Happy Friggin' New Year...

So, it's the New Year.

I didn't make any resolutions. I figured giving birth and relocating, all while working my tushy off to preserve personal sanity, will be more than enough challenge for the year.

I'm also very, um, dry lately, as far as humor and overall outlook. I'm not mad, or sad, or ungrateful, or anything like that. At least I don't think so. Just ultra-practical, let's say, when it comes to the emotional state of my world. Like most pregnant ladies, I tear up fairly easily, so maybe I'm subconsciously compensating for wanting to cry at inspirational "Parks & Recreation" episodes or something (Or maybe the Christmas episode was just that inspirational; who knows).

I've compartmentalized myself into three categories: Awesome Skerrib, Regular Skerrib, and Depressed Skerrib. Awesome Skerrib is, by most standards, the awesomest of the three. I almost called this one Medicated Skerrib, but I still have an internal stigma about mentioning the meds, so Awesome Skerrib it is. Awesome Skerrib isn't exactly high-capacity, but is fairly effective at keeping up with her life. She is what some would call Zen--she can roll with the punches and isn't fazed by much. In fact, she could probably stand to be a little more fazed sometimes. She's also pretty cheerful most of the time, and has days where she's almost bouncy with gratitude and happy feelings because she appreciates her life.

Regular Skerrib (ie Unmedicated) is not quite as awesome as Awesome Skerrib, but does alright. She's a little melancholy overall, which isn't bad or detrimental most of the time, it's just her personality. She probably comes across as more aloof, but doesn't mean to. Still grateful and appreciative of life, just less demonstrative about the whole thing. Regular Skerrib can't handle quite as much as Awesome Skerrib; she has to be more careful about monitoring her energy levels because her anxiety is more easily triggered, thereby sucking her energy, which can send her spiraling toward Depressed Skerrib. She has to get clarification more often, especially with regard to social interactions and personal conversations, because it's easy to read things between the lines that aren't there, so she has to make sure, 'cuz otherwise she'll be up half the night worrying about stupid things, which will suck her energy, etc., etc., etc. Basically, Regular Skerrib has to put a little more effort into her life--not that there's anything wrong with that--and consequently needs to be deliberate about also getting rest and down-time. And she's a bit of a sleep-Nazi.

Depressed Skerrib is a sad puddle of goo. She is pretty sure there is an actual cloud over her head, directing those around her to be judgemental, if not directly unkind or at least insensitive. So she's just a tad defensive a lot of the time. She's exhausted all the time, but also gets insomnia a lot, and has a physical feeling of sadness and doom that's connected to the cloud. Most social interaction seriously tires her out. Big groups give her the deer-in-the-headlights look. She has a really hard time keeping up with her life each day, to the point that she has a hard time summoning the gumption for things like getting dressed or preparing meals. There's nothing so horrible going on in her actual circumstances as to induce these feelings, and she knows it, but somehow she can't kick herself out of the rut. Which makes her feel worse. Depressed Skerrib needs help.

These days I'm mostly Regular Skerrib, but as I described above I have to be super-careful about slipping into Depressed Skerrib. Most of my days are fairly decent, and I'm pretty good at recognizing the bad days. Which is important, because those are early-to-bed days, which helps immensely. I go back & forth about wanting to be Awesome Skerrib, but lamenting that Awesome Skerrib is chemically induced (enhanced?), so there's a little ambivalence about that. Then again, we take things like ibuprofen to enhance us when we're in pain, or insulin to enhance us when our pancreas doesn't work right, so isn't keeping one's brain chemicals in balance similar? It's kind of like in the movie "Limitless," where the guy took the super-drug and was almost super-human, but then which was his real self? Was he becoming something false, or just realizing his potential?

And there's also a good bit to be said about the skills and emotional healing I've gained over the years--I'm most definitely able to remain Regular Skerrib way more often than I was 10 years ago. The way I see it is that, for me anyway, the meds clear my head enough so that I've been able to learn how to stay sane better overall. So there's that.

There's also something to be said about the journey of it all. I was talking with the Good Reverend's wife (and STILL wish it could've been a longer convo 'cuz she's fantastic) about how there are a lot of worthy aspects about the highs and lows of "regular" life. Awesome Skerrib is by far the easiest in terms of effort, but there's a richness to Regular Skerrib that Awesome Skerrib just doesn't have (again, not that that's bad; it's just different). Awesome Skerrib sometimes has to "just trust" God's presence more often because she doesn't always feel it, while Regular Skerrib has to lean into God's presence way more, because on the bad days, even with positive self-talk and reasoning and friends to talk her down, the assurance of God being there right next to her and caring about her is very often the only thing that makes it worth the effort.

Unfortunately, Regular Skerrib is often less skilled with thinking up clever ways to end blog posts, and so says lame stuff like "Speaking of sleep-Nazis, it's time to unplug and unwind..."

My apologies for that part. Awesome Skerrib would think of something way more clever...

Given the Circumstances...

I have decided I am not a kind wife when it comes to my husband being sick.

There are a lot of factors here, especially with regard to the timing of this particular illness, and I should probably feel at least a little bad, if not about the fact that he is sick, then perhaps about the fact that I feel more sternness than compassion (I told him he was being ridiculous and needed to be sick more quietly).

To begin with, last week was one for the books that detail a mom's most dreaded events in life: at home with the kids and sickness in the house. In a nutshell, the kids got sick, and then I got sick, and then we were all sick-ish for longer than I am accustomed to.

During this time the Cat Daddy was on a 10-day TDY (ie, business trip). It was a big convention of sorts, the culmination of months of hard work from folks around the nation. So they came together to wrap up their efforts. The Cat Daddy was in charge of making sure certain portions came together, and making sure other folks did what they were supposed to, and stuff like that. In the end, the Cat Daddy's wing (big group of people at work) came home with some high honors, and he had a super-duper time of things. A work hard/play harder situation, if you will.

Some (including me) would call it a boondoggle, but everything was on the up & up. Plus, I remember some really cool business trips I got to take in a previous life, so I really don't want to begrudge him a fun work trip. It's just a bit of a slap in the face to be sipping chicken soup (lovingly brought by a friend), having cleaned poop off the carpet for the zillionth time in a week, and be subjected to stories about cool hotels, and casinos during off-time, and whatnot. Pleased for him; bummed out about the timing for me.

Anyhow, time passed, the boys got mostly better, I got marginally better, and the Cat Daddy returned--Yay!! The weekend passed quickly with us painting several rooms in our house (with another loving friend keeping the boys for the weekend), just in time for the Cat Daddy to come down with what I assume is the same crud the boys and I had.

Now, once I discovered/admitted that it was in fact a bug infecting our family (a week or so ago), I canceled and minimized commitments, and we stayed close to home and watched a whole lot of TV. No fun, but minimally invasive, all things considered. Although it has taken longer than I felt it should have, the boys' functions are all very-nearly normal again, and while I have lingering blahs, I'm definitely on the upswing. So I was feeling optimistic-ish about this week. Fresh start, easing back into health, and so on.

The Cat Daddy on the other hand, is quite possibly the epitome of husband-sickness. Where I have accused him of Suck-It-Up Syndrome in other areas of life, when it comes to sickness he lets it all out and then some. And due to the nature of his job, he can't just take a couple days off and get better. He had to report to sick call at the base clinic bright and early this morning. Sick call is where they can make sure folks aren't faking, get all up in their business, and also get them the medical care they need to get better quick and get back to work. The Cat Daddy has driven himself to sick call in the past, and once in the past he came up with a fairly nasty sickness which implied that he probably should not have driven himself to sick call, and I think I probably have some lingering guilt from that...so when he asked me to drive him this morning I agreed.

"This is not fair!!" I said.

But even with sick call it's not quite that simple--he has paperwork to fill out. So we had to stop by the office both before & after sick call. And the doctor gave him anti-nausea meds to help him thru the crud, and then gave him more paperwork ordering him "to quarters" for a couple days to recover. Meaning, he is ordered to stay home and rest.

"I did not get paperwork ordering me to rest!" I said in my head.

He asked me to drive home faster.

I told him to stop talking and go to sleep and be sick.

He is sad I'm mad at him for getting sick. I contend that I'm really not mad at the real and true Cat Daddy. I'm mad at his virus, and I'm mad at his sick-self, who needs to sleep it off and please-stop-moaning-so-I-can-sleep-for-goodness'-sake.

In his defense, he stopped the moaning. I think he'll be on the upswing by tomorrow. Maybe we'll all be on the road to health by the end of the week. I hope. I don't have any boondoggles on the horizon, but I am plotting little pockets of escape for myself in the coming weeks.

I don't think the Caribbean is unreasonable...

God and Potty Talk...

His Highness is smack in the middle of a big potty-talk phase. Pee-pee-this and poo-poo-that and so on. He has mostly moved past the completely made-up words, so this is progress in its own little way. As for my response, depending on the circumstance, I vacillate between ignoring it, replying with an immature phrase of my own ("YOU are!!" etc), and explaining when & where potty talk is appropriate, and that most people don't like it randomly inserted into conversation. Some do, but most don't.

So tonight I was lying down with the boys at bedtime, and we said a prayer to thank God for the day. I ended with an "A-MEN!"

The Littler One said "A-MEN!"

His Highness said "Pee-pee-amen!"

Nice touch, son. Nice touch...

On Waterfalls and Purple Lava Creeks...

The Good Reverend posted this on his Facebook page today:

You are in the Psalms. To treat them like a didactic epistle, where you interpret all the words correctly and give a 2-sentence answer to a bland "how does this apply to you?" while others politely nod and snack on pastries, is to miss them entirely. You'll need different shoes. You'll get torn up, tripped up. You'll stumble upon places you never wanted to go. But you may, if you stay, experience yourself completely alone with God in the most beautiful waterfall--naked and blissfully unashamed.

Which was, of course exactly the thing my heart needed to hear and ponder today. It reminds me of this passage from The Ragamuffin Gospel:

After the group read the passage, the pastor offered some historical background on this period in salvation-history, including the prevalence of child sacrifice among the Canaanites. The group listened in awkward silence.

Then the pastor asked, "But what does this story mean to us?"

A middle-aged man spoke up. "I'll tell you the meaning this story has for me. I've decided that me and my family are looking for another church."

The pastor was astonished, "What? Why?"

"Because," the man said, "when I look at that God, the God of Abraham, I feel I'm near a real God, not the sort of dignified, businesslike, Rotary Club God we chatter about here on Sunday mornings. Abraham's God could blow a man to bits, give and then take a child, ask for everything from a person, and then want more. I want to know that God."

Now I love pastries--Chocolate eclair? Yes please--and I love sitting with a group of people, contemplating God and his stuff. But I do think it's extremely valuable, while we are sitting very comfortably on our couches, eating goodies and comparing NIV with NASB and the Message, to remember that at the end of things we will still be left with a God who will blow our minds every time. AND who loves us beyond words. The combination of which will also blow our minds every time. It makes me feel restless in a good way, I think. When I get bored or tired, or so frustrated with the daily queasies it makes me want to poke my eyeballs out, I remember the beauty and freshness and excitement I feel--like an October gust in Cheyenne--when I get an inkling of God's power and love. Even when (or maybe especially when) it's something that disrupts me somehow. Yeah it's great when it means good and comfortable things for me: a declaration of health for a family member, or getting to do exciting things at work, or just random little daily gifts. I prefer that, actually--who wouldn't?

But then again...those times when he has called me beyond my limits, even though the most exquisitely painful in the moment, have somehow pulled me in the closest and deepened my trust the most, you know? Like physically pulling me out of Arizona ten years ago (away from family, and roots, and dreams) and into something completely different. Sometimes amazing, sometimes underwhelming, sometimes flat-out bizarre. But always keeping me--a big fan of consistency and predictability--wondering, "What on earth do you have next for us?!?"

You know that story about stepping out into the darkness? Something about faith, and learning to fly instead of falling, or something? Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not the person who learns to fly. I'm almost certain I'm the one who sticks a foot out and finds another stone to stumble onto, and then sticks a foot out and maybe falls a little bit before landing on a ledge, and so on. I am still scared every time...but these days it's a familiar fear, so it's not quite so bad as the first one (or ten) was. But I think what's great about God is that he never stops asking me to do it. I don't know that he's trying to teach me confidence, or faith, or trust or any "lessons" of sorts (although those things can certainly be a happy byproduct). I think it's sort of like when I set out with my kids to see what we can find, and they are unfamiliar with a new place, and I go, "Come on boys, let's go this way." I want to share the adventure with them, the discovery. I think that's sort of what it's like with God. He has all sorts of crazy, mind-blowing stuff to show me, and he wants to share the wonder and discovery of it all.

Now in the process he can do some pretty unexpected things, and not necessarily happy ones at that, where I sort of go "Wait, what was that? I thought--" And still, maybe (probably) even without answering the question, he's going, "Come on kid, I've got you. Follow me."

And pastries are awesome, but not as cool as rock-hopping on a purple lava creek by way of Mars, that's all I'm saying...

Tired Day...

These days are challenging.

But first let me clarify what I know and am grateful for--

--We have fantastic children.
--We have been able to have them with little difficulty--no infertility, no complications, and good health overall.
--I have had regular, low-risk pregnancies. No bed-rest, or house-rest, or any real "scares" to speak of (there was the Level 2 ultrasound with His Highness, but even it led to reassuring news that he was healthy and just fine).
--So far this pregnancy, in terms of sickness and whatnot, is more similar to His Highness's than the Littler One's. That is, fairly mild. And I feel fabulous in the mornings--my favorite time.

That said, here are the things on my mind--

--The afternoon queasies appear every day like clockwork. So far there is no puking, but the effect is enough to make me want to lie low and not do much after 2pm or so.
--Sugar wants to hurt me, so I'm being super-careful about what I eat. This is healthy and good for me, but it makes me just a little bit sad.
--My butt and I are not getting along. I am seeing my physical therapist, but am having lots of stiffness & soreness. Boo for physical pain.
--The reality of the hard work and energy that it takes to fight/deal with my neuroses. I can be quite a piece of work some days.
--Making sure I don't isolate myself (depression-trigger), but at the same time conserving my energy so I don't wear myself out (anxiety-trigger, which then triggers depression).
--Wondering if I'm engaging enough with my kiddos.
--The combined fatigue of all of the above.

I am tired! And today is a tired day--I woke up tired and have continued this way throughout the day. Truth be told, I am just not all that big on being "enchanted" (somehow it sounds more delicate to me than plain old "pregnant"). It makes me want to fast forward through these months to the end of March(ish), when I will be un-enchanted and, even with the hard work of newborn-ness, much more comfortable in general.

Oh, but wait. Next summer is when we're scheduled to move. My last year in a place always makes me want to slow down & savor my favorite people & parts of wherever it is we are stationed. So I want to take in these next several months and not just rush through them. I want to see and appreciate what is, so that next summer I will be better prepared to face the joys and pains of leaving well.

So you see, I am again living in ambivalence. I think most everyone lives with some degree of it; I just wonder if somehow I pick up more of it than most. My problem, sometimes, is not that I only see one side of things; it is that I see both (or many) sides of things, making it harder to define what I really think and feel, and thereby more difficult to choose a side. On the one hand, I'm sure folks and factors on all sides appreciate my being able to understand them; on the other I come across as more than a little wishy-washy.

On days like today I search for a way to kick myself in the butt--some kind of mental cattle-prod, or emotional zapper, or something. Something to say, "Come on, Skerrib--keep your perspective!" But I don't have a magic button (or cattle-prod). I have my regular, ordinary, sane-makers, which are cumulative and rarely instantaneous. I have God, whom I'm fully confident is right beside me and is maybe even carrying me across this ridiculous beach (Come on, "Footprints in the Sand" fans...). And I have all the good and positive thoughts above, to remind myself to keep it in perspective.

And hey, at least I don't have tuberculosis...

Smart Boy...

The Littler One has had a breakthrough this weekend.

We started potty-training a month ago. Now, I know you're all thinking "Wow, he's only two and already you are potty-training him. You are brilliant and motivated, Skerrib," but the fact is that I am on the lazy end of things and wouldn't have even thought of it, except that it was his idea. He started randomly taking off his diapers (and laughing at me while he did it), and he wanted to sit on the potty like his big brother, which is hilarious because His Highness is of the opinion that going to the potty is a pain and interrupts playtime.

So I thought, "Hey I'd better take advantage of this while he wants to do it." But I didn't want to do the Pull-Ups. First off, they are expensive and I am cheap. Second, my kids seem to follow the line of reasoning that having a diaper-ish thing there to catch the drips and poops means that everything is OK and there is no need to put anything in the potty.

So I bought a bunch of old-school, white cotton training pants, and when we got back from our summer vacation we began a modified verson of potty boot camp. We stayed close to home for a couple days to get the basic idea down. You go sit on the potty for a few minutes. If any pee or poop comes out, you get an awesome reward. If not, you get a mediocre reward for trying. I learned from the first time around that teeny-tiny rewards are just as awesome as ridiculously expensive rewards, and you don't actually need to buy the entire fleet of Cars cars to convince your kid to poop in the potty. Or maybe we did for His Highness, but I was determined not to do the same thing with the sequel or The Littler One.

Boot camp was good because it let us try lots of things and figure out what would likely work this time around. Tootsie Roll Midgees are sufficient for a potty success, and those little colored star stickers are grand for a try. Around the house, naked works better than training pants. We also figured out that the Littler One very much values his freedom of choice, and will only sit on the potty when he wants to, and for as long as he wants to, so in general when we went out we put potty-training on hold and let him wear a diaper.

Overall we've had little successes along the way, and The Littler One seemed to be progressing, albeit gradually, until yesterday. Yesterday something clicked, and he went the entire day without a single accident. He also sat on the potty what seemed like every 10 minutes, and pushed out whatever pee was in him, even if it was a milliliter or less. That kid was on a singular, focused mission for Tootsie Rolls.

So today, with church and all, I wondered what would happen if we tried going with the training pants instead of the diaper. I'll take a little credit for my idea to put some star stickers and Tootsie Rolls in a baggie, and bingo--portable potty training. He made it all the way thru church clean & dry, earning several Tootsie Rolls along the way. We had a poop issue during lunch at the restaurant, but in the big scheme of things this is massive progress.

He has been so successful that we ran out of Tootsie Rolls, so we transitioned to a different potty candy. The Cat Daddy made the call to switch to Starburst, which I'm guessing is because he loves them, and I can't say I blame him either. If The Littler One keeps up this pace (and if the Cat Daddy raids the potty candy), then by next week we'll run out of Starburst, so my thought then is to switch to Skittles, and after that we'll just have to see. Moving from extrinsic to intrinsic motivation can be a tricky thing, so I'm treading lightly and carefully.

I have no words of wisdom for those who are in the throes of potty training. I have been just as gratefully stymied this time around as I was frustrated with the oldest's process. Yes, we know better what seems to work for our family overall, and I've learned to look and listen and be more responsive, but for us it is as much an issue of our children's personalities as anything else. When The Littler One wants something (ie candy), he buckles down and keeps trying until he gets it. He is very determined, indeed.

Smart boy...

The Latest...

...involves drugs, or a lack thereof.

I've had a long & winding journey with depression, anxiety, and happy pills. I can't possibly do the whole thing justice within a blog post, so I'll summarize by saying that, over the past 10 years or so I've come to a place of pretty good health. I've learned the things I need to do to keep myself in a decent place--eating somewhat well, exercising (endorphins. Oh yes), positive self-talk, being as open & honest as possible in relationships, resolving issues instead of stuffing them down (resulting in emotional vomit later), blocks of therapy as needed, recognizing and dealing with my own personal triggers, and so on. Until recently, that has also included a small dose of some sort of antidepressant to help keep me on an even keel. Better living through chemistry, and all that.

On the one hand the drugs are no big deal--when I get to where my symptoms start interfering with my life (exhaustion, hopelessness, etc.), the drugs help me stay level so I can do my life in a healthier way. On the other hand...well, there are lots of differing opinions in Christian circles about depression and drugs. I could do a whole series of posts on that one. There are lots of factors to consider, but in summary I'll boil my views down to a few quick points--

--I love Jesus.
--I don't think asking for or accepting help is an indication of weak faith.
--Medicine of any sort can be useful, but you have to know what it can & cannot do.

Good? Good. Now, all that said, on the advice of my doc I have been weaning off the meds for a while now, the biggest reason being the impending arrival of Kiddo #3 next spring (yay!). The particular drug I'm on is relatively new, and the studies with regard to pregnancy just aren't there yet. Baby and I would probably be fine, but just to be extra-safe he recommended I try going off the drug, especially during the first and third trimesters.

Now generally I'm in favor of minimizing medicines as much as possible, so going off the drugs during pregnancy is a great idea for me in theory. In practice though, it is pretty daunting. I've had only a few episodes over the years where I needed a change or adjustment in meds, but during those times it has been incredibly evident that I do in fact benefit from them. So I was nervous about having to emotionally muscle my way through pregnancy without them, but I also reasoned that if it all hit the fan I could always try another drug that is older and more proven.

Thankfully, things have gone better than I expected thus far. Not that I expected them to go badly; I just wasn't sure what to expect. You take a neurotic, and then tell them to taper down their happy meds and keep track of how they feel, and you end up with me going, "So Skerrib, how do you feel? Pretty good; maybe a little tired. Maybe you need some veggies, or a nap or something," approximately every few seconds. And thus far veggies and a nap (or more accurately, going to bed at a decent hour, cuz if I take a nap then I get the insomnia in the middle of the night, and that's no fun. But I digress)--and a good amount of jogging--have actually gone a long way. So I'm quirky, but I'm also alright. I've always said my goal is to be able to be off the meds long-term, so this months-long experiment gives me hope. I'm trying not to plan too far in either direction--if I can keep healthy and deal with life and stay off the drugs, great. If, after the baby is born, I find the need to go back on them, that's OK too.

I have lots to be excited about, and lots to take with a grain of salt. Life is moving along a little more vividly these days. I'm more creative, more feeling-y, more socially awkward...just "more" overall, it seems. Except for my appropriateness-filter, which sadly is less. So if I seem a little weird, or if I come up asking you if we are "OK," it just means I'm trying to keep my perspective. Which I think is a good thing for anyone...

Straight Up Killaz...

Preface: The Cat Daddy was otherwise occupied, so he had no idea any of this was going on...

Tonight I was putting the boyz to bed. As I've said before, our version of "crying it out" is lying next to the crier and comforting him to sleep (friggin' hippies, we are), so I was hunkered down on the bottom bunk next to the Littler One while he settled enough to give in to sleep.

I heard a faint kitty-growl out in the living room, indicating that Nipples had come in from outside. Then the dogs leapt up and ran down the hall, barking along the way. I hate when they do this, but both kids were far enough gone that they didn't stir much, so I didn't practice my standard-yet-ineffective-yet-somehow-still-standard yell: "Zoe! Max! KNOCK IT OFF!!!!" Following was a mild commotion, punctuated by yips, and growls, and a couple of squeaks which I was fairly certain did not come out of any of my animals. So I thought, "Oh great, the cat has caught a mouse and is having some fun with it." Yesterday he'd left a mouse head on the porch for me (as well as a mouse butt/tail, I later found out), and I have in the past had the morbidly fascinated displeasure of watching him bat around a bird in preparation for the kill--in my living room--so I was not all that surprised at the prospect of finding mouse pieces on my floor.

Well, finally the children were sleeping, so I went out to the kitchen to feed the dogs and grab a little snacky before bed. They were watching the cat with rapt attention, because you see the cat was on top of the kitchen counter with his latest kill, a small rabbit. Or baby bunny, depending how sad you want to feel about it. Not newborn, or anything--probably an adolescent or 'tween bunny. I imagine he probably mouthed off to his mom and took off to cool down or something, and normally I would say taking a walk to calm yourself is a great idea, except apparently this guy forgot to watch out for cats, cuz there he was on my counter.

Now, there's a lot I'd do for a Klondike Bar, but watching my cat bat around a dead animal weighing a full pound or more while I ate it (the ice cream, not the animal) is most definitely over the line. So I temporarily shelved the ice cream idea and grabbed some makeshift gloves (folded paper towels) and went to get the rabbit from the cat. I tried to explain, and I felt I was being very fair:

"Nipples, I'm afraid you can't have that on the counter. I can't even handle it in the house I don't think, but you can keep it if you go outside with it."

Well, Nipples was in disagreement with me, and gave me a "Leave me alone, I'm butchering a kill!!" growl. He was quite intent that I not take his prize. Being that I've never had to confront a cat in this fashion, I backed off for a moment to regroup. I went downstairs to survey a day's worth of toys scattered about the floor, where I promptly decided to leave them until sometime between tomorrow and Friday. I turned out the lights and went to head upstairs, and was fairly surprised to see Nipples flying down the stairs and over to his food dish for a quick bite, leaving the rabbit unguarded back upstairs on the counter.

Well, pin a rose on my nose, I dashed back upstairs, got my paper towels and gathered up the rabbit to take him outside. The cat, promptly remembering the stakes, sprinted back up the stairs and onto the counter, looking for his bunny, and shooting evil-eye darts at me when he realized I had bested him. Again I thought I was being, at the minimum, incredibly fair:

"Look Nipples, I've got to have some sort of standards. You just can't have this guy in the house. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

Well, he was still pretty irked about that, but he is one of three creatures in the house that recognize me as the boss (on a good day), and seemed resigned to my suddenly acquiring standards. I showed him where I put the bunny, and told him he was free to do with it as he wished, as long as it stayed outside.

It's funny, my college friend Fazzi (the cat's previous owner) said he never brought in any dead animals (or parts thereof) when he lived with her family...so it's as though Wyoming has opened up a whole new aspect of his personality. We would always say that Pim was a lover, not a fighter. Well, Nipples is wonderfully gentle with people, especially children, but when it comes to small animals, he is a straight-up killer. It can't possibly help the situation that we have a bird feeder in the front yard (and we've wondered aloud if that's not actually a twisted thing to do to birds, but the feeder was there before the cat and we are in fact a little twisted, so there you have it), but even if we didn't...the cat loves to hunt.

The happy ending, of course, is that I eventually did get my Klondike bar, so all's well that ends well. And now I must go pick up the remaining bunny fur bits and bleach the counter.

I like to think I can take most things in stride; even dead rabbits on the counter. But I will say this: if Nipples EVER brings me a snake, we will have words, he and I...

Gladly Stand Up Next to You [and gag]...

Cheyenne might be the best-kept secret when it comes to Independence Day fireworks. The past couple years we've watched them from the softball fields on base--you can see them almost as well as if you were at the Frontier Stadium, but you don't have quite the amount of traffic you find if you're in the thick of things.

This year, though, we decided to venture to the stadium. And you know what we found out? The view from inside the stadium is about 25 zillion times better than at the softball fields, and is totally worth the traffic and noise. When we were entering, the Cat Daddy remarked, "I wonder where they'll set the fireworks off from?" and I was all, "I dunno, they don't have barges like when we saw the fireworks in Boston that one year" (which was the awesomeness, BTW).

It turns out that, for the fireworks show, they close off one side of the stadium. So everyone sits on the west side, and they set off the fireworks from the east side. You know how sometimes when you see a firework climbing into the sky before it explodes, and it looks almost peaceful? Well, when you are 50 yards from the launch sites you can see how fiery it actually is. OK, maybe "fiery" is too strong a term, but definitely "ember-y," if you will. There's nothing peaceful about launching fireworks, that's for sure.

Now, these were the real deal. There were perhaps a good many fewer fireworks involved than one would find in a big city, but what they lacked in quantity they made up in sheer and blatant proximity. No one's retinas were burned or anything, but it's not because they didn't try. As the fireworks cracked and boomed, we could watch them fade to embers. At first I thought, "Wow, the fireworks seem so close," but as I followed the embers all the way to the rodeo dirt in front of us I thought, "By golly, someone's going to catch fire if they're not careful." Luckily for the finale I succumbed and covered my ears, because I think I very nearly ruptured an eardrum. So while those over on the base saw maybe 70% of the fireworks, the remainder didn't clear the stadium walls enough to be seen by the poor saps on the outside.

And while some might think, "Oh goodness, that sounds unpleasant," it was quite possibly the coolest fireworks show ever. Cheyenne does have that Wild West spirit about it, part of which is a sort of bratty, "I'm gonna do what I want and you can't stop me" spirit. In a good way. The vibe I got was along the lines of "We like to experience our fireworks, and there are no trees to burn down so we're going hardcore with it." Plus the opening song was the Toby Keith one about America putting its boot in a$$es, which of course contributed to the independent rebel feel.

Now here's a situation where my intelligence occasionally...slips out for a bit. Prior to the fireworks they had a local country band, and then the main pre-show of the night was Tops in Blue (an Air Force touring musical group). I have no idea how I made it this long without figuring it, but I had always assumed that Tops in Blue was sort of similar to the Boston Pops. Or any other Pops, for that matter. It was not until this evening, reading the Tops in Blue program, that I realized that, while the two words rhyme, "Tops" is not the same as "Pops." At all. Rather than being a cool orchestral deal, Tops in Blue is more like show choir. Think "Glee," minus drama, plot twists, and any over-the-top cool/crazy/glam factors (And obviously minus any gay folks, since Don't Ask Don't Tell isn't quite gone yet, and it is a military group, after all). While most of the members themselves were obviously talented--and well-practiced in jazz hands--the show was...well, it did get better as the show went on, but let's just say it was not as cool as the fireworks and leave it at that.

Now, each of the musical groups of course did "Proud to Be An American." And then the fireworks show, not to be outdone, did it too, bringing the grand total for the night to three--count them, THREE--rounds of the dang song, which simply is not one of my favorites. Once upon a time I really liked it, and then I heard it overplayed and hoke-i-fied beyond all reason, and now I make poking motions at my eyeballs when I hear it. Sorry. I did mime a big gigantic drum fill all three times at the part of the chorus near the end of the song with the pause and/or big gigantic drum fill, depending on which version you're listening to. So it's not a total hatred of the song or anything. Maybe just a mostly-hatred, or a heavy dislike perhaps.

We sat with Ms Sitter and her boys, and we brought along the glow bracelets which were a Target dollar bin treasure a few weeks back. They were a big hit. So much so that, at the end of everything when we were all getting up to trek to our cars, His Highness told Ms Sitter's kids, "We're going to need those back." Thankfully I heard him, because I was then able to calm the stricken boys by reassuring them that they could, in fact, keep their glow bracelets, and to remind His Highness that we had brought them to share with our friends, even for keeps in this case.

Even the Cat Daddy, who in general can find very little he enjoys about Cheyenne, was impressed by the perceived danger level of the fireworks show. And that's saying something...

Waving at the Bus...

So, this past school year a dad got up and waved at his son's school bus every morning. In costume...

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I vote fabulous.