Is There a Doctor in the House?

I have a fun idea! Let's talk about something horrifying!

There comes a point in the world of unhealthiness where one feels the need to spout off about nasty things - and I've gotten there.

Yup, I've crossed that line. I invite you to cross it with me, because you're so special, er...whoever you are.

I had a CT scan yesterday. It was a witch hunt for a kidney stone that was supposed to be gone a month ago. They found it. Right where it was - a month ago. Hasn't budged, not one nip. This tiny little stone has progressed from inconvenient, to annoying, to uncomfortable to making itself completely obnoxious.

If it isn't gone by Monday they are going to surgically remove the thing.

Now I've been through this before. I know what that means.

It's kind of like when you go into the doctor and they say something like, "This will pinch a little." The real interpretation of that should be "This is going to hurt so bad you'll be begging for narcotics." Or when they say "This is going to hurt a little." That means, "This is going to hurt so much, you're going to wish you were dead."

I had a stone years ago that was so big it tore up my ureter (Hey, I know, too much information, but that's what you get when you keep reading past the first couple lines! I warned you!). They dug it out of there, and in it's place they put a stent! A stent! Do you know what that is in urological terms????????

Because this is a family site I'm not going to say, specifically, just where it goes, but I will say this, it's function is to allow any remaining stones to come out.

And it's horrifyingly uncomfortable. Seriously, I wanted to renege on the deal. I'd take my 9 mm stone back, and they could take their stent and I'd tell them where to stick it.

So guess what I'm doing? Gorging myself on fluids until my eyeballs float. Every time I don't feel like taking another swallow I think of that stent and I suddenly find my motivation. There's a bigger picture at stake here - reason for overindulging in liquids. And if I drown myself in them there's another plus - if I'm dead they can't very well put that stent in now, can they? Ah, the silver lining.

Scheduled Fluidity

This whole 'scheduled post' thing is not working for me. Once a week was too regimented. Once a month is too lackadaisical.

Honestly, I live my life in between the two. Scheduled fluidity. Naturally I'm a fluid, go with the flow, laid back sort. Out of necessity I've learned to be scheduled and organized. I'm flexible like that.

So here's what I'm going to do - post whenever I feel like it, but I'll do it regularly, just not on a specific schedule.

Writing is a hobby for me. A hobby. An avocation. As in, not a deadly serious career. I'm not trying to make money off my blog, so why drive myself crazy over it and force myself to stick to a schedule? Isn't this why I decided to go straight to self publishing? So there were no deadlines and no pressure?

This will hereby, forthwith, be a no pressure blog.

On a side note, I really miss blogger. Is that bad? I know this website is all official and makes it so I own my own content and all, but I don't like using it. It's not friendly to techno-idiots like me.
There's always a price to be paid for freedom.

Editors note: I'm back! I had endured enough torture and came to my senses. 

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I do like others. I like Christmas, but I have five kids and Christmas is a lot of work. Thanksgiving is different.

I put out a couple fall things, gather family - who are my favorite people to hang out with - I'm really blessed that way. And I cook a turkey. Is there anything easier to cook than turkey? Really? You wash it off, stick some onions and celery in it, put it in a roaster and... that's it. When the meat thermometer says it's done - it's done.

Everyone else brings the sides, dessert etc, etc. I'm just making turkey, potatoes, gravy and a couple baked dishes. What could be easier?

Then I get credit for going through a bunch of work I didn't do.
Honestly, washing the dishes is more work than cooking the meal.

Aside from the ease of it and being with family, I love spending a holiday being grateful for stuff. It puts life into perspective and gives a moment of calm before the storm (Christmas).

Here is a short list of things I'm grateful for. (Oh boy! Lists!)  

1. A loving Father in Heaven who helps me every day.
  
2. A husband I adore.
   
3. Five of the best children ever.
   
4. Parents and Grandparents who keep me grounded and help me know who I am.
   
5. Siblings - I have nine. There's always someone to talk to.
   
6. Friends who don't judge.
   
7. Nieghbors - I live in a really great neighborhood. Maybe I'll write a post on that someday.
   
8. Pets - Bunnies and fish. It's wonderful to me how much joy a pet can bring into each day.


9. Our beautiful world. I love nature. I love the outdoors. I love feeling the wind and digging in soil and watching things grow. I can't get enough of it.
10.  Creature comforts. The argument can be made that I live in the lap of luxury. I have a roof over my head, clothes to wear and food to eat. There are many, many people who cannot say that.

What is on your thankful list?

Happy Thanksgiving every one!

Death of a Computer

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn the loss of yet another computer.

The problem is, I've lost a lot of computers now and people are starting  to  get  suspicious.

A person can only have so many computers before things start looking a bit odd. But it's  all above board, I swear. I wasn't  even at the scene of death this time! I have an alibi! I was innocently reading a book and I have witnesses to this attested fact! Witnesses, I say! I'm  innocent! Innocent!

I have lawyers! Anyone who dares accuse me of computer  slaughter will be slapped with a slander suit so fast they won't be able to breathe!

The public is trying to hang me before I have a chance to defend myself! I've been judged! I'm  the real victim  here! I'm  the one who should be garnering  your sympathy, not some low life piece of equipment.

I don't  even know what you're  talking about. There never was a computer. Whoever said anything  about  computers? It's all lies and smoke to throw people  off of what really matters and what really matters here is waffles.

Everyone wants waffles. Waffles should be available  to all! My enemies may bring up circumstantial  and unfounded accusations  about non-existent computers to confuse the real issues of our time because they don't  want you to realize you have a lack of waffles. They don't  want  you  to  realize  what you're  missing! Our right to waffles! Waffles for you! Waffles  for me! Waffles for everyone!

Distraction

Okay, so this blog is becoming a true and serious distraction. I really will have to start posting once a month. I'm thinking the first of the month maybe? There are so many things I'm supposed to do today and I'm thinking this shouldn't be one of them.

Anyway, have a great day! I'll see you in October!

Priorities

Oh! Hi! uh, heh, heh.... cough... ahem. I may or may not have ... forgotten... to post yesterday... The truth is life got in the way. I've been pretty busy these days.

I've noticed something. The more time I  put into blogging the less time I put into writing books. I know, I know, I have yet to get any of these oft spoken of books out there but I've been pretty consistent with blogging which just goes to prove my point.

I keep thinking I should keep the blogging down to once a month so I'll put more time into other forms of writing and actually get something published! Gasp!

That way everyone can ignore that too. How fun!

Maybe that's an advantage people have that plan to publish the traditional way. They've always got someone breathing down their neck to finish things while I simply keep procrastinating things into oblivion.

Well, anyway I really ought to get back to it and get a few more chapters written, but I've got this really pressing task of staring at the neighbor's bunny ahead of me. (We're bunny sitting.) After all,
I've got to keep my priorities straight.

Aaaah! The Exterminator Is Coming!

I've mentioned the exterminator comes to our house. The funny thing is, he's been coming while the kids were at school, so even though I told them he comes into every room of the house, the full impact of this had not hit them until one day when they were out of school.

Suddenly my kids were in a cleaning frenzy. Floors were appearing in their bedrooms. Surfaces that hadn't seen the light of day since we moved here seventeen years ago were suddenly  gleaming.

Clothes were put in drawers and hung in closets. It was like the apocalypse was at hand.
I decided having an exterminator was well worth the money - what else would get teenagers to clean their rooms?

Anyway, I got up this morning feeling ambitious. I sometimes have these wonderful little ah-ha moments when I first wake up. Solutions to problems will come to mind and I'll suddenly see an easy way to solve something that had been plaguing me.

So this morning I wake up realizing how to create more room in my closet.

I pull everything out, stuff is strewn here and there, but I'm feeling good about the whole thing, I know everything's going to be better when I'm done. I'm up to my armpits in my project when I hear a strange noise.

It's a vacuum.

And I'm not the one running it.

The enormity hits me. Someone is vacuuming their room! And no one used any kind of extortion to get them to do it!

It's happening voluntarily!!!!! Just as I was about to expire from the shock and just when I thought my poor little overworked heart could take no more, another kid approaches me wondering where the vacuum is.

Then it occurs me. The exterminator is coming. Today.

This odd phenomenon occurs when he's coming for some inexplicable reason.

I laugh to my self. Then turn to my task. I stop what I'm doing and for one heart stopping moment I look around at the chaos I've created. The contents of my closet have regurgitated themselves all over my room.  There's not a clear bit of carpet to be seen.

Oh dear.

Stories

I like to tell stories. Stories about my life, stories about my parents, stories about grandparents, about my children ... pretty much anything that happened ever.

I didn't realize this trait had carried over into my children until we were expecting the exterminator to come and they were telling exterminator stories.

Exterminator stories. Really? All he does is come in and silently traipse through the house with his little backpack and spray wand. Then I hand him a check and he leaves.

There's no interaction. My children don't say a word to him, and yet he's left enough of an impression on their lives to warrant stories.

It makes me wonder what kind of lasting impression we make on others, no matter how fleeting, when we think we are living in isolation and touching no one.

It makes me wonder if the claim 'it's my life and I can do what I want' is really true. Is it my life?

Only my life? I effect no one else? Isn't that a little narcissistic?

Aren't the things we do like little ripples of water touching the ripples of other's lives and creating new patterns?

Crooked Smile

It's time to discuss another romance novel cliche! Oh boy! You know how I love those!

This time it's the male lead's crooked smile! I know! You love them! I know it because so many male love interests have one!

So I've been wondering, if we took a survey, what percentage of men would have crooked smiles? How would that compare to the percentage of romantic males in novels?

Men have a distinct disadvantage over women in this regard, whereas a female might feel scarred for life over not having the ability to look through her eye lashes, (this has been discussed in a previous post) I suspect men are blissfully unaware that love is so dependent on a crooked smile.

Perhaps this is why nerds are nerds. Many men don't read romance novels. Any publisher will tell you the target audience for romance is people of the female persuasion. Don't argue the point with me, I'm just stating the way it is.

Now how is a guy supposed to understand how to not be a nerd and how to be a romantic hero if he doesn't read romance? There is a sad lack of critical education going on here. A guy could be born, live and die a nerd and never know it.

No wonder the 'male ego' is a thing. How is society supposed to manipulate and subvert men with this kind of business going on? How are men supposed to find out they should have crooked smiles and rumpled hair in order to find true love?

Instead they go around defying all the rules without having these horrifying deficiencies hanging over their heads and destroying all hope of happiness.

Life is so unfair.

Beautiful Utah

People wonder sometimes what it's like to live in Utah. If you ask me, it's a beautiful place to live. (But don't ask my siblings or parents, they'll tell you different.)

I went up American Fork Canyon last month and I thought it'd be fun to post some pictures, a little sampler of what's up there.

We went on a couple hikes.

And had a picnic.

There were wildflowers, trees, streams and rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.

I can't think of a better way to spend a day.

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Wherein I'm Not as Stupid as I Thought

All horrible things must come to an end. I tell myself that all the time. Anyway, after much frustration, my technological difficulties have been sorted out...for now.

Posts on this blog will resume. Life will go on. Someday I'll get a technological clue. Miracles will happen.

And one day there will be world peace.


Editors note: This was posted during my unfortunate foray into the world of having my own website. I have since repented. 

Oops!

Ahem...cough... heh, heh....

Due to technological fumbling, yesterday's post did not happen.

Nor will it happen today, because some of us struggle to navigate modern enigmas.

So instead, I will be posting about once a month for a while, since time is short and so is intelligence, apparently.

The Anti-Interview

The problem with me is that I'm too picky about everything I read. There was a point as a child when I liked just about everything. Then I grew up. Now I'm too discriminating, or critical, depending on how you look at it.

I don't even like my own books. What am I supposed to do if interviewed?

Q. How did you come up with the idea for your first book?'
A. I started writing and it happened.
Q. Which is your favorite book?
A. I don't have a favorite. I hate them all.
Q. Why don't you like them?
A. Clearly, you haven't read my blog, or you would know.
Q. Why do you pursue writing if you don't like what you write?
A. I ask myself that all the time.

The truth is, there comes a point in my creative process where a sordid sort of absolute detestation takes place toward the offspring of my imagination. That's how I know it's finished.
Because, really, if I look at it one more time, I'm going to delete it and start something else that's just plain awful.

It's like Degas who was always redoing his paintings. He'd take them off his friend's walls, spirit them home and work them over again, sometimes ruining them completely. This bears eerie resemblance to myself.

Except Degas was good.

He had one friend who got tired of having the paintings swiped and decided to chain them to the wall.

I don't have anyone who can swipe my computer and lock up my novels and tell me enough is enough though.

Rats.

When Life Gets Rough, Do Chores

There is a point to mundane tasks.

My children act like anything, including dying an excruciatingly horrific death is preferable to everyday boring tasks.

But when life gets really rotten, there's nothing like a stupid chore I've done a million times to keep me going. There is comfort in doing these things.

I know in fiction it's popular to illustrate the trauma people are going through by having them vomit or go into shock or a catatonic state or some metaphoric flight of fancy in an effort to show the depth of their pain.

I'm not saying those are not legitimate reactions to traumatic events, but I am saying I'm feeling under-represented. What about those of us who keep going no matter what because we don't know how to not go on?

What about the Samwise Gamgees in life that move forward one step at a time by doing simple everyday tasks? In doing the small, the insurmountable becomes possible.

We're fully aware that these little jobs won't save the world. We know they aren't going to fix anything, but they are baby steps toward action, toward doing something that will make a difference.

They are positive action rather than negative no matter how small they are.

In the midst of crisis and trauma and pain we must continue to move forward however small that movement might be. The mountain of hurt must be climbed and gotten over but the beginning steps are small and almost insignificant.

We are not able to laugh yet. We are in deeper depths of sorrow than we are able to express, but we move forward doing tiny things because that's all we can manage, but we do something.

We do what is neccesary. We are the Elinor Dashwoods. We are the Melanie Hamiltons. We are the Matthew Cuthberts.

Staring at walls and withdrawing within ourselves and ignoring a world that keeps turning is not our option. It's not what we're made of.

We are just as real and just as hurt as those who can't find it in themselves to go on. But whether it is a blessing or a curse, go on we must.

Phillip or Phillipina?

My son and his friends found an abandoned duckling down a sewer drain.

What is it about kids who think mom can fix everything including motherless ducklings?

So it's eight o'clock at night, I've already called animal control and gotten the after hours dispatcher, the police station called to let me know the best chance for the little thing was to keep him at least overnight.

We looked online to see how to take care of him and learned returning it to a water front meant almost certain death. We put him in a bucket with some hay underfoot and a water crock with clean rocks in the bottom so he wouldn't drown and made a cornmeal mush for food and set up a heat lamp that was purchased years ago for a science project.

And then I prayed. A lot.  A long sleepless night ensued.

Next day was full of doctor appointments. Because going to doctors all the time is the unpleasant reality of our lives. In between, I've got to figure out what to do with this little duck.

He's not looking so good. He's so lonely I don't know if he's going to make it.  He keeps languishing and wants someone's hand by him constantly.

I set my son the task of calling all over to see if there was an organization somewhere who takes in baby ducks while I'm dealing with doctors.

Animal Control did not, everywhere he called did not. Is this little creature going to die on my watch?

My children are so sure we'll find a solution. I love that about them.

We own bunnies. When they have problems we take them to an exotic vet. As I look at this little fluffy one who is cuddling up to my son's hand it occurs to me to call our vet.

They take ducks. They have a duck rehabilitater! Suddenly I love my vet! They are the most wonderful people on the planet. I can't believe they haven't achieved sainthood.

We pack him up and my son comforts him on the ride there. If he moves his hand away the little guy peeps at him to come back.

We get to the vet and they welcome him. They tell us it's a good thing he is there because they have another little duck who needs a friend. I love the vet even more. They have a friend for our little guy.

They share an incubator cuddled together.

With this ordeal behind us my kids finally decide he needs a name. We won't have him anymore, but I realize by naming him, they know he will live. We can all feel that. So they name him Phillip. After a moment's thought I say, 'Or Phillipina.'

Wherein One Gets Confused

Okay, so I guess I need to make something clear. I have a very common name.

There are famous people who have the same name I do.

There are other authors with my same name.

If you google 'Rebecca Blake', it's highly unlikely I'll be on the list.

Currently, I have no books of any kind for sale. If you see a book to buy and it says 'Rebecca Blake' is the author, I didn't write it.

If I finally decide to publish or republish I'll dedicate some space to it on this website. That will avoid confusion, one can only hope. I know I talk about writing a lot, after all, it is my hobby and it's not anything fantastically farfetched to like to talk about one's hobbies.

Online identity crisis happens all the time. In this day and age of internet pellapallooza people get crossed signals and mix up who is who. No one is to blame for it, it just is.

I gave a great deal of thought as to whether to do something to make my name slightly more distinctive. But is there any such thing? I'd have to rename myself something like 'Wild Flower of the Ocean', but I'm just not feeling it.

I've tossed around the idea of using 'Rebecca W. Blake' to avoid some bewilderment. I haven't decided just yet.

I am who I am and what I am is one of the masses. Regular person about town doing regular stuff. So if I have a regular name, I guess that fits.

Edit: there are now books I have published. Look at the published works page to see which ones are actually written by me. 

Why?

Why is the literary world obsessed with the process of becoming damaged?

Why is it considered good writing to write about that process and bad writing to write about healing? The process of becoming undamaged?

Have you noticed in books these days, the ones that show the horrors of humanity with a main character that ends the series emotionally and mentally worse off than when they started, is lauded and extolled as high quality stuff?

Books written, showing the better side of humanity with goodness, hope and forgiveness and a main character that ends a better person than they started, is considered shallow, unrealistic and fluffy?

Why is one point of view more valid than the other? Are we all emotionally bereft? Are we incapable as human beings of improvement, hope and joy? Are those things any less real than depravity, anger and sorrow? Are they not also part of the human experience?

Why aren't the better emotions worthy of exploring in our literary world? Why are they casually dismissed as fluff? Proclaimed to be okay if you want escapism reading, said with a curling sneer on the end of the lips.

Why is only what is depressing, unedifying and angry considered literary?

What is wrong with us?

Snake Oil

I'm exhausted. And I feel like my breakfast is going to be revisiting me soon. And, to quote my mother, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

This can only mean one thing, sick post! Oh boy! I know you love them! Especially when the cynicism and sarcasm hit epic levels! Fun! Fun! Fun!

So if you have serious health problems, you probably already know every Disturbed Alternative Health Fanatic Tradesman, or DAHFT (as I like to call them), on the planet will try to cure you.
I'm not talking about people who advocate eating healthy, exercising and taking vitamin D. I'm not talking about people who cautiously approach and suggest something different that may help because they're concerned. I'm not talking about the people who tell you what their Aunt Mildred did, because they care about you.

I'm talking about the kind of people who think doctors are part of a socio-economic conspiracy and are trying to scam the public. I'm talking about the voracious purveyors of modern snake oil.

Because obviously doctors went to school for twelve years, and racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars of student loans to fool you out of your hard earned cash. And they put up with insurance companies and malpractice insurance because it's fun! Life is just not exciting enough without these kinds of challenges.

DAHFTs especially like try to prey upon the chronically ill, and try to get them to stop seeing 'mainstream' doctors and taking their medicines. My sisters and I talk about this weirdly interesting phenomenon from time to time.

My youngest sister tends to be blunt and doesn't brook nonsense for any real length of time. When approached by a particularly voracious DAHFT my sister said, "I did research on what happens to people with my condition who stopped taking their medicine. They DlED. They're all DEAD now."

And she said it in the kind of tone that makes you snort your drink out your nose.

My brother in law has a masters degree in chemistry. So he likes to check the "science" behind things. Let's just say, there's a lot of bogus stuff out there. He knows a lot of stuff that 'works' is simply having a placebo effect.

The thing that gets me, is how fast a DAHFT can spot a sick person. They zero in on them with uncanny ability. And they always, always have something they're selling. What they're selling is varied. It takes many forms from the plausible to the wildly farfetched.

And the instructions can be unnerving.

"Twiddle this organic twoodlestick, handmade by nuns in Italy, under your nose for thirty seconds, run outside buck naked and jump around for two minutes, come back inside and lay on this sheepskin mat, made exclusively in an obscure village in Malaysia, for ten minutes breathing deeply and chewing ancient tree sap from an extinct tree like a goat, light this candle specially made of beeswax collected from a special bees found only in India and meditate to this native Egyptian pipe music for another thirty minutes. You'll feel so amazing you won't know yourself.  You'll never waste another dime on doctors or expensive medicines again! Think of all the money you'll save!"

"That'll be $2,695 for today's supplies."

How to Start a Fight in 10 Seconds

You know how sometimes you find something funny that you shouldn't?

That would be me, when people tell other people not to judge.

It's like getting two for the price of one. Not only is the accuser judging the accused, but the accuser is also being hypocritical. It's hilarious!

But I really shouldn't find this amusing.

Believe me when I say though, that if you try to hide a laugh and snort instead, when you hear people say things like this, they do NOT think it's funny.

I'd like to say I've outgrown this behavior, but the truth is, I wasn't like this when I was young. It's just since I've hit my so-called maturity that it makes me laugh.

To illustrate, I had an experience in my early twenties in an apartment house that went like this:

Me: "Hi, I don't think I've met you. I live next door. I'm Rebecca."

New Neighbor: "Rebecca? Aren't you ---'s friend?"

Me, smiling: "Yes."

New Neighbor: "DON'T YOU JUDGE ME!!!!" She practically turned purple when she said this.

Me, smile frozen on face, at a loss for words: "Um... okaaay.  Well, it's nice to meet you." I turn to leave.

New Nieghbor: "--- said you're Mormon, and I don't want you judging how I live my life!"

Me: "Alright-y then," Feeling more than a little awkward. But I can tell she wants to talk, so I stay there.

Seriously, I'd never been judged so fast in my life. Most people wait till after they get to know me before they decide they hate me.

Maybe I should have been offended. Maybe I should have made a snide remark or been sarcastic after that, but clearly there was an interesting story there.

So often that's the way it is. I don't think it's human nature to go around being suspicious of everyone, but negative things happen and people gradually get that way. Does that mean we should add to their angst by being nasty?

The irony of this situation was, we turned out to be great friends that summer. I moved a bunch of states away so it didn't last, but we had a lot of fun. She did have a very interesting story behind her attitude too, but it's hers to tell, not mine.

What Kind of Mom are You?

Mother's day is often a day of guilt for moms. It ought not to be that way.

I saw a video online wherein a woman was explaining there are all different kinds of moms and whatever kind of mom you are, it is just right for your kids, that God gave you the skills that are unique for your kids. I kind of smirked and rolled my eyes, but then, I thought, maybe there's something in this.

I asked myself, what kind of mom am I? And I answered, I'm 'suck it up and do it anyway' mom. It's true and I don't apologize for it. It's what my kids need. I'm also 'silly' mom, and they need that too.
I could go on and on about all the stuff I've done wrong. I could tell you all about the horrific mistakes I've made and what makes me believe my children will need therapy the rest of their lives, but I choose not to focus on that this Mother's Day.

As I've mentioned before, I started writing books and blogging because I get sick a lot and get bored and need something to occupy my down time. Unfortunately, before I fully understood the nature of my health and all it's implications, I had produced five children. Yep. Five.

Long story short, each of my kids also has multiple health problems. I have a running health history for each one and each year something else gets added to the list. Who knows what condition they'll be in by the time they reach 50? Budgeting energy as a precious resource is a common topic of discussion in this house.

Yes, in some ways I wonder why God gave me five children before I knew what my genes would do to them. But then, he also equipped me with some unique skills.

The biggest life skills I have to offer them are twofold. The first is to have faith. Believe that life is beautiful and live life fully, regardless of circumstances.

Showing them chronic illness isn't the end of the world is a big goal of mine. Multiple chronic illnesses are not the end of the world. There's plenty to do and experience regardless of our limitations, and a way around those limitations, and divine help to make us better than we are.
Perhaps I should feel sorry for them, but I do not. There is no room for pity when my child may be dying and needs life saving surgery - even if that surgery is going to have an unpleasant recovery.
There is no room for pity when my child is turning blue and can't breathe. There is no room for pity when we are rushing for the ER. There is no room for pity when my child sees life so bleakly they don't know if they have the courage to move forward.

My children do not need my pity. I would be doing them a great disservice to offer it to them. They need faith, they need hope, they need action and care. And then, when the crisis is over, they need a sense of humor.

That's the second life gift I have to offer. The gift of silliness is a great one. Something that can make a smile appear and laugh burble up from the soul -- how important that is!

Believing that if their life ends, they will still be loved and cared for on the other side is important.
But it also takes great courage to live, to go on facing a life of pain, discomfort and continuous doctors and procedures and surgeries. It takes courage and a sense of humor to really live, despite that.

The good Lord gave me illness, but he also gave me the skills to cope. I am all the better and the stronger for it. And someday, my children will see themselves that way too. This is my hope.

The Truth About Butterflies

Phobias are weird things. A person can suddenly become afraid of anything, anything at all, no matter how ridiculous -- or how sweet and innocent.

Well, I'm here to say butterflies are not as sweet as everyone thinks or as innocent. For one thing, they have a diabolical sense of humor.

I had a friend who would sit very, very still in a field full of butterflies for hours on end in the ecstatic hope one would land on her. It never worked. Then she'd try to catch one.

They'd flutter all around her, woosh past her and you could almost hear them say, "Oh, almost got me that time! Almost! Whoohoo, over here, oop, almost had me!" laughing and taunting.

But let me tell you, I could be sitting with not a butterfly in sight, enjoying my day, minding my own business when the next thing I know I've got one on my arm. And believe me, when you've got a butterfly on your arm, you know.

They have poky little feet and nothing else feels like a butterfly foot.
I know how it goes. I know what they say.

One butterfly sees another, jabs him with an elbow and says,

"Hey, Erle."

"Yeah, Stan?"

"You smell what I smell?"

"I dunno."

"Fear pheromones. That there's fear, Erle. Take a deep whiff and breathe that in, you don't get to smell that everyday."

"Yeah. That smells good. That's cause we're butterflies, ain't it Stan? That's cause we're fierce, ain't we Stan?"

Stan rubs his chin with his nasty little butterfly foot."You know what I'm gonna to do? Land on her!"

"You can't! That's against the butterfly code!"

"Butterfly code don't say nothing about landing on no people what are scared."

"I dunno. That don't seem ee-lusive to me. Butterfly code says we gotta be ee-lusive."

"Oh yeah? Watch!"

You want to know something about butterflies? They have tiny little hooks in their feet. Those little suckers can hang on like nobody's business and it takes a lot of flapping, jumping around and screaming to get one off.

"Whooooo! That there's one wild ride! You gotta try that!"

Another thing about butterflies. They're fearless.

"My turn, Stan!"

Have you ever tried to dodge a butterfly? They don't exactly fly around in predictable patterns. It's not like running from a bee you've managed to disgruntle.

"That's right Erle, keep her off kilter! Ha, ha, she don't know which end's up no how!"

Next thing I know, I've got to go through the whole exercise again, after which I feel like I've run a marathon, because on top of all the necessary screaming and jolting maneuvers it takes to get the thing off, my heart's already in panic stricken overdrive from the very presence of the horrid little beasts.

Meanwhile, Erle and Stan are having the laugh of their life and considering their day well spent.
Although phobias are bizarre and take some unusual forms, the good thing about them is, they don't have to be permanent. After twenty or so years of expensive intensive therapy, a butterfly can cross my path and I may not even notice it.

It certainly doesn't make my heart pound or do any other remarkable things to my system. I wouldn't even mind if one landed on my arm, because I always found bugs fascinating, and it would be interesting to get a closer look at it.

I do find it highly suspicious, that after years of being landed on by who knows how many butterflies, not one butterfly has landed on me since I've gotten over this phobia, not one.

Mountains

I grew up in the Mid West near Lake Erie. It was humid, lush and green. It's all I'd ever seen and all I'd ever known.

When I was young, my family decided to go on a trip that would take us into the Appalachian Mountains. These were enchanting times. I was actually going to see something I had never seen before -- mountains!

I was practically quivering with excitement. Mountains were something I'd always wanted to see and my family was always raving about how beautiful the Appalachian Mountains, in particular, were.

We got into the car and drove. I waited impatiently to see the mountains, my eyes pasted to the window. I was afraid to blink. We drove into rolling hills, and more rolling hills and more rolling hills.

I asked when we would get to the mountains. To my utter horror, I was informed we were in the mountains.

I looked around. They were covered, completely covered in trees! I couldn't see the mountain at all! Nothing but vegetation all around! These were mountains?????? What!???

All I could see were a bunch of trees! I didn't want to see trees! I saw trees every day of my life! They were everywhere! There was nothing new, or novel about a bunch of trees!

Where were the rocks? Where were the crags and rills? All covered by massive vegetation! NOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOoooooo!!!!!!!!!!

When I was nearly 20 I moved to Utah. I got off the plane, and besides being instantly in love with the total lack of humidity (this is a topic for another day) I could see something that made my heart leap in joy.

Mountains! With rocks! Gobs of rocks, tons of rocks, gazillions of rocks! And not a tree on them! (I was wrong about this, I was later to find out, there are trees on them, you just have to get closer to know that.)

Now here, here were mountains! The real deal! Rugged, huge, and majestic, rising up from the valley floor in rocky wonder!

Imagine my excitement when my family came to Utah for a visit a couple years later and I could show them these amazing, beautiful, real, rocky mountains!

'Look!' I said, 'You can see the mountains! Aren't they amazing?'

'They're ugly,' they said, 'Where are the trees?'

That was when I realized I'd been switched at birth.

The Killing Season

It's that time of year again. The birds are singing, flowers are on the trees, tulips and daffodils are waving in the breeze and the lawn is turning green.

For some people, it's the season of renewal and hope. For others, it's the killing season, not of animals, not of people-- of plants.

It's also that time of year when every legitimate plant in my yard is quaking in their boots. They would run for their lives but they are frozen in fear, unable to move, caught in rigid terror. There are huge creatures bumbling around amongst them and not one of them is safe.

Unless of course, they are a weed. Weeds have nothing to fear from us.

Gardening used to be a hobby of mine. I had originally hired someone to make a design for my yard, but when gas lines and electric lines ended up being in incompatible places to the design, I chucked it; started from scratch, and designed my own.

I planted trees and shrubs, vines and perennials and patiently waited for it all to grow, mature and look stunning. And it did look beautiful. Until I found out I had lupus, and couldn't go outside any more.

Then it was up to the other members of the household to take care of the yard.

Then came death. Lots of it.

There are people in this house (who will remain nameless in order to protect the guilty) who do not like to weed, do not like yard work of any kind and wish we lived in the middle of a cement ocean.
Not only that, but the care and maintenance of plants seems to be some kind of mystic, incomprehensible science that only the select few have the ability to decipher. The survival of plants comes only from pure chance, a capricious whim of the earth gods.

The answer to this problem is to panic and pour something on everything. Preferably something that isn't compatible with any kind of life.

Are there weeds around the trees? Yes. Pour stuff on it. Look. More weeds around the trees. Pour more stuff on them. And more weeds and more stuff.

And when the trees aren't looking so good, pour stuff on them too.

'Why is the tree dead? We did everything we were supposed to do to this tree! We poured stuff on it's roots. We sprayed it with stuff. It should be thriving! What do you mean it absorbed the weed killer we poured on the weeds around it? We poured it on the weeds, not the tree! Only dumb trees would drink weed killer! We can't help it if our trees are completely unintelligent!'

And so another tree dies. Everything lovely dies.

In the meantime the weeds are still there, standing green, tall and proud, laughing at us. They chug up weed killer; lick their chops, and ask for more like a certain ethnicity drinking certain ethnic alcoholic beverages.

(Okay, so I've been told I have to be politically correct here. This is a family friendly site, remember? I say one little borderline thing about a specific group and I get nasty messages. I'll probably hear from the weeds -- Who are you to call plants 'weeds'? How do you know what determines a 'weed' and a 'plant'? Are you vegetable matter? No! All plants deserve life! You're nothing but a judgemental, *%#@&%*#, weedaphobe! Weedist!)

Only the hardy lives at this address. If you want to see what absolutely cannot be killed in our climate, take a tour of our yard. Take some clippings, you'll have plants that no amount of abuse, neglect and misguided TLC can kill!

And if they keep pouring chemicals on the ground everywhere, we may end up with mutant species yet unknown to science or man. Think of the bragging rights you'd have crowning your garden with some of that!

My design is gone. The subtlety is gone. Most of the plants are gone too. Forget colors, textures and size, I'm happy with anything that can survive the onslaught.

My yard still looks stunning. Not in the same way though, more in a can't-tear-my-eyes-away-horrified-fascination kind of way, wherein the viewer is stunned. Yes. Speechless.

The Epsitolarian

People are wondering if I like this website.

I'm not sure yet. This seems strange and new. Not at all comfy like my old site. It was all broken in and familiar. I knew all the ins and outs of that one.

Okay, okay, so I didn't. But I knew more ins and outs than I do on this one. The old site was simple enough for an idiot to use. I could just bumble around frantically tapping keys and eventually something acceptable would happen. That's why I stuck with it for so long.

For those of us who are so technologically challenged we need a guide book to figure out how to unlock our front door, blogging is a mind boggling labyrinth of epic proportions. I don't know what I'll do if smart homes become the norm. Sleep on my door step a lot, I guess, or become a hobo.

So why do I do it, you wonder.

Because people don't write letters anymore.

I was a letter writer back in the day. (Waaaaayyyy back.) I loved the feeling of using pen and paper and recording thoughts with them and seeing those thoughts with my eyes. I had lots of stationary. (I still wander through stationery sections of books stores, longingly fingering the paper and deciding what I would have bought if  there had been someone to whom I could write a letter.) And buying stamps was fun.

I'm sorry to say, I didn't have very good correspondents, besides my grandma. (That's what real love does for you.) My mom sent me form letters, which I was thrilled to get, at least they came every couple of months. (What can I say? She had a lot of kids. She adores email now.) I'd write friends and family and acquaintances regularly and enthusiastically and they would eventually send off a few hastily scribbled lines in response -- more often than not, pointing out words I'd misspelled. (I get about as much written feedback on my blog as I did for my letters. And in case you haven't noticed, my blog readers aren't keen on commenting.)

And yes, I was an avid note passer in middle school and high school. And yes, I was in detention a lot.

In my naivete, I thought when email became a thing that my correspondents would be more excited about-- well--corresponding. No such luck. Then the other social media came along and I hoped that would open up new vistas. But no. I simply don't have writing-inclined friends, family and acquaintances (or even strangers for that matter).

It comes down to a love of writing. I love it - others don't. It's that simple.

But it makes me wonder how many bloggers would have been letter writers 30 or more years ago? Perhaps blogs are where all the reliable correspondents went?

And I love reading. I'll read anything. Books of all kinds, ingredient lists on food, instruction manuals, prescription labels, magazines, newspapers, letters, you name it. I love to read. I love to write. I'm the perfect pen pal.

This is the tragedy of my life.

But just as I was in my epistolary years, I'm undaunted by the lack of written enthusiasm and I keep on going anyway. I've been well trained to write in a vacuum. While technology killed pen pals, at least it opened up alternate venues for incurable writers like me. Welcome to my blog.

Doing What I Like to Do.

I think my brains are addled.

Seriously, this thing's getting so convoluted I can't think straight.

Okay, so here's the problem with writing mysteries. They're hard. Writing romances is a walk in the park compared to this. How long have I been working on this novel? Will it never end? And of course, of course, as usual this mystery just cannot take itself seriously. Nothing I write can take itself seriously.

Whine, whine, complain, complain.

Of course, the beautiful thing about having writing as a hobby and not as a profession is that I can write whatever I want, whenever I want. I can change genres as many times as I feel like it. There are no rules I have to follow. And if it takes me six years to write one book there's no one to complain about it but me.

It's kind of gotten me thinking about the future of publishing. Will there be more and more people like me, who prefer not to deal with publishing companies and literary agents, deadlines and pressure? Perhaps that's why the e-book trade is flourishing?

I suppose if someone were very serious about selling gobs of books they may want to go that route. But think of the marketing! Is there anything more horrifying than having to do book signings or radio spots or television time?

No. Much better to hide out at home and type away huddled in a comfy chair and a quilt and delve into thoughts of my own invention all by myself. I do like that I can make what I write available to friends and family and the occasional other person I don't know, all strictly online. Do a little formatting and wallah! A book! No fuss, so easy, now everyone can read it (or not). No pressure on me, no pressure on them. Then I can focus on what I like to do - writing.

A New Sick and Bored List!

I know you are all dying for a new edition on what to do when you're sick and bored, so let's get started and see where it takes us.

1. Stare at your house until you truly detest it. As soon as you're well, waste all your energy repainting everything, which makes you sick again, so you have to stare at your house again, but at least you're staring at something new...for now.... This is the activity that never ends. It just keeps going and going.

2. Stare longingly outside your bedroom window. Think of all the things you would plant if you could spend time outdoors. When you're tired of this, change windows. Since there are a million windows in your house, this activity could last all day.

3. Stare at the TV but don't turn it on. You're sick of TV.

4. Read (Ha! You thought I'd say 'stare' again!) so many books people think there's something wrong with you. (Well, actually there is, it's called 'chronic illness'.)

5. Play with your food, because actually eating it will only yield horrifying results. (There's an entire post on playing with food while you're sick somewhere on this blog.)

6. Plan vacations you can never take.

7. Pet every single bunny in the house. (What? Not everything on the list can drip with the cold bitterness of a wasted life.)

8. Think of the people you love and notice all the little things they do for you.

9. Remember you never would have spent so much time with family, been able to pet bunnies, begun writing novels, or read a zillion books a year if you hadn't been sick most of the time.

10. Realize that life is good anyway.

The Worst Torture I Know

I'm delirious with fatigue. I'm never going to make it.  I can't even get through the next hour. My eye lids keep closing, my head keeps dropping. It's no use.

All because some seriously unbalanced people out there like playing with the time. This wreaks havoc on systems like mine that are finely tuned to the hours of the day. I'm the person who wakes up every morning two seconds before the alarm goes off. I'm the person who says 'that will take three hours,' and guess what? It takes three hours. I'm the person who says to her kids on the phone from the grocery store 'I'll be home in 20 minutes,' and then I get home in twenty minutes. I have a built in awareness of time and you know what screws that up? CHANGING THE TIME!!!!! It's torture! I have to reset my inner clock! Do you know how hard that is? I'll spend from now until fall trying, I'll be exhausted and wrong footed the entire time! I'll be late for appointments, I'll wake up and go to sleep at the wrong times, I'll get hungry when I'm not supposed to. It'll be pandemonium!!!! And just when I've got it down, just when I've got everything readjusted, figured out, and running smoothly,  THEY'LL CHANGE IT AGAIN!!!!!!

Do these people really understand how horrifying daylight savings time really is? I mean, really, what is the point? Why do we torture ourselves with this? Are we sadists or masochists or something? I can't even be funny about it.

In honor of this dismal event I've compiled a list of ten things better than daylight savings, because I like lists. There's a weird kind of comfort in quantifying disaster.

1. Public speaking.

2. Waiting in line at the DMV.

3. Root canals.

4. Kidney stones.

5. Dismemberment.

6. Dining with in laws.

7. Bankruptcy.

8. Eating bugs. 

9. Door to door salespeople.

10. Death.

Guest Blog Post

In light of last weeks post, I thought it would be fun to have a guest post along the same lines by Deborah Chandler. I was amused by what she had to say, so of course, I had to include it.  And yes, I'm the person who talked her into the old lady track suit. I have my own, for which I have to say, I have a deep and abiding love.

So here you have it, a second opinion on middle age! 



Comfort? Yes, Please!

Being a non-traditional student on a very traditional campus, I find myself squirming as I observe the clothing options of my (albeit, much younger) classmates keeping up with the trends. I’m now old enough that what is worn today was in fashion in my young adult years. (I have nearly the same hairstyle as when I got married and it’s in style.) And I realize as I’m looking at these clothes two distinct ideas come to mind: one, I am uncomfortable; and two, I feel sorry for those wearing them. 

Now, I’m not uncomfortable seeing someone dressed like that, I’m uncomfortable because I remember how it feels to be dressed like that. It was uncomfortable. Tight clothes when you're young seems up-and-coming, flattering, maybe even sexy—but decades later after trying a few different fashion options you realize, it’s just uncomfortable. The perpetual queasy tummy, holding your breath to bend over and forget tying shoes. (You’ll notice an increase of slip-ons with tight clothes.)—No thank you.

One day while walking to class, I found myself feeling distinctly sorry for the girl walking in front of me as her clothes were so tight I thought, “Poor dear, can’t afford clothes that fit properly.” Then I started looking around and realized that was probably how she wanted to be dressed. And then I thought, “Poor dear.”

Recently, my older sister talked me into buying an old lady track suit—you know the type velour, zipper hoodie and so comfortable you sigh when you get dressed, then all became clear. Old ladies don’t dress like old ladies because they don’t have fashion sense, they just have enough sense to choose comfortable fashions. They’ve already put in their time with being pulled, tucked, squished and flaunted and decided, it’s all for the birds. They know that wearing something comfortable doesn’t make them less of a woman, it just makes them a happier one!

By Deborah Chandler 

Middle Age - The Best Years of My Life?

They lied to me.

They told me the only thing worth being is young, thin and attractive. They told me if I wasn't any of those things then my life would stink and wasn't worth living.

But what could I do? The years passed. Even though youth feels like it will last forever, it doesn't. I aged (gasp). I had kids (double gasp), I changed sizes (NO!).

So, I've kind of noticed something. My life doesn't stink. Not a bit, as a matter of a fact, it's better. You heard me. Better.

Maybe we're cute when we're younger because we're obnoxious and our cuteness keeps us from getting strangled.

Maybe youth is worshiped out of self preservation.

Whatever the reason, the media is lying to us when it portrays youth as the happy time. I don't know about you all, but for me, youth was the stupid time. I was so angsty and shallow I'm glad to be out of it. I seriously thought I knew it all. I was the expert on everything. I now know I never knew anything and I'm okay with that. Instead of being full of what I know, I am full of what I want to find out. It's liberating and exciting. Yep, I'm embracing my stupidity.

You know what else is liberating? Being old enough to laugh at the media for idolizing youth. To roll my eyes and smile because I know the media has nothing to do with real life. Society says this, Society says that, but Reality and Society don't know each other.

I am not obligated to be anything the media says I should be. It takes middle age for most of us to finally realize the full impact of this.


And let's not forget I've reached the age where what other people think of me is their problem, not mine. If I look old, frumpy and talk like an idiot what's that to me? I've gotten comfortable in my skin. It doesn't matter. I am who I am and I'm okay with who I am. (Toot, toot! I need a pipe to whistle into.)

I proclaim my liberty! I declare my independence from looking a certain way, dressing a certain way and acting a certain way, according to the dictates of whatever is considered the way to do things right now! I will do my own thing, dress my own way, and look like me!

I know, you're shocked. How dare anyone look like them? What kind of audacity does that take? I do not apologize for my behavior. And if middle age is this liberating what will old age be like? I'll be finding out in another 20 years. For today, I'm going to go wear my old lady track suit, eat chocolates, and read a novel. Tell me, could I have done that when I was young? No. Only does middle age afford such luxuries and they feel like luxuries because I still have so much work to do, it's just that I can have a break here and there. I love that. I'm not bored, but I can have breaks, isn't that the greatest? I could go on, but I don't feel like it, so I won't. See? That's what I'm talking about.

Middle age is the best.

Mom's Rules

I saw a meme that went like this:

Mom's Rules:
If I cook it, you eat it.
If I buy it, you wear it.
If I wash it, you put it away.
If I clean, you keep it clean.
If I say bedtime, you say goodnight.
If I say get off the phone, you hang up.
If I say no, you don't ask why.
Because I'm the mom!

Hmmm... kind of works for small kids. But what about when half your kids are adults and the other half are nearly there? Mom's in this situation need rules just for them. So here goes:

Mom's Rules:
If you're hungry, cook something.
If you want clothes, buy them.
If you want clean clothes, wash them.
If you make a mess, clean it up.
If I say it's bedtime, I'm going to bed; you're on your own. 
If you need an appointment, pick up the phone and make one.
If I say no, don't be surprised.
It's because I'm exhausted and you're too old to be asking! 


That looks more like it.

Great Names for Boys!

A common subject amongst my younger, child-bearing friends expecting boys is what to name him? What guys name could they give their boy that hasn't already been hijacked by a well meaning mom naming a girl or that won't become a girls name in the lifetime of the child or that hasn't already been used a million times, literally.

They want something unique that doesn't sound like something a person will eventually designate for a girl.

Well, fear no more! I have compiled here a list of 20 names that are guarenteed not to be over-used and are boys names! I know! I've even listed some possible nick names for some. You can thank me later.

Oh boy! You know how I love lists!

1. Mergatroid. You could nick name him Merg. This will especially sound appropriate when he is old and crotchety.

2. Horatio. Rat for short. Doesn't that sound cute?

3. Archibald. This one has an especially catchy nick name - Baldy.

4. Abednego. Think of all the fun you'll have spelling that and repeating the pronunciation of it!

5. Hezekiah. Hezzy for short. This would be an especially good nick name if your baby resembles a muppet.

6. Shem. You could call him Shemmikins for short.

7. Rosco. Here's one you don't hear that often. I just can't picture a girl named Rosco, but then I had a hard time wrapping my brain around a girl named 'Taylor' the first time I heard it and now everyone seems to have forgotten it was ever a boys name to begin with. But still, I think this one will be a safe bet.

8. Stanely. This is a good solid name. Never mind it sounds like a small, fat, balding man. Stereo types should be abolished and there's no better way to do that than by starting a new trend. And really, Stan doesn't sound half bad. Stan sounds like that rock solid guy that always comes through.

9. Merlin. Everyone knows this is a guys name. Merl for short. I'd say you could also call him Lin, but then we're dealing with another name that's been swiped for female purposes.

10. Earnest. This is obvious. And there' s a whole play explaining why this is a good name. And who wouldn't like to be called Ernie?

11. Pudwalikesneth. Oh the possibilities here! Puddy, Walli, Kes, Nethy. It goes on and on.

12. Nebuchadnezzar. A good, solid, Bible name. Why don't we see this more often?  Good old Nebby.

13. Elroy. A nice, down home name. Call him El, short and easy.

14. Tutankhamen. Why aren't we using historical names more? There's a veritable treasure trove of these completely going to waste! You don't have to call him Tut for short. There are lots of possibilities in this name. How about Kha or Tan?

15. Guildenstern.Guilder or Denny or Sternie make good nick names. His friends can be all, like, Hey! It's the Guildster! Guild, my man. (That is, if anyone actually talked that way.)

16. Quirinius. Now this one is fun! A name that starts with a Q! How many of those are there? You could call him Quinnie when he's a baby and Quirt when he's older.

17. Boaz. Bo, obviously.

18. Zidkijah - Zid. That sounds snappy. Come here Zid. Hey, Zid, hand me the ketchup.

19. Lysimachus. Lyss. Machus. Chus. Another one with lots of possibilities.

20. Agamemnon. Aggie. Who wouldn't want this name? Both the name and the nickname are awesome!

And there you have it! Twenty rarely-used, distinctly-male, no-girl-would-want-them names! I could have doubled this list easily! Tripled it, no problem. Yes sir, if you want a good boy name I am your, er... woman!

Unrequited Sugar Love

In honor of the upcoming Valentine's Day I decided to write a letter to an unhealthy, unrequited, life long love of mine, my secret obsession. No longer will I suffer in silence, I am going public for all to see!

Dear Sugar, 

I have loved you all my life and yet you have not returned my love. I have been loyal, unwavering and true. You have been none of these things. 

People told me you were not good for me. I didn't believe them. They told me you were controlling. I didn't listen.  They told me you didn't really love me and I paid them no heed. Now I am the one suffering.

I long to be with you, to consume you. You make everything in life better. Chocolate without you is just bitter. My Cheerios are simply bland when you aren't there. Cookies are pointless without your contribution. 

When I've tried to take a break from you, to put some distance between us, to no longer partake in clandestine meetings in cakes and candies, I find you still in my life, lurking in salad dressing, barbecue sauce and my teriyaki chicken! Have you no shame? Have you no respect for my wishes?

When I look at what you've done for me I know in my brain what my heart wants to deny. A clean break is all that will give me relief, a total severance. Oh! The pain it gives me! Words cannot express the desolation I will feel when you are gone. 

But all joy in our meetings is now meaningless. After I partake in your delights it actually nauseates me. You give me headaches. You do such terrible things to my insides. You no longer give me energy. You are tiring. I literally need a nap after I've been with you and I don't feel better when I wake up. Something has gone terribly wrong in our relationship and now I'm the one who pays. 

And the very worst of it is, in return for my devotion, you have given me diabetes. You didn't love me. You never loved me. You have fought back with your negativity by putting fat around my middle! How could you? Of all the horrifying things you could do, you make me fat!!! That is just too low! A person has their limits and you have crossed mine!

I see through you now! You are nothing but a user. You take my energy and deplete it. You leave me feeling exhausted and worn out. But do you care? No! You keep on taking, taking, taking. You give nothing back but a twisted, nasty gift -- fat.

So goodbye! Goodbye forever! I can't be with you anymore. Don't try to come in contact with me or tempt me with your presence. No longer will I savor your sweetness or partake of this unhealthy love. I don't want to see any of your siblings either, so tell maple syrup, honey and corn syrup to stay away! But I will always desire you and miss you and your entire family. Even now I can't find it in my heart to be mean or cruel. I still love and admire you.

I will never forget you, but I can no longer acknowledge my feelings for you. I will never mention it again or pain you with my love, which you so obviously do not return. From now on just consider me, 

Your No Longer Secret Admirer. 

Whew. Now that was therapeutic. I can move on with my life. Sugar will never rule me again! Never! I am free! Free!


ooooo! Is that a donut?