New digs

Hi,

I am very excited, I just took on a new gig with Women’s Radio.  In that space I post articles on writing as well as blog postings.  Visit me there for more on memoir writing and writing in general!

http://bit.ly/bI6c9e

Free Workshop

Stop by for a quickie.
Free writing workshop at Tomes books,
in just one hour – write more better.
Are you in the Sierra Foothills area for Easter?
Come visit author and instructor Catharine Bramkamp

Sat. April 3 at 2:00PM  -
Tomes books, 671 Maltman Drive #3
Grass Valley CA

Catharine Bramkamp will run a short workshop so you can practice how to
not “write like you talk”.
You will learn to sound smarter and thinner.
She will also read from her new book  Don’t Write Like You Talk

Romance in the Bath

I wanted romance. The kind of romance captured in photographs and printed in womens magazines. Is there any other kind?

I decided to set up our own romantic evening.

I opened the sparkling wine, I lit the candles, and I drew a scented bubble bath. Ah, this would be heaven, romantic, intimate, all those words of copy I read while sitting under the dryer at the hairdressers.

We both slide into the tub, on cue, the bubbles foamed and popped. The wine sparkled, the candles glowed. We gazed into each other’s eyes. I’m pretty sure they were his eyes; I’m pretty near sighted.

We sipped from the wine flutes and said, look, here we are in a bath tub drinking sparkling wine by candle light – we could hear the bubbles hitting against the glass, which was cool – the rain outside enhanced the coziness of the scene.

After ten minutes my husband shifted, splashing foamy water over the edge of the tub and extinguishing four of the five candles.  The champagne bucket over turned into the bath and we spilled a flute full of wine.

Who knew the romance of this scene was meant to last only as long as it took to capture the photograph?  Six, seven minutes, tops.

This is probably why people start playing with candle wax and end up setting the bath towels on fire.

Tell Me How You Feel

I realized that Zeus is not just a bad dog. Bad dog pawing me when I try to work. Bad dog jumping on me and running away right when I need to leave for work, bad dog chewing on my prescription glasses, bad. Dog.
Zeus is a male dog.

So  yesterday when he jumped on the chair, clawed at me wanting attention, barked for attention, jumped for attention.
I gave him attention.

Full attention.  Eye ball to eye ball attention.  I cupped my hands around his head and hugged him tightly. I held him to my chest and crooned, Oh, you are such a puppy, let me look deeply into your eyes and ask you how you feel?  Right now, tell me, tell me.
How do you feel?

It wasn’t too long ago I used this same technique to encourage my oldest son to do his homework.  You can finish your math, I’d promise him, or you can tell me how you feel.

I know that my youngest son much prefers to talk while sitting in a car traveling forward at 60 miles per hour. Don’t look at me while I’m talking, was his mantra.
So I knew what would bug the dog the most.
And I was right.

After not telling me how he felt, Zeus couldn’t  get away from me fast enough and head to the refuge of his chew toys.
I’ll tell you how I felt.  I felt better.

Tomorrow I will hug Zeus in public and ask him about his future plans.

Downward Dog

I am new to Yoga, very, very new. So new that I thought the combination of over 40 and touching my toes qualified me as one smokin’ hot babe.  Apparently not so much.  There is room for improvement.
In that effort I work every day to improve.
Enter, the dog.
Who likes to help.
His help is not one of encouragement or a reminder to soften my throat. His help is to go for my throat because it looks like a new chew toy. His help is to nip at my fingers as I gracefully descend over the dog  into Downward Dog and cannot get any lower because directly  under my stomach is – the dog resting in his own downward pose.
After some conversation about appropriate play and three time outs, the dog is ready to behave a bit better.
The dog  settles down directly to my right.   When I stretch my legs to the right, there is the dog. He moves, I move.
To the left now, stretch.  There is the dog.
This is  not exactly the relaxing, flowing calm state of being I read about.
We have transformed yoga into a dog wrestling program with the final stretch of me with the dog, both panting.
Only one of us is ready to  face his day.

Dog Diet

I think I’m losing weight. but not because I’ve discovered any technique or potion or pill, or even that I’m doing it on purpose.  I call it the dog diet.

As soon as I sit down to eat, the dog either jumps on me for attention, which means I need to respond calmly and model the behavior that I want, which means: Stop eating, stand up to tower over the dog, show him his toy and then sit down to take two more bites of my own food before he displays the undesirable behavior again.
Or, the dog takes the toy and trots off. Ah, I have won the battle.  but he has larger scale strategy to win the war.  a quiet stealthy sound reaches my momentarily relaxed ears.

I must get up from the table, leave the cooling food and investigate.
Ah, the dog has decided to take his fill of fine literature.  I extract the book as calmly as a bibliophile can and again present the acceptable toy to the damn dog.

By then the dinner is cold and I believe I’m finished.

The Dog Writer

The dog likes to nap with me, we make a good napping team. But I can’t nap all day.  The dog likes to walk, we walk well together, but I can’t walk all day (need to fit in the nap).  The dog has decided he likes to sit in my lap not only on the couch for the nap, but also at the desk, what I am doing must be desirable and fascinating because I do it more than nap or walk.

So the dog climbs up onto my lap.  Not an easy task for  43 pound puppy. He can’t really fit on my lap, he slides around scrapping my thighs as he works to get a purchase then he rests for a second or so,   turns to the computer screen, looks, and smacks his front paws on the key board.

The result is not literary, if it were, I’d hold the dog in my lap every morning.
That is not to be.
Perhaps the dog can make due with his own net book.

Leader of the Pack

We hired a very cute dog trainer.  He is wear-make-up-on- Sunday-morning-cute.  His boyfriend’s name is Sean.
Anyway, the training helps.  The dog.
I’m not sure about me.
Except I do have permission to be the Alpha Dog.  I am suppose to be calm, be forward, be in charge. I am suppose to  be, yes, leader of the pack.

Do you know how exhausting being in charge is?  Of course you do, it’s like being the parent of a two year old, the CEO of a fortune 500 company and president of the PTA all rolled into one rainy afternoon, after the next rainy afternoon, after yet another rainy afternoon.
Take the dog out every day, three times a day if you can. For a long walk.
I amend that to a short walk when it’s driving rain outside.
I must stand tall.
I must take the leash.
I must take the poop bag.
I must be the Alpha Queen Dog at all times and under all circumstances.
Just call me Xena, Princess Warrior.
You can call the dog, Zeus.

Just call me Xena

Yesterday I took the dog down. He was jumping and nipping at me, all in a show of tremendous machismo the likes of which I had not experienced since my days parting with the Lambda Chi house.

I grabbed the dog and dropped him, explaining that I was the Alpha Queen dog, not him. (Actually I was a Chi Omega, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the distinction).
He was not happy, and gave me serious looks for the rest of the hour.

Feeling good about my own progress, I left the newly subdued dog in the house while I went to work.
I returned – he had taken a large bite from my desk calendar and jumped on the kitchen table and scattered the salt all over the kitchen.
So I was not happy.

Then again, neither was he. The next morning he looked at me as if to say: you sure are bossy.
Bossy? He doesn’t know the half of it.

I’m ready for my super bossy cape, my super alpha female tiara.
I will win.  Even if it’s only against a 43 pound pit bull mix.

Dog 2, Catharine 0

I’m tired of cleaning the carpets five times a day. I come home from an hour and half away, a brief respite – yoga or Rotary, so 90 minutes, tops.  My Very First Project is to clean the carpets;  pick up poop from the dining room and dab away at more pee stains.  I move the table the dog chewed to pieces, vaccum up the wood splinters, wipe down the windows again and put up the books on a high shelf. Just in case paper begins to hold more appeal than furniture.

Once I’ve finished bathroom duty, I clean up the surprise mess in my study where the dog has taken apart his new bed, spread foam splinters all over the second floor, as well as carpeting the study with the contents of   the trash can all over the floor.
I take the dog out for a walk in the pouring rain because I just have to do it.
I am not happy in the pouring rain.
And I’m only writing this down because my husband, in a chirpy voice that comes from an undeterred belief in the goodness of the universe, says “it will get better.”