Archive | August, 2011

A light in the dark

19 Aug

There is no darkness in which light can't shine.

I’m going on my 32nd annual family camping trip this weekend.  Day after day of languishing in the sun on the beach, drinking in nature’s wonders.  Of course, the week of vacation is the biggest hotmessdedness royale with cheese you could ever order or run from.  After a couple days of scrambling, I was grateful for my mid-week treat: Singing.  I totally sing for the LorT.  And love it.  Praise him.

After rehearsal I went straight home instead of staying for mid-week service because I had to pack and prep for camping.  That essentially turned into me taking the following very efficient steps:

1) Grab mounds of clothes and place them on my dining room table;

2) Open closet door.

3) Stare at suitcase.

4) Close closet door.

5) Lay on bed.

As I lay there in soft lamplight, my little home was quiet, warm, with a light fragrance of lavender.  The ceiling fan’s breeze blew softly against my skin. Then, like the quiet roar of a distant siren a chilling sound assaulted my ears.

It was the muffled noises of a quiet scuffle.  Paralyzed, I listened to the sounds of flesh bruising flesh, thinking to myself, “How long before I am compelled to do something?  How long do I listen in this little peaceful bubble?”

As that thought slid away, the crack of gunfire broke my paralysis.

Unbelieving, I lay poised to move when her voice came in the night, from the darkness:

“Shoot me then.  Go ahead and kill me then.  Shoot me.”

As my heart raced with fear and my mind for a plan I unplugged my cell phone, slid off the bed and crawled into the hallway.

I slid an arm around each door to turn off the dining room, bathroom, and bedroom lights, securing myself in darkness.

Another shot rang out.

Several more.

Silence.

Plugged in my phone, closed all four doors to the narrow four by 11-foot hallway, and sat terrified and alone, on the floor in the dark.

I dialed 911 and whispered the explanation of what I’d heard, about 7 or more shots fired during a domestic disturbance.  They connected me to the sheriff who listened to the same story and guesstimated the address for my neighbors’ home.

All was still.

I called my brother who lives across the street.  He had heard the gunfire, asked if I was ok and explained he and my other brother, a security guard licensed to carry a firearm were on the way.

Finally, I returned my man’s call, who’d rang when the first shot was fired, and was on his way home from church.  He was moments away.  All three men showed up at the same moment, so my brothers made sure I was ok and left us alone together.

As I explained what had happened the light of the squad cars pulsed in the night beyond my shaded windows.  He held me as I cried and we sat in silence, basked in the golden glow of my warm living room.  It was now shrouded in a dark, heavy energy.   My brother called again to share what he’d seen of the sheriff’s stop, which appeared to be a cursory ground inspection for bullet casings and swift departure.  We prayed for peace and love to envelope my neighbor’s home, my home, my block.

As our spirits lifted, we began talking about spirituality and the question of religion: My passive-aggressive militant stance, up until earlier this year, included a staunch refusal to own or read the Bible.
As an obsessive reader, writer and English major who even loves reading the dictionary, this was wildly silly.  For most of my life I had mistakenly assigned religion the causal role in major world conflict instead of spirituality as the desired result.  Even today it is difficult for me to subscribe to the idea that there is only one path to spiritual enlightenment.
But that evening, as I suppressed violent images and fearful thoughts, there was only thing that brought me toward the peace we prayed for.
The certainty that this universe is not made of or driven by earthly beings bound by fear and anger.  The force behind life is the purest love, strongest power, deepest strength, unfathomable perfection.
Secure in His powerful arms, I slept soundly that night.
Grateful for another humbling reminder of His grace.

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Tempting…

9 Aug

Acceptance of infidelity as a probable inevitability in committed, monogamous relationships is the most retarded relationshiptondom puppy-kicker.

Them’s a lotta syllables.

Relationshiptondom is a big word.

Not abuse (I put the “not” in hood, don’t test me) and not unhappiness (have you seen my rainbows?)

You know why?  Because simply put, it’s utterly wasteful stoopiditay.

It means one of the relationshiptons has suddenly become too selfish and/or skurred to step up or step on.     Me no likey.  We can all be much better than that.

And nope, I haven’t ever cheated on anyone nor to my knowledge been cheated on.

I would honestly call my man in the process of undressing to call it off the temptation were somehow that serious.

It never is.

Ain’t nothing in the world that could make a healthy person truly in a healthy relationship step out.  Those of you thinking of myriad exceptions are, well, unfaithful.  If not in practice, in waiting.  In theory if you will.

What happens, is folks let things slide within themselves or their relationship until they’re no longer really healthy but they’re too lazy/selfish/stinky to fix or end it.

Then, floating along in this drunken haze of retardationshiptonness, they meet the ultimate scapegoat: Temptation.

Temptation did this.  Temptation wore that.  Temptation is just so fine and sexy.  Temptation and I were just friends until that fateful night.  Did you see how Temptation descended from the clouds in the suit with a martini dangling from his belt and slid right in?

So much attention, when Temptation is a minor symptom of a real problem.  It provides a belittling distraction for something that’s usually a deeper-seated issue.

Who gives a flying walrus poot what happens after Temptation steps in?

Temptation, by definition is something you want.

One of my favorite leaders teaches, a person who is circumstantially faithful isn’t really faithful at all.  Because as soon as the situation is right, they’re with it.  True faithfulness can’t be broken or interfered with.

And yes, that is a cold hard line but it’s the cold hard truth.  Yes, Temptation is there.  Even for the faithful.

It’s food, substances, sleep, tv, etc.  But when we stop to realize that it is because we want it that it’s tempting then we also have to ask ourselves why we want it.

I find a vodka martini very tempting and will drink it. Black Sambuca I’ll pass on.  My man very tempting and will attack him.  Others I’ll pass on.  It really is that simple.

Now, if I suddenly found myself spending every waking moment unable to resist the drunken pull of every vile tasting liquor on the planet…  Or perhaps more appropriately, opting for Black Sambuca because it was in a beautiful glass and closer to me on the table than my preferred vodka martini… At some point I’d have to acknowledge I had a drinking problem and get into introspection mode to fix some thangs.

Which is the healthy response to the identification of an unhealthy behavior.

Our flaws surface to shine light on areas we need to grow in.

We can stubbornly and ignorantly deny the flaw or excuse the need for self-growth, but the truth just is.

Somehow, however, folks find every reason under the sun to excuse infidelity, to excuse themselves, blaming Temptation, their crazy partner, the pain, the hot oil, bananas and cream.  It ain’t them, it’s you.

Instead of pointing fingers, we ought to find every way under the sun to share ways to overcome it.  (Handy list coming in 5…)

To be clear,  if you can imagine scenarios where you would voluntarily succumb to Temptation you are part of the unfaithful crowd.  (…4…)Don’t be embarrassed. (…3…)  There’s plenty of you around for company.  (…2…)I’d say y’all should hold hands but hey.  Hey.  Easy now. Don’t tempt yourselves… (…1…)

How to make Temptation a thing of the past:

1)      Practice being faithful.  When I’m single it’s like I’ve turned into a hormone-filled thirteen year old on Viagra (inwardly anyway.)  Anything and everything man-like looks attractive and gives cause for daydreaming.  When I’m not, my relationship blinders stay on.  Yep.  Blinders.  Blinders are the single handiest tool for the faithful.  Simply avert thine eyes.   Conditioning is a powerful thing.  No Pavlov.

For good measure, I may think about a quality- not a feature-a quality, I love about my man.  See, you go thinking about features and you start comparing… Done made everything worse.  Think about a quality you adore.

If you do that already, and still gots trouble…

2)      Be smart.  While I’m a firm believer in the idea that whatever we truly wish to happen will, I also have to admit some people are just a few skittles short of the rainbow sometimes.  I honestly can not think of a single scenario in which I would, sober and unthreatened, ever violate my relationship.  Know why?  ‘Cause at least ten steps before that scenario plays out I’m asking someone if they’ve lost their mind.  Then calling my man to laugh together about the hilariously idiotic exchange.  Be smart.

And if you think you’re being smart, but still know that won’t cut it…

3)      Don’t lie to yourself.  If for some reason, you really believe every man or woman in your friend roster is an innocent platonic relationship capable of withstanding all possible odds, you’se a dang lie.  I’m not saying cut anybody off but trust me, believing drunken cuddle sessions with your opposite-sex best friend are ok is a lie to yourself.  Get some boundaries for you and your uninvolved pal.  (Defining “platonic” vs. “uninvolved”: http://tinawatkins.wordpress.com/2010/07/28/the-color-of-friendship-part-i/)

Now, if you’re all blindered and smartened and boundaried up and still envisioning the many ways you’d stray…  Hey! Focus.

4)      Re-evaluate.  As true as it is that infidelity and Temptation have nothing to do with your partner, it’s also true that it is a symptom of illness.  Possibly in the relationship.  Maybe you’re not happy.  Maybe they’re not.  If it took reading this to look up and figure out it was time for a fix, perfect! Hop to it.  If it is truly as wonderful as you could ever dream, and you’re really being smart, blindered, and boundaried…  Well.

That underscores how badly you need to move onto the next step.

5)      Dig deep.  Yes, I’m going there.  If you can still imagine the very real circumstances where you would choose to step out, I’ve got news for you.  That is not normal.  That’s not just the way things are, the way most people are.  And I’m not passing judgment, just clarifying truth.

There’s something that has nothing to do with your behavior, your lifestyle, your friends, your relationship that makes you unfaithful… Wait.  Notice anything with my handy italics?

“You” showed up five times in that sentence.

Figure out where the root of your problem is and yank it.  Go back to youngin’ times.  It won’t be pretty.

Yayyy for finding fixer-uppers!

(Whispering) being unfaithful is both unhealthy and a form of hyper-sexuality.  No bukkit.

If, when you were a tinier chitterling, there was melted ice cream, family dysfunction, sunshine-stealing, abandonment, kitten-napping, abuse, or (heaven forbid) a cake shortage, the effect can manifest in adulthood:

Feelings of self-hatred, grandma-tripping, inadequacy, puppy-tossing, and insecurity can all masquerade as hyper- sexuality and other unhealthy behaviors.  (Shudder)

And we all want to love ourselves second-most  (your LorT, whomever she may be should be first).  We all want to be healthy and happy and chase rainbows together.  And we can!

Sharing is caring!

Please share, what has been your friend’s* experience with infidelity and either succumbing, being with someone who did, or overcoming it?  (*For anonymity’s sake.)

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Kitten Scavenger Hunt?!?!?

2 Aug Fat Louey, my dog-cat.

It’s no secret I’m a bleeding-heart, sunshinerainbowbubblekittenpuppybabylifeloving love monster.  So it should be less of a surprise that when confronted with an adorable pregnant cat, stray or otherwise, my heart melts a little.

A lot.

Seven years ago that melting heart led to my pet cat, the wildly adorable (and aptly named) love-obsessed, dog-like Fat Louey.

Fat Louey, my dog-cat.

He comes when you call him, likes to have his belly rubbed and scratched, and guards my house with the furor of a thousand purring philosoraptors.

And wouldn’t you know, as soon as Fat Louey came of age he organized a feline-version of the Big Brothers program?  Seriously.  I came home one day and noticed he had taken on two adorable mirror-image kittens (one male, one female) as his mentees.  They shadowed and mimicked him perfectly.  Unlike Fat Louey, they were scarred and rather melodramatically unwilling to receive love: They’d let you pet them until they started purring, which scared them into running away.

The first time I let Big Scruffy (the male kitten) into the house, he flipped out and tried desperately to escape with a flying leap… Into a large mirror.  Little Scruffy decided nothing was more fun than rolling around on her back and playing with my floaty window sheers, talons bared.

Fat Louey meanwhile, wielded his Mentor Program Director title as fiercely as his house-guarding, swiftly delivering the Fat Louey staff of fire if they got out of line: He didn’t approve of Little Scruffy’s window dressing toys.

Back in May of 2011, Little Scruffy showed signs of being a soon-to be Mama Scruffy.

Warning: Entering Sad-face area:

Little Scruffy was so young, her little body literally couldn’t handle the kittens.  She couldn’t really sit because her belly was so disproportionately large.  She became sick, and sadly when the kittens were born each faded slowly after the next within ten days.  I was depressed for exactly ten days and yes, there was a kitten burial site.  My man humored me , and we both refrained from giving eugoogilies.

Notice: Leaving Sad-face area.

Fast forward from that sad time in kittyland, while I waited for the right time to spay her, Little Scruffy  got pregnant again and had kitten litter number 2!  Apparently sixty seconds was too long for Little Sexy Scruffy: Mind you the last litter was had in mid-May and the gestation period for cats is 60 to 70 days.  She Fass.

The second litter was wildly eventful.

It was a sunny Friday afternoon when I drove home to meet my love-bucket.  We were prepping for an evening with friends watching movies on the patio under the stars in two hours.  As I pulled into my driveway, my exceptionally fine, usually serene and chipper honey ran frantically to the car, a wide-eyed expression of concern on his chiseled chocolatey visage.  Sorry, focusing.

“She popped!” he yelled.  I wrestled with a mixture of surprise, amusement, confusion, impatience and concern as I took in his uncharacteristic freak-out two hours before we were supposed to host a mini-party.  Calmly trying to hide the giggle under my voice I asked,   “Um… Honey what do you mean?”

As he helped me carry in the groceries (see how I refrained from commenting on his sculpted, glisten-y arms in the sun there?)  he explained she’d had the kittens.  Fully understanding (or so I thought) I started to freak out a bit too.

“What? Where?  Where is she?  All of them?”  Things slid slowly downhill as we fed on each others’ freak outs.

“Yes.  No.  They’re in the boom boom room.   The back room.  ‘Cause that’s where you had them before. And I needed a towel. There was a towel.”

Ahem.  What the boom-boom room is, is none of your business.  Continuing.

Holy crap! I thought as I paced the house, indoors and out, processing the deluge of emotional, physical, and environmental craziness we were both unexpectedly thrown into.  I started talking to myself and no one in particular.

“So what happened?”  As he followed, and started answering and/or talking to himself or no one in particular the story got odder:

“Well I was outside setting up the speakers and I noticed out of the corner of my eye, there were these two little furry balls under the tree…”

“The WHAT? Under the tree?  Which tree?”

“Yes!  Under the apricot tree.  And they were doing little kitten things, climbing and squirming and pawing at each other and stuff so I had to put them in the back room and…”

Noticing the still-round Little Scruffy lurking in the distance I interrupted.

“Wait, where was Little Scruffy?”

“I have no clue.  I tried to get her into the house forever, for like fifteen minutes, but she wasn’t having it.”

By this point I’d had enough background thought to recall he was nursing an injury (he’s nicknamed himself the one-armed bandit until further notice.)  And, had a doctor’s visit I had yet to hear about.  And, time was swiftly running away from us.  I called on the LorT for my sanity, and we both pressed pause on the seeming disaster that was our afternoon.  After a shockingly peaceful, loving exchange with the promise to catch up on my day later, we pressed play and went into overdrive.  I tried to reset myself.

“Ok.  So she had two kittens? That’s it?  Last time she had five.  She’s probably not finished.  Whoo boy.”

He buzzed about like a one-armed Tazmanian devil and I did the same, setting up sound, projector, movie, drinks, straightening, etc.  Hilariously, we managed to keep a mommy eye out and both of us morphed into kitten-safari hunters whenever Little Scruffy showed signs of entering the house, circling her like prey and shushing each other.

Then, standing near my back porch, I heard something that froze me.

Tiny, high-pitched kitten mewling.

Cue safari mode.

After an exceptionally useless and long game of Marco Polo with the unfound kitten, we pinpointed the sound.  It was coming from a two foot wide planter bordering the East side of the house.

This planter is filled with rows of rose bushes, decorated with dense spider plants at each base.  It seemed impenetrable.  Yet somewhere in there was a baby kitten.  I know that’s redundant but she was so little!

Somehow, the one armed bandit and I managed to fashion a kitten portal out of two cumbersome wooden planks and a shovel.  Clinging for dear life to this haphazard kitten rescue mission with all three of our arms, we got a visual on the tiny furry ball and I sounded the battle cry.

“Honey, get him now! Go now!”

Releasing his hold on the rescue portal, he managed to lift the kitten out with one arm, yayyy!!! But, it meant the best hold he could muster was a ginger, seemingly painful two fingered kitten-booty squeeze… The kitten was howling but safe.

Our shenanigans pissed off mama cat, who surely and rightly thought we’d lost our darn minds: She stood a few feet away watching and kitty-growling at us.

Lucky for us, her anger meant she was finally able to be lured into the house.  After a brief and comical vaudeville-esque kitten chase around the dining room table, we got her into the boom boom room with the three newborns, where she soon bore the other two.

Finally free, we finished setting up for the party, enjoyed the evening and reflected:  “Ya know, since Fat Louey and Big Scruffy were in the back yard that must have sucked big time.  Can you imagine trying to give birth while they’re trying to play with you, and chase the kittens? Jesus.  No wonder she dropped them all over the place.”

That my friends, is what a kitten scavenger hunt looks like.

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