My Sunshine

I woke early this morning to the yowling of my beloved companion Avalon. I knew something was wrong, but it wasn't until I rushed out and discovered her on the carpet that my husband and I realized just how wrong. Her back legs were stretched out behind her and she was panting in pain. After a  cursory check from Matt to see if she'd suffered a spinal injury, we loaded her into the cat carrier and sped to the Emergency Vet Clinic 20 minutes away.

We must have sat in the room while they checked her out for an eternity. But I've grown up with cats. Barn cats, house cats, you name it, and have dealt with every issue and illness that could befall them. I knew this was not going to be an easy choice, and I found myself having to decide.

It came back that she had a blood clot that had landed in her back and cut off circulation to her legs. Further, she was in heart failure, and struggling to keep her breath. There was no guarantee she'd ever be well enough to leave the hospital. Even less surety that she wouldn't have another clot break free soon and this time it might lodge in her brain.

I struggled with my choice... because 12 years ago...

I saw her in this old barn. My ex-husband had dragged me there to look at a trailer to haul one of his many junker project cars. She had a whole litter of brothers and sisters just like her, but she was the one who was too fat to run away. I picked her up, and that was the end of it. She came home with me.

I named her Avalon, because I'd just read the book "Mists of Avalon" and her grey fur reminded me of mists. I wasn't going to go with the common Misty, even if it is cute. Avalon struck me as her perfect name. And so began a close friendship, a companionship that is as responsible for making me who I am today as any other friendship in my life.

We weathered the whole shebang together. When Jason took his anger out on me, it was Avalon who snuggled to my side. When I was at my loneliest, she was the one who curled up by my head and purred to let me know it'd be alright. When we lost everything, she and I slept together on the floor.

My fondest memories with her in Michigan are when my cancer scare came up. For three months between diagnosis and surgery, she would curl up on my chest, bury her face in the crook of my neck and we'd just try to get through the harder moments together.

I would sing "You Are My Sunshine" to her, because when it got dark, she always shone a little light in, reminding me that life and love are always around.

When Matt came like a brave knight valiant to sweep me off my feet, he swept Avalon right along with me. He didn't have to love her as I did, but he did. After men who kicked her or belittled her, he gave her a soft hand, warm food, and a home for both of us. The look of adoration in her eyes when she curled up with him is proof of that. She loved him just as much in return.

And so it was that Matt took care of us both in the hospital today. He held her in a blanket as we said our goodbyes. He held her as the vet gave the final shot. I couldn't even be in there when it happened, but he was. He stayed with her just like he promised the both of us. When I came back in the room, I cried into her fur one more time and sang our song.

She will be cremated and her ashes placed in an urn. I can't bear to leave her here when her family and her life will move away in a year. Today wasn't goodbye forever. It's just goodbye for right now.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray

You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away

The other night, dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you
In my arms
But when I woke, dear
I was mistaken
And I hung my head
And I cried.

RIP Avalon Murphy

Piece of Me

It looks like pretty much every other canopy bed you can find. Nothing too special, but it's pretty enough. In the end of 2003, I had been through a ringer and wanted to make some kind of attempt to steady myself. Prove to myself that what I needed most (stability and ability to make my life come to heel) was inside me all along. But lets look back at 2003 in summary, shall we?

On April 8th, 2003 the bad year for me began. Some of you may realize that this was my 23rd birthday. That morning, my bed caught fire due to the overuse of an old heating blanket. It destroyed my bed, and I ended up sleeping on a terribly uncomfortable water bed for a few months. This will come in to play later.

In July, I lost my brother and my maternal grandmother within three days of each other, a change that sent my finely crafted world of denial into a tailspin. It culminated in me deciding to leave my abusive marriage and choose a life by myself. What I didn't know is that this was the first time I would be forced to give up everything.

My car, the beautiful dishes my grandmother had given to me, and several other small but personally valuable things that got hauled off in boxes by the ex that I never saw again. If they were my price to pay to be free of him though, then I would begrudge it (except for those dishes. If I ever find those again, I will never part with them.)

Shortly after regaining my freedom, I lost my job. The plant I worked at shut down and I spent a bitter winter on a picket line, living like a hobo in the snow around a barrel fire, protesting my job being shipped to Mexico. I earned half pay rate doing this, and eventually when my tax return came in, my mother took me out for some retail therapy. It warrants mention that the ex took the waterbed with him, so I was sleeping on the couch.

That's when I saw it, the bed she knew I'd fall in love with. I blew half my refund on it without a single iota of regret. We bought black mosquito netting and draped it over the canopy, and mom helped me to braid it around the posts so it looked like some Bollywood inspired maharajah bed. I bought the entire set shown in the picture: vanity, ettache, end tables and even the bench that went at the foot of it (not pictured).

I loved my bed. My girl friends came over and flopped onto it, laughing that it was like the bed of a princess or some foreign queen. Every time I saw it, I got to have that moment of "I did this. Despite it all, I did something nice for myself."

Fast forward to the winter of 2008. The bed had, due to space constraints, been disassembled for about 6 months when we lost the house. I have other entries on what that was like that go in depth, but I must needs touch on it again here. We had to pack up a two story, three master bedroom farmhouse to move to a small, three bedroom ranch style house. I'll do the math for you: we had to get rid of a lot.

Our family heirlooms went off to local museums (including the tatted lace my great grandmother made), and I gave away or sold roughly 25% of the things that I thought other people might want. The rest was exploded around my bedroom in piles. No organization, just chaos and what looked like my entire life strewn around the room. I had a set amount of boxes, and I grabbed what I thought was important.

But it's a hard road to walk. We were emotionally shattered to begin with. Everyone was to the end of their rope. Tempers ran hot, tears flowed freely, and not one of us managed to make it out with scars. I remember very clearly being tired. The heat, which was moderate at best in the drafty farmhouse, had been shut off. The lights had been cut as well. It's a mid afternoon in the dead of winter, so the sun is already thinking about setting and I stood shivering in my room. I could see my breath.

This didn't feel like a home anymore. It was a cold and cruel replica of a room that had once made me feel safe. It was empty and devoid of it's soul. There were boxes scattered around, half full, books laying in piles unsorted. Clothes were everywhere, shoes dumped in the closet. I hit my wall at that moment. I knew my bed was around here somewhere, mostly disassembled. My vanity was one of the first things on the truck, and I'd packed it carefully and lovingly. The rest sat in that room and I wept because I knew I just didn't have the energy or the space to take it, but I didn't want to leave it.

I turned and walked out of the room. Whatever I left, I told myself, I could find again, when my life had changed and things had settled. My lesson in this was to let go, again, of what I'd rebuilt. It's painful even writing this, and the lump in my throat tells me the wounds are fresh enough still to bleed when poked.

But life can be funny. It can sucker punch you one minute, and then turn around and give you a miracle.

Life did change for me. I got engaged, and moved to Boston (the vanity made that trip too!). Slowly and surely I rebuilt what I'd lost. Most of the stuff I gave up is forgotten. I know I'll never get my actual sunflower dishes back, and I know the books I had aren't in print anymore. I don't know that I can even find them on sites like Amazon.com.

But I did find my bed. Out of curiosity I went looking and I found it, and to my surprise it costs half of what I originally paid. I thought about it for a while. Did I still want this bed? Is this just me feeling insecure? But I do still want it, and it's not borne out of anything but the desire to have back the things I miss the most.

This morning, I took the topic to my husband, the Mad Scientist. It's hard for me to ask for this, not because I think he'd have said no, but because it was something *I* bought, for *myself*, way back in the day. Obviously I don't make what I used to. I don't even make half of what I used to in a good week. But even knowing that if I asked for this bed, it would be as a gift from him, it doesn't devalue it. In fact, it makes it even more special because he does know what it means to me.

He knows what life has been for me. He knows how tough it got. And his desire to repair and rebuild with me is one of the reasons we work so well. He has given me back my bed. He's given me back this piece of me that I lost. For no other reason than because he loves me, and I don't think he knows how much sting he took out of the events of 2008 in this one act alone.

And I am doubly blessed.

Boston Adventures

I'm writing this for posterity, while the details are still fresh in my mind. For specific reasons, I will not reveal the identities of those involved, or certain details that are not my business. It's not my job to put people on blast, just record the events that have made this weekend possibly one of the weirdest I have ever survived.

It was Friday night, July 20th, 2012. The night starts out at a local watering hole that I will call the Tavern. Here are some logistics first:

The Tavern - A place roughly 2 minutes away from where I live.

W.C. - False initials of girl driver who is involved secondarily in the story. Lives about 40 minutes away.

C.B. - False initials of another girl who plays a big role. Lives approximately 2 minutes away from me. Rode to Tavern with W.C.

Other Girl - Third passenger in W.C.'s car. Also lives within a few blocks of me.

So, the evening starts as we meet at the Tavern. It's a good night, I've met this group once or twice through a friend who hired into my place of work at the same time. Drinks flow freely, but I keep myself sober. I had to work the next morning, and while I may have sipped here and there, I ate plenty of food and did not get even remotely "tipsy".

W.C., who gave a valiant effort to not get drunk, ended up losing that battle. We all do that from time to time, I know I have. As the night wore on, people began leaving. Other Girl left with a different set of people who were off to find food. Others decided to call it a night early. It's not that bizarre, not liek they footed us with a bill or anything. People leave off to go on their own quests. It happens.

So the bar closes, and it comes down to W.C. who is far too gone to drive, C.B., Matt and I outside the Tavern. C.B. wants to go to a neighboring town instead of home to her husband. W.C. wants to go home to her children. Neither are capable of driving, and C.B. is pressuring W.C. to take her to the next town over.

Here's what I *should* have done. Called a cab, called C.B.'s husband from W.C.'s phone (I did not have that number), or straight up talked to the cop who was sitting not far from the Tavern.

But no. Being the farm girl in the big city, I think that it can be handled like it is back home. You take the drunk friend to their house. If they sleep on their lawn well hey, they get to explain to the family why. But you can at least get them that far.

Both had to pee. And of course they don't let you do that unless you are a paying customer at any of the businesses, so we convinced them to get into our car, to get them back to our place (again, 2 minutes away), and have them sober up. Once a bit more grounded in reality, we could drive C.B. home on our way to take W.C. back to her car.

C.B. refuses to go up to the apartment. W.C. happily follows Matt up, not wanting to go to the next town over, and thankful she didn't have to drive in her state. C.B. gets out of the car and drops trou in the park. I stayed with her to make sure she didn't just walk off.

C.B. then decides she is missing Adam and wants to go home. At this point she is in the back seat, so I hop in the drivers seat. I should have known when I put it in drive and she asked where we were going that she hadn't requested to go home, she was just rambling drunk.

But I said I was taking her home. My GPS had the address locked in (thank you Facebook) and we set off. She calmed a bit when I said I was taking her to her husband. But not two blocks later, while I am going 30 to 35 mph, C.B. starts flipping out, kicking the seats and screaming. She then opens the door and tries to bail.

She stands on the sidewalk, screaming that I've kidnapped her and that she's trying to get away. I have stopped the car and a passerby asks what's going on. I tell him to please call the cops, and we try to figure out where we were (he wasn't from the area, and I was so turned around and bewildered that I couldn't think).

C.B. gets on the phone and continues loudly talking about how she's being kidnapped, and she stalks off behind a building, then reappears shortly after to smoke on one of the paved stairs.

Several police cars come flying by, lights flashing and stop to see us. Now I'm freaking out. I don't even have a parking ticket on my record. So to see them flying up, hands on weapons and handcuffs out, well... Let's just say if I could have, I would have sworn off all social activity ever, at that very moment.

I point out C.B., and while a couple of the officers go over to talk to her, another two ask me to get out of my car and go over to their cruiser. They ask me all sorts of questions about what's going on, and then administer a field sobriety test. Do you know that being scared out of your mind makes saying your ABC's about as easy as brain surgery?

They put the handcuffs away when I burst into tears, patting me on the shoulder and saying things like "It's alright, we just want to make sure you can drive home." I get it, that was their job. But probably a little tougher than they needed to be on someone with as much street cred as Milli Vanilli.

They got me back in my car, without even needing any of my i.d. or registrations, and about that time I see they got C.B. back on the sidewalk too. Two cruisers have already left, and they tell me I can go. I ask to make sure they will get her home, and when assured they will, I leave.

By the time I make the extremely short drive back to my place I'm in panic mode. Full fledged, ready for a straight jacket panic mode.

W.C. is still there with Matt, trying to figure out what happened in the time I was gone. W.C. by the way had sobered up a good deal by then, but I walked straight past them to the fire escape, chain smoked and called my sister.

Sober enough to drive, Matt took W.C. back to her car at the Tavern (she made it home perfectly safe), and then tried to calm me down. Jen did the heavy lifting, but even with all the assurances, I did not sleep. Now here it is Sunday and I'm finally able to piece everything together thoroughly, and make sense of things.

Again, I'm not here to put anyone on blast. It's not my job to put awful mistakes out there to be judged. But this happened to me, and I need to get it all together and out where I can see it, so that it stops buzzing around my head. The details, when written here, stop getting jumbled, I stop concentrating on the worst of the elements, and I start to see that it was just one weird, crazy night that doesn't have to be repeated again next week.

Shit happens. I have no idea how I could explain Attempted Vehicular Manslaughter and Kidnapping charges on my resume...

Waiting.

So, let's get it clear that I don't hate Boston. It's a beautiful city on a beautiful ocean and there are a thousand beautiful people I meet on a daily basis. The historic areas, the amazing towns like Salem, and the people I've come to love here are not to be discounted by this post.

But it's not home. It's never felt like home to me. I know it's got to be old sounding by now, but I've been robbed of my home. My parents lost the house I grew up in, my old neighborhood is unfamiliar, and sadly deteriorated. The halcyon days of my childhood feel like they were on another planet entirely.

The bitch of it is that I really, absolutely cannot go back to them. Not even to visit. I spent the better part of a day getting over a dream that we were forced to move back into the farmhouse and it dregged up so much buried stress that I nearly had a panic attack. Think about that for a second. A dream nearly caused me to hyperventilate. That's how much it hurts.

Back? Ok.

As a human being I feel like someone grabbed me by the ankles and shook me upside down until everything of worth was stripped from me, and all I had left was what couldn't be shaken out. It's why I go crazy around my sister. We have all the same flaws we used to have that get on each other's nerves, but even half a thought of losing her and I get a lump in my throat so bad I can barely breathe. We may fight, but there is no force strong enough to keep me mad at her.

So here I am, living this life for the past half decade or longer. I lost track, it happens. And marrying Matt has restored a lot of my losses. I have a home with him now, and have never, ever in my life felt more secure with another person. In every other relationship, I've had a foot out the door, or was too afraid to ever voice an opinion, let alone show I wasn't down with what was going on.

Matt's given me a home, and a place to belong. He's given me a safe, secure base that won't crumble no matter how bad the world tries to shake it. But for all the wonderfulness that is married life in the Murphy family, a big part of me is still missing.

I've tried very hard to recreate what I most need out here, but it tends to fizzle. It's no one's fault, it's just very hard to build a great something out of nothing in a very short time. I had to start all of my social interactions from scratch. All of them. I had to meet people at work, bite the bullet and hope they weren't crazy. What frame of reference did I have? I didn't go to school with their siblings, or know their cousin from that one weird year at camp. I got a couple of people worth keeping out of five years worth of trying. Considering how little I had to start with, and how hard it is even to make one new friend who ends up staying with you through life, I think that's pretty good.

But I desire more. I need more. I see the holidays like I used to have. Family and friends of the family, all gathered at a house in sweaters, talking about jobs and sports and life. I listened to my uncles talk about their childhoods, my aunts talked about raising the babies, and my cousins and I ran around like spazzes. We could do fuck all the rest of the year, but that Christmas reunion was the big draw. Everyone came like Littles to the Little house. It was like they just knew.

I work at Kohl's, no great accomplishment. But there are days where I see the doppleganger of someone in Pittsburgh and my heart drops. I'm so far away. I want to be able to be at work and see Chelle come through my line, or be out shopping and run into Kelly and Jason, or just call someone up and say "Hey, I have to go do ______, wanna come with?" I see them all around me, and yet when they turn in profile it's never them. It's like trying to grab smoke.

The isolation makes me feel like I'm going insane. And I don't blame the people out here. It's just they are younger, or city life is different, or I just have gotten so depressed about it that I don't want to make that effort out here anymore. I would give my left arm tonight to call someone and meet up at a diner. Have coffee. Laugh, cry, swap stories and just exist. But the people who'd answer that call are hundreds of miles away. I'm just tired, and weary, and ready to settle down. I've been through too much for my age, and I long for all that has been destroyed to be completely healed and rebuilt.

I can see the finish line, just 10 more months. Then this ready made group of people who have already made me a part of their lives will open, and the raw, tired parts of my soul will be able to rest, recover, and I can be a whole, complete person again.

But tonight, tonight I am just waiting. Waiting, and trying so very hard to be patient.

Apocalypse Now?

So, after watching The Colony, I've decided to put into effect a real contingency plan for a devastating apocalyptic event. I've also put together my ideal list of the people I would have. Just to put this up there, my plan will and does exist of getting to Northern Michigan, should anything major occur. I would, of course, be taking Matt with me.

My perfected trifecta would be my father for his ability to craft everything out of nothing and practical skill, my sister Jen for brawn and brains, and myself, because dammit, this is my survival plan!

On my trip to Michigan I would be collecting a few specific people to begin our new colony, based on what I've seen in the show. First off,

Ray P., Gerald B., DJ B., and Dale S. (and core family as necessary) due to them being complete powerhouses with practical knowledge.

Dino D. Jr, Josh P., and Dj D. for inventiveness and practical skill.

Laura R. for her knowledge of pharmaceuticals and a level of biology above basic. Also would be great to pair her with Janet S. for extra knowledge power.

Katie C. and Justin C. as the colony medics given their whole... being doctors and such.

Neil D. would be picked up for knowing the lay of the land and indigenous fauna, along with trapping skills.

Considering that each person would bring with them at least one other person if not more, I think that would give us a sizable colony to survive a world devastated to the point of no return. And if I named a significant other of yours, I factored them bringing you and any children!

If you do not fall into either the named, or the insinuated, I still offer an open invitation. If you can make it to Northern Michigan and survive the trek to our compound, you'll be welcomed openly. I think, all things considered, that's fair!

+++

All seriousness though folks, it's fun to play with the ideal situation, but in the end my plan consists of getting to my father, mother and sister Jen should anything happen. Matt may or may not come with me, I wouldn't dare make him choose his family or mine. I would only choose my own path solidly.

My dad is a technical genius and my sister has enough medical knowledge and brawn to give us a fighting chance. I'd just have to hope that I could come up with some use for my mother and myself. To be honest, if I weren't me, I wouldn't have made my own list!

What's your plan?

guest blogggggggggggggggggggggg

HI. HOLA. I am Dino. A traveler and guest blogger from the far away land of Avoid Me. Avoid Me is a dark corner of the Internet where I rant and bash whatever I fancy. Perhaps I ate some gross food. You'll know. Don't go there. Nobody does. It isn't called "Flock To Me."

I've known Jewel for a handful of years. She's married to one of my high school buddies and if she can put up with him, she can put up with me. And she does. We read each others work and now that we are at a physical crossover we decided to cross blog as well.

So loyal Jewel Rae followers, I present my piece. Hopefully as introspective and wise as one of her's.

The Roller Coaster.

When you're a teenager you're changing. Everyone around you is constantly telling you "this is just a phase" or "I can't wait till you grow out of this." At the time it makes you mad to hear that, but somewhere in the back of your mind is a tiny voice whispering "I know." You know shits hitting the fan. It's supposed to. You figure by age 20 You'll be an adult and have life all figured out. Nobody prepares you for the 3rd decades roller coaster. Pardon the Kennywood references here but if being a teenager is riding the Jackrabbit: You're 20's are jumping on the Steel Phantom.

The kind of wisdom we really need is someone to tell us at age 20 to not make any quick, permanent decisions. You won't explode or implode as rapidly as a greasy faced teenager. The disturbances are much bigger though and far more lasting.

You'll finally have a chance to vote. You probably have missed the opportunity if the election cycle didn't hit on your birthday at 18 or 19. You'll become politically charged. Someone/thing will take your new "mature" mind and whip it into a frenzy! Be it picking up roadside trash or handing out G.O.P. flyers YOU have now become the person who does this. It's not that the older folks don't care, they're just past all this lunacy and know how to actually get things done.

....not convinced?

Drinking is now a legal part of your life. Drinking more often. Drinking much more casually. The bar life. Bar pressures. Having access to whatever booze you want pretty much when you want it. If you can't control this bucking bronco fast you'll end up in fights, become an alcoholic, or give yourself a D.U.I. Suddenly your record won't magically scrub clean at 18.

Besides those examples, I've lived through the thrill ride that is quickly becoming the end of my 20's. Married, divorced, wildly political and waxing-waning religion.

That's my most interesting twist to myself. I came into my 20's completely non-religious. Due to my finance' became quickly very charged and converted to Catholic and jumped in full immersion. I argued with anybody at anytime. Brought it with me to college, work, home and friend life. Really lived the whole lifestyle for 3 years or so. Divorce affects you in weird ways. One was a burning hatred for God. I went on a complete hate fueled lifestyle and said blasphemous things. Things I regret and pray I don't burn for.

To atone I quietly became a Reverend. I keep new, more rational beliefs to myself an think I'm finally molding into the permanent person I will be.

Make no mistake. I haven't said change altogether halts now. It's obvious people continue to take in new input and grow with it. However, they've learned not to work up so fast or permanently.

If you're reading this at a younger age maybe stop to pause and ask yourself if a Ninja Turtles face tattoo is "really who you are." Ask, "Am I ready to devote my life to defending the Heroes In a Half Shell or should I get this tattoo placed somewhere else." It's a goofy example. But you probably get it.


...Wait







...Never mind.




Good luck with that.

When she turns 65

How many girls get to say their mother was both a parent and a best friend? It's a hard line to walk. Too soft and your kids don't respect you, too hard and they stay emotionally distant. She found that balance, and with six kids to look after no less.

I remember summers of lazily being a kid, the excitement of a pending family vacation, or the way the house looked just before we went to the cabin. We didn't have to grow up early, we didn't have to suffer hardships. For that I think I'm the most grateful in my childhood. We weren't exactly rich, but we had everything that mattered.

So exactly what kind of mother is she? As a teenager, she already knew before you confessed just what kind of trouble you'd gotten into. And she'd already told the other neighborhood moms, but only if it was a dangerous path. If you were just being a silly minded adolescent, she was quick to forgive and forget.

As adulthood dawned on me, she became my font of knowledge. When heartbreak found me, she was there to help pick up the pieces. I still remember her crying as hard as I did the day my heart suffered it's first break at the hands of a boy. It's still there nearly 15 years later as I settle into marriage.

She lead by example where she needed to, and kept a close eye if it was necessary. She let us grow where we needed without running into dangerous habits.

She taught me that it's totally ok to cry at sappy reality tv moments, like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I still do.

And nothing will ever move me like a good song on a car stereo, when you just belt out the words with both hands on the wheel and no cares in the world.

If I manage to become even half the amazing woman she is, I will count myself successful in everything I do.

I love you mom, happy birthday!