Cat Whisperer

My Grandpa is finally home! Hurray and Hallelujah! Although the past two weeks have been fraught with stress and tribulation and more to come, there have been many bright rays of funnies to lighten up the dreariness. Here is one of my favorites.

Being here in Puerto Rico is always an "experience." I say that because I never leave without a armful of memorables and hysterical stories. What can I say, the Island's good to me. As you might have assumed I have been staying at my Grandparents house. There are so many shadows of childhood scattered about this place and finding myself lost in thought is not uncommon. However, for all it's charm, it comes with it's fair share of interesting.

Their house is in fact situated in the bustling metropolis of greater San Juan; Otherwise known as, the Jetto or Ghetto for all my literal folks. As a child I don't remember it being as it is now, a sprawling collection of bus driving, reggaeton blaring, poultry raising crazies but it is what it is and at least my Grandparents aren't in want of company.

My moment of enlightenment came my first night. I was exhausted from my non-stop flight from LAX to San Juan earlier that morning, which was quite a unforgettable affair enough as it was. There I was, in the middle seat. To my right the businessman, nothing too exciting there but to my left a women sporting ski pants. What an absorbing choice considering we were Caribbean bound. I had been catching up on LOST and even considered the ludicrous notion that perhaps she too had ventured into an icey room, spun the magic wheel, moved the island and hadn't yet had time to change. For those who are not as ridiculously addicted as I am to the show and have no idea what I'm talking about. I apologize. I eventually decided against asking why she had curiously chosen that trouser, for fear that perhaps I was just seeing things and then that would just be awkward." Uh, these are jeans." Anyways, I digress.

The first night I fell asleep to the sound of chirping frogs, various insects... my neighbors off pitch Luis Fonsi memorials. I was too fatigued to care. However, at about two o'clock in the morning the fun began. At first, it was a dwarfish moan, and then another equally so would follow after a few seconds. It sounded like someone was calling for help. I turned over and drew my teddy closer, telling myself I was just hearing things and "don't be ridiculous." Yet there it was again! This time the pleas weren't spaced apart but were becoming all the more rapid. High pitched and feverish I buried my head in my pillow in attempt to escape the screams now that were filling my ears. As they reached a climax I sprung out of bed and like a ninny, rushed, well more like hobbled, to my Aunt and shook her awake. " TiTi. Do you hear the voices!?" I demanded. You could just imagine the look on her face as her dreary eyed neice shook her awake because she claimed to be hearing "voices." She handled it well I think. " No, Nichole, those are just some cats. Go back to bed." I didn't believe her, instead I opted to sleep with my Aunt. I was a tad shaken up and made a pact to lay off the LOST marathons.

As our neighbor drove us to the Hospital the next morning my aunt in the midst of lighthearted and cordial conversation mentioned the story to Dona Erma. As my Aunt recounted the prior night's events Dona Erma began to laugh and laugh...and laugh some more. As my spanish was a little rusty and I was still weary from my lack of sleep I couldn't make sense of my eldery chauffeurs response. What's so funny? I asked. She paused from her delight and responded: "Los gatos esta enamorado." Which translates to: They were doing the do.

In fact, I wasn't awakened by desperate pleas for help but instead by they orgasmic cries of some neighborhood cats. I couldn't help but laugh right along with her. Since that restless night I have purchased "ear seal" earplugs which although will keep me joyously traversing through dreamland might perhaps kill me if ever there was a situation where hearing was necessary, burning house, shrouded intruder for instance. I would have done anything to keep from being awakened by those feline wails again though. So that's a risk I'm more then willing to take.

To be honest though, a small part of me still wonders... if maybe, I'm a cat whisperer.

Press Pause

Mi Abuelo

As some of you might know, I was called away to Puerto Rico due to my Grandpa's recently failing health. I have, since Wednesday, been back on the island and the next few posts will most likely be about my time here.

Her voice had cracked...

of all the things that brought the severity of my Abuelo's condition into reality it was this that began the journey.

My aunt has never been one to be completly forthcoming with her emotions. As the eldest in her family as well, she and I struggle with the same condition. For us, it is a matter of caring for the family and feelings must come later. At that very moment I knew...I knew that the following days would change my life forever.

Arriving at the hospital Abuela ushered my Aunt and I into his room, his bed was a mess of tubes and wires. I gingerly made my way to his side as though my steps might somehow add to the obvious pain he was in. There he was: Abuelo. Each breath a struggle and as his heart monitor did beat at an irregular pace I grabbed his hand to steady my own. I gazed upon a frail and tiny man, his body covered in sun spots and his skin appearing oddly yellow. When his eyes would open periodically to gaze at the ceiling I thought perhaps he was seeing Angels. Hanging upon every unintelligible word that he uttered we hoped he would emerge from the medicinal sleep he had been put under for his benefit.

I couldn't help myself, I began to cry. My Grandpa had been the one to hold my bicycle secure, he had clasped my hand in his as we crossed the street and he had been the one that, as I child, I had looked to for strength. He had never looked helpless in his life. Yet, here he was, weak and close to breakable and I was powerless to help him.

A story that Grandpa loved to tease me with came to mind and I share it now with you.

I had come to visit Puerto Rico when I was five years old and, at the time, loved to play house. What five year old doesn't? So, I had taken Grandpa to the bedroom, as it was way past his bedtime, and proceeded, in gustapo-like fashion, to refuse to let him get up. "Can I get up now?" He would plead. " No!" Would be my stern reply. This went on for a good few minuets; he would implore and I would similarly deny each request. Finally, daddy came in to distract me with ice cream and bedtime was soon forgotten.

As I sat studying my Grandpa as he slept. I couldn't deny the knawing throb at the back of my heart. The knowledge that there would be no such discussion this time. I would not be granted to gift of acquiescence.

If it was his time to go, it was his time to go... with or without my permission.

Right now Grandpa remains in ICU. Though his body is slowly improving his mind has not. He is in and out of lucidity. Please continue to pray for his increased health, body, heart and mind. I find great comfort in Psalms 147:1 & 3 and Psalms 34:1.

"Praise the LORD. How good it is to sing praises to our God...He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."

"Taste and see that the Lord is good. 'I will bless the LORD at all times; his praise shall continually be in my mouth.'"

The Lord is the great physician and whether He calls my Grandpa home our heals him completely I know that in every circumstance He is good. Thank you for your prayers.

Recommedation #4

#4. Not trying to cut your own bangs.

For my fourth recommend I thought I'd switch it around a bit and rather then suggesting, I would not suggest cutting your own bangs. For most, the prior statement might be a no-brainer. I can barely cut in a straight line, why would I take that risk with something on my face?

Well, for me it wasn't that obvious and I eagerly took it upon myself to redeem the otherwise terrifying notion. I would cut my bangs and do a smashing job! My choice to attempt the alteration on my own was influenced mostly by my boredom and my pocketbook. Seeing as my mother had taken me to the hair salon not two weeks prior and paid for a trim of my swooshy side bangs, it seemed wasteful to pay another thirty dollars for my new desired look. Also, I was po' and had no monies. So, armed with my brothers comb and a pair of scissors, I absconded from my mothers sewing basket, I set out on the grand adventure of hairstyle(ary).

So far the only instruction I had received on the cutting of bangs was a brief, though thorough, lesson from a family friend last summer. I'm sorry to admit but I remembered very little of the seminar except that cutting bangs is a lot harder then it looks. I amended this misfortune by watching many a youtube video. I learned quite a bit. For instance, one should never cut straight across, remember the whole inability to cut a straight line deal? Turns out it applies to hair too. My favorite tutorial involved a charming Asian women warning of the dangers of bang alteration with: "Ma Sur tu cuh na tu fah, o you wi hae coconut head." Translation: If you cut too much hair you will look like Friar Tuck. I'll admit, this scared me a little. I surely did not want to walk around with hair resembling a tropical fruit, or a monk for that matter, so I made sure not to get too trigger happy. I would only cut what I needed to.

To be honest, the whole deal went on without a hitch. Other than getting hair everywhere and cutting off a piece of my eyelid we were smooth sailing. I made sure to cut whilst heeding every bit of instruction and was quite proud of the results. The problem, occured a day later. I was putting in my contacts in the morning and soon thereafter checked on the wounded eyelid. It was healing up nicely. Imagine my shock when I glanced above the cut and saw a wide gash in my eyebrow; I had sliced off the middle of it. As I mentioned before, because you are not advised to cut straight across, hairstylists encourage the vertical technique. This is where the sissors cut upward into the bangs rather than side to side. Seems I got a little over zealous and decided to trim my eyebrow as well.

I partially blame my mother's sewing scissors for my slip, they were unexpectedly sharp; even though it was either them or the scrapbooking option that would have made my hair look like lace. I don't even know if it would have been possible to use those anyway. Eh, it was a thought. So, really I had no alternative. Funny, eyebrows, though small, when missing makes one look almost inhuman. If anything, I can now sympathisize with dear Wormtounge from Lord of the Rings and that guy in Arrested Development who had that hair condition, though I'm sure I'm being dramatic. Anyone remember that guy's name by the way? To clarify, I still have both eyebrows. It's just that one looks a tad more devil may care. I'm bound to draw it in for the next four months it takes to regrow.

If you're willing to risk cutting your own bangs ladies, be my guest. In the wise words of my Asian friend: "Ma Sur tu cuh na tu fah"... or you will slice off your eyebrow.

Recommendation #3

"I take my Swiss Kriss, man, they keep you rollin'. Old Methuselah, he'd have been here with us if he had known about them."

— Louis Armstrong in [The Louis Armstrong Story] by Max Jones & John Chilton, pg. 220.

#3. Swiss Kriss

So, seeing the need for another recommendation, I present you with an item that has greatly enhanced the quality of my life. I will admit, I have been hesitant to confer this to you since the matter is a bit, shall I say, awkward? But since everyone poo's, I thought this product would be useful for all.

Yes, I know. There are so many other things, Nichole, that you could have expounded upon that are far less gross. Like toe-socks, Hewlett Packered and Blistix, but I will remind you that this blog is a collection of things that I have found to be laudable and none of those things fit the bill.

Now, I've thought this through and through and have wondered how I might present this delightful addage to anyone's medicine cabinet without resorting to the use of vulgarities; such as: bowels, regularity, fiber, smooth, hard and dare I say, watery. I commit to you that I will do my best, but seeing as pooping has never been an entirely "behind closed doors" kind of thing in my home I apologize before hand for any amount of discomfort that this post may cause. It might help you to know that I have already resigned myself to the idea that I will most likely not receive any comments.

Now, onto the very subject this post pertains to! Swiss Kriss: Natural Herbal Laxative. As it states on it's website, the product contains: "the gentle laxative effect of senna with the digestive benefits of papaya leaves and centaury herbs, the anti-spasmodic benefits of calendula and caraway, the anti-gas benefits of peppermint leaves, parsley and anise, the tonic benefit of lemon verbena, the mild diuretic benefit of dandelion leaves, the relaxing benefit of peach tree leaves and the natural flavoring of hibiscus flowers." In other words, it's homeopathic. Which, for my four younger brothers is code name for Hippie.

I came upon Swiss Kriss two summers ago while I was on Vacation in New York. My Aunts, with whom I was staying with, are both R.N.'s/homeopathic nurses and upon complaining of my uncooperative colon quickly prescribed two tablets of the stuff. I reluctantly chugged them down with a glass of water and took note of their grassy taste and hint of lemony flavor. I honestly, didn't think much of it since my Aunt's have also taken care of hurt knees by hanging crystals over them...I wasn't skeptical, I just wasn't expecting anything grandiose. Would you believe it but after 15 mins I felt like a fright train was about to explode out of my backside and sprinted to the bathroom. I was not to be disappointed. Swiss Kriss had struck gold. I have tried my fair share of "gentle stimulants" and all of them have either made my bum feel like I had a bad case of diaper rash or reduced my bowels to a watery mess that would go on for days. Not so with Swiss Kriss, it simply detoxes and cleans you out. Also, I am a big fan of the use of plants and not chemicals to treat my digestive issues.

I know that consistent constipation is not uncommon for people nowadays. It seems that the more we simplify our lives the more we cram stuff into them leaving very little time for the bare necessities. Eating, sleeping, fill in the blank and pooping. We are under an extreme amount of stress as well. A successful visit to the loo requires time and relaxation, both of which I have very little of in my life. To further complicate matters, I am often traveling. Routine is vital for regularity and with all the here and there'ing in my life, I would be lost and not to mention very backed up without the aid of my Swiss Kriss. Even good 'ole Louie Armstrong felt as I do!

So, I urge you to take a gander and try it out. You won't be disappointed.

You can find Swiss Kriss at any of your local health food stores, your friendly neighborhood GNC or you can purchase it online: Hippie Store. Also, since it is sure to work I wouldn't recommend taking it before a business meeting or boarding a plane.

P.S. Since guys have resolved to live in a fantasy world where girls do not poop, this, I realize, may have been difficult to accept for some. My hope is that the men who follow my blog feel more comfortable with the matter and have now graduated beyond this primitive viewpoint.

My Marianne

There is something far more bitter than a broken heart and that is the numbness that takes a hold soon thereafter.

In the very least the painful shards of heartache allow you the decency of feeling. Not so with the dullness. It weakens you in the deepest parts. There is suddenly no color left in the world, no flight of fancy or little joy to distract. Just him.

I can't say I think about him with regret now or remorse that things are as they're so. But I remember feeling. I remember the exhilaration of a word and that a hairsbreadth of movement would make me fall to his gaze; captured.

I remember those things.

There is solace in the memory that I once did feel love. If even unplanned for and with no future.

I am settled now. Ours was not to be.

I want to believe that it was simply part of a divine plan, one meant to lessen my delusions of romantic grandeur, to humble my heart to see reality as it were, as it is. All in order that I might see the true man ordained to have me. But I know of no reassurance.

For now, I feel nothing.

It's Cold

Snow outside my home in Texas

Oh, what's a girl to do?

I know I'm due another "recommend" but I suppose that'll have to wait. In the meantime on to my most recent dilemma. It's cold. I know that this is an obvious statement for most everyone as even folks in south Florida experienced 30 degree weather today. But this has compounded my already prevalent issue of lack of structure.

Let me explain.

Last June, whilst sitting at home doing mostly nothing, as I was off from work for the summer, I did what I usually do when I have too much time on my hands. I began to make a list of goals some ridiculous and very close to unattainable and enthusiastically set out on a course towards the acquisition of said goals. These were the two I made in June:

1) Run Half Marathon

2) Memorize Phillipians

How did I do? Well on December 11th I am proud to say that I ran and completed my first Half Marathon. I know. It really was an accomplishment and one that I had to push through many a "I just don't wanna dooo this" moments to get to. Since I hadn't ran, seriously at least, for about a year, I had to start slow. I was training for nearly six months... Make that ALOT of " I just don't wanna do this" moments.

I still haven't memorized Philipians. Maybe I'l re-tackle that one this summer.

Anyway, which brings us into my current quandary. The entire continental United States has been thrust into a crazy bit of a cold-spell and I frankly don't want to run in it. I know, some of you might be saying: "Well, comon Nichole. You already ran 13.1 miles! Give yourself a break." But I have...I've only ran a handful of times since running across the finish line that brisk Saturday morning.

I do want to run but I don't want to. Does that make sense? Of course not. I have a solution though: I will have to register for another Half Marathon.

Let me just be completly frank. Without goals I become a pitiful blob of undirected energy. Summers are a nightmare for me as I spend most of my time not doing anything and the rest of the time hating myself for not doing anything. I need structure. If it were a nice 60 degrees outside I think the issue would be far less pressing. I know some of you hardcore runners are thinking, " She's such a whimp." I am, but I do love to run. I actually enjoyed most of the six months of preparation I had pre-Marathon, and I DID run through rain, sleet and coldness. So I've earned my badge. However, now, with no structure and the warmth of my fireplace and blankets. I seem to have little to no motivation. I'm beginning to feel a bit lumpy dumpty. I really did fear this would happen. I would accomplish something monumental: My Half Marathon and completely lose my endurance and discipline two months later. My children later on passing on the story would answer their little ones questions of what did Grandma in with " Well, my son, it was her lack of goals."

Oh, what's a girl to do?

P.S. I do know that when I get home(in Texas) I'll have my lovely gym to run in. I'm just being a bit venty and dramatic. It's simply these next couple of weeks at home(in Florida) that will prove to be the test of my will. I might have to bite the bullet, run outside and/or otherwise deny any tendencies to self-deprecate.

George and John

It's an intriguing thing to be thought of as safe.

Tonight I was talking to a good friend of mine on Facebook chat (with which I have a love-hate relationship) and he made some off the wall comment; not unusual for him. He's one of those individuals that will say most anything just to get a rise out of you. I rarely ever know when he's in earnest and usually he knows to clarify with a " Just kidding!"

Well anyways. We'll call him "George." Here's our dialogue:

George: "Nichole, when I look at your ridiculous little smiling face, I feel like a child."

Nichole: "Ooo. That's so very poetic. What does that mean?"

George: "It means that you make me feel like, if anything were to ever happen to me, you would swoop down with your Jesus-power and save me."

They were both very sweet things for him to say and oddly enough I've heard them before from "John," although he used the words 'safe' and ' comfort,' not but two months prior. "John" will have to be discussed at a later time.

What kind of truths do these coincidental agreeances infer? I began to wonder:

Do I physically look safe? More specifically, does my appearance bear to mind the ability to swim someone ashore or rescue kittens out of a burning building? Well no, I thought, of course not. I just wrote about my diminutiveness in a prior post so I certainly cannot physically appear to be the bearer of safety. I can hardly lift my suitcase onto the scale at the airport.

Perhaps it is due to my mad survivor skills and mastery of the martial arts! Okay, I lie. I don't have mad skills or any skills really. All I know about surviving is what I have ascertained from my grade school readings of Hatchet. Although, I'm pretty good with a spatula...

So then, what is it?

All I know is feeling safe is to be comforted, to feel impervious to danger, a " all is right in the world" kind of impression. The way I feel when I'm hugging my dad. He's safe because I can trust him.

My hope is these two men believe I am safe, because they feel they can trust me, because they know they are loved.

If anything, it's an intriguing thought.