Mighty Mouth

Pheonix has a very unique voice. He says, "Puurr-row row? Merrow?", Whereas Maggie May has a teeny tiny voice. It sounds like, "mi? mi?". If she even makes a sound at all.

Well, I had this wild burst of energy, and I tore up the hill, Pheonix leading the way. I didn't go that far, or, I should say, MAKE it that far, I think there was some excess body weight slowing me down. Naw, I was probably just tired. Anyway, I stopped just around one of the giant Douglas firs and sat down. These trees are easily five - seven feet in diameter, so it's more like a wall than a tree when you're sitting against one.

Pheonix had just hopped into my lap when I heard the most awful screaming yowl, and it wasn't just one, it was yowl after yowl. At first I thought one of my kitties was hurt, badly, and I jumped to my feet, (despite Pheonix's disgruntled protest) and looked around the tree down toward home and street. Had a bad driver finally done what I'd always feared?

No. There was little Maggie with giant scared eyes, standing at the bottom of the hill looking up. I usually take liesurely strolls with my cats, so I can kep an eye out and make sure no one gets lost. Plus there is a LOT to sniff, and listen to, and we like to enjoy the forest unhurried. This time, though, I hadn't even realized Maggie was outside and wanted to come with me. She was left behind, and so unhappy about it that she cried out at the top of her lungs for me.

I called out to her, and her pointy ears were like homing missiles. As soon as she saw me heading toward her, she toned down to her usual tiny mews. I felt pretty darn loved. I didn't realize how much I'm her safety. You would think the fact that she sleeps next to my head every night might have tipped me off. In fact, when it's bed time, I call her and she comes running, settling into the corner between my pillow and the wall. Then Sebastian curls up at my feet. Then Lilly stretches out along my side. And then I can't move for the rest of the night lest I disturb anyone. And my chest swells with so much happiness I can hardly breathe.

Pheonix, meanwhile, prefers the fishtank, but he gets his snuggle time on hikes. Also when ever I catch him napping and he looks so darn cute I have to squeal and pet him. Hmmm, which is a lot of the time. You think he's working an angle?

Pheonix: Smarter than Western Medicine?

Pheonix is setting a good example for me, following the doctor's orders to take it easy for at least a week. No, the Doc didn't say to find a nice box to curl up in. It was no shooting hoops or lifting heavy things. I don't think Pheonix has EVER done heavy lifting, but he does his job. His job being to be cute and my buddy and a character, in return for love, love, and food and cardboard boxes and some more food.

Also, I wasn't supposed to lift my arm above shoulder height. So I was in a tough position. I had to go to work so I could resign, but I couldn't work. I couldn't bring myself to stay out on sick leave AND quit, because to me it seemed like that would be giving no notice at all. Then there is the matter of rent, and actual days needed for packing (oh boy). I have already paid my last month's rent, but I have to give thirty days notice, which means I have to do it at the start of the month. I want at the very least 2 weeks not working to pack, clean, and move, because working full time and moving is just not fun.

The ibuprofin didn't work. I tried to grit my teeth and bear it, but when Bosslady showed up around eight that day I had to tell her I couldn't work. I ended up needing two weeks to recover, and wasn't back at work until January 29th. I guess I could have given notice then, but I just felt like I'd be cutting it too close- I would still have the two weeks to move at the end of Febuary, but then life tossed in a couple more dilemmas.

My sub left. The office is now shorthanded.

The union unexpectedly reached an agreement on a new contract, throwing an emergency evaluation session into play. This is where every aspect of our job is scrutinized and a new salary is assigned. Sounds good right? Except the last two times, we got pay cuts, and this coming evaluation, sceduled for feb 23rd- march 7th, is gearing up to be the worst pay cut yet. I am so glad I never joined the union. I still have to take the contracts they negotiate, but I don't have to pay them for the reaming. It's several hundred dollars a year and I just don't find that appealing.

The most difficult curveball has been Clarence disapearing again. I am pretty sure he's alive, and doing well somewhere out in the world, but I wanted to make absolute sure he wasn't coming back before I leave. I have scoured the neighborhood for him, but no sign. The only way I refrain from crying all day every day for him is by thinking about him only in hopeful terms. Hoping he's happy, and safe and warm, and hoping that just maybe he'll come back one last time. The thought of him coming back to an empty house has definitely hindered my leaving.

I think it's time now. I'll help my office through the evaluation so they won't feel the pinch of two less employees. I'm able bodied again, thank goodness. And I raised a strong young kitty able to do well in the world on his own, free to live the life he chooses. March 8th I turn 29, and it will be my first day of freedom. My first day of a new year, a new life. I'll hit the road with trailer in tow march 30th. Until then, though, I think I will follow Pheonix's example, and find a place to curl up and dream. At least on the weekends.

Good News ...?

I'm interrupting my gripping tale of job resignation to share this breaking news: my landlord sent me a text message. I guess when your voicmail is full that's what people have to do. Anyway, it said, "Hi, it's your landlord. I have good news. Call me".

Ponder that for a second. What could possibly be good news, from a landlord to a tenant? "Hey, I won the lottery, I'm giving you the cabin". Whoah, okay that's a bit ridiculous, ha ha sorry. I am guessing it's more like, "Hey, I just realized that studios rent for less than you pay AND the utilities are included! Plus they have double pane windows and -" okay now I'm perching on the edge of bitter. Kind of like when I wish the company vehicle had anti-lock brakes.

I know, it's a choice to live in the second most expensive county in the U.S. of A. Which is why I'm leaving. I finally got the guts to at least broach the subject with my coworkers (Bosslady being thankfully absent). I posed it in the form of what if. "Do you think I should move to AZ to chase my dreams and see what else this world has to experience?" I tried to sound nonchalant but my nervous tone possibly betrayed me.

The funny thing is, after having listened to them proclaim time after time that "this is the best job in the universe", I thought they would be colectively discouraging. ("Better than being a professional athlete?" I would counter. "Better than being paid to scuba dive off the coast of Madagascar, taking pictures of coral reefs?" I knew a guy who actually did that, for National Geographic.) To my pleasant suprise, my colleagues took my question under serious consideration. The vote was fairly quick, and it was unanimus. Yes.

Now, I don't actually expect or desire or think I deserve to be handed anything on a silver platter, despite my lottery mention. I know that work is part of life, whether you enjoy or despise the particular job you do. It's just that, after having no electricity for two days for reasons that had nothing to do with weather or tree branches or other acts of nature, I'm ready for good news to really be good news. So why do I feel so full of dread?

P.S. I'm making breakfast now and thought this was a really pretty egg. :)

Damp is conducive to mushrooms and unfancy footwork.

It was the weekend. I had just finished a long overdue blog post and I felt pleasantly full, like I'd just had fresh brewed coffee with a dollop of ice cream in it. Maybe I did. I was ready to go counter my fatty indulgence with a hike with my furry loved ones. I can see it so painfully slow now, as I traversed the porch, my high pitched conversation with my kitties turned down to a deep, low, slow-motion drawl. Each step minutes long before my foot rests and my weight shifts, the other foot taking its steady turn at brief flight before connecting with the ground and accepting it's turn at the burden of weight bearing, the cycle beginning anew.

Okay, I'm just kidding. It actually happened so fast that all I remember was being at the top of the stairs one second, and flat on my back at the bottom of them the next. Speaking of bottom, boy did mine hurt. It hurt more than my arm at that point, though not as much as my ego. Luckily my flaming blush was witnessed only by cats who, let's admit, always think we're doing weird things anyway and aren't going to do more than cock their head sideways at you when you make a fallen spectacle of yourself. I disentangled my arm from the railing, the railing that certainly didn't stop my fall but, come to think of it, maybe did save my skull by grabbing my arm and keeping my head up just enough to not crack it a good one.

I got up as quick as I could, adrenaline jackhammering in my ears, and did a body check. Nothing seemed broken. Maybe the blush regulator, I think that was stuck in overdrive. I felt sore and silly, which is always surviveable. However, as the night wore on, I started to feel like I'd been in a car wreck. I hope you have never been in one, but if you have you know it's always worse the next day. And indeed, lo and behold, I couldnt even move my arm next morning. Well, I COULD. But I think if you're crying when you're trying to wash your hair, umm- don't wash your hair.

In fact, don't go to work right? Wrong. It's a mix of boss fear and "weakness" guilt that makes me hate to call in sick, so I had my Honey braid my hair for me (he did a better job than I do, too!) and even tie my shoes for me. Yes, somehow I thought once the 4 ibuprofin kicked in, I'd be able to power out a work day. At a job where I use my arms the ENTIRE eight hours. Lifting things. Dumbass. What exactly would it take? And more importantly, how could I resign AND call in sick? Off to work I went.

Oh yes, see, the mushrooms are illustrating how damp it is here.

Random Chance pushes Lady Luck aside

Driving to work when it's starting to get light out is so much nicer than driving to work before the sun even thinks about getting up. I really don't think it's fair that the sun gets to hit the snooze button longer than me. I don't care if life's not fair, it should be a rule- the sun gets up first! And yes, I'm still driving to work. See, I have sunday and monday off, and the monday that I wrote about the adventures of trestle walking and job resigning, fate stepped in. Wait, I don't believe in fate. Random chance stepped in.

Actually, random chance stepped in the previous friday, when I was heading to work, admiring the sunrise. The captivating beauty of the sky calmed me that morning, because I had originally intended FRIDAY to be the day I resigned. All my fears and agonizing and stressing and hemming and hawing over every tiny detail of the massive decision to start a new life had culminated in a night of insomnia. When I came out of the thick forest and into the dawn I felt suddenly at peace with my choice, I even felt a quiet strength. My doubt became hope.

And then my boss wasn't at work.

I had this letter all nicely printed up and folded into careful thirds (thats hard, ya know):

1-11-08
To my Bosslady, I am resigning. Please consider this my three week notice, february 1st being my last day. I feel lucky to have had this job and regret that I must leave. I wish you and everyone here the best- I will miss the comraderie.
Sincerely, Me

Okay, I don't know how "professional" that is or anything, but it took me five drafts to get that. And then, since she wasn't there I wasn't going to work with her until tuesday. So, fine, I'd have to rewrite it and change the dates and it would be a 2 and a half week notice instead of three, etc. So be it. Except then Mr. Random Chance doesn't just step in, (yes, I'm making it masculine since Luck is a Lady) no, Mr. RC YANKS the rug out from under me. Or, more literally, the stairs. The slick painted, wet all winter, no tread on them stairs. Ouch.

Forgive Me

O.. M... G.... I know, I am so bloody fired. Hmm, I wish that were literal. Ack, sooooo much has happened, so much to explain, but I can't do it without pretty pictures heehee! Let's just say that as much as we might think we can control our lives... we really can't. Love and misses, back soon, Hermitgrrl

I will miss...

My family, obviously. On New Year's Day I went for a long walk in the forest with my Dad and second Mom, PainterLady. There's this train trestle a good, I don't know, hundred or more feet over the river. It looked a thousand feet up. Those rails you see only extend about a tenth of the way out, and here at the beginning was the only place I could bring my camera up without feeling like my senses were too dangerously compromised. I don't know why PL didn't join me and Dad on the bridge with no rails or walkway that could have a train coming along at any second. I mean, the sudenly damp armpits, twisting stomach, and shallow breathing was so fun! Looking straight down past your feet through the ten inch gaps in the tiers was exhilarating. Well, they might have been only 3 inch gaps. Also, I suddenly remembered my adult onset fear of heights. And PainterLady was the only sane one in the group, opting out of the crazy idea to walk out on the trestle to check the view. It's hard to look at a view, anyway, when every nerve ending is screaming to get off the bridge you crazy woman! Still, I felt very alive and it was beautiful.

The trees. Back on safe ground, we followed the tracks for while to where I remembered seeing some albino redwoods. I am pretty sure that trees are my spirit animal. Um, spirit... life form. Unless it's cats. I wish I could take my cats out to the public parks like people get to do with their dogs. Dad and PainterLady and I were all pointing out things to each other because there was so much awesome nature too see. Mushrooms, mushrooms everywhere, and trees that captivate so fully I think I walked right into PainterLady one time because I was looking up and not where I was going.

The biodiversity. I can name hundreds of species in the vastly varying terrain we have around here, and not just that but I can telll you a little about each one's role and life, too. And yet I had never seen this lichen before. That's how rich the variety of flora and fauna is here. I will miss all of this.

I'm also excited beyond belief about the whole new life and world I'll get to explore in just a month. Tomorrow I hand in my letter of resignation. Wow, and I thought walking a train trestle was an adventure.

Pearl Onions

The seed packet said Vidalia Onions, but I think there was a mix up. Strangely enough, my potatoes also came out miniature. Honestly though, when I dumped out that 5 gallon bucket of wet soil, just the fact that potatoes ACTUALLY GREW was pretty darn satisfying. I think I ended up with over ten potatoes.... the biggest being about 3 inches long. Maybe it was two and a half. And the smallest... well, ahem... okay it was smaller than one of these onions. But I ate 'em anyway! Mashed 'em up for thanksgiving.

These little onions, on the other hand, were harder to work with. Nevermind that they were barely biger than peas, I was going to eat what I grew! The first one I managed to cut the root end off, but when I went to peel it it turned out that after the papery skin there were only three layers. Total. Still, I cut it lengthwise, and proceeded to do the same with 5 more ( I harvested a good twenty onions!). I then sauteed up the lil things in some butter, tossed in an egg, and voila, tasty. I tell you they may have been small, but they were potent!

The rest, I'm ashamed to admit, became windowsill decoration. A few got carried off by Maggie, who found their long dried stringy leaves doubled well as dental floss. She would carry them around by the very end of the leaf, her head held as high as possible and her nose nose almost skyward. The onion dangling at the end would swing just above the ground, and she'd strut around like this until she found a nice spot to lay down and clean her teeth. Then she'd bat around the little rolly polly veggie.

There were just two left on the windowsill when I was standing there chatting with my honey a few days ago. Feeling a little mischievous I picked one up and swung it around by it's tail, pretending I was gonna bonk someone on the noggin with it. Before it could even complete one swinging circuit, however, the delicate dried strand snapped and the baby onion went flying through the air like a comet, barely missing my honey's suddenly startled eyes. Two streaks of striped fur followed the accidental projectile to it's landing while I got taken with a fit of hyserical laughing.

"My whole onion flashed before my eye", he said, blinking his baby blues. If I could have caught my breath I might have told him good thing it wasn't a potato. So I guess they ought to mention on the seed packets; may be miniature version. And, caution: do not swing harvested product like a baton wielding parade prancing majorette. Or maybe just: Use eye protection when handling this product. You think?

Mushroom Hunting... with help

It's definitely mushroom season. The ground is permanantly soggy, even if it doesn't rain for weeks. The sun bareley peeks over the steep hill that makes the southern horizen at my house. Tucked in the deep fold of the ridges, there won't be enough sun to dry this place out for months.

Which is fine by me, because each season has it's beauty. Nevermind my chattering teeth and hunched shoulders. My numb fingers. My use of the oven as a second heater. Look at these flowering fungi that bloomed recently. Purty! Now, I've heard that there are some edible ones, expensive delicacies even, native to this area, but I'm allergic, so don't worry, I won't be sampling my finds. Not that I could tell which was which anyway.

It was four thirty and starting to get dark, so you can't make out these ones too well, but it was a veritable bouqet of black mushrooms. Ok, it was a pile. A rotting pile of mushrooms. But it was a BIG pile, so it earned a photo.

Maggie and Sebastian thought it called for some investigating as well. Maggie tested it's structural integrity while her sister gave it proboscal interogation. I may have made that word up. Or maybe not. One can't be expected to have a full mental catalog of every english word. Nor can one be expected not to improvise. Perhaps one should not refer to one's self as one. Nor use nor. Ok then, "Sebastian got her sniff on." By the look on her face my boouqet description was wrong on so many levels. Mmmmmm, rotting fungi.

By this time Pheonix's paws were cold, and my sprawling on the ground for photo ops provided the footwarming invitation he needed. Not that I REMEMBER saying, "Here Pheonix, hop on, I'll give you a piggy back ride home". He was impressively stubborn about my attempts to dislodge him. You can just make out his sillouhette as I angled and contorted my camera arm to capture photographic representation of the hierarchy in my home. Yes, I may have even felt honored that he leaped up on my back. Or maybe it was just a warm glow of love, yeah, that's it. I just realized that while I'm photo hunting, my kitties are lap hunting. Well, I'd say we all got what we wanted on that hike. Except perhaps the whiff of 'shroom scent for Sebastian.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

This is a pretty famous poem. It was read at my dad's wedding and it's about marrying for love, which I guess wasn't as common back in the 1800's when it was written.

I can never remember if the lake is pea green, or the boat is, or there's fog that's thick as pea soup (though I happen to have the poem right here and it's the boat).

And I happen to know what the Owl and Pussy-Cat's kids would have looked like.

Seems like the Owl had mostly recessive genes, but I'd say she has her Daddy's eyes. Who knew, and here I was thinking all along that Sebastian was just the product of some alley cats. Does this mean I have to call her feather face instead of fur face?