Props

Wanted to give a shout out to MK Edwards who designed my lovely new logo. I believe she did a fantastic job. What say the peeps?

Ode to Chewy

We were not raised with animals as pets, my brother, sister and I. This is my mother's doing; she has an aversion to animals of the extreme variety. She was unendingly patient with my dad, who twice (to my memory) brought home dogs. I don't much remember the first dog; I think his name was Wolf and I'm not sure where he went. The second dog, Rusty, well, he cured us forever of dogs.

Rusty was his own undoing. A gorgeous Irish Setter, Rusty was large, and loud and rather dumb. He ran on a dog run in the back of our house that ended either in a shallow ravine or at the garage door. Many were the times we would watch Rusty chasing butterflies and run headlong into the garage door, feeling the house tremor under impact. Also, Rusty had a habit of absentmindedly flinging himself over the ravine. This is unquestionably bad as he would therefore be dangling from his collar, from his neck.

I remember my mother when Rusty came to live with us. "Charlie!" spitting out my father's name, accusing, flustered, angry, and ultimately resigned. It was as if she knew the dog would be short lived for our home. And of course, as mothers always are, she was right.

To be honest, I was ambivalent about Rusty and most animals for that fact. You hear those stories that people who are afraid of animals (as my mother is) raise children who adopt this fear. None of her children got that fear. In fact, two of three have animals now. At the time, I really didn't care if he was there or not.

But this isn't really about Rusty; it's about another dog that entered my life decades later; in fact when I was well into my 30s. Chewy is also a large, loud dog. But he also acts a little like a cat and he is old, in that bone weary sense. Chewy lives with us now and I am so glad. He unwittingly made me if not a dog lover than a dog sympathizer.

Chewy is a Rottweiler. He came into our extended family as a pup when my sister in law, a girl at the time, adopted him. She trained him well; as she lived with my in laws, so did Chewy. When my sister in law flew the coop, Chewy stayed behind. Chewy turned into my in law's dog. He was loyal and doting; he slept near or on the bed, he brought the mail, chased the squirrels and solicitors and other annoyances from the yard. He sits, shakes, high fives, lied down and loves. Oh, how he loves. (I still cannot believe I feel that way.)

Chewy was at her side when my mother in law passed away suddenly at their lake house, one of her favorite places. Chewy was at my father in law's side as he called family members to share the awful news. He was there when we gathered at the house to mourn and celebrate her. He was a stoic presence standing sentry next to my father in law who was otherwise surrounded by confusion, chaos and loss of meaning. I love Chewy for this and this alone.

But I love him for more reasons. Chewy stood by while my father in law met a fabulous woman and started a new phase of his life, married to her. And this is where he comes to live with us. As fantastic as she is, there was one thing she couldn't get over; it wasn't his size, or his bark (which is ever so rare), or even his toots which are immeasurably disgusting. It was her allergy to him.

So sweet is their love that neither knew what to do. She took weekly allergy injections; he wiped up hair and found supplements to put on Chewy's food to help with shedding. They tried every solution. She was miserable. And my daughter, the nine year old walking persuader cajoled us into taking him in.

Truth be told, we thought his tenure at our house would be short. He is 12 after all. His joints ache, he can't run as long as he used to, he tolerates our youngest wild kid. Chewy is as loyal to us as he was to them. He sleeps at the foot of the 5 year old's bed, he obeys the 9 year old as she gets the mail, he helps me corral them out the door for school, he barks at solicitors and squirrels alike.

I'm still not an animal lover; I rarely pet him (don't worry, he gets lots of love from others), I don't want him on my bed and I can't stand his breath. But I'm glad he came to us. He shows me things about my kids I didn't know were there. He demonstrates loyalty and love in a way many people have trouble comprehending. I know its sappy but I'm happy to know him.

Leave a comment to be entered for a chance to win a personalized collar for your beloved pup. Winner will be announced March 9

More Incarnations

The pic I put on facebook was stinky so here are a few more pictures of the metal stamping that I've tried.

I like the wedding date one the best.

Drumroll Please

Turning in the form for preschool tomorrow giving definition to my life for the group of 4 and 5 year olds. Here is what I wrote:

I am a Homefront Maintenance Supervisor
I work at Luitwieler Industries, House of Luit
Some of the things I do everyday include: cajoling, feeding, teaching and loving on the three small members of our company. I cook, clean, sew, kiss boo boos and bring forgotten lunches.
The thing I like best about my job is snuggling my wee ones.

On a side note, I have several "jobs;" I love each one. This one is most important to me.

This is gonna be so much fun

I am a genius. Thank you.

You know, I love talking to other women about the work they do inside their homes and out. If it were at all possible, I would like to have every job for at least a day. There are some fascinating and talented women in my life.

I am developing a weekly interview series with some of the great crafters and artists I have met in Tulsa. Next week we'll start with my friend Amy Poss of "The Possibilities" (cute, eh?). She is a Tulsa jewelry designer and metal artist. Her work is fantastic. You can view her shop at etsy.

Please tune in and also make suggestions. I know you're out there, awesome ladies and cool people.

Little Compartments

It's been a loonnnggg day. Little man does not have school two days a week. He wears me out sometimes. But this is not about him. It is about my recurring struggle to reconcile who I am with what I do. His class is studying occupations. We, his loving and participatory parents are to fill out a little sheet answering these questions:

Name
I am a
What I like most about my job is
Here is a picture of me at my work

While I see the importance of studying occupations, I am loathe to fill in the blank that asks I am a ___________. I feel like writing I am a "person," or "woman" or "homo sapien." I'm so rebellious.

I am a lot of things. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a sister in law, a daughter in law, a business owner, a crafter, a sleeper, a daughter of the King, the list goes on. I don't think the teachers want that kind of answer.

I haven't turned my paper in. I'll let you know what I decide to write.

Ambivalent

I am about up to my eye teeth with pink and red and hearts and cupids. I think we all are. Ironic that a "holiday" designed for love generates such negative feelings. All the tweets I follow are sick of it. Why is our response so violently in the opposite direction?

Is it because we don't want to fall prey, again, to the machinations of capitalistic America, buying more and buying into a day to spend, spend, spend.

Is it because some of us once had a break up or a bad date or a bad gift on this most lovely of loving days?

Or is it because really, we seriously just had Christmas, and New Years and can we just move along for a while without being forced to celebrate something else.

For me the issue is rather complex. I used to love Valentine's Day, when I was young and dumb and sincerely thought that the ripple chested Lothario from the cover of the Harlequin was going to ring that bell, and find me gorgeous and never would I look back. Over the years that turned to cynical outrage at consumer manipulation and of course, the implication that if you were alone, well, you were...alone. Who wants that?

Despite my ambivalence, and present day laissez faire attitude, I do, however, remember distinctly two very different Valentine's days.

High school found me angry and struggling. And hopelessly crushing on a boy up the street. I like to think he is responsible for this memory but I will never know.

The doorbell rang; it was dark in our front yard, late at night and cold. I remember opening the big door and seeing frost on the screen door, the porch light shining into my face. I was confused. My siblings and I were home alone and we were not expecting anyone. No one was there. Straight out of a movie. I wondered if I'd really heard the bell. But my sister was behind me, so she had heard it too. She stayed with me as we opened the door.

Lying on the welcome mat was a huge bunch of flowers wrapped in green tissue. The card had my name on it. We peered from the porch into the winter night. We knew all our neighbors and we knew where to hide when ringing and running so we looked off to the pine trees to the left, round the frozen hydrangeas to the right. Nobody. Nothing. We even looked for footsteps in the frost. It's okay to roll your eyes; I am as I remember.

Inside we opened the card, giddy schoolgirls that we were. It read, "from your secret admirer." We did not recognize the handwriting. I blushed. I'm blushing now. I looked for clues from the cute boy up the street the next day. Nothing. Talked to my friends. Nothing. I never found out who sent the flowers. A part of me wonders if my dad did it, because he knew I needed a little boost. Part of me hoped, and still hopes, that it was the cute boy from up the street.

In college, I found myself, finally, blissfully, in a serious relationship. I had thought it would never happen. And I conveniently wanted to fall back into that rosy tinted glory of February 14th. I expected flowers, a gift, a card, a dinner, a something. A something big and special, outrageous even. Here is what expectations typically get you: disappointment.

I got a heaping pile o' nothing. That's right. Not even a comment. I got him a gift. National Geographic. I know.

After a little fight, (okay it was more than little), and a lot of talk, the situation resolved. Enough that I married that boy. He is not a Lothario from the cover of a romance. He is my husband, imperfect and wonderful. His position is thus, "Why should today be any different? You know I love you because I tell you and show you everyday." And he does. He also makes me mad on a regular basis but that's what humans do.

So, really, I don't need a box of chocolates, or a stuffed animal (really not that). I need what I get everyday from him. Love, affection, companionship, trust, smiles...the real stuff of what makes us us.