Welcome Home

After a few gluttonous days in Denver, I needed to excrete some sugar and alcohol imbued-sweat by going for a jog this morning. It was a beautiful morning – a top ten day with partly cloudy skies, dewy grass and a slight breeze. I was running along, thinking about our time in Denver, with our fun kids and their lovely partners, listening to a song by the Silversun Pickups called "Empty Nest" (coincidentally) when I came across this:

A blurry screenshot of the video

Turkey vultures. Our daughter had just informed us of a fun fact: a group of ravens are called a murder. I couldn't help but wonder what a group of turkey vultures was called. Could it be a murder too? Or perhaps they are just called creeps. I was far enough away to stop and record, sending some Jungle Boy commentary to our family group chat. But as I was filming, one of the creatures faced me and extended its wings. I decided to scoot. I would've zoomed in and taken a photo, but I didn't want to. I skedaddled and took a quick glance behind me to see that the other turkey vultures were also now facing me, wings stretched wide. Apparently, they suspected someone was about to drop dead from running. Suckers. It only made me run faster.

As I turned on our road into the safety of less creepy animals like cats and skunks, I considered metaphors. Strangely, the Frontier plane we traveled home in had a condor on its fin. Undoubtedly, God was making me consider vultures while obsessing about our kids who are making lives for themselves in the wild west: Denver and now Scottsdale. But if I learned anything this weekend, I realized what a joy it is to see our progeny making lives for themselves. It doesn't seem all that long ago that we were the ones to stress about money, jobs and living arrangements. Sure, we met a few vultures along the way. We faced them. We studied them. When they threatened us, we ran home. I'm not suggesting the kids need to run home anytime they face a vulture (although they are quite welcome.) But I am suggesting they find the people in their new communities who are their home and their security. I think, our kids already they know this. They have wonderful people by their sides.

How about a cow metaphor now?

An Irish Blessing

This country is painted all green.
The rain keeps the landscape so clean.
In accents so sweet, the people you meet
Will render your heart quite complete.

With a group of fun and feisty couples, Doug and I recently returned from the Emerald Isle imbibing bucolic scenery, majestic cliffs, ancient castles, rich history, merry music, and the most important imbibery of them all: the ale.

Our journey began with a celebration – a sweet marriage proposal during a delightful performance of fiddles, flute, accordion, harp and dancing from The Irish House Party. You wouldn't think the trip would get much happier than that. But the party was just getting started.

My wish came true the very next day when I got to see Bono! In Dublin! Of course, it was only a large picture of him on the side of a building. No matter, my quest to run into U2 at a pub was quickly forgotten. Every Irish person we met was its own adventure. Take the bartender at the Temple Bar. He had me sized up in approximately five second, grabbing the cocktail menu from my hands, sensing my fickle preferences and commanding my drink choice. We didn't need to add a superstar to our mix. The bartenders were entertaining enough.

From Dublin we routed around the country where we made a stop in Kilkenny to find a bus driver who was as "Mad as a March Hare" as our tour guide warned us. He was ornery, interesting, and endearing despite his capacity to make a "feckin" sailor seasick. This is where I became awestruck by our very first castle viewing! And I never quit being awestruck!  

Then we winded our way to Waterford to relive a medieval soap opera, also known as the Marriage of Strongbow which was mildly reminiscent of Game of Thrones. We viewed Catholic vestments lined with 24-carat gold thread which were hidden underground for 123 years. (Clearly, here's a possibility for a National Treasure sequel.) We quenched our thirst at a pub called The Ginger Man where I almost scored a free copy of James Joyce's The Odyssey. (The bartender was giving away books left behind but "not that one!" I was almost out the door with it. I mean, the book had a price tag of $3.99.)

The next day we were off to the incredible Blarney Castle with its narrow, winding stairs which were designed to foil the enemies and cause tourists to bump their heads. Some of us kissed the Blarney Stone. Some of us missed the Blarney Stone (namely me.) In truth, I don't think any of us on that tour needed to be blessed with more gift of gab. 

We toured the beautiful Ring of Kerry and made much merry in the city of Killarney – not even realizing it was a fashion capital as the men in our group sported dashing, wool, sheep sweaters. You can tell a great city when pubs leave to-go cups at the exit. The next morning we enjoyed a particularly quiet bus ride to the most beautiful place I've ever seen: The Cliffs of Moher. Thank God it rained that day. Not only did it make for great photos, but allowed all of us to wear the cute rain boots we hauled across the pond. Doug would've been devastated.

We found our way to Limerick to feast at a medieval banquet in a (you guessed it) a castle. The music and feast were almost as entertaining as the limericks the resident dog lover in our group created––much better than the crap I wrote above. Laura's Limericks. Watch for something to be published soon. There just aren't enough limericks about egg salad and sheep sweaters.

Speaking of dogs, we tried our best to see some real Irish Wolfhounds, even paying 7 euro a pop to watch two sleeping dogs lie. Luckily, we had a sheep dog demonstration! It didn't disappoint showing the brilliance of dogs who know how to listen, behave and serve a useful purpose. Still, my hubby wasn't convinced of the need for a canine at Kramer Farms, even if our cows did get out while we were gone.

We found much more merrymaking in Galway City, but our group was beginning to lag as our trip wound down. We didn't stay long, and good thing. The birds in that town were quite aggressive, not as welcoming as the Irish people.

Our last night had come, and we had the pleasure of staying in Cabra Castle. It was beautiful with rose gardens and all the ancient opulence you'd expect. There was even a fairy tale wedding happening. Our amazing tour guide hadn't told us much about this particular castle. I'm guessing he thought he had filled our heads with as much Irish history as we could hold. But on the way home, I suspected another reason he hadn't told us much. I discovered it was haunted! I didn't notice any unusual activity, but I'm assuming our loud group had pushed the spirits into the forest for the night.

There was much more on this vacation. But as you may recall, I didn't kiss the Blarney Stone. So I'll wrap it up. It was the longest vacation Doug and I had ever been on. Coincidentally, we spent the summer solstice in Ireland where there was sixteen hours of daylight. My birthday also fell on the day we flew home in which we gained an additional six hours of celebrating – in an airplane no less. Longest vacation. Longest day. Longest birthday. I'd relive it all again.

I vowed to disconnect from work, and I did. But I didn't disconnect. As a matter of fact, I feel more connected than ever. I allowed myself to engage in conversation without planning the next task in my brain. I let myself fall asleep, lulled by the serene countryside, without one speck of guilt. I let myself enjoy history and beauty. I even let myself have cocktails without worrying what the next day would bring. (Maybe I should've worried about that a little bit.) Best of all, I let myself laugh with old friends and new friends.

A huge shout-out to Bambi and Steve at Four Seasons Travel and Mick Mulcahy with Collette Vacations for making an unbelievable and unforgettable experience.

Slainte!

Possum Kingdom

A few mornings ago, at approximately 4:30 AM, just as the dawn was beginning to crack we heard the awful, guttural cry of our cat sitting outside the ledge of our bedroom window. It's "camp-out" time for Quinn, our 12-year-old feline wonder who doesn't care to sleep in the garage with all the exciting nocturnal activity of summer. Needless to say, there's nothing that makes you sit straight up in bed than a growling cat. I went to the window in attempt to pry him inside but he merely swatted me away as if to say he was busy. It took Doug's heavier hand to pull him inside. It was too dark to see what our kitty was sneering at. I wasn't sure I wanted to know anyway,

A Hard Night

Fast forward to 5:30 when my alarm went off. I traipsed through the kitchen and glanced out the patio door. And what appeared before my groggy eyes? A pink-nosed possum planted comfortably near our shade tree. He leisurely glanced at me, then looked away, not terribly concerned. Then, upon close inspection of the yard, I see another pink-nosed snout! Once again, this possum didn't seem to identify me as a threat. No wonder kitty was so grouchy. Critters have invaded his territory! I called out to Doug. Without hesitation,  he offered to get his gun for these easy pickings. "Don't you dare," I said. No matter how ugly these animals are with their wee, beady eyes, the thought of killing a helpless animal tugs at my heart. And I didn't care for the idea of possum guts all over our yard. Doug then pontificated on the "good" that possums bring to the natural world.  I really didn't know. Later, a coworker of mine told me they eat bugs and ticks. I think that might win Doug over. He hates bugs.

I had a dream the other night that we got ourselves a new dog, similar to our beloved Percy who would bark his brains out all night long. We know now that he was merely on possum patrol. Doug and I keep discussing the possibility of getting another dog. Well, discussing might not be the correct term.  I bring it up. He vetoes the idea. With two kids living far away and with plan to travel more, I can't argue that it's a bit impractical to have a dog. But often, the heart isn't practical.

Until we reach a mutual agreement about this dog thing, Doug and I will just need to channel our inner Ace-Ventura: becoming one with nature and welcoming creatures to our possum kingdom, with the cat in charge, of course. Two kids out of the nest. Two possums under the deck. I think I'll name them Digger and Roscoe.  I'm not convinced they will fill that hole in my heart left by kids growing up and dogs passing on. But I'll give it a try.

Well, Hello Roscoe!

Ask Yourself This...

A couple of weeks ago I went with two of my colleagues to an event called "Empowerment Hour." We all thought we were going to take a two hour break from our daily grind to watch a presentation. While there was little description, the title of "Empowerment Hour" was certain to get us inspired. Imagine our horror when we realized this was going to be a networking event. In other words, we'd have to step outside of our comfort zone, meet new people, and talk about ourselves. Yuck.

It's not that we are terribly shy. We all hold positions which require us to have decent communication skills. But who wants to be put on the spot to talk about yourself? With energy and charm? Maybe guests of Jimmy Fallon. But probably not most people.

The organizer of the event was pretty clever in keeping the agenda ambiguous. There was a solid attendance.

We convened in a lovely party room in pastel shades with large windows to let in the sunlight. There was pretty fruit and fancy cheeses that everyone was reluctant to eat for fear of messing up the aesthetic, or dribbling on themselves I suppose. We broke up into small groups, introduced ourselves and were asked various questions to answer. We switched groups a few times which was nice because some of us were more verbose than others. And the questions?

Tough! Here's a sample:

• What's your superpower? (Who wants to sound braggy? My first thought was to mention my ability to get blood stains out. But that might've led to some dark assumptions.)
• What's one thing you need help with?  (Help? I don't want to ask for help! Unless of course it's asking my hubby to open a jar of pickles with his brute strength.)
• What's your secret dream? (Not sure I could handle the reactions by admitting my dream to be an actor on SNL.)

To be fair, everyone felt awkward about answering these questions. But once we got started, we couldn't stop talking. Someone was either giving personal advice, finding common obstacles, or encouraging confidence. It ended up being really great.

My two colleagues and I are in three different generations and different life cycles. While I'm the elder in the group, I wouldn't call myself the wise one. We are all wise in our own ways. We all share similar challenges and insecurities. But the one thing we share is our determination to learn from each other.

While the event was specific for women, those questions are applicable to any gender, in any setting. I encourage everyone to answer those questions for yourself as honestly as you can. Then, let your responses inspire positive actions for your life.  Signing off for now...need to figure out how to get Lorne Michael's attention.

 MY HEROES!

Cats, Part II

For those of you who read my last post, you might be asking why Doug and I (obvious cat lovers), didn't save Carl-Gus-Bob ourselves and bring him into our home. The answer is Quinn. I don't think our "house" cat has received much publicity in this blog. I'm pretty sure that's how he'd prefer it. But here goes.

Quinn came to us as a kitten twelve years ago when Alex was a freshman in high school. Mrs. Nelson, her Spanish teacher, had a brood of tabbies that needed homes. What young high schooler can resist cute kittens? Alex took two. We didn't argue. (It would good for our puppy to have company!) Alex named the little tabbies Quinn and Ollie. We all quickly fell in love, as any normal human would. Unfortunately, Ollie became a quick victim of his curious nature after crawling into Doug's truck. Needless to say, he didn't live the nine lives he was meant to live. Strangely, Quinn had also crawled into Doug's truck, but somehow survived. (We're not sure if Ollie was actually pushed by his brother. Quinn does does carry a certain "Scar" swagger.)

Quinn has outlived his brother and two other Kramer dogs. Maybe even some hamsters along the way. We're thinking he's got 99 lives. Not only is Quinn a survivor, he's a beast. We've seen him tell other feral cats to "take a hike" with his mean-cat growl. I suspect he's had to give the same scolding to skunks, raccoons and opossums. We don't even see coyotes around here. A friend of mine told me we should be careful that the eagles don't get him. I'm not sure an eagle to take the twenty-pounder. He's our little lion who doesn't hesitate to take severe measures when it comes to mice, birds and ground squirrels. Evidence shows up at our front door. Despite spending an abundance of time outside, he never shows any evidence of getting into a fight. His coat is smooth, his face, flawless. We call him a house cat. He looks like a house cat. But he's very selective about his time inside – usually only wanting inside for on occasional cheek-scratching or potato chip. (He would never lower himself to eat leftovers like the hoodlums back at the farm, but he'll come running at the crackle of a chip bag.)

Needless to say, Quinn is a one-cat show. We didn't even consider introducing him to Carl-Gus-Bob. Quinn might've broken his spirit, or convinced him to take a ride in Doug's truck. But no matter his sadistic, killer instincts, we love the fat, little furball. He doles out his measured affection to both of us, per his schedule, which of course warms our hearts and makes us laugh. Here's to Quinn and another 99 lives.

The Cat Whisperer

My husband runs a cat house. 

Feral cats come from far and wide to take shelter in Doug's machine shed at the old home place. We don't mind. Unlike most people, we admit to liking cats. We find them funny. We appreciate their killer instincts when it comes to rats and snakes. And while I adore dogs, we've had some tough luck in the last couple of years. It's the type of tough luck that rips your heart out and vow never to get another dog.

So our attention has turned to cats. (Empty nest syndrome? Maybe.)

Anyway, we just completed our first formal adoption. 

In July, Doug came across a small litter of kittens in the shed. One particular kitten, the scrawniest of them, had a certain intrepid sense about him. Rather than hide from the humans, he'd come jaunting out of the weeds to say, "Well hello there!" The rest of the litter stayed more aloof, only inching out whenever Doug dumped out some cat food he lovingly purchased (and still purchases) at the feed store.  As you'd guess, this seemed to solidify our new friendship with scrawny cat. But Doug gave me very specific warning. "Don't you go picking it up. We want them all to stay wild."

I nodded my head. But wondered how I long I could hold out. This kitten was so freaking cute! But I obliged. A week later I learned that someone whom I live with was being a hypocrite. He had done the deed. Doug had picked him up. And he named him. Bob, the Cat.

Bob became increasingly curious as harvest began. He had a keen interest in learning all about the workings of the combine. And apparently, Doug's machinery had some real nice places to nap. Well, you could see where this story might end.

Bob's future was beginning to look precarious. So, we made a simple plea to my parents–– always the bleeding hearts when it comes to saving an animal. Suffice to say, it didn't take any arm-twisting before Mom said, "Okay. Bring him over Sunday." 

After some critical analysis, my parents decided to give Bob a new home and a new identity. Bob became Carl and gained two sisters: June (the dog) and May (the other cat). Mom had argued to name the kitty Gus to stay with the calendar theme (Augustus), but my father is the master of naming pets. So, Carl it was.  (The kids call him Carl-Gus-Bob, which also has a nice ring.)

Carl now lives a life of luxury, no longer having to fight off skunks or other animals for food. He doesn't even need to fight off June or May, because, honestly, they haven't quite taken a liking to the little devil just yet. (Don't worry, he doesn't even recognize this fact.) So, what's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Except it's a happy ending for an adorable kitten whose future was endangered.

And if the mood happens to strike, and you find yourself wanting to make prey out of yarn, and tell stories of the cute things your new cat did like crawl into a basket, you now know who to call.

Carl Gus Bob!

Yay for Sports!

Mom's love for the Iowa Hawkeyes is likely the reason I wanted to go to Iowa City. She was a fan! I was always impressed and amused how much my mother knew about sports when I was young. She was passionate about watching football and basketball –– of the collegiate variety. I was more of a "what's the score" type of gal as I walked to the kitchen to get a snack.

Fast forward to the present. As everyone does, I eventually became my mother. I'd like to say I became a true sports fan as a freshman in college when I went to my first football game. I did become a fan. A fan of tailgating. It was a rarity for me to make it through an entire game in my college years. I even had class with football and basketball players. They were pleasant and normal students, just like me. I certainly didn't feel starstruck. I certainly didn't feel a need to ask them about their upcoming games or talk to them about a great play they made. I was nothing like a certain middle-aged woman who met Caitlyn Clark in a bathroom in Iowa City last winter and didn't want to let her leave. (That woman was me.)

I know so much about sports now, it's almost ridiculous. Ask me what a Nickleback is. I'll tell you that it's not just a popular band from the 2000s. Let me explain to you the pick and roll. I can! So sure, my husband has tutored me on these things, but not only do I understand a few  positions and plays, I enjoy watching them! As long as the team we're watching is executing and winning. And by team, I mean the Hawkeyes.

Has there always been a sports fan within me? Lying dormant through my formative years?

My sister-in-law and I have discussed this phenomenon, because something similar happened to her at a certain point in her life. This phenomenon being a sudden and sincere interest in that world of sports in which our husbands have long been a part of.

Here's the sweet and simple explanation:

Kids.

Once you have kids, you become a cheerleader –– no matter if they love sports or dance or drumming or singing or drawing. When your kid enters a competition, you're all in. Your heart is a pitter-patter, and you want nothing more than for them to succeed. To win! And of course, you're heartbroken if they don't. Probably more heartbroken than they are. But it's a mother's job to cheer on her kids no matter what. I would argue it's a father's job as well. From my experience, however, a father prefers coaching over cheerleading. Whether cheering or coaching on your children, it all seems to come to a halt when they graduate high school. The calendar frees up. Laundry is done in, like, one evening. And you can only watch the same movies over and over again so many times.

So, what better way to fill that newly-drilled hole in your heart? Sports! Not only does it seem to give you purpose by cheering on a team that needs you, but it gives you a compelling reason to shop for fan gear. And if you're lucky? Your team will never graduate.

Go Sports!