tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55221199644023468912024-03-14T08:51:06.151-04:00(in progress)Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.comBlogger318125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-41384276285898921362019-08-29T10:01:00.004-04:002019-08-29T10:01:44.587-04:00Anyone still here?I'm blogging again! I'd love it if you'd stop by and say hello:<br />
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<a href="https://barefootcountrykids.wordpress.com/">https://barefootcountrykids.wordpress.com/</a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-23585382385791727582011-02-23T16:27:00.001-05:002011-02-23T16:31:16.456-05:00We'll see, I guessOn the radio they were talking about kids and weight and body image and eating habits and all the rest, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Why is it such a big deal? Am I really that naïve? Clueless? Stupid?<br />
<br />
I just can’t understand why it’s so hard. And I’m a picky eater! I would think of anyone out there, I’d be in the position to judge. Which is not to say pass judgment, but rather I’m in the position to say if it’s a big deal or not.<br />
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I’m picturing my hypothetical, unborn and un-thought-of yet child. Or children, I suppose. But in my head I think of her as Gidgit and there’s just the one. As a side note, I think it’s probably pertinent to say that know the source of that particular nickname. Well, okay wait. I’m not completely uncultured. I know Gidgit was one of Sally Fields’ breakout roles way back when, so technically I know two sources. But that’s not what I think of first when I think of the name <em>Gidgit</em>.<br />
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What I remember is much further down on the culture scale. It’s from an episode of <em>Roseanne</em>. Remember when Jackie tells her mother that she’s pregnant? It’s supposed to be this big shock, and as part of the whole “I’m pregnant” hurrah, she continues by saying, “And if it’s a girl, I’m going to name her Gidgit.”<br />
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Of course, in the episode it was funny because the mom already found out, and Jackie was disappointed because her surprise was spoiled, but for some reason that name stuck in my head as generic-unborn-baby-girl-name. And I’ve latched onto it because it provides a way to refer to my someday-child by a name instead of “It.”<br />
<br />
At any rate, I just don’t think it’s going to be <em>that</em> hard when it’s my turn to take responsibility for nourishing another human being. On the radio, the caller lamented over her own problems with body image growing up. She admitted that it made her hesitant to talk to her daughter about the issues in case she (the mother) said something that was unintentionally tainted by her own experiences.<br />
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Is it my security in my own body that makes me so self-assured?<br />
<br />
It could be, but I think not. I <em>am</em>—for the most part—relatively secure, and have been for the whole of my life. But I just don’t think my security is the reason behind my certainty.<br />
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I think it has to do with my journey along the road of pickiness. I grew up an extremely picky eater, continue to be very selective in my eating to this day—to the point that I annoy myself, truth be known—and my dietary choices have been much scrutinized for the entire 32 years of my existence.<br />
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There is, to put it bluntly, an implausible fascination with any food item that does or doesn’t pass my lips. Not just a fascination, but also a running commentary to the world at large by anyone in my general proximity. “She’s eating carrots!” “Noodles again!” “Mmmm, mashed potatoes!” Healthy, frozen, unhealthy, canned, preservative-full and -free. . . it doesn’t matter. Nothing gets by the masses.<br />
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I’ve stopped trying to respond to this confounding dialogue. There really isn’t an appropriate response, and the inappropriate ones just leave me feeling like a jerk. So I smile at their keen observation and continue my meal while doing my best to avoid eye contact.<br />
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But it’s been this journey that has lead me to a point today in which I feel utterly secure in my original statement that it just isn’t that big a deal. I am already assuming that Gidgit will be picky, at least to a point, but I’m also already planning how to handle it. I’m making plans based on my experience and what I wish could have happened.<br />
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First and foremost: things would have gone a whole lot easier growing up if we could have pinpointed a <em>conceptual</em> theme to my pickiness. Two themes that go hand-in-hand, actually: I’m a purist. Texture matters.<br />
<br />
I’m a purist. I like foods in their natural state (or, in the case of veggies, steamed with little to no sauce or garnishing). I <em>love</em> vegetables. I also like a lot of meats, but if protein weren’t an issue I could probably live as a vegetarian and be perfectly happy. As long as being a vegetarian meant getting to have Fillet Mignon every blue moon. Ha.<br />
<br />
I do love vegetables, a pretty unusual variety for a “picky person,” but I don’t like them prepared all different ways. I could probably eat steamed broccoli until I explode, but don’t try serving me broccoli with bread crumbs or inside a breakfast burrito or . . . well, maybe broccoli isn’t the best example. I’m drawing a blank on different ways to serve it. But still, you can catch my drift. I can’t even count the number of times I heard this:<br />
<br />
“But you like this! It has _____ (e.g., broccoli) in it!”<br />
<br />
To which my only response is: “So?”<br />
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I don’t care that I like broccoli, or green beans, or corn, or peas . . . whatever. Don’t mix them in anything!<br />
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Conceptually: I like my foods pure. By themselves. Not mixed together. Even, perhaps especially, when it comes to foods I enjoy (like all of the above listed vegetables). That doesn’t mean they go together. Vegetables and <em>other</em> kinds of foods I like don’t usually go together either. It is <em>never</em> okay to mix corn and mashed potatoes, by the way.<br />
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This concept has been a part of me longer than I can remember. It is as much me as my brown hair and stubborn charm. Identifying it and <em>accepting</em> it would have avoided many a dinner fight, subsequent “leave the kid at the table until they take one bite—they’ll crack eventually,” and ultimate conclusion, “Sigh. Go ahead and go to bed, I guess.” Stubborn to a fault, I also had the patience of Job. “Just take one bite” never worked. Not even once.<br />
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And I think my knowledge about this, and my other conceptual issues, will only help me with Gidgit. Because wouldn’t it have been great to have been encouraged to verbalize why I didn’t like something?<br />
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That isn’t a reproach against my parents. I’m just saying: wouldn’t life have been much better if we hadn’t been fighting at the dinner table so much?! Imagine the peace if we’d just figured out the theory behind my so-called bizarre pickiness. After so many years of frustration (“What? I thought you liked _____?”)(because no one could keep my eating likes and dislikes straight—it just seemed completely random), I would hope I have at least one tidbit of knowledge to pass along to Gidgit.<br />
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The tidbit is in the why. I now know there are many types of pickiness out there. Taste. Texture. Smell. Principle (I don’t eat veal on principle; I’m sure the taste is excellent, but I can not condone the treatment of the calves).<br />
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In the house I grew up in, the why didn’t matter. Why I didn’t like something was irrelevant. Someone (usually my mother) had prepared a meal, “It’s not poison!” and “There’s nothing wrong with it!”, so there was no reason why I <em>couldn’t</em> eat it.<br />
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That’s true. There was no reason why the food was <em>bad</em>. Except that I was morally against the concept of it. Stew. Casserole. <em>Chunks</em>. In my mind, I knew that was the problem, but we didn’t talk about it. You know. We didn’t talk about it <em>rationally</em>.<br />
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I’m ready to not take personal offense to Gidgit’s reasoning <em>why</em>. I’m ready for Gidgit to change her mind, and like (or not) something <em>now</em> that she did (or didn’t) like <em>then</em>. I feel like I've always been the same, but I know it <em>seemed </em>that I changed my mind at random, and that was the most galling part to my parents. Unfortunately, I think it was just too complicated to understand in the hectic world of "Well, this is what's for dinner, so deal with it."<br />
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I believe it’s simply a matter of options. That’s what “they” say too . . . whoever “they” are. But <em>they</em> say that you should give your child a choice so they can feel in control. I like that idea. But I think it will be a matter of art and paying attention and plain blind luck when it comes to choosing which options to provide. Both should be healthy, but they need to be different enough to start learning concepts even when Gidgit is too little for helpful verbalization (“Eww, yucky!” really isn’t helpful).<br />
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So—always only giving healthy options—why would someone give two options that are both conceptually the same—perhaps prepared meals he or she is morally against? Between sewage and blended sewage . . . what would <em>you</em> choose? If Gidgit smells sewage when served a plate of asparagus, well my response is that an adult can lead a healthy life without ever having eaten asparagus. If it’s that big of a deal, then she doesn’t have to have it. And I certainly won't expect her to eat a dish that <em>includes </em>asparagus, if asparagus is the concept she's against.<br />
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Because in my house it will never be a sin to choose broccoli over asparagus, to choose asparagus over cauliflower, to want cabbage instead of green pepper, or to want green pepper instead of cucumber. FYI: I love all of those vegetables. But I don’t like cauliflower raw and I do like green pepper raw or sautéed. I detest cabbage raw, love it cooked. So giving me a choice between raw cabbage and sautéed green pepper . . . it’s not really a choice. But giving me a choice between sautéed green pepper and a bag of Doritos . . . I can tell you that now in my 30s I pick the healthy one, but I really couldn’t tell you what I would have chosen as a teenager.<br />
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What I can tell you is that I know at that time I couldn’t be trusted to make the right choice. When presented with options, and if the options include junk, I’d wager most teenagers and younger would go for the sugar, the salt, the preservatives. Like moth to a flame, they’re magnetically drawn to them.<br />
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So, ding ding ding! This is why I think the radio caller was making an issue where there wasn’t one. Why not just remove the temptation? No junk food. Is it that hard to only present healthy breakfast options? Plain wheat flakes or cereal with almond and fruit chunks? With or without milk. Yogurt on the side, fruit on the side, vegetable on the side (I guess, although personally I think that’s weird). Glass of milk, glass of O.J., class of cranberry juice. “On the side” is a big deal to me because I have such an aversion to anything mixed. Which is to say, some foods <em>can</em> be mixed, some absolutely can <em>not</em>. I <em>always </em>want to do it myself.<br />
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Back to the weird. That’s important too. Who cares if it’s weird to eat sliced cucumber in the morning with breakfast (on the side)? What does it matter? I’ll never forget one of the first dinners I made for my husband while we were dating: spaghetti with Ragu sauce, and for a vegetable—obviously on the side—I chose my favorite: broccoli. It sounded good that night, and didn’t seem weird to me, but I remember he thought it was about the oddest combination I could have come up with. Again, I’ve got to come back with: what difference does it make? Broccoli is a healthy vegetable. Just because Marie Callender doesn’t pair a spaghetti meal with broccoli for a vegetable doesn’t make it <em>wrong</em>. Good heavens!<br />
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I still don't know if I'm naïve, clueless, or stupid. Perhaps all three, perhaps none. I certainly hope Gidgit doesn't embarrass me by going into a detailed account of why she won't eat something when we're guests at someone's house.<br />
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Not to say I won't be secretly proud of her expansive vocabulary and undoubtedly witty repartee, of course.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-29051771878271430312011-01-18T08:29:00.003-05:002011-01-18T08:35:59.709-05:00Centerpiece<div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_2ueU2KR3EDg/TTWV04FkHuI/AAAAAAAABvM/yuDr0BE0_sY/1295357399122.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_2ueU2KR3EDg/TTWV04FkHuI/AAAAAAAABvM/yuDr0BE0_sY/s400/1295357399122.jpeg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Bubba always gets these bright ideas ... I'm not quite sure what he thinks sometimes! </div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-63950115575256215052011-01-11T12:12:00.002-05:002011-01-12T11:22:23.627-05:00My fourth unstickerYeah, so these aren't happening every day, but with this one I can already tell I'm inspired to make it into a longer piece. I think this works well on it's own, but I am going to keep it going and see where it ends up.<br />
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<strong><u>Unsticker Four</u></strong>: "On a hot summer’s day, you discover a friend decorating a Christmas tree in their living room. The friend turns to you and asks, “Did you bring it?”+<br />
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Read it here: <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/">http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/</a>.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-37153068959940264582011-01-05T13:24:00.002-05:002011-01-10T11:52:57.119-05:00Day 3 of the treadmillMy husband and I have been wanting and wishing for a treadmill for about two years, and last week we finally broke down, picked one out, and--lo and behold--purchased it!<br />
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Today is Day Three of our new world of working out in the comfort of our own home, and also the third day in a row of getting up before 6:00 AM <em>without wanting to die</em>. I would lke to thank Steve Pavlina (whoever the hell he is) and his <em>awesome</em> post "<a href="http://www.stevepavlina.com/blog/2006/04/how-to-get-up-right-away-when-your-alarm-goes-off/">How To Get Up Right Away When Your Alarm Goes Off</a>." <br />
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All I can say is: bravo.<br />
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I wouldn't say I'm an <a href="http://www.stevepavlina.com/blog/2005/05/how-to-become-an-early-riser/">Early Riser</a> yet, but I am--shockingly--at least on the right path. Someday I might even break free from the relentless and interminable steel <em>I'm a night owl and that's all there is to it</em> trap.<br />
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In the three days since we've had the treadmill (I'm only counting from Monday even though the treadmill was delivered last week. It was a busy holiday weekend and I didn't start using it in ernest until this past Monday), I have arisen by 5:55 AM each morning, worked out for 25 to 30 minutes, and made it to work, showered, on time (relatively speaking). My goal wake up time is 5:30 AM, but didn't want to completely set myself up for failure, so I'm going to be sticking to 5:50 for a while.<br />
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Wish me luck!!<br />
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And, on a completely unrelated note:<br />
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<strong><u>Unsticker Three:</u></strong> "Write about a nighttime walk through the woods. What happens? Who/what do you meet? What is the weather like? What sounds can you hear? Does anyone/anything see you?"<br />
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Read it here: <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/">http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/</a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-47392946187285854232010-12-22T14:08:00.000-05:002010-12-22T14:08:00.066-05:00Georgie of the tornados<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQsVRcCnbdsMk7kULWoS035jS1NUp0q4XKDqNkR-CBZ-XxrpgMSwCH9IOl4RLoXOPhKHitXjpK_8z4jkpGXBfyIKNp5byC6PIl_5lVAn9WCC5rDNPgh2R73mudaOxreq9cLRSGGfQ9rbi/s1600/Georgie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQsVRcCnbdsMk7kULWoS035jS1NUp0q4XKDqNkR-CBZ-XxrpgMSwCH9IOl4RLoXOPhKHitXjpK_8z4jkpGXBfyIKNp5byC6PIl_5lVAn9WCC5rDNPgh2R73mudaOxreq9cLRSGGfQ9rbi/s400/Georgie2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>'Nuff said.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-28463889541713945022010-12-14T11:00:00.000-05:002010-12-14T11:12:28.999-05:00Malabar Farm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioff9l1d4QgMNftXcS-qEmE5ujTMv0Do6TR5a3fLYLZmUNXzpT2GXSityEo1S-bZn-tO8ceDt0B7KhmCyLjE9PN2xCBXTFVDKNHLNU8X0Z6H3AcB6ELggr-Q4fyxCMP8PqEBla-lZSUnGS/s1600-h/IMG00626-769843.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447102451646419682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioff9l1d4QgMNftXcS-qEmE5ujTMv0Do6TR5a3fLYLZmUNXzpT2GXSityEo1S-bZn-tO8ceDt0B7KhmCyLjE9PN2xCBXTFVDKNHLNU8X0Z6H3AcB6ELggr-Q4fyxCMP8PqEBla-lZSUnGS/s400/IMG00626-769843.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<em>March 7, 2010: Malabar Farm</em></div><div class="mobile-photo"><br />
</div><div class="mobile-photo">I forgot to post this!! I found it in my drafts. This was from last March.</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-3851674090890739032010-12-08T14:43:00.000-05:002010-12-08T14:43:10.131-05:00ConfessionAlthough I'm not ready to change the name of <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/">my project</a>, I'm getting a sinking feeling that I bit off more than I can chew. I love the idea, but I'm just not able to write every day, nor do I think anyone else would have the time and energy for the scale that I'm envisioning.<br />
<br />
<em>C'est la vie</em>, right?<br />
<br />
So, we're going to see how far I get and how frequently I end up posting (these first two are almost a week apart) and then I'll either adjust from there, or just keep plugging away stubbornly.<br />
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The stubbornness is genetic.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<strong><u>Unsticker Two</u></strong>: A person shopping the mall stopped suddenly and gasped, “Impossible! The fortuneteller promised me . . . ” What? Finish the story.+<br />
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Read it here: <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/">http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/</a><br />
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+Contributed by Rick O'Donnell.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-75959360227791146452010-12-07T09:39:00.000-05:002010-12-07T09:39:15.414-05:00Quote Elizabeth EdwardsI don't follow politics and didn't really know who she is before reading this, but I read this in a <a href="http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2010/12/06/elizabeth-edwards-stops-cancer-treatment-releases-statement/?hpt=T2">CNN article</a> about her failed cancer treatments, and it really struck a chord with me:<br />
<br />
"You all know that I have been sustained throughout my life by three saving graces – my family, my friends, and a faith in the power of resilience and hope. These graces have carried me through difficult times and they have brought more joy to the good times than I ever could have imagined. The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered. We know that. And, yes, there are certainly times when we aren't able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It's called being human.<br />
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"But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful. It isn't possible to put into words the love and gratitude I feel to everyone who has and continues to support and inspire me every day. To you I simply say: you know." (Elizabeth Edwards)Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-35744004839450106572010-12-02T12:12:00.000-05:002010-12-02T12:12:35.507-05:00Back to the drawing boardI've redesigned my blog (again) and I lit a new fire under my tail about my project of <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/">366 Unstickers</a>. I was--ahem--stuck about which direction I wanted to go with the project, and so just had let it sit on the back burner for a while.<br />
<br />
Well, it's time to clean the kitchen, pull out the rubber gloves and the SOS pads, and scrub off the stove. Or something like that.<br />
<br />
What am I waiting for, right?<br />
<br />
So, here I go, off to the moss, hit the stone rolling, the racing rock gathers no ground. Time to up it mix. You know, right? Git 'er dun.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">***</div><br />
<strong><u>Unsticker One</u></strong>: <em>My day started out with a cockroach and went downhill from there . . .</em><br />
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Read it: <a href="http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/2010/12/one.html">http://366unstickers.blogspot.com/2010/12/one.html</a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-20212230528152349762010-11-19T13:00:00.000-05:002010-11-19T13:00:23.925-05:00South of the border?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZacMg6jcojUZDeumJkZM9gWDcv_hCfdo6_0fPs2GPm-YpLdFlyokDJV4mzHo-xNPpHXLeVeW1PSEcMcXsMBKbaEwdsHwPxoYNnc_jGeN29f32wKGPcMC0M4z2eI_XQijPDGHTmSWHRU4u/s1600/2010-11-14_23-12-32_960-753979.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="225" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541321089558455762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZacMg6jcojUZDeumJkZM9gWDcv_hCfdo6_0fPs2GPm-YpLdFlyokDJV4mzHo-xNPpHXLeVeW1PSEcMcXsMBKbaEwdsHwPxoYNnc_jGeN29f32wKGPcMC0M4z2eI_XQijPDGHTmSWHRU4u/s400/2010-11-14_23-12-32_960-753979.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Georgie the Burrito Baby.<br />
Also known as our little Mexican Jumping Bean.<br />
I think in another life he lived in Mexico.</span></em></div><div class="mobile-photo"></div><br />
When I look at this picture, I can not help but think about flying on a plane. Or, I suppose I should say, falling asleep when I'm flying on the plane. You know that feeling when you wake up suddenly and can feel that your mouth is hanging open? And you can't help but wonder:<br />
<br />
Was I snoring?<br />
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I really couldn't tell you if Georgie worries about things like that, but judging from his relaxed demeanor, I'd guess not. In fact, it does not look to me that he has a care in the world.<br />
<br />
As it should be.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-28445587333628605572010-10-13T09:43:00.000-04:002010-10-13T09:43:49.319-04:00Louisa May Alcott<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNdl-8sIRx7z09EO-nU5YE0T9yyAbzjbN5nm3MfoL8AUP1DU4v556aodfS5VPZC0h0hMlJo8TxDMzRmJpXW0hhYQHBttZ-cwZx0DZfQG3_ByJxGYaMt3Ga7bBaz3nJIV8ZzVo9vtsp3wb/s1600/2010-10-04_18-13-18_171-775876.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="225" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527524025332308914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuNdl-8sIRx7z09EO-nU5YE0T9yyAbzjbN5nm3MfoL8AUP1DU4v556aodfS5VPZC0h0hMlJo8TxDMzRmJpXW0hhYQHBttZ-cwZx0DZfQG3_ByJxGYaMt3Ga7bBaz3nJIV8ZzVo9vtsp3wb/s400/2010-10-04_18-13-18_171-775876.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="mobile-photo"></div><br />
"Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them, and try to follow where they lead."<br />
<em>Louisa May Alcott</em>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-9757401523214283322010-10-08T09:44:00.000-04:002010-10-08T09:44:14.053-04:00All for a pair of socks<em>You know the insurance companies have finally gone too far when . . . </em><br />
<br />
I have had two surgeries in the past 10 years to remove <a href="http://kate4148.blogspot.com/search/label/Surgery">varicose veins</a> (I wouldn't say the pictures are "gross," or that you're in need of parental supervision to view them, but they do show the extensive bruising on my legs post-surgery, so they're not exactly "pretty" either). I'm only 31, but both surgeons told me that wearing compression socks will help prevent more varicose veins in the future. Therefore: I do not care if it's nerdy, I wear my compression socks nearly every day.<br />
<br />
If you were brave enough to look at the photos, I'm sure you're nodding your head in agreement right about now that you'd do the same. Taking out the veins was <em>awful</em>!<br />
<br />
In defense of the socks, however, I do feel it is valid to point out that the "nerdiness" factor has almost disappeared in the last few years, most especially for women. Compression socks look like the pantyhose or dress socks that you'd wear with slacks.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo. The most recent surgery was in January 2009, close to 2 years ago. After the surgery, the doctor had to <em>write me a prescription </em>to get compression socks.<br />
<br />
That's right, I had to take a <em>prescription</em> into the medical supply store in order to purchase a pair of <em>socks</em>. I thought it was ridiculous, especially when I had to pay $50 for them and my insurance didn't cover any of it, but I decided there was no point in complaining if it's The Way of the World. I made a conscious effort to go with the flow. I had 2 other pairs of inferior compression socks (stretched slightly from their many washings, but still offering at least some support) so I felt no need to spend another $50 on a backup pair.<br />
<br />
Until, darn it all, about 2 months ago I finally popped a hole in my good pair. My older, backup pair also gave up the ghost, right around the same time. And herein lies the point of my whole story:<br />
<br />
Prescriptions are only good for a year. Even if I'd managed to keep track of my original prescription (I hadn't), it would have been worthless. I knew this, but I wanted another friggin' pair of socks.<br />
<br />
Hello, rigor morale!<br />
<br />
I figured I'd start with the surgeon. I called his office and asked to have a new prescription mailed to me. Apparently I'm the only patient in the entire vascular surgeon's practice that wears compression socks and has asked for a new prescription, because the gal that answered the phone was so confused she didn't even know where to start.<br />
<br />
Really? I'm the only one? <em>Not one single patient </em>in the entire practice has ever asked for a prescription?<br />
<br />
Finally she went to my chart and when she came back on the line, she explained to me (in tones that indicated she thought<em> I </em>was the idiot in this situation)(I won't disagree; who else but me would try to get their ducks in a row <em>beforehand</em>?) she explained to me that the doctor had written down that I needed "surgical stockings" and there is no prescription required for those.<br />
<br />
I can just go to any drug store and pick them up.<br />
<br />
Sigh. Yes, he told me to get surgical stockings <em>when my legs were still swollen and sensitive from the surgery and I couldn't even put on the compression socks</em>. You know, because I'd just had surgery. Hence the name <em>surgical stockings</em>. But, now I've recovered from the surgery, and now I want <em>compression </em>socks.<br />
<br />
Silence on the other end of the line.<br />
<br />
"Well, he didn't put the prescription in your chart." What kind of bogus doctor's office <em>is </em>this? I said, "Well, can he just write me a new one and then can that be mailed to me?" Was that not my original question?<br />
<br />
Apparently it only just started to sink in because she finally told me, some 10 minutes into the conversation, that the doctor was not in the office and they didn't know if he would be coming back at all. WHAT?!<br />
<br />
Skip to the end of a <em>very </em>frustrating call: the receptionist recommended that I go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have <em>them </em>fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there. I failed to see how this really solved my problem, as with the doctor out of the office and no one covering for him, wouldn't I just end up in the store, standing by the fax machine and holding a pair of socks that no one will let me buy, while we all wait for the doctor's signature to magically get faxed back? And since he <em>wasn't in the office and may not be returning</em>, as she so cryptically repeated over and over, is it that far of a stretch to think that I'd be standing by that fax machine for a <em>really </em>long time?<br />
<br />
I asked the receptionist if it would matter that he wasn't in the office.<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
She <em>repeated--verbatim--what she had just told me.</em> She said I should go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have <em>them </em>fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there.<br />
<br />
Now I was silent. Was she kidding? I explained that I understood that, but since the doctor wasn't in would they be able to send anything back without his approval.<br />
<br />
She started getting testy. She said I should go back to the store where I purchased the compression socks and have <em>them </em>fax the prescription, and they (the doctor's office) would take care of it from there.<br />
<br />
I started speaking very slowly and reworded my question <em>again</em>. If there's no physician in the office, am I going to be standing at the store and not able to purchase my socks?<br />
<br />
I'm sure you're smarter than I and can guess what her reply was. You got it! Exactly the same thing. I gave up and decided to go to the darn store and see what happened. I think my blood pressure rose 30 points during the course of that phone call.<br />
<br />
All for a pair of socks.<br />
<br />
All because insurance companies have too much clout and no one is willing to defy them. WHO CARES?! I wanted to scream. They're <em>socks</em>. For crying out loud, do they think I'm going to be selling them on the street?<br />
<br />
Turns out the store <em>did </em>have record of my original purchase (but no prescription on file, I knew it!) and if they aren't billing any insurance then I can buy the socks without a prescription in hand. The store still contacts the vascular surgeon's office to request a current prescription, but they didn't make me wait . . . I just bought the socks and left.<br />
<br />
I'm sure the doctor's office took care of everything promptly.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-46045694904341965792010-10-08T08:50:00.000-04:002010-10-08T09:59:58.936-04:00Gazelle's story<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaR8VlOrnKNvgxk2F4ztVFC0sXsa4UC1c7SvJx2oo3HQbNWem6Y7Xc3ZNBiYdrqXDEhMnTPYB5aquh71n92UfpJSK_Z3b3Cj4li9GBGcocE0iJ6Lm3y_xYamoZyeYdRHeLRhcUsz-H2Yc2/s1600-h/Gazelle5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" height="292" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351618692783562466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaR8VlOrnKNvgxk2F4ztVFC0sXsa4UC1c7SvJx2oo3HQbNWem6Y7Xc3ZNBiYdrqXDEhMnTPYB5aquh71n92UfpJSK_Z3b3Cj4li9GBGcocE0iJ6Lm3y_xYamoZyeYdRHeLRhcUsz-H2Yc2/s400/Gazelle5.jpg" style="display: block; height: 292px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="400" /></a><em><span style="font-size: 78%;">Washington County Fair - I'd guess 1995 or so, but I'm not certain.</span></em></div>Birthday: May 21, 1983<br />
Birthplace: Oregon<br />
<br />
Gazelle has been my friend and pet since about 1992. She was my 4-H project horse until I graduated from high school in 1997, and she has competed at county and state fairs in Oregon. Note the picture above.<br />
<br />
At some point before I graduated from high school, we discovered that Gazelle had a cataract in her left eye, but our vet did not recommend any aggressive treatment at that time. He explained that success rate of cataract surgery was very low, and most horses learn to adapt to the gradual loss of their sight (remember, it was the mid-1990’s - I think surgery options may be different now). When the cataract was discovered, we think Gazelle had already lost about 25% of her vision in that eye.<br />
<br />
After I graduated from high school, I took Gazelle with me to college (about an hour and a half away from home). She stayed with me down at school until I earned my degree in 2002, and then the two of us went back home again. I believe gradually over the five years I was at schoo, Gazelle lost another 50% of the vision in her left eye, bringing the vision lost to about 75%.<br />
<br />
Another four years later, in the autumn of 2006, Gazelle had eye surgery to remove eyeball that was damaged by a cataract. The surgery was necessary because the vision loss had caused her eye to atrophy and had become very painful. As near as I can guess, she was almost completely blind in that eye for about for about two years before the surgery, so it was a smooth transition. She didn't all of a sudden wake up, unable to see. It had been a long time coming.<br />
<br />
The surgery took about two hours, and the vet completely anesthetized her on the arena floor. She had an IV and a helmet, and there were 2 assistants and an extra vet on hand. And of course I was there for moral support. After the vet removed her eye, tear ducts, and eyelashes, he inserted a silicone ball and stitched the whole thing closed. You can see it in this picture (one of my favorites of her):<br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351618328414177250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPK6BmXhu2XcWHDeX-Ko_qRa1kDa2Pye-RNgCGV5yueEWAFFDz1DfFnNxPARHbI7i-wNMT4bp7Ra-kcPeg21AXXDnlkP6Zwv22Ij0ejs69BUaLtrHmtyzFsw3WUNcG6LPbCldf-XDa0pBW/s400/Gazelle2.jpg" style="display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" width="400" /><br />
Although I was there to be supportive, remember I never really wanted to be a vet. I was completely grossed out! I guess I was standing there swaying, looking pretty green, and all of a sudden it hit me that I better go sit down before I fell down. One of the assistants said she was just opening her mouth to tell me to go sit down, so she was glad I went on my own. When the surgery was over, the vet asked if I wanted to see the eyeball.<br />
<br />
Thanks, but no thanks.<br />
<br />
Cute aside: Dan and I met shortly before Gazelle's surgery. I knew he was a keeper when he asked if he could come visit me at the barn, and I told him that I would just be hand-walking Gazelle because she was recovering from surgery. He said he wanted to come anyway just to walk with us.<br />
<br />
In June 2007, Gazelle, Dan, Blake and I made <a href="http://kate4148.blogspot.com/2007/06/trip-to-ohio.html">the long, perilous journey</a> from Oregon to Ohio. I left Oregon because I was following Dan, and Gazelle was following me. Blake was just along for the ride, I suppose. The adventure across country was quite an ordeal, but everyone (including Blake) made it without any permanent trauma. We will never stay in a Days Inn again (“With convenient horse stalls available.” Yeah. Right. Gazelle still intends to write a letter explaining exactly what constitutes a “horse stall” to her, and it’s not an open-air pen on the side of a parking lot).<br />
<br />
Gazelle is half AQHA, one-quarter Appaloosa, and one-quarter Missouri Fox Trotter. Her sire was a registered AQHA racehorse, and Gazelle is a direct (although immensely distant) descendent of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Barton">Sir Barton</a>, who in 1920 lost a match race with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_o%27_War">Man O’ War</a> (irrefutably "the greatest racehorse of all time"). Sir Barton is most remembered as being the first winner of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Triple_Crown_of_Thoroughbred_Racing">The Triple Crown</a>.<br />
<br />
-----Update-----<br />
October 1, 2010<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This is a picture of me standing in front of Man O' War's grave in Lexington, Kentucky.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">More on that experience later!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqmGPWDr1mViHhxkA6mV54RLhGD0WhRLcIe3mkqXbCwj44VIkZ11cadUEHQJBUcN3YfNH21qVQDGd8s-KuXGe47tpqulSekVzWq5O8stP87OLyrVMPJolXTa87XfCk-uOEBU6u5DntHmT/s1600/100110+Man+O+War.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqmGPWDr1mViHhxkA6mV54RLhGD0WhRLcIe3mkqXbCwj44VIkZ11cadUEHQJBUcN3YfNH21qVQDGd8s-KuXGe47tpqulSekVzWq5O8stP87OLyrVMPJolXTa87XfCk-uOEBU6u5DntHmT/s400/100110+Man+O+War.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-11825613244674792332010-09-21T15:25:00.000-04:002010-09-21T15:25:16.555-04:00I'm a good boy I am<div class="mobile-photo"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLEtlo_yBS_geIACNQD_sZDrHVqEoSiFTI2t-gUXljW67UqvsoLrGqgLsft_B0rBIBbo7V5h-O8AWI3Kyh8ur3uV5lNy0lNCy94BJFRtfezTq8dndPmKj-tNvcv52-M-HNOC91Lp0_WD4n/s1600/IMG01084-722770.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519447541629536178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLEtlo_yBS_geIACNQD_sZDrHVqEoSiFTI2t-gUXljW67UqvsoLrGqgLsft_B0rBIBbo7V5h-O8AWI3Kyh8ur3uV5lNy0lNCy94BJFRtfezTq8dndPmKj-tNvcv52-M-HNOC91Lp0_WD4n/s400/IMG01084-722770.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">I have been using my litterbox!</span></em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNR_Uf15GQ3lafGFVtZv77yaH3nOFY2b5SiydC_cX0l-yI69Yo_8-d1Srss6UE_xK9T8ga2yXDnzFWbygeHwER7C39OEHOM8ksFFhx52PI5CDW9WmlgA-fL3CkKw1STFmPdH9UVEuGbU5/s1600/Blake5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="300" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNR_Uf15GQ3lafGFVtZv77yaH3nOFY2b5SiydC_cX0l-yI69Yo_8-d1Srss6UE_xK9T8ga2yXDnzFWbygeHwER7C39OEHOM8ksFFhx52PI5CDW9WmlgA-fL3CkKw1STFmPdH9UVEuGbU5/s400/Blake5.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">For the most part.</span></em></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-8759435044619824922010-09-14T14:24:00.000-04:002010-09-14T14:24:54.877-04:00"Serenity now" has no ideaSo.<br />
<br />
I realize that I am very fastidious about word choice and sentence structure, even as applied to sub-par writings such as e-mails and text messages, and that my peccadillos and pet peeves are not shared by all.<br />
<br />
I realize I'm a particular fool about following grammatical rules to the . . . well, to the letter.<br />
<br />
I realize I judge people, oftentimes unfairly, for his/her/their lack of attention to his/her/their own writings.<br />
<br />
I realize there are Bigger Things out there.<br />
<br />
And yet. Still.<br />
<br />
Can I just say it?<br />
<br />
<strong>COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</strong>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-68364593049514316982010-09-03T10:37:00.002-04:002010-09-03T10:37:55.099-04:00Prozac progress (part 3)Relapse.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-36260749745786340512010-09-02T10:39:00.000-04:002010-09-03T10:40:57.255-04:00Is there something behind me?<div class="mobile-photo" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512456623790111362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTB_li-zZ47GzL3HGuxQv6sZ1RVanHkB1bQvP4yf8Oi52B7DfCz9mqgrY_H2WGpXxgs_J5qFOa_Aq-aLVYclvIC9auW0r5HQP1NHpRA2sSTwQDT2Mq3t-GYlcC0fsyaqBFIOacItKnjSSd/s320/IMG01042-722989.jpg" /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-86322399699331328862010-08-30T11:56:00.002-04:002010-08-30T12:01:30.215-04:00Prozac progress (part 2)Update to <a href="http://kate4148.blogspot.com/2010/08/prozac-progress.html">Prozac progress</a><br />
<br />
I'm frightened even to hope, but I think it is notable that for the past few days there have been <em>three pees </em>in the litterboxes.<br />
<br />
I suppose I should point out that when the pee parade began a few weeks ago, the first thing I noticed was that the usual pee count in the litterboxes went from three (one for each cat) to two (but we still have three cats!). I didn't notice at first because although I clean the boxes DAILY (without fail), I don't always clean them at the same <em>time </em>each day. So two pees instead of three isn't necessarily a big deal because maybe I'm cleaning the boxes early and one of the cats went late the day before. Typically, if I only see two pees then the next day there will be four pees.<br />
<br />
In theory.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it's not an exact science and I don't always remember to count. Then the Pee Fiasco started at the beginning of this month, and the counting was a moot point . . . the house reeked so bad it didn't take a detective to figure out that of <em>course </em>he wasn't peeing in the box.<br />
<br />
At all.<br />
<br />
This whole adventure, while nauseating and seemingly endless, has only been about a month long affair. It took the first two weeks of August to figure out Blake had turned into a pee monster, get him scheduled for an appointment at the vet and tested for a bladder infection (negative!), and subsequently start treatment.<br />
<br />
As of tomorrow, he will have been on treatment for <u>two weeks</u>. (Again, it's not really Prozac, but it <strong>is</strong> an antidepressant for humans. I can never remember the name--uh, starts with a B?--calling it Prozac is easier for me.)<br />
<br />
For humans, it takes <u>four to six weeks</u> for results to start being noticeable.<br />
<br />
Therefore, my conclusion is that the two week mark is an entirely respectable point to start noticing an improvement. Which is to say, I still may find evidence of "unwanted elimination," but hopefully it will start tapering off and soon disappear altogether.<br />
<br />
I hope, I hope, I hope.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-22061232981882289542010-08-26T09:56:00.005-04:002010-09-01T13:16:02.229-04:00Ain't that the kick in the head (part 2)We just <strong>might</strong> have worked out a solution about <a href="http://kate4148.blogspot.com/2010/08/aint-that-kick-in-head.html">the hard wood dilemma</a>. Keep your fingers crossed; it may turn out to be a wholly <em>stupid </em>idea.<br />
<br />
Or, worse yet, it may work out that it's <em>not </em>stupid, but impossible.<br />
<br />
The decision to remove part of the floor, right or wrong, was not ours. We can't beat ourselves up over what was done in the past. All we can do is move on and do what we can to salvage the ass-wipe of a situation.<br />
<br />
That being said, I truly think the party is over for the hard wood as <em>flooring</em>. We've debated the relatively few options that would let us use leave the hard wood visible, and none of them are appealing: either cover the subfloor with something else (hard wood, laminate), cut it out and replace with something else (hard wood, laminate) and do some kind of divider straight down the middle of the room delineating between the two floors; or, create a feature in the room (like a step) but basically do the same thing. We could move our bedroom into the living room and make the subfloor area our closet (which would mean moving the living room to the back of the house).<br />
<br />
All of the ideas were scrapped as ridiculous.<br />
<br />
We concluded that the flooring ship sailed 40 years ago when half of the hard wood was removed from the house and discarded. But if that old wood can never be flooring again, could it be something else?<br />
<br />
I've been mulling it over and over and over, and a glimmer of an idea has taken shape as a remote possibility. Any interior decorators (or interior decorator wannabes) please DO voice your opinion.<br />
<br />
The idea (no clue about logistics at this point, which is why I said it may turn out to be a good idea but impossible):<br />
<br />
Rather than just cover up the hard wood with laminate and never see it again, we're considering taking out one of the planks and cutting it down (and refinishing, of course) and using it to replace the three windowsills.<br />
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Here's a shot of one of the windowsills. Look carefully under Blake's ass and you might be able to see it (har har):<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURUKOHOLeka6Q_lHn_d-oXS9zL5fN2zi3Tc4nKYm-gQa2qOk-Orto5sRQn3W0-mw5f69ZOrnXULAX5Nl3kp-8t_Yh4qSymf6HyHA8wGRWPi8rXEGBWsTvvtz9m51DUt8plGLmiPrT502g/s1600/Blake3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURUKOHOLeka6Q_lHn_d-oXS9zL5fN2zi3Tc4nKYm-gQa2qOk-Orto5sRQn3W0-mw5f69ZOrnXULAX5Nl3kp-8t_Yh4qSymf6HyHA8wGRWPi8rXEGBWsTvvtz9m51DUt8plGLmiPrT502g/s320/Blake3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>The three windowsills in the room are about 8 inches wide.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>This is the longest one--the front picture window.<br />
Remember, Blake is the size of a small elephant</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>and his right ass-cheek is </em>still <em>falling off.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hear me out. I absolutely do <em>not </em>want to commit a historical preservation sin that will land me in interior decorating hell. But, I really think this could be a neat idea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">First of all, if we don't do <em>something</em>, the hard wood will be covered up for probably another 40 years (the warranty on the laminate we chose is 30 years--40 years is a guestimate). Which is to say, the hard wood won't be lost, it <em>should </em>be protected from damage, but still: even though no one can anticipate what might happen in the next 40 years, if we cover it up we assuredly won't be able to enjoy the beauty of the hard wood. That's a Given. So is "out of sight, out of mind."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Secondly, the hard wood is the <em>old </em>style. Oregonians have no clue what the old style is (and before last Sunday, nor did I), so in case you're wondering what "old style" is: the planks are <strong>huge</strong> (not like the manufactured 2 to 4 inch wide planks you see at Home Depot -- rather, the size of a sheet of plywood, which is what we'd have to use to put in place of the one we take out). One plank should be plenty to replace all the windowsills.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Back to the "first of all:" that means there would still be the same unusable amount of hard wood that would be untouched and protected beneath laminate. In 40 years or whenever, when/if we (or someone else) take up the laminate, the situation is going to be no WORSE off, and no BETTER off, then where it is now. Still SCREWED because there <em>still </em>won't be enough to do anything with.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So although <em>yes</em> I can see there is a definite downside (once you cut it, you can't put it back), I still think it is okay because the whole point is that right NOW, before we've cut or altered anything, there isn't enough hard wood to use it as functional flooring. What's one more plank when half of it is already gone?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Also, it's is a neat idea because our windowsills are so <em>uncool</em>. In the picture, you can see it's a weird color. That's because I painted it. That's right, I painted our windowsills. I know <em>that </em>sounds like the sin that should land me into interior decorating hell, but trust me: the windowsills were so offensive to the eye, painting them was the only solution. Eventually we want to replace the windows anyway, so I didn't worry about it too much when I did it. It looks a million times better though because:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The windowsills, under the paint, are the leftover vinyl laminate from the kitchen counters! Avocado green marble vinyl/plastic/laminate (I have no idea what it really is) from 30-40 years ago! The <em>windowsills!</em> It was too bizarre; my brain couldn't even handle it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our goal timeline for replacing the three windows in this room is within the next 2 years, so we would probably just pull up the plank and keep it safe until we're ready to do the windows.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Any thoughts out there?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">--------------UPDATE!!--------------</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">FORMICA!!! That was the word I couldn't think of. Our windowsills (that I painted) were originally avocado green, marble-style FORMICA. Major faux pas. Major UGH-O-RAMA.</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-84555499975557562192010-08-26T09:00:00.000-04:002010-08-26T09:00:03.406-04:00365 Writing Exercises (update)I've been advised by my Writing Club to do 366 Writing Exercises to account for the years that are Leap Years.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
I'm about 1/3 of the way through creating my list . . . hopefully I'll be able to finish it soon and start working on it. I've also created a name for my project: these are exercises for writers who are stuck. Which is to say, in the hopes that they will help the writer become <em>unstuck</em>.<br />
<br />
It's 366 Unstickers!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-84151152160900131002010-08-25T07:59:00.016-04:002010-09-10T13:08:29.132-04:00365 Writing Exercises (the project begins)I realize this has been done by many a blogger, but I'm considering it a personal challenge to do it myself. Come take a ride with me!<br />
<br />
I'm going to create a list of 365 writing exercises, and then do them all. That's right, my ambition knows no bounds. Currently, I'm working on #105 of the list. I'm not going to publish the list until I've got all 365 exercises . . . hopefully it won't take weeks and weeks, but I'm not making any promises.<br />
<br />
Sometimes one exercise sparked an idea for another, but I hate seeing domino lists where a later one depends on a previous one. So although you may notice a theme that runs for several exercises at a time, you can still skip around or just skip one entirely and it shouldn't matter. That is to say, if you skip #X, then when you get to #X+1 you don't have to go back and do #X first. Anyhoo.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck!<br />
<br />
Oh, and as a side note: If appropriate and if the exercise is unique, I'll cite my source. Cited sources will be denoted by an asterisks (with the full citation below in the footer). If you think I <em>should have </em>cited a source, the omission is entirely unintentional. If no source is cited, that's either because it's a common exercise or variant used by many, or else I made it up!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-70980151436732584702010-08-23T11:44:00.001-04:002010-08-30T11:58:14.901-04:00Ain't that the kick in the head?Life can really be unfair sometimes. But don't worry, I'm not in the mood for Deep Thoughts on the meaning of life, or anything like that. No, instead I'm going to tell you a thoroughly superficial, wholly shallow story about the death of our Orange Shag. And it will bring tears to your eyes.<br />
<br />
When the Orange Shag Adventures first began, anyone that heard about our awful shag carpeting would say to me, almost verbatim: "But you live in an old farmhouse, right? Does it have hard wood underneath?"<br />
<br />
Sigh. If only. My husband and I are both active in our local historical society, and we would <em>love </em>it if we could restore existing hard wood as opposed to putting in laminate or even manufactured hard wood. On Saturday, we ripped up one section of the room and sure enough: subfloor. We already knew it, but since the carpet was probably 30 or 40 years old, I wouldn't say we were 100 percent sure about what was lurking under there.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipONdhVhKqPFZ56FRK6drMRBNEGvxqx9LYc0_U0BZpyOr0vBK5ugLLnIxlD-6biRv_Tyt6MfnvL7MbdVnsWjQVvJZSL937eurWX_r0HDn8AePuYHeKcMU0HqPoykObsye6Gd9PyWRU_la5/s1600/subfloor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipONdhVhKqPFZ56FRK6drMRBNEGvxqx9LYc0_U0BZpyOr0vBK5ugLLnIxlD-6biRv_Tyt6MfnvL7MbdVnsWjQVvJZSL937eurWX_r0HDn8AePuYHeKcMU0HqPoykObsye6Gd9PyWRU_la5/s400/subfloor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Terrible lighting, I know, but still: there it is.<br />
Pay special note to the lower right-hand corner of the picture.<br />
We started by only removing the back part of the room.<br />
As I took this picture, I was still standing on shag.</em></div><br />
We started with the back section because that was where Blake had been peeing. I can't even express what a <em>relief </em>it was to get the worst of the stank out. We ran out of time on Saturday and just left the carpet only partially removed.<br />
<br />
Skip forward to the next day (yesterday). We kept trucking along ripping up carpet, and discovered in due speed that underneath the remaining shag <em>there is still</em> some <em>of the original hard wood</em>.<br />
<br />
Woe! Oh, woe.<br />
<br />
Absolutely filthy, of course. But it had been cozily hibernating beneath a warm shag blanket for the past 40 years, why wouldn't it be filthy? I looked past the grime and felt tears sting my eyes. It would have been perfect.<br />
<br />
Old, old planks (we can't be positive, but undoubtedly it's the original wood from when the house was built in the early 1800s). We're fairly confident in saying that because we can see the original sandstone foundation in the basement, so it is not unreasonable to suspect that this is original wood flooring. From local trees. Put in by pioneers.<br />
<br />
Our hearts burst because we can do <em>nothing </em>about it. There's a line down the middle of the room. Half of the <em>gorgeous </em>wood flooring is <em>gone</em>. Apparently it was ripped out ages ago due to previous tenants and out-of-control pet stains (the irony is not lost on me).<br />
<br />
There isn't enough of the hardwood left to <em>do </em>anything with. It's just enough to tease us with If Only. To tauntingly say, "This is what could have been! Muhahaha!"<br />
<br />
It's a very small section; not big enough to transfer to another (smaller) room. Or if it is, just barely, then it wouldn't be worth it. How bizarre would it be to have our bathroom (the only room close to being small enough) original hard wood and the rest of the house laminate? Yeah, that's just too weird. We're left with no options but to just cover it up (gaahhh! I can't even say it!) with the laminate.<br />
<br />
Does the fact that it breaks our hearts to do it absolve us from what is assuredly a historic homeowner's sin of massive proportions?<br />
<br />
Even utterly filthy and in desperate need of refinishing, you can see how similar in color the laminate we picked out is to the existing, unusable hard wood.<br />
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<div class="mobile-photo" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7uv4b8hsmpKIysUVLkmNnErxzoQHM6mec1LygwkI0tZoayWDmtW0FiX2EW-00Q4gfNMKSeqcFVWqX9WYtlO7-Mp3maAcwZRmffm-2qnRIaX3Xh70l8-m7H0QOoR3W6Gd8it7BQlJTk-j/s1600/IMG01027-710887.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508592816322933586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7uv4b8hsmpKIysUVLkmNnErxzoQHM6mec1LygwkI0tZoayWDmtW0FiX2EW-00Q4gfNMKSeqcFVWqX9WYtlO7-Mp3maAcwZRmffm-2qnRIaX3Xh70l8-m7H0QOoR3W6Gd8it7BQlJTk-j/s400/IMG01027-710887.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>The line between the hard wood and the subfloor (under the</em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>sample) </em><em>goes right through the center of the room.<br />
The weird checkerboard pattern is just from the pad under the shag.</em></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-55551693991786266382010-08-20T15:40:00.001-04:002010-08-30T11:58:14.918-04:00Prozac progressUnfortunately at this point I am unable to give a good report. Further observation is needed, and in my opinion some of the testing equipment is faulty.<br />
<br />
My husband and a few others have done some initial testing, and their general consensus is the house seems to smell "better." They are wholly hopeful that the reek is slowly dissipating due to the fact that Mr. Prozac is no longer adding to the mess.<br />
<br />
I'm doubtful, and I completely disagree about the alleged "improvement" of the stench. Blake has only been on the Prozac for a few days--in my mind not long enough to notice a behavior change yet--and to me the house stinks just as bad as ever.<br />
<br />
The pungency hits you like a fart as soon as you walk in the door. I can feel my nostrils contracting and slowly pinching themselves off until the fine hairs inside seem to quiver and quake like autumn leaves about to drop.<br />
<br />
I don't know if it's wishful thinking on my husband's part, or excessive sensitivity (okay, hypersensitivity) on my part, but either way . . . that carpet's gotta go.<br />
<br />
You win, Blake. Tomorrow, the project begins.<br />
<br />
------------------------------------<br />
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<em>Post script</em>: I've been dreading the moment that I have to admit this: <a href="http://kate4148.blogspot.com/2010/02/blakes-special-needs.html">Oh, the irony!</a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5522119964402346891.post-22363356646532955322010-08-20T12:30:00.002-04:002010-08-20T15:21:43.584-04:00Dear semi truck driver,<div class="mobile-photo" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlYbSFT8i6AGwbLC12tai6tTVC2k7Lgsg4t13WJhXnJdPTFzL6yDcHyAa3-v732nd5T4UnIGIrZhI4A3LhjjhokiOVy7QKWluwYNblHNP3q9U-ihImnP9NjYQLb8p4A-Mn2qqf4YuBbO1/s1600/IMG01010-773201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507508177242027746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlYbSFT8i6AGwbLC12tai6tTVC2k7Lgsg4t13WJhXnJdPTFzL6yDcHyAa3-v732nd5T4UnIGIrZhI4A3LhjjhokiOVy7QKWluwYNblHNP3q9U-ihImnP9NjYQLb8p4A-Mn2qqf4YuBbO1/s400/IMG01010-773201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Driver's side, front tire and wheel well liner.</em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Yes, the shadow sticking out taking the picture is my arm,</em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>but just so we're clear: </em><em>that is </em>not <em>my head above it. It's the side mirror.</em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Dear semi truck driver,</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">When your tire exploded, thanks so much for just driving along as if a huge piece of it didn't land on the freeway directly in my path, causing me to run it over and henceforth rip out the lining of my wheel well. The dramatic smoke and debri from your tire took up the entire freeway and blinded me, and hearing the <em>thunk-thunk-thunk</em> of something wrapping itself around my tire while slowing down and pulling onto the shoulder did wonders for my blood pressure. I'm happy to report there are no blockages in my adrenal gland; the adrenaline was able to saturate my system at a top-notch rate of speed.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I especially liked that as I waited on the side of the freeway I was able to watch you, some mile in the distance, calmly changing your tire. Your beady eyes never once looked in my direction, and I know that not because I was able to distinguish anything from that distance, but just because you got back in your truck and continued on your merry way as if nothing happened. Yeah, that was swell.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">When the officer stopped to check on me, he kept his lights going the entire time. We had such a nice chat about what happened. It was wonderful to sit there knowing that anyone who passed by would assume I was pulled over for a routine traffic stop and getting a ticket. Of course I <em>didn't </em>get a ticket.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">It took an entire lovely hour for me to complete my statement and for my ride to arrive. We ended up cutting out the piece of plastic sticking out in the picture above, and I suppose I should be grateful that I didn't have to wait even longer for a tow truck, but still . . . that's an hour of my life I'll never get back.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm certain there must be some subliminal reason that <em>semitruck </em>rhymes with <em>cluster-ffff . . . uh, schmuck.</em></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Yeah. Cluster-schmuck.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">That's a word, right?</div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02711252819383710895noreply@blogger.com2