God Stuff - Lean In -- Be Intentional!

So, my daughter Jennifer's youth group has been doing a scaled-down version of a radical series of "fasting" based on Jen Hatmaker's book, titled simply, 7. The parents have been invited to participate in support of the kids, so Brian and I have done what we can to come alongside Jennifer in this process. The big-picture focus of the book is to encourage us to push back on excess - to eliminate specific things for a time, and to make more room to hear God speak to us.  

The first two weeks, we had to choose only seven items of food, and eat only that. If you're curious, Jennifer and I chose the same five of seven items - chicken, eggs, peanuts, spinach,wheat bread. Jennifer chose tangerines and dark chocolate as her other two. I went with cheese and red wine. I could write more about this experience, but I don't want to go too far down that rabbit hole...

Next, for two weeks, we chose seven items of clothing to wear. Not too hard for me, as I normally dress like a slob. The third phase was eliminating seven kinds of media or technology for a week. A week off Facebook for me felt like an eternity. But again, I don't want to digress...

This week, it's trying to go "greener", to reduce waste.

I'm learning something very unexpected from this week on "waste". And it's so big that I want to put it here, in my blog. Maybe if I see it enough, I'll finally remember this stuff. It's BIG.

I already do a lot of the things recommended in the book, just as a matter of course. We recycle. We compost. We freeze fruit that's not fresh enough to eat and use it in smoothies. As I'm writing this, I'm eating chicken soup I made from the frozen-then-thawed carcass of a chicken I cooked (so as not to waste the bones), and I'm munching tortilla chips left over from Jennifer's lunch at LBJ on Sunday with leftover salsa from another take-out trip. I got up and walked to the bathroom to get the water glass I used this morning so I wouldn't dirty another one. I wash out Ziploc bags and re-use them. Really. So I have this "waste" thing nailed. Or do I?

I've realized two really big things this week. One is that, no matter how much I TRY to be super economical and a non-waster and a good steward, if I'm doing it in my own strength, I fail. Or I fall super short. Again and again this week, in out-of-the-ordinary ways, I've sort of been forced to waste things I wouldn't normally dream of wasting. When watching and feeding baby Lola, food gets wasted. Jennifer and I ran into some circumstances that led to extra driving we hadn't intended to do this week. I found some stuff in the fridge that I'd intended to use, but it's now past its date and I had to toss it. It's been really frustrating, because it is happening during a week when we're supposed to be intentional about NOT wasting. 

I know God well enough to know that none of this is coincidental. And as I'm praying about it, God is showing me that it's sort of a metaphor for trying to do, well, ANYTHING, on my own strength and not through Christ who strengthens me. No matter what our intentions may be, without Christ, our efforts are, as Paul says, like filthy rags.

The second thing I'm seeing is that, especially on the heels of a week where we eliminated media and distractions to make more room for God, I am a HUGE waster of time. Last week, I was especially connected to God, more or less by default. In my silent car and morning walks, there were multiple times where I'd literally smile and say, "Oh. Hi, God!" I took many, many more occasions to check in with the Lord, because I had so many fewer screens in my face.

This week, I"m finding myself almost immediately back to "normal" -- totally distracted by screens, social media, radio, podcasts, even Bible reading and Bible study -- but taking way less of those "Oh. Hi, God" moments. I've been cranky and snappish as a result. Just ask Jennifer...

So what I'm learning (or, RE-learning) from this week of waste that I hope the rest of you, dear readers, aren't STILL trying to learn when YOU'RE 52, is that WE HAVE TO BE SO INTENTIONAL about leaning in to God. We have to try, very hard, to make space and time to be with the Lord. But more than that, we have to be intentional about ASKING GOD to help us do just that. The Bible says in 1 John 5:14-15 - "This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to His will, He hears us. And if we know that He hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of Him." And we know from Jesus that the most important commandment is "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind" (Luke 10:27). So if it's God's will that we do this, you better believe that if we ask Him to help us love Him and devote ourselves more fully to Him, HE WILL!!!

So be intentional! Lean in! Ask for His help! If you guys all get this NOW, instead of wasting the next 30 years or so on life's distractions, you can move mountains in this world - through Christ who strengthens you!!!

That Time I Got Kicked Out of Disneyland

I should start by saying that, by and large, I'm a total rule-follower. Although I talk a good game about being a rebellious free-thinker, at heart I'm just a big old wuss. I hate getting caught being anything less than perfect.

Which is why what happened at Disneyland that night was totally uncharacteristic.

I was seventeen. My first serious boyfriend Kurt and his roommate Mark were about four years older than my best friend Kathy and I were. (Side note - you have no idea how many times I added and deleted commas and fretted over which pronouns to use in this sentence - that, people, is how much of a rule-follower I am.)

I don't remember exactly how it was that we went to Disneyland together that night, but I suspect it was with discount tickets my dad used to get through his aerospace company. I think the whole park was reserved for one night each year by a group of aerospace/defense industry companies. On one magical evening every October, when I was a kid, we'd all pile in the car and go to The Happiest Place On Earth. I remember being forced to take a nap during the day, which was completely impossible for a child who was plotting all the amazing attractions she wanted to visit, imagining all the yummy treats she would beg her parents to buy, and fantasizing about which souvenir she'd be allowed to bring home. So I'd toss and turn and stare at the ceiling until my mom relented and let me vault out of bed and prepare for the big night.

Memories of those annual nights at Disneyland are hazy. I remember us four kids in the back of our station wagon, vying to be first to see the Matterhorn from the freeway. I NEVER saw anything. Ever. My brother Bill used to get so frustrated. He'd be pointing wildly, even grabbing my face and aiming it at the tall mountain, but I could never manage to make it out. I still have this problem today, when people try to point out something for me to look at.

I remember that it was never crowded, and we could race from ride to ride with hardly any wait time. Unheard of nowadays. I remember wetting my pants on the Matterhorn when I was very young (but obviously tall enough to ride), when my poor mom was stuck sitting behind me on the same bench. I remember having an enormous and entirely inappropriate crush on the scraggly, black-haired pirate who taunts soldiers from the ship in the big battle scene (he's gone now, sadly - replaced by some less-scraggly pirate going on and on about Captain Jack Sparrow). I remember how much my mom hated fireworks, and how she'd stand there with her fingers in her ears wincing, while the rest of us oohed and ahhhed.

I remember when I was old enough to invite a friend and separate for a few glorious hours from my folks, how we'd all pick a time when we'd meet up at the bridge at Sleeping Beauty's castle. I remember being mortified when, as a teen, I insisted that we visit the Enchanted Tiki Room. I had loved it as a child, once I recovered from the initial panic that IT WAS RAINING AT DISNEYLAND ON THE NIGHT WE WERE THERE AND THIS WAS GOING TO RUIN THE ENTIRE EVENING. My mom finally convinced me that the rain would end before we left that room and we'd all be just fine. Anyway, when I went back as a tween, the friend I'd dragged in there was way too cool for it - or at least she acted like that. I felt sad to think that I'd outgrown it. I regained my senses and still love the Tiki Room today, by the way - haters gonna hate.

Anyway, by the time I was seventeen, I think my parents were pretty much finished with the whole parenting thing. They were out of town that weekend, either on a trip to a foreign country or on a coaching weekend (or both) for Sweet Adelines (this happened a lot - see my other blog called "Home Again"). So I got discount tickets for the four of us - Kurt, Mark, Kathy and me - and off we went, feeling all grown up and stuff.

We were having a great time at the park. It was fun having a guy to cuddle with on rides. This was, pardon the Disney reference, a whole new world for me. Lots of fun, until one of the boys suggested we head back to the car to drink some booze.

Now, up to that point, I think I had only ever tried beer - Miller High Life, "The Champagne of Beers" - again, because of Kurt (who is probably reading this blog now from beneath the bus under which I just tossed him - heh heh). I think it was a later weekend trip to Anza that introduced me to rum. I began and ended a relationship with rum in one weekend. I still don't care for it. We had run out of Coke and had mixed it with grape Kool-Aid by the end of that very unfortunate night. So, yeah.

So, I had never even really tried any hard liquor before. Remember that first sentence? The part about being a rule-follower? But, the guys insisted, this was special. It was scotch. Really, really aged scotch. Super expensive, blah blah blah.  A funny thing about this is that I messaged Kurt to verify what it actually was, and he wrote: "I doubt either one of us would have known good booze if you hit us over the head with it back then."

He also mentioned feeling very bad for getting us kicked out that night. It's okay, Kurt, no one will ever know... haha!  And for what it's worth, he's a very decent fellow these days... finally. Heh heh...

Anyway, so we headed out to the parking lot, armed with cups of Sprite. Yes, Sprite. Because apparently, that's what you use as a mix for really old, really expensive scotch.

Now, if you know anything at all about Disneyland, it's that they are kind of tight about security. Like, OCD tight. Like, position-snipers-with-binoculars-on-towers-to-watch-over-the-parking-lot tight. So it took about five minutes for a golf cart of security guards to show up at our car with flashlights. I had taken, I believe, exactly one sip of this "good" liquor, pronounced it equivalent to jet fuel, and then boom. We were busted.

There is a Disney Jail. For real. And it's not all cartoony like the one in ToonTown. It's more like, well, a security office. We sat under the bright flourescent lights, ashamed and worried sick about what would happen next. The officer made a call to Kathy's parents, who gave their approval for the guys to drive us directly home to her house. It was a grim, quiet ride home. I think I might have loudly exclaimed a time or two that I hadn't even DRUNK the darn stuff. Kathy probably moaned about what terrible trouble she'd be in when we got home.

We arrived at Kathy's house, and the lights were all on. Kathy's mom and dad were waiting at the door as we slunk up the stairs to the porch, our tails between our legs. We were ushered upstairs to the family room. After briefly but thoroughly ripping into the boys, I remember Kathy's mom, in a very clipped tone, telling them to go home. NOW. They turned tail and fled.

Kathy and I sat on the couch, while Kathy's mom stood there and told us how disappointed they both were. I don't remember many details. I'm sure it was the stock "you've ruined our trust in you and it will be forever before we ever, ever let you forget this or do anything fun" type of speech that comes in the parenting handbook. I don't remember. But what I DO remember is waiting until Kathy's mom had used up all the disappointment and scorn she had in her, and then I timidly and tearfully asked, "Are you going to tell my parents about this?"

Her answer was the most absolutely glorious thing I'd ever heard anyone say to me in my seventeen years of life. She took a deep breath and said, slowly and meaningfully, "I think it's up to YOU to tell them, young lady."

What? Glory be! They would never have to find out!?? WOO HOO!!!! I hope I hid my relief. I think I went home then, joyously skipping down the street to my own home, five doors away, thanking my lucky stars for this gift of secrecy.

Kathy told me later that after I left, her dad broke into a huge grin, clapped her on the shoulder and shouted, "It's about TIME you went out and had some fun, for crying out loud!!!" Kathy was even more of a rule-follower than I, you see...  Her fun-loving father felt like her whole life was passing her by, so he was actually delighted to learn that she'd gone out and done something reckless for a change. She, however, scourged herself about it for years. And was super mad that I never got into trouble for it.

I never did tell my folks. And neither, thankfully, did Kathy's mom. But a funny thing happened, probably 15 years later. I sang in my mom's Sweet Adelines chorus, and we were doing some kind of all-day team-building sort of seminar. One of the day's activities was that each of us had to tell "Two Truths And A Lie" about ourselves, and the others had to guess which thing was the lie. I said:

"I played clarinet in the Trojan Marching Band."
"I once got kicked out of Disneyland."
"I went skydiving once and loved it."

Most people guessed the Disneyland thing. I laughed and said, "No, I've actually never gone skydiving."

My mom paused a minute, then said, "Wait. What? You got kicked out of Disneyland???"

"Oh," I replied casually, "you mean I never told you about that...?"

It led to an interesting conversation and a lot of hilarity among the women who got to listen in...

Butterfly Tales

We have a complicated relationship with butterflies.

I homeschool my now nearly-grown daughter, and for years, we've been big fans of butterflies. One year, Jennifer did a focus group session for the Getty Museum. In return for an afternoon of milling around exhibits while being monitored by microphones and recording devices that were taped to us, Jennifer received an Amazon gift card for a hundred bucks! I'll explain how that relates to butterflies in a minute. But first, a quick side-story.

The Getty Museum was trying to make parts of their facility more kid-friendly. So they'd have a parent and child move through pre-selected exhibits and record how the parent interacts with the child when looking at art. I've always tried to be that kind of mom who just lets her kid hang around and enjoy something until she's done and ready to move on. One time we were at a different museum, where one room had a machine that projected constantly changing, psychedelic images of Jennifer's sillouette onto the wall. She danced and jumped and ran and played for so long that I finally sat down in the corner with a book until she wore herself out.

So at the Getty, group after group of school kids would shuffle in and out, looking bored, while harried adults would give them a few minutes and then yell, "Okay, kids, it's time to move on! Hurry..." We don't roll like that. Jennifer was sitting on this one little bed that was a replica of some king's bed from thousands of years ago. There were books on a little shelf about that king and about the era he lived in. She asked me to read them to her. Then she wanted to pretend she was royal. We spent so much time hanging around there that a researcher quietly stepped in and said, "Um, it's time to move on... we have enough information from you for this exhibit..."

Anyway, Jennifer walked away with this $100 Amazon gift card. One of the things she wanted to order was a butterfly habitat. It was like one of those collapsible mesh clothes hampers, but cuter and with a door, and it came with a coupon for live larvae. For the mere cost of postage, we could receive, in the mail, a little petri dish of butterfly larvae and enough food to keep them fat and happy until they pupated. To this day, I have failed to send away for the larvae. I just keep forgetting...

But we've had other adventures with butterflies. Many of them.

Every year, the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History sets up a "Butterly Pavilion". It's like a big greenhouse-style portable tent outside the main building. They fill it with all kinds of plants and tons of different varieties of butterflies from all over the world. You walk through, and all around you, butterflies fly past you; you see them eating, mating, pupating, and one or two may even land on you, if you're fortunate. It's really, really cool and totally worth visiting.  It's usually there from around Memorial Day through Labor Day.

When Jennifer was pretty young, I took her there to see the butterflies. She was probably around six? Super young. Maybe younger. She loved the butterflies - particularly when she was assured that they can't bite at all. As the docent explained, they don't have teeth. Only a long proboscis, like a straw made for sipping nectar. They're harmless and beautiful. For the most part, she bought this line. She was only a little freaked out when any butterfly got close to her. Which, by the way, is totally my fault. And which leads me to another side-story.

I should explain that I HATE most bugs that fly. Sure, I like butterflies, but they're on a super short list. When Jennifer was maybe two, we took a trip to Orlando for the Sweet Adelines International convention there. It was September, as I recall, and swelteringly hot. Well, as luck would have it, we chose the two-week period that happens, once a year, when these special insects known as "love bugs" emerge. They are black. There's one big one, and one small one. Can't remember which is male/female. They attach themselves together, butt to butt, while they mate, and then they fly together in swarms of fifty gazillion. Like a big slow-flying bug orgy. So when you walk into a cloud of them, they all land on you. All fifty gazillion. And if you try to brush them off your arm, they just splat onto your skin, leaving a greasy black skid mark. They're horrifying.

We had spent a couple of days touring Disney's Epcot Center and Disney World. We kept running into clouds of these disgusting bugs. I was on edge. It was Africa hot and sticky and slimy outside, without much relief. Jennifer refused to ride in the little stroller we had rented, mostly because of these bugs. So I was carrying a hot whiny toddler, and we were all very sweaty and not very cheerful.

At one point, after what seemed like a month of this (it was probably a couple of hours), we walked into yet another swarm of love bugs, and I just lost it. I wasn't holding Jennifer at the time, thankfully, because I dropped what I was carrying, starting waving my arms wildly around my head, and with a high pitched, panicked squeal, I ran away, abandoning my family. Brian (who, by the way, tells a very different version of this story), stood there, watched me run off, looked at Jennifer and Becky and said, "I think Mommy needs a little time out."

Well, that vision evidently imprinted itself on poor Jennifer, because to this day, she absolutely loses her mind if there's even a fly in the house. Which is funny, because the last dog I'll ever own is exactly the same way. He gets super amped and chases the fly for a while, but then he runs and hides under my bed. Jennifer sometimes manages, amidst a lot of drama, to trap the fly somewhere so I'll come kill it. I've almost crashed the car before because she starting squealing madly about a BEEEEE in the car -- and it turned out to be, like, a gnat. Or a small fly. But not a bee.

 I try to be patient, knowing that this bug phobia is 100% my fault.

Anyway, we spent a lot of time at the Butterfly Pavilion that day, trying to identify all the different species. At one point, we got separated, which was fine, because it is an enclosed area, and it wasn't terribly crowded. I happened to see a docent talking to a small group of people, who were gathered in a circle looking down. There on the ground, in a patch of sunshine, a gorgeous, colorful butterfly rested, its wings totally flattened against the ground. The docent explained that it was "basking", drawing energy from the sun through its wings. Just then, Jennifer came walking through the circle, eyes raised heavenward as she watched some other butterfly drifting overhead. I realized, too late, that she was headed directly toward the basking butterfly.

What happened next was exactly like one of those slow-motion scenes in an action adventure movie. I lunged toward her, arms outstretched, with a slo-mo cry of "nnnnnnnooooooOOOOOOO!!!!!!" Before I could reach her, she planted her cute little sneaker squarely onto the little butterfly. There was literally a horrified, collective gasp from the grown-ups standing in the circle. Jennifer, realizing something just happened that just might have somehow involved her, stopped, looked around for me, and said, "Huh?" The docent hardly missed a beat. Without batting an eyelash, she said, "Yep. That happens sometimes. It just shows us how fragile life can be." I, being the stellar parent that I am, burst into hysterical, embarrassed laughter. I couldn't have scripted this or directed it any more perfectly for the ideal comic scene. Poor butterfly.

One day, we found a black, fuzzy caterpillar. In our garage. On the floor. This was weird, because there were really no plants nearby. How did it get there? We brought it into the house and built a little habitat for it. I sent off a picture of it to Brent the Bug Guy, my contact at the L.A. Museum of Natural History Insect Zoo. I can't remember what he told me, but he made some suggestions for its care. This caterpillar was never hungry. Or it's possible we never offered him the right food. In any event, we weren't sure whether he wanted to burrow underground to pupate, or whether he needed a stick to attach himself to. We pretty much did everything for that little guy. I even set up a video camera with night vision to see what he'd do while we weren't staring at him. He sort of half-attached himself to a stick, but he never really managed to do anything right. I think he ended up falling off the stick once.

At this point, we chose to name him "Jeff, the Defective Caterpillar". I don't remember his final fate. I think he finally just withered up and died, much to our disappointment.

In our continuing quest to raise butterflies, we adopted some painted lady butterflies from a homeschool friend. Her kid was selling them as a homeschool project. She gave us a habitat, food for the butterflies, and instructions on how to care for them. I don't remember anymore whether it was mallow or fennel they liked (so many butterfly projects, so long ago...). But we drove around every day and found the right food and took care of those butterflies like a boss. They mated, they laid eggs. The larvae hatched. They ate. And ate. And ate. And they pupated. They even emerged as real live butterflies! It was terribly thrilling to see their progress day after day.

At last, on a fine, warm spring morning, we decided to release our two newly hatched adult butterflies into the world. We carried our habitat out into the front yard. It was a rather breezy day, but warm and sunny.  We opened the habitat and watched as the butterflies were whisked up by the wind... and directly into the path of an oncoming car. They literally splatted onto the windshield of the car as it passed. I, of course, again burst into hysterical laughter, and I spent the next several minutes trying to put this whole thing into perspective for my shell-shocked daughter.  Bad mommy moment.

We have often grown tomatoes in our yard over the years. One year, we were inundated with big giant tomato hornworms. These hugely fat, green caterpillars are quite imposing. The problem is, when they hatch, they are these big, hairy, awful looking moths. Moths that lay eggs that become big fat green hornworms that destroy tomato plants. My neighbor begged me to kill the moth that had emerged from our little experiment. I think I did. I can't remember. I might have driven it far away and released it to bother someone else's garden.

Another time, we found a caterpillar in the yard. It was smooth, rather than fuzzy, and kind of fat and gray. I looked online to see if I could identify it, but I couldn't find one that looked like it did. It never really seemed hungry, and I wasn't sure what to feed it anyway. It seemed fat enough that maybe it was ready to pupate. We had a stick in there, but it did't seem interested in that either. I knew that some moth larvae like to burrow in the dirt to pupate. So we put a bunch of dirt in there to see what would happen. Sure enough, it burrowed under, and I put it on the kitchen windowsill, excited to see what kind of exotic moth would emerge.

Several days later, I was washing dishes, when some movement in the jar caught my eye. I peered into the jar, and there, buzzing around, was the biggest, most disgusting fly I've ever seen. Yes. We had pupated a maggot.

I think that might have been the end of our butterfly experiments. Unless I manage to find the voucher for the larvae I never sent away for...

Along Came A Spider... The Time I Called 911. Because I Didn't Want to Kill One.

Spiders. No one I've ever met is neutral about them. A very few people like or at least appreciate them. Most hate them.

I saw a funny meme once that went something like, "This morning, I found a spider in my bathroom. I took a tissue, and very, very slowly and carefully, I burned my house down."

I have a friend, Lisa, who is actually arachnophobic. I know this, but not by hearing her confession or by reading any certificate from a psychologist. I know this because once, remembering she had mentioned she was afraid of spiders, I playfully posted some horror story or video or something about a spider that was making the rounds (I can't remember what it was now) onto her Facebook wall. Lisa is the sweetest, most non-confrontational person ever. And she F-bombed me. Loudly. On Facebook. I had not really taken her fear seriously. I mean, everyone says they hate spiders. I felt terrible, because had I really listened to her, I would have realized that she probably wouldn't find humor in anything spider-related. Especially not if it included an actual IMAGE of a spider. Lesson learned...

I've heard horror stories of spider bites. A USC Trojan Marching Band mate of mine, John, whom everyone referred to as "Nutcup", once got a spider bite right between his eyes. The wound became infected, I think even necrotic, and to this day, he has a big crater there. As I recall, he was super sick from it. Another friend, Kathy, had a similar experience. A terrible bite she got on her face while sleeping, a wicked infection. I've never been bitten by a spider, but when you hear stories like that, it only goes to increase the reputation spiders have for being dangerous and aggressive.

I never used to like spiders. I mean, if I saw one in the house, I'd usually kill it. If I saw one outside, I'd avoid it. But a specific event changed me. I can't say I love them now, but I can tell you I haven't killed a spider on purpose in about a decade or more... and I'll tell you why.

At the beginning of October, the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles museum transforms its Butterfly Pavilion (there's a whole other blog coming about THAT) into a spider exhibit. Because the butterflies are all bred in captivity, and because they have a ridiculously short life span, they leave them in this habitat and introduce a ton of varieties of spiders. The spiders take up residence, eat the members of the previous exhibit, and provide more education and entertainment for visitors. It sounds grisly, but it's actually quite efficient.

Jennifer and I visited this Spider House one October when she was about eight. Jennifer, who has always been creeped out by just about all insects (there's a reason for that, and that's a whole other blog in the making), was anxious to leave pretty much immediately. But I was absolutely fascinated. A very personable young lady, who was a docent, would very gently lift spiders off of plant leaves and talk about them while we watched them crawl all over her hands and arms. The spider on her hand would walk along, and every so often, it would touch the end of its abdomen onto the surface of her skin. She showed us that it was leaving little anchors of silk, so that if it suddenly fell, it would have a safety line. It was just riveting.

The docent explained that all spiders are venomous, but that they generally choose carefully what to use it on. It's meant for prey or for protection. So if you're not threatening it or squishing it, it won't waste its venom on big giant you. Also, spiders eat pretty much all the bugs I loathe (which is all the other bugs on the planet), so I began to appreciate that they're definitely on my team.

Spiders' webs are all unique and perfectly suited to help them catch prey. I admit that I've done quite a few energetic interpretive dances after walking or horseback riding into a web on an early morning outing. Nothing else gets the blood pumping quite so effectively. And then you spend the next several hours convinced there's a stranded spider crawling around on you.

I've actually held a tarantula before. Jennifer attended a birthday party where a guy brought all kinds of exotic animals for the kids to hold and touch (including wallabies who hopped around the yard the entire time, a possum with giant bulgy eyes, and a huge iguana of some sort that Jennifer held). One of the creatures was a tarantula. Jennifer wouldn't go near it, but I held it. It was fuzzy, warm, and way heavier than I expected. Super cool.

Still, ever since that day at the museum in 2006, when I was so thoroughly schooled on the unique, misunderstood, amazing creatures they are, I haven't intentionally killed a single spider (except for one that was in my car while I was driving - no time for humane treatment then...). If I find one in the house, I catch it and release it outside. Once, my arachnaphobic friend Lisa was picking up Jennifer for some homeschool activity, and we found a big, pinkish orb weaver spider in her car. Lisa went white and said, "Ohhhh boy..." as I gently picked this spider up WITH MY BARE HANDS and put it in my garden. I felt very badass. 

So, no more spider killing for me... even though, long before that, when Jennifer was only four years old, I had an interesting incident that began with my reluctance to kill a spider and ended in a call to 911.

It all started with a spider in a Kleenex box.  I had brought Jennifer into my shower with me, and when I was done, I got out and left her in there to play some more, as she often did. As long as she stayed seated and didn't plug the drain, I'd let her take little toys in there, and she'd enjoy a little water play. I'd hang around within earshot, listening to make sure she was safe, and when she tired of being in there, she'd call me to come get her.

I was breaking down an empty Kleenex box on the bathroom counter, when I saw a big ol' spider inside it. It was rather skittish and very quick. Being too chicken to try to smoosh it inside (it just might crawl on my hand or something, you know…), I decided to take it down to the front porch. As I still wasn't, um, entirely decent after my shower, I set the box outside the front door and went upstairs to finish dressing. After pulling on a t-shirt and pair of jeans, I returned to the porch to get rid of the spider and toss the box. Not wanting the little monster to run into the house, I quickly closed the front door behind me and looked into the tissue box -- which was now empty. I had no idea where the spider had gone, so I turned to go back into the house. 

The door was locked.

I was outside, wet-haired and barefoot. 

My four-year-old child was playing, alone, upstairs, in the running shower.

Oops.

Thinking quickly, and remembering that my neighbor Lilly kept our spare house key, I looked around to see if her car was there. It was, of course, gone.  I pounded on her door anyway in case her husband Tony was home, but no luck. With a growing sense of panic, kicking myself for being so incredibly stupid, I ran up the driveway to our nextdoor neighbors and asked to use their phone. A bunch of big teenage boys were lounging in the living room, and it took a second for it to sink in that this was kind of a big deal. Seeing my growing agitation, they finally sprang into action. After a brief search, they found the phone, and I called 911 while the boys dashed off toward my house. 

How humiliating was this phone call, you ask?

911 Operator: 911, what is your emergency?

Me: Um, hi, I've locked myself out of my house, and my little daughter is in the shower!

911 Operator: How old is your child?

Me: She's four.

911 Operator: FOUR? You said she's in the BATHTUB??

Me: No, it's a standing shower. There's not enough water to drown in, but I gotta get back in there!

I've forgotten the rest of the call, but I'm sure I remember the unveiled disapproval in the operator's voice.

While we waited, the neighbor boys tried to get into a window downstairs. I'm pleased to report that my house is very safe against intruders. Meanwhile, I was picturing Jennifer upstairs, calling to me, telling me she was ready to get out, and wondering why I wasn't coming.  Or falling and cracking her head on the tile as she pushed open the door by herself, or or or or...

Fortunately, the fire department is only a couple of blocks away, so sure enough, after a few minutes that seemed like forever, a big ol' fire engine showed up with sirens and lights and everything. The firemen were very courteous and never once called me an idiot, although at one point, I was standing outside my door with one of them, who shouted up the hill to the men in the truck some code number.  I asked, "Is that the code for 'really stupid mother'?"  He laughed and assured me it wasn't. He was just asking his partner to bring a ladder. They also seemed less worried that Jennifer was already drowning than they would have been if she’d been in a bathtub full of water.  

They brought a big ladder down the driveway and took what I felt was an inordinate amount of time to make sure it was properly and safely anchored before someone climbed it.  I felt like screaming, "HURRY UP!!!!", but I managed to keep it together.  So this fireman in full gear -- big ol' boots, coat, helmet -- got ready to climb up and try the balcony door to my room, which I was relatively sure was unlocked.  He asked what my child's name was, and I could just imagine how she'd flip if some fireman came barging into the bathroom and popped open the shower door to see her.  Wisely, his partner suggested that he try to get in without her really noticing, so that we wouldn't upset her unnecessarily.  So he climbed the ladder, and about three hours later -- okay, I guess it was only moments later -- he opened the front door.  He said he listened in and could hear her, still in the shower. "She was just singing away in there," he said with a smile. As I dashed past the fireman, he said, "We're gonna take off now," and I bolted upstairs to find Jennifer singing and washing the walls with a sponge, completely oblivious to the drama that had been occurring downstairs. 

I've heard a few people say they generally leave spiders alone, as long as they're not black widows. I have a friend, Rommi, whose hubby found a black widow in a shed they were cleaning out. Because we're all homeschoolers, this of course became a great teachable opportunity. Joe put the spider into a jar, poked holed in the lid, and brought it into the house for the four kids to see. Well, within a day, they found a big giant egg sac in there. So now, it wasn't one black widow. It was about a hundred of them in the making.

Rommi flipped out and asked me what they should do with it. She's a total hippie (for which I love her immensely!!), and she said that she was afraid to kill it. She was convinced that if they killed the spider and her egg sac, her descendants would hunt her down and take their revenge.

For years, I've had periodic contact with a guy I call "Brent the Bug Guy". He works at the Insect Zoo at the Museum of Natural History. Often, I'd email him a picture of a caterpillar or other bug we'd found and ask what kind it was, what we should feed it, etc. So I emailed him:

"Dear Brent,
My friend found a black widow and put it in a jar. While it was there, it laid an egg sac. Now what should they do? Just how poisonous are they? Is there a humane way to dispose of them? And if she does, she is worried that the descendants of the spider will come after her."

Brent's response was something like:

"Honestly, when I find black widows, I leave them where I find them. Unless you're jamming your hand into a garden glove without looking first, chances are you aren't going to be bitten. Yes, they're poisonous, but not generally deadly, and if you leave them alone, they'll leave you alone. I'd tell your friend to put the spider back where she found it. If she really wants to dispose of them, the most humane way would be to put the jar into the freezer for a couple of weeks. They'll just go to sleep from the cold and die without really suffering.

As for the descendants taking revenge, I'm not going to make any promises..."

I don't remember what she ended up doing. But, just to be safe, I don't hang around her much anymore.

If I Were Hindu, Could I Think of Fleas as Pets?

Fleas are part of having pets — one of the worst of very many bad things about having pets (if you’re an adult, considering getting pets, please read my blog about “Parenting and Pets”. http://doreensings.blogspot.com/2015/06/parenting-and-pets.html You have been warned).

Fleas. In the old days (or, as Jennifer said when she was little, “the elden days”), they sold these smelly plastic collars you put on the cat or dog; you’d cut off the excess at the end, and Fluffy would walk around with a toxic-to-the-touch, smelly, flea-killing accessory.

And then there was flea dip. I have excruciating memories of setting up a bucket of warm water in the back yard, mixed with smelly pesticide. We'd literally dip the gazillion cats we had in and around my childhood home (at one time we had 17 cats, I think. Still not sure what was up with that), dunking one arm down in there with the cat to massage the mixture into the fur for several minutes (or until the cat managed to escape), while the other hand held onto the cat's scruff for dear life. The kitty would often arch its back and claw madly at the rim of the bucket, certain that we'd finally had enough of this “having pets” thing and were now trying to drown the little beast.  The dip would kill the fleas, for sure. And there was a certain amount of sport in seeing usually haughty cats humbled, soaking wet and scrawny. But the fleas always came back.

Then, in recent years, the invention of topical flea treatment sort of leveled up the war against fleas. Once a month, you squirt this oily, pungent, but much smaller amount of liquid between the shoulders of the cat or dog, and voila! The fleas apparently still jump onto the pet, and they still bite, but then they die before they get the chance to lay eggs and pass on their little flea genes to the next generation.

This worked for us. For a while. On a tip from my sister Diana, I learned to buy the flea treatment for a giant dog or cat, then do the math for the smaller actual weight of my pets, then empty the vial into a medicine dropper, and only dole out about a fourth or fifth of the total at a time. The price for the medicine is the same for a small dog or a giant one, so why not make it go further? Brilliant.

The drawbacks came when I’d accidentally squirt more than the required amount onto the beast, which I've done a time or two. I always worry I'm gonna kill a pet this way. But so far, no luck. And then, there's this greasy, smelly skid mark on the animal for a full day or longer. If you or a child accidentally touches it, you have to wash your hands. And all my pets have reveled in rolling on the carpet right after application, to rid themselves of the oily feeling. Lovely. And now, in the past year or so, this medicine has stopped working. I think maybe the fleas are evolving into these super-poison-resistant mutants, because I've heard lots of people say it no longer works for them either. Within days, my pets were crawling with fleas. Even the accidental double dose isn’t enough any more.

So what to do? For years, I've been hearing about a once-a-month pill that magically works. No smelly oil on the back of the pet. The drawback is that you actually need a veterinarian's prescription, and it costs a bundle. About 20 bucks a pill. While I could stretch the topical stuff, making a $40 box last for several months, now it's pretty much $20 per pet, per month. Sure, there are volume discounts. Which brings up a whole other gambling routine, as my cat is almost 21 years old. Will she even last six more months? Should I spend a little more by paying month-by-month, for a shorter amount of time? Or do I suck it up and buy six months, thereby "tempting the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing"? (Thank you, Toby Ziegler of the television show "The West Wing" for one of my favorite phrases EVER…)

Plus, as I mentioned, you need the prescription. I think I’ve said before that I try to spend as little as possible on my pets. A couple months ago, I finally took the last dog I’ll ever own in to a weekly clinic at Petco for his shots (which were WAY overdue) and to get the flea pill prescription. I was hoping that getting rid of his fleas would fix the cat’s problem. I spent a bundle on carpet powder to try to kill all the pests. Brian, my ever-patient man, bathed the cat with flea shampoo. But she still had tons of fleas within days. 

Plus, as she’s super old and sort of addled, Jasmine does this alarming thing when a flea bites her. She’ll be quietly sleeping on your lap, and then suddenly, she explodes upward and starts frantically licking a fresh bite (usually back by her butt), and pee literally JETS out of her, like a mini fire hose. So Jasmine looks like she’s having a seizure, pee is flying everywhere, and God forbid there is someone actually visiting who wasn’t prepared for this. My daughter’s friends were recently scarred for life while this happened during a screening of a Harry Potter movie. Jen calmly reached for the cat and said, "Yeah, sorry guys. She does this sometimes..."

So, I decided it was time to drag poor Jasmine in to get the flea pill. She hasn’t been to a vet in YEARS. As an indoor cat, she doesn’t go in every year for shots. I was worried that she’d be totally stressed out, but I realized I had no choice. Well, no cheap choice. I mean, I could pay for an in-home visit. But have you met me? Not gonna happen.

As I sat on the floor in line at the cheap clinic (where there’s no $60-just-to-walk-in-the-door fee — just the price of treatment, thanks), Jasmine huddled quietly in her cat carrier. A toothless woman with a thick Southern accent stood behind me, pushing a shopping cart that carried a trembling little chihuahua, who cringed warily on a dirty towel. This dear lady was super chatty, and repeatedly offered to let me pet her dog, “Sweetie Pie.” I politely declined, as the dog would snarl at anyone who passed by too closely. 

Jasmine, my elderly cat, handled the trip like a boss. She even came right out of the carrier and stood on the scale on the floor to get weighed, amid all sorts of chaos and noise and yapping dogs. I think being almost deaf helps a lot with her nerves. The “vet” running the clinic asked a few questions and marveled at her age. He told me that I really should take her in to our “regular vet” for a full blood workup and aging cat well-check. I uttered the magical phrase, “Um, she’s on palliative care.” This phrase probably works universally to get any nagging sales rep off one’s back.  I’ll have to try it. It basically means I’m keeping her comfortable til she dies, but I’m not doing anything to extend her life (think “kitty hospice”). The vet immediately nodded and said, “Ah… well, I’m required to offer that recommendation…” But I nodded and smiled politely, and he wrote the prescription.

So 45 minutes and almost $200 later, I walked out with six months of flea pills for both the cat and the last dog I’ll ever own.

If you’ve ever tried to pill a dog, you know that it’s pretty easy. You can tuck it into a piece of cheese or smear some bacon grease on it, toss it into the air, and you’re set. Bingley doesn’t even need that much encouragement. I don’t even need to hide it in the bathroom trash can or the litter box, although that would certainly work, too. Cats, though, are a different kettle of fish.  I have vivid memories of a childhood cat, Blackie, being sick and needing pills. Diana and I would hold her down, and I remember her foaming at the mouth, clawing madly, and usually spitting the pill out. I even remember desperately trying to use a pencil to jam the pill down her throat at some point. It was a horror movie.

There’s a hilarious step-by-step guide for pilling a cat that is eerily accurate. I think this is the link to it: 

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC372253/

There’s another equally hilarious YouTube video that shows a lady whose cat is clearly an opium addict, giving her cat a monthly pill for, I don’t remember, diabetes? Whatever. I was laughing til I cried at how mellow and pleasant the whole process was. Seriously, I’m not even sure this cat wasn’t a fake plush toy. Here’s the link for that: 

https://youtu.be/sZhFKHxnG4Q

My favorite quote: "Her conscious participation makes it so much easier!"

Or this one - it's awesome and sooooo realistic! 

https://youtu.be/h6rk-qh_l4o

So suffice it to say that I was prepared. I’ve found that the best way to proceed with a cat is to be completely confident and FAST. If you can get ‘er done before the cat knows what hit her, you’re set. 

So, the first time I gave Jasmine her flea pill, I recall it was a little dodgy - I might have had to give it two tries. But she’s super old, and I’m crafty and experienced. She won the first round, so I wrapped her in a towel and managed to get her to swallow the pill on the second try. And she did bite through my finger, even managing to get a fang up under my fingernail, like a bamboo shoot that torturers use. But other than that, I got it done without too much fuss. The FIRST time.

This, however, was the second time.

I opened the foil pack for the cat and set it on the kitchen rug, next to the towel and nail clippers. I figured I'd bundle Jasmine up and clip her claws, as I do every few weeks, and I’d sneak the pill in while I had her captive. She was busy drinking water, so in the meantime, I called in the last dog I'll ever own, to give him his pill. Bingley, of course, gulped his pill down without even chewing. No need to disguise it. He’ll eat anything. And he has. 

Then, on his way out of the kitchen, Bingley noticed the cat's $20 flea pill just lying there, so he snarfed that up too.

After cursing him to the moon and back, I opened a second $20 foil pack for the cat, wrapped her in a towel, clipped her claws, and then tried to give it to her. The frail, 6 pound, 20 year old cat gave me a six inch gash on my thigh and spit the pill out. I retrieved the soggy pill and managed to get it into her before it disintegrated, while she proceeded to pee all over me.

I showered myself off, sat down with my calm, sweet daughter to play some cards, then watched the cat try twice to barf up the second $20 flea pill. She didn’t actually bring anything up, so I decided to put the pets to bed and call it a night.

So, remember that the last dog I’ll ever own has now had one dog dose and one cat dose. The cat finally got her dose, but I wasn’t sure she’d keep it down.  The next day, I saw no barf in the laundry room (where Jasmine sleeps, confined — see other pet blog for those details). So far, so good. Bingley had thrown his up, but, as dogs do, he helpfully re-ate it all. So for $30, I was pretty sure we were set for the month.

Jasmine stayed in her little downstairs bed in the laundry room almost all day. No food. She only drank water every so often. I think her claw was probably sore from tearing through the flesh of my leg, poor thing. Late in the afternoon, I checked on her for about the tenth time, and she emerged, finally deciding she'd punished me enough for the previous night's trauma. Or so I thought.

I leave an entire can of food on a plate for her at night, and generally she finishes it. I'm an excellent housekeeper (just ask my family), but occasionally when I'm scouring the laundry room floor, I may miss a morsel or two of cat food. As a result, I had found several scout ants in there. I cleaned them up and sprayed ant poison all around. Although the new Raid formula smells just terrific, I didn't want to leave the cat enclosed in there all night with poison fumes. So I decided to give her the run of the house that night. Perhaps I needed a reminder of why, so long ago, I decided to confine her each night.

As it was blistering hot, I left our bedroom door open. Knowing Jasmine would want to come snuggle in the middle of the night, as cats do, I put a baby gate up in our doorway. Being old and stiff, Jasmine can't make it onto my bed anymore without help, and with Brian being a Ninja-light sleeper, I wanted to avoid a middle-of-the-night rescue, where I'd have to untangle her claws from halfway up to our bed.

You know that sound cats make when they have a toy or a dead mouse in their mouth? Not a cheerful, high-pitched "meow", but a deep-throated, loud, guttural "MROOUUURRRR"? That was Jasmine. Over and over. Several times. All night. Plus, she is almost totally deaf, so she forgets how to make normal cat sounds. So HER weird, super loud "Hey humans, where are you? I require your company" yowling is especially pleasant.  Amazingly, Brian never even heard it.

I’m counting the days til I have to do this again for my pets. Every month. For the rest of their lives.

Home Again...

So recently, I found out that my best friend’s mom has cancer. The same cancer that took my own mom in 1999. Can I just start by saying cancer sucks???

When I say best friend, I mean BEST friend. Kathy and I have been friends since the summer of 1972, when she walked down the hill past the five houses that separated us and knocked on our door, asking if the new little girl who just moved in wanted to come play. We were nine years old, just about to enter fourth grade. 

Not long after that, I also became friends with LeeAnn, who was already a good friend of Kathy’s, and the three of us have remained a bestie trio for over forty years. No matter how time or distance has separated us, we always reconnect instantly when we see each other, as though we’d never been apart. The only reason LeeAnn spent any less time with us before we were all driving was that she lived a bit further away from us, so it wasn't as easy for her just to pop by.

Kathy and I attended the same elementary and junior high schools. When it came time for high school, the district decided that a far-away school on the other side of the hill needed more students, so they re-drew the boundaries of "who went where". The horse trail next to my house was arbitrarily selected as a dividing line, so instead of attending Rolling Hills High, which was only a mile away, with my closest neighborhood friends, I had to drive five miles around the peninsula to attend Miraleste. Rolling Hills, by the way, was the high school that all three of my older siblings had attended. I have no earthly idea why my parents didn’t petition this decision, but there you go.

Because of Kathy’s mom’s illness, I’ve been up to Palos Verdes a few times recently, hanging out at Kathy’s childhood home, delivering a meal, helping with CaringBridge updates, or just offering a little company and moral support to Kathy as she holds vigil and drives her mom back and forth between doctors' offices and chemo treatments. PV is pretty close to my home in Redondo Beach, but it feels like a world away. There, the tree-lined, hilly streets wind their way past fancy homes, horse trails, and peacocks who strut the streets, confident that you'll slow your car to let them pass.

Today, Kathy’s family house remains much as it always was, gorgeous and very unique. They had it custom built when people first started moving in droves to Palos Verdes. It’s a split-level home, with a small horse stable, breathtaking landscaping (her family owns a national garden products company, so of course their landscaping is amazing). A recent addition is a lovely waterfall that flows from the upstairs yard to the patio below. It has provided a tranquil place for her mom to enjoy time outdoors.

I think it’s fair to say that from the ages of 9 through 17, I probably spent about a third of my time at Kathy’s house. Kathy and I rode our ponies through the canyons of Palos Verdes together. We once ate a whole Sara Lee cheesecake together. We played pool and backgammon in the game room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the back yard, or we'd load the player piano with old rolls of music from long ago. Now and then her dad would join us and play a bit of "Clair de Lune", his favorite tune. Other times, we hung out in the corral with her horse, Pony Gal, and her goat, Niña, or we played paddle tennis in the court that was built into the side of the canyon beyond the back yard. 

Almost every day after school or for the better part of most summer days, you could find us doing something together, usually at her house. We’d have sleepovers there. Kathy’s room was always like the room of a princess to me. Right in her bedroom, she had two beds, a sink with mirrors, and this cool faucet that arcs up sort of like a luxurious water fountain, so you could get a drink right there any time you wanted. Sometimes her dad would come home from late night sales meetings and chase us screaming, giggling girls through the house, while emitting a deep, spooky, maniacal laugh… until Kathy’s mom would call up to him and make him reluctantly give up the game and go to bed. 

Out next to their back driveway (yes, there are two driveways), there is a loquat tree that hangs heavy with fruit every year. If you’ve never eaten a loquat, I highly recommend it. We’d gorge ourselves on the tart-yet-sweet fruit and spit out the smooth, brown, oval seeds, until we were completely satisfied.

I even got my first "real" kiss from a boy there, at Kathy's house. He was a friend of her older brother, and I think he was drunk at the time. It was, um, kind of sloppy, and not much else. I don’t even remember his name. Kathy probably does. But I digress.

I haven’t lived in Palos Verdes since I finally made the leap, after college, to my own apartment (which I shared, incidentally, with my best friends, Kathy and LeeAnn) in nearby Redondo Beach. Also, incidentally, Kathy and I both attended USC -- and guess who walked into my dorm room right after I moved in? Kathy. Turns out her room was just a few doors from mine. Which was a little picture of God's amazing grace, as I was super homesick and anxious about living away from home. 

After my folks died, I -- as executor of the “estate” -- had the horribly sad task of selling our family home and saying goodbye to any claim I had to life on the hill.  My sister Diana still keeps a horse in Westfield, the housing subdivision where we lived out so much of our youth. Several times since, I’ve ridden with Diana on horseback past our old house. It is strange to see so much that is familiar, and so much that is totally alien. And when I say “alien”, I’m serious. They have a freakin’ GARGOYLE in my old backyard. What???

So, back to Kathy’s house. I'll call it that for simplicity's sake. Kathy actually has her own beautiful home just a couple of miles away from her mom's house in Westfield. But we're talking about her mom's house here - so, for now, this is what I mean by "Kathy's house". I have been back many times as an adult. After college, there was a night when Kathy decked the house out for a murder mystery dinner, and about a dozen of us spent the evening dressed in 1930s attire, figuring out whodunit. It's been the location for several other significant parties and events over the years. There were times when Kathy and I donned aprons and passed drinks and hors d'oeuvres for one swanky event or another hosted by her mom. I think I have a picture somewhere of one such event... we were so cute.

There’s something different, though, when I walk into this beautiful old home today. Every square inch of Kathy's house fills me with nostalgia -- the utility room, specially appointed for wrapping gifts and arranging flowers. The dim, cozy room near the garage that I hardly ever entered, which was her dad's office. Her bedroom, which connected to her brother's room through a bathroom that had sliding doors with these little twisty metal locks on each side. The conversation pit downstairs, where I, as maid of honor, joined Kathy and eight bridesmaids to drink champagne and pose for pictures on her wedding day. The upstairs TV room, where Kathy's dad used to watch television and snack on things I hardly considered snacks. It's also where her folks gave us a stern lecture when our over-18 boyfriends had delivered us home after we got kicked out of Disneyland. That's material for a whole other blog...

But it’s more than that. More than the flood of memories. Walking into Kathy's house, I get an almost overpowering desire to go back to a simpler time in life, a time when, almost daily, I'd wander up to knock on her giant front door. I'd spend hours and hours there while my parents were out of town at one barbershop event or another, seeking refuge from my older siblings' rule of my own home roost. Years later, I learned that Kathy’s mom would often wonder aloud where on earth my parents always were, and, in truth, I think she took pity on me and did her best to provide a sort of haven for me. I really have no idea why we were left on our own so often... I think the term is "barbershop orphans". It never seemed strange to me as a child, but now I wonder what on earth my parents thought was going on in our house during their absence, with three teenagers, a younger sibling, and no supervision. Again, fodder for a whole other blog...

It’s also super eerie, returning so many years later to Kathy's house. I'm having trouble describing why, but it’s as if all the Ghosts of Christmas Past haunt the hallways and rooms. Rather than bringing a fond smile and happy memories, I feel faintly sad and bewildered. There’s a tug, deep in my gut, that I can’t name. So much time has passed since I treated this as my second home. So many life events, from the earth-shattering to the insignificant… yet this house is still almost exactly the same. It’s sort of this eternal Place of Being inside my world, unlike any other place. It stirs longings in me that are difficult to articulate and impossible to fulfill.

I think maybe it’s because this home has remained in place, long after all my other childhood haunts have vanished or become unavailable to me. There are no other places I can go where I feel so connected to my childhood. The closest thing, oddly, is the old DoubleTree Hotel, off Highway 99 in Bakersfield, where my Sweet Adelines regional events took place for most of my barbershop life with my parents. After they died, I'd often coach a chorus up in Fresno, and on the way home, I'd always stop at the DoubleTree and just wander the halls for a while before continuing the drive. It felt comforting to walk through a place where I'd spent so much happy time with my mom and dad. Then one year, they totally remodeled the place, so it just doesn't feel that way anymore. It's just another hotel.

So Kathy's house alone has preserved this piece of my past. It's one of the last touchstones left to my childhood and to my life with my parents. They died far too young, about 16 years ago. Dad was 69 and Mom was only 64. I was talking about this with Brian, and it makes us wonder what places will spark this sort of nostalgia in our own daughters one day, hopefully many, many years from now.

I'm headed up there this evening, where I'll enjoy Kathy's company, the quiet tranquility, and the scenic view. I'll let Kathy vet this blog and tell me it's okay to out her for being expelled from Disneyland... you know, before I click on "Publish"...

God Stuff - Big "Aha" Moments -- God Has No "Plan B"

So, throughout my walk with Christ, every now and then I will discover something new and life-changing about God.

The first one I remembered to write down in a journal somewhere was in 2007, and it is this:

God has no "Plan B".

There is never a moment where God sits back, does a face-palm, sighs, and says, "Well, shoot. I did not see THAT coming! Let's see... how can I fix this, now?"

No. God is completely in charge (the Christian buzzword, for you muggles, is "sovereign"). It's His bat, His ball, His field, His dirt, His grass, His everything. He runs the show. There is nothing that takes Him by surprise, nothing that He didn't fore-ordain before this planet and all of its history was even a twinkle in His infinite imagination.

I have a friend, Laura, who has experienced so much loss, heartache and tragedy in her life. Her parents died in a car crash when she was a teen. Her brother died from cancer. Her husband left her. Yet her faith in our very good God is unswerving. She explained it well once. She said she'd rather serve a God who had every single detail under His total control than a God who had turned His back or checked out briefly, which caused something to happen that He wasn't in charge of.  She said it much more eloquently, but you get the picture...

This realization has had enormous applications in my life. I spent much of my early walk with Christ afraid to share my faith. What if I said the wrong thing, and someone who was just on the brink of becoming a believer suddenly got offended and turned away from God forever? Or what if someone sees MY mess of a life, and thinks, "Um, no thanks, God." And all because I screwed up??

Um, sorry, Doreen. You're just not that powerful.

There is nothing I (or anyone else, for that matter) can do or say that is going to "de-rail" God's plan for someone's life.  In short, I CAN'T get it wrong -- well, of course I can, but not badly enough to do any lasting damage or to keep God from reaching someone.

This has given me enormous relief, and way more courage in sharing my faith. If I screw it up, or if I chicken out and don't speak up for Christ, or even if I'm just a terrible example of what it means to follow Christ (I can't remember where I read it, but I've stolen the motto: "If I can't be a good example, I strive to be a horrible warning."), God has it all under control.  He'll either send someone along who's better at this than I am to undo the mess I made, or He'll give me another shot at it later. In the process, He uses my fumbling attempts at talking about Him to refine me, to draw me closer to Him. and to sharpen my skills at sharing my heart and His boundless love with people.

I read a wonderful piece on this by John Piper. He's talking about Psalm 115:3

God is never constrained to do a thing that he despises. He is never backed into a corner where his only recourse is to do something he hates to do. He does whatever he pleases. And therefore, in some sense, he has pleasure in all that he does. 

This should lead us to bow before God and praise his sovereign freedom, that in some sense at least he always acts in freedom, according to his own "good pleasure," following the dictates of his own delights. 

God never becomes the victim of circumstance. He is never forced into a situation where he must do something in which he cannot rejoice. He is not mocked. He is not trapped or cornered or coerced. 

Even at the one point in history where he did what in one sense was the hardest thing for God to do, "not spare his own Son" (Romans 8:32), God was free and doing what pleased him. Paul says that the self-sacrifice of Jesus in death was "a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God" (Ephesians 5:2). The greatest sin and the greatest death and the hardest act of God was pleasing to the Father. 

And on his way to Calvary, Jesus himself had legions at his disposal. "No one takes my life from me; I lay it down of my own accord" - of his own good pleasure, for the joy that is set before him. At the one point in the history of the universe where Jesus looked trapped, he was totally in charge doing precisely what he pleased - dying to justify the ungodly like you and me. 

So let us stand in awe and wonder. And let us tremble that not only our praises of God's sovereignty but also our salvation through the death of Christ for us, hang on this: "Our God is in heaven; he does whatever he pleases."

 There's a whole other side to this that's super confusing, at times, for me. That is, how can we have truly free will, if God is running everything? How are we not puppets, constrained to follow the exact path He ordained? And how can there be evil in the world, but God's not the author of it? I don't believe God set the whole thing spinning (I think some call this the "blind watchmaker" theory?), and then He watches our path and our choices and alters His plan to accommodate our random steps. No, He either IS or He ISN'T a God who's totally in charge. And He is TOTALLY good. There is no evil in Him at all. I've read so many essays, listened to so many sermons, and each time I finish, I think I've finally grasped that both of these are true at the same time, without it being a logical contradiction. He's TOTALLY in charge, and I have TOTAL free will. And it's funny... it's like when you pick up a big handful of sand at the beach. You think, "I've got this!" And then, slowly, the sand starts to slip through your fingers, until not much of it is left. So you scoop up more sand, and then you think, "Okay, now I've got it!" The cycle goes on. Someday, I'll have read enough that I can publish my own insightful and brilliant analysis of man's free will and God's sovereignty. For now, I'll just keep picking up handfuls of sand and being very glad that God has it all figured out, even if I don't.

Tips From Teens And Toddlers

So I'm gaining some valuable experience in human interaction lately -- from two very diverse places.

I'm not sure how many moms are blessed enough to have a kid who is not only self-aware, but who is articulate and can tell me what's going on inside that teenage head of hers. For example, a few years ago, when she was in the throes of mood-swingy puberty, Jennifer was actually able to understand that she was temporarily at the mercy of her crazy hormones, and that she might be overreacting just a tad to a situation. She had this sort of "pet phrase" she'd use, when she knew she was totally blowing things out of proportion. Instead of howling the cliche line you see in every teen drama: "YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE! I HATE YOU!", she'd stop whatever she was doing or whatever rant she was in the middle of and wail, "I'm the cause of global warming!!!!!!!" That was sort of my cue to step back and let her collect herself -- that whatever was going on would pass, and that she didn't suddenly have some serious character issue I needed to jump in and nag her out of.

And let's not ignore the fact that my ever-patient husband has had to deal with both puberty and menopause, in the same house, at the same time.  Poor guy. I'm surprised he hasn't run away from home. Yet.

I remember about a year ago, I publicly apologized, via Facebook, to my now-grown stepdaughter Becky. When she was going through the mood-swingy years, I was sooooooo smug. So intolerant. My favorite admonition, always said with holier-than-thou righteousness, was: "It's fine to feel however you want to feel. It is not, however, okay to act any way you want to act." A slammed door or eye roll would send me instantly through the roof, forcing her to march back upstairs and go back down to her room politely, without another slam. I was such a step-monster.

Fast-forward to the onset of my menopausal years. Holy crap. I'd forgotten entirely what it felt like to be a complete, helpless slave to my own hormones and inner demons. Here I was, cussing like a sailor, throwing things, slamming cabinets. What a hypocrite! Becky graciously forgave me for being a sanctimonious ass.

I homeschool my younger daughter, who's seventeen now.  We spend a lot of time together, even though that time is now beginning to be infringed upon by real life and the growing demands of her becoming a young adult. While school used to consist of a math lesson on the carpet, in between games of "Life" or "Sorry", or before and after binge-watched episodes of Dr. Who, Jennifer is now taking classes at the local community college. She's also spending lots of time interning at church or heading off to spend afternoons at the beach or thrift shopping with friends.

So, again, it's probably only me that does this (right, moms?), but when I'm picking Jen up after some time apart, my normal behavior is to fire off a million questions -- "What'd you do? Did you eat? How's so-and-so doing? Who all was there tonight? What was the Bible lesson about?..." And on and on.

I think Jennifer deals with these rapid-fire interrogations much more politely than most kids. In fact, she even tries to field all of my questions. But one day, not long ago, she helped me understand this whole thing from her point of view.  "Mom," she explained, without anger or sarcasm, "when you pick me up, I've just spent time with some really close friends. We talk about a ton of things, and some of them are super private - things that my friends wouldn't want me to share with you.  So I need a little time to process it. I have to decide what is private and I shouldn't share, and what kind of stuff I can tell you. I can't talk about it right away." This is pretty insightful. And articulate!

I would imagine this would be harder to hear if I didn't already spend so much time around my kid. I can picture a relationship where I packed her off for seven hours of school every day, then carted her to an evening meeting or rehearsal or other function. I'd be so desperate to reconnect with her that I'd want to know everything, and right away. I'm very blessed to have such a close relationship with her that I can hear what she's telling me about this, and now I try my best to give her space and allow her to come back into our space in her own way.

And lately, I am learning a lot about being around very young people too. Things I wish I'd known the first time around. I get to watch my almost-two-year-old grand-niece for three days each week, while her mom works as a police officer. Little miss Lola is preparing me for grandmotherhood. She's such a light in our lives, and Jennifer is learning a ton about baby and toddler care, as she's still home much of the time when Lola is here.

I think a lot of adults make a mistake when they enter into a baby or toddler's space and immediately try to foster some grand INTERACTION. I've learned, over the past year or so of watching Lola, a different way of relating to little ones.  I've found that that far better course of action is to enter in and be quiet - see what the baby is doing right that moment. They live SO in-the-moment. Instead of throwing a bunch of stimuli at the child, enter into what HE'S doing right that very minute.  And don't try to force affection from the baby. My sister Debbie is a master at this. Her secret, she once confided, is to pretty much totally ignore the child. Not in a mean way... more like in an "I'm not gonna get all up in your face" way. The baby eventually comes around to check out what SHE's all about. It's brilliant. And it works!

There's definitely a connection between these two ways of interacting. It's so much about observing and listening and figuring out what's going on before just charging in with my own agenda. I haven't mastered it, by any means. And I wish I'd learned it earlier. I'd have had far fewer crushed expectations, less frustration, and I probably would have done less to drive those around me crazy!

Jennifer is on her way home from having brunch with friends and working at the church to feed the needy. And Lola's asleep. Let's see how I do this afternoon. I may have to read this blog again myself to remind me to back off, listen, and learn.

Empty Bottles - The Ballad of Sebastian the Hermit Crab

Empty Bottles - The Ballad of Sebastian the Hermit Crab

This is something I first wrote when Jennifer was 7. Updated today with the REST of the story...

The Ballad of Sebastian

Doreen Philbin, Herit Crab Aficionado, April 2005

My seven-year-old daughter and I just returned from Connecticut with Sebastian Berry (the fruit, not the name) Philbin, the hermit crab. We found him (it?) in a mall kiosk, where Jennifer worked me like a second job to get him. Naturally, I asked the seller a lot of questions first. The small “crabitat” was $19.95, a clear plastic container with a colorful vented lid, complete with sand, two little shells and a sea sponge for food and water, and a cute plastic palm tree with a “Made in China” tag. Food was an extra $2.99; we got an additional painted shell for the little guy, as they evidently like to swap. Despite the man telling me they are not literally “hermits” at all, but that they need companions, I figured a stupid bug-like critter in a shell couldn’t possibly “need” much of anything, so we stuck with one. The crab, mind you, was FREE. It was the fancy crabitat that cost twenty bucks.

Thus began the saga.

Back at my sister’s house, the care sheet included information like, “If you are unfortunate enough to get pinched, hold the contact point under medium hot water. This will normally make the crab release.” I said to Jennifer, "What do you suppose we do if that doesn't work?" She considered it a moment, and then said, "I guess you pretend it's jewelry!" Only seven and already a comedienne.

The care sheet explained that hermit crabs live inland, away from salt water (they only visit the ocean to breed); their optimum temperature is between 70-75 degrees, and they enjoy being misted daily (no tap water, mind you – chlorine is toxic to them). It warned against heaters that would dry out the crab, so we pondered how to get Sebastian through two New England nights before our return to California. After some discussion, my sister Debbie brought the heat lamp from the chicken coop into the bathroom. This seemed about warm enough.

I had now spent $26 on a bug with a colorful shell. But hey, I figured it was a good first pet -- quiet, clean, hypoallergenic, and fun to play with (not counting that pinching thing). Jennifer had great fun taking Sebastian out, bathing him (the care sheet said they love baths twice a week, so we gave him one every day… if a little is good, more is better, right?), and watching Debbie’s standard poodle sitting mesmerized at every little antenna twitch.

Finally, it was time to head home. In the airport, when Sebastian’s bright orange shell with matching crabitat failed to capture the notice of hopelessly unobservant passers-by, Jennifer would announce in a loud voice, “I sure love my new hermit crab. I hope Sebastian likes the plane ride back to California!” This was usually sufficient to get people asking questions.

I worried about Sebastian going through the x-ray security machine, only to grow a mysterious third eye weeks later. To my relief, the TSA reps smiled indulgently and passed the crabitat safely behind the equipment. I made a mental note that if I ever needed to smuggle a Swiss Army knife, I knew now just what to do.

Once home, I made the mistake of doing a Google search on hermit crabs. Wow. It began to dawn on me that we had purchased a pet that can best be described as “dry-clean only”. Apparently, they come from a very tropical environment. They need both salt and fresh water. And remember, no tap water. They must be between 72 and 80 degrees: any lower, and they slowly freeze; any higher, and they begin to smell musty and emit a brown discharge, resulting in death. Ick. They also require 70% to 80% humidity. Any lower, and their modified gills dry out, slowly suffocating them. Any higher, and they get all moldy. Web pages provide recipes for favorite crab treats, awards for crabitats-of-the-month (this month’s winner was two stories high), and lots of help forums for crab care. There is even a website dedicated to Jonathan Livingston and Crab Kate, who are over 25 years old and the size of softballs. One picture of these impossibly huge crabs next to a thimble had me shuddering.

Trying to be a not-too-neurotic-but-still-conscientious pet owner, I promptly headed to Petco to create a better crabitat. I decided on a bigger fish bowl that we already had. To keep Sebastian warm at night, my husband Brian rigged up a nightlight on an extension cord that we duct-taped to the bowl. Then, I decided that since crabs are nocturnal, he needed darkness. So I tried wrapping our old heating pad around the bottom of the bowl, which seemed nice and toasty. I bought more empty shells, a better sponge, more substrate (uh, dirt) at $5.99 per quart-sized bag, and now I was up to about $75 for our “free” pet.

I was up twice during the night to check on Sebastian and look for signs of life with my night-vision camera. I felt a ray of hope when I caught him eating some fresh apple. As for the poop we’re supposed to dispose of daily, my stepwife (Brian’s ex) said she’d had hermit crabs for two years and still didn’t know what their poop looks like. I suppose this should make me happy.

As I read more, I realized that poor Sebastian really did need a friend. And the painted shells had to go. Fanatical internet posts described in grisly detail how crab farmers brutally stuff these guys into toxic painted shells, and how ”rescued” crabs, when given the choice of natural shells, switched into them with lightning speed. Plus, hermit crabs need a variety of shells to pick one that feels just right and to avoid shell fights.

So I decided if we were going to do this, we would do it right. I borrowed an old larger terrarium, and back to Petco we went for more supplies and a friend for Sebastian. Jennifer chose a slightly smaller one in a flashy black and yellow shell, and we set up yet a third crabitat for our new charges. We also needed extra sponges so we could rinse and dry them out daily to prevent bacteria or mold from collecting in the humid environment.

The new crab was on speed compared to Sebastian. His little antennae would flail around wildly, and he could jet across the table with alarming speed. We named him Dash, after the speedy super-boy in “The Incredibles”.

We put the crabs into their new home, with playground sand from the hardware store (MUCH cheaper than the pet store substrate and recommended by Petco.com), a hermit crab heater designed to stick on the side of the terrarium (I didn’t want to go overboard with an under-tank heater), a coconut fiber covering for one wall for climbing, attractive fake foliage, and a couple more shells. The crabs found each other relatively quickly, and their little antennae whirred away as they said hello.

Leaving them to get better acquainted, I resumed my online research. We would soon need a separate isolation tank for annual molting. They dig under for two weeks (they’re only dead if they smell like fish), shed their exoskeleton, and then eat it. Ick. Close-up photos of pink, freshly molted crabs.

The next morning, I checked on the crabs and discovered with horror that Sebastian’s entire pincher claw was lying detached on the sand. My head spun. Did Dash rip it off? How did I not see this coming?? I KNEW Dash would be aggressive when I saw how hyper he was! What kind of crab owner was I??? Jennifer was frantic and begged me to exchange Dash for a calmer crab.

I immediately sent emergency pleas for help to a hermie newsgroup (one at which I had scoffed only days before – look how neurotic these people were about stupid crabs!). A couple of fanatics… er, crab owners came quickly to my aid. Turns out over-bathing and stress can make them drop claws. Gee, let’s see… did Sebastian have a stressful week? As I described his purchase, cross-country transport, daily baths, relocation to three terrariums followed by the instant introduction of a new crab, I began to suspect that I would have chewed my own arm off under similar circumstances. I was advised to isolate poor Sebastian, stop bathing him, and see how things went. My new mentors assured me they’d never seen a crab actually rip the leg off another larger crab, and that Sebastian had probably dropped it from stress or to avoid a potential shell fight. It’s called “autotonomy” and is quite common in the crab world. I had a mental image of Sebastian becoming so overwhelmed that all his legs would drop off at once like dominos, leaving him wriggling helplessly on our overpriced but attractive (did I mention it glows in the dark?) substrate.

My new Internet friends convinced me to give our neurotic new crab another chance. Jennifer had now begun calling him Syndrome, after the villain in “The Incredibles”. My mentors assured me that with time, he should settle in. So I divided the tank in half and bought an under-tank heater and combination temperature/humidity gauges. But with the terrarium divided by a cardboard partition, I fretted that Sebastian, who was on the warm side, would fry, and that Syndrome would freeze. I was leaving for the weekend in only a day, and I really wanted to get the two of them on speaking terms before then (I had yet to hear the chirping noises like those posted online by doting crab owners).

I left Sebastian totally alone for a whole day and a half, covering his crabitat with a dishtowel for privacy and providing such delectable treats as crushed egg shells (for calcium). I peeked obsessively under the cover and was relieved to see him quietly eating, probably grateful that I wasn’t dunking him in water or switching his home or pitting him against Syndrome.

After a nearly sleepless night of worry, I decided to throw caution to the wind, put them together, and let nature take its course. Jennifer made me promise that if we found one more leg on the sand, we’d take Syndrome back and find a less aggressive pal for Sebastian. I was thinking more along the lines of returning Sebastian, disguised as the defective crab. But by now Rachel at Petco recognized me by sight, and I didn’t think I could slip it past her. She’d heard the whole saga and, to her credit, she hadn’t once looked at me as though I were insane.

I daringly removed the partition, and within minutes Sebastian seemed to actually be bullying Syndrome, who had burrowed into the sand for safety! Maybe I had it backwards all along. Maybe my crafty Connecticut crab had faked his own injury to trick me into returning Syndrome for a girl. Maybe Sebastian’s first week with us had pushed him over the edge and he had become a serial crab killer. Who knew what he'd be capable of??? In any event, if Sebastian was the aggressive one, I was confident that Syndrome (whose name had now been restored to “Dash”) could handle it (his shell fit well for maximum protection against bullies).

So, I headed off on my trip, leaving detailed instructions for Brian while I was away. When I returned, both crabs were alive and had apparently called a truce. This little twenty-buck crab had now run me about $165 (including the extra food dishes, the corner wooden hidey-hutch, salt water conditioner, Stress-Coat for the bath water, and another shell). Jennifer appeared to have lost interest. Maybe my obsessive fretting over them during the past week had awakened sibling rivalry in her mind. Maybe I was beginning to need therapy.

The funniest part of this whole story happened when Brian -- who had begged me to stop reading websites about hermit crabs after I began relaying tales of people finding maggot eggs in their crabs’ shells -- was looking over the original care sheet from the Connecticut mall. “Honey,” he said casually, “I’ve been reading this, and I think there are quite a few things here that we’re not doing for this crab.” I burst into hysterical laughter.

But the ultimate irony was saved for today. Nearly two weeks after beginning this adventure, we appear to have lost a hermit crab to that great beach in the sky. Had Sebastian finally succumbed? Nope. It seems that Dash, the vibrant, energetic, really cute one, has gone belly up – literally. I picked him up this morning and breathed hot air into his shell, which normally causes them to loosen up and emerge. I even tempted him with some fresh apple. Nothing. Well, this afternoon, I’m noticing a decidedly fishy odor. How very ironic. Back to Petco tomorrow for another victim! But hey, I have a $2 coupon from a previous visit!

UPDATE !!!
I am adding this now, in 2015... because I realize I never finished our journey...

Shortly after this (it's all a blur, fully ten years later), Sebastian finally, mercifully, bit the dust. But the story doesn't end there. We fashioned a coffin for him by taping together two plastic cups, and Jennifer decorated a rock as his headstone. We buried him in a little dirt patch in our back yard. 

Then, I made the mistake of reading more. It seems that when the crabs prepare to molt, they might appear dead and give off a fishy odor.  Molting, it turns out, is a crucial stage where they shed their old exoskeleton, then eat it (for the calcium, of course), and re-emerge to find a well-fitting shell from the assortment of larger, non-painted shells you would have thoughtfully supplied them.

So I started thinking, what if Sebastian hadn't actually died? What if he was only molting and I, thinking he was dead, had buried him alive?? So, a day after burying him, I explained this to Jennifer (I am SURE this is why she is as weird as she is today), and together, we dug up the little coffin. I prodded him and looked him over pretty thoroughly. Nope. He was dead. And smelly.  Sheepishly, I re-buried him, and thus ended our venture into hermit crab ownership. Really. That's the end. I promise.