Smoky's Memoir

I found some very scratchy writings underneath Smokey's litter box. He has a lot to say. I posted them here because Smoky must be heard.

Memoirs of Smoky Johnson, the Hairless Wonder Cat
Book 1: Wherein I leave my Mothers Warmth
And Travel to My First Home

Picture courtesy of sis-in-law B

I am a Sphinx cat and am therefore special. I revile the word mutant, but I am a mutant in the best sense. As genes progress they have to mutate, there are bad mutations and there are exquisite mutations. I am, of course, exquisite. My DNA is the next generation of cat. Those of my breed are unburdened by fur and unfettered by cuteness. We are the true aristocrats of the cat kingdom.


I won’t dwell on my early weeks. It is sufficient to say I was born. I was weaned. I have only the memory of being loved and warmed by my mother. Ahhh, nothing is like the warmth of a mother. I was then given, for a sizable financial transaction (of course I am expensive), to a lovely family.

This family had such high hopes for me. I was personally selected by them for my hygienic qualities. I do not leave scraps of fur to be disdainfully vacuumed up. I am sleek and hygienic.

Alas, it was not to be. You see I still have one embarrassing problem. I must groom. I really must—I can’t leave the grooming to humans. They are arbitrary; I cannot count on them to know exactly when and where I need to be cleansed. They would never figure it out. In the process of grooming my beautiful body I produce (and now I whisper) dander.

My first family had one major imperfection. Several of them were allergic to (gasp) me!


And thus I left for my new home, for a still sizable financial transaction (50% off I am loathe to say). I must go.

The saga continues in, “I Enter the Home of a Second Discerning Family with Two Young (Very Young) Boys.”

Morning Musts

When I lived in Bountiful I lived among the greats of homemaking! Most of them did it all by themselves—in Holladay I’ve found that there is a little more hired help. I was stunned in Bountiful by the ability and joy many found in housewifery—since I seem to lack both. I became fascinated by it and soon decided to do a survey. I asked about how people scheduled their house work, how they controlled the paper trail, and how they managed. It was really fun and I will post some of that here soon.

Today I am interested in what you have to do in the morning to make you sane. I have two things:

First I must bathe; I do not feel sane unless I’ve taken a bath. I don’t take showers in the morning; they are too active for me. I have to ease into the day. I usually read my scriptures (only drawback is this makes it difficult to underline and make notations) or if I’m being naughty a novel. It takes about 15-25 minutes depending on how early I wake up. It is for this reason alone that I don’t like camping. I can sleep at night in the wilderness, the food is fun, I love the outdoors—but miss a bath—eeeek!

The second thing I must do is eat peanut butter on high fiber toast with a diet coke. If I do not do this I don’t feel human. It is a crutch that I am in LOVE with. (Often I do this while in the tub.)

I think this post qualifies as over-sharing, but I only over-share in an effort to get you to do the same. What can’t you live without in the morning? What gets you rolling out of bed and into the day? No lurking—I seriously want to know.

Study of a Female Mid-Life Crisis

I'm pretty sure I'm having a mid life crisis--or the other alternative is I am just losing my mind! It's been going on for weeks but has suddenly gone from the realm of cute and quirky to pathological and scary.

In one 36 hour period I did three things.

1. We have a schedule for Sharing Time in Primary. Each member of the Primary Presidency has a week and then a class does a week. I talk to my 2nd Counselor and she tells me she's going to be gone a certain Sunday. I say fine, but it niggles at my brain. She just told me she would be gone on the 3rd week and that is HER week. I realize this on Saturday. I call her and she is surprised and says she thought she was the next week. I magnanimously say I will do it for her. The next day I go in and set up early and the wonderful Primary Secretary looks at me setting up and said, "Isn't it my week?"

(I'd changed it myself because of scheduling conflicts with Memorial Day.)

2. That same Sunday night I have a Senior Recital of a darling young woman I am quite excited to see. I check the invitation before I dash out the door and confirm to myself that it is at 7:30. I think, "That seems late for a recital." I was glad because then I could spend more time with my extended family at Sunday Dinner.

When I get to Sunday Dinner I find my darling niece is also going to the recital. She tells me it is at 7. I say "No, I just looked at the invitation and it said 7:30." She calls her friends and they plan to meet there at 7:30. This time I do have doubts--the mornings shenanigans still stinging, but I'm pretty sure. We leave a little early just in case and only miss the first 3 of the 6 pieces she is playing. My nieces friends come in to see the bow!

I go home and pick up the invitation--yep it says 7:00pm

3. Picture 6:45 am the next morning. I roll out of bed to check the Jr. High carpool schedule. I put my finger up to the date, then slide it over to the name--looks like Eden to me, it must be my turn for carpool. I shower and drive down to the first pick-up when my very dependable friend and co-carpool driver slides up next to me in her sleek enviro-friendly SUV and says, "Eden I think it's my turn for carpool."

I do not even question her and watch as my daughter enters her car and they drive away. I go home and yep it says her name next to the date.

This is disturbing in three ways:

A. I am checking and re-checking and actually seeing the wrong information. I am not just thinking a time, I am checking.

B. I am leading others away in my deluded certainty.

C. My Dad used to call me "often wrong but never in doubt." Alas, now I must admit it is "always wrong and beginning to doubt."

How come mid-life crisis for Men is fun. At least it's fun for them and horrible for everyone else except the mistress and car dealer. There still remarkably good looking--maybe even better looking than they've ever been, they're in their peak earning period. Seriously what excuse do they even have to actually be in crisis? I guess they suddenly feel life slipping, their body starts to change and they experience the knowledge of mortality. Things I understood after I had my first baby at 24 years of age.

My mid-life crisis is caused by the realization that I am too small for my life. I don't have enough energy, ability or brain power to do all I should do--or even have to do. If you have any answers beside running through the streets screaming let me know!

What kind of person are you?

I divide the world into two groups, yes people and no people.

You might be a YES person if:

*You line up outside stores before they open the day after Thanksgiving.

*You like to go duck hunting in 20 degree F weather at 5:00 in the morning--or you like to do anything before 9AM.

*You get home from a long day and someone calls you up to go to dinner and you want to go.

*You like answering the phone.

*You go to Lagoon (or any amusement park) more than once a year.

*You would rather do anything than read.

*You think fun doesn't sounds like more work--than actual work.

*You go to Easter Egg Hunts, St Patrick's Day Parties, & 4th of July Breakfasts religiously.

*You volunteer for the PTA.

*You go to Community Meetings.

*You think seeing things live may be better than watching them on TV.

*You can't think of reasons not to do things.

Well, I fail the above test. I am a NO person. I like things quiet--peaceful. I blame it on Graves Disease that I had when I was 23. Graves disease causes the thyroid to become hyperactive. I felt wired all of the time. I drove from SLC, Utah to Portland, Oregon--12 hours straight with out caffeine or anything more than a pit stop. My hands shook and I felt stressed out. So now, many, many years later whenever I feel that stressed out feeling I equate that to illness and I don't like it at all. So I try to keep my life simple (well as simple as is possible in this frantic world).

Here's the joke on me. I work for YES people. In fact almost every morning I come in to work and someone asks me to do something that I'm pretty sure is impossible. In my mind I'm thinking, "You want me to research that--I'm pretty sure there isn't any information on that. Cows can't live there! You want to go where? They don't let people in there! I'm sure that there aren't any flights and I know you can't get a visa. We can't do that--there." Then I sit down and start typing on my keyboard and you know what--It is possible to go anywhere if you really want to and people will research and write about pretty much anything (irony intended). Amazing. I've shocked myself by loving it--it's like a little puzzle I need to solve. It's turned me into an open minded NO person.

I may start using it on my kids and myself. Maybe you can have friends over if the house isn't clean. Maybe you could play that contact sport. Maybe I'm not too old to take up the Lambada. Maybe I will write a romance novel--(Did I type that out loud?).

Hitting the Wall

I haven't failed because I haven't given up, BUT I'm certainly not acing my New Years Resolutions. I feel like that one marathoner who hit the wall at mile 9 and is determined to make it, BUT she is only at mile 11 and all the officials and runners have gone home. I'm walking and watching all the volunteers clean up crushed cups. Yep, that's me.

Of course the guilt has made me a poor blogger. When I don't want to confess why go to the confessional. (I'm sure that's a saying somewhere.) The past six weeks have been resolution free zone. I'm still about 50/50 on the sugar thing--about half the time I am off of it. I am not doing so well on the low fat! Not even good enough for a fraction.

TV, well I would give myself a B. I've watched Chuck, The Office, 30 Rock and yes, I am still ashamed to admit it America's Next Top Model, every week. It is still much better than I was last fall--but short of the goal.

I lost 15 pounds and have gained back 5--Bleah. I hesitate to say to anyone but myself that I am starting to run in that marathon again. So I'm going to say it to myself--you can listen if you want. In the timeless words of the wise sage Yoda, "Do or do not. There is no try."

You know you're low when you look up to a sponge!

I've been wondering where all my gumption went.

I came home from work today and slept two hours. I fixed a bizarre dinner (Mexican, Italian gumbo over rice or noodles--your choice) and I told my family I'd lost my gumption.

My kids immediately asked, "What's gumption?" Well my husband, my 15 year old daughter and I started coming up with words, "verve." That really didn't help and my husband said, "vigor and vim." They still didn't get it.

I tried to think how to best describe gumption and the picture that came to mind was Sponge Bob. He is the definition of gumption. I want to be more like Sponge Bob. He enthusiastically attacks life. He is kind (if misguided), helpful (no one's a better friend or employee) and he is open to new opportunities. Yes, I want to be Sponge Bob.

This Man is In My Head

I've had a guilty pleasure since my birthday in February. I received several gift cards to Barnes and Noble, since reading is my main vice at the moment. (It is truly a vice now--I just slipped my cravings for sugar and TV into cravings for mass market novels--with a few literary treasures sprinkled in.)

So, I went through Barnes and Noble. I found a couple of really good books on Islam. I finally bought a translation of the Hadith because I want to see how the Qu'ran and Muhammad's life are interpreted. See how deep I am! Then I bought a couple of semi-trashy novels (YUM). I also bought the memoir by Terrell Dougan, That Went Well: Adventures in Caring for My Sister (Very good and once again proving I have some sort of mind). I then bought some great YA--City of Ember and The People of Sparks by Jeanne DuPrau (which I LOVED).

This is all a lead up to the culmination of my shopping spree (or rather is it an attempt to cover up my utter insanity). As I'm in line to check out I glanced innocently to my right. I knew I would have about $10 dollars left over and I spied I Can Make You Thin, by Paul McKenna--with a guided hypnosis CD. I was intrigued, the jacket said he is the "English Dr. Phil," what more could I want. I thought "I dare you to make me thin" and picked it up. It was on sale for $10--IT WAS MEANT TO BE!

The next day after work --and more importantly, before my husband got home and committed me to an asylum. I surreptitiously slipped the CD into my CD player and pressed play. As it began I made myself comfortable and from the moment I heard "If your listening in stereo these words should be coming from the right hand side" I was hooked--in love--relaxing to his English accent! I started counting backwards from 300 and the next thing I knew he said, "3, 2, 1 wake up" Oh my heck I'm awoke and felt grand.

I honestly don't know what he says for that 20 minutes or so, each night I hear something a little different before I enter lala land. He could be making me a mass-murderer, but I don't seem to care. It is so dang relaxing.

Something is happening though--I find myself thinking, "I have a body full of life," "I am vibrant," "I don't need to eat that--I'm not hungry." Seriously--completely new thoughts. So I listen to him about every night before bed. It might be the most satisfying relationship I've ever had.