1 Year later and I'm Turning Into My Mother

Facebook has informed me that I have been married for exactly one year!

What does it feel like? Not that different, actually. It just feels like the next step down the path that Alex and I have chosen for ourselves. We still make time for each other just like we did when we were dating, and we still hang out with our friends apart from each other.

What has changed the most is the surroundings, honestly. My blog post about my wedding was written in a apartment, this one is written in a house. I wrote about my wedding with the darling cat of my childhood purring next to me, I write this with a pair of kittens sprawled on the other side of the couch, a couple of new lives as we begin a new chapter of our own.

Instead of having to save the top tier, our bakery gave us a free anniversary cake

Home ownership has brough out things about me that I had forgotten about. I remember now how much I loved having a bird feeder to look at, and how I loved identifying the birds (and the squirrels) as they came to snack. I used to do chores in the yard and garden regularly. I haven't used any of that knowledge in years, and here I am, regaling Alex with the proper care of tomato plants. This proves to me that the dreaded fate of the daughter is coming true: I am turning into my mother!

Mother's Day is fast-approaching, so let me tell you about my mother, and why I am turning into her. My mother raised a garden all through my childhood and to this day. Every day, she was happy to see the little plants progress, tending them until they were ready to harvest and enjoy. I remember her calling me to the garden to show me an exceptionally large squash or an oddly-shaped tomato.

As anyone who gardens can attest, no one grows a garden just for themselves, not unless you are deeply passionate about grilled zucchini. If you have a garden you share. My mother was no exception, foisting buckets of zucchini, jars of salsa, and bags of green beans off onto anyone who would take them. We made zucchini bread, scones, and a decadent chocolate zucchini cake that I remember to this day. Even after all of that, we still had extra vegetables. I was given free reign to smush up old cucumbers, zucchini, and tomatoes at my grandparents' cabin, making a huge, mushy mess to dump in the lake.

At the time, I didn't fully appreciate the joys of gardening. It was hot, and the mosquitos found me delicious. It seemed like a lot of work, the kind of work that leaves one sweaty and mud-streaked. But when Alex and I were looking at houses, we were also looking at back yards. When Alex and I looked out the back door of the house that would be ours, I said "This would be great for a garden."

A garden I wanted, and a garden I would have. I dove into research and constructed raised beds to alleviate the problems of the north Texas clay-packed soil. I built the boxes and asked for assistance hauling in mulch and soil. I selected plants and carefully placed them in the beds. And I waited.

Anyone who knows me knows that I like things to happen quickly. If I am given a chore, it's done within hours. If I decide to plan a vacation, I have flights priced out in minutes. If I decide to build a costume, I've already got a plan and I'm brainstorming how to make the character on the screen abide by the laws of physics enough to make a costume possible. But you know what gardening takes? Time. Patience. *Sigh* Sometimes I feel like God played a joke on me, putting a desire to garden in a brain that doesn't like to wait. I've always thought of my mother as a patient person (she raised four kids, if she wasn't patient before, she is now), so like my mother, I was patient, and I found that the waiting wasn't as hard as I thought. I found joy in stomping out to the garden every day to look at the progress. I stared at my little plants, wondering "is that a new leaf? Are they getting taller?"

I marveled at the natural processes so finely tuned by the Creator. I hoped that I had set up the boxes correctly, that the soil would support my fast-growing vegetables. At this point, I am more observer than keeper. My back yard has been blessed with rain every week, meaning I barely have to water, a rarity in this part of the country. I weed and ensure that my plants remain unbothered by pests. And they grow, they do all the work. I call Alex over to show him my first zucchini as it grows seemingly an inch every day, and to ramble about my plan to turn these tiny green tomatoes into salsa when they grow fat and red. Just like my mother used to do to me. I am turning into my mother.

And I get it. I want to share this garden, too. I want to make that rich zucchini cake again, and offer my friends extra tomatoes. I have enjoyed conversing with my mom on the joys of gardening, asking her what kitchen scraps to save for composting, and even giving her tips like using a hose timer for consistent watering.

I'm not sure if my other knew it at the time, but when she was asking me for help picking green beans and explaining how far apart to plant the peas, she was planting another kind of seed. A seed of appreciation for the simple act of growing food. And that appreciation has given me a hobby that yields more than just a fine homemade salsa. As the plants grow, I am working to grow patience. I am appreciating the beauty of life as it erupts from the ground. Humanity has gardened for millennia, and I'm just continuing the tradition. Sounds pretty grand for a back yard, doesn't it?

These pictures were taken eight days apart, it will never cease to amaze me. The zucchini in stores always look so small, i like to let them get a bit bigger. This one will be delicious!

But the big thing that puts a smile on my face today is this: I'm turning into my mother, in a good way. Sure, turning into your mother can be a bad thing, but in this case, it's not so bad. As I send her a picture of my huge zucchini and ask her for the family salsa recipe, I don't mind being a little more "Mom" today.

"Mom! Phineas and Ferb are Being Adorable!"

 So, a couple of weeks ago, Alex and I acquired a pair of kittens. I've posted the story of Puff's adoption on this blog. Now let me tell the story of Puff's little brothers, Phineas and Ferb.

So, getting two cats was my idea. Puff did well as an only cat, she only needed me and she was fine. She didn't really like other cats. But not all cats are so solitary. Especially with owners that work outside the home, a lot of cats do well in pairs or small groups. They have someone to play with when the owners are out. And this way, Alex and I can both have a cat to hold at the same time!

Since Puff passed away, we have desperately wanted cats. It's honestly kind of pathetic. How am I supposed to lay in bed on a Saturday morning without a cat purring on my chest? Who can I talk to when I'm alone in the house? Every time I saw a cat, I zeroed in on it and tried to pet it with a single-minded focus akin to the feline fixation of my childhood (for those who did not know child Kim, my obsession with cats was rather....insane). Getting a cat at age 13 actually made me less obsessed with cats by channeling all the energy into one direction, that of my incredibly spoiled pet. Apparently, that obsession never actually went away, and boy was it surprising to have it rise to the surface again.

Whatever cats do to people, it's contagious. Is it love, or is it toxoplasmosis? Whatever it is, Puff gave it to Alex. He already liked cats when we met, and my little charmer hopped onto his lap and into his heart. He lived without cats for years, but after three years with Puff, he was counting the days until "new cats day" right alongside me. I've ruined him, he's a cat dad forever now. He is particularly fond of black cats because they make him feel like a wizard.

Two cats that are already friends, at least one of them black. A simple order, one that we should be able to find in all of DFW. On the Saturday after New Year's, we set out. We started with the Denton Humane Society, then the local PetSmart. We were surprised at how few paired cats we saw. Orr next stop was a nearby Petco, where I had seen a local organization say they had adoption events.

A corner of the store was filled with cages of cats. Alex and I walked over and saw a cage with two kittens asleep in a pile, one black and one unmistakably Siamese. The volunteer opened the door and invited us to pet them. When Alex put his hand in the cage, the little black one wrapped his little paw around Alex's finger and he was gone. That little pile of black fur had stolen his heart.

We held them, and the Siamese purred up a storm in my arms. We learned that though they are not brothers, they are best friends and would do well adopted together. We were told that they were sociable, playful, and cuddly, a great match for us. The black one was named Gravy beacuse he had been found in a tiny cage in a trailer park being fed table scraps. The Siamese was named Champagne Problems after the Taylor Swift song. We signed the papers and they were ours.

"Mom, you have two hands. One for each kitty. Now pet us!" (Look at their little Valentine's Day collars)

Riding passenger with a box of kittens on your lap is possibly one of the best feelings in the world. They stuck their little paws out the holes in the side, asking for attention. I told them that they were going to a new home with toys, treats, and lots of love.

We put the box in a bathroom with a litterbox and opened it. The Siamese leapt out immediately, wanting to explore. The black cat decided to hide. We intended to leave them in there fora few hours, butthe siamese insisted upon inspecting the entire house. There were things to be sniffed! By evening, he was playing with us in the living room, totally comfortable in the new space.

His adoptive brother took his time. He spent a few days hiding under the bed, only coming out if i coaxed him or put a food bowl next to the bed. Slowly but surely, i lured him with a toy down the hall and into the dining area, where he foumd food and water. When he decided that the living room was a good place, the siamese, excited to finally have someone to play with, instigated the first of many wrestling matches.

We knew that these boys needed new names for their forever home. They were a pair, so they needed a pair of names. Coffee and Bagel? Cookies and Cream? Pinky and The Brain? We bounced names back and forth until we found a set that just felt right.

They are Phineas and Ferb, the main characters of a cartoon by the same name. Ifyouare not familiar eith it, I highly recommend at least looking up some clips. It's about two boys who get into wild adventures in their back yard. Phineas is the ringleader and the more talkative, and Ferb famously says one line per episode. It's one of those kids cartoons that adults also enjoy for its creativity and music, so Alex and I are both fans. The siamese is into everything and likes to talk in his little kitten squeak, so he's Phineas. The black kitty is a bit more shy, but very affectionate and nice, so he's Ferb. The boys in the show are also step-brothers, so it's even more fitting for our brothers from another mother!

No one is alone with these bots in the house. Ferb sits on Alex when he plays video games, and Phineas likes to watch me cook from the kitchen stool. They follow me around the house in the morning and sleep piled around me at night.

I'm so glad we have our sweet boys. Their big sister Puff...would probably not be a fan since she didn't like other cats much. But they are good successors, and I'll be sharing their antics for years to come. The house is a home once again.

Have a great day, and pet an animal if you get a chance!

My 2024 Challenge

Okay, before we get into my 2024 challenge, let's review the last year. Because 2023 was quite a year for me, and I feel like I should give the year its due.

This is one of my favorite light displays in my neighborhood. Peanuts Christmas has a special place in my heart.

I began the year an engaged woman with one living grandparent and one cat, living in an apartment. All of those things changed. First, my grandmother passed away, meaning that all of my grandparents were present at my wedding, but only in spirit. I gained a wonderful husband to be my partner in this all-around weird experience called life. My new husband and I went to Switzerland on our honeymoon. Switzerland! It's still kind of amazing to say it. We were able to buy a home together, which neither of us had anticipated. Then, after we had moved into out new house, my cat, my dear Puff, passed away. So much has changed. Not necessarily for better or for worse, just different. Just life doing life things. Time passing as it should. We all learn what we can through the seasons and take life as it comes.

In 2024 I will turn 30, and that doesn't scare me one bit. A lot of people my age are afraid of it, but I guess I just wasn't born with that fear. I'd rather grow old than the alternative, so I'll just be a cool old person. But will I also help to throw overdramatic "funerals for my 20's" for all of my friends and probably myself? Of course! Will there also be cakes made with black cocoa powder decorated with snarky phrases? What do you take me for?

In 2024, I resolve to get a pair of cats. *whispering from off-stage* I have been told that this does not count as a resolution. Alex and I are getting cats anyway. Not only for our own companionship, but because I currently cannot be near an animal and not try to pet it. It's going to get dangerous with the local wildlife if I don't get some kind of furry creature into my home real soon here. The little furballs will be all over my social media, so be on the lookout in the coming days.

So, on to my challenge for 2024. This idea came into my head when I was helping my mother bake a pumpkin pie. She uses the tried-and true Libby's pumpkin pie recipe from the back of the can of pumpkin. I was looking at the recipe card, then I looked at the can of pumpkin, which was another brand. I noticed that the recipe was different. And I started thinking about all of those classic back-of-the-box recipes that so many homemakers have had as staples through the decades. The most well-known of these is the Toll House chocolate chip cookies. It feels like cheating, but it really is a great chocolate chip cookie recipe. I guarantee someone you know had a "special cookie recipe" that is just the Toll House recipe. It got me thinking: What other recipe gems are hiding on containers in my kitchen?

So, my fun little challenge for 2024 is to cook my way through the recipes that are already in my kitchen. I took a few minutes on January 1st to turn around every bottle, box, canister, and bag I could find in search of recipes. I took pictures of all of them and I intent to make them. There may be a really good recipe that I've been ignoring for years! From the Clabber Girl baking powder biscuits to the Grandma molasses barbecue sauce, the only ones I passed over are ones I know I won't like. If you want to know if the Panko coconut shrimp is any good, you're going to have to make it yourself, I don't like coconut.

Is it a resolution? Eh, not really, but resolutions have never been my thing anyway. I'll post my little pilgrimage through my cupboards on Facebook, so enjoy my results. Maybe I'll find a new favorite to keep on the recipe rotation!

I hope you are getting your new year off to a great start and that you have a good day in general. With any luck, my next post will be about new kitties. 

Here's to 2024!

Remembering Puff

On November 11, we laid to rest my beloved cat of 16 years, Puff. She has walked with me through so much of my life, and she deserves at least one blog post for her. And yes, she’s a cat. But she was mine, and I’m the one who knew her best and feels her loss deepest. So here are some beautiful memories of my special girl that I want to share. Unlike a person, she has no obituary in the paper, no fancy service, so let me give her a blog post. It's the least I can do for such a dear friend.

My little supermodel kitty

I have to start with when I got her. I have always loved cats, and those who knew me as a child will know that my love was near obsessive. I had wanted a cat for years, and it was finally time for me to have one. We went to farms where people were giving away kittens, and we looked at the humane society, to no avail. On the day before I started seventh grade, we decided to try the humane society one more time, and there she was. It wasn’t one of those starry eyed love-at-first-sight moments, I honestly don’t think I’m a person who has those. But she was a sweet, pretty girl who would get along with the current ruler of the house, my brother’s cat, Kuzco.

When we brought her home, she was very quiet, not meowing, but only giving the occasional trill and purring. That cat spent most of her waking hours purring, always happy. We noticed that the fur was rubbed off of her little forelegs from reaching through the bars of her cage. Poor thing needed lots of attention, and who better to give it than someone who had literally read the encyclopedia entry on cats multiple times?

As we got to know her, we kept finding that Puff was…perfect. Not only was she a lovely cat to look at, with her long silky tortoiseshell fur and round, orange eyes, she was nice. She didn’t scratch or bite, and she liked being around people, even submitting to being carried around on her back and having her belly rubbed. She kept herself very clean and well-groomed, and she used the litter box perfectly from day one. She was even quiet to boot, so we gave her a collar with a bell, otherwise we couldn’t find her. She only meowed in distress, the rest of the time she spoke in a sweet little trill. What on earth was she doing at the humane society? Who would give up such a great house pet?

However she got there, she was mine now, and nothing could keep us apart. Every morning, my mom would use her to wake me up for school, knowing I was awake when I reached up to give my girl her morning hug and skritches. This was short lived, however. She would run off and proceed to get a case of “the wildies” or as the internet affectionately calls it, “the zoomies.” She would race around the house as I got ready for school, eyes wide and tail fluffed up.

When I would come home from school, she would meet me at the door to be scooped up and cuddled. If I had a bad day, my mom would bring her to me for comfort. It didn’t make my problems go away, but it’s nice to have a little living creature that’s happy to see you and thinks you’re the best thing ever. I would read in bed every night, and Puff was my little book rest. She would sit by me and politely look at my book, then look at me until I accommodated and lifted my book for her to sit on my lap.

Puff had to be involved in whatever I was doing. She would sit right in the middle of any craft project like she belonged there and petting her was an important part of the process. Making beds was near impossible without locking her out of the room, or else she would insist on being made into the bed. Every year when the Christmas decorations came out, there was a little pile of orange and black sticking out of the garland. I didn’t have the heart to make her stop, it was so cute.

When I went to college, I couldn’t bring pets, so Puff had to stay with my mom. Apparently, she would look for me whenever I left and was happiest when I was home. Even though she was mostly cared for by my mom, she was still my cat.

Though she was definitely mine first and foremost, Puff never met a stranger. If guests were in our house and sitting down, my little furball had to make the lap rounds and see who gave the best pets. She was particularly fond of people with long legs because they had the most lap to stretch out on. Ever the little lady, she would daintily hop onto a lap and settle herself down, purring and asking for pets. Even people who didn’t like cats had a hard time resisting such a cutie. You had to at least give her a few pets, it would be cruel not to! Over the years, she melted more than a few hearts. It gave me a sense of pride to hear “I don't normally like cats, but I like this one.” My little charmer.

When I moved to Texas, I initially didn’t bring Puff with me because I didn’t have a job and wasn’t sure I would be able to afford the pet deposit. But by the grace of God and nothing less, I quickly found a job and built a nice little life. But I missed having someone greet me at the door, or a furry creature on my lap in the evenings. I wanted a cat. I asked my mom if I was crazy to want a cat and she replied with “Can I bring your cat when I visit?” And of course I said yes. I was reunited with my fur baby once more!

My friends in the area, who had heard me talk about my darling cat, finally got the chance to meet Puff. They are good people, so of course they petted her when she jumped on their laps. She left her furry little pawprints on every heart. Her presence was a welcome staple of every gathering in my apartment.

When I met Alex, the man who would become my husband, he shared a house with several other people, so no pets. But he had always liked cats especially, and was quite pleased when Puff jumped onto my lap during a video date. When he met her in person, he quickly fell in love with her (Quicker than he fell in love with me? Maybe). He suddenly had to adjust to having his work or games constantly interrupted by an orange and black intruder who needed attention right this second. And he loved it. When he worked from home, he would send me pictures of her just being cute. He loved scooping her up and cuddling her. She absolutely stole his heart, and she knew it. Puff had Alex wrapped around her little toe bean.

When she was 13, she became half the cat she was, losing weight at a rate that made no sense given her appetite. She had never been a big eater and had no interest in most human foods (except going feral on the occasional empty tuna can), but she was still eating her normal amount. I took her to the vet. They wanted to runs some blood tests, so I went to work and waited for the call.

I was sure that Puff had some life-threatening condition, work was not easy that day. I was terrified that I’d be leaving the vet’s office with an empty carrier that day. I got the call to come pick her up, and it was good news. She had hyperthyroidism, totally manageable with daily medication. Puff has never had a problem taking pills, and the pills were cheap, so I was overjoyed that my girl still had some time with me.

Puff was never much of a “chatty” cat, but as she got older, her trills became so human it was almost uncanny. She had one that was a perturbed “Mom” when I pulled her away from something she shouldn’t be getting into, like a drawer I was about to close. She had one that was “Hey,” for when she was disturbed from a nap. Still another was “Huh?” when something new confused her. She truly was a “people” cat, and it was funny.

Older cats need a little extra care and consideration, and Puff certainly needed that in her old age. I kept an ottoman next to the bed to make jumping up and down easier on her joints. I gave her wet food to help her with constipation. Her fur started getting knots because it was hard to groom, so I brushed her (despite her protests). I don’t begrudge it one bit. For every moment of “Ugh, I have to brush the cat and make her mad again,” there are a thousand moments of “Awwwww, she’s purring!” She was a happy little old lady, content to sit on a lap or a pillow and get skritches. When I got Puff, I didn’t consider that she would be waiting for me after my wedding, or that she would explore the backyard of my first house. But she did those things, and I’m so grateful.

On the evening of November 6, 2023, she started walking like she was off-balance, and seemed fussy and distressed. I was really worried, because a 16-year-old cat with a chronic condition can’t handle very many serious treatments. We got an appointment for Wednesday, and I told myself that it was an ear infection or something.

On Wednesday, I went to the vet with Alex to pick her up. She had kidney failure, and while she wasn’t suffering very badly at the moment, we would need to schedule the dreaded final vet visit sometime in the next week. I had mentally prepared myself for this moment as much as I could, but it still broke my heart. I’m glad I prepared myself, because I was still able to look at the vet with tears streaming down my face and say:

“Can you do Saturday? She’s a very well-loved cat and I want our friends to say goodbye to her. And I want to sit with her on Friday night.”

He checked the schedule, “We’re technically booked, but we can stay a little late. How about 4:30?”

And there it was. My time with my cat was no longer measured in years, months, or even weeks. I only had three days left.

I sent messages to my friends, inviting them to sit with me and my cat in her last days. I made her comfortable on the couch, and planned to spend as much time with her as I could. She was still eating, so I gave her the best wet food. She was so wobbly and unsteady, she couldn't climb into her litter box. We made her a makeshift potty pad in a corner, we felt she deserved a small bit of dignity. Alex and I sat with her and cried, knowing that we were doing our best, but hurting all the same.

The next morning, Puff seemed weaker than ever. Not in pain, but so unsteady and limp on the couch. I went to work looking like a wreck. My eyes were red and puffy, and my voice was constantly choking up with tears. I hated being away from Puff for any of her last hours, but I knew that taking off last minute to be with a pet is probably not the best use of my limited vacation days. My coworkers were all very sympathetic and understanding, they knew that Puff was a special part of my life, and some of them had lost long-time pets, too. I decided to hide in the lab so patients wouldn’t think I was sick, with my red eyes and sniffling. Seeing how weak she was, I was terrified that she would pass away while I was at work, with no one beside her. That thought alone made tears fall anew.

When I made it home and saw her still peacefully sitting on the couch, I cried with relief (this story is going to have a lot of crying). I went into the kitchen to make some dinner, and who should hobble her way into the kitchen just to be near me? My frail, tired little kitty! I held her and sort of cooked with the other hand until she was ready to settle back on the couch. When I sat down with my food, she was determined to get at my bowl. It was a burrito bowl with all kinds of things in it that are bad for cats, but I couldn't deny her a little something. I had Alex bring me some wet cat food and a spoon, and I fed her on my lap, pleased that she still had a good appetite. We watched nature documentaries because my heart couldn’t take much else, and I worked on a craft project. She could hardly walk, the poor thing, so I lifted her down from the couch when she wanted to and followed her around to pick her up if she fell on her way to the potty pad or food bowl.

Friday, Alex was off for Veterans’ Day, so he could stay with Puff and make sure she didn’t fall and hurt herself. After I got home, several friends came over to say their goodbyes. They all saw how weak she was and assured me that it was time. Tears were shed over her, and she made the lap rounds one last time. Sick as she was, she was still Puff, and she needed laps.

Alex and I both slept on the couch before the fateful Saturday, neither of us could stand to be away from her. I woke up on that awful morning with Puff curled up on my chest. I have woken up with Puff on my chest hundreds of times over the years, but this is one I will remember forever. I gave her the last dose of the painkillers from the vet, fed her more wet food with a spoon, wiped her clean with a pet-safe wet wipe, and sat with her. What else can you do as you count down the last hours of your furry friend’s life?

One more friend came to sit with us, and the hour grew near. She napped in the sun on the porch, munched on food, and was as sweet a cat as she had been her whole life. Alex and I wrapped her in a blanket and carried her on one last trip around the house, showing her all of her favorite places. She was so weak, she didn’t need a carrier, so I held her as Alex drove us to the vet.

The vet’s office is located inside a Petsmart, and as we walked in, the clerk said “What a beautiful cat!” and noticing that she had no carrier, “Is she sick?” Through tears, I said gently “She’s very old and crossing the rainbow bridge today.” I’m sure the clerk was mortified, but I was secretly proud of my little girl. Charming everyone right to the end.

I showed the vet techs a picture of Puff as a kitten so they could see what a lovely girl she was. The vet told us what would happen, that Puff would go into a deep, peaceful sleep, slipping away quickly and without pain. He assured us that we were making the right choice, saving her from a painful, lingering death. I knew in my head that it was best, but my heart broke for my dear friend.

Alex sat in a chair nearby and I stood at a table as they brought Puff in, a needle in her foreleg to make things go smoothly. I petted her and told her how much I loved her, that she wouldn’t hurt anymore, and she could visit me any time, if that’s something cats do. She was so limp, I didn’t feel her fall asleep. She was so weak, she passed away almost immediately when the vet gave the final shot. The last thing she felt was my hand stroking her fur, and the last thing she heard was my voice speaking words of love. That’s how it should be. If my dear Puff has to die, then she dies knowing that she was loved.

The vet took her to put her into a box for us, and Alex and I wept together. What else is there to do at that moment? We took our little box to the car, and I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter if I jostled the box on the way home. The contents would no longer be frightened or fuss.

When we walked into the house with no cat, Alex cried again. It was real. We no longer have a cat. He went to the backyard to dig the grave, and I took on the sad task of removing all evidence of a pet cat from our house. I cleaned up the litter boxes and potty pad, a chore I always hated, but would do a thousand times over for my Puff. I washed out the food and water bowls, not refilling them this time. I threw away what remained of Puff’s thyroid medicine, those little pills that had bought me three more years with her. No matter how long she lived, I feel like it would never be enough for me to repay the love and joy she brought to me. Her little paw prints are all over my heart, and many other hearts as well.

Once the grave was dug, we laid Puff to rest with a poem: “If I Should Grow Frail” by Julia Napier. I encourage anyone dealing with the loss of a pet to read this poem, it’s beautiful. Puff will watch over the backyard forever. We have a little stone kitty to mark her grave, and we’ll have white daffodils in the spring. She’ll always be close to hand.

I didn’t throw away the empty litter boxes or food bowls. I will need them again. Alex and I want another cat. In fact, we want two cats. We plan to adopt a pair of littermates in the new year. I won’t look for ones like Puff. I’ll never find another Puff, and it wouldn’t be fair to my new babies to compare them to her. She was one-of-a-kind, and I’m honored that I was able to share her whole life, from kittenhood to the final moment.

After Puff was laid to rest, I kept accidentally looking for her. I would see a shadow or hear something that was a bit like her tag jingling, and instinctively look for an orange and black pile of fur. But she’s gone. I won’t find her in the cushions of the couch or on my pillow. It hurts, but not like it did a while ago. It hurt more to see her suffer than to know she’s gone. The house feels too quiet, and the bed feels empty. But know this: I will take these days of tears and the ache in my heart if it means I got to share the life of such a wonderful creature. A week or two of being an emotional wreck? A pittance compared to years of scooping her up every day and hearing her purr. The loss hurts, but it only hurts this bad because the bond we shared was so great.

Thank you, Puff. Thank you for every moment on this earth. You were a blessing and a joy. May we meet again in a better place. Until then, sit on the laps of angels.

A Tourist in Your Own City

 I'm back from Switzerland!

I promise Alex was there, too, but most of our pictures only have one or the other of us.

If you want pictures, I'm sorry it took so long. Facebook decided that it was not necessary to make albums easy to organize by date, so after taking hours for everything to upload, I had to scrap the album because it was all out of order. And Then Alex and I did this thing where we bought a house and had to move into it. It's been a lot. But in a good way! So this blog post is about Switzerland, I'll write another soon.

Switzerland is a truly amazing country. I'm so glad I had the opportunity to visit, it's not a country that everyone has been to. And I can understand why, it's not as flashy as France or as historic as Greece, but it has a special charm. Despite being smack in the middle of Europe, it's a surprisingly rural place, with loads of tiny farms consisting of oddly-shaped fields and small herds of cattle. We spent a lot of time outdoors in the crisp mountain air, enjoying the pleasant diversion from the rolling, scorching hot landscape of Texas.

One of my biggest impressions of Switzerland is how "casually beautiful" it is. What I mean here is that as we went from place to place, just looking out the windows of trains, the landscapes are incredible. A "tourism sight" in and of themselves. This beauty isn't manicured, it's not specially formatted for tourism, it's just...there. Casually. The glacier lakes really are that blue and the mountains really are that green. I wondered how anyone could ever get used to something so incredible, and then I remembered that...we all kind of get used to beautiful things.

Much as tourists get a bad rap for getting in the way and awkward gawking, I think there's something we can learn here. To someone from another environment, the things I see every day are worth noticing. I know my enchantment at the birds hopping around the grass might be a bit much, but maybe we can all stand to be a bit more like a tourist.

So much of life can be wrapped up in getting from one thing to another that we don't notice just how cool some of the things around us really are. I may not have a full view of the alps on my commute to work, but the sunrise over the lake? That's pretty nice. We get used to the specific flavor of beauty around us much like we get used to the specific smell of our own house. Sometimes leaving for a short while can let us look at those nearby wonders with fresh eyes. Some people live in a city their entire life and don't even know what's there. Sometimes, it pays to be a tourist in your own city. Why would someone visit and what would they do here? Maybe give those things a try.

The abundant natural beauty of Switzerland gave me an appreciation for the beauty all around me, even back home. Just because the land is flat, it's no less beautiful than mountains, and my home in Dallas has no shortage of things to discover. And here, all the signs are in English! I know this isn't anything revolutionary, but it doesn't need to be. Maybe just try and be a tourist in your own city every now and again. You may be surprised by what you find.

Books on a Plane

 I have loved to read ever since I figured out how to do it. My parents knew that one easy way to keep me quiet for hours was to put a book in my hands. Books kept me happy on many long trips as a child. In college, I didn’t read as much for fun because I had to read so much for school. After graduating, I moved into a world that makes me understand why so many people struggle to finish the stack of books on their nightstand. I have a normal full-time job, but that theoretically leaves plenty of time to read, right?

It would, if I wasn’t so easily pulled away by this thing called life. The book so easily slides off my lap when a friend wants to hang out, or a new season of my favorite show drops on streaming. The book waits patiently while I build cosplays and complete household chores. The glow of my phone beckons so much more urgently than the simple paperback. I will finish the book, eventually. And I know the perfect place.

The airplane is one of the biggest advancements in transportation technology since the automobile. A metal can of humans is now able to careen through the sky and be in another corner of the globe in a single day. In concept it still kind of amazes me in the same way the cells under the microscope amaze me. It’s almost magic.

And boy have we humans totally ruined the magic. In concept, flight is incredible, but in practice, it’s downright inconvenient. From being herded like a cow through security to constant delays and the highway robbery that is added fees, flying can be a real pain. But once I reach that metal cylinder and inhabit my generous 18 inch square of seat, I can find a different sort of magic. My phone becomes far less appealing with slow, restricted internet access. I have no chores, no obligations, nothing that I need to get done. For the next few hours, I am traveling. And not just through the sky to another airport. My book, the paperback from my nightstand that has been so long neglected, emerges from my backpack and becomes my escape.

This was from the wedding I attended on Saturday. Our escort cards were little bookmarks in the books. I loved it.

For me, attention has become a precious resource that I have to allocate judiciously. I need to pay attention to my work, my friends, my husband, and my own needs. It’s like each little thing that I need to do, want to do, or should do is pulling at my attention like a string. And something about being on a plane cuts all those strings. My attention is mine and mine alone for this little piece of time. And I choose to read. To fall between the pages like I fall into a swimming pool, taking in the words of a story at the author’s pace.

This trance has taken me through hundreds of pages and thousands of miles. It’s become a part of my travel ritual, no matter what the plane’s in-flight entertainment offers. I can watch movies and TV any time at home, but it seems so much more difficult to make myself read with those attention strings tugging at my brain. I wish it wasn’t so, but I might as well take advantage of the time I do have.

It’s an unpopular opinion, but I don’t mind air travel. Airports, delays, all of the nonsense around flying is a pain. But the actual flight is not half bad. And one big reason I don’t mind flying is books. If I read less than 40 pages on a flight, it’s because I fell asleep (another beneficial activity that I tend to neglect). On a recent flight, I was stuck on the tarmac for over an hour and had got through 250 pages by the time I reached my destination. If I really want to finish a book, I put it in my “plane book” pile and it will surely be finished by the end of my next trip. If I haven’t flown in a while, there is a part of me that looks forward to the moment when the earth falls away below me and my imagination takes hold.

Not the most profound blog post I’ve ever written, but I wanted to share a simple joy in my life that I hope to hold onto. Books are a small magic and deserve some appreciation.

Have a great day, and keep reading.

The Empty Silhouette

 Just in case you have been living under a rock, on April 22, I got married!

I have been planning my wedding since I was a kid. Yes, I was that kind of little girl. If I saw a piece of white fabric, it was immediately a dress, and my friends and I would play wedding. Or princesses. Or princess wedding. I’ve mentioned this tendency to wedding daydream in my previous post about my dress, but I want to shift the focus to another part of my childhood fantasy, the one part that was conspicuously absent. The groom.

In childhood, the groom is usually played either by the least girly girl or the one who lost the inevitable game of rock-paper-scissors. For those of us that have planned our wedding forever, as we grew up, the running joke is “I’ve got everything planned, all I need is the guy!” We have a grand vision with dresses, flowers, and location already chosen but there is an empty silhouette across the altar, labeled “Place Groom Here.”

Going through the actual process of planning a wedding, that empty silhouette feels really strange. The person across the altar is the reason for everything else. He shouldn’t feel tacked on at the last minute, he should be central to the whole event. He’s the part of the wedding that sticks around after the night is over. I loved asking Alex what he wanted for bits of the wedding and taking him with me to consult with vendors and figure out details. He was delighted with bits of the wedding that could be uniquely his, such as the groom’s cake and some special pictures with the groomsmen. I am particularly fond of seeing the people I love get excited, and I found myself deviating from my original vision in small ways just because I knew it would excite him.

As the wedding drew close and I started looking suspiciously for anything that could go wrong, I was always drawn back to the most important piece: my fiance. As long as we are married at the end of the day, the day was an absolute success. Full stop. If the dress rips, the wedding party gets the flu, and a bad storm tears up the venue, are we married at the end of the day? Yes. And that’s the important part.

Having planned my wedding since childhood, I thought I might feel let down now that it’s over. This thing that has been hyped by society and my own wild imagination, this day that is supposed to be one of the biggest memories of my life is now done. Set in stone. This is what my wedding day looks like. 

And I think it looks pretty great.

But honestly, I’m surprised at how fulfilled I feel instead. The day was fantastic, a dream, I’ll never forget it. But who did I fall into bed with that night? Alex. And I get to wake up every day knowing that we’re bonded by something greater than ourselves, something we hope to maintain until we leave this Earth. I don’t need another wedding, I want what comes after the wedding (And not just the wedding night activities, get your mind out of the gutter!). I want a life together as something greater than the sum of its parts. I feel like that’s part of how I knew that Alex was the right person for me. I don’t just want something to fill that empty silhouette and get me to my dream wedding. I want him. And look at that, I got him.

Two weeks married and we don’t want to kill each other yet, so I think we’re off to a good start!