Jellyfish: they're not just for breakfast anymore...

How many times have you been late to work because you had to pull a jellyfish out of your air conditioner? I thought so.

The warm waters in the Gulf make jellyfish happy and prosperous. At this time of year they drift up the channel and into the waters of our marina. Unfortunately, as interesting as jellyfish are, they are a bit on the dim side and don’t understand air conditioning intake systems. Actually I don’t either, but I don’t swim in the marina water (yuck) and I am far too large to be sucked into the intake. Jellyfish slurp right in and, gooey as they are, jam (pun intended) the A/C flow. The happy trickle of water over the side, which means a functioning A/C and relatively cool boat inhabitants, stops dead when a jellyfish is sucked inside. The fan whirs but nothing happens and in a matter of minutes the temperature rises 3-4 degrees and we’re all sweating. This morning it goes off while I am dressing for work.

I investigate the strainer. Located under the sink in the head, it’s really hard to get to for me, since I am left-handed. I have to sit on the stool, reach in and behind with my left hand and shine the flashlight in the darkness with my right, while pretzeling to see what I am trying to get to. Then I unscrew the top of the strainer tube, pull out the little plastic basket and…eeeeeeew. Jelly. It’s clear as glass and looks just like soft-set Jello. Fortunately there are no tentacles, eyes, or condemning looks from the deceased, just a big glop of clear goo. Out comes the strainer, in goes the spare. I have to hold the new one in, twist it around until it fits, and hold it down while putting the top back on the tube and screwing it down. Not an easy job for someone with only two arms.

Not done yet. Then I get the hose off the dock and turn on the water. I attach that hose to the hose under the port side settee (which involves holding the long sofa cushion up with my head while I fish around in the storage area below), turn the valves, and turn on the water. Water from the dock whooshes through the system, chasing out the air bubbles and priming the pump, so to speak. After about a minute, I turn off the water, unhook the hoses, reverse the valves, stuff the settee hose back in the hole, toss the dock hose back out on the dock, turn on the A/C, and scramble up the ladder to see if there is a little waterfall out the port side of the boat. If so – rejoice and sit in front of the fan for a bit, since the temperature rises from 79 to 85 in the cabin while I am doing all that. If not, cuss like a sailor and do it again.

Try explaining that to your boss.

My dog is dying. She is a little over 15 now. I’ve had her for almost exactly 15 years. When she came to us, she was barely a handful of black fur. Now she is 20 pounds of gray fur, mostly deaf, mostly blind, but still herself. She hasn’t played in years, so maybe not exactly herself. When she was a puppy and a young dog and even a middle-aged dog, she’d run like a rabbit after squirrels or a ball, growl ferociously over a game of tug of war, and pull ahead on the leash like a sled dog. Now it is I who pull her, coaxing but insistent. I don’t take her for a walk, I joke, I take her for a drag. It isn’t funny, but I don’t want to cry. And she still stops now and then to sniff another dog’s passing. She doesn’t do that much any more either, because of the cancerous nose tumor that’s killing her.

We thought we had lost her this past weekend. On Thursday and Friday she refused her food, which she has been noisily gulping down all through her illness. She turned her head away from the water dish. She wouldn’t accept the pill pocket stuffed with her meds. That last was the scary part – one of those meds is a pain pill, and if she didn’t eat that, she’d hurt. I have no idea how much she hurts, because like most animals she doesn’t groan, moan, or otherwise tell you she’s in pain. I have been told that’s because in the wild that sort of noise would get an injured or sick animal quickly found and eaten. I do know she sleeps most of the time, hard, and barely walks, and wants to be lifted up and down the curb.

We made an appointment for euthanasia Saturday afternoon. They were booked, but they’d fit us in. Not a good situation, to say the least, but she still hadn’t eaten, and I was afraid the meds would wear off long before Monday. Our plan was, and is, to have the vet come out to the car to give her the knockout shot. We’d sit there, or drive around awhile in the air conditioning, and only when she was under would we take her in for the final round. Needless to say, I had to hold myself very stiff, mentally and physically, to keep from weeping. We sat there in the truck for 45 minutes, with no sign of the vet. David got madder and madder and finally we agreed just to go home and take our chances.

When we got home, I decided to try one more time. She’d refused chopped fresh chicken (cooked chicken thighs), honey, chocolate milk, jam, and cheese by this point. All of them are her favorites. But I had the chicken thighs out to feed our ancient cat (age 17) and had the thought to try a chicken shake for Schnitzel. I whirred up a thigh and some chicken broth to a nasty consistency, poured it in her bowl and….she ate it. No, she devoured it! Oh, glory! At least she wouldn’t have to be hungry, even if she did hurt.

Sunday morning, I made pancakes. It was sort of a “last meal” idea – she loves pancakes. I didn’t know if she’d eat one or not, but by golly she scarfed a piece down. So I wrapped her pills in more pieces, and she ate the lot. Later I tried dog food, pill pockets, etc. but she was adamant. Nothing but pancakes and chicken shakes.

She is still going to die. But maybe not today and maybe not at the vet.

Coming home. Just the phrase evokes a sense of well-being and comfort. In my mind’s eye, I am walking over frosted fields toward a small, isolated house sitting in a copse of bare-branched trees. An icy wind is whistling around my ears; it is early evening and the first stars are appearing on the horizon. I keep on, toward the house, toward the lighted windows, toward the winding path of the gravel driveway. The scent of woodsmoke reaches me from the chimney, and someone steps out onto the wide porch and waves to me. Come on! I’m waiting for you. I walk faster, toward light, warmth, companionship, and a hot bowl of soup.

That is the way I am feeling on my spiritual journey. I have been away a very long time. I used to live in that spiritual house and then a traumatic divorce made me suspect it. I couldn’t understand how I could live in that house and yet feel as though my life had been ripped open and emptied and cast aside. I ran as far away as I could and looked for other places to live. I found some beautiful houses, but I was always the guest there. I read the texts and adopted some of the practices and considered the world from those points of view. Some of the beliefs I encountered centered on the power of the individual, some on purification, some on self-actualization, some on the importance of keeping God’s laws.

As beautiful as those ideas and goals may have been, none of the spiritual houses I visited seemed to understand the idea of the love God has for His creation, including me. None of them seemed to see God’s hand stretched out toward us. None of them offered me the chance to talk to the Creator of the Universe, and much less did they allow that He would be interested in the fact that my car died or that I really needed a new job or that a friendship needed to be mended. None of them offered relief from the spiritual burdens I carried. None of them helped me look at the dark places of my soul and helped me to heal from the filth I found there, gently, firmly, and completely without condemnation.

At some point, I received the grace to see that all these beautiful homes were empty for me. So I turned my feet toward the home I knew best, the one I knew I could trust even though I didn’t always understand why it was trustworthy, the one that was full of light and power and grace and truth and healing. As I turned toward it, the One Who Loves Me opened the door and came out on the porch. He waved to me, a huge grin splitting his face. Then He ran down the steps and out into that frosty field and threw His arms around me and welcomed me home.

If you are lost, as I was, if you are hurting, ask God to come into your life, ask Him to show you your shortcomings and your rebellion, and give your life to Him. There is forgiveness, mercy, love, and plenty of room in this house. I am joyful to know in my bones that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the light – and that His house is mine again.

"This Train Is Bound For Glory" By Terry Mcmillian (FULL)

Direct response marketing - who knew?

Under the heading of “Old Dog Learning New Tricks” I am listening to a weekly internet broadcast called “Internet Marketing for Smart People Radio”. The link to each broadcast is sent to me by http://www.copyblogger.com/, to which I subscribe because they have great tips on business writing and sales writing and a number of other writing for money styles I am exploring. Currently, I am trying to master the basics of direct response marketing so when I launch that new money making website I keep dreaming about, I will actually make money.

Unlike mass media marketing (think of all the Coca Cola jingles you know) or direct marketing (a mailbox full of junk you didn’t ask for and intrusive calls by people you don’t know selling things you don’t want), direct response marketing tries to match a product with people who are actually interested in the product and who are willing to respond in some way to let the seller know they are interested. Sounds kind of civilized, doesn’t it?

To practice direct response marketing on your blog, you must include all sorts of things. Here are the six major Must Dos:

Direct response marketing tool #1: Speak with authority. That basically means know what you are talking about. I’m mostly talking about my life, so I’ve got that one down. Most of the time.

Direct response marketing tool #2: Be likeable. I am uncertain how to accomplish this. If you are my friend, you either like me or you are kind and if you aren’t my friend I guess you read this blog because I am going through some of the same things you are. Either way, this doesn’t seem like something I can cultivate.

Direct response marketing tool #3: Bring commitment and consistency to your blogging. Ooops. The consistency thing has not gone well so far. I’ve been too busy kidding myself that I can make a living at $15 an hour. For those of you who follow my woes as a free lance writer, you will be thrilled to see that this is up from $10 an hour…

Direct response marketing tool #4: Social proof. What a new century phrase that is! It means, get people who like what you write to tell other people about your blog so they will visit it and read other things that you write. The radio show today said you should ask people to do this, so I am now asking you to send this post and my blog site address (http://unedame.blogspot.com) to two other people. Then we will see what happens. I am also to ask you to “follow” the blog if you enjoy what I write. I am minding my teachers and asking! I even have a button for you to advertise the blog on Facebook and Twitter. Very mod of me.

Direct response marketing tool #5: Reciprocity. I am supposed to give you compelling content so that you will be interested in what I have to sell. Unfortunately, I have nothing to sell at present. If any of you have ideas to get the money rolling in, please feel free to comment! Meanwhile I will try to write compelling content.

Direct response marketing tool #6: Scarcity. I’m afraid I nodded off at this point and am not sure what it refers to. There is only one of me, so I can assure you I am scarce. Perhaps they were referring to the use of the old-fashioned “limited time offer”.

Now you know what I know about direct response marketing. I am serious about asking you what I could sell online. I love to write for myself, I have a lot of stories to tell, but I am so busy writing 500 word articles studded with key words for real estate sites, travel sites, and legal sites I am not squeezing out much for myself.

In the meantime, if you visit Copyblogger, be sure to tell them I gave them a plug!

It's been one of those weeks

Back in the day when my daughter was about five years old, I had a good friend with two girls, ages 5 and 7, who was trying to balance a career as an assistant district attorney with motherhood and marriage. Her observation was that as long as everything went as planned, it was completely worth the effort, but if one thing went wrong, down went her carefully constructed house of cards. The “one thing” could be anything from a sick child to a husband’s out of town business trip to forgetting to do the laundry and having no clean socks. Those of you who have been there can relate.

We’ve had a spate of that “one thing” this past week and David and I are going glassy-eyed coping and trying to stay centered enough to know that it will all work itself out eventually. The downhill slide started Halloween weekend with a quick sailing trip to Offat’s Bayou. Offat’s Bayou is a really nice anchorage right behind Moody Gardens on Galveston Island. There is plenty of room to anchor out and a small marina for anyone who wants electricity. We’ve been down there only twice since we moved here, but enjoyed the trip tremendously both times. Weirdly, both trips involved stormy weather, but even the bad weather was fun because 1) it was warm weather, 2) we know the waters around here really well, and 3) Raven sails wonderfully regardless of the weather. We joined some other Cape Dory owners on the trip, had a dockside party, and enjoyed ourselves very much.

Unfortunately on the way home things began to unravel. David started sneezing and coughing with a bad cold and Hobbes, the cat, peed all over the settee, which was completely out of character for him. Then as we approached Redfish Island, the exhaust coupling sheared off, filling the cabin with diesel smoke! We turned off the motor and sailed in toward the channel on 22 knot winds with no problem, but called Tow Boat U.S. for a tow down Kemah channel to our slip. The next day it was clear Hobbes was in a bad way, having peed all over his bed and not even moving to get out of it. The vet confirmed diabetes and dehydration and our very sick cat spent the next 5 days in the cat hospital. Now he is home, being hand fed, dosed with insulin, and placed periodically in the cat box, since he is still very wobbly on his pins. In the meantime, David suffered through his cold and then generously shared it with me. I am still hacking, but better.

The cabin is a wreck. I haven’t given it a good cleaning since before the Offat’s Bayou trip. There are piles of clothing and mislaid boxes on one side, bare wood on the other settee since we had to take out the one the cat peed on and haven’t had it cleaned yet, and a third of the cabin sole is walled off by seat cushions to make a “cage” for the cat. Meantime I cower at the nav station trying to earn enough to pay the vet bill. Even as reasonable as the vet was (very reasonable, considering all the time and care they gave Hobbes), it was $700 at the end of the day, which consumed every dime I made this week.

So. We are very, very tired and feel as though we are truly living a Matrix-like life on a real Nebuchadnezzar. I have always sympathized with Cipher and for today at least I wish I were plugged back in eating a phantom piece of steak.

Work Lessons

I’ve been floundering in the sea of self-employment for about four years now. The good news is, I have stayed afloat and I am learning how to swim. Here are four hard-earned lessons self-employment has taught me:

1. Don’t take it personally. When my services are not chosen, it can feel as though I have been personally rejected. I finally realized that my services are pretty much like a widget on a shelf. If a potential buyer is looking for a widget, the buyer will pick me up and examine me. I’m red, but the buyer wants blue. I am 120 volt, but the buyer wants 220. I am 2” in diameter, but the buyer wants 2.5” in diameter. The buyer puts me down and picks up another widget. There’s nothing wrong with a red, 120 volt, 2” widget. It’s just not what the buyer wants. Note to self: it is not all about me.

2. Face mistakes and learn from them. It’s easy for me to cringe when faced with my mistakes. Looking back, they seem so obvious. Most of them stem from impatience or fatigue or carelessness or misunderstanding. Most of them could have been avoided, if I had just paid attention. It’s very unpleasant for me to realize I have cost myself a job because of a character flaw or oversight. But that unpleasantness causes me to be much more aware the next time I am in a similar situation, and eventually those mistakes teach me to take a different and successful approach. Note to self: pay attention.

3. If you aren’t the right price, they aren’t going to buy you. Back to the store: it doesn’t matter if I could get $35/hr in 1990. It’s not 1990. I can price myself at $35/hr all day long, but unless the market will bear it, I won’t get it. I’m the same type of buyer: I am absolutely not going to pay $4 a roll for paper towels when I can get them for $2.50. Note to self: price to the market.

4. If you don’t have the right skills, they aren’t going to buy you. Not only do you have to have the right skills, buyers have to know your skills are desirable and worth paying for. That’s why tech skills sell so much better than language arts skills. Most English speaking people (myself included) think they speak and write terrific English, whether they do or not. Most people who don’t speak English as a native tongue know they need help with their text, but really have no way of knowing whether your English is terrific or not. By contrast, everyone knows whether or not they have tech skills and everyone knows they are worth paying for. Note to self: get more tech skills.