The first thing you need to know is that “eating keto” takes work!  Real, physical labor type work, and I’m not talking about exercise.  There are very, very few ready-to-eat foods in grocery stores that support this way of eating.  Oh, there are several products claiming to be “keto-friendly” and they may contain fewer carbs than their regular versions; however, many of these products still contain too many carbs and sugars for the gung-ho keto enthusiast.  You can’t just walk down the isles of the supermarket, pick things off the shelves, then toss them in your buggy.  Keto-eating requires that you read the product labels to calculate sugars, fiber and net carbs, etc.  There is a very high likelihood that you’ll be required to do a lot of home cooking.  I mean A LOT.  It will take some truly dedicated effort to start and maintain this way of eating, but it is totally worth it, in my opinion.

My husband and I have been eating the keto way for over a year now.  He’s lost 50 pounds and I’ve lost 20.  Both of us have met and/or exceeded our ultimate weight loss goals and, with only minor, temporary fluctuations, we’ve kept our weight off.  Keto works.  It is not intended to be a “fad diet” that you’ll follow just long enough to lose weight fast and then slowly return to your old way of eating.  It is intended to be a lasting change in your diet, your new way of eating, your permanently adopted lifestyle.  In time, the carb cravings fade away.  The foods you eat are much more satisfying and you remain satisfied for longer periods of time between meals.  We still enjoy all of our favoite foods such as pizzas, tacos, hamburgers, and even desserts, all of which would normally be loaded with carbs.  Our foods are simply homemade, from keto-compliant recipes, and they are delicious!

Now, I have always loved sandwiches, and sandwiches require bread, right?  I have yet to find a keto bread in any of our local grocery stores.  But, for a month or two, I have noticed ads for cauliflower-based breads claiming to be suitable for keto.  I’ve read the nutritional info as well as ingredients and they really do seem to pass the test for being keto-friendly.  That’s cool!  However, they are ridiculously high-priced.  Some flatbreads will cost you a whopping $2.00 per slice which would make for an extremely expensive loaf of bread, given the fact that the seller requires you to buy a minimum of four packages.  Since I flat out refuse to pay $20 or more for a freaking loaf of bread — ANY bread — I was determined to find a recipe and make it myself.

There are hundreds of low-carb bread recipes on the internet and I’ve tried a few that call for coconut flour.  Disgusting!  I have two containers of this coconut flour that will not be used in this household again and are now free to a good home!  Or, any home!  I’m an almond flour fan, to the core.  Months ago, I came across a recipe for Keto Cheddar Bay Biscuits, you know, like those yummy delights they serve you at Red Lobster.  I make them on occasion and we’ve used them for tuna salad or turkey sandwiches, as well as for hamburgers.  These biscuits are truly delicious and I think I like them even better than the traditional ones.  Sorry, Red Lobster.  Still, I wanted to find a bread recipe that was more like, you know, normal bread.

My internet search yielded two acceptable recipes for cauliflower bread that I was willing to test.  My first attempt is the one for which I already had all the ingredients.   Have you ever chopped through a head of raw cauliflower with a knife?  Little beads and clumps of this vegetable bounce and scatter everywhere.  Well, except for the 10% that actually remain on your cutting board.  Next comes the grinding, or ricing, of the vegetable in a food processor.  Once the cauliflower is sufficiently pulverized to the consistency of mashed potatoes, it goes into the microwave for five minutes of cooking.   After it cools enough so as to not burn you when you touch it, it’s time to squeeze out as much moisture as you can by putting blobs of the minced cauliflower on tea towels, wrapping the blob, then twisting the towel as hard as you can.  I’d prepared three tea towels for this twisting-squeezing fun and divided the cauliflower guts between them.

Tea towel #1:  I molded the cauliflower guts into a nice ball in the center of the towel, twisted the ends around it and commenced the squeeze-and-twist while allowing the liquid to drip into the sink.  Unbeknownst to me, this little tea towel had a lovely little hole in it.  So, when I began twisting and squeezing the blob of cauliflower, its guts spat out of that hole like a giant, explosive zit, spraying all over the front of my shirt and then dripped onto the rug beneath my feet.  Did I mention that the guts were still a bit hot because I’m too impatient to wait until they’re thoroughly cooled off?  I gathered up what I could save of the hot guts from the clean part of the sink and returned it to the tea towel.  I ignored the mess on the rug, to be dealt with later.  Then, I grabbed a regular towel to reinforce the defective tea towel and continued my squeezing twisting fun.  Once it was as dry as I could get it, I dumped it into the mixing bowl.

Tea towel #2:  Twist.  Squeeze.  Cauliflower guts shoot all over the front of the sink and my shirt — again.  How on earth am I not seeing these holes?!  Do I need new glasses already?  Grab another regular towel to reinforce this mess, too.  Squeeze.  Dump in bowl.

Tea towel #3:  Surprisingly, this one was in perfect shape and I had no issues with hot, explosive guts, whatsoever.

While I’m cleaning up the mess from the cauliflower massacre, I rinse out one of the tea towels so I can use it to wipe the counters.  Forgetting about tea towel #1’s explosion, I step right in the pile of cauliflower guts on the rug and proceed to create little mashed potato looking foot prints between the sink and the stove.  Good times!  Rinse out the 5 towels that I’d used to make this better-not-freaking-be-delicious bread.

I was secretly hoping this bread would suck so I wouldn’t have to go through the tedius and very messy process of making it — EVER again.  After the timer went off, I opened the oven door and poked a toothpick into the middle of the loaf which came out clean.  I removed my masterpiece from the oven.  I’ve got to say, this bread looked absolutely beautiful!  The instructions said to let the bread cool completely before slicing.  I actually followed this instruction.  This properly cooled loaf of bread sliced perfectly.  It is a denser bread and is more moist, similar to a pumpkin bread.  I decided to toast a slice because the ultra-moistness kinda grossed me out, seeing as it was intended to be more like traditional white bread, for sandwiches.  So, I browned a slice in a skillet.  This extra heat changed the bread’s texture to one resembling that of a pound cake.  Though this bread is more dense overall, it was sturdy yet tender and, according to my carb-junky daughter, “It’s really good!  I can’t believe it’s keto!”  I see some toasted tuna salad sandwiches in my future and maybe a grilled cheese sandwich, or two.

Moral of the story:  It appears that I will be making this bread in the future.  Dang it!!   However, not before new tea towels have been purchased, I’ll tell you that much.

My husband built our house a few years before we had gotten together.  It’s a beautiful home with a cathedral ceiling and a walkaround brick fireplace located between the living and dining room areas.  Near the front door, he constructed a half wall which essentially created an 8-foot wide walkway from that door into the living room.  That was something I’d never seen before.   This half wall was 15 feet long and stood at about waist level.   Imagine, if you were to come in our front door, the half wall is on your left, you can walk with your hand gliding along its top, and to the right is the wall which includes the door our bedroom.  A really long living room couch backed up against this half wall and there were end tables with lamps on either end.   Can you picture it?

Now, over time (not that much time, mind you), this half wall, the great wall of clutter, became a very irritating, anxiety-provoking, excrutiatingly painful eye sore to me.  I swear its primary evil purpose was to attract clutter.  You know, crap like mail, newspapers, or anything else that could not find its way back to its proper home.  My compulsive desire, er need, to keep it cleaned off at all times was repeatedly met with epic, catastrophic failure.  Over time, my irritation bubbled into an intense loathing.  I hated that damn wall and I’m convinced it could feel it, too!

One evening, my eldest daughter came to our house, opened the storm door and was knocking on the decorative, beveled glass windows of our front door.  She would normaly just come on in, but on this visit the door was locked.  At any other time, I would rise up from my seat, walk all the way around the half wall, then walk all the way down the little hallway to the front door and unlock it.   However, this time, not wanting to miss too much of whatever we’d been watching on TV, or perhaps I was simply too tired, I decided to take a little shortcut.  I thought I’d save some time and effort by reaching the lock from the end of the couch nearest that front door.

I immediately discovered that reaching the door lock from the couch was a complete impossibility.  Plan B ensues.  I climb up on the couch and commence to straddling my body across the great wall of clutter.  I’m strategically balancing my weight over it while successfully avoiding the lamp on the end table right beside me.  Such grace and coordination I possessed.  My rendition of the famous Dirty Dancing lift was done to perfection.  Ha!  Acually, it looked more like I was trying to give myself the Heimlich manuever.

Now, reaching the door lock from this angle and position was not as simple as I had envisioned.  I couldn’t reach it enough to sufficiently grip the lock knob with my fingers.   I can do this.  The great wall of clutter will not beat me!  I scooted my belly a tiny bit more across this wall and stretched my body toward the door as far as it would allow.   Just as the sharp wood edges of the evil half wall are about to rupture my spleen, I achieved a firm grasp on the door lock.  Yay!  With the anticipation that my daughter will be able to enter our house in mere seconds, I begin turning the door lock.  At this same moment, however, I am also feeling my balance wavering and I knew, without a doubt, I would be tumbling over the wall onto the floor.  A bit of panic washed over me and I’m thinking, OMG!  I‘m going to fall over this wall and hit the floor!  This is going to hurt!  I swear to you, this all happened in super-slow motion, yet I was completely unable to stop the momentum already in full swing.  My face was getting closer and closer to the floor (Gee, I should really vaccuum over here…), I was doing the best I could to brace myself for the all-over body pain I was expecting upon my impact with the floor and my feet effectively knocked the lamp to the living room floor as I’m doing a sloppy somersault to the other side.

My husband, who had witnessed the entire saga from his favorite seat in the living room, immediately jumped up to see if I was okay.  He finds me lying there, my knees bent up towards my chest, barely breathing and laughing without emitting any sound.  My daughter’s raucous laughter could be heard from the other side of the still locked front door.  The half wall was giggling and whispering to me, “How do you like me now?”  Evil wall!  It’s been more than ten years since this happened and I have yet to see my husband laugh as hard as he did that day!  And, he laughed for quite a long time, too.

Coincidently, after we’d been married for a few years, I convinced my husband to tear down the wall in order to “open up the space into the living room.”  While he pounded holes into that half wall with a hammer, I stood there witnessing the painful demise of the great wall of clutter, wringing my hands with a contented evil grin on my face.

Mwah ha ha, how do you like ME now?!

It’s the great Kentucky blizzard of January 2016, and I have to go work my night shift at the hospital.  It’s a 30-minute drive in the daylight, with good roads and cooperative traffic.  We already had 8 inches of snow on the ground, with the brutal wind blowing drifts high enough to thoroughly cover the roads.  Lacking any confidence in my car’s ability to trudge through the snow and get me to work safely, I asked my hubby to drive me to work in his four-wheel drive truck.  I got myself ready an hour early in order to accommodate for the much longer commute we expected.  The truck was warmed up nice and toasty when we started the trip down our long driveway through the heavily and very steadily falling snow.  I text my work friend to let her know I was on my way.  Away we went — dashing through the snow just as the sun was setting.  At several points on the country road from our house to the main road, we literally could not see the road — at all.  Just keep driving. Just keep driving.  Hospitals don’t close for inclimate weather, and blizzards are no exception.

We were less than two miles from the hospital and, what’s that I see?  Starbucks is — is it open??!!  “Pull in there,” I shout to my hubby excitedly.  I was thrilled and so looking forward to a caramel latte to start my long night shift.  It was so nice of them to be open for business in this horrid weather.  Pull up to the order window, and…sadly, it wasn’t open.  Apparently, they just leave their lights for no reason.  No problem.  Making the best of a disappointing situation, I notice the very empty parking lot in the shopping center beside the Starbucks, and I shout, “Do a donut in the parking lot!!”  Well, no self-respecting redneck man would ignore that request.  Hubby delivers and does the most perfect, full-spin, sliding donut in that snow-covered parking lot as I was woohooing the whole time.  So much fun!!  The moment the truck stopped, we hear sirens!  What???!  One donut and we get busted?!!  No!  It was only an ambulance heading to the hospital.  Sigh of relief.  On to work!  We’re about to pull into the hospital’s entrance when I get a phone call from my work friend.  “Vonda, uh, you’re not on the schedule tonight.  I thought I’d tell you before you got all the way here.”  Umm…ok.  I reluctantly share this news tidbit with hubby.   No words could’ve described the look on his face.  As he’s turning the truck around to head back home, he says, “I need a drink.”  Unable to contain it any longer, I burst out laughing, hysterically.  There we were, dashing through the snow in a four-wheel drive truck, with me laughing all the way.  Hubby was far less amused, which only intensified my giggles.

My niece, Rachael McNeill, did the illustration for this caper which is currently the cover photo on my A Comedy of Perils Facebook page.  She’s an amazing artist!  I hope to use much more of her work within my blog and book.  Thank you, Rachael!

I sat down at my computer late yesterday afternoon.  I suppose it was around 4:30.  As I kept writing and tweaking my blog post, I realized that it was getting pretty dark outside. “Wow, I’ve been writing for a long time,” I thought.  My fingers continue clicking on the keyboard.  “Hmm.  This is pretty cool, actually, being so lost in my writing.”  Click click click, enter.  “La la la...” then, BAM!!  Oh my gosh!  I totally forgot to take care of our chickens today!!  This was new.  Not once had I forgotten to take them their daily treat, usually a scoop of dry cat food, and collect the 12-20 eggs they’d produced.  Not once!  I’d been so hyper-focused on my writing, it almost startled me when I snapped out of it.  I sometimes envied the people who could maintain their mental focus for long periods of time like that.  With a touch of A.D.D., I tend to get — “Oh, look!  Squirrel!

Don’t worry, the chickens are fine.  I’d given them plenty of food and water the day before, plus I’ll be checking on them much earlier today than I would normally.

Once I’d completed my blog entry, I walked into the living room to watch a little TV and relax for the remainder of the evening.  I glanced at the clock on the living room wall.  It was 8:30 p.m.??!!!  I exclaimed, “OH MY GOSH!!  NO!!”  This is just great!  Not only did I forget about our chickens, I’d also forgotten to go to my Tuesday night salsa class being taught at our local gym, which started only two hours ago!  What?!  I was disgusted with myself.   Then, I was amused by the fact that I possessed the ability to zone out and be so completely engrossed in what I was doing.  I sat down in my chair, staring into space.  I was in a slight state of shock, of disbelief.  How the heck could I have been so oblivious to what time it was that I missed these two activities which are both pretty important to me?  Then, I felt all three emotions swirling around at the same time.  These three different feelings inspired me to create a new word that would describe the trio occurring simultaneously.   Welcome the birth of “bef**kled.”  (The asterics represent a bad word which I cannot bring myself to type in this blog post, but it’ll be in my book.   I’m sure you know the word to which I am referring.)

Bef**kled:  When you are disgusted, amused and in disbelief at the same time.  Created by Vonda Newsome on March 12, 2019.

Bright side — After reading my blogs for the first time, my husband told me, “You are a very good writer, by the way.”  Totally melted me.

The moral of my story — I will be using Siri reminders from now on!  (Still shaking my head…)

 

With both of our parents being teachers and having every glorious summer off, the crowned jewel of teaching benefits, they took us kids on countless summer camping trips.  On one trip, we brought along a very pregnant cat named Tilly.  Mom was worried that Tilly would give birth while we were gone, so she insisted we bring her with us.  We kept her in a box with the top open to keep her safe and comfortable during our trip, and in hopes that that’s where she would have her babies.  After we’d arrived at our camp site and all the tents were set up, Tilly decided it was time to give birth and she did just that, on the floor of one of our pup tents.  My brother, my sister and I watched as she gave birth to four tiny kittens.  That was pretty cool.

One of my favorite camping memories is when my sister, Becky, and I had constructed a trap near our campsite so we could catch chipmunks.  I’m not even sure what we used now, but we propped up the basket or box with a stick which had a long rope tied to it.   We’d lure the little chipmunks into the trap with some bread or breakfast cereal, pull the rope from where we were hiding, keeping a close watch, and we’d catch it.  We did this for hours and caught several of those little critters, too.  My sister was actually able hold one of those chipmunks in her hands.  It was so exciting for both of us since that was our main goal in catching them in the first place.  However, the chipmunk wasn’t having it and soon darted right out of Becky’s grip, leaving its tail right there in her hand.  It was hilariously entertaining, although I think Becky felt horribly about the rodent losing its tail.

Our father was nuts for “the old west,” and in the summer of 1970, I believe it was, that is exactly where we were headed.  Dad built onto a wooden utility trailer modifying it into the perfect tag-along for transporting all of our camping gear and our luggage, etc., and we began our westward journey.  I can still remember how bored I was through Indiana and Illinois.  It was nothing, I mean nothing but corn!  Throughout this trip, whenever it was time to fill up with gas, we would hear Dad exclaim, “There’s my price!  Twenty-nine point nine.”  Can you imagine gas being 29.9 cents a gallon?

It seemed that the further west we traveled, the stronger the winds became.  Perhaps it’s due to all the flat open land out there.  Dad did most, if not all of the driving and fighthing those strong winds really irked him.  He’d yell, “Damn wind!”   And, if he and Mom were having difficulty finding a route he’d yell, “Dammit,” followed by, “Where’s the map?!”  He’d get so frustrated.  “Damn wind!”  Ooooooh, how many times we heard that as we traveled further west.  We must’ve heard him say, “Dammit” a hundred times along the way, too.

Now, with three kids in the backseat of a small VW car, well, it gets a lil bit tense back there.  Due to my being the smallest child, I was sitting in the middle seat, “the hump,” of that VW squareback, and in every VW vehicle my parents ever owned thereafter. Always on the freakin’ hump!  It is NOT fun sitting in the middle, on a hump, between two of your older siblings.  If you are one who likes to sit comfortably in your own space, without your arms touching the skin of another human being, especially on very long car rides, well…you couldn’t have endured the hump seat.  I barely did myself.

With no air-conditioning in the car, the windows were always open and the breeze was kind of nice, at times.  However, with that lovely breeze also came my sister’s very long hair which liked to blow across my face, tickling my nose and basically just getting on my nerves.  All of them.  “Get your hair out my face,” I’d say.  She’d retort with, “Move over!!”  Our brother would shout out, “Mind your own business!”  As you can imagine, after a few choruses of “Move over,” “Mind your own business,” and “Get your hair out of my face,” Dad would chime in with, “Get the switch!”  That was Mom’s cue to grab the fly swatter, turn around in her seat, glare at each of us with her deep, dark, brown eyes, and threaten us with the butt-swatting of our lives if we didn’t “simmer down” back there.  If memory serves, it usually worked, too.

We made it to the big state of Missouri and finally saw something interesting in the distance.  Our parents simply had to check it out.  Looking back, I wonder if they’d known all along that we’d be stopping to see the St. Louis Arch and were just making it more exciting by letting us imagine and guess what it was when we saw it in the distance.  Once there, all five of us piled into one of those tiny elevator cars and enjoyed the bumpy, rickety, noisy ride to the top of the arch so we could look out the observation windows.  Definitely more interesting than miles and miles and miles of corn.

Mom would always keep a dampened wash cloth handy, which she kept in a plastic baggy stored in the glove compartment.  She’d use it to wash our hands and our faces as needed while we were on the road.  I can still feel the warmth of that damp cloth on my cheeks.  We didn’t do much restaurant dining on our trips.  Our meals were cooked by our mother either on a Coleman gas stove or we’d roast hotdogs over a campfire followed by the roasting of marshmallows, of course.  For those long car rides, Mom would make sure to pack snacks for everyone, too.  My favorite was the Underwood deviled ham on saltine crackers.  She would pop that little can open, get a knife and she’d start spreading that deviled ham on crackers and be handing them out one at a time to her hungry crew as quickly as she could.  I thought it was the best snack ever and could barely wait until it was my turn to get another one.

At one of the campsites on this westerly trek, my sister and I had had a fight wherein I visciously scratched her arms.  That tended to be my fighting tactic, my only tactic, since she was much bigger than me and I didn’t stand a chance physically.  I believe I’d yelled and screamed at her, scratched her, then cried myself to sleep that night.  When I awoke the next morning, all my fingernails had been clipped off.  Every last one was clipped to the nub.  Can you guess who did it?  I’m sure you can.

We continued our journey and saw all the major tourist attractions along the way:  The Grand Canyon, cave ruins, Mount Rushmore, Old Faithful, Bear Butte in South Dakota, old abandoned western towns, the Pacific Ocean, the steep streets of San Fransciso, the Golden Gate Bridge, the painted desert, the petrified forest, Yellowstone National Park with its bubbling (boiling) mud, the actual Salt Lake and Salt Lake City, and I’m sure many more.  It truly was a remarkable summer adventure.  We even drove through Hollywood and saw the sign way up on that hill.  I remember spotting the sign for Rodeo Drive, which I pronounced like the horse and cowboy event, not the proper way of “Roe-day-oh.”  We didn’t see any movie stars, that I recall, but the Hollywood Walk of Fame was something worth seeing.

We arrived at the Rocky Mountains in Colorado where Dad was determined to drive way up as close to the top as he could muster.  We were on a road that seemed to go in constant loops and turns which Dad called “hairpin turns.”  If I was to ever experience motion sickness, it would have been on this drive up the mountains.  Thankfully, that wasn’t an issue for me.  We reached a high enough elevation to actually see snow.   All of us in our shorts and tank tops and we were playing in the snow.  So fun!  My father’s initial goal for his first trip to “the old west” was to drive across the U.S. to California, and then on up to Alaska.  We went as far west as California and as far north as Montana before my parents felt the need to head back home based on their travel funds.

I don’t remember if it was on our way out west or on our way back home, but for one night we got to stay in a motel.  This was a very big deal for us because I don’t think any of us kids had ever stayed in a motel.  It was after dark, our parents were tired from the miles we’d spent on the road that day and they just wanted to go to bed without fussing with tent poles, pottying in the woods and such.   There up ahead, shining in the beams of our headlights was the Cornstalk Motel.  I kid you not, that was the name of it.  It had a bright yellow, very shiny cornstalk right on the sign.  Although we all had enjoyed camping, it was a nice treat to sleep inside, on beds.   Oh, the memories.

In 1976, when I was 14 and the only kid left at home, I went out west with my parents for the last time. For this trip, we were traveling in my mother’s butterscotch yellow Vega, with air-conditioning!  I had my own pup tent and would set it up and break it down by myself at every campsite.  We returned to Bear Butte in South Dakota and we all liked that campground so much, I think we spent two, or three, full weeks there.  We would gaze up at the stars each night which were so incredibly bright and clear out west.  When I wasn’t gazing at the stars, I was watching the park ranger whom I’d had a serious crush on at the time.  At night, I’d lie on my stomach with my head facing out the tent opening, my chin in my hands, watching him as he sat under a light pole looking through his log book or whatever it was he was doing.

On my fifteenth birthday, we were traveling on a long, straight highway somewhere in Arizona.  The day before I told Dad that all I wanted for my birthday was for him to not say “Dammit” the entire day.  Well, that worked out really well.  Along that hot, dusty Arizona highway, with the temperature about 119 degrees in the shade (if you could find any), was where, as luck would have it, the Vega up and died.  I don’t think my father said “Dammit” as many times in one day in his entire life as he said it that day, my birthday.  My parents ended up buying a used Jeep Wagoneer for $500.00 and towed the broken down Vega behind it for the rest of our trip.  (Funny, after we returned home, the Vega was sent to a mechanic for diagnosis and treatment where it was discovered that a $10.00 part would have fixed it.)  Since we’d already had an exhausting day with the heat, the dust and being stranded on a road somewhere in Arizona, my parents decided it might be a good idea to get a motel for the night and take it easy.  Wouldn’t you know it — we came across the Cornstalk Motel again.  The same place we’d stayed for one night during our first trip out west!

Earlier that day, my mother had purchased a Pepperidge Farm frozen chocolate cake for celebrating my birthday.  Oh, but it was completely thawed out by the time we checked into the motel, all the icing having melted off the cake part and sufficiently pooled in the corners of the box.  Mom had also gotten some fresh hamburger to cook for our supper which, by the time she got it out of the cooler (where there had been no ice for hours) had turned to a lovely, brownish color.  Determined not to waste food, Mom proceeded to cook our hamburger supper on a hot plate right there in our motel room.

Although I’d been a bit concerned with the burger having that brownish tint and all, it was the yummiest hamburger I’d ever had.  The cake too, even with its melted icing, was absolutely and incredibly delicious.  I really enjoyed my 15th birthday celebration in the Cornstalk Motel!   Dammit, anyway!

I had an eventful commute home the morning after working a 12-hour night shift. It was a wintery, extremely cold January morning.  There was snow on the ground and fresh snow was steadily falling with the wind blowing it fiercely.  I was almost home when I noticed my car was nearly out of gas.  The trip indicator showed less than ten miles were left on my tank.  Even though the roads were becoming quite treacherous, I decided it would be a good idea to get some gas before I went home.  To save what fuel I did have, I took a road that I would not normally take since it was the shortest route to the nearest gas station.  The snow seemed to be falling more quickly as I moved along.   Even though I had been driving slower and slower, when I came to a sharp curve and gently turned the steering wheel, my car insisted on going straight. I went right off that road, through a fence, bounced through a ditch and finally stopped in a field.  There I sat, alone, no houses in sight.  I watched the snow falling and listened to the howling wind for a moment, contemplating my current predicament.   

First thing I did was call my hubby and he arranged for a tow truck.  A nice man pulled off the road and came to check on me.  Apparently, he had been driving not far behind me and said that he nearly followed me into the same field.  After I assured him I was okay and that help was on the way, he advised me to sit in the passenger seat of my car so I wouldn’t be hurt should another driver run off the road in the same curve.  There I was, sitting alone in the middle of the country in my booboo-covered car.  Then, it hit me.  I have to pee!  What am I gonna do?!!  There are no houses close enough for me to walk to and with my menopausal bladder, I wouldn’t even make it 10 feet in that cold wind.   There was nothing but snow and mud all around the car.  Oh, that would be a sight — me squatting down beside my car and the wind blowing my stream sideways, likely all over my scrub pants and my shoes!  I knew there was no way I’d make it until the tow truck arrived because it had another run scheduled before coming to rescue me.

So, desperate times, right?  I look around inside my car.  I guess I could pee in my travel coffee mug.  No, that’s gross. But, I realllly gotta go!  There’s got to be something that I can use!  Aha!  I spot empty McD’s and Starbucks cups in the backseat.  I double the two up (you know, just in case one is leaky), climb over onto the passenger seat, get up on my knees, manage to get my scrub pants down just enough to accommodate my makeshift female urinal and, yes, I peed in my cups!!  Thankfully, I had some McD’s napkins in the glove box, and I only dribbled a tiny bit on my car seat.  Not long after that, the property owner came with a chainsaw to cut down fence posts and pull away the barbed wire fencing so the tow truck could pull me out without too much further damage.  When the tow truck dropped me and the wreckage off at home, I was sore, but not severely hurt, and I was very thankful that my front seat adventure transpired without any witnesses. 

Later that week, the insurance company declared that my car was completely totaled.  The bright side?  Well, when they towed that car away, it only had one mile left on the tank.  At least we weren’t out the money for filling it up, right?!

The year was 1998.  During one of my routine AOL chats with one of my very favorite people in the world, my Uncle Joe, he told me, “You would make a good nurse,” and in a later chat, “With your personality, you should go into nursing.”  I said, “ME?  A nurse?!!”  If chats had sound effects, that would’ve been a very shrill sounding “ME?!!”  Was he out of his mind?  I was terrified of needles and I couldn’t stand the mere thought of blood, much less the sight of it!  It was extreme, to say the least.  I mean to tell you, I would get grossed out and literally weak-kneed if I even thought about the blood in my feet and how when I stood up or walked, all those blood cells were being squeezed and squished between my foot bones and my skin.  Yeah, it was that bad.  

Five or ten years prior to that, my sister-in-law had been going through nursing school and I remember seeing her study at her dining room table.  She was reading one of those 20-lb nursing textbooks.  They’re ridiculously heavy and equally expensive.  Plus, they’re usually “outdated” by the next academic year making hand-me-downs, in order to save a fellow student some money, quite infeasible.  I’d sit at the table and occasionally glance at her as she turned the pages, absorbing all the medical knowledge they contained.  I really admired her determination to complete her degree with three young children at home.  She went on to become an excellent nurse, too.  Every now and then, when she’d be studying, I’d catch a glimpse of something unpleasant on her current page.  With my knees feeling weak, and my vision blurring, I would say to her, “I could never be a nurse,” as well as, “I could never even work in the medical field.”  This is just one of the many incidences wherefrom my use of the word “never” came back to bite me right in the buttocks.  Hard.

Well, Uncle Joe, in all his wisdom, had successfully planted a tiny seed in my head.  From time to time, I would mull over the idea of nursing and that mulling would be abruptly ceased by me.  Never!  Still, that little seed was determined to take root and persisted to the point that I was seriously thinking that, perhaps, just maybe, there was a career in the medical field which did not require my exposure to needles or blood.  I know.  I just heard you say it, too, “Yeah, right!!”  

With that seed taking up more and more space in my noggin, I finally looked into degrees which I felt would be tolerable, safe from the gory inside the body stuff.  Oddly enough, I really liked the thought of working in a hospital with lots of other people.   There seemed to be a wide variety of jobs within the hustle and bustle of hospitals and that appealed to me.  Through my online search for a new career, I came across medical assisting.  That didn’t sound very scary.  I spoke with a guidance counselor at a nearby college and signed up for the associate degree program.  For my first twelve-week semester, I registered for three classes.  They were anatomy, medical terminology and a literature course.  I made all A’s for that term and felt more confident that I was doing the right thing pursuing this medical field sort of training.  The second semester rolls around, I register for classes and — there it was — a clinical, hands-on class that required us to give shots and — draw blood!  On each other!  Needles?!  Blood?!  WHAT?!  I didn’t think medical assistants performed such tasks!  I was mortified, petrified, and was no longer constipated, if you get my meaning.

The anxiety I experienced due to the looming poke-a-student-with-a-needle-day was palpable.  I considered dropping my classes, hanging up my school bag (way far back in a closet), changing my name, leaving town, the state, the country, and forgetting all about this short-lived medical training endeavor nonsense.  I mean, what was I thinking, really?   However, I would think of my dear Uncle Joe and about how much he believed in me.  He had encouraged me every step of the way regardless of my phobias.  I surely did not want to disappoint him, prove him wrong for his belief in my abilities, or let him down.  Deep breath.  I persevered.   

B-Day arrived.  No, that’s not birthday, it’s, Blood Day.  On the day that we learned to draw blood, the instructor asked for a volunteer to go first.  Surprisingly, I was the only one to raise a hand.  I simply could not imagine waiting my turn through the 20 or so other students and possibly being last.  How agonizing that would have been for me.  I wanted to get this over with — and as quickly as humanly possible.  My heart was racing.  I think all my blood was in my face, but I was determined.  The instructor slowly talked me through the steps.  I tied the tourniquet snugly around my classmate’s upper arm.  I felt inside the bend of her arm for a suitable vein.  I thoroughly cleansed the site with alcohol.  Oh, please, can we just have a fire drill, like right freakin’ now, please?!  Deep breath in…and exhale.  I had the needle in my hand, that vein in sight and I really stuck it into my slightly hesitant classmate’s arm.  I wasn’t successful at harpooning the vein so I didn’t actually retrieve any blood.  I think she closed them all due to the fear created when a visibly terrified, shaking, fellow student is coming at her with a needle, determined to jab her vein and remove a blood sample.  But, I did it!  I was so elated, I screamed, “I didn’t get any blood, BUT, I POKED HER!!!”  The instructor hushed me and closed the classroom door.  I must’ve been really loud.  I actually did it.  I left school that day feeling six feet tall.  I was going to say ten feet tall, but when you’re five foot two, six feet is monumental.  Surviving that experience was a turning point for me and I realized maybe, just maybe, I really could do this nurse type job thing after all.  

After attaining my associate’s degree 2003, I soon found that hospitals don’t hire medical assistants.  They’re only used in clinics, doctors’ offices, etc.  That was a disappointment.   However, I got a hired by a small cardiology practice which was associated with my favorite hospital.  My co-workers were great people and I enjoyed working there for a couple of years before boredom set in, along with my yearning to work in a hospital setting.  There it was — I could either stay at the clinic indefinitely, or I could go on to nursing school and work in a hospital.  So, that is what I did.  There I was, studying at my dining room table just like my sister-in-law had done, paging through the 20-lb textbook, learning about unpleasant human conditions and looking at the accompanying gory pictures.

Today is my one-week blogger-versary!  I have enjoyed it immensely.  When I’m writing, I get completely lost in it.  It’s like Calgon has truly taken me away.  It’s — it’s… transcendent.  There’s the word!  That’s something else I’ve learned through television.   With the help of the Netflix series, Grace and Frankie, I have learned a lot of new and exciting vocabulary words. Words like transcendent and ubiquitous. Now that latter one is a really cool word, isn’t it?  I was super proud of myself for spelling it correctly when I looked it up online because, of course, I had no freaking idea what it meant.  Did you stop reading this post so you could look up the meaning of it, too?  I have a spiral-bound notebook where I log my newly discovered television words. At this moment, I’m not exactly sure where that notebook is, but I have it here — somewhere.

A dear friend once asked me, “How do you know when you found the right guy?”  My answer to her was, “When you no longer have to ask that question.”  So it is, I’ve learned, with finding your life’s passion.  I’m not talking about romantic passion.  I’m talking about the passion you feel when you’re doing something you really, really enjoy doing…eh, I guess that could mean both kinds of passion.  Let me clarify, when you’re doing something that could be your life’s work, your career.  Umm, well that could be even clearer still.  It’s when you are doing what you are called to do, the greater purpose for your life, be it the job or creative endeavor that truly sparks the joy within your heart.   That’s better.

You would think that finding your life’s passion would be very easy, a no-brainer, that you’d instinctively know the answer to the question, “What is your passion?”  But for some, that is not the case.  It’s apparently such a common subject for our human brains to wrestle with that scads of books have been written on the subject.  I personally have read and/or listened to such books while discovering my passion(s).

Photography is a passion of mine.  I’m continually framing pictures wherever I go and whatever I’m doing.  I’ll think “Oh, that would be a great picture,” as I’m snapping the photo in my brain, sometimes blinking my eyes like Barbara Eden on the 60’s show, I Dream of Jeannie.  “Wish I had my good camera with me,” I’d think to myself.  When I look back through the pictures I’ve taken over the years, and there are literally tens of thousands, maybe even more of them, everything around me fades away.  It’s just me and those precious fleeting moments, captured and frozen in time with the click of a shutter button.  I just had a mental image of me sitting in a zen posture, floating up above the clouds, everything around me is white, and I’m flipping through stacks and stacks of pictures.  What exactly is in this Starbucks vanilla coffee anyway?!

Paraphrasing definitions from the internet:  A dream is a vision or goal that resides in your brain. Passion is doing something you love again and again with ease and without getting tired.  A dream may be pure fantasy, but passion is always real.  I think that the two can sometimes be melded together.  In 1982, the first of two times that I was approached regarding the Amway multi-level marketing plan, the presenter asked me, “What is your dream?”  I said, “I want to live in the country, in a house up on a hill, with bay windows, a long driveway, a pond and a barn full of cats.” Do you know where I live now?   I live in the country with a wonderful husband whom I’ve been with since 2002.  Our house is up on a hill.  We have bay windows. Our driveway is about 600 feet long.  We have a pond between our house and the main road.  I also have nine cats who have a cushy space in our pole barn which I’ve named “the kitty condo.” Don’t tell me that dreams are just in my head.  I’ve lived it. It may have taken me 20 full years, and one hell of a wild ride, but by golly, it sure came true, and with exquisite detail.

I’ve also had the wild dream of having Ellen Degeneres and Chris Tucker teach me to club dance.  My favorite part of Ellen’s talk show is her dance intro and I’ve watched the movie Rush Hour more times than I can count, mostly for the musical scenes where Chris is jamming to tunes in his car and such, but I laugh throughout the movie every single time.  A little voice may occasionally whisper to me saying, “Yeah, right, like that’ll ever happen.  Chris and Ellen teaching you to club dance?   Dream on.”  I simply answer with, “Well..why not?  Did I tell you about where I live?  It can happen!”  Dreams don’t just reside in your brain.  They can and do come true!  I’m passionate about my dream of being a published author, and it’s on its way to being a reality.  See?  The two do go together.

When you’re doing something that is in alignment with your passion, you’ll be thoroughly engrossed in it.  It comes easily and you don’t notice the passage of time.  You may forget to eat.  I always thought, how the heck can someone forget to eat?  Do you just not get hungry?  Well, I can now say that I’ve done it. I have forgotten to eat while I’m writing.  I have a potentially embarassing confession to share with you. I have spent entire weekends sitting at my computer, completely focused on writing my book, barely eating, only leaving the house to feed the cats and chickens, and totally without showering.  Do you know where the bridal bouquet tradition originated? Brides would carry strong smelling flowers, in part, to help mask their body odor. Daily baths were not a common practice way back when.  Hey, at least I didn’t pee in mason jars and line them up against the wall, and since my hubby has a man cave, he did have an escape from my potentially pungent aroma.

I worked on my March 7th blog entry for five hours and it felt like 30 minutes.  Although I spend a crapload of that time reading, rereading and editing what I’ve written, the whole process seems to flow from me quite naturally.  It’s like I’m the instrument for something much larger than me.  That may sound super cheesy and/or flaky, but it’s the best way I can describe how writing makes me feel.  The joy I experience when I’m writing, well, there are no words.  No pun intended.  You know, no words for the words I’m typing.  I know, I’m silly.

Every day I ask, “What will I write about on my blog today?” Every day, I am answered.   It may be a fragmented answer, sometimes it’s a single word, like passion, that pops into my head.  I’ll take it, sit down in front of my computer, and just start typing.  A word here and there. The next paragraph may be just a few sentences followed by a string of equal signs, my cue that I need to fill it in later. I just keep typing, editing, rearranging until I think it will make sense to my readers.  It’s been pretty cool, so far, this whole blogging thing.

Hey, guess what!  While I was searching for something else, I found the spiral-bound notebook which contains my list of vocabulary words!!  Life is good.

In the description for my humorous autobiographical book, it states that along with the giggle-snort worthy true stories, there is also some heartbreak and tragedy.

After my mother’s passing in 2013, my father remained in their home and he managed quite well by himself, the vast majority of time.  I lived 141 miles south of my parents, yet I was the most logical offspring to care for either of them in their times of need.  Thus, I was there to help them through any serious illness or after major surgeries.

During a small, family style New Year’s Eve 2016 party here at our house, I received a call from my brother-in-law, Gary, urging me to come to Ohio right away.  Dad had become quite ill and Gary expressed his deep concerns.  He and Dad had become besties and Gary would visit him daily and they’d share a cup of Nescafe coffee.  I told Gary I’d be there as soon as I could, we ended our conversation, and I explained to my family what was happening.  I told my husband, “I think I’m going to be gone for a long time, this time.”  In a flurry of activity, I packed my bags with everything I would need for an extended stay, gave my hubby an early Happy New Year kiss, and was on the road heading north by about 10:30 p.m. Little did I know, I would not return home until the following June.  Details of this precious time with my father during his last six months on this earth will be included in my book.

As far back as I can remember, Dad loved to watch the news, and my visits home were no exception.  He’d watch it every day, many times a day and, most often, very very loudly.  Now and then, he’d mute the sound and just read the closed-captioning in silence.  I truly cherished those breaks in the media noise, since one could have a difficult time ignoring the sound coming from a bright and blaring TV screen a mere 4.5 feet from one’s face. That one was me, as that is where I sat with him in that kitchen, most times, in that little blue recliner that had been my mother’s and was positioned in front of the television.  This television remained on from time Dad woke up in the morning until he went to bed at night.

I possess a very sensitive soul and it simply cannot endure the horrific, often graphic, worldly news that’s splattered all over the TV, internet, etc.  So, in order to survive my extended stay by avoiding the news details that, quite literally, have caused me to lose sleep, I purchased a single bluetooth earbud and started listening to music through my Pandora app.  I opted for a single earbud so I’d have one ear available to focus on my father’s activity.  He required a lot of supervision, the rascal.

Along with my father’s television being on all-day, he also had a small boombox in the living room on which he’d play the local classical music channel, also all day every day.   Another of his morning routines was turning on that little box.  Now, I’ve personally never been much of a classical music fan.  Many of the pieces coming from that radio station would irritate me — a lot, actually, almost to the point of banging my head on the wall.  So frantic and unorganized.  Eek.  However, when a waltz, any waltz, would start to play, I would immediately feel my spirits being lifted, it’d make my heart smile and fill me with the urge to glide all through the house along with the music like Julie Andrews on that mountaintop in The Sound of Music. I especially looked forward to catching Sleeping Beauty by Tchaikovsky on that radio since it became and remains my favorite waltz of all time.  I suppose, mainly because it reminds me of being with Dad.

I don’t remember what type of music I listened to first on Pandora, but once I started this courtship, I spent a lot of time listening to 1940’s and 1950’s music as well as waltzes.  I do love the sound of a waltz, have I mentioned that?  While I sat just 54 inches from the distracting news screen, I could play Candy Crush, or any other game, on my iPhone, successfully avoiding eye contact with the bad news box, while being swept away by the beautiful 1-2-3 melodies playing in my ear.  I’d often close my eyes and envision a large ballroom filled with couples in their lovely formal wear, music wafting through the air as they dance ever so gracefully and effortlessly around the ballroom.  Then, I’d see myself out there twirling around the vast openness in a totally fabulous full-length ballgown.  Oooh, it’s so wonderful to dream.  (Sometimes, when I was only listening to Dad’s boombox, the triumphant part of the music would coincide with me winning a level on my game.  I loved it when that happened!  It’s the little things, isn’t it?  Ha ha.)   When I’m dreaming of waltzing, I keep seeing myself in an ivory-colored dress.   That is most definitely NOT my color.  It makes me look like I have jaundice, for real.  Some of you may think the proper word is “jaundiced,” but I looked it up.  Jaundice is a disease, so it is a noun.  Jaundiced is an adjective, so, I suppose I could’ve said I appeared jaundiced? I dunno.  I like “have jaundice” better.  On that note, I’ll be right back..I’m closing my eyes and changing the color of my dress so I don’t look jaundiced.

That took a little longer than I expected.  Almost took a nap!  I was going to say white, but that’d make me look like a bride.  While I kept my eyes closed, holding the image of my gown steadily in my mind, the color of the gown changed continually, as if I were using a fashion app, until I landed on my very favorite color — red, of course.  Not an orangy red, no.  A deep, rich, luxurious, true red.  Yes, that’s the gown.  Now, I can continue writing/typing.

Return to me sitting in my mother’s blue kitchen recliner.  Since I’d been imagining myself dancing to the songs, I had a brilliant idea.  I could check YouTube for videos of actual people dancing to the actual song which had currently resonated with me.  Insert lightbulb above my head!  Voila!!  I watched countless videos of people dancing to songs I’d heard through my earbud.  I’d watch couples dance the jitterbug, foxtrot and the Lindy hop, among others, and that is where my long-time dream of learning to dance intensified.  It looked like so much fun.  Along with my favorite waltz of all time, I quickly acquried my favorite waltz videos, which were promptly saved in my favorites.

I told you about my dance lessons at Arthur Murray, right?  After this week’s lesson, my instructor gave me homework.  To prepare for upcoming events at the studio, I am to compile of a list of songs that mean something to me along with the dance I’d like to perform to each song.  Although, Sleeping Beauty by Tchaikovsky is my very favorite, beloved waltz, it would pose an unnecessary choreographical challenge to my instructor.  I told him not to worry and that I would find another waltz, no problem.

After I got home, I started looking through the songs on my Prime Music playlist.  It was very easy to find my very favorite disco song, Fantastic Voyage by Lakeside, that I’ll be dancing the hustle to, oh yeah.  Maybe not the advanced hustle, just yet, but the hustle.  The real deep disco beat in that song just revs me up.  The foxtrot would most definitely be to the musical genius of Glenn Miller and/or Mills Brothers.  After all, they are truly the best.  My parents would agree!  Many moons ago, my parents hosted dance parties in their basement.  I can still hear the catchy, addictive beats of their 40’s big band music and the sounds of dance wax being shuffled all over the floor by dancing couples having a splendid time, while I’m upstairs watching primetime shows like The Partrdige Family and The Brady Bunch on a black and white television.  I enjoyed listening to those dance parties, plus the snacks Mom served her guests were really yummy.

But, now, the waltz…which waltz?  I didn’t have a second favorite, nor could I even name another one.  Along with the 40’s, 50’s, and waltz music stations on Pandora, I would often listen to solo piano.  It is so relaxing, soul-calming, and reminds me of my mother playing her piano which was also located in their basement.  I did a lot of this type of thing while I stayed with Dad in order to remain calm, present and to lessen the stress of being away from my husband and my family back in Kentucky.  I searched waltzes on Prime Music and the name of one of my favorite solo pianists caught my eye.  His name is Brian Crain and the waltz listed, Butterfly Waltz.  It’s a piano and cello duet and has a lovely album cover, too.  Of course, I had to play it right then and there!

I didn’t recognize it as one I’d ever heard, but it immediately touched something inside of me.  Something very deep in my soul and completely unexpected.  Within mere seconds of listening to this beautiful waltz, I felt the welling up of emotions in my chest which grew and grew until they were bursting out of my eyes.   Streams of tears were soon cascading down my face faster than I could wipe them with a tissue, and I let them.  You see, I hadn’t fully processed my grief after losing Dad, now nearly two years ago.  Oh, since my father died, I would allow some tears to fall here and there, but only in small, metered increments which I felt I could withstand.  You see, I’d still had a job to do and was determined to see it through and, hopefully, make my parents proud:  I had to clean out their house, their memories and personal items, and sell their house.  The house they’d lived in since 1965.  The house that was built in 1949, the year they got married.  So, not realizing it, I’d put my personal grieving on hold.  A serious hold.  My job of selling their house was completed last October.  I still haven’t been back to see it, though I know it is being truly loved and well taken care of by my niece and her little family.   There’s new life in my parents’ home now and I’m very thankful.  It, too, had mourned my parents’ passing and its grief was much more evident than my own.

I have found my waltz.  It feels as though Butterfly Waltz narrates my entire life, playing it back for me in 3:43 minutes of beautiful music.  It represents the sacrifices I made in order to take care of my parents, no matter the inconvenience or the cost.  “Doing the right thing isn’t always convenient,” I would often say.  It’s the putting myself on the back burner for one reason or another and the many decades of maybe somedays.  But, most of all, it is me saying, “I did it, Mom and Dad!  I took care of everything the way you wanted me to.  And, look at me!  I’m dancing to some of your favorite music now!  Can you believe it?!  It has been very hard, but I think I can let go of you now, feel my sorrow, and move forward with my life — my life without you here on earth.  I hope I’ve made you proud.  I love you both and will miss you every day — for always.”

At the next Arthur Murray event, I may look like one of the celebrities on Dancing With the Stars, dancing under the mirrored ball to a personally meaningful song with tears streaming down their face as the camera zooms in to get a serious closeup like they’re trying to count each tear that falls.  I may be a blubbering, floor-soaking mess.  But, I’ll be out on that ballroom floor — waltzing.

P.S.  I fully intend to master that advanced hustle dance, too, daggonit!!

It was late June 2018, a beautiful, warm, and sunny day. After getting home from work that afternoon, I had a little extra energy and decided to work on the little chicks’ run and mini coop. The six adult hens and cocky rooster enjoyed the show through the chicken wire between the two coops. I put lots of lovely, fluffy shaved pine bedding in the mini coop, then cleaned out the water bowl and filled it with fresh water. 

Ahh, happy chickies! With a feeling of joyous accomplishment, I opened the door — uh, tried to open the door to get out, but it would not open. “Seriously?!” I exclaimed as I tried to open the door a second time. Nope. Nothing. Ordinarily, I would have my cellphone tucked into my waistband for just such emergencies (to which I seem to be awfully prone). This time, however, I had laid my phone on the outer window ledge on the big chickens’ coop so I couldn’t accidentally drop it in the muddy run. Smart, right? My phone was several feet away and out of my sight. Great! Hubby won’t be home for at least four more hours. Great!! No one inside the house would be able to hear me yelling. Great!!! I’m freaking stuck in here, and I’m going to die. I can see the news story: Woman trapped in a chicken coop for hours suffers severe dehydration and numerous deep, life-threatening wounds from vicious pecking chickens! I tell ya, it’s the modern-day version of that Alfred Hitchcock movie! You can’t make this stuff up, folks!

There I was — trapped — left with 16 young, inquisitive chickens and my own wits and resourcefulness to get myself out of this mess. Okay, we’re breaking out of this mother! The door to the run opens out into the yard, usually. I tried to pull it inside, against its normal flow, which got me nowhere. As luck would have it, the metal pipes I hammered into the ground to keep raccoons from digging under the fencing were now keeping ME from getting OUT. I’m sure the raccoons are having a good laugh right about now.  Next, I pushed the door hard, in the right direction, hoping that whatever the SOB was catching on would be released. Of course, that didn’t work either. Okay, let’s try kicking the bottom of the door really hard. Yeah, that was futile. The next few minutes remain a blur to me as my panic from being trapped took over, and I basically beat the hell out of the door and bent the entire frame to the chicken run. However, to my surprise, my maniacal efforts paid off as I discovered a 6-inch gap through which I could possibly make my escape. I think I can. I think I can!  I squeezed my body through the tiny and incredibly painful opening, effectively shaving inches off my hind-end and my breasts and finally got myself free! At that point, I had 23 birds standing there motionless, staring at me with a look that said, “What the cluck was her problem?”