The diet hasn't been the best in the last several days. Massive amounts of cheese bread and pizza Saturday—which I allowed myself after 25 miles of biking—brunch for my brother's birthday on Sunday, and a treat day at work yesterday. Last night it finally caught up with me and I was a sick puppy just before hopping in the shower, feeling grateful that the nausea didn't hit while I was at Genesis attempting to become beautiful.

Meanwhile, Nick was feeling achy and tired and we both curled into bed before 8:00 had much airtime. Nick reset the alarm for 5:30 after it went off at 4:30, and I allowed him to, knowing that while I was awake, I didn't feel much like getting up. Then, 5:00 rolled around, and the child's bell jingled when she looked up at me, curious as to why all this time had passed and she still had not been given treats.

But today dawns brightly and it will be better—if, for no other reason, I go to the dentist today...the only one person who praises my teeth and tells me I have the best smile of all of her patients. It's probably a line, but I swallow it hook line and sinker. Every time. And gladly, too. This is also the anniversary of this...has it only been a year?

Sort of a humdrum melting pot of a post, isn't it? Exciting things have happened, honestly, I just want to be feeling better to give them their proper parade in the telling. For now, a picture of the pest:

Nick's plant, which has had a place in his life much longer than I have, has had this chronic wasting disease since, oh, around the beginning April. We'll come home to leaves strewn across the floor, others that seem to self destruct, eating away at themselves and looking quite brown and fragile. Poor plant.

Turns out, the chronic wasting disease has a name: Sophie.

For the longest time, I would be standing at the present, and looking back at the way things were the previous year. I suppose it began when the really tough times began to hit, and I longed for that other time back, the time before I truly understood mortality and pain. Gradually, it transitioned that my thinking that life is so good and looking back to remind myself that things were really hard there for awhile. It was my affirmation that I am strong, that I can overcome, and that I will always survive.

But this is the last weird anniversary for me, the next several days—the last time I had to force myself to do something that scared the bejeezus out of me. A year ago today was my last day at one job, which I left for lack of benefits (A very timely move considering that medical emergency thing that popped up 6 weeks later). That night was Relay for Life and ABS Global, where my mother was employed, had a lane dedicated to her. I spent the next day packing up Miles' things, purging albums of the photographic memories we had had together. The day after that, I saw him to go over the divorce papers—the first time I had seen him since I returned home that October day to find him gone. The day after that, I stood before a judge and declared that my marriage was irreconcilably broken. And, the day after that, I began working at my current job.

Easily one of the most tumultuous five-day stretches in my life, it was a series of endings colliding with a series of beginnings...and it left me absolutely exhausted. I needed Mommy, and she didn't come when I called. I ended one life and stumbled upon the start line of the next. But I'll tell you, I started that next life and haven't looked back. It was something I needed to do but truly dreaded doing so...and, being that I forged through and all, perhaps Mom came running after all.

Sometimes I catch myself smiling for no reason and I take stock. It almost doesn't feel natural to be this far out from some sort of trial and at times I wonder when the other shoe will drop. It was one thing after another after another for so long that I truly believed what Aunt Brenda said at the center of our family crises: "We had too many good years." Well if that be the case, and we travel through phases of good, then bad instead of a constant balance, I'm standing at the entrance to some really great times.

Nick approached on hyper legs the other night. "Dear, I think we need to change our lifestyle." He pulls out, with a barely concealed lip quiver, a rechargeable battery and two gnawed golf tees—found, supposedly, in places they don't belong. I suppress a laugh as it's obvious that it isn't my things that Sophie (who absolutely has the sharpest monster-teeth I've ever felt—lord save me from ever having to pill her again) finds and does God knows what with before depositing in the center of the bed or behind the toilet.

But I understand his pain, that rawness of having your things tampered with and your trusting nature abused. I know to lock away knickknacks. Gee, I wonder why? Clem was once the greatest irritation in my life, and oh how he has a soft spot in my heart! But even so, nothing was safe. I don't know how many times I plotted to kill the stinker, sell him on the black market, or (at the very least) sit down and give a stern talking to the male kitten who I believe was fixed a leeeeeeeetle too early with his fascination with my undergarments and makeup.



I support the thievery. Builds character.

Even so, Nick...I understand your frustration, but we don't need to change our lifestyle...but, rather, you need to come to terms with the fact that we are now living with a thief that eats us out of house and home, fills her litter box daily (leaving me to wonder how all that crap came from one little kitten), and generally isn't fond of human affection. At least she hasn't peed on your pillow for a good month now.

Redeeming qualities indeed.

Last Friday, I spent a portion of the afternoon at my aunts' house. They weren't there, but I wanted to try to capture some of the iridescent lavender swirls of fantasy that lassoed me in just the evening before.



I've always loved the grounds here. I turned from the rude modernity of a busy highway into an alcove of quiet residences quite apart from that other life. Parking in my aunts' driveway, I opened the garage door and let myself in. There I stood in the dining area, looking out in appreciation. I felt like Mary Lennox just then, with my own secret garden—but I was not the only one eager to drink it all in:



A storm was coming, I could feel the foreboding whispering from the lips of the heavy air. "Just a quick look around," I warned myself, but it was not meant to be. I had my camera and I was in Rappaccini's garden. The vibrant petals burned against the grayed light and the garden creatures—you know, the ones that only come to life when you're not looking, and no matter how fast you turn around you can't catch them moving around—watched intently as I picked my way through their world.



And, I breathed in the sweet fragrance. The wind was picking up, and the fragile blossoms revealed their true beauty as they persevered, showing their strength. The wind chimes picked up, and it sounded to me then, encased in my world of fancy as I was, as through faeries had descended around. My Aunt Brenda put a wind chime on my mother's grave. Mom used to lie awake at night, often unable to sleep with what faced her. One night, she heard a wind chime hanging from the corner of the house, talking to her. She had a moment of divinity then, and forever after referred to the wind chime's tune as "God's Song". I cherish the sweet strains.



But I just can't seem to capture the wonder of it all for you here. These pictures managed to miss the pixie dust shimmering down like curtains around the scene, the smiles I couldn't keep from my face. Perhaps it is a place one mustn't merely see, but experience. Perhaps that magic only comes to life to a girl latching on to that peace and beauty she knew so well from her childhood. Perhaps the camera's eye will never have the focus of mine.

I noticed it at our local Culver's Memorial Day Weekend's Saturday, but I managed to not get there to clean them out. The flavor sounded so totally requisite in my life and I had to have it: Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. That was the day we went to Brat Fest in the pouring rain and Nicholas had a conniption over the Boca brat I insisted on having. Not that I'm bitter.

The day ran out on me, and I lacked the initiative to go back out into the cold rainy night. I regretted so the next day when I awoke to that longing. I have never known a desire so great for something I've never tasted, but I can easily see the feasibility of the craving for my imagination's object trumping all others.

By that Monday, I was desperate and logged onto Culver's site to find the next sighting of that particular flavor of the day. I found it at the Northport branch, which I pass every day on my way to work. It was to be there June 12th. I circled it on my calendar and told all I'd pass to spread the goodness that I knew must be Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. Easily, I prefer frozen custard to ice cream if I'm going to indulge—so silky and smooth, I think it is made of silver cloud linings.

I told Jim Sunday when we went biking. Turns out, that was a good move. I received an email yesterday that told me I did not have to, in fact, wait until the twelfth for the object of my desire, because it was the flavor of the day at the Culver's in Middleton. Now, okay. I am not familiar with Middleton or the West Side at all...well, except to get to the UW Hospital. I didn't grow up close to either area and my parents stuck to the areas they knew...namely, De Forest and Sun Prairie. It was a big deal the first time Mom drove to the East Side Shop-ko all by herself.

So, when I got back from the gym, and I let loose my enthusiasm upon Nick that BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE CUSTARD WAS AT THE MIDDLETON CULVER'S!, he replied that we would take a ride after dinner. So, we're in the car and he asks, "Which Culver's is it?" I stared blankly. "There are four," he explains. I whine that I don't know, that all Jim said was that it was a Middleton Culver's and he didn't say which one. "I guess we'll just drive around until we find it then," he sighs with aggravation.

I was feeling pouty myself by that point. Nick was the one that suggested we go after dinner—I certainly wouldn't have because I didn't know where it was—and now he was giving me attitude. He's such a diva.

I see a Culver's sign in the distance and squint. "THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE ONE!" I point happily, forgetting to hold my pout. He turns and I buy a half gallon of the flavor of the day. "First one we drove by!" I cheer. Nick looks at me with that smile that I hate...the one that tells me that he's having way too much fun at my expense, and worse, that I've been completely unaware.

"Did you really think I didn't know where I was going?" Cocky.

"Well, you said there were four."

"There's only one."

I'm old school. I BELIEVE WHAT PEOPLE SAY.

My irritation dissipated as I made my lackey-boyfriend fill my car with gas and serve me custard. It disappeared altogether when I wrapped my mouth around the creamy gift from God, my eyes rolling back and mewling sounds catching in my throat.

Nick who?

I stopped by and saw Friskey last Friday. I miss her. Her Eyesight isn't what it was, and when I discovered her lying in the east porch her head raised in alert. She did nothing but stare at me, through me. Then I spoke. "Hi Frisko," I crooned, and my old girl with all of her arthritis and extra weight bounded from her little alcove of boy clutter to get to me.

I was telling this story to Nick, and he questioned, "Frisko?" Frisko, Frisk, Friskarelli...I've known her for 17 years. A friend tends to pick up nicknames along the way through 17 years.

It made me cry, this sweet kitty who I grew up with, and was now getting old without me. I talked to her a good while while I combed her and cleaned her ears. Nick estimates that I wanted to get a kitten so I wouldn't be accused of talking to myself so often. He's so silly...I never talk to myself. There's usually a coffeemaker or a counter top or a wayward strand of hair involved. Anyway, I found some treats that Mom had bought before she died that were still sealed and moist, I gave her some of them. "Does anyone take a moment to let you know that you're loved anymore?" I murmured, as she was so hungry for attention.

I told her all about Sophie, and I know you shouldn't think this way, but in hindsight I know I was looking for another Friskey. "She's still getting used to us, I think..." I try to defend to my almond eyed calico with the pretty markings outlining them. She looks at me warmly, not really caring what I say, only that I keep talking to her. Sophie has a very sweet personality, I can tell it. She doesn't seem to have Frisko's attitude (or, as Mom called it, catitude)...at least not yet. She's still in that baby stage where everything is new and she's too busy watching everything that moves to offer a scathing remark regarding us humans' inability to do anything right. But she's not a lap kitty...at least not yet. She doesn't hear my voice and run to me, and she certainly doesn't look at me like I'm the best and most important person in her life.

But maybe that takes 17 years, or being a little girl's kitten, wrapped in blankets and carted around in strollers. A little girl who would run all the way from where the bus let her off after school to the house and search out her best bud. Mom got sick and Frisk didn't leave her side. The two of them bonded that way while I was living in the South, and I was grateful to have left such a sweet companion to hold my place when I couldn't be there. I nodded to myself taking the whole thing in, and admitted to myself, there's only one Friskey.

After our visit, I came home and emptied four new toy balls [I picked up on the way home] onto the living room floor for Sophie. She loves playing with balls. I am only now seeing more and more of her personality shining through as she becomes increasingly comfortable in our home. I love to situate her world with the things she loves, not showing that the scene has been manipulated, so that she may believe that only good things ever happen. I love coming home to find the living room scattered with balls and blankets askew because then I know that she had fun while I was away. I love the way she follows me around as I get ready in the morning, and I truly love the tilt of her head while she watches.

Friskey never really earned her name, choosing a quiet nap over something as inconvenient as play time, and I'm confident that eventually Sophie will settle down and I'll stop regretting that we didn't name her Spaz because of the way she hunkers down in the midst her her catnip toy buzz, stars at us, and then sprints up the stairs, down the stairs, up the stairs half way, down two steps, up all the way, down again, and then, grabbing a ball in her mouth exits through the kitty door to the basement.

This picture, to me, shows her sweetness so perfectly. In a moment of rest, her eyes are soft and warm, and I can see her heart is pure. It's been unfair of me to expect her to act like another when she's so perfect on her own, just as she is. I know it's not a good comparison in the eyes of all of you mothers out there, but it is like that point in your young child's life when you start to see the person they're going to be...and it's exciting to watch them grow.