Workin' And Playin'

It's been freezing here. We've had to drag in all of our most beloved plants and spend our lounging time in long-johns and multilayered discomfort. One of the main things I hate about winter is having to wear multiple shirts. Oh the one on the bottom always twists around and bunches up and you can't get it flat again without bunching up the other ones and then the sleeves don't line up, and who knows what else will go wrong. Boy I hate that.

Mops and I had to set up a wedding in harsh icy winds and then the roads froze over so Brett and I didn't have to go back to clean up at midnight like we usually do. Instead it had to be done at 8am. Brett was not planning to help with this particular teardown because it was daylight and there was no cause to worry. Sweet Bubba Brett never sends me off to a teardown in the middle of the night to teardown next to a bunch of muscle-laden hourly laborers, without him there as my backup. Brett has never missed a teardown so I was happy to let him sit this one out... until I slipped on the ice covered porch steps and then I got too nervous.

"Bubba?" I asked softly from the threshold of our bedroom. He was all toasty in bed, enjoying the luxury of a Saturday morning sleep-in. 
"Mmm," he grunted.
"I'm too scared to drive over the bridge." Truth is, I was scared about the icy bridges but I was also suddenly worried about a number of aspects of tearing down such a wedding by myself. All the ladders and glass mixed with icy water made me nervous. I had to lean my ladder on some brick steps to hang some greens. Would that be especially dangerous now? No one would be around if I followed in Papa Don's misplaced footsteps.
"Mmm,"
"The ice. What if I go over the side of the bridge? I don't know how to drive in snow."
"Mmmmm,"
"I know, I know. It's not snowing. But if you come with me, I'll take you out for breakfast after." He got right up out of bed, put on this fleece-lined britches and still made me drive over the bridge, but with him in the passenger seat for mental safety. It was even colder and more rainy than I expected so I was extra glad for the extra hands. Also, he's so tall, we didn't even need the ladder. He just stood in a chair and used his Go Go Gadget arms.

That Eisenhauer is the real deal.

A few weekends ago, we got with Ellie and Caroline and had "Sports Day." We met at a park in West Ashely and we all brought along assorted sports balls. Mostly we played Pickle Ball. I'd never heard of such a silly sounding sport but it was lots of fun. We've all played this together a few times and so far, Ellie is undefeated. We contemplated soccer and tennis before we settled on basketball. I have never played basketball in any capacity other than shooting hoops in the driveway with Pops. I do not know the rules of the game nor do I have any concept of what one should be doing when not in possession of the ball. Ellie, Caroline, and I are all 5 feet, 6 inches tall. Brett is 6'4". Caroline and Brett played basketball as teens so really they were the only two playing, but Ellie and I pretend to help our teammates. I pushed Eisenhauer around, climbed on his back, swung my knees towards his nether-regions, but it was all for nothing. He still won.

For next month's issue of The Mercury, I've interviewed Ellie about her Etsy shop. That may not sound like a thrilling read but when people find out that she was able to quit her real job because of the popularity of her Etsy shop, people really become intrigued. I went over to interview her while she and Caroline painted their new accent wall. She chatted all nonchalantly about big success and when I came home and told Brett about it, he and I became frantic about coming up with some easy thing we could sell enough of to quit our jobs. It's very unlike both of us to get caught up in money making or, as Brett calls it "selling out." Neither of us are money-motivated over happiness-motivated. I chase free time. Brett prioritizes progress. We don't need heaps of money for those things - so we don't focus much on it. Suddenly we were overtaken by the possibilities money can provide. "Why am I busting my butt for beans!?" Brett declared. 

"Yeah!" I added for support.

"This takes up all of my time and for what? And if I mess up, people die!"

"Yeah!"

"We need our own Etsy shop!"

"Yeah!"

We stopped brainstorming to eat dinner and then we forgot all about our brief meltdown chasing fame and fortune. I'm noting this happenings for the entirely new sensation of it. I'm not a jealous person at all and Brett isn't easily thrown off track of his goals, which has never been buckets of money. We've never buckled on these things at the same time. We became an entirely different couple - two lost people. Two bitter little people claiming injustice. I didn't like it at all. After we ate and felt better, we realized that there isn't really anything we want to buy. Isn't that silly. And sure, I'm a little hung-up on having land or marsh-views (or both) someday but other than my "design minded" home, we can afford the things we want... because we're simple bumpkins. 

Speaking of which, Brett stuffed me into the car this afternoon and wouldn't tell me where we were going. This wasn't exciting like the mystery date because I could tell he had done something big without telling me first. We took my car, which was my first clue. He doesn't like to drive my car because it "smells" - this refers to the tiny leaves and flower petals that fall down into the cracks and dry out. My car has an earthy smell that I really like. So there. 

He cleared out the back of my car and put the seats down. Clue Two. We're picking up something large. He stopped by an ATM. Clue Three. He hasn't bought it yet which means we're meeting a strange person somewhere for some kind of illegal transaction. 

We got on the highway and headed north. We got off on Ashley Phosphate and I became nervous. Finally, we pulled into a self storage facility. "Ok seriously Brett, I don't have my phone. Should we go ahead and get the police on the way while you're in there? Does anyone know where we are right now? Need I remind you where Dexter did his best work?"

A skinny man with dark teeth pulled up next to us and then he and my precious husband disappeared into the storage place. I waited in the car with the doors locked, wishing Brett had left his phone with me. Just as I became worried about how long they'd been in there, they came out with a drum kit. 

Brett has purchased drums. 

The Last Three Weeks

Our family Christmas proved to be a super-spreader event. Mom and Dad set out to North Carolina to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary on the same morning that Brett woke up with a head cold. Mom's throat was sore but that's easy to overlook when headed towards adventure. Jordan felt dizzy. David felt crappy. I took on a sympathy headache. Surely it's not...Covid. Once safely checked into their hotel room and guts filled with a big meal, Mom and Dad took a health-based nosedive. Itchy sore throats, watery eyes, hacking cough. That's it, we're going home. They got in the car the next morning, drove back to Charleston, passed their Covid tests with flying colors, and then locked their front door never to come out again...for 10 days. 

When hearing they were positive, Brett got tested and he also passed. Ellen began to panic. Her childcare services would be unavailable until further notice. Jordan tested positive. I went out in search of at-home covid tests but the city was sold out. Appointments for tests were booked up for two weeks. We later named me an honorary Covid patient as my wherewithal withered away and my head went stuffy. Margie followed Jordan down the swirling vortex as we all cancelled our New Years Eve plans.

Mostly it was mild for everyone. It's possible that Ellen did the bulk of the complaining during that time due to being inconvenienced. In addition to free childcare, she also receives Meals on Wheels services twice each week from Papa Union's kitchen. She would call all of us each day, and if we ever felt worse and not better she would tell us how unbearable it was to be so bored and she can't take us being sick much longer. Meanwhile we all quarantined, ate sad pantry-based meals (though Ellen did drop off groceries on occasion), battled cabin-fever, and watched a lot of tv. We're all mostly better now.

During that time, Brett accidentally left one of our gates open and our dogs escaped. This is always troubling, but especially so when you live on a busy road near a big curve. Brett and I arrived home from a bike ride and noticed the dogs did not greet us as usual. Seeing the open gate made our stomachs drop. We ditched the bikes and jumped in the car. I looked as far down the road as I could see, looking for any large blobs laying the road. That I never saw one is what kept me calm. We knew two things for sure. Grace would try to bite anyone who tried to help her - which means she will not be "found" by any well-meaing people, so we would not be receiving a call about Grace. Pippa would likely warm up to a kind stranger urging her out of the road but she would be very distressed about being "kidnapped" and likely make a run for it again - thus we may receive a call about Pippa, but her whereabouts could be fleeting. 

We drove around in the neighborhoods where we walk them while Dad drove around in Ellen's neighboring neighborhood. No luck. Who knew how long they had been out and how far they had gotten in the time. We headed back home and there in the distance, nearly army crawling down the sidewalk, was a nervous, mud-covered Pippa. We sped towards her hoping to catch her before she ran into the road. I rolled down the window and called her but with all the surrounding road noise, she took in no ounce of my soothing tones. We pulled up next to her and she ignored our roaring engine. "Pippa!" I shouted, but still, she crawled on. I opened the door and jumped out of the car and it scared her. She looked at me with terror in her giant puppy eyes. I saw the relief wash over her furry face when she recognized me. She leapt and licked and catapulted her up-and-down tail. I clipped on a leash and then she dragged me straight home. Brett drove on while I put Pip back in the yard. I was wrong about the mud. Pippa was filthy. Her face, her neck, her back. But she also stunk. Upon further inspection, I realized Pip had rubbed and wallowed in a decaying animal carcass. 

I locked her up and set out on foot for Grace. I got as far as the neighbor's house when David stepped off his porch to say hello. "Well hey there! Whatcha doin'?"
"I'm looking for Grace actually. She's gotten loose," I told David, our friendly neighborhood truck driver. We chitchatted a little and then David interrupted me.
"Well there she is," he pointed behind me, "Isn't that her?"

Down the street on the other side of the road, Grace stood watching us from the distance. 

"Grace, what are you doing?" I shouted, "Come here!"

She mulled it over quietly. I began jogging towards her. There were no cars coming so it was a great time for her to run across the road. Grace continued to contemplate my instructions as I closed the gap between us. She waited to hear oncoming traffic to begin her promenade across the street. 

"No. No no. Stay!" I yelled, but she danced an elegant waltz into the road. I waved my arms to flag down the drivers. David stepped into the road to stop cars. Grace chose to cross the street at an extreme diagonal, increasing the amount of time she would spend in the road. 

"Grace, come here!" I yelled, embarrassed. Traffic had stopped. Pleased to finally have an audience, Grace slowly sauntered and tiptoed past the cars and ended her performance with a playful puppy leap as she made it to the sidewalk. The people in the cars laughed but I didn't find it funny until later.

Unlike Pippa, she was sparkling clean, so after I pulled chunks of dead animal off of Pip and gave her bath, both girls sacked out for the rest of the day.

Also in the last three weeks, Brett and I seriously considered purchasing this jaw-dropping beauty of a house...

 

...and Ellen had an early labor scare. 

We're all kind of exhausted lately.

Meaty Thoughts

Unbeknownst to most people in my life, I've just gone a full month without eating any meat. While I hadn't made the conscious decision to become a vegetarian per se, my growing abhorrence for the factory farming industry prompted my curiosity about a meatless existence. It all started two years ago when Brett and I were writing our wills.

We haven't gotten around to any of the things people are "supposed" to do when they get married. I haven't changed my name, we haven't done anything about our bank accounts, Brett hasn't become an unbuttoned recliner-based babyman, and I don't wear circle skirts and a kitten heel while making dinner. I know, are we even married? 
But we did determine that if one of us kicked the bucket, we should have the right paperwork in place to prove that we liked each other. Both of our wills say something along the lines of "If I die, she/he gets it all," but it's written in Shakespearean for no apparent reason. Signed, sealed, filed away in case of emergency. But if we both kick the bucket?

Seeing as we don't want kids and all, we had to think about where our "assets" would go if we were to be smothered out holding hands in a fiery blaze on the Iberian Peninsula. Yeah yeah we have nieces and nephews blah blah. We started researching non-profits and found a neat website with a big ole list of ones that do a good job allocating their finances to the causes rather than the well-meaning pockets that started them. As we scrolled through the C's, Compassion In World Farming caught my eye.
"Wait, go back. Click on that one," I said.
"What one?"
"The compassion one." What on earth could that be? The webpage loaded and my life changed forever. I've always known about the paint-slinging PETA people and the Humane Society's hard work for our pets. I also knew about assorted World Wildlife Fund types that help the endangered critters. I didn't know there were people fighting for farm animals... because I'd never thought anyone would need to. Surely farmers love their critters as much I would if they were in my care. I was shocked to learn that there are actual animal activists. If someone had told me this in high school I may have actually had something to be interested in.

I ditched Brett and went over to my computer to read more about Compassion in World Farming. Boy those folks are neat. I immediately signed up to be a monthly donor and not long after, we had a subscription to a humane-certified meat delivery company. "Were not buying the tortured meat from Harris Teeter anymore," I declared to Brett, as though he'd had the same revelation, "And we're paying triple for those happy farm eggs. Do you know what they do to those factory hens?" 

Our grocery bill expanded, though the volume of product stayed the same. (Possible reason for the separate bank accounts?) Costs a lot of money to care for animals properly.

I carried on this way for about year. I was glad to be chipping in to CIWF as they make legal cases to pass basic animal welfare laws. I thought I'd even like to work for the company if only I had a background in law or politics. But a gal that makes flower arrangements and lives in fear of the outside world is really only of monetary value to such efforts. Brett and I also ate guilt-free from our Butcher Box subscription. Life was good.

The problem with becoming a regular contributor to a cause is that they send you updates and petitions to sign, and their head fundraiser calls you from time to time to make sure you still love them. I've loved all of these things really; I pretend I'm part of the team. The problem is that it becomes difficult to take in the different campaigns, efforts, and laws without learning more and more about the factory farming industry, and there is a definite point of no return where you can't eat any animal products without a having one of the heartbreaking campaign images flash through your mind as you chew.

"I don't want to be a vegan!" I shouted to Brett as he was trying to read a sci-fi novel. 

"You don't have to," he mumbled, not looking up from the page.

"I do though," I wailed, " I may as well start an Instagram page and take pictures of myself in workout clothes. #selfcare #plantbased." Brett ignored me in this moment but we did begin to do Meatless Monday two or three times each week. Brett will eat anything so long as there's enough of it.

Unrelated photo someone took of the bridge on our foggy New Years morning. 

A few months ago, CIWF mentioned partnering with The Humane League for an upcoming campaign so I did a Google search about those folks and found a new home in their volunteer program. I signed right up, attended orientation, and met my regional cat-hearder on a giggle filled zoom call. I sign petitions for the Humane League, but I also get to send sassy seething emails to companies who knowingly support cruel animal practices, and restaurants and grocery stores that committed to doing better but have dropped the ball. You now how I enjoyed reprimanding the tenants that wouldn't pay their rent on time? Who knew I had the audacity to scold strangers whose circumstances I didn't understand. Well this is like that but even better - mostly because I know they won't ever write back. All of us volunteers are in a giant chat database where we plot and scheme. We won a campaign back in December and I really felt like I was part of it. That's an entirely new sensation. Is this that teamwork thing?

One animal I've really fallen for in all of this is the turkey. They are so smart and loving. And then I read about how they "produce" so many turkeys in time for the holidays and I was appalled. I won't tell you about it but I'll simply say its painful and non-consensual. I skipped the turkey this Thanksgiving (sorry Dave), and seeings as its right there at the end of the month I thought, "Let's go the month of December without eating any sweet critters." So I did. Brett did a lot of the meatless meals with me but I'd still cook him a salmon filet or pork loin when he decided he needed more oomph. I took to some very creative vegetarian cookbooks and we ate better this past December than ever before. Almost every night had at least two new veggie creations, every one of which was delicious. Brett acknowledged that he assumed we'd have a month of bland boring meals and he happily conceded that flavor and variety run rampant in the veggie world. 

Anyways, during a recent chat with my CIWF contact, I mentioned off-handedly that I love to write and would be happy to write something for them if they ever needed a blog post or article etc. They've taken me up on that and connected me with their media person who slapped me into a press release right away. I didn't really write anything for it - mostly I was quoted, but it got picked up by the AP Press, Yahoo News, and 99 other online publications. Isn't that a strange thought? Meanwhile at the Humane League, my regional rep recommended me for a writing "internship" run by a media company that focuses on activism content and production. I find out in two weeks if I've been accepted. 

Will I continue to turn down meat dishes? Mostly. I didn't crave any meat that whole month (except one night watching Brett eat fried chicken), nor do I have the desire to eat it. That's the main thing. I just don't want to be part of the problem. But I also don't want people accommodating me. So if we go to a dinner party and they've made spaghetti with meat sauce, I'll just eat it. That said, I did tell Dad about my fried chicken craving and he said he'd do some for Sunday dinner this week...so. 

Will I ever go vegan? Likely no but perhaps to a majority percentage. I love cheese. I love a blop of cream in my tea. The official family birthday cake maker just can't be a vegan. But Lue, this contradicts everything you've just said. 

It does, doesn't it? Thing is, I'm not against eating animals or animal products. God gave us meat-eating teeth. I'm against torturing animals. Anything we can do to lower the demand helps. I'm pro lowering demand and increasing quality.

Ours is actually already an oat milk household. (Milk makes Brett extra pooty.)(The increase in veggies made both of us extra pooty for the month of December.) We buy the insanely expensive dairy products from allegedly small-scale happy farms. (If it costs a ton, they're doing it right ... or scamming us). For now, I feel good enough about that.

I hope I don't turn into a freak. 

Honbons: And Other Year End Gifts

Mama and Papa Hon showed up on our doorstep the weekend before Christmas. There was a collective firing up of ovens in preparation for seeing each other. Laurie and Don arrived with breakfast casserole, Frosted Heroine, peanut M&M's, espresso toffee, peanut butter buckeyes, and homemade muscadine sauce, and Dad had a full supper on the table when they arrived. Buncha feeders.

The Holiday Shanghai Tournament began around 10pm. We put on a James Taylor radio station and tried our hardest to focus on the game even though we were all talking over each other about life. We noted that we've haven't seen each other so close to Christmas before and the added red velvet details and sparkly glittering trees made it all feel extra special. We promptly began discussing our future existence on "The Compound" - a farmlife-lite style cultish existence, ideally on Wadmalaw Island, where upon each family has their own home on the perimeters of the "Club House, where we will play cards and eat things until we all die. Brett isn't sold on the idea - he knows he'd be the groundskeeper as everyone else descended into decrepitude. We snacked and hummed. Dad blamed his unintellectual comments on his medication and Don provided background bass and obtuse musings.

Because they are beaming light sources of peacefulness, we had Springtime weather while the Hons were here. Will, Kate, and Evan had to sit this one out on account of moving to Richmond VA on that very weekend. Instead we brought over Georgie, Gigs, and Dave for a lowcountry boil. Ellen, Lee, and Brett were there too but they had to sit at the kids table in the other room. At the dinner table, we told stories of travel mishaps and bathroom blowouts. These are the things that matter. 

A visit highlight was a boat outing with Uncle Dave. The grownups went to a late breakfast at James Island's newest eatery, and then we met Uncle Dave at the marina just in time for low tide. We all stared at the boat landing with its few inches of wiggling water. "This'll be fine," someone said, and then Dave backed the boat right on down and sure enough, it floated. 

The Union clan thought it was chilly but the Hon's think we're just a bunch of sandlapper weenies.

We puttered and sped all through the harbor, spending a long chunk of time watching a containership make its way to the port. We passed by Brett's biggest engineering project to date, the raising of the Battery Wall, and all noted that it doesn't look any taller. We bobbed passed neighbor Jeff in a friend's boat, peeked in on the Tetanus Party Boat, and then came on in from the "harsh" elements. 

I like this next blurry picture because it looks like Don is recoiling from me, which is what I imagine most people wish they could do when I approach with thoughts and questions. At this moment though, Don was telling me about Woodrow Wilson, and I remember this because I wondered what made him think of U.S. presidents in the first place. I think it all started with Taft, but Don was sitting up there by himself so it must have been his own stream of consciousness.   

Brett and I had a Christmas party to go to, so I missed the final night/ Holiday Shanghai Tournament Finals, but I'll tell you that it ended with a tie. 
But you know I showed up bright and early on Sunday morning to soak up the last few nuggets of wisdom. First the Hon's planned to go to church before they headed home, then everyone decided to watch church from home, and then, before we knew it, we had talked through the whole thing. Laurie told us all about Evan, Dad talked back surgery, I told them about the time decided to be a life coach and wound up chatting with a handicapped, wannabe trans-person with a bad attitude, and Mom made sure the coffee pot never went empty. 

Ooh what a cozy warm way to wrap up a year. Until our next Christmas on the compound...

A Bustling December

You see how much time has passed between these informative blog posts? We've been all hustle and and bustle and Christmas cookies around here. Oh there have been birthdays and friend visits and holiday gatherings. Baking and barking and small backyard fires. We had a Hon visit in there too, with a low country boil, a boat ride, and the Holiday Shanghai Tournament. 

I'm using this post as my end of year photo dump, starting with my Elephant Ears because they've only got a few weeks left before the frost will kill 'em and I just really like them.

Ahh we started the month with our last wedding and subsequent last round of Car Tetris for the year. Packing the cars with all the wedding crap is something I enjoy doing. Everything is square or rectangular so it's really just a wet and heavy 3-dimensional puzzle. I'm honored to be known for my ability to efficiently pack anything from suitcases to grocery bags. I rotate and arrange and use every square inch available, and the results are pure satisfaction. Now why have I paired a car full of blooms with a gooey caramel cake? Because my holiday baking just couldn't wait for the appropriate season, so I started baking back in November. The total number of cookies baked must be in the hundreds. There was a babka, Moroccan pasties, multiple cakes, and a failed attempt at a puff pastry tart, but the point is, I need to cut back on The Great British Baking Show. 

Just before the last wedding, Brett began setting yard residue on fire, including lots of my dead sticks and stumps from the wedding season. Usually I throw everything into our compost bin but it is currently at max capacity. The roaring flames enlivened Brett's caveman ancestry and he rummaged around all over looking for things to burn. He was still out there well after dark.

We celebrated Chelsea's birthday at a fun spot on the water. It was a balmy nice day (we've had a wonderfully mild December) and we ate all the things a person should eat on their birthday.

Dad has continued what seems to be a month long experiment with his facial hair. We've had the pleasure of lots of family time, which means lots of one-liners from Popples. We mostly enjoy watching him enjoy his own commentary. 

The girls partook in a series of Holiday brawls, mostly indoors when we least expected it, and are now living in a light lockdown. They are together for just a few hours each day and otherwise rotate between being locked in a bedroom and having the privilege of "family time." We're loosely trying to figure out who we can give one to. We can't live like this... but we love them so much. Their previous warden/trainer Simms, is coming back by in January to "refresh" their lessons and help brainstorm some solutions. 

Here's Brett using our big new table to stretch out his quads. He's had a stressful month - one not conducive to spending all waking hours with your in-laws. All of his project clients got all whipped up about end of year deadlines and threw extra work at him just when he expected to wrap things up.

This year we did Christmas Eve with The Unions and Christmas Day with the Eisenhauers. And by Unions, I mean Mom's side. Aunts and uncles and cousins, oh my! There were squirming tikes, lots of sweets, and Erik and Chelsea were honorary family members for the night. 

Over at Jeff's house, we celebrated with four boys under 7 years old and it was a kind of mayhem I haven't experienced since Christmas in Orangeburg. Jeff's two boys (right) and Maura's two (left) shared a bench seat and they swatted and slapped and cackled all through dinner. I thought of the Brady Bunch and found myself wondering if Jeff and Maura have seen the Brady Bunch. I thought of the boys all being in high school at the same time and the amount of food they will consume. 
Brett and I relished in how quiet our house was when we got home. 

Foolishness

How have I only done one post this month? I've been writing up a slurry of things - seems like some of it should have wound up on my blog space. In addition to the "important" things I've been working on - more on that later- I've been thinking about two things. 

1.) My tendency to have conversations with myself out loud as though I'm not alone in a room.

2.) People describing me as a calm person. 

I'll start with the former. Every morning I sit with my cup of tea and I say my prayers. These I say internally, so you'd never know I was working up any sentences. Towards the end of my prayer time, my thoughts descend into lunacy and I wind up on a tangent that God probably tunes out because there are no direct requests or notes of gratitude involved. I imagine he mutes himself and takes another call because I forgot to hang up and he's much too loving to ever hang up first. 
While he helps another person with their real problems, my train of thought on Ellen having a healthy baby will lead to an indictment against excessive human breeding without preconsidering the many obstacles. "What do you mean?" I ask myself internally. But at some point I answer out loud, as though I'm being interviewed. When I realized I'm being interviewed, I have to turn on the charm, you know, for the audience, and before I know it I'm telling a riotous story from the college years as though there is someone else in the room with me. 

While I don't think this is normal behavior, I don't worry that I'm alone on this one. That being said, I've always been over confident in the relatability of my human experience. If I think and feel it, surely everyone else does. However, I am often told I'm strange, so maybe I should worry. Somedays my prayers turn into a job interview (I always nail 'em), the retelling of a classic Union story, sometimes I'm working out a complicated political system (helps to say it out loud) and other times I'm a featured guest on The Graham Norton Show. 
Today my prayers turned into the larger question of why I so frequently have audible discussions with myself. I offered many reasons: verbalizing leads to articulation, because no one else will talk to me, a lifelong fondness for interview shows, and because it helps to keep your thought train on its tracks. Your mind can't wander as far when you can hear the mania in real time.

Enough about that. Number 2. 

I am frequently accused of being calm, which mostly delights my but occasionally I feel like a real con artist. "You're so serene," a coffeeshop girl will tell me. "You have a soothing aura," a hairdresser stated. "Love your chill vibe," said a girl with a lip ring. 

"You see Laura there," a teacher once said to the class, "She'll be great with high pressure clients because she's so calm." I took their words with great pride and also hoped I'd never have high pressure clients.
I sure am a calm person on the outside, but it's just a mask I wear to try to fool my insides. Inside, clowns are doing cartwheels, bombs go off in morse code patterns, and there's water rushing from somewhere. A red alert alarm rings in my ear all day. "What was that sharp pain my chest? Is that car listing towards me? I think I sent those tourists in the wrong direction."

It's that the reaction part of my brain is calibrated all wrong. I'll really panic when things aren't so bad, like running late for a meeting or accidentally insulting someone. Oh my mind explodes with worry. My mood sours, my patience wanes, my heart beats up in my ears. My ability to perform simple tasks crumbles beneath my steadfast thumbs. 
But when something goes very wrong; medical emergencies, dog fights, or flower shipments that don't arrive, I loop back around to being a zen master. 

Below is a chart I've made of Big Lue's Reaction Calibration

Sure, I glide down the sidewalk with no reaction to the world around me. But that's because if I react, my brain will go into a true panicked state. It's like living with a nervous toddler narrating my consciousness. I've had to develop a second stoic-adult-consciousness to reassure the first one.  I must deny the toddler. If I give in even a little, I'll drown. 

It's like that time Ellen and I were on that winding bus in Budapest, both on the verge of blowing chunks. If I sat still and focused, I could make it through. Ellen however prefers to release her anxiety steam by narrating the very catastrophe before our eyes. I don't suppose there is a correct way to handle your problems, but no one ever calls Ellen calm.  

Anyways, here are a few silly pictures from Thanksgiving at Gigs n' Big Dave's.

Happy Things

 Here's a picture of Olivia looking like a porcelain doll. 

I've finished the last of my weddings for the year and have three weeks "off" to bake things and write stories and find ways to outrage Brett. I've put "off" in quotes because even though everyone around me scoffs at my working hours and chuckles when I'm relived to be free, I still have emails and proposals and bride meetings during my breaks, so there. 

Somehow I've been added to a list of contributing writers for that newspaper I was telling you about. I didn't sign up for this, nor did anyone ask me first, nor do they pay me, but they send me assignments and deadlines and I'm not entirely sure that I'm happy about it. It is a fortuitous happenstance and that's not lost on me. It's how the lazier version of me wanted things to go in life (that whole "opportunities falling into your lap" bit) but I don't have the time, or perhaps ability, to do the job as well as I'd like to. I wouldn't have taken on a monthly column writing job with the mix of things we've got going on at the moment. Now I know I just pointed out that I'm free for three weeks but that doesn't mean I'm watching reality tv and eating ice cream. Also, they've been making me interview business people for the column and I really don't like doing that. But I'll keep writing for them because I'm too polite to tell them that it's an inconvenience. However, in honor of the holidays, I interviewed my lovely friend Chelsea about her cookie business. You can read it here if you're interested. 

Pippi has reached a balance of pill-popping and personality and she's back to laying on me whenever possible. The more uncomfortable I am, the more she likes it.

She is well-known (and loved) at the vet's office by now and will strut right in to get her blood drawn because she's a seasoned pro. She's the most interesting mix of fearless and skittish. 

Grace is still indifferent towards existence, but she's sweet when Brett is around.

We met some new friends while celebrating Ellie's birthday...

and made Erik come over to try Brett's "Lee-inspired" eggnog and these molasses cookies we've discovered. He left happy about it.

Something came over me and I went berserk on Cyber Monday. In previous posts I've mentioned the inability of any direct descendent of Sadie Union's to pass up a deal. Now that the phones and computers keep track of what you're perusing about, they all teased and seduced me with major blowout sale prices. I bought lots of things, which is something I rarely do, and I've been staring through the window, watching for the mail lady everyday since. I'm embarrassed for her to notice the extreme uptick in packages. "What a greedy little troll," she will think about me as she heaves a hefty thigh out of her mail truck and waddles up the path to our front door. (Am I being defensive?)

I take a lot of pride in my thriftyness. I'm also proud to be empathetic and accommodating, and I always thought these would be the traits of mine that my future husband would really admire. But in reality, Brett wishes I would throw away the "rags" that I wear, buy some clean new clothes, and quit being so selfless. You just can't please some people. 

He was proud to hear that I cracked open my wallet and he's been overly approving of my new duds just to prove a point. It all looks ridiculous and we both know it. I also ordered a small piece of furniture and didn't tell him about it. It gets here on Friday and I'm 92% sure that he won't like it. 

I had also figured that my future husband would leave the "nesting" to me. Do you think Chris Union cared how Mom arranged the furniture? Do you think Chris Union even knows what color the walls are in his own bedroom? Crap no! Earlier this year he complimented a "new" painting Mom had hung. "It's been there 15 years," she replied.

Therefore, I learned that men don't care about these things and I have free rein over interior design. I was shocked to find that Brett has opinions on this matter (I genuinely asked him if he was in the closest - he resented the question and continued to date me anyways) and frequently protests my decorative additions. The green velvet piece of furniture that arrives on Friday is sure to spark holiday outrage.