’re prepared.

The problem is that after awhile you look around your well-planned space, the space you own, the walls you built, the perfectly manicured yard and realize:

You’re all alone.

And you don’t like it.

For all the space, and notoriety, and social class, and money, and stuff you’ve gathered and built over the years the only thing you’ve really earned is loneliness. You couldn’t possibly know that your next door neighbor also struggles with depression like you do, or that your co-worker is battling cancer just like your wife, or that man who lives behind you has a solution to the sump pump in your basement that is never working during a rainstorm. Your basement floods and ruins your precious things because he doesn’t know you need a sump pump and you don’t even know his name.

Because the walls are too high and we’re all too busy toiling behind them trying to keep others out of our personal space and earn more money so we can build more walls so we can point to our products and say, “Look what I did. Isn’t that something?”

But we realize that we need some kind of contact; our loneliness drives us to finally seek company, but because the walls proliferate and they are thick and heavy to move, we refrain from tearing down a wall and meeting the person who’s sitting an arms length away and instead we reach out online. We find people that help fill our emptiness with time which is what we have, but not our space which we don’t have, and besides that these time-people require less effort.

Virtual communities open up before us and there is safety in knowing these millions of people here on the computer because they can’t hurt us and can’t judge us and we don’t feel ashamed of our clothes or our hair or our dirty minivans because they can’t see us and don’t know us anyway. This companionship offers the best of both worlds; convenience and community when we’re seeking company, and peaceful solitude when we’d like to be alone. No guilt. No repercussions. No expectations. The push of a button turns the interaction on and off at our will.

We think we finally have it all! We have the walls we’ve built and the things we own and the space we’ve created and now we’re not lonely anymore because we’ve got virtual relationships and a place to play cards, and forums to join where we can meet people from all over the world just.like.us. In fact, we fall asleep at night feeling like we have hundreds of friends indeed.

But we don’t. Not really. We have words on a screen and an idea in our heads and perhaps an avatar representing someone’s ideals of themselves, but it’s all smoke and mirrors and we know it.

So we drink. Or get high. Or smoke cigarettes. Or eat a gallon of ice cream with a spoon in our sweats in front of the TV night after night. That makes us feel better for awhile. In those moments of painless abandon, we try to figure out where the disconnect is because we’ve built a house and a yard and a life and a career and we have things and our children have things and yet we still feel empty. We are strong and independent, and people who are strong and independent are supposed to be….strong. Right?

And in our attempt to find the peace and answers we seek we go back to the only thing we’ve done with any success:

Building.

Building things is always a sign of progress.