I feel tall.

I went to the doctor's office today (again) to see if they could do something about this miserable Black Plague I've been toting around for nearly a week now, and when I stepped into the back of the office (you know, that place where they ask you to step on the scales and you close your eyes), the nurse kindly asked me (after laughing at me a little because I have an inner ear infection and my normal clumsiness + tilted equilibrium + moving scale = almost falling on my face) if they had ever measured my height.


I had to stop and think for a second (when was the last time I was measured?)... No... the last time was when I was fifteen and getting my learner's license (you know... when they make you stand up next to that roll of tape they've got on the wall... the one that makes you feel like you've just robbed a jiffy store).


So, I stepped over to this funky looking doo-dad, and she stretched (she was tiny) to move the bar down. Imagine my surprise when I stepped away, and she said "5'8'' ". All matter-of-fact-like.


I was in shock.


For years, I have believed that I was barely scraping 5'6''. I was so much in shock by her statement that I took off my shoes and made her measure me again.


Still 5'8''.


I don't even know what to say about this. I feel like a giant! When did this happen, and why didn't anyone tell me?


So now, my husband is gloating because he's always told me that he is 5'7'', and I never believed him (because he's always been a little bit shorter than me).


I can't believe he was right.


Now, I must decide what to do as an important member of society. Is there some kind of club I should join?

Story Teller

I love it when people talk with their hands. I think its almost poetic - the fluid momentum of speech versed against dancing hands. With each movement, you learn so much more about a person and the story they’re telling.

My family has a history of these finger-fluttering story tellers. Personally, I know my own words rise and fall with the intensity of my tale, and I’m always leaning on the edge of my seat to make sure each phrase is perfect. I do so love to tell a good story.

I also love to hear them, and I love it when relatives get together because I get so much more good material. I’ve been known to spend whole days just wasting away on spoken word. I think its becoming a lost art.

I know many people twice my age who can weave a fanciful anecdote - true or false. However, the number of people in their twenties who like to just “sit and talk a spell” seems to be dwindling more and more by the day.

Where are all the good story tellers going? Are we going to wake up one morning and not remember the meaning of the phrase “once upon a time” or “you won’t believe what happened the other day”?

The whole topic of this post came to me during a visit from my grandmother’s sister who recently came to stay. I didn’t even know she was in town, but I try to make it a habit to stop by and see my grandparents (whom we call Mega - pronounced Mee-Gah - and Papa) at least once a week. Papa, in particular, needs a little stirring up every once in a while, and I’m not against giving the old man a run for his money.

However when I arrived, I realized that my Aunt Gloria was down for the week from Alabama (how two women from Utah ever ended up in Georgia and Alabama I’ll never understand, but I digress). Well, I had really only planned to stay for two or three hours, but - sure enough - Aunt Gloria and I got to talking… and before I realized it the whole day had passed by. I think we caught each other up on every niece, sister, cousin, and great-grandchild there is in our family, but it was just so much fun.

We talked with our hands and our feet - and even our eyebrows when we really needed to get the point across.

After I left, there was a happiness in my heart that settled there for days, and I think that’s because that’s the way we are meant to be. In this era of text messaging and emails, we so often lack actual physical expression on a day-to-day basis that we are losing all of the good story tellers, and I for one can’t sit back and just let it happen.

So I beg of you when you catch yourself in conversation this week, work your hands into your dialogue and see exactly where it takes you.

You’ll be surprised just how much better pointing a finger can make you feel.

The Truth of the Matter - Part 2

In my heart, I know that Shoubi is her own worst enemy. She has always been jealous of any new person (or anything for that matter) that came into our lives; I believe its because she has an undiagnosed mental defect that turns her into what I have deemed “crazy cat” at any random point in time - transforming from lovey-dovey kitty to demon-spawn hellcat in two seconds flat.


Because of this “delicate condition,” I noticed only a few weeks after her adoption that she was (and is) quite unwilling to accept other cats into our little family. This definitely threw a wrench into my crazy cat-accommodating plans. If I could only ever have one cat, I would definitely not draw the whispering and superstition I had hoped for.


And who in their right mind would talk about an old single woman with only one cat? I think there’s a rule somewhere that you have to have at least twelve before you garner any sort of notoriety.


However, I loved Shoubi more than any predetermined future. (Who wouldn’t love someone unconditionally who could keep all of your closest secrets to heart?) And because she is such a particular cat, I believe I have the right to blame my current situation completely on her furry little shoulders.


You see… it is completely her fault that I am now married to the man who explained to me that it was totally possible to have room for two in my heart. It is because of her that I look forward to a future of anniversaries and children.


D (my husband) was the first male that kitty dearest ever took a liking to, and since I couldn’t have any more cats, I had to marry him. Between the two of them, they really gave me no other choice.


It probably would have been easier being the crazy cat lady, but I’m a true southerner at heart. I’m sure the locals will find something else to whisper about eventually. For now, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied being a crafting-cooking-writing-working converted crazy cat lady.


So welcome to my life. I hope you enjoy the show. It's been a little bit of a bumpy ride, thus far, but I have the feeling we're only just getting started.

The Truth of the Matter

From the age of twelve, I was convinced that love was, most definitely, overrated. I watched my friends start the process of puberty and become blubbering balls of hormones faster than I could get my first pimple. Having a sister five years my senior, I was already quite familiar with several forms of heartbreak, and I wasn’t very keen to experience any of them. They seemed to warp her into some sort of sick self-sacrificing machine - that wasn’t at all appealing to me.

At fifteen, I had what I still consider to be my first real relationship. It was as terrible, if not more so, as I expected, and it pretty much cemented my plan to become a crazy cat lady. I know, I know. This is something a young girl wouldn't usually aspire to be, but considering my alternatives (love-struck and dumb), I figured it was my best bet for staying sane and growing up to be a fully-functioning adult.

So, for the next few years I developed my plan. I was always a little eccentric; my family knew I was “special” from the very start, and, at seventeen, I drove up to our local chapter of the Humane Society to adopt a pet that would be completely mine. An animal I would present to the world to show my inner personality and to help me bring out my nurturing side.

Can you guess what I picked?

She was barely small enough to fit in the palm of my hand and so covered in fur that she looked more like a hairball for the first six months of her life. She was black and white with the most beautiful green eyes I’d ever seen, and for me, it was, most definitely, love at first sight.

Forget the fact that she’d already been returned more than once for bad behavior at a mere twelve weeks of age. Also, ignore that she was just a tad bipolar and seemed to come a little unglued at the slightest provocation. She would hiss and scratch and bite at nearly anyone who tried to get in her tiny, world-dominating way, but she loved me.

And for an overly emotional seventeen year-old going through a world of physical and mental changes, she was exactly what I needed.

So, I gave her a ridiculous name, and I welcomed her into my world. I thought that she would be the beginning of my life as the crazy cat lady, and I opened my arms to greet a future filled with fluffy hats, cottage gardens, and Studebakers with mismatched paint.

It was the perfect plan... with only one fatal flaw.