Crumbly

So I've been gone again for a while.
Not really gone, though wouldn't a trip to a lovely vacation spot be just the thing right now?
Anyway, though I've been gone from the internet, I've been quite present in my own life.The greatest mistress of my time lately has been my walking schedule. It's quite difficult to exercise with both EDS and fibromyalgia, but I always feel better when I do. The weather has been so beautiful here the past few weeks and my elliptical has been off-limits due to snake infestation so I decided to take to the trails.
Since I hit forty I have gained at least 30 pounds. Most of this came on gradually and in part can be attributed to hypothyroidism. While treatment of my hypothyroidism has been successful, I have never lost any weight.
A nasty confluence of peri-menopause, age, and illness have conspired against me.
That, and I like food too much to starve myself.
I remember reading that to be truly fit one should walk 5 miles a day.
Considering that most of the time I'm home I'm sitting down, my half hour on the elliptical got me nowhere near this mark.
It's taken me several weeks to do it, but most days I now walk 3-4 miles with several 5 mile days each week. I usually split my walking up into two separate excursions; typically a 3 mile walk in the morning and a 2 mile walk in the late afternoon.
It's quite a balancing act to manage this along with the fatigue and pain, but so far I've definitely been feeling better. I need to take a nap in the afternoon, but most days my energy level is a little higher.
I've always been an endorphin junkie, so my mood has been great as well.
One thing I've learned during this little exercise sojourn is to listen to my body, not my mind, when it comes to fatigue. The tendency is to do too much when feeling good, thereby setting oneself up for extreme fatigue the next day.
I do this, of course, but also have a tendency to push myself even when I'm not feeling good. One day last week, I was suffering from an extreme case of post exertional malaise (sounds made up but it's real folks!). All I yearned to do was go lie down, just for a bit.
Please.
Why didn't I?
Well, there was some cream in the fridge that needed to get used before it turned.
Yes, that's right.
Cream.
The real deal.
I told you I wasn't willing to "diet."
Plus, I originally bought it because my son's are coffee snobs who "prefer" cream to whole milk in their morning brew.
I had already walked, gotten supper ready for the oven, and cleaned up in the kitchen.
But there was that cream.
And I couldn't let it spoil.
Ah, I know!
I'll make a cake.
I paged through my ancient Betty Crocker 1950 cookbook - it's my cake bible - and found just what I was looking for: a sweet cream cake that uses cream in place of shortening.
Perfect!
That's when it all started to go wrong.
First, I couldn't find my cake pans. I searched every kitchen cupboard at least 3 times before calling my husband in exasperation.
Yes, I called him at work because I couldn't find my cake pans. Why would I interrupt him this way?
He was the last one I saw handling those cake pans.
And he knew it.
Unfortunately, he had no idea where they were. He remembered washing them, but not putting them away.
Okay, then, I'd use a 9 X13 pan.
Oops.
All my 9 X13 pans were still holding the billion burritos my husband made and froze. He hadn't quite gotten around to removing the burritos from the pans which were still in the freezer.
In the basement.
A whole flight of stairs away.
I was already exhausted, grunting with exertion with each cupboard door I opened and egg I cracked.
And our little snake problem had not yet been addressed.
A trip to the basement was out of the question.

Fortunately, it tasted delicious!

What to do?
I'd just have to use cake pans that were larger than those called for in the recipe.
A quick pause to do a little deep breathing helped me regain my walking-induced endorphin-fueled easy-going temperament.
Ahem.
So into the oven they went and I quickly mixed up some cinnamon sugar for a topping. I know, it's a little like having a Diet Coke with your cheeseburger and fries, but that's how my thinking trends.
I carefully set the timer a little early so the topping would bake in nicely.
I did get to sit and rest a bit while the cake was in the oven, but all too soon I had to leap up and sprinkle.
The timer is a relentless task mistress.
Apparently my oven bakes a little fast because that cinnamon sugar fairly bounced off the cake surface. I left them in for a couple extra minutes just to show my dominance.
By now, my fatigue was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but all I had left to do before resting was to remove the cakes from the pans to cool.
I waited about 5 minutes, knowing full well it wasn't long enough to ensure the cakes a clean escape, but all I could hear was the siren song of the horizontal position calling to me.
And sure enough, both layers stuck to the bottoms of the pans and sheets of semi-melded cinnamon sugar cascaded off the cakes and onto the island, the floor, and into my waiting dog's eager jowls.
I did utter a few choice words, but no tears for me - I knew just what I'd do to save the day and the dessert: a delicious vanilla filling would do the trick and bind together all those torn pieces and crumbs.
Of course, that meant another 1/2 hour making the vanilla cream. It's so easy it's fool proof, but it does take time.
And you can't make it lying down.

See that layer of yellow goo in the middle? That's vanilla cream.

So on I trudged, my never ending kitchen odyssey leading me further and further from peaceful surcease.
As my fatigue increases, not only do I move more slowly, but my brain works less efficiently. Tension builds in my neck and back as I slowly hunch over in true old-crone fashion.
Once the vanilla cream was cool, I placed all the cake and crumbs on a plate, dumped the cream filling in the middle, topped it with the least crumbly layer and there I had it: a vanilla cream filled mess.
Not to be deterred, I remembered our family motto, "Everything is better with chocolate." I whipped up a quick drizzly chocolate icing.
Emphasis on the drizzle.
In my hurry to finally end this torturous culinary adventure, I neglected to add enough powdered sugar.
Oops.
Most of the icing gently, yet purposefully, glided from cake top to counter top in one fell swoop. I hunched over the cake witchily spooning the chocolate ooze back on top. By now I was so hunched and in pain I was nearly half my size, yet I was finally done.
The result looked a bit like a kindergarten project, but tasted phenomenal, reminding me a bit of Boston Cream Pie.
My family was appropriately appreciative and the whole cake was gone in an evening. I managed to survive the ordeal with no long term side effects except a slightly bruised ego.
And best of all?
I had yet again passed the motherhood test: despite my pain and suffering my family would not go dessertless this evening!
Um, yeah.
Next time I think I'll just take a nap.

Proud

'Tis the season of graduations and new beginnings.
Friends and acquaintances share news of awards, internships, and scholarship choices.
And I am happy for them and for their children.
But while I am glad to share in others' joyful moments, I always bear a small burden of sorrow for my own children.
Sometimes it seems as if everyone else's children are carefree, while mine have never had a carefree moment.
Sometimes my heart is so swollen with sorrow over the pain my children have had to endure that it's all I can do not to crumble from the pain.
And yet, I know everyone has his own cross to bear.
This past year has tested my children like no other, and yet they have made it through the darkness ready and willing to care for and give to others.
My oldest son is 24 now, the same age I was when he was born.
He has truly been a gift to my husband and myself.
He's the child who made me a mother and showed me how deeply one can love another.
In his life so far, my son has interned in Egypt, spent a semester in South Africa, earned a full scholarship to Drake University, won the Crystal Award from The World Food Prize, interned at Pioneer Hi-Bred International, has two scientific papers accepted for publication from his undergraduate degree, and was instrumental in forming the Oxfam Iowa Action Corps.
My son's whole life is dedicated to improving the lives of others, yet throughout it all he has struggled with a nearly insurmountable burden of mental illness.
This year has been especially difficult for him, yet he has persevered as a student, a volunteer, a friend, a son, and a brother.
He finishes up his next to last semester of grad school this week and will soon leave for a four-week research trip to Uganda.
My second son, who has been a delight from the day he was born, will graduate with a degree in psychology this week. He showed me that love grows exponentially. He has struggled his whole life with almost incapacitating anxiety, and yet has somehow been able to soldier through it all. He amazes me with his fortitude and his desire to help others. He achieved his black belt in Tae Kwon Do at 13, worked summers and every weekend his last two years of high school, and in college gained an internship at a residential treatment facility for children and adolescents with behavioral and mental health issues. He continued to work there summers and every weekend during his last two years of college. He so impressed his supervisor that he was offered a full-time position upon graduation.
I can't begin to explain the difficulties these two young men whom I proudly call my sons have gone through. I have suffered from anxiety and depression my whole life and know how great is the temptation to give up and hide from the world. They have never given in to this impulse and have both decided to dedicate their professional lives to helping others.
While I wish my sons' lives had been more carefree and I would take away the burden of mental illness they must carry, I would not change who they are. My sons are warm, caring, funny, intelligent, giving young men.
They are a gift not only to myself and my family, but to the world.

Houdini

This is Lester.
He has no tail.
Actually, he has a wee nubbin of a tail, but he doesn't like to talk about that.
Lester has allergies that require him to take steroids.
While he has been able to avoid 'roid rage, he does acknowledge that his muscular physique and lightening fast speed have been drug-enhanced.
Lester loves snuggles, but only in private; open windows, dairy products, and perhaps most of all, boxes.
And when it comes to boxes, as far as Lester is concerned, he's one size fits all.
Watch as Lester demonstrates how to fit oneself neatly into a shoe box.

Precise ordinal orientation is essential to proper fit.

Next one must begin tuck and roll maneuvers. 

Achieving body-box synchrony often requires repositioning.

A final tuck and there you have the seemingly impossible: a 12 pound cat in a standard size shoe box.

Applause is not only unnecessary, but annoying.

Stuff of Nightmares

Well, just about the worst thing that could happen to me, did.
Now, I know that if this truly is the worst thing that could happen to me, then I have no right to complain.
But I'm going to anyway.
Since we moved to this house nearly 6 years ago, I have had many trying wildlife related experiences. First, there was the raccoon that got locked in our van.
In the heat.
With the windows closed.
Someone apparently forgot to close the van door and the raccoon, attracted by various crumbs and other food-related trash in said vehicle, decided to climb in for a closer look. Later that evening the open door was discovered and promptly shut and remained closed for more than 24 hours.
It was August in Iowa with a heat index pushing 100 degrees.
Somehow that raccoon managed to survive but the van didn't fair quite so well.
In his desperate bid to escape, the coon managed to cause more than $600 of damage to the inside of the van.
On a lighter note, the car repairmen I called got a good chuckle out of the story.
Then there were the bats.
Yes, we had bats in our attic.
Not an uncommon occurrence for old houses, I'm sure.
But our major renovations left one whole side of our house open just enough for bats to sneak in.
And sneak in they did.
At least 1/2 dozen bats found their way in through the work area, gaps in screens, etc.
I respect bats and actually think some are rather cute, but I don't want them in my house.
Estimates to bat-proof our attic ran close to $2000, so we decided to cope.
Actually, my husband decided we could cope. I think I cried.
It wasn't until the next summer when my oldest son, who sleeps in the renovated attic, came down for breakfast with a bat clinging to his sock that we knew we had to do something.
So while my son got rabies shots, the bats were relocated (humanely) and our house is now supposedly bat-proof, though the company gave no guarantees.
On quiet nights we can here bats clicking as they fly through our yard on their nightly hunts.
Add to these wildlife episodes a mouse invasion, house centipedes in the basement, cicada-killer wasps in the yard, a sick raccoon stumbling through the flower beds, and squirrels chewing on our wooden porch posts and you'll see that I've had a lot to deal with.
As someone whose recurring childhood nightmare involved awakening with my bed surrounded by worms and insects, I think you'll see why what happened next took to me the brink.
I wrote a couple weeks ago about the garter snake hatchery along the foundation of the house. I also expounded upon my unfounded yet oh-so-real fear of snakes.
I was okay with allowing the snakes to remain in my yard, glad they have a safe place to grow and breed.
Until last weekend.
A nightmare come true.

My daughters were up late and as Melissa took the garbage out she encountered my worst fear, the phantom of my dreams, a flesh-and-blood snake coiled on the landing to the basement.
It's taken me 5 days to be able to even write about this. I haven't even looked at the photos yet.
Yes, my little girl who screams at the sight of a house centipede and my other little girl who just last week encountered a spider so big she had to call her dad down to squish it, took photographs of the snake IN THE HOUSE.
And thank goodness they're the ones who found it and not me.
Yes, I'm glad my daughters had the snake encounter as for some reason neither one is afraid of snakes. At all.
Mutants.
Apparently, and I only know this second-hand from reading the girls did, snakes don't just nest in under the cracked foundations of houses but often LIVE IN THE WALLS.
Which is where this one escaped - into a hole that led under the trim around the door.

I didn't handle the news well when they told me the next morning. In fact, I haven't ventured down the basement stairs or out the back door without someone making sure it's snake-free since then. The other day no one else was home and I needed something from the basement. So I made my kitten go first - yes, that's right, my little 8-month-old kitten was my snake protector.
I'm am so completely freaked out by this I can't even begin to describe the depths of my horror and revulsion. My daughter was afraid to tell me for fear I would call someone to exterminate them.
But I'm not that kind of a gal.
I don't want the snakes dead. I just want them out of my house!
I've been waiting since then for my husband to implement his snake removal and snake-proofing plan. I don't think he really understands how difficult this is for me since it's been 5 DAYS since the sighting and he hasn't yet "gathered his supplies."
If we weren't on such a tight budget, I would have called a critter catcher by now. I think I can make it a few more days until the weekend, but if the situation isn't resolved by then, I'll be forced to take action.
I'll make that call to a professional snake wrangler and let my husband fill in the cracks.
I'm not sure how long it will take me to recover from this one.
I've finally stopped periodically rocking back and forth and crying and I've been keeping the nightmares at bay.
Who needs to dream of snakes when you've got a whole nest of them in your house?
P.S. When I stop hyperventilating I'll add some photos to this post.

Veggies

We've been enjoying radishes from our garden all this week.

The lettuces, spinach, and arugula have a ways to go yet.


So today we walked to the opening day of the Downtown Des Moines Farmer's Market. It took us about 40 minutes to walk there and a little longer to get home.

I picked up several nice bunches of lettuce for $1 a bag, some fresh mint for tabouli, greenhouse grown tomatoes, and some of the first strawberries of the season.

We ate breakfast at a neat little coffee shop, too. A fun treat since we've been keeping tight reins on our spending.

Our carrots are doing well, though it will be quite a while before they're ready to harvest.

The rest of the garden is going in today, but we plan to continue to frequent farmer's markets throughout the summer and fall.
It felt really good to walk there and back (though the walk there felt much better than the walk home!)

Fresh strawberries and cream are on tonight's dessert menu for sure.

Thankfulness

I've been a little down-in-the-dumps today.
You know, just generally feeling sorry for myself.
Focusing on the negative.
Not that this is unusual for me, as I definitely have the dominant version of the cynicism gene.
I didn't wake up feeling glum, but something happened this morning that set the tone for the whole day.
It was horrible and I'm not yet ready to write about it (don't worry - no one is hurt or anything).
But it was the straw the broke the proverbial camel's back.
Or should that be the "proverbial straw" or, for that matter, the camel's "proverbial back?"
But I digress.
The point is that I've not been the happiest of campers today, but looking at these pictures sort of helped me change my focus.

First, that gorgeous pitcher? We bought it at a potter's shop in Arkansas several years ago on a family trip to visit my mom. Seeing it conjures up happy memories of the trip, my mom, my family, and that I just plain love this pitcher.
And I really love the sunny shade of yellow we painted our kitchen.
The tall red cupboard is something that really makes me happy. It may not be as functional as a modern pantry cupboard, but it houses dishes and small appliances just fine and it's red; a color that I never much cared for but that I have grown to appreciate in the past 5 years or so. Plus, it's old, and I love old things. I find great joy in using an old cupboard that graced other kitchens long passed.
Then of course there's the brick behind the cupboard. This brick wall was discovered when we remodeled our kitchen upon moving into this old house nearly 6 years ago. It had long been covered up by drywall. When the workman found it and called me in to see it I was ecstatic! This was behind the original cookstove in my 1904 house! I love how it the exposed brick adds a touch of primitiveness to my kitchen.
To the right of the cupboard is my funky repurposed hanger-jobber (to use the technical term). You can't really see it, but it's just an old board with three different antique doorknobs attached as hangers. I've had this for years and was delighted to find a good use for it as my apron-hanger.
Then of course there are my aprons. I think I could become a collector of aprons, though I haven't allowed myself the luxury. I like full-bib aprons and wear them often, though usually not until I've already spilled something on myself!
Above this are some old advertisements for kitchen goods. I like how everything fits in.
To the left of the cupboard are clay pieces my daughters made as little girls at our art center. Every time I look at them I remember my little girls. I think these might have been Mother's Day gifts.

Last, but definitely not least, are the flowers themselves.
Of course they are pretty and I like having bouquets in the house.
But what I'm most thankful for is the daughter who picked them for me, arranged them in a favorite pitcher, and took pictures of them.
So, even though it's easy to focus on the bad and the ugly, it sure is outweighed by the good.
I just have to take time to see it all around me.

Sleuth

Housework is never done.
It can be frustrating to finish a morning of cleaning only to find it mostly undone as soon as you turn around.
It's usually fairly easy to find on whom to pin the blame; the cache of dirty dishes in a teenager's room, briefcase and shoes discarded in the doorway, or craft projects left out on the dining room table.
But sometimes it takes a little bit of sleuthing to find the culprits.
The other day my newly-cleaned bathroom was trashed but who was responsible?

Let's see: Muddy paw prints in the bathtub...








Someone has been playing in the dirt again.

A quick leap from the tub to the top of the toilet...










and a tiptoe around the edge of the shower...

A stroll through the litter box makes a change in paw prints...


Then out into the hall...










and down the stairs...















 To find the culprits...

fast asleep.