Cobh and Blarney

I fell asleep quickly at Midleton Park Hotel, exhausted by travel and jet lag. I slept soundly until about 6:00 AM local time. I tried to go back to sleep when I saw that I had another hour before my alarm, but couldn't. I peeked out the window of our hotel room, where I spied a cute chubby calico cat perched on the doorstep of a charming row house across the street. With my extra time that morning, I decided to take a leisurely approach to doing hair and makeup, and getting my suitcase packed up for the next destination.

Our tour group kept a brisk pace with a loaded itinerary. Our second full day with the group started with a drive to Cobh (pronounced "cove" according to our coach driver, Conor from Donegal.) I loved Cobh with its colorful buildings, charming main street, idyllic seaside views, and impressive giant church atop a hill. The harbor town currently known as Cobh, was originally called Cove. In 1849 Queen Victoria set foot on Irish soil for the first time at Cove. To honor the event, the name was changed from Cove to Queenstown. After the formation of the Irish Free State, the town again returned to the name Cove, but in Irish language form: Cobh. 

statue of Holy Mary at Cobh

cute pub near harbor

hilltop view toward Cobh harbor

St. Colman's Cathedral dominating the hilltop

cute colors in Cobh

Scots Church in Cobh

Chad and I chose to visit the Cobh Heritage Centre, rather than Titanic Experience Cobh, because our coach was parked right next to CBC. (Location, location, location!) I'm happy we experienced Cobh Heritage Centre, because it featured lots of good exhibits and information about many waves of Irish emigration, rather than just the Titanic ship story. I found the far-flung places of the Irish diaspora fascinating: Australia, Jamaica, Bermuda, Barbados, Argentina, Brazil, and many more places you might not expect!

After not quite enough time in Cobh, we hit the road to Blarney Castle and Gardens. Chad and I chose to forgo the ninety minute line to kiss the Blarney Stone, especially during these germy times. Instead we explored the gorgeous gardens and grounds surrounding the Blarney estate. The Blarney grounds are huge with over 60 acres! I loved the beautifully bewitching Poison Garden growing Wolfsbane, Mandrake, and Cat Mint. I also loved the Fern Garden complete with a waterfall and ferns cultivated to look tall like palm trees. I wish we had a little more time at Blarney. Chad and I definitely rushed through the lake walk trail to meet our tour coach on time.

Blarney Castle

After Blarney, our group checked in to the next hotel on our itinerary, the Rose Hotel in Tralee. We had about an hour to freshen up (or for a "wash up and brush up," as tour leader Richard says) before loading into the coach to go to dinner at a different hotel in Killarney. At dinner, we sat at a big table with a new group of people from our tour: three retired British teachers who were friends for many years plus one of their husbands, and two sweet elderly British widowed men who travel together each summer. Collectively this bunch of fellow tour group members were delightful dinner company with thoughtful and kind conversation about different social media platforms, movies, television shows, modern phone etiquette, and education. 

After dinner our group went to a Celtic Steps Show. I acknowledge the heritage of Irish dance, as well as the skill and discipline involved. True confession time though, I do not enjoy watching traditional Irish dance or Irish step shows. To my very untrained eye, it's repetitive and stiff and monotonous. The ladies' dance outfits especially look scratchy and constrictive. If you love traditional Irish dance and traditional Irish music, please continue to enjoy it. 

By the way, I turned off comments on this blog a few years ago. Just whisper your comments down your kitchen sink drain if you need to get any strong opinions out of your system. If you have any scammy business links you wanted to post in the comments, take those over to Instagram. Thanks!

I slept beautifully at the very comfortable Rose Hotel in Tralee. Would recommend. We stayed two nights there. I admittedly didn't love packing up and moving hotels so often on this trip, but I acknowledge the need to be in close proximity to each day's attractions versus spending hours in the coach each day. 

Come back to this blog in about a week for more Irish travelogue adventures. Nobody is paying me for these posts, so I'm not committing to a schedule. I have dishes to wash, laundry to handle, walls to paint, and cats who need about an hour of brushing and playing each day. Responsibilities! Plus my (totally imaginary) housekeeper went missing during the worst of pandemic stay at home times. 

Cork City & Jameson Distillery

As previously mentioned, Chad and I finally arrived in Ireland for a nine day tour in June of 2022. The first evening we met our fellow tour group members, we were somewhat gleefully informed that we were the only two members of the tour group who weren't retired. The elder Brits eyeballed us with some suspicion at first. The few elder Americans who were also on the tour didn't find us until the next morning.

I'm not going to lie, although Chad and I were on our very best behavior, dinner the first evening was rough. We were seated at a table with four British people who were each about thirty years our senior. We exchanged pleasantries of names, hometowns, and what brought each of us on this trip. Then the Brits started talking British politics, somewhat heatedly. Oh no! This is not we-just-met conversation! Regardless of age or nationality, if you choose to start a sentence with the preamble, "I'm not racist, but...", you are likely about to announce your prejudices. Oh no! Chad and I just met these people, and had another eight days with them, so we reacted to their opinions with chilly silence. Plus, they were each interrupting themselves to make requests from the one and only server for our group of twenty-four diners, so our disapproving silence likely went completely unnoticed.

Near the end of dinner service, our tour leader introduced himself and gave a quick verbal orientation of our tour itinerary for the group. As soon as politely possible, Chad and I excused ourselves from dinner. We took our jet lagged selves back to the seen-better-days hotel room for much needed showers and sleep. 

Bright and early the next morning, we strategically secured a table for two (only two!) at breakfast. After breakfast as we lined up to board the tour bus, we met more of our tour group members. Thankfully these other group members did NOT immediately express their strong political beliefs, instead opting to ask how we slept the night before, and if we were experiencing jet lag. Our bus dropped us all at the Dublin train station where we caught the 9:00 AM train to Cork. On the train, Chad and I sat with our tour leader, Richard. He is a delightful man from Yorkshire with a dry wit. We chatted about pre-pandemic travels, pets, and hobbies. Richard overheard me refer to Chad's rain boots as his Frankenstein boots (the boots are green and black and boxy.) He told us about Whitby Goth Weekend in North Yorkshire, which he finds very interesting and amusing.

When our group arrived at the train station in Cork, we met even more members of our tour group. (There were twenty-four people total including our tour leader.) We chatted about weather, tea preferences, and other polite topics as we waited for our bus to Cork City center. Tour leader, Richard, gave us a bit of history information about Cork, handed out maps, and told us what time we should meet the bus again. We were thankfully on our own to explore Cork for a few hours and feed ourselves lunch. Chad and I made a beeline for the English Market, which is an indoor market hall comprised of many different food and beverage stalls. We found really good veggie sandwiches at The Sandwich Stall. We also bought some fruit and baked goods. 

After lunch we wandered around Cork, pausing to gawp at churches, cathedrals, a big statue, and ducking into cute shops. We also went to Costa (a coffee and tea shop) for some tea and to find a restroom. (There are so seldom enough public restrooms in tourist areas.) After waiting a few minutes for our turn in line for the restroom, Chad let me go first. This may seem to be very nice of him, but it was more like I was the advance scout going to check out the situation. There was no toilet seat. I hovered above the cold porcelain rim of the toilet, which was surely crawling with a mind-boggling collection of germs, bacteria, and grime. Upon exiting, I warned Chad, but he's a man who can easily urinate while standing, so the lack of toilet seat wasn't as big of a deal for him. There was a sign in the restroom from Costa corporate asking patrons to inform the manager if the restroom wasn't clean and comfortable. I did NOT bother the manager of the busy Costa about the missing toilet seat. But Chad and I joked about the sign, and the lack of toilet seat, and the manager's possible response if we had chosen to stand in line to inform them. "Really? I am shocked! Shocked! Please accept my sincere apologies. I'll have someone leave this busy beverage service establishment to procure a new toilet seat and make repairs post-haste!" Like they don't have enough to deal with at the moment with staffing shortages, cranky customers, and supply chain woes. 

National Monument in Cork City honors Irish patriots

After our free time in Cork, the tour bus transported our group to a guided tour at Jameson Distillery. I was surprised at how massive the buildings and grounds are at the distillery. Our tour guide was a quick witted, fast talking, young man, barely of drinking age. He told us all about the history of making whiskey in Ireland, the science of whiskey fermentation, and the history of the people of Jameson Distillery. The rooms we visited on our tour were dark and cool. Despite the interesting material, I felt myself starting to doze off while standing upright, because my jet lag and lack of sleep on our trip thus far left me so drowsy. I almost skipped the whiskey tasting, thinking it would complicate my jet lag, but I'm glad I decided to partake. I rarely drink alcohol these days, but that Jameson Irish whiskey really was smooth and delicious.

Jameson Barrel House

Jameson Cask Room: perfect for a nap

Jameson and ginger ale cocktails, refreshing

My adorable travel companion at Jameson Distillery

After Jameson, our group checked in at the next hotel. Midleton Park Hotel is clean, modern and lovely. As our tour guide, Richard, likes to say we had "time for a wash up and a brush up" before meeting our group again for dinner. Chad and I sat with a different older British couple on that night. They told us all about their children and grandchildren, not asking anything about Chad or me. Fine, good, that's nice, oh what cute photos of your grandkids, etc...

Quick sidebar about the hotel dinners: every single dinner, Chad (a pescatarian) had a fish filet atop a mound of mashed potatoes. Every single dinner I (a strict vegetarian) had a veggie curry, which is apparently the unofficial vegetarian dish of Ireland. This happened at many different hotel dining rooms. They share just the one recipe book industry wide, I guess. There were no green salads on offer. *sigh* I love green salads, and need to eat approximately five to seven green salads a week. The veggies typically on offer in Ireland are potatoes (of course), carrots, radishes and swede / rutabaga. Creativity and variety occurred only when it came to desserts each night: bakewell tarts, deconstructed red velvet cake, chocolate Guinness cake, and even an exotic (by Irish standards) Key lime tartlet.

Quick sidebar about the different plugs and voltage in Ireland compared to the U.S.A.: of course Chad and I brought outlet adaptors for our electronics, but I did not bring a voltage converter for my curling iron. I just hoped my curling iron would work in Ireland, which is not an effective or diligent way to prepare for a trip abroad. My curling iron did kind of work in Ireland, but I had to set it to the absolute lowest heat setting, and even then, the curling iron seemed too hot. I think I fried the wiring in my curling iron by not having a voltage converter. It bravely lasted for the duration of the trip, but I had to lay it to rest (or risk seriously burning my hair) shortly after returning home. Sorry, curling iron, you deserved better from me.

Alas, poor curling iron, I mourn your death.

Tune in later (not committing myself to a schedule) for more Irish tour shenanigans. 

Third Schedule Lucky Irish Charm

Travel around Ireland has long been on my travel bingo card. In December of 2019, after much research and budgeting, I booked a tour called Enchanting Emerald Isle. I bought round trip plane tickets for Dublin Ireland. Everything successfully planned, Chad and I looked forward to our nine day trip all around Republic of Ireland in June of 2020. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

In late April of 2020, I got a voicemail from a man with a lovely British accent informing me that my Enchanting Emerald Isle tour needed to be rescheduled due to the global pandemic. I also got a real loosey goosey email from Delta letting me know that the flight to Dublin was canceled, and that I had a year to use the credits for that flight. So I phoned the man with the lovely British accent, and we postponed the reservation for the Enchanting Emerald Isle tour from June of 2020 to June of 2021, when the world would surely be up and running again. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

In late April of 2021, I called and emailed the man with the lovely British accent, wondering if his company still existed, and if we should reschedule Enchanting Emerald Isle tour for June of 2022? After a few suspenseful days, he got back to me. Yes, the company still existed. Yes, we have to push the reservation for Enchanting Emerald Isle tour back again. Sometime during 2021, I received another loosey goosey email from Delta that my travel credits for that canceled flight to Dublin extended through December 31, 2022, because laws. Hoping for the best in 2022, but trying to remain flexible, I shrugged and crossed my fingers. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! 

Finally! It happened! In June of 2022, Chad and I went on the Enchanting Emerald Isle tour all over Republic of Ireland. It was everything I dared to hope it would be. There were also several hiccups, because COVID-19 isn't done reinventing itself yet, and the airlines are woefully understaffed.

Buckle up, buttercup! It's travelogue time! (Sorry if that sounded aggressive. I mean for it to sound familiar and playful with just a little tinge of foreshadowing that not everything goes as planned, like ever, but especially the past few years.)

Cliffs of Moher: a preview

Leading up to our departure date, I triple-checked our passport expirations, our vaccination cards, our reservation with the pet-sitters, and our flight arrangements. I did all the anxious things I do before a trip out of the country, such as sending a detailed travel itinerary to my best friend, my nicest neighbor friend, and Chad's mom. I made sure that the pet-sitters knew who should look after our cats in case of our untimely demise. (Hi, my name is Jennifer. I have anxiety. I choose to sublimate my catastrophizing with planning for disasters and communication of those plans.) I made sure that Chad and I packed extra socks and extra underwear. I told Chad we had to get to the airport four hours before our flight. He knew I was anxious, and did not argue. 

On our travel day, we made it to the airport very early. We checked in for our flight with ease. We made it through airport security in under thirty minutes. Everything was going smoothly. Hahahahahahaha! Then I got a text from Delta informing me that our flight from Austin to Atlanta was delayed by fifty minutes. What that text did not say was that delay meant we would miss our flight from Atlanta to Dublin, so good luck with that. I noticed that Delta had another flight from Austin to Atlanta set to begin boarding soon. As calmly and kindly as I could, I approached the gate for that earlier flight. I asked the gate agent if she could help me switch to that flight, or if I needed to go to a different service desk.  I explained my flight delay situation. The gate agent calmly and politely explained that the earlier flight to Atlanta was very full, and very unlikely to accommodate us. I said I understood. I said we could rebook our connecting flight to Dublin once we got to Atlanta if it came down to that. The gate agent took our names, and added us to the standby list. Did you catch the running themes here? Calmly. Kindly. Politely. 

Ten minutes later, the gate agent paged our names. She said we could squeeze onto the earlier flight, and warned us that the seats were not good: middle seats across the aisle from each other on the back rows by the bathroom; not the Delta Comfort Plus we paid for on the later flight. "I understand. Thank you so much. That's fine as long as we make our connection," I said. Then that superstar gate agent went above and beyond. She asked for our luggage claim stickers. She went out in the 105 degree Fahrenheit heat, on that even hotter tarmac, and physically made sure that our bags got on the same flight as we did. Thank you, Pamela from Delta! I submitted a rave review for Pamela on the Delta website. I hope Delta gives her a raise. 

We made it to Atlanta. We made our connecting flight to Dublin. On that flight to Dublin we enjoyed the Delta Comfort Plus seats very much. We arrived in the Dublin airport at 10:05 the next morning, local time. So very jet lagged and bleary eyed, we made it through customs, found a taxi and made it to the first hotel where we would meet up with the other members of our tour group later in the evening. Ta-da!

Chad and I knew we couldn't check-in to our hotel until 3:00 PM local time, so we stashed our bags with the front desk and got a taxi to nearby Malahide Castle and Gardens to begin our Irish sight-seeing adventures. The taxi driver asked if we wanted to walk the nature trails around Malahide Castle, or be dropped off at the visitor center. We opted to walk part of the 4.5 kilometer Malahide Castle Demesne Sylvan Trail first. When we left home the day before, Austin temperature reached 105 degrees Fahrenheit / 40 degrees Celsius. The temperature at Malahide that day provided such sweet relief at 59 degrees Fahrenheit / 15 degrees Celsius. The path was shady, with plenty of flora lining the edges. After a bit of relaxed wandering, we found the 800 year old castle. It did not disappoint!

Malahide Castle Main Entrance

Malahide Castle Backside

Malahide Church Ruins

Malahide Fairy Garden Entrance / West Lawn

Malahide Pond in Walled Garden

These photos are only a small fraction of the beauty of the gardens, grounds and butterfly greenhouse habitat that we experienced at Malahide Castle. We got rained on a bit, but we weren't upset by it at all! Rain, cool temperatures, and lush greenery are big parts of why we wanted to visit Ireland!

Around 3:30 local time, we got a taxi back to our hotel so we could check-in and freshen up before meeting the other members of our tour group for dinner. The first hotel (not going to name it) was not that nice, in a worn carpet, frumpy way. I was perplexed by our small room with two twin beds, stale air and dusty ambience. This is a four star hotel in Ireland? Luckily we only had one night there, and the staff were friendly and helpful. 

The majority of the other members of our group were traveling together from Holyhead, Wales. The majority of the other members of our group were British. And all of the other members of our group were retired, except for me and Chad, as our tour guide jovially announced upon meeting us the first night. Our tour guide, Richard, thanked us for bringing down the average age of the group. Nowhere in any of the booking details does it say that these tours are for retired people, but apparently retired people self-select for these tours. Oh no! Did I commit Chad and myself to nine days of rambling around Ireland with a bunch of slow, cranky septuagenarians? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Spoiler alert: The retired people on our tour were (for the most part) extremely friendly, inclusive, fun, and ready to explore Ireland at a fast pace! We were all (or mostly all) great friends by the end!

Tune in later (I'm not committing myself to a schedule) for all the Ireland tour travels.

Manic Hobgoblin's Resolutions for 2022!

Manic Hobgoblin is an egomaniacal inner voice that previously lived in my head rent-free. He took off during the pandemic to a luxury bunker in an undisclosed location. As soon as he possibly could, he emerged from said bunker to resell toilet paper and face masks on the internet at a 4000% price markup. Manic Hobgoblin skipped the line for a COVID-19 vaccine, not at all sorry as he pushed past elderly individuals and immunocompromised people. He justified skipping the line for a vaccine, because he needed it to go on a VIP cruise lasting 245 days and traveling to 59 countries. Now he's back from the fancy cruise. 

Manic Hobgoblin ran out of money, and defaulted on his bunker payments. Lately he sneaks into my home (and my head) with alarming stealth. I tried to push him out, but he whisper-screamed some New Year resolutions to me. He said he won't leave until I share them with the world. Or at least with my 357 loyal readers. (You know who you are. I'm going to HEB later. Let me know if you need anything.)

Manic Hobgoblin's Resolutions for 2022 are as follows:

1. Learn some foreign languages such as Lemerig, Njerep and Ongota. Fluently.

2. Read every book in The Library of Congress.

3. Start an Etsy store that drop ships factory made stuff.

4. Become an actual social media influencer. 

5. Get plastic surgery for abdominal muscle implants. 

There. I did it. Hopefully Manic Hobgoblin will leave now. I'm trying to convince him to move into the Museum of Ice Cream so he can generate loads of content for his various social media accounts.

I'm not making any resolutions for myself. This pandemic took it out of me. I've let go of most of my control issues. I've let go of making concrete plans. I've let go of doing full hair and makeup every day. The closest thing to a resolution this year is setting my reading challenge goal to forty books over on Goodreads. 

Happy New Year! I'm hoping 2022 is better than the previous two years were. 

Felt festive & cute. Might delete later.

Have You Met Queenie?

Don't you love hearing about other people's dreams? Whether their dreams are nonsensical, deeply Freudian, prophetic or just plain mundane? No? Me neither, so I'll keep it brief. Chad and I both had some intensely vivid dreams during the height of the pandemic. One of my dreams was that we had moved into a new house in a new city, and we had a beautiful long haired black cat. I told Chad about this dream, wanting to ask him what new city he thought we might have moved to in that dream. But his eyes got really wide, which made my eyes get really wide, and made me say, "Wait. What? Why do you look like you saw a ghost?" Chad said, "I also dreamed that we had a beautiful long haired black cat." Oooooooohhhh, coincidence dreams! So naturally, I started cruising the local cat rescue adoption websites to manifest our shared dreams. Plus our resident cat, L.B., communicated with much meowing that he was so lonely as the only remaining indoor cat for over a year's time. Chad and I knew that Janie wasn't long for this mortal coil, and that if we didn't act soon, L.B. would literally be beside himself as our only indoor furry roommate.

In April of 2021, Chad and I adopted a ridiculously cute, affectionate and adventurous kitten. She has medium length black fur with the tiniest white spot on the tip of her tail, and a cocoa undercoat featuring a marble tabby pattern which can only be seen in the brightest natural light. 

We tried many different names for this kitten including: Hazel, Zelda, Millie, Midori, Taxi, Kenzo, and some others I can't remember, because we almost immediately rejected them. A few days after we brought this kitten home, I looked at her, and said, "You're so in charge here, like a little queen. Is your name Queenie?" She gave an imperious slow blink and a nod, then toddled off to find L.B. so she could get a good licky grooming from him. I ran the name past Chad, and although he had previously been very attached to the name Hazel, he agreed. 

Aunt Queenie played by Elsa Lanchester in Bell, Book, and Candle

I got the name Queenie from the character Aunt Queenie in the movie Bell, Book, and Candle, and from the character of Queenie Turrill in the British television series Lark Rise to Candleford. The name Queenie also derives from an affectionate British nickname for people who share the same first name as a Queen of England, such as Elizabeth, Victoria, Anne and Mary. 

If you follow me on Instagram, or you are one of the exactly seven people allowed into my home during the pandemic, then you've seen Queenie. For the rest of you, see the photos now. You're welcome!

Queenie's adoption profile pic

Queenie's first day in her forever home

Peek-a-boo! Queenie sees you.

Queenie loves lounging in a sunny spot.

Queenie and Janie overlapped for a few months and sweetly shared heating pads.

Look deeply into Queenie's eyes. You're feeling very sleepy...

Queenie's typing skills are nonexistent, but she is a hit on Zoom.

Queenie blends right in with the velvet chair/throne.

Queenie and L.B. love each other so much.

Janie: A Memorial

Janie Lulabelle May Snacks Currie was an excellent dog. Known by her friends as just Janie, she had a rough start in life as a young single mama. Janie and three of her puppies were picked up as strays by benevolent animal control employees and taken to the city animal shelter. Back then, Austin was not a no-kill city as it is now. Blue Dog Rescue group plucked Janie and her puppies out of the city shelter before their time ran out. 

Chad and I went to a meet and greet adoption event for Blue Dog Rescue. We had picked out three other dogs based on their cute online profiles. Two of the three were already adopted by the time we arrived, and that third sweet dog was not the right dog for us. One of the coordinators for Blue Dog Rescue steered us toward Janie. The coordinator told us about Janie's excellent manners, her gentle nature as a mama dog, and her success rate with house training. Janie's puppies had all three been adopted, but Janie remained. People love puppies, and I get that. But Chad and I wanted a calmer, house trained dog, who knew the sit command, and could walk on leash. We did not want a puppy. We took Janie for a walk around the Petco parking lot. She took care of business, as if to say, "I feel immediately comfortable enough to poop in front of you." When we dropped her back off at her crate with her foster mom, Janie sat down and flopped over to reveal her tummy for pets. Chad and I both knew in that moment that this was our dog. I feel like she picked us, just as much as we picked her.

In her younger days, Janie enjoyed walking (up to three miles a day) at a good pace. She savored chewing on Nylabones and Benebones, earning her the nickname "Landshark." Janie liked to sunbathe on the back deck for hours at a time. We would make her come inside at regular intervals to cool off, teasing her that she shouldn't bake her brains too much. Janie loved attending the prestigious day school at Camp Four Paws, and was head of her canine class for many years there. She relished a good romp at the dog park. Janie never got the knack of swimming per se, but she delighted in a nice soak in the waters of Shoal Creek or Lady Bird Lake.

Janie spent thirteen and half years with us. (She was at least fifteen years old in total.) She was an excellent nanny dog for many foster kittens and for two foster puppies. Janie was very sweet and gentle with our resident cats, and especially patient with Sonic the bully. Janie met our most recently adopted cat, Queenie (more on her later), and shared her heating pad with the new kitten. 

As Janie got older, she experienced steadily escalating troubles with her back hips. Under our veterinarian's care, Janie was taking a daily NSAID pain reliever which we supplemented with CBD treats. Near the end, Janie let us know that she was increasingly in pain and discomfort.  She paced around at night, and could not be consoled. She whined softly as a way to sooth herself often. Janie no longer enjoyed sunning on the deck or chewing on Benebones. Chad and I had many tearful talks about what we needed to do for her. We decided that for the final two weeks before her scheduled farewell appointment, we would double-dose her NSAID tablets and give her the maximum recommended CBD treats each day. (Double-dosing the NSAID meds is not sustainable as it can cause stomach ulcers among other problems, but we knew it would be for a very limited time.) We spent her final two weeks spoiling her rotten and doing everything we could to make her comfortable and happy. Despite our best efforts, she was still clearly uncomfortable and tired of everything. On Janie's final day, the doctor at our veterinarian's office told us all the perfect things: "You gave her such a good, long life. We should all be so fortunate. It is very selfless of you to let her go. She knows you are here with her. She's drifting off to sleep." And after a moment, the doctor listened for a heartbeat, and hearing none, she said, "Janie is at peace now." Chad and I each kissed Janie's giant, heart-shaped forehead a final time as we cried with jagged breaths and snotty noses. 

For weeks after Janie's departure, we wondered if we did the right thing. (We know rationally that we did, but this is part of the process of grieving an old dog, a beloved family member we carefully chose.) Chad and I start each other crying again with a shared memory, a knowing look, or a mention of Janie's schedule. We were absolutely spoiled to have a dog as sweet and gentle and full of personality as Janie was. 

Dear (Totally Imaginary) Housekeeper

Thank you for continuing to work for us during this weird time in history. You are like a chosen family member.

Thank you for staying on top of the laundry, making sure we've ordered all the food for the pets and the squirrels,  and for planning our meals in response to ingredient shortages at the stores. (Seriously, why is there no slow-cook brown rice to be had?) But... last week when our curbside grocery order made it home, I noticed that literally one-third of the items were missing. We were charged for those items. We were counting on those items for meals. When you contacted the store to try and rectify the situation, I understand that the prerecorded message directed you to the website, and then hung up on you. I'm sorry that happened to you. I know how frustrating that must have been. But... I'm still awaiting a refund from the store after you emailed them about the situation. Please follow up with the store again.

Thank you for being resourceful, and planning curbside meal pickups from our favorite local restaurants last week due to our grocery shortage. But... we were looking forward to healthy homemade meals.

I understand that you panicked after last week's grocery pickup snafu. Frankly I also felt my anxiety rising. While I appreciate that you took the initiative to set new grocery pickups for this week, you went a bit overboard. So much cheese! Which luckily keeps for a while. But... what am I supposed to do with five pints of organic grape tomatoes. And why can't you find any slow-cook brown rice still? How long does it take to grow more rice? I'm holding you personally responsible for the rice shortage, (Totally Imaginary) Housekeeper.

Also, thanks for ordering washable face masks for the household. But... the large size you bought for Chad does not fit over his big face. What do you mean there is no extra-large size? Can you get out the sewing machine and fix this?

Also, the dog needs you to do more enrichment activities with her. She seems to enjoy the training activities. Please stop just giving her a Kong treat every time she whines. That only buys us four or five minutes. You have to do the training where you make her sit and stay, then come to you in the far corners of the backyard. That tires her out more.

Also, L.B. misses his former feline companion. I need for you to play chase the laser pointer dot with him more frequently now. He also wants more brushing. But... please do be a dear, and swiffer all the loose fur after his brushing sessions. I'm tired of seeing cat-fur-tumbleweeds rolling around the hardwood floors.

Also, I noticed you haven't been ironing the pillow cases for the bed. We really liked that. Can you please do that again?

Also, I know I said I would repaint all the exterior doors during this stay-home time, but I don't feel like doing it now. Please, (Totally Imaginary) Housekeeper, can you paint the doors? We have the paint and the supplies. Just make sure you clean up after yourself.

Also, can you please go to the plant nursery and buy tomato plants, tomato cages, basil, and bougainvillea plants? Now that it's warming up, I need you to spruce up the raised planters and hanging basket planters. Just wear a face mask. I'm sure you'll be fine.

One more tiny thing: my car battery warning light is indicating that I need a new car battery soon. Can you please deal with that?

Thanks so much, (Totally Imaginary) Housekeeper. You're the best. I don't know how I'd cope right now without you.

via GIPHY

Sonic: A Memorial

Sonic came to live with us in October of 2006 when he was approximately six months old. He was originally found in a feral cat colony in the Travis Heights neighborhood. Sonic was named for his loud, yodel-like meows by the lady who found him. Sonic was always very chatty, responding vocally to any prompts. Sonic adored and annoyed his two older feline roommates in equal measure. He loved people, especially people who fed him. Sonic loved a heating pad. Perhaps owing to his early days in the feral cat colony, Sonic also enjoyed the outdoors. Typically, when Sonic went outside he stayed in our backyard, in or on top of his heated, weather-proof cat shelter on the back deck.

Sonic was mostly a sweet cat who loved a warm lap and getting brushed, but he had his dark side. Sonic struggled with anxiety which manifested in resource guarding and inappropriate urinating all over our home. The amount of Sonic's pee I cleaned up over the years is both heart-breaking and infuriating. Heart-breaking that he suffered with his anxiety. Infuriating, because cat pee is a booger to clean. The amount of Simple Solution and Nature's Miracle we went through with Sonic was astounding.

Sonic did not like our dog, who joined our home in February 2008. Sonic charged at our dog, and bopped her on the nose aggressively a few times a week. Our dog is a tolerant sweetheart, and never once defended herself. I tried to explain to Sonic that he weighed thirteen pounds and the the sweet, tolerant dog weighed fifty-plus pounds. I told Sonic that one day he would pick a fight above his weight class, and that it would not end in his favor. (This, here, is called foreshadowing.)

Sonic loved his new little brother, L.B., when he arrived on the scene in December of 2015. The two boys were sweet wrestling buddies, always up for a game of chase. They both indulged in catnip, laser pointer shows and ribbon chasing together.

Late on the night of Friday, March 13, I heard (but thankfully did not see) a cat's war cry out in the front of our home. The yowl was loud, and ended abruptly. L.B. was sitting with me at the time, and heard the ruckus also. It ended so quickly that L.B. and I thought nothing of it, returning to our reading. The next morning Chad asked if I had let Sonic inside last night, because Sonic wasn't waiting at the backdoor to come inside that morning as he usually was. I said no. I did a thorough sweep of all of Sonic's favorite cozy hiding spots inside the house. No Sonic. I walked the front yard, the side yard and back yard, calling for Sonic. He typically came running when I called him. Still no Sonic.

At this point, I think my brain was protecting me from the memory of what I'd heard the night before. Especially on top of the whole quickly evolving COVID-19 situation, I was processing too much information.

Chad and I have seen coyotes roaming our neighborhood late at night on several occasions. They come up from the creek bed, looking for food when most people are sleeping. But Sonic had disappeared in the past for up to three days, and returned home unscathed. I was trying to decipher if Sonic was out on an adventure, or if Sonic had been a coyote's dinner. I checked the local lost and found pet pages online. Still no Sonic. I checked his microchip registration, which has current contact information. No reports of a microchip scan for Sonic.

On Sunday afternoon, March 15, I looked at Chad and said, "It feels different this time. I don't think he's coming home." Then I teared up just the tiniest bit as I relayed the scuffle that I heard out in front of the house the night Sonic disappeared.

Three weeks later, still no Sonic. We're 95% certain that Sonic charged at a coyote, thinking he would win that fight, and became the coyote's meal. The circle of life isn't always pretty.

Sonic lived a good life of almost fourteen years. He was predeceased by two of our beloved O.G. cats. He is survived by Janie, the dog he bullied, and by L.B., his beloved feline companion. Sonic's favorite vet tech, Jan, once said, "He's a cool cat, so chill, just hanging out with us while we do his bloodwork and urinalysis." While in some ways we miss Sonic, in other ways it is a relief that he is no longer peeing all over our home and bullying our sweet, elderly dog.

Maya Angelou said it well. "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." Sonic made us feel many things, some lovely, some not so lovely.

Manic Hobgoblin Retreated to Bunker

I haven't heard much from my inner Manic Hobgoblin of late. He retreated to his luxury bunker in an undisclosed location somewhere in the Southwestern United States of America. Luckily he left me with one tub of sanitizing wipes and about ten rolls of toilet paper. I also found a box of face masks in my painting supplies that he forgot to abscond with when he left at sunrise a few weeks ago. (These face masks are not the N95 kind that should absolutely be donated to health care workers, just the little pleated ear loop kind.)

In absence of Manic Hobgoblin, and under stay home orders from my city, I've been balancing chores with fun homebody activities. Lots of laundry, washing dishes, cleaning out clutter, vacuuming,  preparing tax documents, etc, interspersed with lots of reading fiction, playing card games/board games, moving around the giant Easter eggs on my front lawn each day to amuse myself and passers-by, cuddling the pets, watching Netflix, Hulu and YouTube. All this fills my days just fine. I don't need Manic Hobgoblin spinning around my house right now telling me to learn a fifth language or to try every exercise video from the internet. I wish Manic Hobgoblin well in his bunker. Maybe he can stay there permanently.

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Manic Hobgoblin Hates That Class

Going back to school during middle age is difficult for me. I always feel like I should be studying, watching a how-to video, doing homework, or practicing recipes for my pastry chef classes. I made all A grades last semester. I am on track to make an A in two of my three classes this semester. But the third class is very challenging for me. I hate it. It makes me want to quit the program. If I don't pass this class, I will not be allowed to continue the pastry chef program. The name of this vexing course is "Basic Food Preparation", and it is anything but basic. I'm learning to flute mushrooms, tourne potatoes, make hollandaise sauce, and a bunch of other overly complicated, fussy stuff I'll never do again as a professional baker.



This past week, the chef-instructor for this class scolded the class members, saying we should memorize our recipes and methods for preparing the assignments before class. (Forgetting that many of us have never worked in a professional kitchen. Ignoring that most of us have never made the Mother Sauces from scratch.) Chef barked that it shouldn't take 30 minutes to make a Hollandaise sauce, Espagnole Sauce and French Classic Tomato Sauce. (Um, I beg to differ. The instructions for the Espagnole Sauce clearly state to simmer it for one to two hours.) Chef also said that his job is not to teach us to cook, but to teach us to be professional chefs. (Clearly discounting that the baking and hospitality students must take this Basic Food Preparation class, and that baking and hospitality students do not want to be culinary chefs, thanks all the same.)

Chef has failed to instruct our class about mis en place, or getting all of our ingredients prepared and organized before we begin. He just barks at us to go faster, and to come wash the dishes that are stacking up at an alarming rate. Then Chef yells at us that we didn't finish all three sauces and our fancy cut board presentation. Is this what hazing feels like? I am not a fan. Class consistently gets out late. We are sent home to do our lab reports, rather than being able to fill them out while Chef is present to answer questions.

Also, Chef hates when his students are vegetarians (even for religious reasons), and when they have food allergies (going so far as to drop a student from the program who has an anaphylactic allergy to fish). I'm a vegetarian with a peanut allergy. *sigh* So I gagged my way through rendering pork fat for the tomato sauce and deglazing beef scraps for the Espagnole sauce. (I was told by the culinary school program advisor that the Basic Food Preparation class didn't deal with any proteins. Um... beef and pork are proteins!) I will never again prepare Mother Sauces as a baker, I hope.

My inner Manic Hobgoblin wants to quit. This class is difficult. This class is not fun. Chef is unreasonable in his expectations, and sloppy with instructions. Manic Hobgoblin says it is better to quit than to fail. Manic Hobgoblin says that something I want to do as a future profession should not hinge upon this difficult class that is so very loosely related to my future profession.

Manic Hobgoblin and I agree that Hollandaise Sauce looks and tastes like heart disease, that Espagnole Sauce smells like a sickly sweaty cow, and that pork fat has no place leaving greasy drops in Tomato Sauce. Gross.

However, I have to disagree with Manic Hobgoblin that I should just quit the program. I'm going to get through this BLEEPing prerequisite class. I probably will not make an A, thus ruining my 4.0 Grade Point Average. I will do my very best to pass this vexing class with a C or better. Being imperfect is better than quitting in this case. Riiiiiiiiight? Because I'm having doubts.

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Manic Hobgoblin's Resolutions for 2020

My inner Manic Hobgoblin boldly announced his New Year Resolutions for 2020:

1. Get back on Twitter and start a Twitter-feud with a major celebrity to gain more followers and engagement.

2. Start day trading with the goal of 400% R.O.I. in the first month alone.

3. Really solve Brexit this time.

4. Schedule a round-the-world-in-eighty-days exploration trip. Fly first class and stay in only the best accommodations. You deserve this. (Never mind that your dog is coming up on fourteen years of age. Never mind that your cat sitter just announced that she is moving to Denver. Never mind that you are a full time student again.)

5. Read 150 books this year. Again, never mind that you're a student with many hours of homework each week.

6. Go ahead and buy (not lease) a charming space for your bakery now. By the time the build-out, permitting and inspections are complete, you'll be finished with your pastry chef certification.

7. Run a marathon in at least five major cities this year.

8. Pay off your mortgage nine years early with the profits from your day trading.

9. Buy a vacation home. Anywhere. Regardless of how remote the location. Remodel it and outfit it with only the most high-end accoutrements.

10. Watch every show on every streaming service.

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Yeah, suuuuurre. It's good that you said that, Manic Hobgoblin. *backs slowly away*

My true New Year resolutions are to read thirty three books, and to take care of myself, my husband and our pets. Last year I resolved to read thirty books. I read thirty nine books including three college textbooks cover to cover. I went back to school after many years of thinking about it and talking about it. I earned a 4.0 grade point average this past semester. 

However, I did not make good on last year's resolution to watch the original Charmed television series (1998 - 2006) in its entirety. I gave up halfway through the series. Life is too short to fulfill meaningless goals made on a whim, especially when a television series gets that ridiculously bad in season four. 

The Most Terrifying Haunted Barn

Tis the season for all things ghostly, ghastly and terrifying. Even at church. Or at a church function.

I was in the fifth grade. My family attended a large church in the Birmingham, Alabama area. My dad volunteered in the Evangelical Outreach mission in the church and also taught a young adult Sunday school class. My mom worked as a secretary for the Minister of Music at our church.

Our church was a wealthy one. The church had recently bought a multi-acre parcel of land that featured day camp grounds, a large bunk house for retreats, a big swimming pool, giant picnic pavilions and a stable without any horses. (My church was wealthy, but not wealthy enough for horses. They had some sense of decorum when it came to spending church funds.)

During the fall season our church usually held a Halloween carnival at the recreation center on the Friday before Halloween for families with young children. There was a costume contest, carnival games with cheap plastic prizes, bobbing for apples, refreshments such as mini-donuts hot from the fryer, popcorn, corndogs, candy and orange drink (it was orange colored and tasted like sugar water with a hint of acidity).

When the church bought the "camp" which was located within a thirty-minute drive of town, they started hosting the Halloween carnival at the camp, with the addition of hayrides and a haunted house in the horseless stables.

My dad had a younger friend at church named Warren. Warren and my dad met in the Evangelical Outreach program. They thought each other to be hilariously funny in their little mutual admiration society. My dad and Warren had been largely responsible for the haunted barn. They had kept the details top secret even from me, or maybe especially from me.

Here's some background information to consider about my dad. My mom was (and still is) deathly afraid of snakes. There are no beneficial snakes or harmless snakes as far as my mom is concerned. There are only "kill it now" snakes according to Mom. One day my mom was taking a nap after work. My dad and I found a tiny garter snake in our yard. Dad bribed me with candy to carry the little snake into my sleeping mother's bedroom and wake her up while dangling it over her face. I believe you can still hear the echos of her screaming in that neighborhood. Another example: My dad knew I suffered from motion sickness as a child. Yet whenever we went to the park with the tire swing, he'd push and whip the tire swing mercilessly with me in it as I screeched for him to stop. I know this led to projectile vomiting in at least two instances. My dad had a bit of a mean prankster streak under the Sunday school teacher facade.

So I'm at the Halloween carnival at the fancy church camp in the fifth grade. My mom's boss had a daughter that was my same age named Kim. Kim sported an impish face with freckles and a bucktoothed smile. She had reddish brown hair that stuck out at odd angles from her scalp. Kim never liked me for whatever reason. Kim saw me in line for the hayride and sidled up to me. She said, "I do not want to be you tonight."

I replied, "Did you ever?"

She said, "Did I ever what?"

I said, "Want to be me?"

She rolled her eyes and snorted, "No! But especially I don't want to be you tonight."

I shrugged. "Okay." I tried to think of somewhere else to be, but didn't want to lose my place in line for the hayride.

Seeing that she had me more-or-less captive, Kim smiled like a cat who swallowed a canary. She continued, "I especially don't want to be you tonight, because when you go through the haunted barn tonight, Warren and your dad are going to grab you and not let you out."

This information seemed plausible based on what I knew about my dad and Warren and their synergy. So I looked at Kim with wide eyes. She knew she had me hooked. I said, "What? Why?"

Kim spun her tale. "They are going to make this big deal out of counting everyone on the way in, and then counting everyone again on the way out. They're going to say eight people went in, but only seven people made it out alive. Warren is going to tie you up, and hide you in the back of the barn. He's not going to let you out until the end of the night." Then Kim threw her head back and let out a practiced and perfected villainous laugh.

Kim saw from my wide-eyed look of terror that she could milk this moment for even more hilarity. She delivered the final insult. "I bet you're too scared to go now."

I couldn't back down from this bully, who also happened to be the child of my mom's boss. So I stayed in line for the hayride that would deliver me to the haunted barn. Kim stayed right there with me. Once aboard the hayride, we ascended the hill to the horseless stables, a.k.a. the haunted barn. I felt like I was going up the hill on a roller coaster, soon to plummet into sheer oblivion. I kept thinking about what Kim said. I kept thinking how likely the scenario was to play out just as Kim described it. My pulse quickened with palpable fear. People climbed off of the hayride to wait in line for the haunted barn. Kim relished my growing anxiety. My turn to enter the haunted barn grew nearer and nearer. I finally turned around and said to Kim in defeat, "I'm not going in there."

Kim clapped in delight and stamped her feet devilishly. As I tried to get back on the departing hayride to leave, Kim grabbed me by the arm. She tried to drag me into the haunted barn. That kid was strong! I yelled "no, no, no, no. no" with increasing volume. Kim cackled, tightened her grip on my arm and pushed me harder. I realized I couldn't out-muscle Kim. I went limp and dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. She didn't want to topple over with me, so she let go. Finally free from my tormentor. I ran down the hill in the dark night back to the picnic pavilion where other people were oblivious to my fright.

Later that night my mother asked why I made "such a hysterical scene with all the screaming" at the haunted barn. Word travels fast at big, snooty churches. I tried to tell my mom about what Kim had said, and how I believed her. My mom wouldn't hear a word against her boss's child. My mom said that I embarrassed her and the whole family with my "ridiculous behavior".

A little later that night my dad pulled me into a half hug at his side and said with a mischievous grin, "Warren and I missed you in the haunted barn. We kept looking for you."

The most terrifying haunted barn was one that I never dared to set foot inside.

Also, if your child tells you they are being bullied or harassed, please hear them out. Kim continued to torment me until my family moved halfway across the country a year later.

Hey Kim, if you're out there:

Happy Halloween!

Pivot: I'm in Pastry Chef School

I've had many different jobs. I love to try new things. I love to learn. For many years, acting for stage and screen fulfilled my creative urges that weren't met by regular jobs, and/or acting was my regular job for several years. (Yes, I made money acting. The income was really good sometimes, not so good other times, overall inconsistent.)

Since I lost most of the hearing in my left ear, I don't get the same joy from acting that I once did. (I had a demeaning experience with a mumbly director this past year over my hearing impairment in one ear.) I'm also choosing to age somewhat gracefully, and not freeze my face into a rictus facsimile of youth. I'm out of the acting gigs, at least for a while.

My inner Manic Hobgoblin and my more rational inner voice teamed up last year to convince me that I need to find a new career path that incorporates my creative compulsions with a more steady stream of reliable income. After much thought, navel-gazing, planning and paperwork, I am back in school for an accredited, well-regarded pastry arts certificate at Austin Community College. I'm taking the prerequisite classes this semester:

Food Production and Planning - This is actually a math class for the professional kitchen that includes conversions from volume to weight measures, scaling recipes, figuring portion numbers, portion sizes and costing menu items. When I first started this class, the algebra made me hyperventilate with anxiety. Now I love this class. There is an elegance to the math. I see how incredibly useful this math will be.

Sanitation and Safety - With great power comes great responsibility. Serving food to people is a huge responsibility. I won't go into all the terrifying pathogens, parasites, toxins and contaminants that food can carry. It makes me both queasy and a bit scared to eat in any restaurant that receives a score below 90 on their health inspection. The information in this class is so vital, but it also kind of takes the joy out of food preparation.

Hospitality Human Resources Management - This class is all about the business end of things. It's an invaluable introduction to business, especially for people who haven't held many jobs in service industries, or who haven't had to interact with customers or employees much in their past experience. The professor for this class tries to keep us all engaged. He brings many years of professional experience in hospitality jobs to the teaching role.

So, I'm not baking pretty things in any of my classes yet. I'm working on the foundations to be able to safely bake pretty things in the correct proportions without causing interpersonal strife in the workplace. I'm spending about twelve hours a week doing homework with lots of reading, typing and use of a calculator.

Next semester, I hope to bake some pretty things. I will learn at least fourteen different ways to cook eggs and chop vegetables. I will take a chef nutrition class, which will likely involve more typing and calculating. My inner Manic Hobgoblin is itching to just frost cakes all day, but I'm trying to keep him soothed by watching pretty pastry videos on Instagram for the time being.

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A post shared by Hayleycakes And Cookies (@thehayleycakes) on Sep 12, 2019 at 3:13pm PDT