Paint and an Artist

When your cat has been missing for over 72 hours, there comes a point when you have to admit to yourself that she isn't coming back. My husband and I are 90% sure that the cat seen dead along halfway blvd early Tuesday morning was in fact Mittens. There is, of course, no way to know for sure since the dead cat disappeared by midmorning. It is heartbreaking to not know for sure. It all comes down to which neighbor we want to believe. One is sure she saw Mittens alive, waiting at our door in the early morning light. The other is positive that the cat on the road was Mittens. And sadly, they both could be right. I have 20 Lost Cat posters that I could put up in our neighborhood. But I am not sure I want to. I have known since Wednesday morning that there was a strong possibility that the dead cat seen on the road early Tuesday morning was Mittens. I'm just not sure that I want to hold out hope for something that isn't likely to happen. It isn't likely that Mittens will

It was my last day. Boxes were packed, desk was cleared, book shelf bare and my filing cabinet had been emptied. Paintings were stacked nearby and as I looked about my old office, I began to wonder why it was that I had been looking forward to this day. Rain pattered against my windows and my walls were bare—all except for that ugly "fabric" wallpaper, so 1980s —eww. I wasn't going to miss the stress, the unrealistic workload, the attitudes, politics, the leaky ceilings, the geese, or even my office with the ugly orange carpet. The day just felt melancholy. Life was changing, again . Interestingly enough, life is like that. Just when you think you've got a handle on things—life sends you another curve ball. Or in my case, three extra ones for good measure. And now ten months later, life is different. Priorities are different. This is my new normal. I'm no longer just a wife—I'm also a mother. And I wouldn't change that for the world. And

I was planning my wedding before I was officially engaged. Not in the sense of the hypothetical wedding planning that all us women do—but in the sense of we are getting married and while I don't have a ring on my finger yet—the event is happening this fall! Oh my!  It was all very complicated. My boyfriend, Stephen, was waiting for a specific day to pop the question. May 18, 2014 to be exact—and so he busied himself with putting together two mock proposals—which really didn't go over very well, as you can imagine. Stephen is very mathematical and as such pays close attention to the importance of dates and numbers. He wanted to propose on our 500th day of dating. And so I had to wait. But while I waited I figured that we could at least start planning the wedding. After all, four months wasn't a lot of time. And so, these are my notes for the future bride: Congratulations! You're engaged! Now before you rush off to buy that drop dead gorgeous dress that costs mo

The best thing a girl can be is a good wife and mother.  It is a girl's highest calling. I hope I am ready. —Nancy E. Turner Motherhood brings with it a lot of attention. And often the advice and unwanted comments begin pouring in before you are even pregnant, let alone married.  Complete strangers will ask nosey questions ranging from when you will be getting married to how soon you and your hubby will start having kids once you are. If you did make it out of college without a ring on your finger (like I did) then you obviously didn’t take advantage of the resources available to you. What were you doing during those four years anyway?  Once you are married the clock begins to tick. Expectantly people wait to see if the honeymoon did the trick. Will there be a little munchkin in 40 weeks? After an appropriate amount of time (though generally not long enough for most of us) the dreaded question begins to be asked. When are you going to start having kids?  For

If I could have told Leelah (Josh) Alcorn one thing before he killed himself on December 28, 2014—it would been that checking out early in the form of suicide accomplishes nothing . It changes nothing. You are now defined as a number—a mere statistic. I read your suicide note. It sounded more like an "f-the world" note. Maybe no one ever told you this, but life isn't a walk in the park. Each and every generation grows up with something different. You would have been too little to remember a time when you could fly across the country without being strip-searched in security. Which would have made you about four years old when President George W. Bush declared war on Iraq. I was 17 years old and a junior in high school. By that point we had been at war with Afghanistan for almost 2 years. And kids, not much older than you were getting blown to pieces by IEDs. The point? We all grew up with something different affecting ours lives and you can't go about life

My last day on the job was October 13, 2014. And there are days when I feel like I'm still picking up the pieces. Have you ever worked somewhere that was run by a bunch of hypocrites? Crisp business suits. Specific job descriptions. And the inability to sincerely thank those making them look good. You are never good enough. And you are told so every time you don't meet their unrealistic expectations. And to make it even better , you work for the church. It will destroy you, from the inside out. Each little word.  Each little reminder that you aren't good enough.  Each tiny mistake enlarged for all to see. And you try. You try so hard not to let it get to you. You try to have that "tougher shell" that those who inflict the pain insist you need to have to survive. Except it doesn't work. Because you are a sponge. You take in your surroundings. You put your heart and soul into what you create. So when your superiors find fault with your work —it hurt

We rely on stereotypes. We prejudge people with our preconceived ideas—and "people watching" is a classic example of this. Especially when you are stuck in a waiting room at the Social Security office and your phone is out of commission. I took the room in at a glance. If needed, I could probably describe the room in detail from the number of chairs to the limited artwork on the walls. The first human interaction I had was with the security guard. Who directed me to a computer to sign in with. He didn't smile. He was clearly of Asian decent, with a stocky build and weathered face. He sat behind a desk and the most you could see of him at any given time were his eyes and balding head. He reminded me of our head copy editor—an Asian version of Gerald. His face was encased by wrinkles, with a hint of merriment in his eyes. I liked him. We each received a stern reminder from the security guard. Turn off your phone. Which is stated on a sign taped to his desk as well.