“Nothing motivates you more to clear the clutter from your home than boxing up all of your belongings.”

–Unclutterer.com

A lot of the decluttering manuals will encourage you to tackle small projects slowly over time so as not to get overwhelmed with the enormity of the task ahead. After all, you didn’t accumulate all this STUFF overnight, it’s probably not wise to induce cardiac arrest by trying to get rid of it overnight, either.

Unfortunately, the slow-and-easy plan works less well when you’re facing a one-month time frame to move yourself and your (hopefully reduced) belongings into living quarters less than half the size of where you are now. Drastic circumstances call for drastic measures and all that rot.

My apologies if my frequency of entries have been a little thin recently and continue to be so over the next few weeks. I’m having to work hard and creatively to divest myself of a lot of stuff in a short period of time. And, as mentioned already, I tend to move slower these days than in my hyper-ambitious youth.

But let me re-cap some of what I’ve accomplished so far in the last couple of weeks:

• I’ve sold $26,000 worth of furniture, musical instruments, and personal items.

• I’ve Freecycled almost as many low-dollar items.

• I’ve given a few cherished pieces of furniture and musical instruments to friends who I know will appreciate them.

• I turned in enough books and CD’s to the local used bookstore to have ended up with $1000 in credit. That’s a lot of freaking books to give away. Especially for someone who hoards books the way a dragon does treasure.

• I’ve donated fifteen garbage bags full of clothing, bedding, towels, and assorted linens to a local charity

• I took two full carloads of non-recyclable garbage to the dump.

Oh, and because I am much more talented at acquiring stuff than getting rid of it, I’ve created a photo album to document my progress. Completely geeky and probably uninteresting to anyone other than myself, I know.

Anyway, that was the first, easy pass at decluttering. I think it’s going to get rougher from here. If there happens to be a patron saint of declutterers and you’re feeling especially kindhearted, please say a prayer to him or her for me.

It seems like pretty much everyone has some sort of master plan out right now on how to be more productive. You’ve got Dave Allen’s Getting Things Done, Steven Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Leo Babauta’s Zen to Done, the inimitable Miss Piggy’s Guide to Life…. You get the idea.

Back in my turbo-propelled 20’s, I used to snap up these manuals in an effort to glean any new tidbits that could help me work smarter and more efficiently. In my 30’s, I started to calm down quite a bit about the whole thing. While I still think there’s something to be said for spending one’s life energy wisely, I’m not necessarily sure churning out the most amount of work in the least amount of time is really the same thing. In the race of life, I’ve gone from being a supercharged hare to a rather especially pokey and asthmatic tortoise. (I mean, what about stopping to check out that daffodil over there…)

For the most part, I’ve been content with these changes. But last spring and summer, while I going through the worst of my divorce proceedings, I didn’t need to fine-tune my productivity. I needed help establishing I even had a pulse. I was in the middle of a pretty serious bout of depression.

For a couple of months I couldn’t seem to manage anything more than schlepping my butt between my bed and my couch—with occasional interim stops to scrounge for something psuedo-edible in the kitchen, a semi-weekly shower, or to get lectured by my mail lady for letting things pile up in my mailbox again. (That was worth getting off the couch for. If I didn’t, it meant I’d eventually have to drive to the Post Office to pick up the latest batch of forms my lawyer needed me to sign. And driving two miles was unthinkable.)

After a couple of months of this, I managed to muster enough energy to be pretty disgusted with myself. I have a long, LONG list of character faults but rolling-over and playing dead when things get rough is normally not one of them. So I started experimenting with strategies to get my butt off the couch and start getting things done again.

After a lot of trial and error I came up with an idiot simple formula that continues to work for me… Every day I have to do ONE thing I really, really DON’T WANT TO DO. The “DON’T WANT TO DO” item has to be something important that’s going to have a significant impact on my life for the good. Once that’s done, if I really don’t feel like being productive and if the world is not going to positively end if I don’t do something else, I’m allowed to revert to being a lump on the sofa.*

And there were definitely days when I did just that—my one items and then reversion to lump-dom. But those singular items started to add up. Plus, I got pretty good at doing the DON’T WANT TO DO item first thing in the morning because I knew I got to goof-off without guilt after that was done.

More often than not, I discovered that whatever image I’d concocted in my mind of completing the dreaded task was a lot worse than the reality of doing whatever it was I’d been avoiding. And, scratching significant things I’d been off my “To Do” list frequently gave me a boost of energy and self-confidence that helped me start ticking less high-stakes things off the list, as well. Slowly, day by day, I started to get my life back on track. I’m still using the system currently.

Just in case you’re curious, here’s some examples of recent items I’ve completed from my DON’T WANT TO DO list:

• Call my contractor and have a difficult conversation on timelines and costs

• Discuss completing last-year’s taxes with my ex-husband

• Take two very full carloads of books/CD’s to the local used bookstore and turn them in

• Take two carloads of garbage from my move into my place in Tucson—yes, from a year ago (cough)—to the dump

• Spend two hours filling out the most anal-retentive, non-user-friendly, job application I’ve ever seen

Anyway, you get the idea.

In summary, I wanted to share my not-so-profound formula for productivity. If there’s someone else out there who’s struggling to get things done and who would be completely overwhelmed with one of the regular productivity books, I suggest giving my version a try for a couple of days and see what you think. And, if you do, let me know how it turns out. Inquiring, slow-moving tortoises wanna know.

• I do want to note that I realize there are people out there who, due to their personal life circumstances, have to spend a good part of their days doing things they really don’t want to be doing in order to simply survive. I know several single moms who fall into this category. I will be the first to say, my hat’s off to you. I don’t think I’m that tough.

Thankfully, I don’t have to be. Between proceeds from the sale of a house and my divorce proceedings, I’m fortunate enough not to be in those circumstances… at least not yet. I have some breathing room on how I spend my days and you better believe I’m profoundly grateful for that.

If your life circumstances are far more difficult than mine and you’ve been handling them with grace, it is my firm belief that you will be the first in line to be born in your next life as an exceptionally well-loved and pampered house cat. I’m the keeper of one of those. Trust me—it’s not a bad gig if you can get it.

So, while I was in Portland I also needed to meet with Brian, the property manager for the marina, to arrange for my parking passes and remotes to get past the front gates. When I got to the marina, Brian was out and about tackling other problems, as good property managers are often wont, which meant I got to wander up and down the docks introducing myself to people and asking if anyone had seen him. (All I knew was that he was a casually-dressed, middle-aged, white guy with a baseball cap. I’m quickly learning that describes about 85% of the people you find along the water.)

Through this process, I got to meet a couple of the local handymen and also a few of my neighbors. Everyone was friendly and politely curious. However, I started to get a little uneasy when the third person in a row asked when my “lifemate”/”partner” was coming up to join me.

I didn’t think much of it at first when the handymen had asked. I mean, a new, non-retiree female shows up at the marina. They’re probably trying to figure out what mental bucket to put me into. But when the nice, blue-haired retiree a few doors down from my place used the term “lifemate” and looked confused when I replied that my boyfriend lived in another state, the alarm bells started going off. Things got weirder still when I tracked down Brian and, during small-talk in his office, it came out that he thought I worked as a stewardess. And then he also asked about my “partner”.

As best as I can figure things without outright asking someone, word around the marina seems to be that the new owner of my place is a lesbian stewardess.

I smell my realtor, Graham, behind this small bit of mischief. I should be quick to say that Graham was nothing but professional and courteous in his dealings with me. And that I think he did a great job for a very small commission. But Graham is also a bit of a character and I saw glimpses along the way of a wicked sense of humor.

In buying the house I only over dealt with two people–my realtor, Graham, and the owner of the marina, Jack. So, unless Brian and the handymen are particularly gutsy with their pranks with people they’ve just met, the misinformation started with either Graham or Jack. If I had to guess, what might have happened is one of the handymen at the marina started pestering Graham for details on the new owner. I could see Graham coming up with a story like that under the right circumstances. I mean, doesn’t it sound like the set-up for your typical 30-minute Cinemax porn?

Charlie seems highly amused by my predicament. Well, he did, until I threatened to introduce him to people as my “lifemate” who’d just finished going through her sex-change operation. Then he was quick to point out that people would never believe it with how pronounced an Adam’s apple he has. (Never mind that he’s also 6 feet 7 inches tall and has an amazingly deep voice.)

I’m still waffling on how to handle this latest development. I mean, do I post a cardboard sign in my window saying: “I hate to wreck anyone’s fantasies but: 1) I’m dating a guy and 2) I typically work at boring jobs involving lots of time staring at numbers”?

Or do I decide to compound the mischief? I have a former roommate and good friend, Katherine, who’s gay. She’s willing to come up for a visit sporting a stewardess uniform and has even offered to swoop in and bend me backwards in a passionate smooch. (This last bit would be quite a feat considering I’m 5 feet 11 inches and she’s quite a bit shorter than me.)

Anyway, things to contemplate while I’m packing…

I should probably begin by confessing that this entry was half-written and originally titled “Bob Vila is The Devil” when Dave Greten, a writer for BobVila.com contacted me and asked if he could do a brief write-up of my place and link to my blog. Somehow, it just seemed like terribly bad manners on my part to have their readership click over to my little ol’ site for the first time and read a headline like that. Plus, I really don’t want to get Mr. Greten in trouble.

Besides, as much of an icon as Bob Vila is in my family, that would also make the next family get-together pretty uncomfortable for me. Which leads me back to my original entry…

When I was growing up, church on Sundays was discretionary. Bob Vila was sacrosanct.

My mother and younger brother, Chris, had a weekly bonding ritual of watching This Old House. They started watching with the first season back in 1979. They ordered all the books published for each season. If we went out of town for the weekend on a family trip, we HAD to be back by 7 PM Sunday night so they could get their weekly fix. (Once we had a VCR we did trying taping the show once. However, something went wrong with the tape and there was much loud wailing and gnashing of teeth like a scene out of Where the Wild Things Are. After that, we simply had to be home in time.) They had the Bob Vila addiction BAD.

Mom and Chris really got off on following the transformation of the latest pile of rotting–but deeply historically significant–pile of sticks someone was struggling valiantly to restore into a habitable home. They cheered appearances of Norm Abram and historically-accurate recreations of molding. They gasped in horror at the discovery of unsuspected termites and home owners who weren’t pulling their weight. They loved nothing better than when critical paths got messed up and contractors started tripping over one another and snarling. The more gory and miserable the growing pains of the remodel, the better, as far as they were concerned. They found it enthralling in a reality-TV-kind-of-way and knew that–like any good television drama–by the end of the season everything would turn out well.

I wish I could say I was as into the show as they were. While I thought the old homes were neat and I enjoyed seeing the finished product, I found all the interim steps tedious, uncomfortable, and sometimes outright painful to watch. There was just so much chaos and mess. The families being filmed had their lives turned upside-down for a television season. Workers on the set occasionally got cranky with one another. And, like many things in life, the remodels never went as easily as initially planned. I always thought the show should consist of the first and last episodes and spare the PBS viewership all the uncomfortable details in between.

I’m afraid remodeling just ain’t my thang, babe. I’ve always been an instant gratification creature. And there is very little, if anything, that is instant-gratification about rebuilding your house. I also have an abject horror of budget and scope-creep for any projects domestic.

That being said, I really wanted my little floating home. And I was aware, when I bought it, that it was going to require some significant work to bring it back up to snuff. I just didn’t want to see another little historic floating home trashed to make way for another modern McMansion. So I’m doing my best to draw on the enthusiasm for restorations I witnessed growing up.

Just the same, if there are many references to Lamaze breathing and Vicodin in entries in the upcoming weeks, please bear with me. I am seriously out of my element at present.

When I bought my place I knew the float was going to need to be significantly rebuilt. I was a little hazy, however, on the fact that this really ought to happen before I moved in. My realtor had prepped me that, depending on what had to be done, the contractor might need to go through the floor in places to pin the stringers correctly. (Stringers are the narrower crossbeams on a wood float. I’ll be posting something on float anatomy shortly.) Anyway, in the case of my house, the floor needed to be completely TORN OUT.

Apparently, the last person who’d done repairs to the float did a half-assed job and didn’t pin the stringers they’d replaced. That needed to be corrected. In addition, I requested to expand the float to add a front deck and also to seal the boat well in back. And thirty-year-old rotting wood needed to be replaced. All told, I’m adding six 50′ Douglas fir logs and more than fourteen new stringers.

I resigned myself to the float work and, in some ways, was even grateful it was going to happen before I moved in. But, as in the world of The Money Pit, no remodeling project ever proves as simple as you originally thought.

So let me walk you through with what’s up with my house right now…

When I arrived at the marina, the first indication that I might want to start practicing my breathing is when I located my house by the large pile of debris out front. On land when you do demolition the contractor normally brings a supersized trash container referred to as a “roll-offs”. Well, here’s a picture of my “raft-off”.

The first glimpse of my house wasn’t too bad. The stairway to my top deck had to be removed to do the float rebuild. The boards you see on the side of the house are the new “stringers”. These will eventually be covered with the new walkway and staircase.

Here’s what will be my expanded front porch. I lost one of my flower boxes to rot. Sniff. I’m just trying to close my eyes and visualize future barbeques with friends.

OK. This is where it starts getting a little more hairy. Take a look at my kitchen floor. Those holes on the left had to be drilled in order for my contractor to properly pin the stringers underneath the house. On the right side? Nothing but logs and the Columbia River right now. Trust me. I got reminded of that fact when I got distracted taking pictures and didn’t watch my step backing up.

Once upon a time, this was my family room floor. Right now it’s nothing but loose sheets of plywood over logs and stringers. And a whole lot of water underneath

More chaos in the family room area.

The sealed-in boatwell. Someday this will be my home office.

So, one piece of bad news my contractor gave me is that the person who installed the siding on my house was a moron. They didn’t put siding under where the staircase met the house. Worse still, there were two loose propane tanks on the right side of the house. There’s a gap there where they didn’t bother to move the bottles. I’m talking to someone now to find out if there’s a way to shift the pieces. Otherwise, I’m going to have to redo most of it.

Also, my house was seriously out of balance from the float work that needed to be done. The last owner didn’t address this issue before replastering sections of the house. Now that the house is, in fact, level, there’s a bunch of repairs to be made. Check out how out of alignment the door is, now.

One final one because if I don’t laugh I’ll cry… Clearly, I’m not paying my contractor enough if this is the beer he’s drinking.

A friend of mine who’s a contractor believes no one should be allowed to start a remodeling project before first being forced to sit down and watch the movie The Money Pit. At least six times. Back-to-back. Without restroom breaks.

I’ve seen the movie more than once because it’s one of my mother and brother’s favorites (more on that later). But, just the same, I discovered this past week that there’s a world of difference between understanding intellectually that your new place is going to need a lot of work and standing in the middle of the carnage after a contractor has had his way with your baby for a couple of weeks.

I think this is doubly true when you can see the Columbia River beneath your feet in 90% of the places that were covered with really nice carpeting the last time you were there.

But let me back up a bit and explain how I reached this moment of dismay…

I hired Randy Olson, a local contractor, to do the work on the float. Randy is the owner of Duck’s Moorage, a marina a few down from mine and he’s got a good reputation on the river for his work. Randy is an easy-going guy with graying temples and a twinkle in his eyes. He looks like he could be Tom Skerritt moonlighting.

Randy is a man of few words and not one to catastrophize. As a matter of fact, the first time I reached him on his cell phone and asked if it was a good time to talk, he told me he “had a few minutes”. I discovered only later through a conversation with my realtor that I had interrupted Randy on the middle of the freeway trying to rescue 6 x 6 foot pieces of foam one of his employees had just spilled all over the road.

So, when Randy called me to say there were “some problems” with the rebuild on the float, I knew it was time to sit down before asking for the details. (On top of watching The Money Pit, I also highly recommend a course in Lamaze breathing for anyone considering any sort of remodeling project.)

I’ve mentioned that my house started its life as a boathouse and that living quarters were added on over time. Well, when Randy went in to do the float rebuild he discovered that both the plumbing and electrical lines are a cobbled-together mess. As most of this is in the floors, I’m going to need to fix things before the floors get rebuilt and covered with Pergo. And there’s a whole host of other issues. (And, yes, I will post an update on the accounting once all the dust has settled, no pun intended.)

Anyway, I flew up to Portland last week so Randy could show me what had been done so far and we could formulate a game plan for the work going forward.

In my next entry, I’ll give you the photo tour of what I discovered when I got there. Just please remember–it looked like a house when I bought it.

“If you’re tempted to keep something because it was expensive, remember the difference between value and cost. Value is what something is worth. You spent a lot of money on it. To throw it away would mean admitting that the money was wasted.

Now you need to think about the cost. What is it costing you to keep this item? How much space? How much energy? What about the peace of mind that comes from having a clean home full of things you use?

You one made a decision to purchase this expensive thing that you never use. Now, if you keep it, you’ll be throwing good space after bad money.”

–Peter Walsh, It’s All Too Much

Getting rid of anything is not easy for me. If you haven’t already figured that out, you soon will based simply on the number of ongoing entries from me whinging on this subject. One particular area of decluttering is especially challenging for me, however–where the item cost a lot of money and there’s no easy way to recoup the expense.

I hate, hate, hate admitting that I spent a lot of money on something from which I am not getting much use or value. My standard, more-than-a-little disfunctional way of dealing with this is to park the item in a corner somewhere in the misguided hope that I will either A) start using it on a regular basis like I originally intended or B) come up with some clever way to recoup the money I’m out.

About five years ago, Sean, a male friend of mine who’s an accountant, tried to explain the concept of “sunk costs” to me. Sunk costs are where costs have been incurred and which cannot easily be recovered. The deed is over and done and it’s been at a price. In contrast to this, you also have variable costs. The amount of these costs will change based on what you decide to do going forward.

Any good, cold-blooded accountant or microeconomist will tell you that only variable costs should be considered in making decisions about future actions. (Or, in idiot-simple-speak: don’t throw good money after bad, stupid!)

Sean was trying to get me to understand the concept of sunk costs by way of explaining why, even though he’d spent the last two years working really, really hard with his live-in girlfriend to make their relationship work, he didn’t think that should factor in to his decision whether or not he should continue to try. And that, in fact, he’d decided it was best if he simply cut things off and got on with his life.

In retrospect, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that I was flabbergasted at the time by Sean’s description of his thinking process. I mean, he’d fought SO HARD to make his relationship work, how could he simply walk away NOW?

Which, brings me back to my staggering pile of possessions… I have an enormously difficult time emotionally separating myself in situations that have proven costly to me up to the present. I keep hoping that, if I just hang in there long enough, I will find a way to recoup my losses and end up back in the black. (I mean, hell, after much long-suffering on the part of the heroine it always works out in the movies…)

It’s taken me to almost the age of 40 to come to terms with the fact that it rarely, if ever, works out that way in real life, with either relationships or material possessions. I’m far better off cutting my losses rather than throwing good energy after bad. But, man, it’s hard to admit I’ve gone and invested in something stupid–be it the hunky but totally unreliable guy snoring in bed next to me or the cute, little Karmann Ghia parked out front that runs without problems one day out of every five.

The fact that I’m about to move into a place less than half the size of where I live now is helping to provide momentum in cutting some of my losses, thing-wise. However, I’m noticing particular reluctance in getting rid of high-dollar items I bought near the end of my relationship with my ex-husband in a misguided effort to comfort myself. These came largely out of my own funds but I still felt pretty defensive at the time about purchases he labeled as “frivolous” or “unnecessary”. By getting rid of these items now, I feel like I’m admitting he was right. And I can’t say I like that terribly much.

Of course, the alternative is to live with a bunch of items that no longer serve me. Or, even worse, are continuing to cost me–in physical space, emotional energy, and money to maintain–when I allow them to remain in my life.

I think I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that it’s time to stop the bleeding. So, item by unused item, I’m gritting my teeth, writing off my losses, and getting them out of my life.

In my attempts to streamline my belongings in preparation for my upcoming move to Portland, I’ve been using Freecycle to rid myself of some larger items that probably aren’t worth enough money to try to sell.

For those non-self-professed-tree-huggers who’ve been living in a cave for the past couple of years, Freecycle is a grassroots, nonprofit movement of people that promotes the reuse of items amongst the members of it’s local communities.

Let’s say Joe gets sick of looking at the plaid couch his cat tortured all through college. Joe posts on his local Freecycle group list “OFFER: plaid couch. Some mild wear.” Someone else reads Joe’s post and offers to come take the item off his hands. Joe unloads his couch without having to feel guilty that he’s contributing to a landfill somewhere. The new owner gets a couch for only a little effort.

I think this is a marvelous concept. When I first started listing items on Freecycle I wanted to give away, I felt happily virtuous. Unfortunately, like many of the wonderful things civilization has dreamed up over the years, the system starts to break down when you factor in the darker elements of human nature.

I would like to think that most days this entry would be a calmly-worded article titled “Etiquette Tips for People Using Freecycle”. But I’m crabby today, so you’re getting my unedited, bitch-list of problems I’ve encountered with Freecycle to-date…

1. People who can’t read. My local Freecycle group uses a Yahoo list to advertise items being offered. When an item is claimed, you are expected to post a second email saying the item has been taken. Usually items on Freecycle go in under a minute if you’re on top of things. I’m on top of things. So, at most, there may be a post or two between my initial “OFFER” email and the “TAKEN”. Even still, the average item I’ve posted garners somewhere between 10 and 30 emails from people asking if the item is still available. These continue arriving for several DAYS after the item was originally offered. I have had to go so far as to set up a separate email box so that my regular email doesn’t get inundated with these inquiries.

2. People who can’t write. The typical email I get from someone interested in an item reads like it was writing by E.E. Cummings on large amounts of crack.

3. People who don’t show. At least half the time someone has told me they’d pick up an item on a specific time/day, they either do not show at all or they arrive on something like a bicycle to pick up something unmanageably large–like a queen size futon and frame–and things than proceed to devolve into a 5-day logistical nightmare. (And this is after I make sure they know the dimensions and weight of the item they’re picking up.)

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but there seem to be a lot of people using Freecycle who, either by choice or necessity, don’t own cars. They commit to taking items when they have NO idea how they’re going to transport them. But instead of telling you that up front, they come up with more and more creative explanations on why they couldn’t show when they said they would.

In a couple of situations where people have lived closed by to me, if they had leveled with me up front, I would have been happy to run the item over to their place. Instead, I get these progressively sadder and more dramatic tales of woe as someone begs me not to give the item to someone else. And this is AFTER they have my home address and, in one case, announce they are going to come over and “mess me up” when I finally lost patience and let someone else have an item. (On the up-side, I figure if someone can’t get their ass over to my house to pick up a Target 3-drawer organizer, odds are good they aren’t going to muster the energy and resources just to harass me in person.)

4. People who show up, pick up the item, and then either ask for money or try to sell you something while they’re there. Call me strange, but I think that odds are good that if I’m giving multiple things away I probably don’t want to buy your watch.

This one just plain creeps me out and is one of the major reasons I now insist on leaving all items out on my porch rather than letting someone come inside to pick it up.

5. People who show up and pick up their item along with several others left out for other Freecycle members, which are CLEARLY LABELED as such. Or, better still, help themselves to things like the plant and watering can you had on your front stoop. I mean, come on, one nifty free thing that’s yours for the taking isn’t enough? You have to loot everything else that isn’t nailed down, too? Thanks to Freecycle, I’ve gotten rid of more items than I ever intended.

6. People who pick up the item only to list it for sale on Craigslist the following day. Ok, this one bugs me less than the others. At least someone is being enterprising and my item doesn’t end up in the trash.

In small part, I admire them having the energy to try to sell something I wasn’t willing to get off my butt to do myself. But, this still somehow rubs me the wrong way. For starters, it’s expressly against the guidelines of the local Freecycle group. Plus, it just feels to me like someone operating in bad faith. When I give an item away, I’m picturing it as being given to someone who could really use it, not someone who’s trying to make a buck off me.

Plus, if you’re motivated enough to travel all over town collecting people’s used toasters and old mattress sets to have something to sell, why not consider getting a regular job? Especially with the cost of gas these days. It’s gotta be an easier way to turn a buck…

Anyway, that’s the short of my current complaints. I’ve haven’t completely thrown in the towel on Freecycle. I’m too stubborn for that. I am, sadly, though, a little more jaded about the whole process.

So, those of you out there who see some of yourself in the description above, kindly knock it off, okay? Before you wreck a good thing.

And while I’m at it, here’s the journal entry on how Rumi came to enter my life…

9/18/07

So I went to check out the Balinese breeder on Sunday afternoon and, naturally, I returned home with a kitten. (Duh.)

He started off as the geekiest, most serious little kitten I’ve ever met. I’m not exactly sure why we bonded other than he looked up at me with the biggest pair of blue eyes in absolute, abject horror at his situation. I was pretty much feeling the same way about the whole thing. I think we bonded over the feeling of: “Holy sh-t. How did we end up here??”

So much for my theory that breeders produce healthier, better socialized kittens. This lady definitely qualified as the Crazy Cat Lady with w-a-y too many damn cats. She’s an MD and somehow I expected better than that.

Her place is way out by the Saguaro National Monument. Apparently this was so she could build the “cat house” of her dreams without her neighbors getting upset. I never actually saw the cat house where the un-neutered males were. I suspect that’s a blessing in disguise.

The main house literally has an airlock configuration with two doors that will not open simultaneously. This is to keep the waves of cats INSIDE the house. And it really was an ocean of cats. You couldn’t move without currents of creatures drifting and wending past your legs.

In contrast, the family room was a forest of 7′ scratching posts all ripe with kitties that dropped to the ground at random intervals.

The place was a complete, feline madhouse. When the wrong cat drifted into the wrong 3 foot x 3 foot invisible grid of territory much yowling and hissing would ensue until equilibrium was restored.

I had driven from Sierra Vista and made the mistake of asking if I could use a restroom. There were empty litter boxes stacked up from floor to ceiling along the wall with the bathtub. As far as I could tell that was the only bathroom in the house. God knows where she bathes.

One of the kittens she tried to introduce me to was completely feral. Picture someone taking the Tasmanian Devil and dropping it without warning into your lap and you pretty much have the scene. The kitten took a good chunk out of my hand before I could get out of the way. I’ve been disinfecting the bite several times a day and popping antibiotics at home because the kitten hasn’t had her full set of immunizations yet. If I go to the doctors, they will have to report it. That means at least the kitten, and possibly several others would have to be quarantined to confirm she doesn’t have rabies. So far so good and no infection.

The little boy I bonded with initially didn’t want to be handled as well. But then he realized my lap was a relative point of calm in the sea of chaos, hunkered down, and didn’t want to leave. So he sat there hiding, nothing more than batwing ears and wide blue eyes showing in my lap, while I quietly dripped blood from my bite onto the tile floor.

If all that wasn’t enough of a tip-off that I probably should have walked, the breeder also offered to sell me the little boy for a lot less than I was expecting her to ask. But, at that point, I just wanted to get both me and him out of there. Plus, I figured it could be the sorry-my-innocent-looking-kitten-just-took-a-hunk-out-of-your-hand discount.

My kitten didn’t so much as squeak in the cat carrier on the ride home. Either he was grateful just to be getting the hell out of there or he was so shell-shocked he didn’t know what to think.

He’s definitely been the most quiet, stoic little kitten I’ve ever met. My experience has been that, normally, when you put a collar on a cat for the first time there’s major snit fits and somersaults of doom. Humans are supposed to know there’s nothing worse for their karma than trying to put a collar on a cat. With this little guy it was: “Oh. OK. Cool. A collar with a bell. That’s kinda neat.”

My kitten quietly peers at his surroundings like a wizened little old man with occasional breaks for massive, limpet love-attacks for me who, after much contemplation, he’s deigned to designate as His Human. Which is why he ended up getting named “Rumi”.

I’m not exactly sure what’s happening but his personality transforms a little in the middle of each night.

The first night started off with him wanting to do nothing but hide under the bed… until about 3 AM when, for some unexplained reason, I suddenly became His Human. At that point his place to be was smack in the middle of my chest wedged between my breasts. Then commenced the 1-hour schedule of being woken to perform the Ritual Adoration of the Cat. I swear the routine is more stringent than a Catholic Monastery. Three days into the schedule, now, I’m starting to have some vague appreciation of what it must be like for a mother with a newborn.

After the second night Rumi started to make throaty burrish noises that may, at some point, after much practice, actually morph into something resembling a “meow”. That and, nestled in bed yesterday morning, I got him to reluctantly admit the garishly-colored cat teaser I bought might have vague possibilities for entertainment. This is also when I discovered my kitten appears to be left-handed. He’s weird enough in every other dimension that I can’t say this really surprises me.

I’m not sure what the heck happened last night but I was woken around 1 AM with the kitten plopping the cat teaser on my chest saying: “OK. Explain to me how this thing works again.” I was foolish enough to comply. Not only did he decide the toy was pretty cool but he apparently felt it was time to make up for 12 weeks of never having played before in a single night. I think I got about 30 minutes of sleep after that. It’s now 6 AM he’s still trying to coax me to keep going with a pugnacious resolve that eerily resembles the coach from Rocky.

The reason why I haven’t written about the kitten before now is this… It took me about a day to realize but he came home with an upper respiratory and eye infection. I’ve seen kittens with infections go south really quickly and I’m scared to death I could lose this little one, too. When my vet told me it was going to be three weeks before I could get him in to be seen, I called Tom’s wife, Debra, who just purchased Cimarron Animal Hospital.

They got me in right away and stocked me up on antibiotics and supplements to try with him. His eye is a little better this morning and he’s definitely got more energy (lucky me). But I’m watching him like a hawk.

Anyway, that’s what’s up on the kitty front at present. Be forewarned that with his eye infection my little philosopher cat currently looks like he’s been on the losing side of a barroom brawl.

For those of you who are curious, this is the explanation of why I currently have a rescue chicken. This is taken from the journal I kept this past year…

8/17/2007 The Gift

“I pray to the birds because I believe they will carry the message of my heart upward. I pray to them because I believe in their existence, the way their songs begin and end each day—the invocations and benedictions of earth. I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love rather than what I fear. And at the end of my prayers, they teach me how to listen.”

–Terry Tempest Williams

Anyone who’s interested in animal totems will probably tell you that birds are aligned with the heart chakra and goddesses closely aligned with love and/or rebirth. Aphrodite has her geese and doves. Isis has a connection with falcons, and her very own winged form. Sarasvati has her swans. Nike, goddess of victory, is gifted with her own wings.

Well, for whatever reason, the Universe, in its infinite, divine wisdom, has seen fit to gift me with–of all things–a chicken.

Needless to say, this was not a gift I readily accepted.

My first indication of said Gift from the Universe was when Larry, one of my tobacco-stained, toothless moving guys, came up to me frowning and said: “Ma’am, I thought you said you didn’t have any pets in the back yard. That it was safe to open the back gate so we can drop stuff on the porch…

“Uh. I don’t have any pets out back. I own a cat and, considering he’s wedged himself in the bedsprings of my mattress and is busy hissing and taking chunks out of the feet of anyone foolish enough to enter the bedroom, I think it’s safe to say he’s not out back.”

Larry scowled at me from under his John Deer cap. “Ma’am, you’ve got a chicken out back. You tellin’ me that’s not yers?”"I’ve got a what?” I peered through the French doors in my dining room and, sure enough, there sat a chicken on my back porch.

It was rather smaller and, frankly, kind of more moth-eaten and mangy than my mental image of a chicken. But it DID have the general outline of the Fisher Price Barn Yard Edition toy I grew up with. And, strangely enough, it seemed rather pissed off. It had plunked itself down on my porch and didn’t seem to have any intention of moving, in spite of Larry’s two buddies dropping heavy piles camping gear all around it. For all appearances, it seemed to be staging some sort of chicken sit-in protest.

“Well, Larry. Looks like you’re right. There’s a chicken in the back yard,” I conceded. Considering all the other craziness and chaos that had already happened that week with David, an unexpected chicken didn’t seem like the end of the world. Just one more crazy turn in the nightmare that had become my life.

Larry still seemed uneasy. He shuffled his feet and clutched his clipboard tighter. “Well. Just so long as you don’t try to file a claim if she gets out or squashed or somethin’…”

“Larry,” I snarled, “if you squash the chicken, you just solved my problem of what I’m going to eat for dinner.”

Larry just shook his head and walked away, as if the only moral-failing a client could exhibit worse than having an un-planned chicken in the backyard was to have an un-planned chicken who’s welfare you didn’t give a damn about.

I’m not normally so callous when it comes to wayward animals. In fact, many times in the past, I have suspected the local strays have whatever secret hobo sign then use to mark “kind-hearted woman” somewhere out in my yard I get so many rescue-cases turning up telling me their sad tale.

But, as the end of my relationship with David ended up being both very emotionally unstable and physically violent, I was pretty chewed up. I hadn’t been doing a very good job of taking care of ME the past few years, let alone any other living, breathing creature. Me and a single, crotchety, 17-year-old, limb-mauling cat were all I could reasonably hope to manage.

I did go so far as to introduce myself to the neighbors a couple doors down on both sides and inquire politely if they were missing a chicken. None of them were and, based the haste of their goodbyes, I had the sneaking suspicion they thought I had mental issues similar to the Vietnam vet who lives down the street who “walks” his bunny daily by pulling it down the street in a wagon while wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

Through the process of elimination, I determined that my chicken was most likely an escapee from the Mexican grocer that is down the end of the ally behind my house. The grocer maintains a wire pen of live chickens to take home for dinner.

How the chicken managed to escape, I’ll never know. Security measures looked pretty stringent when I peered over the fence at the end of the ally. I simply didn’t have the heart to rat-out the escapee after her successful bid for freedom.

But I also REALLY didn’t need a pet chicken. So, I hardened my heart and did my absolute best to pretend the chicken out back didn’t exist. I didn’t feed her. I didn’t put out water. I didn’t give her a name. (A first in recorded history for me when a stray has stumbled across my path.)

I hoped that if I didn’t acknowledge her presence, my refugee chicken would take the hint and move on to friendlier climes. I mean, there was a guy just a couple doors down who was a complete sucker for rabbits…

No such luck. The chicken sit-down/starvation strike continued for several days and I learned something I never wanted to in this lifetime… if you leave a chicken out in 110 degree sun without food and water, they start to wilt just like a neglected house-plant. I kid you not. Except they look at you reproachfully with golden eyes.

The little chicken was pathetic to start with and she got even more so. On the very rare occasions when she did bother to move, her moth-eaten wings dragged on the ground and she shuffled around like that creepy spider creature that went after Captain Kirk in one of the Star Trek episodes. And she made this pathetic little warbling noises rather than anything reassembling a cluck.

After about three days of the poultry guilt-trip, I went out back to water the lavender plant I’d brought with me. The bottom of the pot leaked a small drizzle of water—and the spider-chicken creature hurriedly shuffled it’s carcass over to lick up the drops of water that has escaped, making excited little mournful noises the whole time. She looked up at me with her little beady, avian eyes and cooed appreciatively. She was just so damn happy to have ANYTHING good happen to her.

The whole thing just struck a little too close to home and I cracked.

Cursing up a blue-streak, I went into the house, found a bowl I could sacrifice to the dangers of the Avian Flue, filled it with cold water, and gave it to her. And then I dumped a pile of thistle seed meant for my bird feeders to hold her long enough to figure out what the hell chickens eat.

The chicken had found Nirvana. I swear she didn’t shut up for the next two hours while she guzzled every drop of the water and did cartwheels in the thistle seed.

I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’d kinda half-hoped the thistle seed would be a bad idea and she’d keel over from eating it. Kind of like a horse with croup. No such luck.

I had fed and watered a stray and, by their covenant, I was now the proud owner of my very own chicken. And, as the owner of any new animal will tell you, that mean’s there’s stuff to be bought…

8/19/07 Chicken Logistic

Having never received The Gift of a Chicken from the Divine Universe before, buying supplies for the upkeep and maintenance of said chicken really left me feeling like a stranger in a strange land…

Fortunately, I already go to a local feed store to buy high-end canned food for my ancient, foot-mauling cat. I was low on food for D’Artagnan so I used this justify also shopping for the chicken.

A cute, freckle-nosed 20-year-old was behind the counter when I came in. She had the kind of disgustingly wholesome good looks and lithesome grace in a pair of faded jeans that could only come from a lifetime of growing up one of the local ranches. No doubt, she had some sort of darling, two-part name like Gloria Jean or Daisy Mae.

I’d kind of been hoping the retiree from New York City would be in. She was always kind to clueless greenhorns like myself. I cursed under my breath, knowing I was going to lose major feed-store cool points with Ms. Daisy Mae…

She looked at me assessingly from under her cowboy hat.

Into the breach, we go… “Uh. I seem to have acquired a chicken. Can you tell me what I should be feeding it?”

“Is it a hen or a rooster?”

“Pardon?”

That earned me the first eye-roll of the morning. “Is yer chicken a boy-chicken or a girl-chicken?”

I swallowed nervously. “How would I know that?”

This earned me Eye Roll 2. “Does it have a comb on its head? Does it make a lot of noise in the morning?” she asked using that tone reserved for small children and the mentally-inept.

“Well. It kind of warbles sadly to itself on occasion,” I offered helpfully.

That one confused her so much I didn’t even get an eye-roll. I was losing her. I decided I better try to make it easy on her…

“I don’t think it has anything on its head. It’s probably a hen. What do I need to feed her?”

“That depends. How old is she?”

“How old is she?” Again, I was at a complete loss. “Uh. I didn’t exactly ask her for her ID.”

Eye Roll 3. “How long have you had her, Ma’am?”

The dreaded “Ma’am”… There are two phrases in the southern lexicon that set my alarm bells screaming. The first is the sudden application of the title “Ma’am” where it hadn’t been appearing before. The second is anything ending in “bless their heart”. I particular hate the use of “Ma’am” as it makes me feel downright ancient.

In spite of feeling defensive between being a clueless greenhorn and dealing with the college girl sneer-factor, I decided I better tell the story of the escapee chicken from the Mexican grocer. That was a good call. It seemed to win me some small degree of sympathy from Daisy Mae.

“Ok. So you don’t know how old she is. How big is she?”

I winced. I’m not the most visually clued-in person you’ll meet on a normal day. And I sure as heck hadn’t realized I was going to have to give enough detail on the chicken in my back yard to be able to create a “America’s Most Wanted” poster.

Squinting, I tried to see the growing bane of my existence in my mind’s eye. “She’s, uh, about the size of… a sort of moldy bowling ball bag, I guess.”

You could see Daisy Mae debating internally on whether or not to try to press me for more information. Clearly deciding it was a waste of her time, she answered with: “Whatcha want is the lay crumble. It’s over there against the wall. Look fer the 20 pound bags.”

“Lay crumble?” I asked, not sure I’d heard her right.

I went over to the wall that was stacked from floor to ceiling with bags sloppily written on with Sharpie marker that had half rubbed off. Almost all of it looked like bags of sawdust, not anything that would keep alive a Gift from the Divine Universe. Plus the damn stuff was heavy.

I spent the next half hour rummaging through and shifting bags, trying to make sense of the various options of chicken, turkey, dove, and pigeon food that came in feed, pellet and crumble. Finally, triumphantly, I returned to the counter bearing my hard-earned prize—a big bag labeled “lay crumble”.

The clerk snorted. “That’s turkey feed.”

I just about wept.

Daisy Mae took pity on me and went and found me a bag of the right stuff. “You’re also probably going to want a nesting box. Chickens don’t do well in this kind of heat.”

“Tell me about it.” I muttered.

She arched an eyebrow at me. “You aren’t abusing that chicken, now, are you?” (Side note: it never fails to amaze me how many people care about the welfare of the damn chicken. But do any of them want to take care of her themselves? Noooo.)

I assured her I was the saint of all things chicken.

We then proceeded to discuss the merits of various types of nesting boxes. After all was said and done, she plunked something on the counter that looked suspiciously like a project made by a 5th-grader to hold Mom’s Kleenex box. It was $25.

Next, Daisy Mae lectured me on why I really needed to buy a second chicken to keep my rescue chicken company. Apparently chickens are herd animals and they can get a little neurotic living on their own. Go figure.

This was starting to feel suspiciously like the Star Trek episode Trouble with Tribbles. In my minds-eye, I could see my back yard becoming rapidly awash in mournful chickens. Thinking back to the week-long sit-in strike and the cartwheels through the thistle seed, I already had some doubts about my chicken’s sanity. And, as the bill for the chicken I didn’t want was already up around $50, I deferred that decision for another time.

I returned home with my purchases. Both the chicken and the local finch population greatly prefer lay crumble to thistle seed. The chicken wolfed down several large bowls of the stuff before squinting up at me beadily with what I interpreted as: “Now THAT’S more like it.”

She has, however, completely disdained the use of the $25 Kleenex box holder in favor of hanging out under one of the Palo Verde trees. I can’t say I really blame her.

Since getting with the program laid out for me by the Divine Universe, I am happy to report that the chicken has tripled in size and is looking considerably less moth-eaten.

Ms. Thang has grown to expect her lay crumble by a certain time of the morning. If I fail to meet her rigorous schedule, she positions herself in front of the French Doors in my dining room and fixes me with her beady, golden-eye stare, reminding me that this is no way to treat a Divine Gift from the Universe.

So that pretty much is the story on meeting the physical needs of the chicken. On to the metaphysical lessons…

8/20/07 Chicken Metaphysic

Apparently, I’m failing to fully appreciate the coolness factor of my Divine Gift of the Chicken. Whenever I grudgingly tell the story of her appearance, people get excited. They want me to re-tell the story to their friends. Every time they see me, they inquire about the health and latest news on the chicken-front. They ask for pictures. Lots of pictures. And they suggest offerings and ways to better appreciate the full glory that is my chicken. (But do any of them want them want to adopt the chicken? Noooo….

I’ve been traveling a lot this summer. This raised the question of who was going to feed and water the chicken while I was away. I ended up employing the same high-end pet service I use to care for my cranky cat, D’Artagnan. This is the kind of place that not only comes and feeds your animal and gives them their medicine. They spend an hour in “quality time”, playing with them and writing little daily report cards on what they’ve been up to for the day.

If the pet service was fazed to be asked to look after a chicken, they didn’t show it. The only thing that threw them for a loop is that the chicken still doesn’t have a name. (They ended up dubbing her “Mr. Chicken”, don’t ask me why.) So I came home from my writer’s conference and Pennsic to multiple pages of anecdotes on what Mr. Chicken has been up to in my back yard. Apparently she terrorizes the pet sitter at least as well as she does me. The pet-sitter is clearly not Ms. Thang’s spiritual assignment on this limited plane of existence and it’s wasting her precious time to have to be dealing with her. I had to tip the pet-sitter lavishly for her to agree to come back.

My Rolfer, Carol. has gotten into the act. She feels very strongly that I need to consult a well-known animal empath, Linda Jons, who lives in town to build a stronger rapport with my chicken. But, even more than that, Carol feels I need to adopt another chicken to keep mine company. Apparently, among her many talents, Linda keeps chickens and currently has a swarm of babies scurrying around her place. Carol wants me to adopt one. I hear about this every time I go to have Carol fix my ribs so I can keep fencing

Now, maybe I’m being paranoid about the whole thing. But the last thing I think I need in my life right now is an empathic baby chicken bonding with the neurotic one already out back. I don’t want to know what the two of them could hatch up—no pun intended–in the dark of the night to get me with the Chicken Metaphysical Program

Things on the chicken-front reached a whole ‘nother realm of craziness this past Thursday, though, when I told my fairy godmother, Judy, about her. The thing you need to understand about Judy is that she has a certain level of religious fervor that tends to complicate my interactions with her. To Judy EVERYTHING in life happens for a purpose. EVERYTHING has profound meaning. The chicken is no exception.

Listening to my story while seated at Starbucks, Judy vibrated in excitement so badly that I swore she was going to levitate. “But don’t you see, Stephanie! This chicken was SENT to you. This chicken is here for a PURPOSE.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I get it.” I swirled my chai distractedly. I’d heard this one often enough and made my peace with it

“No! Don’t you see? She’s YOU!!

OK. This one was new. “Huh?

“Don’t you get it? This poor young thing was running away from a horrible situation that was going to kill her. She’s beaten up. She’s looking for a place of refuge. She’s upset that life has treated her unfairly. And, of anyone she could have gone to, she came to YOU.

“Well, I am about 30 feet from the back of the grocer,” I offered helpfully

Judy is not so easily dissuaded by logic. “What color is this chicken?

“Huh?

“What color are her feathers?”

I squinted, trying to remember. “Kind of a coppery red, I guess.

“YOU SEE!” Judy slammed her coffee cup down on the table. “She’s a redhead. She’s YOU! God sent you this chicken to teach you about yourself!!

It was hard to argue with Judy-logic. “Well, whatever she is, she appears to be here to stay,” I conceded grumpily.

I would have thought Judy would be happy in her victory but she looked troubled. “This chicken… she’s healthy right? She doesn’t look like she’s going to die or anything., does she?

Lord, don’t let me have to take this thing to the vet to appease Judy, was all I could think. “She seems quite healthy,” I assured her

Judy peered at me over her rhinestone-laded glasses. “You sure?”

“Scout’s honor.” I crossed myself

Judy continued to look troubled. “Ok, well, if she dies, you call me, okay? She’s you. But I don’t want you taking it personally or anything if she doesn’t make it.

Now my pride was wounded. “The chicken has the best food money can buy and her own little chicken penthouse. I think she’ll be okay.

Judy patted my hand and insisted that I bring her pictures of her “grand-chicken” when I see her next week. But she continued to look troubled.

I couldn’t help wondering, if she things the chicken is a representation of me, what she thinks my chances of making it might be as convinced as she seems to be that the chicken is doomed

Anyway, I, personally, draw short of Judy’s conclusion that the chicken is some sort of avian personification of myself. I do, however, generally believe that the things that appear in your life are there to serve a purpose or teach you particular lessons. I have been having a difficult time, however, discerning the specific purpose of the chicken.

Quite frankly, other than being an entertaining anecdote for my friends, she’s really kind of an unfriendly, ungrateful pain-in-the-ass. (This may also be why she still lacks a name.) I always thought Jim Henson was kind of whimsical in his portrayal of animals. I can tell you now, though, that he nailed my chicken pretty well. She’s a pissed-off, vocal, indignant ball of fluff

She makes a mess of the yard. It’s a constant battle to keep algae out of her water bottle. She nags me went I don’t feed her on the schedule she deems appropriate. She terrorizes the neighborhood tomcat. She beats the hell out of the sparrows who try to poach her food. She tears up the yard looking for something more tasty than lay crumble delivered on an erratic schedule

She frequently follows me about the yard issuing a long litany of complaints in Chicken-ese. The day we were both caught out in a summer monsoon, I would bet my life on the fact she was actually cursing me out soundly for not letting her into the house. (And, let me tell you–a soggy, pissed-off chicken with water running off the end of her beak is not a pretty sight.

For her part, I suspect my Guardian Chicken is unhappy with her assignment of subjects. I am clearly not getting with whatever the karmic program is supposed to be. And she has already put enough time-in-grade being a Divine Gift from the Universe to deserve better than her current miserable gig

I am trying to get with the program. Reading up on chickens as animal guides, I have learned that chickens are supposedly descended from the Gallus, the Wild Red Jungle Fowl of India. They symbolize curiosity, knowledge, independence, the innate ability to sense danger, and the ability to maintain an individual identity while amongst a group. Those all seem like good things to have in my life, but, to be honest, I’m not sure I’m learning much on those fronts from my spiritual guide right now. Mainly I’m just busy trying to keep her from killing my ancient cat.

What I have got from her is this…. As the full impact of the last couple of years has hit me, there have been several days when it’s all I can do to get my butt off the couch. I would, quite honestly, like to pull a quilt over my head and stay there for quite a while until everything blows over and I don’t care so much about what has happened. Maybe a nice decade or so

But, generally, the guilt-trip from the hungry, pissed-off creature peering through the doors at me is enough to get me moving in the mornings. And, once I’ve finished feeding Ms. Thang, it doesn’t seem unmanageable to think about making something for myself as well. And then maybe looking at paperwork or something else moderately productive

That’s it for the profound. No doubt I’ll get the Advance-Placement Chicken Lesson when I’m up to it. She doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon. No matter how much I might wish it

And, in the meantime, I seem to be amusing my friends in family with the ongoing saga of the chicken.