And so the end is near…

Writing this blog has been easily as therapeutic for the author as it has been for my readers. I do so hope you have gained some information and humor along the way. Make no mistake, this entry has been mind-shattering for me. My thoughts are only that you attempt, on some level, to convey your mind into my story so you can also feel the pangs of relief. And so, on that note, I shall reveal a most important announcement of one of the biggest and most profound changes of my life—the answer to “Why?”

Last you were aware, we were living in Salt Lake County in a city called Cottonwood Heights. Beautiful city. Couldn’t really ask for anything more except one insignificant detail—that out of all of the Poland one can be allergic to, mine was Cottonwood trees. Didn’t find this out until we lived there. But our lease wouldn’t be up for a few months. Not wanting to be caught with “my pants down,” I decided being proactive was a great idea. You know, sort of window shopping to see what was out there, by scrolling through the internet. The rest was a blur.

The doctors were fairly sure I was suffering from COVID-19, but personally, I feel like they got so accustomed to cramming extra long swabs up people’s noses that they were afraid I would feel snubbed. They did mine too, informing me I needed to quarantine until they got the results back.

Sometime between scratching the back of my head via my nasal passages and a week later, I received a text message. The message told me “Congratulations!” and informed me I was the new owner of a condo—a condo that I had only been inside of one time. And even though I was not a victim of the highly contagious Coronavirus, something else was terribly wrong—and the doctors didn’t have a clue where to begin their search. So, test after test, all coming back negative, I have odd symptoms from being unable to walk, to stuttering, and even completing dangerous feats that haven’t yet killed anyone. One of them was attempting to remove a pan from the oven without mitts. Thank goodness Nikki was there, screaming at me to stop. The fact is, she screams so much it’s hard to take her seriously, you know? But I did. Embarrassed, I moved aside and allowed her to take the French fries out of the oven. I went into my bathroom and cried. Sure, I could have been hurt pretty bad, but how am I supposed to take care off my kids if the need to babysit me? There have been numerous other times, but that was the worst.

The only way my hands work is either using my cell phone, as I’m currently doing, or typing one letter at a time with my index finger. Not only is this mentally taxing for a writer to type one letter at a time, but varies segments of my body fall asleep painfully. At the table, on my computer, my legs go to sleep. My left leg, with a 2.5” bigger circumference than my right swells and throbs, even elevated. So I’m forced to use my phone, as stated earlier. But this has its own discomforts.

Using my phone, I’m unable to read a huge portion of what has been written, but my left hand has a shooting pain that darts up my arm to my elbow after a spell. Doesn’t appear as if that $85,000 degree in writing will be worth the effort. However, one of the tests I was submitted to participate in was determining if I had multiple sclerosis, or MS. Becoming increasingly frustrated with scaling the stairwell up and down to our new third floor condominium with a cane in my right hand, held by a painful grip accommodating my lame left leg, I determined I didn’t know any more than I had in the middle of May when this occurred. MRI, CT scan, ultrasound of my leg searching for clots—all I could see was $$$$ going out and nothing coming in, and I remained at square one. Impatient, I began searching my symptoms and potential cures.

With MS, some studies have shown a significant improvement in patients who had seen a hypnotherapist. Now some people believe this and others don’t. But even if it has a placebo-type affect, the point is it works, right? Who cares why? And I recalled in my high school days, we had a hypnotist visit. Determined to expose this fraud, I jumped my friends by going to when he pointed me out. I was in full Daphne Blake mode, ready to pounce on the villain’s lame party tricks and expose him to everyone. Needless to say, I performed exactly how the hypnotist presumed I would react. So, I couldn’t help but believe.

So, as a last ditch effort, I found a few courses online, next to nothing. I was determined that even if I could not figure out what was happening to me and why, I was going to use mind control to stop the symptoms—not only from getting worse, but from existing altogether.

One night, I had a dream. Actually, I dream about every night, but you guys already figured that out. I dreamed that not only had I healed myself, but I became a certified hypnotherapist and NLP Specialist. I got to work. Immediately, I began going nuts in the place. Remember how that freak “artist” did in Beetlejuice with that awful spray paint? Don’t worry, I was not that ridiculous, but a couple of notches less. Without money.

Having a puny amount of funds didn’t stop me. I bought stuff from Facebook right around my neighborhood. And because I am now incapable of driving, I would bid low and offer a couple of dollars compensation if they would deliver it. Basically, I garnered free delivery. I had to—remember, the stairs?

Yep, been practicing on myself and my kids. I can’t let them know, so I sneak in their rooms at night and do it. Besides, they don’t put up a fight when they’re relaxed, and I don’t have to worry about whether or not they’re pretending, right? During this practicing, I’ve been uncovering a lot of deep dark secrets I had forgotten about since the amnesia. One was about a customer from back when I was an exotic dancer.

Yeah, I’m fairly sure everyone at Paradise has their share of freaks, but this one was extra special. It started with small gifts left anonymously with my name, “Tiffney,” on the card. Starting off with a can of soda, after a few weeks time, it became a game for all of us backstage guessing what would come next. Scanning the crowd and dissecting conversations, we couldn’t figure out who it could be, either. The final gift received was a little more weird than the bracelet he’d left for me. It was a Manila envelope with my name printed boldly across the front…. anyway, seeing how this is clearly a story for another time, it’s only important to understand my amnesia blanketed so much of my mysterious life. One vital point the amnesia managed to accomplish was allowing me understanding not only who my true friends were, but my family. A couple of them took advantage of the situation, clearly with a frame of mind I would never find out—who stole my wedding band; among many other trusting scenarios. But the hypnosis I’ve been training in has revealed so much about me, I’m gaining my memory exponentially—not all of it is welcome. I’m sure you’ve had events in your life you wish you could “unlearn.” In a way, I’m afraid of learning more. What makes me continue? I’m no longer the person I was then.

If I was in the condition I was in physically at the time, I would never become an exotic dancer—even though I was considered one of the top performers. I would never be a truck driver, even though there was a certain independence in not having someone stare over your shoulder like they do at most jobs. I would have gotten my education young and started my own life on my terms. I would have left home rather than staying and dropping out of school, where I’m positive I would have received a full scholarship, to care for my siblings.

I didn’t do that. Here is where I am. And now it’s time to start a new life, new blog, and whole new chapter. I’d love it if you joined my interestingly new perspective @ With me, I soberly hope you’ve learned that my life is an adventure!! Come on!

What’s the New Normal?

Masks drawn up over your face. No smiles except for the wrinkles at the corners of your eyes, unless you’ve had Mario Lopez surgery — I swear his skin is so tight he’s forced to grin. But all of this is normal.

Bring a single parent is hard work when you’re the “lone wolf “ taking care off everyone and a crisis like Corona virus strikes. Is bad enough the pandemic started, but they have to name it after an appetizing alcoholic drink? They should have named it the “bourbon virus,” because that’s a strong and unrelenting beverage that leaves the ultimate bad taste in your mouth.

Even through it all, my kids and I managed to purchase a property. That’s correct! I’m in my very first home for the first time. Well, I guess that isn’t entirely true, but it’s been awhile since I’ve shedded a skin I’ll refer to as Todd. I’m not going to go into that life much, because I’m glad Life’s experience allowed me to limp away with valuable lessons. However, we did venture into home ownership for about a year before we lost it. He knew about the unpaid payments for months. You may imagine my shock and bewilderment, making my half of the payment every month to him, when we received the foreclosure notice. Trust again? Nope!

And this home is a condo, or a permanent apartment, we now own. Not brag worthy, but somewhat inspiring nonetheless. The kids’ responses were different. Nikki was ecstatic in having her own room and equally as excited to paint the room black so she could add nite-glo stars to the walls.

With Cameron, the story was different. He stayed off by telling me how disappointed he was to see a room to small to hold his futon, etc, and then ended the conversation with an announcement. He’s joining the Marines. My guess is he really hates his room a lot.

The worst part is I’ll lose my employee discount for cable television, phone, and internet to pay a $125 fee for internet only. A bit bummed about that—but it’s inspired a negotiation in three years.

Flipping houses can be considered normal, as is investing. But a lot of new normals are arising in society because of the pandemic. For example, for the first time ever, everyone will vote online rather than in booths. People are picking up the art of paper-saving bidets, and some corporations have abandoned their typical processes to make toilet paper. Weird right? And social distancing is about to make this situation get real. We’re becoming accustomed to some of the new laws. And as long as people are presently dealing with changes, there’s no going back.

Change is necessary and continues whether we like it or not. Our question is what changed have you made to cope. For example, in the groceries ladies room, why would someone take the time to lather up before gripping the germ-infested door handle after wiping them? Gross!

So remember, my fellow Earth dwellers, anything that happens on a regular basis becomes normal after a while. Who knows, perhaps copulation for offspring may become a thing of the past! Designer children futuristic. Now there’s something to consider! Until next time—wash your hands, and don’t touch anything in public. Be a Mother in the Jungle of Survival.

Can Coronavirus Stop Us?

No one likes admitting they are overpowered. And let’s face it, sometimes we have no choice—when we’re unprepared. And preparation proves to be a huge part of survival. Are we prepared? I’m not talking about three weeks ago when the scare was exciting…. shopping! I mean, it wasn’t completely fun, because the change wasn’t a choice. But you’ve gotta admit, shaking up our normalcy broke the monotony—for a minute. But after a while, reality set in. It’s no longer the semi-fun game of survival.

Kids and adults alike battle for privacy.

People we know now are affected or even dying. All ages; no one is exempt, primarily our healthcare workers. Others take advantage by using the “my roommate died, and I’m closing her account to open my own” card. (Forget the fact the account is 4 months delinquent without any supportive documents.) Clearly, everyone has their own coping mechanism under such dire circumstances.

Our kids are home all day—playing on their phones, listening to music, watching the “boob tube,” as my father used to call it. (Not to be confused with the dated Tube Tops.) If we’re fortunate enough to maintain our working positions, most of us have a makeshift office at the kitchen table. Others brave the public, each and every day attending our public sectors and risking their own family’s safety in exchange for food, supplies, and a residence. Some aren’t so lucky.

Since we moved into our apartment nine months ago, as many people have moved out in the past two weeks as have in the months prior. Where will they go? Living with others who risk their own wellbeing by allowing potential carriers who may infect their own to join them? In their vehicles without a place to park? A shelter perhaps, crawling with addicts whose fix precedes anyone’s health?

Lines for fuel and groceries were up to an hour long in some states. This is only the beginning.

As heartless as it sounds, my own experience a few weeks ago still haunts me—and the virus wasn’t as prominent as it is now. I’d ordered some books for my daughter from Barnes and Noble. A salesgirl from the front to my car. My daughter hopped out and addressed an elderly woman who stood confused as the sales girl returned to the safety inside. The other woman yelled something to my daughter as I commanded her to get into the car and close the door.

“That lady needs your help,” Nikki murmured as she strapped into the seatbelt. Glancing out my window, the woman remained between our vehicles, arm outstretched, with a small, black box in her hand. Her lips were moving as she exaggeratedly repeated the same words. “What’s wrong with her?” I asked, noting the sheer panic on the old woman’s face.

Except for our two vehicles, the lot was empty, and there wasn’t anyone nearby. I got out, keeping my own safe distance, and the woman informed me she couldn’t get her SUV started. She’d called her son, but he wasn’t answering. This clearly meant she had no husband, at least, available.

I prompted her to turn the key while I listened and heard a clicking sound. “Sounds like either your alternator or battery,” I suggested. It clearly wasn’t getting power. “Can you look and see?” she asked with pleading eyes. I’m definitely no mechanic. And I damn sure have no familiarity with a high end BMW vehicle like the one in front of me. Plus, she was elderly. Everyone knows the older generation is even more susceptible to the virus, and I didn’t want to get near her. She continued clicking her device in an attempt to start it up. “Stop doing that and call your son again,” I told her. “Tell him you’re not getting power. At least then he can be better prepared.”

I hurried back to my car and got in before she could say anything more. Rolling down my window, with the situation of her being an elderly woman in an expensive vehicle by herself, I rolled my window down and hollered, “Get in your truck, lock the doors, and don’t open them until he arrives.”

Putting my window up, I drove past her and saw her following my instructions. “We’re just leaving her?” I heard my daughter, but couldn’t say anything. I was ashamed. I was doing all the things against what I’d taught her for years as she grew up. We drove home without a word. I kept hearing a voice in my head advising me to protect my kids and myself. I’m the sole income. If I get sick, our ship is sunk. And then I thought about how cold our world is becoming—not out of selfishness, but out of self- preservation.

My mind returned to a few days before, my daughter and I had stopped at the grocer for some quick dinner ideas. While we were there, a huge collection of people gathered with one store employee raising his arms above his head. “Okay, when I open it, the max you can have is two!” he shouted. Creeping closer, I saw a pallet of toilet paper, still wrapped in shrink wrap. It reminded me of the Black Fridays I avoid like the plague. But as he rose with plastic streaming from one hand and a box cutter in the other, that pallet was empty within a solid minute. By the time I took five steps, there were only two remaining with a man grasping both packages. Our eyes met and he handed me a package. “Thank you,” I said.

Even SNL continues under quarantine.

These days are different. No one had a clue even a month ago that all of these changes would happen. And it isn’t all temporary. When it’s finally gone, we’ll be able to see the inside of businesses that aren’t stores again, like banks, schools, our offices—old or new. But these next few months will have a tremendous bearing on the rest of our lives. Even churches and television continue fighting for survival. Saturday Night Live aired a show worth remembering on April 11, with the host none other than Tom Hanks, America’s first movie celeb infected with COVID-19. Tom and his wife have healed, as he offers humor and hope for our future.

With as much being said of how quickly our lives can change, how are we prepared for the following months? How have our priorities changed? Are our relationships with friends, romance, and families changing?

Remember this, in order to have ANYTHING improve, it must first change.

How have your days changed? What permanent changes can you see in your own life and beliefs as a result? Share. You are not alone.

Well wishes to your family and friends. My 13-year-old remains by my side, making lunch while I work tirelessly at the dining table. My 18-year-old, fearlessly (or stupidly) insists on continuing his visits to friends in another city. After warning him, I’ve had to ban him for the sake of my daughter’s and my health.

Please share. We truly are in this together—even separately.

Clandestine Life under the Silent Snow

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A delicate blanket of freshly fallen snow

When the seasons change, we often find ourselves changing right along with them, and we can either fight against the adversity or utilize the revision.

Our family, like most, go through these modifications on a fairly regular basis. Read the breakdown, and then stop and think about your own family. Will you fight, or will experience mold your loved ones?

My daughter Nikki continues with a mind set on the military ranks, and attends Utah Military Academy, (UMA), but refuses to fall in line. The uniform is donned each day, but her individuality sometimes gets in the way. I’m not sure if it’s because I give in too much or if it’s because I’m never here. Either way, she argues. Thirteen going on thirty–in her dreams. However, Nikki comes to me when she needs money or “special instructions” on growing up, which is a good thing. If anyone’s opinion is used in urging her through life, I’m glad it’s mine. And for her future? Nikki loves animals and is extremely curious about many things.

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A “Whisperer” of sorts, Nikki communicates with animals

Nikki’s an information forager like her mom. Highly gifted, extremely intelligent, and a bit too giving, I hope she realizes these things herself.

My near adult son Cameron, a senior in high school, seems to feel he has a fairly good grasp on life. It’s more than I can say for myself. I’m still scratching my head because his father makes twice the money as me as a construction worker when I have a degree and $100k of debt.

I imagined responsibility and trust when I purchased a box of “protection” for him, but then I refuse giving him a place to “roost.” I am having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that he’s going to be an adult within two months. I’ve tried explaining some of the Rules of Adulthood my parents never took the time to teach me, such as finances, but he probably doesn’t want to take my word for it. I’m not exactly eating at La Caille on a nightly basis. For example, since he’s helping with the rent each pay period, I determined it best to set up Bill Pay with legitimate receipts of his payments. Seeing finances at work before being out on your own seems like a no-brainer if given the opportunity. I’m not sure how much his father teaches him, but he’s a genius with finances. And it’s true I butt in. I’m concerned. I’ve read that the medulla oblongata isn’t fully developed yet. I used to think that’s what determines the choices we make, but that is the lateral habenula.

It actually regulates the respiration and circulatory systems. Not a big surprise that kids who smoke young have a higher chance of disease, including stroke and heart attacks. Although I am not a smoker, I hope Cameron has stopped rolling the dice.

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A harder worker won’t be found than Cameron

We’ve had discussions about the damage smoking can cause, but he doesn’t appear to hear me. And I fail to dismiss him when he attempts educating me of smoking benefits. But there are a truckload of wonderful things I can say about Cameron. He thinks for himself, and even though the end results don’t particularly jive with my opinion, he researches to discover answers for himself without taking the word of someone else–most times. He loves to make people laugh, which is highly effective in communicating. There have to be times when he wants to scream, duck under his bed and never come out. I appreciate the support he gives by being a role model–which clearly isn’t something he signed up to be. Cameron’s working so hard on being responsible under so much stress, even working at Market Street Broiler. I honestly wish it didn’t have to be this way and he could just be a kid.

As for myself, in my early 20’s, a doctor prescribed a drug to me when I was there for a routine physical for work. I was always raised to trust doctors, so I did, regardless of never having met this particular doctor previously. Mistake. Retrograde and anterograde amnesia took over, separating me from my employ and negating my attendance in school for a degree in law.

A few years later, I dated a handsome hairdresser named Eric. Because the amnesia interfered with both my job and attending school, I became an exotic dancer to support myself. I didn’t have to be extremely brilliant for that career. I attempted school several more times but couldn’t retain the information enough to remain enrolled. Immediately following a session of lovemaking, it happened again. I remember staring up at the ceiling with my boyfriend Eric leaning over me and panicking. His roommate, Thomas, blasted into the room saying some sort of prayer while rubbing my face with his hands. I was revived and seemed fine afterwards, never putting the two incidents together.

About a decade ago, I worked at the state prison, and with the pressures of single parenting two tiny kids, while trying to please a supervisor who never did like me, I cracked and had another episode. Unable to recall who had my kids, I was fortunate enough to have a co-worker, Renata, scroll through my phone, reciting the names until I remembered the daycare. Renata called my brother to get the kids and hustled me off to the hospital. I was told it was a TIA (transient ischemic attack) or a mini-stroke. The chances of someone experiencing this has a one in three chance of experiencing a stroke. Thank goodness ways exist in helping prevent a stroke for those who have heard “warning shots.” 

Since, I’ve had spells of breathing incidents, which I thought were asthma, until last week on November 19th, when it happened again. This neurological episode was a bit worse. I was awake but unresponsive after crashing to the floor next to my desk. It took a while before I could respond, although I could hear and see everything that crossed in front of my staring eyes. Later, the doctor explained I’d had yet another TIA. Each time, the effects are different but the outcome is the same. I cannot communicate, but I can see and hear. There is no feeling beneath my skin, when I get injections, etc, but I can feel fingers gripping my arms. It’s very much like being in a dead body with my eyes open.

The doctor suggested I get the flu shot, even though I’m opposed to having the government inject their newly fashioned liquids into my body, because she said a tango with the flu right now could kill me. I’m borderline stroke/heart attack, pre-diabetic, and have extremely high cholesterol.

Pine needles
Enjoy the temporary softness before the needles protrude again

I’m 53 now. Better make the final years count by having deliberate life changes and appreciating time with my kids. After all, life sings daily about love, acceptance, learning, and togetherness.

So, in lieu of the holiday season, I give you a delightful scene from our balcony. Beautiful, white, gently fallen snow. You may look with wonder–but do not touch. You see, if you peer closely, you’ll see that beneath the eye-catching crystallized white are small, green, frozen needles that can stab into your fingers. The needles are permanent and the snow creates a temporary softening. You can take advantage of the temporary beauty or eagerly await the arrival of the pine needles. It’s all in how you envision your life.

Another One Bites the Dust

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Freddie Mercury of Queen

Queen has always been a great band, and brings about the glorious memories of high school–when I was considered “cool.” Okay, I was cool in the sense I was an uncover cool kid masquerading as a geek, but no knew the true me. I recall the substitute bus driver playing Another One Bites the Dust during the last week of school one year and the whole bus chimed in, pounding on the seats and bellowing with their heads out the windows. No, I didn’t say it was safe, but it certainly was memorable. We should all have memories like that when paying a mortgage is the last thing on your mind.


Speaking of stressful situations, my teenage son has his drivers license. He got it last week. And while Cameron is extremely thoughtful, sometimes it doesn’t pay off. For example, I asked him to make a U-turn after he missed a driveway. Pulling into the center lane, he paused and then cranked the wheel while accelerating. My face smooshed against the window while we whipped around. I clawed at the door the way a cat does entering a vet’s office, desperately grabbing at the handle as Cameron spun the car around to the parallel lane the other direction. “What the hell was that?” I screamed after catching my breath, “You’re supposed to turn into the outside lane on a U-turn!” Cameron got angry and flustered at the same time. “But this car can do it easily,” he said. I explained that all cars must follow the same rules of the road. Now I ride in the middle of the back when he drives. But if anyone asks, I still say Cameron’s a good driver.

Cameron and I have also had conversations about how good drivers are born from experience, not just the manuals, classrooms, and illustrations with arrows on a board. There are a lot of “unwritten rules” as well; rules like, if you’re in an accident, never immediately admit fault because often times people will take advantage and claim injuries that aren’t real for the sake of garnering a higher settlement.

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Big brother will get paid for serving sister.

They don’t teach that wisdom in school! They also don’t teach some of the maneuvers I do while driving that my kids refer to as “stunt driving.” There are times and places where what I do has a legitimate purpose—such as realizing I entered the exit with tire rippers and quickly back up for a do-over in the correct lane. They don’t teach that at driving school. As much as I want to protect my son, he’s going to drive. He is maturing with a job now working at The Old Spaghetti Factory–on his road to pro chef success.


Since Nikki will be thirteen in about a week, she has begun planning ahead for those “special” moments and I’ve only experienced one so far. The screaming rage and arguing are more than any mother should have to endure–it’s worse than when I menstruated! On the dresser is a pair of clean underwear with a pad carefully inserted. Disgusted, I asked her if her season hadn’t ended the beginning of the month. She said it had, but she wanted to be prepared for when it hits again. Typically, this is not something I would advocate, but I’m relieved she’s finally planning ahead. I’ll take whatever I can get.

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What do you think Lucius is thinking?

Did I hear you ask about Lucius the Wonder Cat? We got all excited yesterday–the kids actually texted me–to tell me she took a dump on the toilet. Yeah! I boasted her up yesterday when I hung her photo up on the pet board for Pet Week. And everyone told me how beautiful and brilliant she is, trained and all. I’d prefer to have them think I’m some sort of lion tamer by not revealing the gift she left this morning. It’s better that way.


New about me? I’ve begun studying The Inner Temple of Witchcraft by Christopher Penczak. Don’t worry, I only use it for medicinal, meditation, and peaceful purposes. And I’m considering creating videos instead of typing–I don’t have the amazing images of other YouTube star moms, but I have humor! BTW, screw those companies that don’t want to hire me as a quizzer at the bars, even though drunks laugh at anything until you tell them it’s closing time.

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“Screw balance!” Kristina Kuzmic says.

 Juggling work, school, and kids (not to mention the pooping cat) are about all I can handle. But now, we’re preparing to move–AGAIN! A bittersweet notion. Moving is not something I ever look forward to, but this time it’s an exception–that’s how miserable it is getting situated. After the flooding in days of yore, the health department coming to take a look at the growing mold, and those little gnats that have roosted throughout the apartment, I can’t imagine the 100+ heat with no air conditioning! So, we’ll let you know the final results with photos later.


Whether we’re talking about Queen, Cameron’s amazing driving, the cat’s remaining 8 lives, or this crappy apartment being left in the rearview mirror–it’s clear that another one MUST bite the dust! Sayonara, sweetie!

The Twisted Tail – Surprise!

For those who’ve never lost your mind, you don’t know what you’re not missing. And yes, I can tell you from firsthand experience. The hardest part about losing your mind is never knowing when you can expect it back again and if it will ever be the same. So far, it’s taken about 30 years and I’m still not who I used to be, but I’m not so sure that’s a bad thing. I certainly don’t appear the same—oh boy, I wish I did. I never knew how attractive I was at the time, or I’m sure I would have grown up much differently. But things are what they are – and here I am; a mom with two kids and a cat – all of which are toilet trained. That’s right, there’s not a lot of normal about our home.

This past week was pretty eventful. From all of us being deathly ill and using up part of my vacation at the beginning of the year recuperating, to finding out one of the days I missed may end up costing me my job. But that’s another story. What I will tell you is that we finally took Lucius to the vet to ensure everything was true about him when we got him. We bought him at the pet shop and got a card with a whole bunch of information about him and even told he had been fixed. That was a relief.

But Dr. Holly seemed not to agree. We gave him all of his shots, got a thorough exam, and were just about to tell Dr. Holly that we didn’t want to fish his stool sample out of the toilet because he was toilet trained when she broke some news of her own. Lucius wasn’t a male. He was a female. Or I guess I should say, she is a female. And obviously, none of her goodies have been removed. But, at least she’s toilet trained. We went through all the hair-pulling ideas of translating “Lucius” to Lucy or Luscious, but in the end, it’s the name she’s used to. I suppose if a guy can be called “Sue,” a female can be named Lucius. We don’t care, as long as the seat is down when she leaves the bathroom. (And don’t worry, she uses her own seat.) But now the quota is back to one solitary male again.


The Good, the Bad, and the “Why Me?”

087DACE8-9FB6-4C66-B3C6-972AC81C8F74The best news ever reveals the biggest reason to why you haven’t received a post in the weekly manner of which you’ve grown accustomed. We’ve stayed in various churches of a three month course, weathering week-long mournings, three-day weddings, bathrooms shared with as many as twenty people (and one shower), and meals created for us every night. Sometimes the food had to be experimental leftover creations, but the gamble was well worth the golden nugget of a meal that never failed to surprise us. Even still, we didn’t fit in; we used napkins, said “please and thank you,” and cleaned up after ourselves. Unfortunately, when one family grows accustomed to this behavior it makes blending with other homeless families crushing. I’m certain they felt the same way about us. Parents who call their kids names and casually smack them in the head proves incredibly testing to witness without saying anything.

But, minding your own business in such situations is a survival tactic. Our family kept to ourselves except during dinner where everyone convened in one dining area. The hosts and food donating individuals were a godsend with patience and kindness beyond belief. Two designated hosts would remain through the night, leaving when time to leave at 7:00 a.m. Another couple arrived at 5:00 p.m., when the families returned, the meal was brought by yet another group at 6:30 p.m., and following cleanup the night team arrived. On a weekend, staff remained in shifts; some would keep to themselves, while others crawled on the floor with children or played board games with families. But each church had its own personality. Nevertheless, all of them had dedication too awesome to imagine.

Some of the other families came from places where defecating in the waste basket and urinating in the toy box are acceptable practices—only worth mentioning if caught in the act. Not somewhere you’d choose to live if given a viable option. And still, the keepers of the church maintained the premises.

But without options, we were fortunate to have food and a private sleeping area.

Some provided multiple gender-specific showers, where others required the perfect-timing of one shared amongst the group during a few short hours. These were the times having a vehicle that drove to Flying J was appreciated. Some families had no vehicle and waited for the company van to pick them up and drop them off with each transition. They’d spend the day in a mutual room watching television, showering, or doing laundry at the facility. The ones who worked, maneuvered their two hours per night with caution. Lights out and doors locked at 9:00 p.m.

All the families had to get along when a crying infant or ill child was present, we all suffered and dealt with it. In one instance, 3/4 of the “community” awakened to new haircuts following a lice infestation. Because of our unsociable habits, we were spared, but don’t think we weren’t paranoid. For about three days, there were periods I swear I felt something climbing through my hair. I’d inspect, have someone else investigate, and shower. It was horrible! It could only have been worse to actually find them.

Screen Shot 2018-10-15 at 10.56.28 PMA month later, we’ve managed moving into a home converted into a duplex. The commute to school and work begins at 7:00 a.m. and ends about 9:00 a.m. at the office, unless I get there earlier for some much needed overtime.

Now one may think traveling from one end of Salt Lake Valley to Lehi and back a total waste. Honestly, I did too. Between fuel and time spent traveling, I could drop the kids at the train station and gain five hours a week in overtime without stepping foot inside on the weekend. Of course, the ride back to my employment from the school takes the kids a couple of hours each night. But they’re troopers.

At first, I felt all the traveling as an unnecessary waste of time and fuel. But then I realized something vitally important; with the kids trapped in the car with me for an extra ten hours per week going from and to home, they had to communicate or at least hear a fraction of what I spewed. I chose the quality time in cussing at other drivers—in unison—a rare family activity solidifying our bond.

We got a pet. Sure, a dog would have been grand, but we wouldn’t have the time to train him during the school year. Instead we got a cat. His name was Moon when we got him, but “Lucius” got a unanimous vote—even by the feline. This paragraph brings us to “the bad.”

Understanding I had a bit of a physical reaction to cats, I was careful about how much I held Lucius or allowed him to snuggle me. It wasn’t until Nikki helped me prepare for work one day by saying, “I brought you a different coat to wear today. Lucius was using it for a bed but he can do without for a day. I know how much you like this jacket.”

Merrily, I put it on and padded off to work. But that isn’t all—oh no, that isn’t all! I draped the jacket around the back of my chair like some fool tempting Fate. Halfway through a phone call, I got a scratch in my throat and attempted to clear it. It didn’t work. In fact, my voice was nowhere to be found. Some people would have liked me that way. Although I usually had a bottle of water on my desk, there was none now. I could barely breathe, much less carry a conversation.

I politely asked my customer, through a hoarse whisper, if I could call her back in a moment. I quickly maneuvered to the water fountain and got a drink. “Are you okay?” a passing supervisor inquired.

”Well, that was weird…” I managed before gasping like a astronaut without a helmet. “My windpipe feels as wide as a stirring straw.” The supervisor turned back, grabbed me, and guided me to a chair before calling an ambulance.

Even though a stretcher, a crew of paramedics, and the supervisors gathering around were necessary, I wish they weren’t. We were in a semi-secluded area, but passerby paused on occasion to take a bit of commotion with them.

Several times the paramedics asked if I wanted a ride to the hospital for additional treatment after the instant nebulizer. The only thought absorbing into my mind was the cost. An ambulance would probably cost another thousand or so—plus the humiliation of being wheeled away. Turns out the reason they kept asking me to ride to the hospital comes down to the time being about eleven a.m. and the treatment lasting about four hours, a doctor explained later. She followed up with information leading to another attack if not treated properly. I drove to the hospital knowing I’d be working late to make up my time.

The following three hours were spent being examined before enduring the doctor’s voice of reason explaining how ridiculous it is putting an animal ahead of my own health. “Would your kids rather have a mother or a pet?” she asked me. My prescriptions are for an Albuterol inhaler, a plastic device that lessens the shakiness it causes, and Singulair. The plan is that I will acclimate. Sounds crazy—but it’s the one commonality we have as a family we can all talk and laugh about.

My last bit of news comes after a phone call I received at work today. It was the military school—you know, the one Cameron’s anticipating his pilot’s license from? He was caught sluffing yesterday. They suspected more because of the kids he was associated with in the car. So he’s suspended for tomorrow. Needless to say, the television remotes and his phone have been confiscated and his visit to his father’s denied. All that aside, he’s mostly upset that he’ll miss a kid’s birthday party Sunday—his one chance to truly make friends at his new school. His father’s even more upset. Not with Cameron but with me for not allowing the visit. He feels I’m “taking my frustrations out on” him. I explained my decision wasn’t “about him” at all but directed toward my son. Dave didn’t get it—surprise. I’m unreasonable.

Here’s how I see it: I’ve only got one shot at getting this motherhood thing right—sort of like skydiving; no way to fix a major error after jumping.

What would YOU do? We’ll check back later for the end results.

I Can’t Take it Anymore!

You know when you watch a movie and the main character does something totally unthinkable leaving you scratching your head in confusion?

After having no manageable sleep for four nights, working full time, having curfew restraints, and being unable to shower for nearly a week—while working overtime on the weekends, you’d think I would be thrilled to move to another shelter. Not when it’s in Bountiful and the kids attend school in Lehi.

We’ve located four units to move into over the past month, searching only during my free time on the weekends. Each time it’s lost because the shelter isn’t open during the weekend when all of the listings are posted. By the time the shelter calls Monday afternoon to check on the vacancy, the new resident has signed, sealed, and delivered their agreement with the securing payment. And I just can’t pretend anymore.


I will not be searching for anything more than a temporary shelter providing us more than safekeeping. Still, the late night customs of religions one week and an incessantly crying newborn baby the next is enough to drive my sanity over the brink. I can only imagine how my kids are surviving. Think calm thoughts—think calm thoughts. Be grateful for food and warmth. But sleep is paramount to survival; look it up.

Every night, as we go to bed, an endless stream of our own muffled laughter ends our day in good spirits, with hopes that tomorrow offers a promise for the future.

Everyone’s Days are Numbered

Unsure of whether it’s considered “unhealthy” or “mentally strong” when someone mentions dying and I realize it’s part of the natural process. Everyone dies, it’s only a matter of when and what has been accomplished in the lifetime–people aren’t typically aware of the “finish line.” But every day poses new challenges and another opportunity to learn something spectacular. Here’s your chance!

Family Promise is an incredible opportunity for people to reach out and help others without making a huge commitment of time or money. Although I’m not religious, I still believe in the Golden Rule and Karma–or anything else you want to call it. Perhaps it’s best considered Yin and Yang where it all evens out, but the good begets good and vice versa, coming back around in the end. And my personal philosophy is that everything that can create a learning experience is in a sense “good.” It’s the “bad” we repeat.

For those who aren’t familiar with helping others through resources like Family Promise, I urge you to educate yourself and have your church leaders welcome them. This is an opportunity to prove what your God has been instructing all the while. Watch and see.

If everyone’s days are numbered, as are the days of the families in this program, as well as the hours people have in dedicating themselves to others, is there a better time to start than now? How would your God answer this question? Everyone’s days are numbered, and we’re hoping our number comes up soon.

What do you get with 3 attorneys and 13 shaved heads?

Probably the most testing part of living in a shelter is as much as I like observing people, I don’t particularly care for interacting with them. They say writers are introverts, but I’m not shy–and when I do speak, I’m a no-holds-barred person. I believe the issue boils down to an acute hearing condition referred to as hyperacusis, which isn’t nearly as wonderful as it sounds. While it’s true I can hear a bee’s fart clear across the park there are certainly some serious drawbacks. My sounds all blend together at the same decibel level. For example, if I were to eat at a fast food restaurant with kids running around giggling and families jabbering, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish their chatter from that of someone seated next to me speaking. It’s one massive cloud of cacophony that sucks. On the other hand, if my surroundings consist of virtual silence in a library and someone across the room whispers to the librarian I can hear what book or information the reader seeks. In an area with twenty people, separated at night by curtains dividing the rooms, my anxiety requires additional attention. I get little to no sleep due to the constant whining and bickering, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Thank goodness for the sparse groups of individuals and churches who do more than just preach about all the good they’ve done to earn their ways into heaven. There are some who truly believe in assisting others. Now whether they do it to feel good about their deeds or as some sort of pass to enter The Pearly Gates, I don’t know. And frankly, not being a follower of God myself, I still believe in The Golden Rule. If people simply abide by doing unto others as they’d have done unto them, wouldn’t that be a ticket to Heaven for those who truly believe? I don’t do it for rewards–I do it because it’s right.

Today I’m mentioning one such group the program called Family Promise relies on located at Wasatch Presbyterian Church. That’s where we met our two newest families and had entire families to help us through our week. We had three attorneys waiting on us. (If you want to see a real miracle… attorneys helping homeless for no pay?) Unbelievable, but actually helped restore my faith in the legal system or at least a few choice individuals. Not all lawyers are assholes. One played the guitar and offered company while we ate the delicious, star-rated meal another attorney prepared including a blueberry and cherry oatmeal and a delicious quiche with bacon and sausage. Not a typical meal at all, but memorable for sure. And the last was our hostess. Nikki enjoyed the inflatable air mattresses that invited us to take a nap straight away.


Sunday, the 16th, Shawn and his teen daughter left, due to what he called bedbugs (which were baby cockroaches), and Eric and Justin’s crew found their new living quarters with their kids. Everything was calm for one night with my family of three and the Hispanic family of four. Last Saturday, the dynamic changed considerably with an addition of two families consisting of thirteen people – hair pulled up or shaved off. They’d arrived from the same place—The Road Home. The Road Home is a shelter that’s overpopulated, understaffed, and an absolute last resort. We went there once because we were told if authorities caught us sleeping in the car they would take my children, but we just couldn’t stay. After going there, we decided to take our chances. With the bug infestation and dysfunctionality of it, we spent three nights crammed like three triplets crammed into the uterus of my car, surrounded by our possessions. The two additional families are Road Home graduates with shaved heads — need I say more?

The first family is a father, Troy, whose wife left him and their five kids, and one grandchild, for meth. He doesn’t work but is upset that the program requires him to find employment. The young teen mother has a raging attitude, a deplorable vocabulary, and no sense of regard for anyone else. Yeah, I guess a typical distressed teen but the stress has amplified it about thirty times. He has a young teen daughter (I thought was a male for two days until I realized she has hair); a son about my daughter’s age who’s intelligent but desperate for attention; and a set of twins who are about four. Like the Hispanic family, they do not have transportation and rely on the van to pick them up every morning at 7:00 a.m. and drop them off at 5:00 p.m. each day except for the weekends. Sunday is generally when we change church locations at 2:00 p.m.

The second family proves that if there is a God, He certainly works in mysterious ways. The father’s story was he was hit on his motorcycle with his bride-to-be on the back. When she died instantly, he inherited a metal plate in his head, brain damage, a messed up spine and pins to hold his legs on. The accident brought his professional life as a chef to a screeching halt. He married another woman who, according to her, was hit in the head by an anvil at the young age of three. Neither of them works and their four children, under the age of thirteen, prove the mother was sincere when she announced they would have as many children as possible. Put them in the room with any television set on and they stare like cats watching fish swim in a bowl.


When we met them, we were at a church with the most amazing hosts. We’ve already met several incredible people through our journey over the past month, as is visible in earlier posts. But this church supplied entertainment for breakfast—and extremely caring people and an incredible supplier of organization orchestrating numerous families who pull together for a week to serve others who have had a rough time.


Let’s face it, kids the answer to the aforementioned riddle is Wasatch Presbyterian and Family Promise helping families – organizing this jumble of people is a feat in itself much less creating joy in the process. But somehow, Allison, Alyssa, and Brickel manage. Our stay was wonderful! After the last church, I never wanted to leave the shelter of this God’s house and the incredible families inside, but all good things must come to an end. We moved again, and this time it was to a little church in West Jordan for real adventure!