My Journey to Becoming My Mother

Conversations with my SmartWatch

Posted on February 10, 2026 by becomingcliche

A few years ago, my husband surprised me with a smart watch. It was the latest rage, and everyone I worked with had one. There were all kinds of step challenges going around, and I saw a couple of grown men nearly come to blows over step counts. No one had ever offered to fight me over how much i said I walked, and I felt left out. Enter my smart watch.

It was great at first. Every day, I got a nice visual representation of why I was so tired. And I could see if a text needed responding to without having to drag out my phone. My fancy watch wasn’t just telling time, it was SAVING it. Then things got weird.

Smart Watch: “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

Me: “Yeah, I know.”

SW: “If you don’t get some sleep, you’re going to DIE, girl.”

Me: “K-thnx. That helps a lot. Although I’d probably sleep better if you didn’t just randomly buzz in the middle of the night.”

SW: “Just keepin’ things fresh.”

It seemed weird that this gadget was watching me sleep, but I guess that’s part of it’s job, right? All the health monitors and stuff. And I appreciated some of its features, like the reminder to get up and get moving if I have been sitting too long. I learned, though, that she does NOT like it when she is ignored. Covid was hard for her.

SW: slow, sarcastic clap “Oh, good. You’re up and moving.”

Me: “I am SICK!”

SW: “Time for some exercise!”

Me: “I am going to the TOILET. Stand down.”

SW: “Whatever. It’s your life.”

I used my watch to track not just my sleep, but also my exercise. It has a series of buttons to push to record a workout, and I get a regular report on my fitness efforts. And do I look forward to those reports.

SW: “Okay, so yesterday, you did 58 minutes on the elliptical machine. That’s… okay for now, but if you’re not going to die of sloth, you’ll need to step it up a bit.”

Me: “That was nearly an HOUR on the elliptical. Total exercise for the week is recommended to be at least 150 minutes! I knocked out a THIRD IN ONE GO!”

SW: “Tell yourself whatever you want, Fatty.”

That time, I threw her on the counter for two days. If I wanted harsh judgment on good effort, I’d invite Aunt Marge over for dinner. She pouted a bit, but she kept some of her criticism to herself for a little while. Only for a little while.

SW: “You only walked 11,000 steps yesterday.”

Me: “Yeah, I walked 13 miles the day before.”

SW: “You’re supposed to walk 12,000 steps a day, and you only walked 11. You owe me 1000.”

Me: “Again, 13 mile hike. It all averages out.”

SW: “Sure, Tubbs. Fine.”

Last week, I was really sick, confined to bed for several days. I made the mistake of wearing my watch. She gave me up for dead.

Me: “Why are you going through my stuff?!”

SW: “Oh, hey… I thought you were…”

Me: “That’s not yours! Is that my good jewelry?”

SW: “Sorry. Sheesh. I asked you to get up about a thousand times.”

Me : “I was SICK. Why are you still sorting through my stuff?”

SW: *slides jewelry box in pocket* “I mean, I did ask you to get up and get moving, and you never…”

Me: “I was SICK! That’s my newDungeon Crawler Carl shirt. Put that down! Look! I’m up! I’m doing jumping jacks. Is that good enough for you?”

SW: “I guess. Yay, you. Go, go, go.” *slides DCC shirt on* “That’s three steps for the day. Only 11,997 more to go.”

Me: “I’m not DEAD! Hand me back my wallet!”

SW: “Yet. You’re not dead YET.”

And so it goes. I’ve restricted my watch-wearing to only my active hours of the day so I don’t have to hear her gripe as much. I have also learned to take her with a grain of salt because I am sure she only wants the best for me. Smart devices are designed to help us, and to make our lives easier, so I’ve been making my peace with Smart Watch. We’re cool.

But don’t get me started on the Roomba.

How Does This Keep Happening?!

Posted on April 15, 2025 by becomingcliche

I got a text from a coworker last week. She had found a sad little mousie – lost, cold and barely responsive. She kept him warm and waited for an answer to her text. When I got back to the building, the little critter was all packed up and ready to go home. With me. Because I am the default ~~sucker~~ person to hand-rear all the things. And how could I say no?

Have you ever seen a more world-weary little mouse? So I took him home. And I named him Butterbeer.

My guess is the little guy got booted from the nest before he was totally ready. The goal is to grow him up for a few days and then release him. A few days can make all the difference in the world to a mouse. They become adults within 21 days. If he was born a little behind the rest of his litter, it makes sense that he would still be acting like a wee baby. He can eat solid food, which is a bonus. I don’t have time to bottle-feed a baby mouse every 45 minutes.

After a the first day, I began to question if Butterbeer is releasable at all. He could not find water in his enclosure, and even more concerning, he happily jumped into my hand. An animal with limited survival instincts and no fear of humans is doomed.

I believe he is a White-Footed Mouse, but I am no expert on native rodents. iNaturalist said “We believe you have found a rodent.” Thanks for narrowing that down.

So the question is, will he be able to go free, or will he take up a more permanent residence in someone’s home (not mine!)? Time will tell. In the meantime…

The Introverted Activist: Economic Blackout February 28

Posted on February 27, 2025 by becomingcliche

Friday is a big day, friends. It has been a hot minute since I have turned on my political activism in a public way. The last time Spanky the White House Felon was in office, I was so depressed at the state of our union that I gained about 15 pounds and experienced some pretty significant depression. It’s hard to see the point in even getting out of bed when you feel powerless to change any of the horrors unfolding before us. This time around, I got smart. I preemptively eliminated all of my social media, I have set up filters to send any emails with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in them straight to my trash folder. And I have removed all news stations from my presets in my car. I have to know and respect the limits of what I can reasonably handle in order to be successful (or at least not horrifically depressed). I will take my bad news in manageable bites.

I have done some quiet things behind the scenes to help the auntie network and prevent crisis pregnancy, and now I’m sharing some more public things that we can all do together to get the attention of the billionaires in charge. What can we do? We can keep our money. That’s all there is to it. When dollars are all the powers-that-be care about, we can happily keep said money tucked into our wallets, pockets, mattresses, cookie jars, and OUT of the hands of the wealthy elite. See if they won’t listen a little better then!

Why are we boycotting? The Clown in the White House has ordered rollbacks of diversity and inclusion initiatives and are asking businesses to essentially sniff out any DEI activity and report it. Despite the fact that they are so rich they could afford to grow a whole new spine in a lab somewhere, some CEOs out there think it’s easier to just roll with it rather than standing up and doing what is right. Target is one of those businesses that has agreed to pull back diversity initiatives. Are we really SO good at hiring minorities, the disabled, women, and other marginalized groups that we don’t need to keep diversity at the forefront of our hiring practices and work culture? Not by a long shot! Target doesn’t want to stand up for marginalized people, so they must not want MY money.

Several organizations have gotten the word out about planned boycotts, and the first one is Friday, February 28. That’s tomorrow. This Great Economic Blackout asks that for a single day, we do not spend money at ANY corporation. If we need something (and who DOESN’T run out of milk at the oddest time), we can choose to make our purchase from a locally owned business. The main businesses being targeted by this blackout are, ironically, Target, along with Walmart, Amazon to name but a few that exploit their workers and kowtow to the Whiny Right.

This Friday, I will not order groceries for pickup, I won’t buy anything online, I won’t wander the aisles of Target searching for the next great thing, I won’t even get fast food. I’ll get gas tomorrow, I already have meals planned and shopped for. I have a birthday gift to get for a friend, but I have a GREAT local book shoppe where I can find just what I need. And if I need a caffeine boost during my day, said book shoppe also has truly delicious coffee drinks.

If you’re displeased with the direction our country is moving (I.e. straight down the toilet), please consider joining me this Friday and keep your money at home. It’s only for a day, but if we are all in it together, we can send a powerful message. We can take back our country twenty-four hours at a time. Save money, save our country, and we never even have to leave home to do it. As a great boss once said, it’s a win-win-win.

If you choose to join the blackout, I would love to know the businesses you chose to give you business to instead. Link them in the comments!

Field Guide to the People You Find In the Gym

Posted on January 14, 2025 by becomingcliche

It’s a new year. 2025. It’s going to be a good one. Who doesn’t love a year that ends with five? For many people, new year = “new you.” And for lots of folks, a new “them” means fitness goals and a gym membership. If this is you, welcome, friend, and allow me to show you around. The bathrooms are to the left, pool is to the right, and that distinction is of critical importance. Now, scan your card and follow me up to the fit floor.

And this is it. Stand for a moment to get your bearings. Familiarize yourself with the sights, the sounds, and only when strictly necessary, the smells. May this Jack LaLanne jungle take you to new heights of physical prowess in the coming year. First, though, we need to learn about some of the creatures inhabiting this intimidating collection of rubber and iron. Every gym is a glorious ecosystem, supporting innumerable species. Let me introduce you to the most common.

The Regular- this individual is the most populous species in any gym. Note how they blend into their equipment, disappearing almost completely until their slow, tired walk to the sanitary wipe dispenser. They are harmless, no-nonsense creatures whose behaviors are as predictable as their workouts. They’re just there to get things done. They demonstrate recognition by an upward tilt of their head when eye contact is made. You are encouraged to return the gesture. Danger level: Harmless

The Influencer – This species is one of the more intentionally flamboyant on the Fit Floor. They come to the gym ready to get seen. Not by you, silly. No one wants to be seen by mere mortals such as us. That’s why we’re at the gym to begin with, silly. This creature performs curious behaviors for an ephemeral reward known as “Likes” for a closely related species known as “Followers.” Sporting the croppiest tops and the bootiest shorts, The Influencer will not so much work OUT as work IT. The most strenuous part of their exercise comes from walking back and forth between phone and bench to make sure they have, indeed, captured the perfect angle. The purpose of their behavior is unclear, but it may relate to attracting mates. Danger level: once believed to be harmless, until someone walked into their shot. Twice. Dangerous.

The Hoarder – This species collects workout equipment like it’s their job, piling it away in a safe corner where they won’t have to go find it. Looking for the 15lb hand weights? The Hoarder likely has them in their nest. Yes, both sets. 10lbs? Also in their nest. Along with the squat bar, the ab roller, and any kettle ball under 30 inches in diameter. This species vocalizes on occasion, making a call that sounds like “I was using that.” Danger level: unpredictable. Don’t touch the kettle ball.

The Newbie – This species is easy to spot. They stand out from the rest because of their confused expression. They spend more of their time looking at equipment than using it. Characterized by a wide-eyed countenance, Newbies appear most often alone and have a marked refusal to ask anyone for help. Danger level: harmless

The Expert– Believed to be a subspecies of The Newbie (see above), The Expert “knows” how to use every piece of equipment despite never having read the instructions. Like The Newbie, they are unable to ask for help and can be seen using the chest press backwards. Unlike other gym species that camouflage with the equipment, The Expert calls attention to themselves by their ineptitude and their sincere over-estimation of how much weight they can and should be using. Younger specimens can be identified by the cloud of Axe body spray that seeps from their pores. Threat level – harmless, except to themselves

The Squatter – The behavior of this species is unique in its extreme level of annoyance to other gym rats. This creature camps out on a piece of equipment for longer than necessary. The purpose of this behavior is unclear, but it is believed to be an attempt to convince the opposite sex that they are so strong and athletic that they have simply worn themselves out with a single set (or rep, as the case may be). The Squatter can be seen scrolling on their phones, watching videos, returning emails, and possibly filing their taxes while other species circle the equipment looking for an opening. Danger level: harmless, unless you have high blood pressure.

The Grunter – This species is almost never seen but is most definitely heard. They hide out on the bicep curl next to yours and issue deep grunts with every rep. Often mistaken for a constipated bear, the main difference is that the bear actually goes in the woods, while The Grunter is in danger of going in their pants. Danger level: moderate

The Screamer – The most illusive gym inhabitant by far, The Screamer is never seen, and is only known to exist from its loud calls that sound like they have ruptured a testicle, even if they don’t actually have them. Their call is immediately followed by a sound similar to the crash of weights hitting the ground. Local mythology says that if you see The Screamer, you will immediately turn to stone, which they will then attempt to lift. Threat level: unknown. If you see this creature, proceed with caution.

The Psychopath – There may only be a lone individual Psychopath left in the gym eco-system. This creature was spotted several times ago, but it has been many years. For unknown reasons, The Psychopath utilized a treadmill while reading a book. This species (perhaps subspecies) of treadmill walker’s distinguishing feature was their propensity to finish a page and proceed to tear it out of the book. It has not been seen since 2019 and may be extinct. Threat level: Dangerous

I hope this guide proves useful to you in your fitness journey. There are many other species out there, and I may cover a few of them in a later post.

Next Stop: Cusco

Posted on March 7, 2023 by becomingcliche

In last week’s post, my husband and The Padawan helped me plan out our trip to Peru in their special way. Today, we’re going to Cusco! It took a minute to get there. We do things on the cheap, so if you travel with me, expect a few connecting flights. Our first flight was to Atlanta. It was an uneventful evening flight. We expected a bit of a layover. Our flight was at 11:00PM, and we arrived at about 8:00. The beautiful thing about Atlanta is that every seat has multiple charging ports, so we settled in to charge our devices, read, and maybe take a tiny nap. Enter Mason.

We’d been relaxing for maybe an hour, seats at the gate slowly filling up. Seasoned travelers laid on the floor, using their packs as pillows. And suddenly, the peace was shattered by a tiny typhoon. We knew his name within the first ten seconds of his arrival with his enormous extended family. We couldn’t figure out his story. As he ran up and down the rows of seats, squealing and poking strangers, no parental figure stood out. No one asked him to quit hitting. When, in a voice channeling Satan himself, Mason demanded CANDY NOW, Uncle Steve gave it to him. Aunt Heather sat behind us, riffling through her purse. “It’s time to medicate,” she said in an exhausted voice. “He’s not missing this dose.” Where were Mom and Dad? Were they meeting up in Lima? Or was Mason a sad orphan that no one quite knew what to do with? Watching him sneak up and smack his older cousins, who were just trying to catch some sleep, I couldn’t find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. When we learned our flight had been delayed yet another hour, and then two, I did feel sorry for us. The kid never stopped. You had to admire his energy. I guess. At least on the flight, we had earplugs.

Our flight touched down hours late, and I knew we’d missed our connecting flight. There was nothing we could do about it, so why worry? We’d get there eventually. We did. And it was stunning.

The topography of Cusco is so different from home. Where we have lush, green hills, their hills are bare. It is a desert. We touched down at the beginning of the rainy season, and we’d get an afternoon downpour, but in an hour, the water was gone, with no evidence that it had ever been there at all. The hills were dotted with homes, easily visible even from a great distance, the trees so small and stunted they provided no shade. As we headed out of the airport and into the sun, we could feel the intense, burning heat. Deserts are funny things. During the day, the temperature spikes to uncomfortable heights, but the moment the sun sets, the world turns cold. It’s not unusual to experience 30 degree drops in temperature within a few minutes.

The altitude is what takes out most travelers in the beginning. At 11,300ft above sea level, a few days adjustment is required. I brought medication for altitude sickness, but I only had issues one night. As we traversed the city, I only experienced a little tightness in my chest going up steep hills (Cusco is ALL hills). My companions didn’t fare quite as well.

We were placed in a homestay with the amazing Gabriela. Her home was enormous and centrally located, so on any given night, there were at least eight volunteers in residence, sometimes as many as twelve. Her home provided easy access to Maximo Nivel‘s headquarters, and many volunteers were within walking distance of their project, or at least a short bus ride away. The other new arrivals were struggling with headaches and muscle spasms. Even the coca we bought in the market didn’t help. It takes time to adjust.

We were given the option to rest upon arrival, but who can rest with a whole new country just outside the door? We had to explore, and within a day, I felt like it was my city. We were warned about pickpockets, told to hide our phones, etc. But it’s no different than being in any crowded area, anywhere in the world. The key to being left alone is a Resting Bitch Face and a rapid pace. Don’t handle your money in public, don’t leave your phone hanging out of your pocket, walk like you mean it.

Inca artifacts are everywhere. The whole city is literally built on them. My husband had done some reading, and he heard about the Twelve Angels, so we went off in search. We were not successful, but we saw so much of the city.

We searched all afternoon, to no avail. We did encounter one of the Alpaca Ladies, women who dress in traditional clothing and will let you take their picture for a couple of soles (about fifty cents, US). We found ONE angel in stone, so there must be eleven more, right? We couldn’t find them. That night, a little research concluded that we had been looking for the twelve ANGLES. This.

It’s a stone that highlights the incredible stonework of the Incas. They used no mortar at all. They carved each stone to fit so precisely that none was needed. Speaking of, as we were exploring the city, encountering the travesty that is a Starbucks off the historic Plaza de Armas, who should we run into again? Mason. Our guardian angel must have misunderstood. We were looking for MASONRY, yo. We heard his melodic shrieks from a block away. The whole family looked tired. Except for Mason. He is such a joy.

I try not to be too wordy in my posts, so I’ll leave off here. I just have so much to share. In our next installment, shall we head to the jungle?

Livin’ La Vida Selva

Posted on February 28, 2023 by becomingcliche

It’s been a minute. Life gets in the way of blogging sometimes, which I suppose is better than blogging getting in the way of life. I have had some big adventures. I’ll share them all over time, and today’s the first installment.

Back in August of 2021, I applied for funding for a personal development opportunity through my job at the zoo. Did you know that at accredited zoos, a portion of each ticket price is set aside for staff development? This can be a workshop in Raiser’s Edge for Development and Human Resources, a construction project building schools in developing countries for Maintenance or Exhibit Design teams, or it can send keepers to in-situ conservation projects so they can learn more about the care of animals in their native habitats or help with ongoing research in the wild.

My goal was to go to Peru and assist with a reforestation project in the Peruvian side of the Amazon rain forest. I got approved for the funding, and this past October, my husband, The Padawan, and I made the trek as far off the grid as I have ever been.

I booked the Peruvian side of the arrangements through Maximo Nivel. This organization provides the volunteers for multiple projects across Central and South America. People can do everything from teach English to kids, work in animal care in a zoo or on a farm or dog sanctuary, build schools, etc. They have use for all skill-sets. To be clear, these projects are NOT Maximo projects. They find these projects and provide volunteers, usually long-term. It is possible to book with some projects directly, but I STRONGLY recommend going through Maximo. They are one of the highest-rated volunteer organizations I have found, with the majority of money going to build volunteer teams. The cost is so reasonable, and it covers everything once volunteers are in their destination country – food, lodging (often a home-stay, which is lovely), training, ground transportation (including an airport shuttle), and backup support, which we learned the hard way is INVALUABLE. Unless you’re a seasoned traveler who is familiar with the ins and outs of the chosen country, I recommend booking through Maximo. I am not getting a kickback from Maximo for recommending them so highly. I just DO. For real. Trust Heather. It cost $900 for 2 weeks. The only other thing I had to cover was my flight.

Because the project is open to anyone who is physically able to do the work and can pass a background check, my husband and The Padawan booked their own arrangements and went with me. I gave them one job. One. Job. They were to find me the perfect neck pillow. One job.

The Spousal Unit sent me this:

And the Padawan sent this:

And that was when I was pretty certain this trip was going to kill us all.

Next post, we’re going to Cusco! Not Costco, mind. CUSCO!

Back In the Game

Posted on September 6, 2022 by becomingcliche

I know I’m not alone when I say that the last couple of years have been a complete and utter cluster-cluck. The pandemic was hard enough with school going virtual, work shutting down for a couple of months, wondering if we were going to be unemployed and lose everything. We survived it, but 2020 decided to go down swinging.

A couple of days after Christmas, I took my husband to the emergency room for severe abdominal pain that had been building for weeks. His primary care doctor hadn’t come up with a correct diagnosis after multiple tests, and I was not going to wait anymore. I’d have taken him on Christmas except that it had snowed so much there was no way to get a car out or ambulance in due to the steep hills every direction, and it wasn’t possible for him to walk to the nearest cleared road to catch a ride from there. When I think about it at all, I can still feel the suffocating anxiety. How would I get him to the hospital? Would they be able to figure out what was wrong?

At the emergency room, the doctor said it sounded like classic gallbladder symptoms and sent him for a CT scan. Two hours later, he was in emergency surgery for a baseball-sized bowel obstruction. Six more hours passed alone in the surgical waiting room until I learned from a surgeon I’m fairly certain is still in middle school that the obstruction was a tumor, likely cancer. It amazes me the ease with which doctors can toss around words like “cancer” and “chemotherapy,” weightless as feathers instead of life-altering bricks raining from the sky. A biopsy later, and cancer was confirmed. We learned entirely new vocabulary. “Clean margins.” “5FU.” “Neuropathy.”

The following six months were lived in two-week increments. Chemo one week, recover the next, lather, rinse, repeat. The nice planner I bought for 2021 lay collecting dust on my dresser. Goals shifted from writing a couple thousand words a night to “get dinner on the table. Wash dishes. Did The Destroyer finish his homework?” Our lives were measured out in episodes of “The Office,” “Jeopardy,” “Wheel of Fortune.” Our social connections consisted of friends dropping off a meal the evening after treatment. We kept our heads down, and kept moving, one foot in front of the other.

Chemo ended a year ago. We began to make plans. Not big ones. We’re going to hike Gregory’s Bald, LeConte Trail, Charlie’s Bunyon. Next year. We’ll hike. We’ll get out and do it in 2022. Because we can. With this kind of cancer, if it doesn’t return in 2 years, it’s unlikely to ever come back again. We like those odds. 2023, we’re coming for you.

I don’t know when it happened, but one day I looked up and realized that we have moved on. One clear CT scan led to another, and then to another, and now we’re living our lives as though cancer never existed. It is a blip on a radar, a speck in the rear-view mirror. We adopted a dog-monster. Her name is Storm, and she has the energy of a caffeinated hurricane. I would never have considered adding chaos to the household if we were a cancer family, when we needed life to be as uncomplicated as possible.

We’ve hiked, too. Boy, have we hiked. We hit all three of our target trails within the span of a month, about 30 miles and God only knows how much elevation gain. On Gregory’s Bald, I kept thinking we would eventually run out of “up.” The Padawan even joined us for that one. We missed the peak of Flame Azalea season by about 10 days, but it was still worth it. We did it. We survived, and now we thrive.

Our next adventure is a trip to Peru to work on reforestation in the Peruvian Amazon. The Padawan is joining us for that one, too. Two weeks in the forest with no electricity or running water? Bring it. I did finally think to clear it with the oncologist a couple of weeks ago as an afterthought. She shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” Me, neither.

And here’s the best news. 2 years is considered cured. We learned at our last visit that the clock started the day they removed the tumor, not the day chemo ended. On December 27, we’ll be celebrating that two full years without cancer. We don’t have a year and some change to go; we have four months. In four months, this whole episode can be chalked up as a major pain-in-the-ass inconvenience and nothing more. We’re here. We’re back. We’re in this game to win it.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Squirrel, Interrupted, Adventures in wild animal rehab

Posted on October 20, 2021 by becomingcliche

One Girl-child, an injured baby squirrel, and a rehabber who couldn’t take him until morning adds up to one memorable night.

how cute is he? So cute, it HURTS! He is doing well, according to the rehabber, though he got a rough start.

I am writing this from my doctor’s office. I am getting my meds adjusted. Hopefully in a couple of weeks, this rough patch will pass. I am keeping my frog consumption realistic, but I am still going to work on some small things. One tiny step forward. I’ve got this.

what’s on the menu for you today?

The Day of Reckoning

Posted on October 19, 2021 by becomingcliche

So, I ate some frogs yesterday. A rather lot of them, really. I didn’t think about it. I just snarfed them down. I went to the gym, I made a doctor’s appointment to possibly up my Cymbalta, I worked on a Christmas present that has lots of fiddly parts, did laundry, made dinner, and I cut the dog’s nails, and I even picked up a whiny kid from basketball practice and didn’t just leave them in the parking lot. Yay, me. I did it. I’m doing it. A bunch of frogs, all taken care of.

Have you ever had a frog, though, that got kind of big and just kept growing? For months? Like, went from egg to tadpole to frog right in front of you? And you watched it grow, and not only did you not really try to contain it, you actually fed it MORE? Ya’ll, don’t believe that garbage about frogs only growing to the size of their enclosure. They will outgrow you if you let them. And boy, did I let my metaphorical frog outgrow me.

Time to transfer to the new enclosure. For reference, the froglet is sitting in a 1/4tsp scoop.

My family’s motto is “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Words to live by, and boy, do I. My heart comes alive in the spring, and what feeds my soul are houseplants. Lots of them. This year was no different, with one tiny exception. I often make starts of everything I can find because creating something new is beautiful. And powerful. And then I come across a plant or two on the clearance shelves at the home improvement store and add them to my little collection. And then I start more. And rescue more. Lather, rinse, repeat. All while forgetting for the moment that the total count of cat-proof windows in my house is exactly one. I’m a ~~hoarder~~ collector. What can I say?

My husband has learned not to say “You bought another plant?” because he is a patient man. And also because he would rather not find a cactus hiding in his pillow. But as the Fall draws near, I can tell he’s thinking it. By mid-October, so am I. And today, the frog I REALLY didn’t want to look at, much less eat, was bringing them inside for the cold weather.

When I say I have a lot of plants, I mean I have a LOT of plants. I gave 30 plants away, but I’m left with at least 60. For a single window. Does anyone see why I might have procrastinated on eating this particular frog?

I decided to make my life easier and buy a plant stand, and voila! Another cat-proof window. But, it’s Halloween. And I love Halloween. And my husband found the decorations. And it looks SO GOOD!

I mean, there are a FEW plants on it, so technically it’s still a plant stand, right?

So I got another set of shelves. And, because this year, not only did I add a million plants to my collection, my love lies toward succulents and cacti, I also had to get some grow lights. But fairy jars are so cool! And they make great gifts! And Christmas is coming. So maybe I created a few more fairy jars than I actually have space under the lights for. But PRETTY!

And maybe I love all the “strings of things” plants (dolphins, turtles, bananas, watermelons, hearts, and let’s not get started on the VARIEGATED ones!) a little too much and have plans of setting up a table at the farmer’s market in the spring. So I have boxes of propagations. Again, they make great gifts. And I only have to house them for, like, two months for Christmas.

So I bought another set of shelves. Because why wouldn’t I?

I mean, what else was a girl to do? It looks really good, and the only down side is that there are so many grow lights that if we go in the living room, we should probably put on sunscreen. I’m okay with it. I’m just pretending that we still have to find room for all of my trees. Has anyone ever bought a vacation house for their plants? Asking for a friend.

What frogs have you eaten today? I’d love it if you’d share in the comments.

Eating Some Frogs

Posted on October 18, 2021 by becomingcliche

It’s been a while. I’ve had a lot of thoughts to share, but not so much energy to share them. A lot has happened in the last ten months, and my brain went on vacation. It didn’t invite the rest of me, and I’m a little bitter about that. The only thing I’ve been crushing lately is candy. But husband’s treatment is done, his first post-treatment scan was clear, and now it’s time to get back into life. Is my blog life? That is yet to be decided and largely hinges on whether or not I can figure out the new format on WordPress. But it’s time to actually start living again. I’m ready.

A few weeks ago, I signed up for a challenge by Jon Acuff to get the ball rolling. If you’re not familiar with him, he’s a personal development speaker and writer. He has done things, and he likes queso. His writing is very accessible, and his books are short and to the point. His tips make sense. And he’s funny. Anyway, I signed up for a goals challenge, and I liked it. So I signed up for his new course called “Full Potential.” I also started listening to his podcast.

As I listened to the podcast, I started making a reading list of books that were mentioned in the podcast, either by the host or by the guest. This week, I have read Born to Win by Zig Ziglar, Soundtracks, by Jon Acuff, and Eat That Frog by Brian Tracy. The last one is REALLY short, but it gets right to the point. Based on the Mark Twain quote “Eat a live frog first thing in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day,” Eat That Frog lists 21 ways to tackle the onerous tasks.

Lake Titicaca Frogs, also known as Scrotum Frogs. Please don’t eat them.

There’s one thing all of these experts have in common. More than one thing, really, but this one thing especially. The most effective people are always working off of to-do lists. It’s how they stay organized and focused, and it’s the best way to keep track of what frogs are left to eat. So I have made some lists. I used the ColorNote app to organize daily lists for work because I can have my lists in my pocket, and it’s easy to cross stuff off. It’s also easy to uncross the stuff so that I can reuse the list.

I’m eating frogs. I’ve stumbled, one foot in front of the other, for a year, and I want to get back to who I was. So I make my list, and I eat my frogs. The goal is to free up as much time as possible for the things I am passionate about. What I’ve learned, though, is that at this moment, I’m passionate about nothing. I don’t love anything. And I realized that I am more depressed than I thought I was because if you know me, you know there’s a lot of stuff I normally dearly love. Today, I don’t care about diddly squat. But future me will.

I know that this depression is a biological thing, a combination of life stressors and biology (this weird genetic liver thing I have can express in some serious psych symptoms. I know that this will pass because I have dealt with it for years. It will pass. Today, I don’t give a rat’s hind parts if I sink or swim, but tomorrow I might And the lists I am making may help.

There’s something about seeing a list of stuff crossed off at the end of the day or the week or the month. I might not care that I did it, I might not be interested in thinking about the end results right now, but I know that not doing anything at all makes me feel a million times worse. So I have my list of frogs. They might be tiny ones right now. But I am trying.

Today I did a big one. I went to the grocery store last night, and there was an error on my receipt, and customer service was closed. That meant I had to go back today if I wanted the refund. And I did it. I got my $8 back. Today, I went for a walk. I took my older kids to an open-air market. I planned out the things I want to get done this week, AND when I am going to do them. Meals are planned for the week. I crossed things off my list. Tomorrow, I will, too. One day at a time, one list at a time, one tiny item at a time. I am going to eat some frogs.

You know I love this guy. I know I love this guy. I will tap into my passion again. It’ll happen. Until then, lists.