Here’s the start of it…

I am in a fight with a squirrel.

The squirrel has decided to claw through a screen in my roof to set up house inside my house, though no invitation was offered. She has also decided it would be best if she rips up my insulation and throws it outside with wild abandon so that it lands on my front porch.

She is a bad guest.

If I’m minding my own business, writing my books or pretending to write a book but instead I am daydreaming, I can hear her pounce onto my ceiling from her new doorway. She’s a little squirrel but she sounds like a an oversized, drunk raccoon doing cartwheels.

I can hardly blame her for making a home in our home. She gave birth to three baby squirrels in my attic as seen here.

https://cathylamb.substack.com/p/my-dad-and-i-squirrel-battles-and

You can take a look at my new Substack newsletter here:

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/headlines-of-hell-and-my-garden-blooms?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Here’s the start of it…

Somedays I wake up, read the newspaper, and think my brain must be leaking out of my ears like melted mozzarella cheese, because I cannot believe what I’m reading.

It’s like we’re living in a political horror show with side orders of total destruction and innocent people being killed.

Today, after ascertaining that my brain was still in my head as best as it could be, I put on my red gardening boots, layered with dirt from all my years of gardening, and headed out.

I couldn’t handle any more news headlines, or my soul might self-ignite. I needed flowers.

I needed the gentle peace of my garden, chirping birds, and buzzing hummingbirds, to calm me down.

I don’t know if I’m the only one who feels this way about their garden, but my garden often feels…emotional to me. It’s very personal. There are a lot of memories winding between the purple butterfly bushes and winter camellia.

I am very attached to all of my plants. Each spring when they pop up I say, “Hello there! Welcome back!”

Innocent Husband and I moved into this house in 2004 when Rebel Dancing Daughter, Adventurous Singing Daughter, and Darling Laughing Son were young. They loved playing in the front and back yards with their friends, who were all blessed with incredibly loud voices.

They loved running through the sprinklers like leaping leprechauns and chasing the cats. They loved reading outside on the lawn and eating pizza on the back patio…

See you over at Substack!

I can’t remember why the white, lacy padded bra that would perch beneath my wedding dress was at my mother’s, but she promised to bring it when she and my father picked me up to haul me to the church.

An hour later, gathering up my cake-like wedding dress, worn by my mother, my white heels, and my near-hysterical nerves, we tumbled to the van. “You have my bra Mom, right?”

“Yes, of course I do, Cathy.”

She was breathless.

I was breathless.

“I would not forget your bra.” Her tone was a little snappy, but I let it go and clambered into our orange and white hippy van. I was snappy, too. As in: snappy-panicked.

Was I really getting married? It appeared that I was, given that my very Catholic, rule-abiding, gentle father was driving, almost on two wheels, around corners to get to the church on time, my mother and I clutching the door handles as if we might fly out.

Click on the link to see the rest on my Substack

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/an-anniversary-and-a-lost-bra?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Here ya go. Hang in there.

https://cathylamb.substack.com/p/she-dug-out-part-of-my-ear?r=kayfq&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&triedRedirect=true

I am distracted by many things, so let’s see if writing today will work. I doubt it. Concentrating sounds difficult. Very trying. My brain feels tired already at the thought of writing that many words. So do my eyeballs.

I may give up right now. Perhaps that’s best…one must not tax oneself too much.

Off I go! I shall valiantly try to write again another time. Have a lovely day!

On another note, I have NO IDEA why I can’t shrink this photo. This program is not letting me, so it’s huge…

Amazon for Book One in The Ten Kids series: https://www.amazon.com/Lovebirds-Singing-Mermaid-Deauville-Families/dp/B0D22B4YVW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1SBSW5NRT7Q3O&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.1XeR-5VMzcdw3vJ–tisxA.lDKDkdExSBOtdXxakGLmaHQbrIcDkp-EdLUcyf-63Dc&dib_tag=se&keywords=ten+kids%2C+two+lovebirds%2C+and+a+singing+mermaid&nsdOptOutParam=true&qid=1770750860&sprefix=ten+kids%2Caps%2C186&sr=8-1

When I woke up about 13 weeks ago, it was clear that a goblin had snuck into my bed while I slept and drilled a spike into my knee. How do I know this? Because my knee felt like it had been crushed. It had to be a goblin. They do this type of thing.

The day before Innocent Husband and I had driven to downtown Portland, Oregon – not Portland, Maine. He trudged his handsome-self down to work in his office, a boring and mind-numbing time, and I skipped down to the waterfront for a run along the Willamette River, wishing my buttocks would quit growing.

Part of the reason I went for a run is because The Pathological One said that Portland was “war ravaged,” and “burning.”

Surprise: NO WARS. Nothing was burning.

It was a pleasant and calm day in Portland with people participating in the usual. For example, I saw a woman wearing butterfly wings while biking. People laughed on jet skis and drank apple juice on boats, while others skateboarded while singing. This is typical Portland. Bring your rainbow hair, your tutu, and your dogs in strollers and you’ll fit right in.

Click on the link to read for free…

https://cathylamb.substack.com/p/the-gnome-and-the-spike?r=kayfq

As you know, books can take our minds away from life and head-banging stress. They can magically drop us into another world with new people and events. Given the horrible headlines, you might need another world right now.

Go to Amazon, or open my Substack post for the link.

Wishing you all the best during these difficult times.

https://cathylamb.substack.com/p/free-e-book?r=kayfq

The problem with writing is that you have to market and sell books.

Ugh.

I have known this since 2005 when I first sold “Julia’s Chocolates.”

Write a book, market a book. That, dear ladies and gentlemen, is the literary deal.

Side Note Here for a Sec: When Innocent Husband read “Julia’s Chocolates” he was supremely, silly-shocked. As in, “WHO ARE YOU, CATHY?”

There were some crazy scenes in there with women engaging in some slightly unhinged, though healing, moonlight-induced “activities,” which probably brought on his unbridled feelings of mystification and bafflement.

It was like he didn’t know who he was sleeping with anymore.

In fact, one time he put down Julia’s Chocolates and said, his voice constricted, “You thought of, uh, all of this?” He paused. “By yourself?”

Oh yeah, Innocent Husband, dear. I did. Perhaps I’m not who you thought. Surprise!

He blinked in confusion at me through his glasses, like an owl. I tried to look svelte and mysterious, like a sexy spy. (That was hard.)

But I digress. I, personally, would rather write books, talk to myself, chase ostriches, dress up like a caterpillar for a week, or loudly and authoritatively announce in a crowded elevator, “We will now be leaving for Planet Uto. Please hold on and prepare for light speed force,” than market my books.

Alas, not marketing is not a possibility in our rockin’ and rollin’ (read: brutal) publishing world.

Marketing your own books, to me, is almost embarrassing. You have to get off your bottom, waddle on over to your computer, wrestle with the social media dragons, and say, “BUY MY BOOK.”

Click on the link to read the rest and have a lovely day.

https://open.substack.com/pub/cathylamb/p/the-problem-with-writing?utm_campaign=post-expanded-share&utm_medium=web

It’s a break from life and y’all know we need a break right now.

Please come and sign up and we’ll chat. Yes, you can read for free.

https://cathylamb.substack.com