Category Archives: here in the blender

Blocked

So, I’ve been blocked from my blog for awhile. Out of the blue, I can’t access it using my always used email and password. I’ve spent time trying to contact the powers that be, giving them transaction IDs to verify that this blog does, in fact, belong to me. Today, I decided, it’s time to make phone calls. You know, the dreaded “push 1 for English, 3 for technical issues, 7 for site access, 93 for your sanity” phone calls? I’ve been putting it off all day, cuz that’s how I roll. Why do now what will become a monkey on my back forever? Hmm. Let’s put it off further – get online and go to your website first, Michelle. Just in case. Welp, just in case was actually the case! Suddenly, it’s as though I never had any problems and google went straight to my dashboard. Guess that means I have to actually write…well, crap.

This morning as I sat in church with a gal I’ve only recently met, the pastor had the gall to point out a “word from God” for me. From the stage, I quote: “Michelle, you’ve lost something and you’re afraid of experiencing the disappointment yet again. You show up every Sunday, telling yourself that it’s enough. You haven’t plugged in yet because you’re afraid to be hurt by the people that make up this messed up community we call church. You stand on the outside, looking in at the connections and not allowing yourself to become one of them because it’s too much to bear, too much to feel, too much to be. But you’re always welcome and it’s better here. You know it’s better. Move.”

This pastor has been on the scene for all of 2 weeks – how in the hell does he know what’s going on in my head? How does he know my name? 3,000 people in the crowd and he’s speaking straight to my heart? I should turn him in for stalking.

I once gave my heart to a man who left it gaping open – raw, bloody and barely beating. Together, we gave our hearts to our church that I had to leave, due to hanging-by-a-thread heart. I don’t want to do this again. I don’t want to find a new family without my family. I know, I know, I still have a family. Caedmon and I are having a blast together in this new world we live in. But. Come. On. We went from a family of 4 to 2 almost overnight. Husband died and son graduated to his own life. Dad left and brother stayed home.

I’ve been very good at convincing myself that Caedmon needs to connect with kids at church; being scared is not helping her move on and build relationships. Come to find out (thanks, Pastor Creeper) I’m the one who’s scared. My fear has been holding us back from living in the church again and sharing life with God’s messed up people, not my daughter’s natural reaction to Mom’s isolation.

Lord Jesus, move me. Move me hard. Push me through the door, hurl me off the cliff and send me flying into your kingdom here on earth. Let me love and be loved. Give me accountability. Unblock my intricately crafted tomb. Yell at my sleeping heart.

Yell loudly, for I am deaf.

 

Holes

I’m unpacking in my new condo, where every box contains memories of a life that once was.  Every. Single. Day, beloved “things” become raw reminders of who I was and who I’ll never be again.  A wife, but not just any wife.  Jeremy’s wife.  No one else in the entire world will experience the love I did, because no one else has ever been loved by Jeremy like I was.  A business owner, but not just any business.  JMC TransportJeremy Jonathan Michelle Caedmon Transport.  Our family’s business.  Our beloved livelihood.  Built on family, seeking God in our service.  A mom, but not just any mom.  Jonathan and Caedmon’s mom; loving and being loved, adoring and being adored, teaching and being taught.  A mom with 2 children.  A mom with a dad.  A mom with a family.

As I contemplate this Every. Single. Day, today is different.  Today I found out that Barb, my revered Uncle Dick’s wife, is suddenly gone.  My cousins’ second mother has passed away completely out of the blue.  A woman who lost her first husband at 28 and became a single mom at this young, seemingly cruel age.  A woman who found and gave love, again, to a young widower who had watched his too-young treasured wife die a long, slow death.  A hurting woman who brought her young son into this hurting man’s family of 3 tiny children and claimed them as her own.  A woman who gave birth to the 5th child, solidifying this new, broken but strong,  family.  A woman who loved unconditionally, fiercely and painfully.  A woman with 11 beautiful, sweet new babies, shifting her focus from mother to adoring grandma.  A woman who yearned daily for her own mother and feared the day she would lose her amazing father as well.  A woman who loved deeply, hurt deeply and grieved deeply.  A woman whom God valued deeply.

Barb, I pray that your eyes are seeing God’s right now, that your hurt and your pain and your fierce fierce love is nullified and validated in His presence.  You are leaving a gaping hole in your families lives’.  A hole that you stepped into left by Aunt Tudy, a hole that you partially crawled out of left by Sam, a hole that can only be filled by Christ’s love.

I know well these holes; today’s memorandum that real life, real value, life without holes, without “used to be’s”, “once was’s” and raw reminders is only in the promise and hope of eternity with our God and Savior.  Who I  was and who I am  has nothing to do with the fact that God values me.  Deeply.  As we go on without Jeremy, as you go on without Barb, GOD VALUES YOU DEEPLY.  Our identity is not in who we were or who we will become, but in who Christ is.  He never changes.  He never fades.  His love never loses, and neither do we.  In Him, Neither. Do. We.

18 years, 4 months, 3 days

I don’t normally remember until at least midday.  I can be sitting in front of my computer all day, writing checks, invoicing customers and generating receivables and payables.  All of these things include seeing the date many, many times.  Because we got married at Christmas time, we celebrated our anniversary on Valentine’s Day weekend.  Both of us were guilty of not remembering, and neither of us cared.  There were even times when we realized our anniversary had passed, and instantly called the other as soon as we recognized our faux pas.  Oops.

Today was different.  I recognized the upcoming date a few days into December.  I’ve been waiting for it to come; and for it to pass.  I held my tears, kept busy and felt like I had eaten a giant stone all day.  You know that feeling, when you’re not hungry or thirsty but know you should eat?  Drink water?  Fill your already full gut?

Today would have been 19 years.  Once upon a time, it felt like such an accomplishment and a massive blessing.  Now, it feels like we didn’t even have a chance.  What’s 18 years, 4 months and 3 days in the scope of forever?  How is it possible I don’t have forever with the man who gave of himself daily?  Forever didn’t last very long.

Now?

I wish I could take everything I once knew about life and lock it in a closet.  These things:

  • Jeremy and I were each other’s everything and would always be, forever.
  • Our children who we adored knew our marriage and lived inside of that marriage; learning about love and truth and honesty and hard work.
  • We would never be apart, through thick and through thin, better or worse, sickness and health.
  • LOCK IT AWAY!  Before life happens and it’s too late.

It’s too late.  It’s now on me to move forward, this insolent life notwithstanding.  It, and everyone, expects me to move forward.  To get on with my life, stop pitying myself, stop spending so much time by myself.

How do I do that?  How do I make the choice to live again without him?  How can I possibly move in any direction?  I would be moving without him – what the hell?  Why would I want to?  I miss my husband who is gone forever.  I miss every single thing about him.  His smile, his snicker.  The way he walked, how he prayed over our dinner table and in our bed at night.  How he gave me a hard time about nothing and everything.  I miss his eyes, his strong arms and giant hands.  I miss his shoulders to lay on and cry on and rest on.  I miss his words and his voice, but especially his laughter.  I miss being held by him, feeling safe with him, walking side by side, hand in hand, always.  I so desperately want to hold him again, to be held by him.  My heart continues to break, every day.  Every night in my dreams, it breaks.  As long as I’m home, my heart is breaking.  Our house isn’t our home without him.  It’s empty, it’s callous, it’s dark.

What will Christmas be like without him?  The love of my life, my husband of 18 years was always the one working while I took care of Christmas.  The familys’ gifts, food, planning, decorating, cards, business gifts and cards, employees’ gifts and parties, etc.  The best part of all of it was Jeremy was there to enjoy the entire day.  He could just show up and be grateful and proud of me for taking care of it all.  His resting and relaxing and being with us was the best part of all of it.  Now?

What do you know?

Up and down.  Backward and forward.  In and out.  Happy and sad.  Push and pull.  Run and hide.

A couple of weeks ago, my bff and my sister plotted and schemed to get me out of my funk, get my ass out of bed and get on with my life.  It sounds like they were horribly mean and insensitive, but this is my summation, not their words.  It was my mantra the entire week I had their energy and steam to operate on.  I got out of my funk, got my ass out of bed and got on with my life – for 6 whole days.  I crashed on Day 7 and haven’t been able to do a single productive thing since.

“Haven’t been able to” really means I’ve chosen not to.  I feel like crap and know it’s all in my mind.  I’m tired.  I can’t get to sleep at night.  I’ve got random nerve pain throughout my entire body.  My muscles are so sore.  I’ve almost always got a headache.  Anxiety sometimes swallows me whole.  I’m lazy.  I’m overweight.  I’m pretty damn useless right now.

I can’t talk about Jeremy without crying.  Even if it’s just a simple “your dad would love this” moment.  I’ve tried several times to order his headstone; each phone call ushers in tears and and the hollow pain that burns inside with the weight of his memory.  I decided today I would finally take care of that monkey on my back, and I am.  But dammit!, not without death’s sting.  Where, O death, is your sting?  In every freaking room of this house, that’s where.  In every crevice of our lives, every box that’s checked ‘widowed’ instead of ‘married’, every permission slip that forgoes Dad’s name, every picture that is now proof of our past, every decision as a mom without a dad, a wife without a husband, a life without a reason.  

Sounds cryptic, I know.  Unaware or uncaring of Christ’s love and purpose that is my life, ungrateful for obvious blessings through this shitstorm and very unlike my attitude throughout this entire ordeal, I know.   I know, I know, I know.

God forgive me, I know.

Half-Life

Eastern Laramie County is a giant bubble.  Wearing Wranglers, cowboy hats and Carhartts and driving big pickups with deer bangers, every guy around here could be Jeremy.

I was 17 when my dad died suddenly.  For what seemed like forever, I would occasionally see someone in the crowd that caused my stomach to jump into my throat; a shorter, thin, dark haired man with glasses.  It didn’t happen often, but it went on for several years.  Honestly, I thought I would escape that with Jeremy.  I figured I was young, depressed, broken and scarred; losing Dad only added to the brokenness.  Now?  At 40 years old?  I’m a grown up, first of all.  Second, I’m not broken, I’m not depressed, but I guess I’m still scarred.  In less that 24 hours, 3 times I’ve thought I saw Jeremy.  3 times!  I know full well he’s not here.  He will not be working on a tractor in a ditch.  He will not be driving a pickup heading south.  He will not be at our daughter’s halloween party.  So how on earth does my mind even go there?

I had a nightmare last night.  Nightmares aren’t new for me, and from 14 to probably 30 years old they fueled a lot of my depression and anxiety.  I’ve started having them again since Jeremy’s been gone, and I think most of them have involved him.  He didn’t make an appearance last night.  I was fully aware in this horrible dream that he was gone forever.  It involved a friend of mine morphing into a crazed version of the woman who abused me.  I kept trying to hide, but no one could see the real woman.  Everyone thought she was the original friend and continued to give up my hiding spots, pushing me to my knees in front of her.  Since she knew I couldn’t hide from her, she would take coffee breaks with my friends, vacations with my friends – they could only see who they thought was my friend, not the bug-eyed, teeth clenched monster who was capable of causing my entire body to burn with pain just at the sight of her.  I kept struggling to get home to my kids, but whenever I would reach the boundary of this little city we were in, my friends would pop out from behind a wall with this monster in tow.  They laughed when I tried to resist her.  They gathered in crowds to laugh at my pain.  I don’t think they knew I was in pain.  Laughing, laughing, laughing.  It was of carnival horror proportions, complete with a broken mirror, spinning rooms and maniacal laughing.

I wondered today as I cried for my husband if this is what lies in store for me.  The hell that was my mind I have escaped before.  Am I that scarred that I’ve broken again?  I know I need to find a counselor again, but how do I even start that process?  When I used therapy before, both of the therapists just kind of landed in my lap.  It was nothing short of God providing a perfect path toward healing.  This time it’s different.  I know this is grief, but I hesitate to give in to that grief.  Any kind of healthy grieving I’ve done in the past has required the strong chest of my husband, with his strong arms tight around me.  Crying myself to sleep while cradled in his security.  Hearing his strong unwavering heart beat beneath my ear.  Listening to his billowing voice of comfort, telling me we can get through anything together, with Christ.

How do I operate without together?  I have Christ and Christ has me.  In my heart, I know I am nothing without His love.  His eternal love.  But today?  Today, my head is screaming for together.  We had become one, and now I’m just half.

Caitlyn Jenner and My Chemical Dependency

Before you begin, please take a moment to read this entry.  I need to remind you that I am writing about varied topics; controversial subjects in the church is my poison of choice today.

Yep, I’m one of the 17 million people who watched the Diane Sawyer/Bruce Jenner interview and all 8 episodes of “I Am Caitlyn”.  Out of curiosity?  Intrigue?  Boredom?  Nope.BRUCE-CAITLYN-JENNER-SPLIT-618Concerning Bruce Jenner, I’m of the ‘in-between’ generation.  Too young to have my own memories of his Olympic days and too old to know him as a Kardashian.  While I can’t attest to knowing of him through watching the ’76 Olympics (I was a one-year old), I do remember him from the Wheaties box and television commercials (those two might actually be one and the same, as I have no idea if I actually consumed Wheaties in 1977 as a two-year old J).  As a child, I knew Bruce Jenner as “The World’s Greatest Athlete”.

As an adult, I’m aware of his marriage to Kris (Kardashian) Jenner, his role on the TV show “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” and his adoration of his children, both real and step.  My knowledge stems solely from binge-watching at my BFF’s.  About once a year I visit her home and we spend a day chilling on the couch – snacking, surfing and selling our souls to the Reality TV gods.  She’s a DVR whiz and we can watch days’ of shows in just hours, all while our children enjoy their own binge-watching and freedom from us, upstairs.  Cuz what respectable mothers would allow their children to watch crap TV?  Certainly not us – we will watch crap in privacy, thank you.  I have seen enough of the show that I recognize him as Former Olympian and Gold Medalist, Former American Hero, Former Husband x2, Former Celebrity and Current Kardashian.  Whatever that means.

To teenage girls, twenty-somethings and even some in their thirties, it means he is relevant.  To my parent’s generation his relevance once was, and his American legacy still is.  The rest of us don’t have any real affection for or familiarity of Bruce Jenner’s life journey, yet the media and our news feeds believe we want to, we need to.  To know his story.  To feel his pain.  To listen to that journey.  To know why this man who had (has) it all needs to get more out of life, to be something different than what he has been – what he was born as.  Different than who was createdI, too, want to be something different than how I was created. 

I have Clinical Depression.  It is likely I was born with this condition as my mother, her mother, my grandma’s mother and even my father dealt with debilitating depression.  In addition to being genetically influenced, I was sexually, physically and mentally abused as a young teen.  In addition to being abused, my father died suddenly when I was 17.  My teenage son went through a difficult time that involved cutting.    My husband was diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia and we spent 47 days in the hospital while he had round-the-clock chemo treatments.  We were basically separated from our children during this time, as we were an hour and a half away from home.  The first night we came home his mother told us she was diagnosed with Melanoma of the liver – it had spread throughout her entire body, and she passed away 6 weeks later.  We buried her, then moved to Denver for my husband’s bone marrow transplant, again being separated from our son and daughter.  He was sick and hospitalized for weeks at a time, then finally came home on hospice.  We then decided to shut down our successful business that we had run for 8 years, using his disability insurance as income as well as paying latent business debt.  My sister’s family moved far far away to California after living only an hour and a half from us.  A close ‘friend’ of ours (albeit she disappeared when Jeremy got sick) accused us of being lying, cheating assholes; that we have used other people’s money to remodel our home (my brother and sister-in-law put in a new floor for us after tearing out the nasty, old and worn 13 year old carpet ruined by pets, greasy muddy drivers and mechanics and regular ol’ wear and tear while Jeremy was on hospice.  Word got out and I guess she assumed we used our vendors’ money to completely gut our house to ‘fit our lifestyle’).  Most recently, Jeremy passed away in May, so I am now a widowed mom to our 17 and 11 year old kids.

I have plenty of reasons to be depressed, on top of being born with skewed circuitry, low serotonin levels and a small hippocampus (not a college for hippos, but the base of the brain).  However, being clinically depressed with depressive situations does not necessitate suffering.  Being born with jacked up wiring and sluggish neurons does not mean I just accept it as is.  Who wants to live every single day feeling worthless, useless, burdened (and burdening), lost, sad, lonely and out of place?  And even further, who would ever insist that I must – just because I was born that way?  That I shouldn’t be treated and medicated?  Counseled?  Maybe even changed?  Who would suggest that I cope with my mental illness without these things?  That I power through, learn to deal, accept myself because that’s how I was born?

No one.

But Bruce Jenner?  He must power through, learn to play with the cards he’s been dealt, accept himself for who he was born as.  After all, that’s who he was created as.  A human being who identifies as feeling like a woman and having a male body.  Suck it up, Buttercup.  It’s who you are.  Too bad.  Don’t change who God created.  You have no business doing such a thing, you fame-whore.  And at 65 years of age?  Why even bother?  You’ll be dead soon anyway.  You’ve suffered most of your life already, why can’t you just continue?  God doesn’t make mistakes.  If He wanted you to be a woman, obviously you’d have a vagina instead of a penis.  Just like if God wanted me to be sane and stable, able to raise my children and give to my marriage, I would have the proper and intended brain chemistry, giving me the mental and emotional capacity for love, patience and selflessness.  Wait, what?

Here’s the thing – I don’t have the brain chemistry that God intended, I have the brain chemistry that sin has ruined.  Just like you have the male pattern baldness that sin created.  God gave you healthy hair follicles, yet somehow in your early 20s they stopped functioning.  God created us in His image, yet we all know someone plagued by cancer.  Or mental illness.  Or Down Syndrome.  Childhood disease, being born with two genitals, cleft pallet, blindness, SIDS, juvenile diabetes, heart failure.  All of these are a direct result of sin.  Not the choices we make when we know we shouldn’t, but the sin that is in us and part of us.  The sin that separated Adam & Eve from God; making child bearing hard and working the ground even harder.  The sin that has interrupted and attacked our DNA.  We were created in God’s image, but sin has completely altered that creation.  It has permeated every generation and will continue until Christ returns and the New Earth is reinstated.  Nothing is as it was originally intended.  As it was created.

I depend on my counseling, my EMDR therapy, and my man-made medications and I don’t think any one of you would shame me for doing so.  My chemical dependency is what makes me function ‘normally’.  Concerning Caitlyn Jenner I truly believe God loves her just as he loves you (You think she’s fake?  Are you genuine in all circumstances?  She’s disgusting?  So are some of your habits, and at times, your character.  Caitlyn is confused and messed up.  You better check yourself before you wreck yourself.)  He created her.  In His image.  I don’t think He cares if she is male or female.  I don’t believe our souls are male or female.  They are souls.  Spirits which belong to Christ, not vaginas or penises wearing dresses or pants.  This world is so screwed up and painful due to indwelling sin – why are we adding to it by making people believe that God hates them?

He doesn’t, btw.  God. Loves. YOU.

Marriage Slippers

19 years ago I read an article in whatever magazine was sitting in the breakroom.  Jeremy and I were recently engaged, and this article was about the marital bedroom (I doubt it used those words – where am I, 1940?); my interest was piqued.

The author suggested only having things in your bedroom that pertained to your marriage.  No pictures of the kids, no refrigerator drawings, no decor from your college days or bachelor pad.  Beloved stuffed animals from your childhood?  Nope.  Pictures of you and your parents/friends/whoever?  Nada.  Pictures of the two of you with your favorite couple?  Negative.  Only things that specifically pertained to you as a married couple.

For whatever reason, this spoke to me as sound advice and I followed it for over 18 years of marriage (I say “I” because Jeremy had no part in decorating our home).  Our bedroom was our sanctuary.  Kids were not allowed to sleep in our bed, nor were they allowed to enter without invitation.  Even if the door was open, a knock and announcement of entry was required.  It was our favorite room, and we had a bedtime routine that we looked forward to every single day.  We knew that once we entered that room, we were safe to just be us.  Not Mom and Dad, not Employers, not Our Parents’ Children, or Our Siblings’ Siblings.  We were Jeremy and Michelle.  Husband and Wife.  Two Who Are One.

This article also addressed clothes being left on the floor, pantyhose (remember those?) hanging in the shower and clutter in general that accumulates in a bedroom.  How should you, as a loving spouse, react to these messes that will inevitably irritate the holy crap out of you?  Don’t.  Don’t react.  Don’t react?  Do.  Not.  React.

Um, whaaaat?

Q:  How in the hell do I make him pick up after himself deal with his mess?

A:  Pick it up and put it away for him.

Q:  I’m sorry, what??

A:  Yep.  Do it for him.  First, it will remove the irritating mess.  Second, it will be love shown.  Third, you will become a servant.  A servant of Christ.  Do not react.  Do not nag.  Do not beg or barter.  Do not yell.  Be his wife, not his mother telling him to clean his room.  Be who he wants to come home to at night.  Be who he thinks about all day.  Do not react.

Facebook showed me a memory from this day, one year ago.  It’s a picture of our cat Fiona sunbathing.  I noticed something in the picture that I hadn’t noticed before – Jeremy’s jeans wadded up next to his side of the bed.  One year ago, his jeans were wadded up next to his bed because one year ago JEREMY WAS STILL ALIVE.  His mess meant he was still present in this world, present as my husband, present as the kids’ dad, present as his sister’s brother, present as a friend.  He was present.  Here2015-10-13 14.59.27.  With me.  With us.

His bedside is uncharacteristically clean now.  There’s no water glass sweating all over his nightstand.  No piles of clothes.  No dirty dishes or empty beer bottles.  All that’s left are his slippers, reminding me of what once was.  I didn’t react.  I picked up his pile of clothes for the last time, without a peep of nagging.  God, thank you for giving me the gift of that article 19 years ago.  Thank you for acting through me to be a kind and loving wife.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Half a Second Turned Into a Long Day

Total and complete elation!  Complete and total devastation.

In my dreams, there’s a lot of confusion and wonder about where Jeremy is, what he’s doing and who he’s with.  We’re not sure why he’s not with us, but keep a constant search (in the midst of other nightmarey scenarios where I’m trying to protect the kids from aliens, intruders, the government and even wild animals).  Eventually, he shows up.  On a stretcher.  Or in his casket.

Then, the interrogation begins:

  • You do know you left us, right?
  • We had a funeral!  We buried you!  How can you be here?
  • How many times is this going to happen?
  • Why can’t you just stay here?
  • What should we do when your doctors find out?
  • Why are you here???

I’m not recalling any answered questions by Jeremy, in my recurring dreams.  But last night?  Last night was different.

We (you know, the collective of all of us, possibly including you) were outside a large metal building mourning his death.  A Sonic carhop enters the scene.  There were motorcycles, maybe even biker dudes.  Some people were laughing, remembering Jeremy and his Jeremy ways.  Some of us were frozen still.  In shock.  Not talking.  Too sad, too much.

From the back, in struts my husband and Jonathan and Caedmon’s dad.  Cowboy hat, 5 o’clock shadow, bright eyes and his swagger in full glory.  I kinda think he had a stalk of wheat dangling on his lips.  He was wearing Wranglers with a torn pocket and a turquoisey blue tshirt.  His square-toed boots, a worn brown leather belt and all of the confidence in the world were his perfect accessories.

No one even missed a beat.  He came up to me, put his arm around me, and I declared at an oddly normal volume, “We’re ok.  It’s going to be alright”.  Everyone cheered, smiled and dispersed.  Nothing was wrong anymore.  The kids were thrilled, yet none of us acted surprised he showed up.rise and fallThis morning, when I woke up to my blaring alarm, I was totally and completely elated.  Then I was completely and totally devastated.  All within half a second of waking up.

I’m Coming Out

I’ve been writing forever.  I remember deciding in 5th grade that it was my favorite thing EVER.  Somehow, words that can’t make it to my vocal chords are able to appear on paper (well, these days, posts and blogs).  This particular blog has been put on hold for a long time – due to working full time, taking care of my sick husband and now, completely unknown territory as a widowed mother of our two kiddos.  So, I’m coming out.

I’m coming out as that new widow.  A young widow.  An inexperienced widow not sure how to move on into a world without my life partner by my side.  A scared widow terrified of being solely responsible for raising our children, especially our 11 year old daughter.  A widow wanting to keep my husband’s life and legacy alive but unable to embrace his death.

I’m coming out with controversial ideas about God, His Son and our purpose in His Spirit.  Ideas that will surprise some and appall others.  My thoughts on scripture have definitely shifted and grown throughout my marriage, motherhood, relationships and life changes.  Life-altering changes.

I’m coming out as an aspiring writer and speaker.  I have a story to tell and I believe you want to hear it.  My hope is that you will want to share my story, fulfilling my intended purpose.  We all have a story.If-you-wish-to-be__quotes-by-Epictetus-94

I ask for your patience with my outdated website as I work on getting my crap together.  The only other writing I’ve been doing has been regarding our upside-down life these last couple of years which you can find here.  I will work on transferring all of that content to this website, removing irrelevant posts and creating an easy-to-navigate blog experience for you.

You have told me to write, and so I shall. 🙂