“Supposed To” Cat Butts

I was supposed to post my New Year’s resolutions agenda at the beginning of the year. I was supposed to do a lot of things. Yet, I didn’t. But that isn’t failure; it’s just a change. It seems that I’ve started the past few years with all the best intentions only to get sidetracked by uncontrollable events. Thus, my momentum wanes; I get angry at my imperfections; I beat myself up for not being all I can be. This year was about to start that way again, but SCREW THAT!New Year

No, I am not giving up. I am just going to go about things a little differently. You might ask, “Why the change?” Well, it isn’t anything life altering, or even one of my famous (infamous) epiphanies. It is more of an observation of several events that led to a slow realization. I doubt you would want to read about all of these observations, so I will expand on one such event. Here’s how it went:

I came home to find my husband sitting in his office drinking a very potent vodka martini. When I walked in, he didn’t look up; he just sat there staring off into the corner with a strange look on his face. His handsome brow was crossed with anger, frustration, disappointment, and, dare I say – a faint touch of mirth.

Maybe it wasn't quite like this

Maybe it wasn’t quite like this

“What happened to you?” I asked

“I didn’t get to yoga practice,” he scowled and took a long sip from his drink.

“I can see that,” I replied. After a pause he didn’t continue, so I asked, “So why didn’t you get to yoga?”

I was a little afraid of the answer, but I knew I had to ask (was expected to ask).

He didn’t answer right away. He took another sip from his drink and I saw the anger fade a little as he launched into the past events that led to his vodka martini pity party.

He sighed heavily and said “When I got home, I had plenty of time to change for yoga. I was getting everything together when I noticed that Cally had gotten sick all over the floor.”

Cally is the oldest of our three cats. She has been very ill lately and prone to vomiting and diarrhea. In this particular instance, it had been some pretty fierce projectile vomiting.

My husband continued. “By the time I cleaned it up, I really had to get going. I was loading my yoga gear into the trunk of the car and realized I forgot my towel. I went to run back inside the house, but the door was locked. So I reached into my pocket to get my keys, but they were not there. I figured they must be in the car. I looked in the driver’s seat, the ignition, and inside the trunk, which was still wide open from loading the yoga gear. Nothing!” He paused for another drink. I could tell his anger was dissipating by now and the tone of his voice foretold of his annoyance, not with what happened but his reaction to what had happened.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“Well, I couldn’t find the hidden spare key when I looked the first time. I was cussing so much I missed it. I finally found it and got into the house. My keys were nowhere to be found. I was so @!#$%!#* pissed. I knew I would never make it to yoga, so I went outside to retrieve my stuff. As I shut the trunk door, guess what I found?” he said with a slight upward glance in my direction. I could see a little shame flushing up his neck and his anger was entirely gone, replaced by a little self-loathing mixed with the kind of humor that comes from realizing he was acting irrationally.

“Your keys were in the trunk lock, weren’t they,” I stated rather than asking. Our old Honda is exhibiting some wear and tear; recently the auto locks have been fading in and out of working condition. Sometimes the key fob works, and other times, we have to use the actual key.homer-simpson-doh-400x288

This is a funny story, but it is a good metaphor for the way my New Year’s resolutions tend to work out. I end up throwing my hands up and not doing what I really want to do.

I can’t stop the obstacles, but I can find ways around them. One way is to not make grand declarations at the beginning of the year. Instead, I am approaching this from a side angle. I am just going to improve a little each day. Nothing specific, just improve on one thing each day. In all likelihood, no one will notice except me. It doesn’t matter what it is either. It can be giving an extra effort to listen to someone, or giving the cashier at the grocery store a genuine smile instead of the obligatory one. If I keep improving the little things in my life, I am pretty sure it will transfer to the bigger things, like writing my novel or learning to play the guitar.cat_upsidedown-512

 

So far, it seems to be working out. The best part is, there are so many things to improve upon. I don’t think I will ever run out.

I kind of like this Cat Butt idea.

14522188006_40da90513c_cGo get’m!

Karen

Stan Lee, Nuns and a Box of Chocolates


When you were young, did you look at old people and automatically assume they were:

  • Boring
  • Slow
  • Passé
  • Uninteresting

I have to admit, when I was young, I thought this way. But holy wrinkles, Batman! Was I wrong!  If you doubt it, just look at Stan Lee. He’s got it going on.  He is loving life and having fun. He is one of those people who may look old on the outside, but has more imagination and heart than some 20 year olds I know.

Stan Lee, my hero

Stan Lee, my hero

My mistake was that I assumed all old people were the same. However, my experience with older folks was a little limited. My “elderly” world was comprised of distant relatives and the Catholic nuns at school. (I did eight years of parochial education, nine if you count kindergarten.) Even the young nuns seemed old. Of course, all the nuns, young, old and ancient, lived together in the same house, so that may have had something to do with it. Nobody really knows what goes on in a nunnery.

nuns

I am not sure why I formed my opinion about all old people being afraid of change or why I perceived them as sedentary.  It certainly wasn’t from being around my relatives. No matter what their ages, they were always up to something.  Well, when in doubt, blame the nuns. I don’t mean that as harshly as it sounds, but I did pick up that they were a bit immovable in their attitudes toward the evolving world and I think I equated this with age. I found this to be somewhat of an unattractive lifestyle and vowed never to grow old.  How is that for a youthful know-it-all declaration?nun

Ha! That declaration came back to bite me in the ass! Well, the physical part did anyway. Aging is inevitable. I saw first-hand evidence when I looked (really looked) in the mirror recently. My face has permanent laugh lines, which aren’t all that funny. My eyes have so many crow’s feet that I’m considering calling the National Audubon Society to have them studied. I believe I’ve discovered a new crow species that treks across my face when I sleep.  Even though I exercise daily and eat good food, parts of me are doing the “shake, sag, and roll” no matter how hard I target them. But that isn’t the worst part….CrowsFeet copy2

The younger people are judging me based on my appearance. Ah, Karma, you got me, didn’t you. They don’t see me as someone who is actually drawing breath. Just recently, I was at a function with a mixed crowd, young and old. Even though I was sitting directly across from a 22 year-old, his gaze passed straight through me. He considered me pretty much nonexistent in the span of a nanosecond and I subsequently became invisible to him. Whenever I spoke, he looked annoyed as if his mother had just told him to take out the trash. Too bad,  I might have told him that he had cheese on his chin, but I had to find some entertainment somewhere, so I didn’t. He got to wear that little glob of queso all the way home, curtesy of yours truly.

I can’t really blame the younger crowd. After all, I did the same thing until I realized that older people are pretty interesting. They may look old on the outside, but they are still young on the inside, like me. They’ve done things, been places and have great stories that are quite extraordinary. I guess I’m going to sum it up this way:

Old people are like a box of chocolates. Some of them may look a little old, but the inside is still fresh; you will be glad you sampled them. Some of them may look old and tired, and they are, so you lose on those. And some of them are just mysterious; they are well preserved, but it is a crap shoot on what you get (hard and crunchy, gooey and moldy, sweet and spicy – you just never know.my_momma_used_to_say_life_is_like_a_box_of_chocolates_you_ll_never_know_which_one_you_ll_get-976173

I have to say that my shine has worn off a little and I might be a little squishy around the edges, but the inside is still prime stuff. When I look out of my eyes and see the world, I am still looking at it with excitement and wonder. You may not see me, but I see you and I don’t miss a beat.

So, if you happen to look into the mirror and see and old person peering back at you, remember, you aren’t past your expiration date unless you believe you are. It is what’s on the inside that counts so do something with it.

It also helps to stay away from mirrors when possible.

You are never too old to kick some cat butt.

Karen

 

 

 

Audio

Hidden Gems in a Cat Butt

This is truly accurate

This is truly accurate

I know this post is a bit late. For some reason, I don’t like anything I write lately. I’ve actually finished this blog post three times already, only to delete it because it lacked anything interesting. Let’s start with the title of this blog, “Hidden Gems in a Cat Butt”. The title is the most exciting thing about this page of words. It conjures up all kinds of images, right? Nuggets of smelly wisdom to be sure. Of course, I didn’t mean it literally. I was alluding to my running injury and some unexpected byproducts of that injury. My inability to trek across the neighborhood in Brooks shoes, a Nike Running Watch, and a no-brand visor left me seeking out alternate forms of exercise. So I tried yoga. Who knew I would like it so much? I never considered yoga because I didn’t think anybody could possibly get a good workout by twisting around like a schizophrenic pretzel. But, you can… or at least I can. There it is…a twisty Gem in a Cat Butt.

Pity Kitty

Pity Kitty

Even though I’ve been practicing yoga for a few weeks now, I still don’t quite fit in with the yoga crowd yet. My yoga outfit consists of a t-shirt, usually with a zombie reference on it, and some stretchy shorts. Everyone else has fitted yoga pants and crazy looking tops with holes, straps and strings twisting strategically around the boobs. Let me take this opportunity to say this only goes for the women. The men are generally shirtless, which is fine, because they would look extremely odd in a pink string thongy shirt thing. I think you have to be a black belt in yoga before you are allowed to wear such things.

I haven’t quite gotten the knack of the poses yet. My Downward Facing Dog is more like Mutt in the Mud, and my Half Moon Warrior is more like Jerky Scarecrow. At least I make the instructor laugh.funny-yoga

I am also slowly learning yoga etiquette too. For instance, during the cool off phase at the end of practice, we usually lie quietly on our mats with our eyes closed while meditating on our stretched muscles. It’s actually kind of nice…. until the guy next to you starts to snore. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, but tossing a wet towel in his face was how I chose to handle it. Did I mention that I have a hard time making yoga friends?

Also, another thing to keep in mind while in a yoga class is if you hear a fart-like sound, it’s always caused by something sliding on the mat. ALWAYS. No one ever really farts in yoga. Oh, and don’t laugh (out loud anyway).Funny-Yoga-05

All and all, I think I’m going to stick with yoga even after I get better and can run again. I can’t say I will give up my zombie t-shirts though. Some things are sacred.

I wish you inner peace and may these cat butt gems bring you enlightenment….. (I am trying to be Zen here, if you could not tell).yoga-cat-funny

 

Keep kicking the cat butts out of your way!

Karen

Cat Butts, Bug Butts and Elvis!

I love summer. I like spring and fall too, but summer is the bomb! Why? Swimming, beach bumming, biking, hiking, gardening, etc., and it can all be done wearing shorts or less. Oops, I forgot to mention winter. This is what I think about winter: Being cold sucks.

Here's looking at you, Charlotte, NC. Photo by Chris Austin

Here’s looking at you, Charlotte, NC.  Here comes the storm. Photo by Chris Austin

I also like the sudden summer storms. Have you ever experienced one in the South? The sensation is like being transported to the other world of Fae, or as Jim Butcher would put it, the Nevernever. At one moment it is hot, and the sweat is running down your back like water from an over used dishtowel; and the next, you are shivering because the wind has suddenly picked up and the temperature has dropped at least 10°F . The sun starts to fade as the dark clouds rush in. All this takes just a couple of minutes. Then the rain starts. First in little, thin bits of spittle, but then fully formed fat droplets start to bomb the earth. Something about such a sudden change in weather is extremely exhilarating. Maybe it is the power of the weather, a touch of something that is untamed and will remain that way forever.

One thing that I don’t quite love about summer is the bug onslaught. I know all those gnawing, chewing, biting, stinging insects are necessary to the ecological balance of nature (blah, blah) and I try to do the right thing by gardening with organic methods. However, the insects don’t appreciate my efforts. They still try to make a meal out of me every chance they get.blog pic, scaaary spider

Assailant #1: The mosquito. I don’t care what the experts say; mosquitoes are pack hunters capable of stalking prey (me). I think they have surveillance set up so they know when I am in range. It’s no joke; from the time I open the patio door to the time I begin drenching myself in bug spray, I’ve already accumulated at least three more new bites. It can’t be by chance. THEY KNOW.

A week's worth of combat supplies.  Running low, it looks like.

A week’s worth of combat supplies. Running low, it looks like.

Assailant #2: Spiders. I actually started out liking spiders because they are tremendously helpful in an organic garden. They eat all sorts of bugs that would otherwise mess with my veggies. Alas, they don’t appreciate the fact that I appreciate them. It never fails; no matter how careful I am, some spider decides I look like an aphid and takes a bite out of me. Spider bites don’t hurt much more than mosquito bites, but they take a lot longer to heal. I swear my legs look like they are in a constant state of leprosy recovery.spider_attack_by_theevilcam-d5jpy03

Assailant #3: Ants. For the most part, ants don’t bother me unless they happen to be fire ants. I can’t seem to kill them, but by continuously treating their mounds (with organic methods of course) I’ve convinced them to move over to the neighbor’s yard. (Shhhhhhh).fireants_mainPhoto

Assailant #4: Hornets. For the longest time, I was deathly afraid of any sort of buzzing bee: honey bees, dirt daubers, bumble bees, carpenter bees, you name it. However, over the years, I’ve mellowed out and can tolerate being around them. It’s the hornets I still have a problem with. They are just flat out mean. Even if you aren’t bothering them, they want a piece of you. That is one species that is in serious need of anger management. Sorry hornets, and screw organic methods, if I find your nest I am blasting you with nuclear waste.

Hornet

Don’t be fooled by his cuteness

I’ll be sorry to see summer go. It seems like it went by too fast this year. Although, I do enjoy autumn, not as much as summer, but I still like it. It isn’t so much about the cool mornings or evenings; it’s more about the bugs. They will be dying soon. HA! Take that you little people eaters.

Oh – Just because I feel like this cannot go unshared.  Here is some bonus footage from my mini-vacation in Myrtle Beach, NC.  It’s Elvis! (sort of).

Living the life – with extra cat butt.

Take care out there.

Karen

 

Ignored By My Physician — Say It Isn’t So!

Dr. Evil

Dr. Evil

It’s that time again – my annual physical! I know it is only once a year, but I start dreading it as soon as I make the appointment, which is about four months out. I’ve been going to the same doc since I moved to North Carolina. She has always been very attentive, asked a lot of questions, and spent time with me. After all, I only see her once a year. This visit was a little different; thus, I have a new name for her: Dr. Faster-Than-The-Speed-Of-Light. For whatever reason, she seemed like she was in a really big hurry. She glanced at my chart and proceeded to give me an exam that was quicker than an airport TSA screening . In about three minutes, she was finished, gave a dismissing nod toward my clothes piled on a chair, and pronounced me healthy enough to return to the general population. The problem was that I had a question about a particular pain I am having in my lower back.

I’m a rather healthy person, but from time to time, I get an ache or pain that needs more than Ibuprofen. For instance, a few months ago, I got a really weird bite on my hand. My knuckles swelled up so much it looked like I had Cremini mushrooms on the back of my hand. Not only that, it was painful, almost like getting your hand ground down into the dirt with an army boot, size 15. It turned out to be some weird bacteria that had invaded my hand through the bite wound and was trying to alter my DNA. Ok, maybe the DNA part isn’t true, but I had to take antibiotics and get a penicillin shot to kill it.

Never fun

Never fun

Anyway, the doc was about to leave before I could ask about my back pain, and she was moving fast. She took one step and her latex gloves were off. She took another step and her foot was on the trashcan pedal, the lid opening and her gloves dropping in. Somehow, she also had the water running in the sink and had a soapy lather going. By step three, she had already grabbed a paper towel with one hand and was turning the door handle with the other.

It was all happening too fast. If I wanted my doctor’s opinion on my back pain, I had to act. I launched myself off the table causing my paper skirt to fall to the floor. All I had covering me was the light blue exam gown, which didn’t conceal much more than my shoulder blades.

In mid-flight from the table, I yelled, “Wait! In hindsight, I think I might have said it too loudly, because her eyes, normally friendly and crescent shaped , opened up into large jawbreaker sized orbs in her head. My hair was in my face, so when I pushed it out of the way, I inadvertently got a sideways look at myself in the mirror. Yikes! I was a sight. My long, tangled hair was doing some weird medusa dance around my head; my exam gown was open in the front exposing all of my naughty bits right down to my toes. I was hunched over a bit (duh, my back hurt), and my stomach was growling like a mountain lion from not eating, a necessary evil for the usual blood work yet to come.

crazy

The crazy was showing a little bit.

The doc composed herself and her eyes shifted back to their normal, practiced, compassionate features and asked, “Was there something more?” From her tone, I could tell she wanted me to say “no” so she could go on with her day. This angered me a bit. After all, I was standing on a cold tile floor wearing an ugly blue exam gown that was barely clinging to my shoulders. To say I was a little miffed would be an understatement.

My stomach rumbled out one big ugly growl and I gave her a little smirk. I tend to get somewhat sarcastic when I am hungry. It was tough to fight back the urge to cock my head to one side, smile a big, toothy grin, and say, “I have a strange craving for BRAINS!” and then take a step toward her. But alas, I was able to keep it together. I like my doc, but I don’t think her sense of humor was working that day. Besides, I am pretty sure she could have me committed for 24 hour observation if she wanted to.

So, I calmly pulled the gown closed, straightened up a bit and said, “Yes, I need to ask about my lower back pain.”

She asked me a few questions, pushed around on my back a bit and told me to take some Ibuprofen and keep an eye on it. I was about to tell her that was what I have been doing for the past month, but when I turned around, she was gone. Damn. I should have gone with the brain-craving instead.

Pain

Did this just happen?

The good news is that my lab results came back and I have healthy blood. (Please don’t tell the vampire community.) The bad news is my back still hurts and my opinion of my health insurance is hurting as well. I am not entirely sure what to do now. The pain seems to be getting worse, so I will probably go for a second opinion pretty soon. It looks like I have a new cat butt in my life. Yay me.medium

Watch out this week; the cat butts seem to be on sneak attack.

Karen

Cat Drool, In-laws, Airports and Cannibals

Finally, a moment to myself after a hectic few days. My cat is even playing along and sitting beside me on her makeshift perch instead of traipsing all over me. I put a small square pet bed on top of my rolling file holder so she would have someplace other than my keyboard to lounge. If she isn’t on my keyboard, she is on my lap, which gets really uncomfortable after a while. It isn’t the constant kneading with her little claws that does it; her drooling is the kicker. She sits contently in my lap and purrs and drools all over my leg. Cat drool is just plain yucky and that is all there is to it, thus the invention of the file-holding cat bed next to my desk. Ingenuity is one way to kick a cat butt and keep your leg dry. You can quote me on that.

Cally Cat

Cally on her “stay-off-the-keyboard” bed

So, what kept me so busy? I took a trip to see my in-laws. If you are expecting to hear horrible in-law stories, this is going to be really disappointing for you. I don’t have any killer cousins in-law or loosey-goosey sisters in-law ; no, none of that here. I actually hit the jackpot when it comes to my husband’s family. They are the most fun loving group of people I have ever been around. Having in-laws you love and love to be around really makes things easier. I know lots of folks that have all kinds of extended family troubles and sure, it makes for great stories, but I would rather hear those stories than live them.

I don’t know if other writers do this or not, but when I am around people, I often wonder if they would make interesting characters in a story. Certainly there are some who I could base an entire book around. (Those folks are in MY family.) Sometimes, I like to pull out character traits from a few different people and mash them up into a completely new person. This person would most certainly have issues, lots and lots of issues.funny-crazy-people

Here’s the problem; I like to write stories that have a mix of horror, suspense, sci-fi, and humor. My in-laws gave me lots of humor, but not much of the other stuff (for which I am very grateful). Luckily, at least for my imagination, we got stranded in the airport for a while because of storms. Thus, I had lots of time in the airport to play with strangers. OK, that sounds a little odd. What I meant was I would pick a person at random and make up stories about them. Everybody does this, right?

For instance, when we finally boarded the plane, a middle-aged man caught my eye. He was about 5’ 10” and had brown hair. His hair was what made me first notice him. His meager strands of hair looked like they were made of wax. Although there wasn’t much of it, he had found a way to plaster down to his scalp in straight, chunky lines. The hair didn’t move and it had a dull sheen to it, not greasy, but almost tacky. He had a round doughboy face and wore little spectacles that were so tight, they cut into the tops of his cheeks and always seemed foggy. Maybe that is why he kept squinting. I call them spectacles instead of glasses because his eyewear had a sense of nostalgia to them; it just didn’t feel right calling them glasses. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t fit either. He was just sort of soft. His clothes didn’t help either. Beige corduroy pants, an off-brand beige polo-style shirt, and a faded old blue sweater didn’t do much for his image at all. I didn’t see his shoes because of my vantage point, but they were probably beige too.

Anyway, he had a Chick-fil-A bag with him. I assumed he picked up a chicken sandwich in the concourse before boarding. A lot of people pick up food to take on the plane with them to eat later, ever since the airlines started charging for cookies and chips. (Those bastards.)chick-fil-a

It wasn’t the bag that was unusual; it was what he did with it during the flight. The first time he opened the bag, I expected him to pull out a couple of those waffle fries that Chick-fil-A is so famous for, just for a taste. But he didn’t. He just looked into the bag for a few seconds, rolled it up, and set it on his lap with both hands on each side of it. I thought maybe he was not hungry yet. About 15 minutes later, he opened the bag again, looked inside, then reached his hand in, but didn’t immediately pull anything out. He fumbled for something and then stopped when he seemingly found what he was looking for, but he still didn’t pull it out. He just sort of fondled it inside the bag. OK, that was strange enough, but then he did it three more times! By now I am coming up with all kinds of stories about this guy and his bag. Perhaps he did have a Deluxe Spicy Chicken Sandwich and a large order of waffle fries in the white and red bag, but he could also have severed fingers in there too.

Finger Food

Finger Food (no fingers were truly harmed in the writing of this blog)

Yep, in my boredom, I came up with a story that this guy had killed and tortured some random soul back in the terminal restroom and taken his fingers as souvenirs. He hid the body in one of those giant trashcans the janitorial staff always leaves at the entrance to the restroom. I don’t know why they do that; maybe it gives the impression the restroom has been freshly cleaned. The dead guy, most likely a guy since it is a men’s restroom, won’t be found for hours because those cans sit there forever. Perhaps it will start leaking blood or producing a foul oder (eau de toilette of decomp) before someone will notice. Then I started thinking about it a little more; Doughboy could actually be a Dr. Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lecter want-to-be and is savoring the moment when he can eat the fingers with his sandwich. Fingers instead of fries? Hmmmm. He might be debating if he can sneak one into his mouth without being noticed. This must be sheer agony for him, being able to touch the savory little digits, but not being able to chow down.

I was having a lot of fun while Doughboy fiddled with his bag, but alas, I guess I will never truly know what was really in there, because once the plane landed and everyone shuffled out, I lost sight of him. Maybe he went straight to the men’s room, perhaps for an entrée to go with his fingerling appetizer.  (Sigh) Those are the breaks.

I am not going to ask you if you think this is normal or not. I am pretty sure it isn’t. Still, I can’t turn off my imagination. It just goes and goes, usually in dark and creepy directions. Yep, my imagination is the next best thing to reading books by Stephen King, Jim Butcher, Mark Tufo, and Jonathan Maberry. Perhaps reading these types of books perpetuates my somewhat sinister thought patterns, or maybe it is just natural.

One day, I will pen a book of short stories about the people I ‘enhance’. Maybe some of them might turn out to be actually true. (Cue the ominous music.)

Cat Wink

Cat butts are taking a beating this week, at least in my imagination.

Karen.

Cat Butts vs. Monsters and Demons

Blogging Style

If my blogging style had an avatar, it would look like this.

I think I have an unusual quirk to my blogging. It seems that I write a blog post, let it sit for a day before I proof read it, and then after I read it, I think of something else I would rather say. This blog post is no different. I think I am going to call this a sort of post-apocalyptic blogging style.

This is what happened to my pre-blog this week. My thoughts were down on paper and I was talking about kicking certain cat butts and how much progress I was making when it hit me. I have really come a long way from where I was. Sure, I am struggling with kicking certain cat butts right now, but I am doing it to make my life more fulfilling and chase after my ultimate dream (of finishing a novel). In my past, which seems like a very long time ago, I was not kicking anything. I was running from a monster.

The Monster

Not a fun guy

And no, I did not win that battle. I was just a child, and too ill-equipped to do proper battle. When the monster was done with me, I was left in a realm in between chaos and the world I once knew as a child. Although the monster could no longer get me, I was surrounded by demons, spawned by my own fear, hurt, anger and confusion. To say it was a prison is an understatement. I am not sure if Dante even had a circle of hell to describe the place I was in.

I’ve since learned that demons only have as much power as you give them, but it took a while to learn that. I also thought so many things were out of my control and I wasted an incredible amount of time outside of life. It’s tough to explain unless you have been to that forsaken place. I am not alone; many people have been imprisoned there, and many are still trapped in that netherworld by their demons. Some even die there.fallen angel

The story of my journey would probably make for a hell of a book. Someone else will have to write it though. I refuse to go back there, even in retrospect. I am putting as much distance between me and what once was as I can. I suppose that is why kicking my cat butts are so important. Conquering small things like cat butts puts distance between the demons and me. Failing at kicking a little cat butt is more than just procrastination or poor planning, I see it as a demon coming to reclaim the power I took back. So, when I write about being upset I didn’t find the time to practice my guitar, or outline a character in my story, it might seem trivial unless you know the back-story. Every day, I am trying to put distance between my demons and me. You know what they say, “There ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

I know this blog entry isn’t as light-hearted as some of the others. Sorry about that. I just felt I needed to add some perspective on my cat butt kicking. Things are not always what they seem to be; but, they can always get better.

Shadows of the past

Cat butts getting out of hand

Here’s to kicking more butts this week! Don’t let them get you.

 

Karen