Stringing You All Along

I am away this week and did not bring my computer with me. I intended to publish my post about the Biblical principles Tinker Bell demonstrated in my recent pixie performance. I meant to post that puppy before I left, to be published this morning. Alas and alack, that did not happen. I lost my mind some time in mid-August and have yet to find it. If anyone out there happens to find it, please return it to me. I’ve heard you can fix nearly anything with a roll of duct tape, but I don’t think my brain fits into the “nearly anything” category.

At any rate, I’m sorry that you must wait another week for the Scriptural secrets of the wings.

Since I am on a Tinker-tear, though, I figured I’d just insert an extra chapter in the saga before concluding with Biblical principles next week. I’m sure many of you have been trying to form a mental picture of just how ridiculous I looked. I could almost hear some of you last week moaning, “pictures or it didn’t happen!”

Here you go…..


So what do you think? Wonderfully wackadoodle or just plain garden-variety wackadoodle? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a magical day!

Well, Thanks A Lot, Mom

Normally, I blame my father’s genetic makeup for the most deficient parts of me. I do not remember a time when my father did not have gray hair; I started going gray at age sixteen. My father’s diabetes raised my risk of contracting the disease by over 50%. I figured that diabetes would probably catch up with me at menopause, since a change in one hormonal system seems to trigger change to other hormonal systems. I was an overachiever and ended up being diagnosed around age forty. I inherited my father’s introversion and social awkwardness.  Recently, I behaved in a very  bizarre way that I can explain only by the fact that I am my mother’s daughter.

As I have mentioned before, my mother had a talent for love and happiness. Sometimes, this talent manifested itself in extreme levels of silliness. I do not claim to have the same talent, but I certainly inherited the manifestations of silliness.

Several months ago, a friend of mine was elected president of our church women’s group. Since our community is a snowbird community, our  “parish year” tends to start in September and rollick through until May. The summer months, when a percentage of our parish family heads to points north, can be a bit slow. When our women’s group “season” starts up in September, it is usually a big, festive party. We begin with a “welcome back” coffee that is part social gathering, part reconnecting, and part business meeting.  It is always a bit of a challenge to get the right balance. It is an informal gathering, designed to feel welcoming and enticing to new members, as well as reinvigorating returning members. In the past couple of years, we have had some sort of special showcase to give the attendees something unique on which to focus. For instance, one year, there was a  sort of “talent fair” set up, with different tables to highlight different members’ talents. For this fall coffee, my newly-presidented friend decided she wanted to feature a “storyteller.” Most of us listened politely when she brought up this idea and nodded obligingly, but most of us also had no idea what she meant. When she asked me to be the storyteller, the whole idea became much more real. Figuring out what she meant suddenly demanded much more priority.

We had several conversations about what my friend envisioned and what she wanted to accomplish with this storytelling activity. I did some internet research to see what I could see about storytelling as an art form. I found out there are international organizations with prestige and infrastructure that sponsor storytelling conferences and training events. They also preserve and laud the “science” of storytelling- history, cultural significance, and structure. It was fascinating reading, but I still felt like I was bumbling around in the dark. During my period of storytelling reconnaissance, I found out that another friend of mine in the organization had actually participated in some of these storyteller organizations. I suggested that she might be a better choice to fulfill my presidential friend’s vision. My presidential friend did not take the bait and I was still on the hook.

I came up with an idea that I thought would suit and started working on how I would tell the story. When my presidential friend asked for an update, I could see I was not hitting her mark. In fact, she told me that she intended it to be funny. I had not received that message before… and my story was decidedly unfunny. She told me, in the nicest possible way, that my approach was not working for her. We batted around several other ideas, but I could see that nothing was resonating with her. For several subsequent days, I played shotgun with ideas, but I never got the sense that my friend embraced any of them. Maybe I was looking for more validation than she wanted to give. Eventually, despite her hesitations, she told me to go with my latest idea and just do my own thing. She told me she did not want to limit my creativity and expression. At this point, I was so dubious of any creativity and expression I might have, I was unsure how to proceed.

I am nothing if not dutiful. If I commit to doing something, you can absolutely count on me to do it. Every time. No matter what. So, despite my feelings of inadequacy, I got to work on producing a storytelling event based on the Disney movie, Tinker Bell and the Secret of the Wings.  This is a 75-minute movie. I was trying to distill it down to about 10 or 15 minutes. Obviously, I did a lot of editing and simplifying.  The point of the story, at least in my bastardized effort, was that teamwork and the power of sisterhood can result in seemingly impossible successes. As I worked on this story, I had lots of doubts and lots of fears about it. I figured most of the ladies would be dumbfounded and puzzled as to the purpose of the whole storytelling activity, much less the emphasis on Disney fairies. I felt confident about nothing- except that there would be some people making fun of me and dismissing the whole thing. I don’t mind people laughing with me, but I didn’t think I needed to do anything to increase the number of people in this world who already laugh AT me. I felt a little bit like a lamb being led to slaughter… except I was fully aware that I was going to be the one slaughtered.

Then it hit me. If I was going to be silly, I could not be abashedly silly.  I could not be half-assed silly. I had to go all in. I had to be silly enough so that everyone in the room would be fully aware that I was being intentionally silly. I stopped restricting my silliness intake. I stopped editing myself for fear of being ridiculous. I decided to embrace full throttle silliness. I decided to dress up in the outfit I wore when I went to be Tink-ified at the Bippity Boppity Boutique for grown-ups. I wore a short green skater skirt, a green Tinker Bell t-shirt with silver wings printed on the back, a floral circlet on my head, and green slippers with pompons. Next, I decided to have some minor lighting effects at a crucial moment when Tink’s wings are healed. Then, I decided to have someone flit through the room with my light up Tink wand while someone else flipped the lights in the room on and off. A new friend of mine heard about the intended spectacle and was all about playing the flittering “power of sisterhood” energy. This friend is a Lutheran, so we were going to have an ecumenical Tinker Bell tale.

I told my pastor and his wife about the plan a few days before the meeting. They seemed kind of delighted by the novelty of the whole thing but did ask about a spiritual connection. It was a really good point. I have never minded being silly in the pursuit of learning or teaching, but I have always maintained that it was important not to just be silly for silly’s sake. I am always adamant about making meaning out of the silliness. I had a clear idea of the message, but I could do a much better job making the connection. I went home and prepared a list of Scripture references that I thought the story demonstrated. And for those of you who think there is no way to find Biblical references to support a Tinker Bell story, I encourage you to read next week’s blog!

As the big day approached, I started getting nervous. When I arrived at the meeting, my pastor’s wife expressed her disappointment with my attire. She was very relieved when I told her I had not changed into my costume yet. She was worried she was not going to see full on ridiculous mode, I guess. When it was time, my Lutheran pixie power pal and I went over to another building on our church grounds and fairy-fied ourselves. She wore a tule skirt, glittery jewelry, and strung herself with battery-operated lights. I tutored her on how to operate the wand. I donned my symphony in green and hoped my flower circlet, which was intended to be worn by a four-year-old, would stay put for the duration of the performance. We waited outside the parish hall where the meeting was being held. Since it was September in central Florida, it was hot and sticky while we waited for our cue. 

At last, my presidential friend opened the back door to the hall for us to enter. There was quite a stir, understandably. I took a deep breath, tried to forget my fears, and jumped right into the story. Jumped is probably a good word because I was flitting around the front of the room almost like a real pixie. I threw caution to the wind and immersed myself in my role. I do not believe I have ever done anything so ridiculous, and I do not believe I ever could have been so comfortable being so ridiculous. I enjoyed myself. My audience seemed entranced. Or shocked into submission. I am not sure which. Everything went great. My Lutheran power pixie really did bounce across the room with the wand, to the delight of everyone who saw her. The lights going on and off was an added  surprise for the audience. The timing and the pace of the story went well. I feel like I hit the right note between whimsical and condescending. Afterwards, people told me it was wonderful. Some, of course, were puzzled as to why I was telling the story to a room full of adults. They seemed a little patronizing, but still complimentary and polite. Nobody made fun of me… at least not where I could hear them. All in all, I’d say it was a win for ECW. But, even more, it was a win for me. Pushing myself out of my comfort zone with such force and feeling good about it is certainly worth celebrating.

So, I wonder what my mother would have made of this whole situation. I am sure she was sitting up in Heaven looking down on me and laughing maniacally… or smiling proudly.

What is the silliest thing you’ve ever done? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a sparkly day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Have You Missed Me Yet?

I know it has been a few weeks since I posted new content. I thought I’d better check in to let you know I still have a pulse and I am still breathing in and out. Whether or not I still have brainwaves is a matter up for debate.

I always said that I’d continue with the blog as long as I had something to say. My recent silence does NOT mean I have nothing left to say. In some ways, the problem is actually just the opposite. I have at least three blog pieces in various stages of development. I have a lot of amorphous ideas percolating but am having trouble forming those ideas into sturdy, coherent essays suitable for publication.

It does not help that my life has been Walmart Black Friday level busy since the middle of August. There are many blessings associated with a full, engaging life. One of those blessings is that a full and engaging life provides me with rich fodder for blog-building. Aye, but there is a rub! Living that full, engaging life that provides the blog fodder also limits the amount of time I have to sow and reap the actual blog crops.

Please have patience with me as I rotate my crops and start to bear fruit again. After this week, my schedule will slow down a little and I’ll bring you back along in the journey with me. Thanks for sticking with me!

So Now I’m An Infomercial Star

This post is going to be a little bit scary to write. I debated whether or not to write it and how much I am comfortable saying. But I am an enneagram type 6. My life coach, Todd Payne, tells me that the gift of the type 6 is courage. What that all means is that I live with basically the same anxiety level as a whack-a-mole on a bad acid trip…  who continues popping up to face real and imagined giants wielding heavy mallets. Despite my fear of emotional concussion, I always keep on keeping on. I am functional and productive. I kick butt and take names. Part of my work with Todd has been about minimizing the anxiety, believing in my well-honed ability to dodge said mallets, and using my natural courage to thrive.

Speaking of my life coach, he is the impetus for this post. Last April, Todd asked me if I would be willing to record an interview that he could use as a video testimonial on his website. The idea was frightening, but I wanted to give him this gift. He has done so much for me, and I have grown so much. Most of me was excited to do something that would help him and would show off the new person I am becoming, but it was a big thing to ask of myself. Todd and I talked about it a lot, in terms of how much I would share and what I would not share. We talked about the kind of questions and the level of control I would have. We talked about the appearance and body image demons I fight all the time. The mere mention of appearing on videotape for the world to see triggered the emotional switchblades to begin slashing at my flimsy self-image. During these discussions, I realized I wanted to make the video for Todd, but I also wanted to make it for me.

The interview seemed to go well, from my perspective. Todd also expressed that he was pleased with the results. He told me that it exceeded any expectation he had. The next step was for him to send the video to his editor and then, to show the finished product to me. With my agreement, he would then post it.

The timing was a bit wonky. The editor finished it right before Todd and his family made a major move. The video ended up in the digital equivalent of one of those bulging cardboard boxes you pile high in the spare bedroom after moving… with the full intention of unpacking them “when you get to it.” I was not too concerned. I asked about it once but did not pursue the matter because I figured that, if it never showed up, it was probably meant to be. The interview was a gift from me to Todd and, as the recipient, it was his to do with as he wished- even if what he wished was nothing.

The other day, I received an email from Todd, sharing the completed video with me. He seemed a little chagrined about it taking four months, but I was more worried about what the whole world was going to be seeing.  I immediately opened the file.

Now for the spoiler alert… I was…pleased.

I did not hate the way I looked. A couple of years ago, I am sure the video evidence of my appearance would have sent me running to lock myself away from the world for several days. I was convinced I was the least attractive looking person on the face of the planet. Really. That is not an exaggeration. In the video, I thought I looked… almost pretty. If not pretty, at least not distractingly ugly.

Listening to myself, I thought I was warm and engaging. I was articulate. I made all the points I wanted to make but also sounded genuine and spontaneous. It all felt very natural when I was doing it and it looked very natural on screen. Todd did a fantastic job briefing me ahead of time on what sort of structure and development he wanted. He also asked great questions to cue up my most authentic responses.

All in all, I thought that, if I was just some stranger watching this random interview on Todd’s website, I would think to myself that I really liked that girl and would like to be as healthy as she seemed to be.

Of course, growth is not a one-and-done kind of thing. Since April, I have been through four months of life with some special challenges. I AM much healthier than I have ever been, but I am going through another growth spurt right now. Again, I am dealing with some issues that I should have processed many years ago. I am doing very well. These issues are not nearly as gut-crushing as those I tackled earlier this year during my Lenten miracle ( A Lenten Miracle – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement) but they are still uncomfortable to face. This video reminded me what it is like when I feel strong and valuable.  The “delay” in sharing the video with me was not a delay at all. The timing was absolutely, exquisitely perfect. I think Todd might have done it on purpose. He’s smart like that.

So, anyway, here is the scariest part. I’ve been trying to decide whether to post the link to the video. I was not sure I wanted to draw attention to it. I think, though, that, if I want to maximize this gift to Todd and myself, it is best if I do post it. Of course, that would give the most exposure for Todd’s practice. It would also be good for me to own this moment and be proud of it.   So… here it is:

Todd Payne – Enneagram Coaching | True Self

So that is the story of my brush with infomercial stardom. Don’t worry. I’m not promoting a multi-level marketing scheme. I am not selling ginzu knives on late night tv. I am not shouting, “but wait, there’s more!”  I am simply sharing an amazing experience that has made a huge impact on me. I am sharing this experience because, first of all, this is my blog and that is what I do- analyze the wriggling mass of minutiae in my soul. Secondly, maybe someone out there will recognize themselves in this video and will reach out for help.  Not hurting all the time is really great.

Have a mentally healthy day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

What do you think of my video interview? Please be tactful, if not kind. Remember, I have that flimsy self-image. Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

The Pony Express Isn’t What It Used To Be

I had an alarming encounter the other day when I went to pick up the mail.

In the subdivision where I live, the postal service typically does not deliver mail to specific houses. There is a mailbox village near our clubhouse when you first enter the community. Some people walk to the mailboxes to get their mail. We live just about as far from the mailboxes as you can get and still live in our development. It is 1.1 miles from our front door to our mailbox. Given that the temperature level has been in the ninth circle of hell recently, with the humidity level set on “boiled lobster,” I have not been trotting my behind to the mailbox under the power of my own two feet. Picking up the mail requires a vehicle.

Recently, I decided to get the mail as I returned to the community after running a couple of errands. I was already hot, sticky, and overwhelmed. It seemed wise to perform the strenuous work of turning the key in the lock before I crept back into the house where the blessed air conditioner would cool down my body temperature. As I traveled the little road to the mailboxes, I noticed a car stopped in the oncoming lane. I wondered what the problem was, but, when I got closer, I identified the impediment. It was a reptilian speed bump- better known as an alligator. The people in the other lane were waiting for the thing to move out of their way. I guess they didn’t want to insist.

The alligator showed no sign of moving anywhere any time soon. I stopped my car to take pictures, forgetting that the car in the alligator occupied lane was probably waiting for me to move on so they could swerve into my lane to proceed down the road. Delaying them so that I could take pictures was inconsiderate of me, but I was so surprised by the alligator, it did not hit me until later that I was being rude. My apologies to the people in the car waiting for the crazy woman to stop photographing the alligator and get the heck out of the way.

Seeing alligators in the community is not exactly a common occurrence, but it is not unheard of, either. It is no longer surprising to see a picture on our community Facebook page that demonstrates that we do actually live in the wild. I have to confess that, for years after moving into my community, I doubted the veracity of those pictures. I guess I was in denial ( oh wait, crocodiles live in The Nile, not alligators!) and didn’t want to believe that I lived in the alligators’ backyard. However, during the COVID19 shutdown, I could no longer doubt the evidence of my own eyes. Max was looking out the Florida room windows one day and called to me, asking if that was an alligator hanging out behind our next-door neighbor’s house. I initially said that I thought it was a tree root. Until the tree root moved. That gator was about 9 feet long. While I say there was an alligator in my backyard, I am sure the alligator would say that there were humans in his backyard.  Since that day, I am inclined to believe just about any alligator-related story that reports from Florida.

Going back to the alligator on the road the other day… he wasn’t a huge guy. I’d say about 4 to 5 feet. There are many lakes and retention ponds where I live. The largest one is near the entrance to the community. Alligator sightings are pretty common around there. You see, adult male alligators are very territorial. They will typically run off juvenile males as soon as said juveniles are big enough to look like threats but before they are big enough to actually be threats. This means that we spot the occasional evicted alligator teenager wandering around in a confused state looking for a body of water to call his own. Someone once said that, in Florida, if you have a glass of water, there will be an alligator trying to get into it. Since our community is a veritable soda fountain of swimming holes, it isn’t too hard for the displaced gator to find alternative lodgings. Sometimes, though, it takes a little bit of help. Awhile back, someone posted a picture of a small group of my neighbors trying to “help” a young alligator by herding him across the little road to our clubhouse to another pond. It wasn’t a very big alligator. Maybe only a foot or two. He must have done something really annoying to get run off so early. He did not look like that much of a threat to me… and apparently, he did not look like that much of a threat to my well-intentioned neighbors. I have to say, though, that I don’t think I would have been brave enough to interact with him. I would have left him to his own devices and trusted Mother Nature to help him find his way to a new home. Sometimes bravery is just a nice word for recklessness.

Anyway, after I took my pictures and realized I was holding up traffic, I drove past the alligator and made my way to the mailboxes. We are pretty popular with the junk mail crowd. We have mail virtually every day that mail is delivered, even if that mail is just ads. On the Day of the Alligator, I opened the mailbox and found… nothing. Not even a warning that I needed to renew my car warranty. Not even an invitation to attend a dinner where I could learn all about the benefits of prepaid funerals. Not even a shout out to consider buying a state-of-the-art hearing aid at a bargain price. Absolutely nothing. I couldn’t help but wonder if the alligator blocking the road to the mailbox had anything to do with it.

Doesn’t the postal service have some kind of oath? Neither snow, nor rain, nor alligator will keep us from our appointed route? Someone was clearly falling down on the job!

What is the most dramatic animal you have seen wandering in your neighborhood? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terrriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have an eventful day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

The alligator moving along (or rather, not moving along) on the wrong side of the road
This one gives you some perspective of how close he was to me

Stranger In A Familiar Land

It always amazes me that very simple, seemingly routine, events can have a huge impact. By the time most of us get to our current stage of life, we have usually experienced numerous occasions of what I call “ordinary grace.” Maybe the event is not something that is dramatic or visible from an objective, outside point of view. Still, those events are life changing. They can change the way we look at ourselves and our lives, even if our external circumstances do not change.

Recently, I had one of those “ordinary grace” experiences. A cousin, my last living relative on my mother’s side, had several sequential catastrophic medical events. She lived in Pennsylvania. I ended up going to say good-bye, helping to make sure her last days were as peaceful and as beautiful as possible, arranging for her cremation, and, as executrix of her will, starting the administrative work necessary to settle her estate. A few weeks later, I made another trip to Pennsylvania to retrieve the cremains and bring them to the church for the funeral.

Most of us have been through events like this once we reach a certain age. There are always challenging circumstances. There are also many opportunities to experience ordinary grace. I could tell you many stories about my time in Pennsylvania- I could tell you about sleeping under a feline-fur-encrusted cat tower that was twice my size. I could tell you about the six hundred cans of cat food I found in my cousin’s house. I could tell you about determining, for the first time in my nearly 64 years, that I have a cat allergy. I could tell you about finding the cremated remains of her last dog in a drawer in her closet and burying said remains. I could tell you about sitting at my unconscious cousin’s bedside, praying, singing, and talking to her- certain in the knowledge that I was doing exactly what God called me to do.  I could tell you about trying to negotiate cremation and funeral arrangements that my cousin’s friends could respect.  

Today, though, I am going to limit my ramblings to one lesson I learned through my trips that I think might be helpful for me in the future.

During my first trip to Pennsylvania, there was a lot of conflict and a lot of judgment. I had traveled to Pennsylvania partially because a friend of my cousin’s, whom she had appointed as her medical POA, begged me to come. She did not feel she could cope with the responsibility. Once I got there, though, I was about as welcome as a new mutation of COVID19. I was doing everything in my power to solve problems and identify solutions that would respect everyone’s interests. At the same time, I was saying good-bye to a much-loved family member and walking with her as she came to the end of this life.

I thought it would be nice to attend mass at my cousin’s church the Sunday after she died so that I could get a sense of connection with the community. I wanted to experience what worship was like for her. After almost an entire lifetime of being an observant Roman Catholic, I expected to feel a sense of nostalgia and homecoming.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. I never realized how Protestant I had become. Actually, it is more accurate to say I never realized how Protestant I was even before I became a Protestant. Not only was this not the emotional and spiritual space I cherish in my current church community, it was not even the emotional and spiritual space of my Roman Catholic youth.  I felt out of place when I attended mass. A significant portion of the women came draped in lace mantilla head coverings. No one touched me, not even a handshake during the sign of peace. No one even spoke to me or looked at me. At communion, I went up for a blessing, with my arms crossed over my chest. The priest did not even put a hand on my shoulder. He muttered “God bless you,” in a rather surly tone, as if I had sneezed at an inconvenient time. Then, he looked at me pointedly- expecting me to toddle off out of the way, past the chalice bearer where communicants were sharing the communal cup. At the end of the mass, they prayed directly to St. Michael, the Archangel.

I decided that, perhaps, I would not attend the funeral because I did not feel connected to the Church or the people. This decision caused some mayhem amongst my cousin’s friends. Several contacted me to tell me that they would welcome me and “protect” me from any potential drama. One lady who seemed to be the key person arranging the funeral at the church called me and talked to me for at least 20 minutes trying to convince me to attend. She kept telling me how wrong it would be for me not to come- that I should fulfill all the sacrifices I had made by attending. She told me it would be a sin for me not to attend. I tried to explain that I felt no need to be there because I had been at my cousin’s bedside during her last three days of life and would be able to say a final good-bye at the internment ceremony at my own church. I told her that the funeral mass was really for the friends. I told her that the mass was for her and “your peeps.” She hastened to assure me that everyone would shower me in love and support, and she wanted me to include myself in their passel of peeps.

The day of the funeral, I decided to put on the black dress, place the cremains at the church, and then sit in a pew for a few minutes to see how it felt.  As I was sitting in the pew, the deacon and the priest were readying the altar. Neither greeted me, even though both met me in the hospital on the day before my cousin died.  I opened the program for the service. All four readings were different from the ones I selected and sent to all the involved parties. One of the readings they did select, I considered and rejected for some specific reasons… one of which is that it is from the Book of Wisdom, which not is even included in the Protestant Bible. Suddenly, I thought- “How clear does God have to be to let you know you do not belong here and do not need to be here?” I got up and walked out of the church.

I am blessed that I got to go home and worship with my own peeps at St. James Episcopal Church the next Sunday. Not everyone in my situation would be so fortunate as to be truly connected to a church. In the situation with this funeral, the people certainly invited me. They welcomed me, almost to a fault.  However, they ignored my voice. By ignoring my voice and not respecting who I am in my relationship with God and my spirituality, they alienated me. If I had been a person who was not truly connected with God and His Church, I probably would have gone away alienated not only from this particular parish or this particular denomination, but from God.

It was a good reminder that growing a Christian community does not end once we get people in the door. It is important to not only welcome people, but also to respect and value their perspective and their gifts. Some of you may remember that my church was involved in an INVITE, WELCOME, CONNECT weekend presented by Mary Parmer (  The Episcopalian Card – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement ) In her presentation, she reminded us that it is critical to be a truly “friendly congregation” rather than simply a “congregation of friends.” My experience in Pennsylvania was a good demonstration that a truly “friendly congregation” doesn’t just invite and welcome. We also need to make sure we truly connect. God gives us all part of the wisdom and gives none of us all of the wisdom. If we behave in ways that seem to always be giving wisdom and never accepting it from others, our little red church door will start swinging out as often as it swings in. 

Ordinary grace. Thank You, God.

Have you experienced moments of extraordinary grace? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a grace-filled day!

More Cat Chat

I just returned from another trip to Pennsylvania. This time, since I did not stay in my cousin’s house, as it is now empty (of inanimate objects and CATS!)  Instead, I stayed with some friends of hers, Cathy and Jim. Cathy and Jim have been wonderful in supporting me through this grief and administrative process. I call them my “guardian angels on the ground,” because they have done so much that can only be done actually on site. I can never thank them enough. Having to make a second trip in less than two months, on top of the expenses associated with the cremation and funeral, was more of a financial stretch than was completely comfortable for me. It was a relief not to have to pay for a hotel. Besides, they were great, comforting company.

They also have cats. I went from living in a house with three cats to living in a house with five cats. It was much easier in my new friends’ house than in my cousin’s house, despite the increase in feline population. For one thing, there was more space so the cat per square foot ratio was probably lower. Besides, one of the cats lived solely in the garage. Also, my friends’ house was considerably better maintained to ensure a more equitable balance between human and cat comfort. My cousin’s house was all about the cats. Still, my new found cat allergy raised its furry little head. My sinuses were raging at me and are still not too happy. Despite my level of physical discomfort, I do have to say I enjoyed these cats. I still don’t want a cat, but I better understand the appeal.

The cats are called Abigail Cynthia Louise (Cathy takes naming her cats very seriously), Harmony Grace, Jackson Bean, Jerry, and Joey. They each have their own personality .I did not get to know Joey too well, as he is the one that lives in the garage. I only saw him once during my stay, although I was aware of his presence every time I stepped out into the garage to go to the refrigerator. I will let you guess which of my senses revealed his existence to me. I’ll just say he is a litter box free spirit.

I saw Jerry frequently. It would have been hard not to see him, as he takes up a fair amount of real estate wherever he is. He is solidly built, plus covered in long hair which increases his bulk. I have never seen a completely black cat as fluffy as Jerry. Cathy and Jim call him Jer-Bear, which is fitting. I am sure there are black bear cubs not quite as large as he is. Jerry is a hand-me-down cat from Cathy and Jim’s daughter. I cannot say a word. I did the same thing to my parents. I kept a cat named Macavity for over a year in my first apartment. The problem was that the apartment complex did not permit pets. When I got  busted, Macavity went to live with my parents and their two basset hounds in a 27-foot travel trailer. Macavity was not best pleased. In fact, he pretty much lived on my mother’s bed. The basset hounds were either too short or too stupid to get to him there, Maybe both. So I get how Cathy and Jim became Jerry’s foster parents, despite already being beset with many cats of their own. Jerry is a catish cat. He tolerated me and would even deign to allow me to pet him, but he wasn’t making any overtures on his own.

I only saw Abigail Cynthia Louise once or twice. She lives in Cathy and Jim’s bedroom, as she is not really able to fend for herself or hold her own with the other cats.  Poor Abby is a geriatric cat, which kind of makes her my soul mate in an uncomfortable sort of way. She is visibly more worn and ricketier than the other cats. The vet says that Abby suffers from feline senility. She has an active internal world, to which she reacts randomly, frequently, and loudly. There is very little that is as unsettling as Abby’s strange, pitiful yowling when she cries out in reaction to something we cannot see or hear. It is kind of heartbreaking. I guess it can also be sleep depriving. I did not hear her at night, but Cathy says she will often begin to cry for no apparent reason in the wee hours. It is a sound that cannot be ignored; it demands response. It can also be disturbing when it happens during the day. Jim works from home. He works from the bedroom. His coworkers know Abby’s voice. It is a good thing Abby has people who love her and take care of her so well. I hope, in my uncomfortable soul mate sort of way, that I have someone who takes such good care of me when I reach Abby’s stage of life.

Harmony Grace and I got along just fine, since I am over the age of reason. Apparently, Harmony is not a fan of children and gets a kick out of terrorizing Cathy and Jim’s grandkids. This is clearly a problem, since there are a number of young grandchildren frequenting the home. “Harmony Grace” is a bit of a misnomer in that sense. Her relationship with children is neither harmonious nor graceful. She is a sweet-looking, petite, perfectly formed,  beautiful cat. Looks, as well as names, can be deceiving. However, as I said, since I am well past the childhood phase, Harmony Grace was fine with me. She was sociable and curious enough to investigate me when I arrived. Later, while she did not rush to my side, she was more than happy to permit me to sit beside her and pet her when I plopped myself onto her sofa to watch television.

Yes, I could see the appeal of all these cats. However, it was Jackson Bean who won the feline space in my heart. Jack was a dogish kind of cat. He immediately fell in love with me with the devotion of a Labrador retriever. He ran to the front door to greet me whenever I arrived at the house. He faithfully followed me around from room to room.  He sidled up to me any time I was in the house, aggressively butting his head under my hand to insist that I pet him. He jumped onto a dining chair next to me each morning to watch companionably while I ate breakfast. He enjoyed lying beside me on the couch while I stroked him. The last night I was there, I sat on the sofa rubbing his neck and shoulders. After leaning into the massage for a while, he twisted his body over and inched his way closer to me, exposing his underside. I have never met a cat who enjoyed a belly rub, so I did not take his maneuver as an invitation. However, Jackson then butted my hand with his head and pushed my fingers towards his chest with a soft furry paw. I began rubbing him around the neck and chest area. The animal went into a pleasure coma. He went completely limp except for his two front legs, which were jutting off the edge of the sofa. As he continued to enjoy the experience, those two legs tightened until they were so rigid, they did not even look like they were part of the same cat body. He curled his paws into a hook-like shape. Those two appendages looked like furry crochet needles. I went to bed thinking that Jackson was a very weird, but very satisfying feline. The experience even made me wonder if I should try for a second career as a lion tamer.

I really do not know why I just wrote 1300 words about cats.  Maybe I am becoming a cat lady. Or… in the midst of all the chaos, conflict, and grief that accompanied my two trips to Pennsylvania, maybe it just feels safer to talk about cats than anything else.

So, what do you think? Am I becoming a cat lady? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Meow!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Jack looking up at me adoringly
Jack watching me eat breakfast

Cat-astrophe Averted!

I mentioned that I recently had to take an unplanned, emergency trip to Pennsylvania. I am getting ready to return to the Keystone State in a few days. I did not speak to the reason for these trips. In April, I planned a trip to visit my cousin Ann in Pennsylvania this month. Unfortunately, I received a call at the end of May that Ann experienced several critical medical events, so I booked a flight and headed north. She passed away on June 1. I spent ten days in Pennsylvania saying good-bye, collaborating with medical staff and her local friends to enable her to pass peacefully into God’s kingdom, planning for her cremation and funeral, and starting the process of managing her home and finances. I am the executrix of the will.

Ann was a very special cousin to me. I was born when she was eight or nine years old, and we lived in the same small town until I was five. I was Ann’s live baby doll throughout my toddler years. Even when my family moved across the country, we stayed closely connected to Ann and her family. Her mother was my mother’s only sibling. There were visits back and forth and regular, consistent communication. Even as adults, Ann and I were tied together in a special way. We were very different, and we were both keenly aware of those differences, but we respected and admired a lot about each other. The bottom line is that we understood and empathized with each other, even if we did not always agree with each other’s choices. Also, she was my last connection to my mother’s family.

Although we were close and did communicate, I had not seen Ann in six years or so. Her health made it difficult for her to travel. I planned the trip to Pennsylvania because I felt it had been way too long since we had seen each other. Her health and emotional state were rocky. She was declining significantly. She said something when I called to suggest I visit which probably echoed a sad, lonely thought swimming around in my mind that I didn’t want to catch. She said that it would be very nice to see me because she would really like to see at least one of her cousins before she died. Her parents and her brother were dead. My parents and brother have passed. I know she has cousins on her father’s side, but I don’t know them, and I don’t know what relationships she had with them. In short, except for friends and me, I think she was pretty much alone.

There is a lot more I could say about Ann, the family history, our relationship, her end-of-life journey, the challenges I faced in Pennsylvania, and any number of lessons I learned because of this experience. I am not going to say much, though. First, it feels wrong to tell Ann’s story because she was very private and internal. Nobody, including me, truly knows that story. Mostly, though, I do not feel rooted and stable enough in my feelings to share them. Also, I do not think my writing skills are adequate to explain the complicated nature of the situation, personalities, and challenges tied up in this ordinary disaster. Honestly, I am not sure William Shakespeare’s writing skills would be adequate to explain this set of circumstances.

There is one aspect of this experience that I do feel comfortable sharing. The cat-astrophe.

Ann was a super independent person, even when her health declined to the point that she needed help to manage her activities of daily living. As I mentioned, she was rather alone in the world. In some ways, she preferred being alone in the world. She lived on her own. She made her own choices. She kept her internal world private.

On the other hand, she was not quite alone. At various points in the past seven years, she adopted three cats. Although I am relatively certain the cats are not on the deed to the house, they did own the house. It was a lot of cat for a one thousand square foot house. There was no room, piece of furniture, or surface that Ann had not adapted to accommodate the cats’ every whim. They were her heart.

The cats’ names are Ginger, Princess, and Velcro… because, well, they are. Ginger is the color of gingerbread made with light molasses. Princess is one and behaves like one. Velcro never lets you get further away than she can touch with one soft, furry outstretched paw when you are in the house. They are good kitties… sweet and affectionate. Unfortunately, the world has a surplus of good, sweet, affectionate kitties. Finding new homes for these lonely, traumatized cats was never an easy task.

I am more of a dog person than a cat person, but I have nothing against cats. In fact, I like them. However, I had no interest in transporting three cats from Pennsylvania to Florida. Also, I never suspected I was allergic to cats, but, after living with three of them for ten days, it was clear that my respiratory system does not take kindly to felines. Besides, I am sure Max would have apoplexy if I had come home with cats. He worries about a dog scratching up the television set. I dismiss this concern, but I have to say I would bet money that the television would not last a single day with three cats climbing all over the place.

Still, these are sweet cats. My gut collapsed at the idea of taking them to a shelter. As Ann’s cousin, I could not imagine a scenario in which I did not provide a good home for “the girls.” Several of Ann’s friends, all of whom had multiple animals of their own, were searching for new homes. More than once, we thought the cats were settled, only to be disappointed. Finally, a friend of Ann’s found a home for Ginger. We tried to entice her new Dad to take at least one more, but he stayed firm. That left Princess and Velcro cowering in the corners of the ever-emptying house. Eventually, all that was left in the house was the cats, two cat towers twice my size, a couple of cat beds, and the table and chairs that constituted the “cat buffet” where Princess and Velcro noshed all day. More than a month after Ann died, one of Ann’s friends who has been my “on the ground guardian angel” and I decided that it was time to make a decision. We had both been looking into cat rescue organizations and the friend found one that would take the two remaining cats. It was a solution that was leaving both of us in tears, but I also knew something had to give. The cats were becoming increasingly stressed as their home dismantled before their eyes. I was becoming increasingly stressed because I had no idea what to do or when to do it, since the house needs to be sold. My guardian angel was ready to bring the cats to the rescue on 7/3.

The night before, said guardian angel got a call. She needed to be at Ann’s house in ten minutes because the friend who had been feeding the cats had found someone who wanted to meet them with the intent of adopting them. Guardian angel gave her wings a shake and VAROOMED over to meet the potential new cat parents. The couple spent about an hour with the kitties and the guardian angel, and everyone was happy for the cats to go to a new, loving home. They all agreed that the couple would go home and arrange the house to accommodate their new furbabies and would come back the next afternoon to get the girls.

I heard about this the next day. I was excited, but not too excited. I had heard the “we have a home for the cats” story before and did not want my hopes dashed once more. Blessedly, however, the couple came for the cats, the cat trees, and all the cat-related accoutrements as scheduled. Princess and Velcro are now living happily in a home as part of a herd of cats. Not my idea of a good time, but apparently it is theirs. And my idea of a good time ABSOLUTELY includes the happiness of all three cats.

God is good. The cat-astrophe was averted!

Do you have pets? What are your biggest concerns about them? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a purr-fect day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Icky Sticky

Once more, I am proud of my restraint. I have waited until it is actually summer before posting my annual Florida horrible summer weather rant. Yes, it is indeed after June 21, and I am having a meltdown- emotional as well as physical. Is it possible for skin and internal organs to melt into a pool of goo when both the temperature and humidity factors exceed 90? I am not sure, but I do know that exposure to these conditions cannot be good.

I recently returned from an emergency trip to Pennsylvania. It was not a fun, easy trip. The circumstances that prompted that trip and another planned one are sad and hurtful. Still, when I returned to Florida, Max pointed out three things that I learned during that trip. One of those fundamental truths was that I made the right choice when we decided to move to Florida instead of Pennsylvania.  Our first thought was to move to Pennsylvania because we would be closer to family. Eventually, we changed our minds. There were two factors that weighed heavily in favor of Florida. For one, there is the whole “Disney in my DNA” thing. Pennsylvania is a long way from Orlando or Anaheim. The more practical thing, however, was the weather. I lived in California my entire adult life. In fact, we moved to California from New York before I really had any true awareness of weather. I decided that, since I had never had to learn to navigate ice and snow, my golden years were not the time to start. However, I did have cause to question my decision after a couple of weeks back home in the Land of Summer Despair.

Upon returning home, summer hit and hit hard in central Florida. After being outside for less than ten minutes, the sun feels like it could burn through my clothes, skin, and kidneys. I sometimes forget whether I have my sunglasses even on because the glare is so bright there is almost no difference between the clear glasses and the colored ones. My retinas are fried. In addition, the humidity climbs steadily throughout the day. When I first walk outside in the morning, it takes everything I have to proceed forward, as the blanket of humidity covers my nose and mouth. I breathe water, not air. However, God did not provide me with gills.  By evening, as the sun goes down (like at 8:00pm), the temperature gets slightly cooler, but the humidity gets worse. Thus, the “feels like” temperature at 8:00pm can be as high or higher as what weather.com reports at noon. My brain is programmed that the weather should be more comfortable in the evening.  I tell myself that all the time. However, it does not help to “should” all over myself. It does not get more comfortable in the evening.

In addition to this disturbing Florida habit of becoming even less comfortable as the day wanes, the evening brings another form of torture. Mosquitos. Most people know that mosquitos breed near standing water. Since the entire atmosphere is pretty much standing water by 5pm, it is hard to avoid these beasts. I seem to be a particular delicacy to the winged demons. If I am outside at night for even 10 minutes, it is likely I will come in with at least 20 mosquito bites. I like to think it is because I am so sweet. Unfortunately, I suspect it has more to do with the vast quantities of salt I secrete through the four-month sweatfest that the calendar calls summer in Florida.

People in some places joke about being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk on a hot summer day. I saw a meme yesterday that showed a tray of cookies baking on the dashboard of a car in Arizona. I think we could probably poach an egg by just leaving it outside in the humidity in Florida. And as for the climate cooking things like an oven, Florida’s climate is more like a crockpot. Instead of cooking our bodies to a crisp, light, sweet consistency, Florida stews our bodies in our own disgusting juices. And who eats crockpot meals in the summer, anyway? Beef stew and spaghetti sauce seem way too heavy to feed into my sluggish metabolism when the weather is this warm.   Come to think of it, even baked cookies seems a bit much. Ice cream, anyone?

What is your least favorite thing about summer? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have a COOL day!

Terri/Dorry 😊

Denial

A few weeks ago, I had my retreat day with the dolphins. Some of you who have been following along with my adventures for a few years know of my experiences at Discovery Cove, a limited entry day resort in Orlando. The admission price includes zillions of amenities-  food, drink, dolphin-friendly sunscreen, nice showers with toiletries, snorkeling with sting rays, floating on a lazy river, random animal encounters, lounging on luxurious beaches, wading past otters and monkeys, and swimming with dolphins. They sell no more than 1400 tickets a day, so the park never feels crowded and you always feel like a special guest. After much debating with myself, I finally decided to go as a “once in a lifetime” experience several years ago. The thing is that I am absolutely terrible at “once in a lifetime” experiences. Typically, I enjoy them beyond even my unrealistically high expectations. Experiences that I deem “once in a lifetime” never disappoint me. I usually end up making “once in a lifetime” a “regular thing.” In the case of Discovery Cove, I quickly upgraded my “once in a lifetime” to “annually.” I shelled out the rather massive bankroll necessary to gain admittance for several years running.  Besides being ridiculously fun and relaxing, I found that my dolphin day each year actually helped me grow spiritually. I am not kidding when I use the term “retreat day with the dolphins.” I go alone and leave the outside world outside the parking lot. I spend a substantial portion of these retreat days soul-searching, praying, strategizing with myself, and planning what spiritual improvement actions I will implement.

Although I always wrestle with myself when booking my dolphin retreat because of the price tag, I have NEVER been disappointed in my day at Discovery Cove. I am rarely so contented, relaxed, and hopeful as I am while I am floating along the river, reaching out to touch a sting ray while I snorkel, and giggling when my own personal outboard dolphin engine propels me towards the shore. Each time I go, I leave absolutely convinced that it was worth every dime. Last year, however, the price of admission went up substantially. It stuck in my throat, and I could not gulp it down. I kept telling myself that it was not like I had never experienced the park. I had experienced everything multiple times- even in the midst of the pandemic. How could I justify paying so much for the experience?  For the first time in six years, I did not go. And I grieved. I really, really hated not going. Luckily, last November, the park had a Black Friday special which discounted the tickets to approximately the same (high) cost as I had paid in prior years. I jumped all over that deal. I booked my May dolphin retreat day in November.

As soon as I got to the park, the euphoric feeling I remember feeling every other time I’d been there flooded over my psyche. Everything was the same, but different. Every experience is actually a “once in a lifetime” experience because no two experiences are ever exactly the same. The fact that I’d been to Discovery Cove numerous times before did nothing to diminish my joy in my 2023 experience. Also, what if it was the same experience? What would make me want to deny myself the pleasure that I had every reason to expect the day would bring me? Yes, it is expensive, but all I have to do is clean out my closet to see that I frequently spend money frivolously on stuff that brings me way less satisfaction than a day with the dolphins does. I could create a rather mountainous pile of clothes that never really fit right or that don’t reflect my current taste or have no purpose in my wardrobe given that I am a retired woman living in Florida. What I spent on that pile of clothes would far exceed the price of a day with the dolphins.

Why do we do this to ourselves?  I do not think it is just me. I balk at spending money or taking time or exerting energy on things that have the power to energize and enrich me. I tell myself I “should” not spend the money or that I “should” stop wasting time or that I “should” invest my energy on more profitable pursuits. A friend of mine once told me that I needed to stop “shoulding” all over myself. All of us have to live within some level of parameter, of course. We all have limited resources. The truth is, though, that there are likely many more possibilities than we believe we have. We probably needlessly deny ourselves much more than is good for us. We make choices about how to spend those limited resources. Would I rather buy 14 items of clothing that will never quite make me feel beautiful or spend a day feeling beautifully peaceful at Discovery Cove? Would I rather clean the kitchen for the second time this week or would I rather dance to upbeat music videos for 20 minutes? Would I rather get a part-time job making a few hundred dollars a month or would I rather write a blog that makes no money but gives me no end of satisfaction?  I think these “would I rather” questions are much more productive than the “should” questions.  

Most of the time, when people talk about living in “denial,” it means that they are hiding from the crueler realities of life. For my purposes in this blog post, I think of people living in “denial” refers to people who are needlessly denying the pleasure they could get from life if they could just open their eyes to what the potential positive realities are.

I always learn something from a day at Discovery Cove. This trip was no different.

What is something that you are denying yourself that you could make happen?  What keeps you from pursuing it? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com. 

Have an abundant day!

Terri/Dorry 😊