Sometimes readers ask where a book idea comes from. In the case of Out on a Limb, the idea stems from the panic all pet owners experience when their buddy is missing. In Limb, the question is– what will you do when your cat climbs to the top of your neighbor’s tree in a howling rainstorm? 

It was a dark and stormy night… Arriving home at 10 pm, still in skirt, pumps, etc from a long workday and night school, I entered the house. Kids in bed. Husband watching a late Monday Night Football game. The Patriots were on the west coast. Time for bed . . . until the cat escaped. I immediately followed. Through our yard. Into the neighbor’s yard. Up their tree. In my pumps and skirt. Cat . . . climbs higher. I climb higher. It starts raining. Hard. Cue the wind gusts. I’m clutching the skinny limbs you see all the way at the top of trees. I realized how high I’d climbed when the neighbor’s bedroom light winked out. Ten feet below me. The branches were getting slippery. Cat continues yowling– but refuses to budge. I lose one pump. Cue hysterical female sobs. (quietly, because– ssshh . . . the neighbors are now sleeping).

By halftime of the Pats game, Husband finally realizes I’m missing. I know– so flattering, right? He appears outside with a flashlight . . . searching near the car. I whisper-yell to him (because the neighbors are sleeping) and he finally looks up. And up. He trudges over to the neighbor’s yard to the base of the tree. Our conversation goes something like this: Me: Please call the fire department. Him: They probably won’t come for the cat. Me: Uh– how about to get me down? Him: I’ll just get a ladder. (Disappears to the man-shed. Returns ten minutes later with a five foot ladder). Me: What about the other fifteen feet? Him: I’ll guide you down. (Meanwhile, he’s informed me that I’m on the clock because the 3rd quarter is about to start. Me: angry whispers Call the fire department. Him: We can do this– and can you hurry up about it?

Bingo! A story idea. The moral here is never follow a cat up a tree– especially in a rainstorm. Especially late at night– while wearing heels. Especially during a Patriots game. The cat survived. I survived. But my husband missed the third quarter of the Pats game. I still hear of it to this day. 

Recently, hubs and I celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary. When people learn of such a milestone, you are typically hit with the usual questions. How do you make it work? What’s the secret? Or in the case of our kids, the question was ‘what the hell do you still have to talk about?” So, in honor of our achievement, here are a couple tips we’ve picked up along the way– okay, mostly this is just me.

Tip 1) Never serve him pancakes aka Leaden Discs of Death (LDoD). Okay, so for the first few years of marriage, each of you plays nice. Truly, it’s the best course of action. Even if you don’t like it. Even if you think something is  stupid. Early on, feelings tend to get hurt. You can step on toes. So, it’s best to play along. But once the first child comes along (or the five year anniversary), all that goes out the window. You’re allowed to finally say (nicely) that something sucks and you don’t want to take part anymore.

For instance – hubs hates my pancakes (along with most of my other cooking, but that’s a different story). I discovered this early on a Sunday morning when I was making them for darling daughters. Oldest likes hers with strawberries and whipped cream. I’m down with that. However, Youngest thought strawberries were mushy and gross. She likes her pancakes with chocolate chips in them. Or, more accurately, she likes a little pancake with her chocolate chips. So, I– being the fabulous mother I am, would oblige as often as possible.

Hubs on the other hand, decided that particular peaceful, golden Saturday morning was the ideal time to inform me he didn’t like pancakes. Not the plain ones. Not the delicious banana ones I’d made several times (sorry Weight Watchers). Not chocolate chip. Not blueberry and definitely not strawberry. While Youngest was mowing through her chocolate dripped orgy and Oldest was inhaling her strawberry heaven, Hubs’ first words were “are you trying to kill me?” Followed by the renaming of my pancakes to LDoD. Followed by, “that looks like mouse turds”. Only he didn’t say turds– which would have been bad enough. Youngest glances up, big, innocent blue eyes widened in shock and says “this doesn’t taste like mouse shit”. 

Two things learned that day? 1) Youngest wasn’t as gifted as we were lead to believe. Because really– who knows what mouse shit tastes like, right? 2) That was the day Hubs had decided, at least for the Leaden Discs of Death, he’d had enough. Perfectly fair. I get it. Which leads me to tip 2:

 Tip 2) You ARE allowed to go to bed angry. In fact, I encourage it. Especially when you’re right. No good comes from settling an argument before you go to bed. Let’s face it– you’re still pissed. So, why not go with it? I’ve spent many a night lying in bed, basking in the glory of my righteous indignation, while Hubs is sprawled on the couch, dead to the world, remote in his hand, the glow of west coast baseball still flashing on our television screen at 2 am.

In the morning, when cooler heads prevail, one of you will apologize– I’m always hopeful it will be hubs, but sometimes it has to be me. I will have sacrificed a night’s sleep; he will have slept like a corpse, but we usually emerge from the event a little nicer to each other. Stronger. Happier. And to celebrate this newfound understanding? I make my man a steaming plate of pancakes.