First Cold of the Year

I stopped standing in line for the flu shot years ago because I could never see that it made a difference.  My body has a pre-determined pattern for illness.  I get horribly sick--fever, sore throat, aching muscles, clogged head--every other year, like clockwork.  Doesn't matter if I get the flu shot or not, doesn't matter how healthy I eat or how many vitamins I take.  I could stand outside buck naked in sleet and snow and if it's not my year to be sick, no worries.  Alternatively, I could place myself in a sterile bubble but if it's a year I'm due to be sick, the bubble barrier would be broken and it would be on.

Sadly, this is an on year.  And for the last two days, I thought maybe I would just get the sickness out of the way, early on.  I woke up Tuesday morning with a full-fledged cold.  I hacked and coughed my way through the day, then went to bed early for a glorious 11 hours worth of sleep.  Woke up Wednesday not feeling much better and thought, "Uh-oh, it has arrived."  But, a day of taking it easy seems to have done the trick and the symptoms are fading.

Which means I have another 4 months to wonder when my body will fall prey to the flu virus. 

On a bright note, Blair picked up the Halloween candy last night and hit paydirt.  We found chocolates wrapped as dismembered toes, fingers, and lips--great body parts to spread around my mad-scientist outdoor laboratory.   We're going to spend the weekend plotting out the graveyard for our front yard.  Who says romance is dead?

A brush with fame - Nicholas Sparks

This past Sunday I went to Barnes & Nobles to hear Nicholas Sparks speak.  (He's the author of numerous best sellers including "The Notebook," "Message in a Bottle," and "A Walk to Remember.")  I had to park about a 1/4 mile away from the store and it was standing room only.  Wall to wall people which, not surprising, were 95% women. 

He'd been there signing autographs since 10 and his talk was at 2 and he continued signing after that so I can only imagine the wrist pain he must experience daily from a tour like this.

In order to be seen, he had to stand on a table in the already raised cafe seating area.  To be heard, he was miked.  (Compare this to a "normal" author signing where it's considered a stellar day if you sell 10 copies).

He gave us what I'm sure is a standard schpeal, but he was engaging and funny (and just as cute as his author photo) so no complaints.  He talked for about 10 minutes and then took questions from the audience.  I especially liked his answer to two of them:

One woman said she was a writer and how did she get an agent?  For you non-writers reading this, this is like going to a paint store and saying, "I'm thinking of painting my bedroom. Where could I find some paint?"  Any novice author worth his/her salt has done enough research to know the answer to this question.  And I liked that Sparks handled the question by being polite, but blunt.  "When I wanted an agent, I went to Barnes & Nobles and found a book called 'How to Find a Literary Agent' and I followed the instructions, " he said.  "You write a letter and send it out. No magic. "  Then he asked for the next question.

Someone asked him when the next movie made from his book was coming out and he said not for awhile, because New Line Cinema was trying to low-ball him.  The audience laughed, and he did too, but then he said, "I'm not holding out because of the money.  I don't need more money.  I'm holding out because if I don't make them value the picture upfront by what they're investing in it, they won't give it the attention they deserve.  If I sell cheap, someone may just say, 'Ah, let's just make a TV movie out of it.'"  Sparks shook his head.  "No.  No.  If you're going to do it, do it right.  And that's why I'm holding out."

I took a few pictures but they didn't turn out, although if I had bothered to get the gentleman's name standing in front of me,  I could send him a lovely close-up of the back of his head.

All in all, it was eye-opening to see how a big-name author handled his fans. And a glimpse into the "famous life" so many of us authors crave is not all roses.  I thought his day sounded exhausting and not especially fun.  Plus, there were 300 fans all trying to get his attention and talk to him and have  a "moment" while he signed their book.  I think that would just be completely draining.

A Taste Of Freedom (or, "The Stupid Cat Wants Back Under The House")

Now that she has tasted the glory of uninhibited freedom (read: going someplace where I can't reach her), Olivia can't wait to go back for more.  From 10:30 - 11 PM last night she was pawing, scratching, and meowing at the latched bathroom door, trying to dig her way in so she could--one assumes--disappear back into the play area under the house.

"Not a chance," I informed the small furry creature at my feet and then stuffed pillows under the crack in the door so she wouldn't have anything to dig at.  I've also stuffed towels in the bathroom shower holes, just in case she manages to get in there, but I'm still nervous.  Regardless of her lack of opposable thumbs, I can still picture her moving the towels (nudging?  pushing?) and disappearing back into the cold, dark netherworld that is our crawlspace.

On the bright side, I met with a new character in the Decorating Diaries yesterday, "Heated Floor Man," and just love him.  Very nice, professional, seems to know his stuff.  When he started describing how the floor may heat to 90 degrees but the heat rising will create a body temperature heat of about 72 degrees that will rise to the center of the room, I almost started crying.  It's Mecca!  Our bathroom is usually--and I am not exaggerating this one bit--usually at least 10 degrees colder than the rest of the house.  At least.  I think in part it's because our crawlspace is almost non-existent under there, and the heating tube is literally squished under the floor, not allowing full heat to get to the vent.  Add in to that an old house and drafts, and there's your 10 degree difference.  So the thought of walking onto a warm floor in a warm bathroom is enough to make me giddy.

The only question is whether there is enough room in the crawlspace for someone to get in there and run the wires we need.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed for that one.

In other decorating news, we finally installed a lamppost outside so we will no longer have to feel our way up the steps to our home.  And we had new gutters installed yesterday.  We go in phases like this where we do nothing for years, and then it's like a day can't go by without at least 3 contractors at my door.

And we're still not done scraping the bathroom walls.  That may or may not have something to do with the fact that we've completely ignored them for two weeks, apparently hoping the glue remnants would freeze and fall off on their own.  Doesn't seem to be happening, so guess what special treat I've got planned for us this weekend?  That's right, glue scraping fiesta 2005.  My motto is, everything is more fun wearing a sombrero.  Ole to you and yours.

Dena

Olivia's Big Adventure

Alternate titles for today's post could be: "The House Ate My Cat," or "A Blow-by-Blow Analysis of My Near Heart-Attack." 

As any casual reader of this blog knows, we're redoing our master bath. Everything has been gutted.  There is nothing left but plywood floor and the remnants of stubborn glue still sticking to the wall.  Being the room is such a mess, we are making sure to keep the cats out of it.  And since we are making sure to keep the cats out of it, they are making it their life's goal to enter and explore the room.

Lucy made it in the other night.  I have no idea how--I never saw her.  But as I lay in bed, I heard a scratching on the door, opened it, and out trotted Ms. Thing, looking pleased with herself for outwitting me.

Yesterday, as I was getting dressed in the bedroom, I thought I heard a small "meow" come from the bathroom.  The door was open because I have to go through the bath to get to my closet, but I looked inside and didn't see anyone, so I shut the door and then left the house for 5 hours, telling myself not to imagine things.  Blair was at work.

I got home around 6 and dumped food into the cat's bowls.  Piggy-girl of course came running, but no sign of Olivia.  "Have you seen her since you've been home?" I asked Blair.  He shook his head.  And I knew right then and there, my baby was somewhere under the house.  I opened a can of Fancy Feast, which always brings both cats on the run, just to be sure.  Lucy started meowing but there was no sign of Olivia.

"She's under the house," I told Blair.  "She may just be hiding," he countered.  "You know how she is."  I shook my head.  A mother knows. 

We peered down the shower hole where she would have entered.  "Olivia, here baby," I called.  "Here kitty, kitty, kitty."  We shone a flashlight into the dark hole.  A cold breeze wafted up, but no sign of our cat.

Blair dressed in old jeans, gloves, a cap, grabbed a flashlight and a can of cat food and headed under the house.  Our crawlspace is just that - a crawlspace.  While Blair pushed himself around on his belly, I went back up to the bathroom and stuck my hand through the hole, calling for Olivia.

If you've ever seen the early 80's movie Poltergeist, you'll have an idea of what I was going through.  Remember when the little girl has disappeared into the closet, and the mom is calling to her through the TV?  The mom is saying, "Carol Ann, can you see Mommy?  We love you so much...so much.  Can you find your way back to Mommy?"

I had my Poltergeist moment on the hard plywood floor in the bathroom, desperately calling for my cat.  "Olivia, can you see Mommy? (I fluttered my hand through the opening).  Mommy loves you so much and wants you to come home.  Can you find your way home to Mommy?"

Nothing.  So we did what we could do, setting out food under the house at the front, back, and through the bathroom hole.  We also filled a box with towels so she would have somewhere warm to sleep. 

I made it through all this and then did one last outside search of the house with the flashlight, just in case she'd found a way out and was shivering in bushes somewhere.  As I shone the light around the perimeter of the house, calling her name, I started crying.  What if she'd hurt herself on a piece of metal when she jumped into the hole?  Cats hide themselves when they're hurt.  The whole underside of our house was dirt the same color as Olivia--we'd never find her.  Plus, the place where she disappeared under the bathroom floor was the one place we couldn't get to in our crawlspace--the dirt was packed too high to the ceiling.  What if she'd wedged herself somewhere and couldn't get out?  If we couldn't find her tonight, what would be different tomorrow?

One thing that would be different was that the tile people were coming at 10 to look at the bathroom floor and I had every intention of having them rip up the plywood while there so I could get to my cat. 

I went inside and had a minor meltdown, sobbing and shaking.  "She's fine," soothed Blair.  "You know her.  She'll come out when she's good and ready to."

"But what if she can't?" I hiccupped. "What if she's hurt?"

I sat on the sofa in a stupor.  I'd already been making mental deals with God all night and I upped the ante.  If you bring my cat back safely, I will never have to sell another book.  Okay.  I will never have to be hired to write for another magazine again.  Fine with me.  I will never be a famous author.  Whatever.  Just please watch over my baby.

About 10pm Blair heard a scratching at the bathroom door.  He opened it and out darted Olivia.  I can't even begin to express my relief.  I gave her a big rubdown during which she purred, purred, purred.  "Never, EVER, do that to Mommy again," I instructed her, shaking my finger in front her little round face.  "You stay here, safe and warm, with Mommy and Daddy from now on."  She put a paw on my nose, as if to say, "Calm down.  I'm fine."

I think the whole thing was a message from the Universe, reminding me to refocus on what's important to me.  I'm getting so caught up in this "sell the book," mentality, I'm blocking out most everything else.  Last week a friend was telling me about the troubles of a friend of hers.  I won't go into details, but this woman's problems were gargantuan--the stuff of TV movies where you say, "That could never happen."  And yet, she's living this horrible nightmare.  My friend and I were saying hearing something like that really puts your own "troubles" in perspective. 

I think that conversation and this episode with Olivia was the Universe's was of smacking me and saying, "Hey, pay attention!  You live a wonderful, blessed life and it's time to start showing more appreciation for it."

I'm a realist.  I know within a week I'll be blogging about the "woes" of the floor people who are messing up my house, or being all excited because I sold my book to another store.  And all of that is okay.  As long as underneath it all, there IS an appreciation for what I have.  And an understanding that while my troubles are just that--my troubles--I am getting off very light indeed.  I am going to work on focusing more on conscious gratitude.

And I'm going  to spend a long, LONG time this morning, petting my cats.