Sick as a Dog

I am writing from the middle of my living room couch, flanked on either side by our two dogs, Alfie and Guthrie. As of my last writing I reported that Guthrie was doing decently with the arrival of my roommate's new fur ball.  A couple weeks have passed, and now we are one big, happy family. It's pretty precious to see your dog find a best buddy, as they lay on floor, making Chewbacca noises and gnawing on each other's ears.

There are still some rules- Guthrie gets to sleep on my bed, and Alfie naps in my doorway. Pets for everyone, and no begging. And they have permission to sit on the couch together- which they do often. When no one is here they seem to take up their posts on the cushions, vigilant yet relaxed, while they wait for the return of one of their humans.

I have had plenty of time to watch them this week, as I got the poop (and the puke) kicked out of me by a nice long case of the flu.  It's like Tonya Harding took a hammer to my health, then left me there on the locker room floor, writhing and weeping.

I can't say there is much to report- I am thankful for the company of dogs while I take naps, read books, and watch dumb movies. The day after all food evacuated my body, I for some reason decided to read the post-apocalyptic novel, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. Maybe not the best choice while I lay in bed with a fever and the aches, as a winter storm descended on Texas. Humbling to be reminded how precious our health is- and how thankful I am for amenities like hot water, heat, and a toilet.

I"ll leave you with a picture of the pups that I took the other day, and head back to my chicken soup, ginger ale, and a more uplifting choice of literature. Until next time . . .

Dog Training for Perfectionists

My favorite sweater when I was a child was pink and purple, and covered in dalmatians and dog bones. I found it at my parents house several years ago, and resurrected it as a Halloween costume, in which I went as myself, in 4th grade. (Mom, if you find a school picture will you send it?!) Complete with my dog sweater, leggings, and gelled bangs, was a replica of a paper ribbon I received in Mrs. Ralston's 4th grade class for "Best Conversationalist."

This year for Halloween I decided to dress Guthrie up as myself. It was only for a few minutes, but here is photo proof of the results.

Dog with identity issues

We had some friends over on the big day, though Guthrie was scared by the weird costumes and kids dressed like superheroes, and spent the night in my room playing video games and sleeping.

It was a pretty classic scene- obscene amounts of sweet things and pumpkin beers, a guy dressed as Gumby fell down the stairs and there was a lesbian pull up competition at one point during the evening.

I felt a little out of sorts this week- call it a blog hangover. I've noticed this funny thing happens- sometimes when I write about something I'm working on, the behavior intensifies before I take my own advice. So I say I'm like a basset hound, and can revel in my mistakes and roll with the punches, and for a few days after I just knock myself down a lot.

I had a perfect opportunity to practice perfectionism this week, because we added a second dog to the house. My rommate Nicole found her furry soul mate, a very sweet-natured Cockapoo mix that she named Alfie. He looks like Sandy from one of my favorite movies, "Annie."

Welcome to your forever home, Alfie DeAngelis! 

Things have gone as well as can be expected between a new submissive pup and a big territorial hound mix who might have Aspergers. More then one person has commented on this, by the way. They've noticed Guthrie's quirky but loving personality, his rigidity and uneasy eye contact, his troubling social skills. In any case, he tolerates and likes Alfie, as long as the new guy follows the rules. Guthrie is territorial of space, me, and rawhide bones, and if Alfie tries to set paw in my room, Guthrie growls and snarls.

Now, this is perfect breeding ground for perfectionist bullshit because in classic form I took more then the lion's share of responsibility for my dog's behavior. Guthrie would growl because Alfie got too close to the food bowl or started army crawling into my room, and I would instantly feel like I had fucked up- that this was a reflection on my dog parenting skills or that Guthrie was a bad dog and Alfie was a good dog. I was thrown a curve ball, and before I could step back up to plate I had to go have a good long cry in the dugout and spend the day watching The West Wing. Steven was very nice though, he patted my leg and asked if I needed to take a nap, which was very sweet, and yes, I did.

This example of my reaction to my dog exhibiting normal behavior is why some people adopt a dog before they have children. I am practicing. Also, this situation is why the big deal scale was invented.

I wrote to the dog trainer folks that I work with, and this is a portion of her response:

"If you see Guthrie posturing or staring, this is a good time to redirect him and reward him for something else. If you are not able to be proactive and he growls at the other dog, realize he is communicating how he feels, which is not wrong, just undesirable."

Funny I've never come across a training book called, "Dog Training for Perfectionists." I think there could be a market for it.

Anyways, once I had calmed down a little bit I decide I needed some self care, so I biked to the store to buy a new pair of pajamas. When the going gets rough, and the weather drops to a frigid 50 degrees in Austin, it's time for new jammies. Also, the pair of pink flannel pants that my Mom bought me at Costco ten years ago has developed a hole in the butt region.

While I was perusing the racks for the comfiest pants, I came across a sweater that all but jumped into my arms. It was grey, with a print of a basset hound on it.

Call it what you will- my spirit basset hound, a gentle nudge from the universe, or maybe a throwback to my childhood fashion. All I know is on days when the spirit moves you, you may feel revelation, profound contentment, or a deep sense of peace. Then again, sometimes the spirit gives you a dog sweater, which is fine by me.

Ralphie

Your Inner Basset Hound

I think one day I'd like to write a book series called, "Ralphie," a collection of stories about an anxious basset hound by the same name. Maybe my friend Dan or Tessa will draw the pictures for me. There will be titles that loosely reflect my own experiences, such as: "Ralphie and the Sleepover," "Ralphie and the Big Scary School Bus," "Ralphie's Road Trip to California," and "Ralphie Ralphs on an Airplane (AGAIN.)" I guess if we follow Ralphie through adulthood we can expect books such as: "Ralphie Decides to See What Psychedelics Are All About," "Ralphie Learns to Drive a Truck," and "Ralphie Moves to Texas."

Before I got Guthrie, who appears to be a mix between a hound dog and a Great Dane, and I been thinking about adopting a Basset Hound. They're just so funny- I think their comic appearance appealed to me more then anything else. They are adorable puppies and weird looking adult dogs, with saggy eyes and funny wiener dog legs and dinosaur sized ears. But they've got character, and if there's one thing I admire in people and dogs, that's it. That, and a tender heart. 

I went back to see my therapist recently for a little tune up. I still feel funny writing that, like maybe I should call her my spirit guide or really observant cheerleader, or something. In any case. it was great to see her and she reminded me again that an anxious mind is not something you can think your way out of. She suggested I run 3-6 times per week, because, quite frankly, the best thing I can do is stop thinking so much and just get some of this energy out.

So I have been running more, dragging Guthrie with me, and I do feel much better when I get home, sweaty and spent. It's very different from walking or biking, which I do everyday. I'd like to start swimming, too, so one day when I'm eighty I can be just like my Grandpa Dave. :)

On a side note, we were taking a morning walk yesterday and Guthrie wasn't paying attention to where he was going, and he ran his head into the bumper of a parked SUV. I kid you not.

Last night I was checking my Facebook, and I felt myself starting to slide down the rabbit hole. It's all the same shit, the habitual feelings of sadness, the FOMO (fear of missing out), the incessant comparing of myself to others. I must say, a positive fallout from the Facebook phenomenon is that it has been a boon for therapists nationwide. Both my Mom and the lady I see tell me that they have multiple clients, particularly women, who come to them in tears saying things like, "I saw a picture of my friend's wedding, her marriage is so perfect and love will never work out for me." Just as a reminder, in case you have been spending too much time on Facebook: EVERYBODY has their shit, even if they have handsome husbands or new babies or a killer sense of style. Myself included.

So, instead of sliding down the proverbial rabbit hole I decided to make a change of course, so I logged off and typed in: "Basset Hound Puppies" into Google instead.

I figure when all else fails, looking at goofy puppies is better then subjecting oneself to social media. 

The shots that really got me were of basset hounds running.  Here is an example:

 

Here is another one:

See? I'm laughing again! Looking at this made me think about my therapist's suggestion to start running more. Although I have decent running form, I think this is what I feel like on the inside sometimes. We all have our inner basset hound, who just needs to run down the beach, little paws akimbo, losing their shit. 

I have also been working on mindfulness lately, slowly trying to re-train my brain to live in the present. I can do it for about 20 seconds at a time right now- watching a tall patch of grass blowing in the wind, a candle on my windowsill, taking a few deep breaths on the front porch. With practice, I will be able to stick with this exercise for longer, and perhaps one day I will be fully present with my cheese sandwich and bowl of tomato soup, savoring each bite, instead of worrying about what it will be like to parent a teenager, before I am even pregnant. (Although to be fair, parenting teenagers is pretty fucking frightening.)

I guess the moral of the story is that when it comes to running, or mindfulness, the goal is to break it up into smaller pieces. This actually speaks to what I was writing about a few weeks ago, regarding Procrastination and Perfectionism. When we feel overwhelmed by the task at hand, doubtful of our capacity to roll with the punches and take risks, that is a sign we may need to start smaller. My goal this week was not to run a half marathon, or even train for one! It was to run three times, to the pond by my house, and back. And my goal for writing this week was not to pen the first chapter of the next great american novel- it was to write a post about basset hounds. 

The hard part is knowing that I have to do this every week, and slowly start biting off bigger pieces as I am ready. And maybe one day I will run a marathon, or write a book series. Just not today. For now, I will take it as it comes, and try to harness my inner basset hound. And when I am done for the day, I will lay my head down and rest, just like this little guy.

 

Words and Pictures

That thing happened again. That thing where I meant to write the week after I wrote the last thing, but then a month went by and I was too distracted holding babies, watching bad tv, waiting for it to rain, and just plain wallowing around in big messy life questions.

But now the dog is sleeping on my lap, dinner has been made, dessert has been served, and I've run out of excuses.

So, this is what happened since last we spoke, in no particular order.

I ate chicken fried steak with my roommate and some friends and lots of lesbians and one ex-marine, and it was delicious and perfect.  There were Ritz crackers that we dipped in cream cheese covered in spicy pepper jelly that someone's grandma made, and it was awesome! We had pumpkin beer, and dark and stormy's, and mashed potatoes and biscuits.  I made this strawberry almond cream cake, and we pretty much inhaled the whole thing.

Yesterday night, Steven and I went running with Guthrie. It was crisp and perfect outside, we ran along a lovely pond, then Guthrie threw up his dinner, which was surprising. It was partially chewed, if you were wondering.  Apparently he was fine, because less then 5 minutes later he sprinted off to find out where Steven was hiding (he was taking a leak behind a tree) and then they ran around the field like maniacs until Guthrie tired himself out.

My Mom sent me a copy of the big deal scale, this nifty therapeutic tool created by a local Seattle mental health counselor, which was then adapted by my Mom and her colleague for use in their therapy groups with school aged kids.  It is very helpful for me, so helpful in fact, that I keep it on my fridge.  It may be helpful for you, too.

As you can see, we start at 1, which is "Not a big deal," and go up to 10, which is "A really BIG DEAL."
Here are some scenarios for you- you decide which number it is. There is no right or wrong answer.

A. I fell in a mud puddle and had to get new pants from the school nurse.
B. I did not get the icing flower I wanted on the cake at my friends birthday,  They gave me a piece with the letter 'H', but I wanted the purple flower.
C. I misspelled the word "constipation" in an email to my doctor.
D. My guinea pig died yesterday
E. I spilled a glass of red wine on my boyfriend's shirt and we did not get to see Bruce Springsteen at the party.

This is useful for me because I usually put everything at an 8 on the big deal scale. Like the other day, I accidentally dried my roommates clothes and forgot to take her bras out first. This can be a big deal if you are a girl- and I felt so bad I wanted to barf, just like Guthrie.  Then I reminded myself that what I put in the dryer was a bra, not a pet hamster, so it probably wasn't really an 8.

I get upset sometimes about things at work, like when they move the plates and don't tell me, or a customer is rude. I tell my boyfriend about it, and sometimes he says, "hey Lindsey, you know that big deal scale on the fridge that your Mom sent you? I think you think that this thing at work is a 7, but it's more like a 2."

See? It totally works!!!!! Feel free to print one out for your fridge.

OKAY. Other things that happened. I went to Gruene Hall with Steven and one of my dearest friends, we saw a local guy named Hayes Carll and this great opening band called Mike and the Moonpies.  Gruene Hall is a very famous Texas dance hall out in the country, there is no AC, there are old wood benches and tables and the floor is worn down with the dirt and sweat and country memories of many famous Texan artists. Also, John Travolta filmed a famous scene from Saturday Night Fever there.  Here is a picture of it.  If you come visit me we can go there and drink Shiner beers and sit on the old wood benches.

The other thing that happened that just about melted my face off, it was so GREAT, was that I got to see one of my all time favorite musicians, Neko Case. She lives on a farm, and she has horses and dogs, and a voice that would make Patsy Cline dance in Heaven.  She did a taping for the PBS show Austin City Limits, and it was FREE. In a beautiful theater, in downtown Austin.  I used to watch the show with my parents when I was a kid, and I never knew that the Austin skyline behind the performers was part of the stage, not the actual city. Back in the day, their theater was very small and on the campus of UT, and apparently they would announce the shows and then show up at coffee shops around town and pass out wristbands.  Now, they are in a beautiful new venue called the Moody Theater, and whenever they do a taping you can enter a drawing online for free tickets.  I went and stood outside for a couple hours, read a book and ate some sandwiches, and I got in!

I bought this poster, and rode home exultant, singing along to the wind the whole way home. Speaking of singing, I was in HEB the other day (that is the grocery store, and it stands for the guy's name, which was, I kid you not, Howard Edward Butts.) Anyways, I was buying some sundries and a nice lady with a thick Texan accent asked me if I wanted to do a free wine tasting. I said yes on an empty stomach, and felt pretty tipsy for approximately five minutes, during which time this old Dave Matthews Band song came on.  Many people I know would be annoyed at that scenario, but I was inexplicably and profoundly happy. There I was, dancing a little drunk on a dixie cup of sparkling Rose, listening to an old pal while I picked out trail mix in the store on my day off. It was amazing.

I hope you had some amazing and hilarious moments like that this past month too. I would promise to write next week, but we know that may not happen, so until the next time, enjoy these words and pictures.

The Procrastinating Perfectionist

My first memory of certifiable procrastination dates back to 5th grade. That was about 20 years ago. I had to do a report on Galileo, and make a poster of what I had learned. I remember very little about the assignment. What I remember is that I waited until literally the night before it was due, and I had probably had a month to work on it. I cried and cried, and stayed up late into the night working on the poster board. Apparently my parents remember this incident too- nothing about the experience was pleasurable for them, and I am very thankful in retrospect that they chose not to bail me out, but allowed me to suffer the consequences and figure out a solution on my own,

This trend continued into high school and college- I remember writing essays for my freshman year English class, and falling asleep one night with my head resting on the bookshelf that was right next to the computer in the family room. One night Amber Casali and I drank a pot of coffee while trying to finish the outline for a history day project on Gandhi that would eventually win us 5th in state in the creative performance category.

In college I usually wrote my papers the day before they were due- there were many long nights and early mornings in the computer lab, and one project that was completed half asleep in the hallway of my freshman dorm at three in the morning. And the classic political science mid-term fiasco, in which I woke up halfway through the test, ripped an old essay out of my roommate Betsy's blue book so I could use the rest of it, and ran into the lecture hall with pajama pants and crazy ass hair, looking like some kind of subway monster. Thanks again to my good friend Caitlin, who had been about to leave class in order to go call me and wake me up.

These stories make me sound like a bit of a flake when it came to school work, but the truth is that I pulled good grades, even when I was pulling papers out of my ass. To be fair, there were several math and science classes I came close to failing over the years, but that's a different blog post.

This way of being worked for me- I created solid work under pressure, thought about what I had to say for a long time, then cranked it out right before it was due. I absolutely did myself a disservice, too, by always turning in my first attempt, and being unwilling to have the patience to revise my work or face any serious criticism.

This is an epidemic among perfectionists, and I've spent the day procrastinating on the things I need to do, and thinking about why.

When you don't want to fuck up, make any mistakes, or, god forbid, disappoint someone, it's easier to do something at the last minute that put all of your effort into it. There is some juicy material in here about fear, and the unknown, and perhaps the great mystery that awaits us in death, but I may need more therapy before I can clearly articulate all this.  What I know is that I even though I understand that perfection is a foolish and unhealthy goal, I still do my best my attain it.  For me that meant getting good grades on papers I wrote the night before they were due, or spending lots of time daydreaming about my goals instead of starting the long, arduous, unpredictable journey toward achieving them.

I think with perfectionism there is a lot of "owning it." For instance, feeling that if your dog shits on your roommates pillow, that is somehow a reflection on your character.  Or if you don't get a job, or have a date that goes poorly, that it somehow means you are unworthy of success or love.

So procrastination tempers this- it gives us a little space, a buffer between our real experiences and the feeling that we are going to choose the wrong path or let ourselves or someone else down.

Procrastination and perfectionism are like the Laurel and Hardy of personal issues- they were made for each other.

I have been thinking about applying for a new job, but I haven't done anything about it yet. I am overwhelmed by the idea of looking, facing rejection, and knowing that a change of routine is inevitable. Today I ate chocolate whiskey cake that Steven made, went running with Guthrie, did yard work, washed the covers on the couch cushions, and fixed the handle of a frying pan before I actually sat down to look at my resumes.

All day I felt like Paul Rudd in Wet Hot American Summer, when he throws his tray on the floor after breakfast, and Janeane Garofalo makes him pick it up.  I hemmed and hawed and whined and threw my arms around like a baboon, but I finally, grumpily, opened up my computer and sat down to work.

I feel better now that I've taken the first tiny step towards progress. I feel better now that I stopped thinking about writing something, and actually WROTE IT.  Tomorrow I am going to do more yard work, paint my toenails, write some letters, and make some soup.  Then, if I get around to it, I'll start working on some cover letters. Wish me luck- and may the force be with you.

Too Darn Hot

When I lived in Seattle, I used to pine for the coming of summer as early as December.  By March, I would be desperately trying to wear my blue and white polka dot summer dress, layered over leggings, smart wool socks, and slippers. We would still have the heat turned on to stave off the chill of a rainy spring, and I have a distinct memory of my roommate Kyle yelling to me, "Lindsey, it's too early for summer dresses! Give up the ghost!"  

In high school my friend Annie and I would go outside in the summer to get "sun drunk." There was no alcohol involved, we would just find a field to lay in and let the Northern sun bake us until we felt tipsy and relaxed.

About two and a half years ago I moved to Austin, Texas, and although my seasonal depression has definitely improved, I went from craving the August sun to feeling like I am living in the apocalypse.  

I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating.  Summer in Austin is like winter in Seattle.  I drink too much beer, stay inside, watch movies, and feel trapped in the house.  Much like February in Seattle, by the time August rolls around I think everyone is feeling a bit stir crazy due to the weather. 

My gardening experiment has all but failed, save for the fig tree I water every morning, a scraggly basil plant and some rosemary.

I try to run in the mornings or at night, but the past few weeks I can barely drag my shoes on, much less convince my body to launch myself through the neighborhood, dripping sweat from every crack and pore. 

It's easier to throw on a dress, stuff dog treats in my pocket, and wander around with Guthrie like a thirsty zombie at 9 in the morning before wandering back to the house to shower and change my clothes. 

I'm like a grumpy vampire that stayed up all night and resents the dawn.

Don't get me wrong, I am not about to pack my bags and head home to the certain hell that is 6 months of rain. There is so much I still love about living here: the sounds of the bugs, the smell of the trees, the big sky, my boyfriend and my dog, tacos and polka music, church picnics and Lyle Lovett.

You know he was a famous song in which he sings, "That's right, you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway."  

I fielded a lot of questions about my choice to move when I was home this summer.  Friends asking if I like it, if I'll move back to Seattle, etc.  Coming home brings up complicated feelings- my gut told me I needed a change of scene, and although I absolutely miss my parents, sisters, and friends, I have a deep sense that allowing myself new, unknown experiences in a wildly different state has done me a world of good.

Knowing that didn't seem to help avoiding a small mental health crises when I returned to hot Austin. I talked about losing my marbles in my last post- I feel like upon coming back I had a whole train full of marbles that has briefly derailed, and I am doing my best to get back on track.

For those of us who live in Austin- cut yourself a break.  Let's be real here, guys.  August is not the time for making big plans or ruminating on the purpose of life.  It's a time to hunker down, take good care, and pray for the fever heat to break.  

I found this quote by Rachel Naomi Remen, in her book "My Grandfather's Blessings." 

" . . . it seems to me that knowing where we are going encourages us to stop seeing and hearing and allows us to fall asleep. In fact, when I find myself on such a direct path, a part of me rushes ahead toward the front door the moment I see it. As I hurry to overtake this part, I usually do not really see anything that I pass.

        Not knowing where you are going creates more the uncertainty; it fosters a sense of aliveness, an appreciation of the particulars around you.

        In fact, perhaps we only think we know where we are going as all the while we are really going somewhere quite different. I have done many things in order to achieve a valued goal only to discover in time that the real goal my choices have led me toward is something else entirely. Something I could not even have known existed when I first set foot upon the path. The purpose underlying life often wears the mask of whatever has our attention at the time. The very reason we were born, our greatest blessing, or our way to serve may come into our lives looking like a new car, a chance to travel, or a cup of the finest coffee. 

        The truth is that we are always moving toward mystery and so we are far closer to what is real when we do not see our destination."

Although we don't all live in the same city, I think many of us are in the same boat.  I am going to do my best go collect my marbles and my train cars, be kind to myself, and remember that life is a process, and one of these days we will get a good hard rain.  

And when the uncertainty and clattering of thoughts become too pervasive- do as Guthrie does. Find a soft spot, cuddle with some pillows, and take a rest.

I did not put that pillow there, I found him just like that. :)

  

A Bucket of Kosher Salt

I called my Mom a couple months ago, and anxiously blathered on about the status of my job, my dog, and my life in general, and expressed deep concern about not knowing what would happen in the future.  When I finally stopped to take a breath, I said, "You know Mom, I think I'm just a little overwhelmed, so take everything I'm saying with a pinch of salt."

"Don't worry, Linds," she replied, laughing, "I'm taking everything you say with a giant bucket of kosher salt."

Coming from a gifted therapist, this remark was neither glib or dismissive, but honored where I was at and acknowledged, gently, that I was starting to lose my marbles, which happens frequently.

So I scooped up my marbles, put on my best summer dress, and went on with my summer.  I had been anticipating two big trips to the Northwest, to attend weddings of some of my closest friends.  I was in the wedding party for both of them, and went through the attending stress of digging out my old makeup, hoping my hair wouldn't look too poofy, and spending hours and hours looking for shoes. (I found shoes, fabulous yellow heels that I wore for both.)

It was lovely to escape the heat of a Texas summer and bask in the cool mornings and clear sunsets of the Northwest. You know when you open the oven to check on your muffins, and you get a blast of hot air in the face? That's what it feels like when you open the front door and walk outside on those blazing 102 degree days, of which there have been many.  

So I apologize that I haven't written since early July- I was busy getting really sweaty in Austin, and flying on airplanes to Seattle, drinking cocktails with my father, napping with Guthrie, and giving toasts to celebrate the unions of some of my loveliest friends. 

A highlight reel of the first wedding, which took place on the Olympic Peninsula, might go like this: we got our nails painted, Gabrielle looked gorgeous, I sang a Greg Brown song at the ceremony, and my parents hitch hiked on the ferry from Edmonds and got a ride with the caterer. I saw my old college friends: we danced to Bonnie Tyler, we drank Bulleit Bourbon and ate beet risotto and roast chicken, and my favorite friend from Montana drove into the ferry line with half a pizza on top of her car. (It fell into the road face up, but there were too many people around and she didn't want to be that girl eating road pizza, so she tossed it.)  

I held it together through the ceremony, and then lost it as Gabi and Joe starting receiving their friends and family. I went and cried my eyes out on a rock, my sister brought me a glass of red wine and as I ranted about love and youth and growing old she looked me at said, "Dude, you aren't making any sense, but that's cool. Just let it out."

After the wedding I went back to my parents house for a few days, we sat around on the front porch and threw the ball for Roscoe the dog, admired the garden and the Japanese maple in the front yard, and ate pesto and steak and had lots of gin and tonics. 

I saw one of my best friend's since high school, we went to Target and she bought baby clothes for her big sister, then went up to the roof of the hard rock cafe and looked out over Puget Sound on a perfect afternoon.

I was home in Austin for about 3 weeks, the days flew by in a blur of work, and naps, swimming with Steven and watching lots of Netflix.

I returned to Seattle and went straight to happy hour with my Dad after getting off the airplane. We had calamari caesar salad, oysters and fries, manhattans and martinis.  

Two days later I hopped in the car with 3 guy friends I hadn't seen in years, we listened to hip hop and drank fizzy water and laughed the whole way to Troutdale, Oregon.  

My dear pals Kyle and Maria got married in Blackberry Meadow at McMenamins, a funky hotel filled with colorful paintings that in the past had been both a poorhouse for farmers, and a sanitarium.  If there were ghosts there, they all seemed happy. I'm sure they get to eat lots of leftover wedding cake once the guests leave.  

We swam in the saltwater soaking pool, and someone gave Kyle a doughnut that looked like a wiener for his 31st birthday, which was the day before the wedding. Me and the other boys who were groomsmen (that's right, I wore a pretty dress and got to chill with the boys) told funny stories about living with Kyle, remembered sweet moments between him and Maria, and basked in the glow of bygone days. At the end of the ceremony, when it was time for them to kiss, Maria's nephew brought her a wooden box to stand on, and she still had to reach up to kiss Kyle. It was the sweetest of moments.

Then there was swing music, and drunk wedding crashers, classic dance moves that split open the backside of pants, and a dance circle involving a giant squash.  

The day after the wedding, exhausted, my dear friend Samm drove me to Portland where we ate a giant breakfast of omelettes and bacon and a fresh croissant, and then I took a heavenly nap. 

I met up with my college friends Schuyler and Kaitlyn that night- we saw a superb art show featuring poster art from iconic artist Chuck Sperry, ate dinner at a fabulous American craft restaurant called Nedd Ludd, waved at Carrie Brownstein, who was also eating there, and finished off the night with a rousing game of pinball at a local bar. I officiated Schuyler and Kaitlyn's wedding fours years ago- congrats you two, and here's to many more!

I spent a few more days in Seattle, eating a lot with my parents, listening to the Bo Deans, The Band, and the new Patty Griffin album with the windows open and a breeze blowing the through the house. Samm and I picked blackberries at the old school down the street, and Shelley made a crisp out the them that night. I've picked blackberries there since I was probably 4 years old- nothing smells and feels more like summer then the sound of the blackberries dropping into the stainless steel bowl, and the tart, sweet taste of sunshine and fruit. 

I got on the plane back to Austin feeling a bit emotionally hungover from the past two months. Weddings are such a mix bag of joy and melancholy, I wasn't sure what I wanted to write about. I felt sadness at seeing how profoundly the social landscape has changed, but that is simply a reality of time. Our childhood friends grow up, some of us move away, we drift apart and then come back together, parents watch their kids find partners- I guess you could say there are a lot of feelings to be felt.

I was reminded how all relationships are different- that there will always be expectation in big events, that marriage and partnership are an imperfect mystery that we cannot entirely control. It is an intimate thing, that is truly between the two people in it.  It is a blessing. 

Coming home, all I wanted to do was eat BBQ sandwiches and watch The West Wing. I wanted to think myself silly regarding all these big ideas about growing up, marriage, relationships, and THE FUTURE. I wanted to take my bag of marbles and spill them all over the floor. 

I have tried instead to do the few things that I drag my feet and whine about, but that I need most desperately. I went running, and tried to convince my muscles they will get strong again. I finally sat down to write, after finding a hundred excuses over the past two months why I wasn't ready to. 

I have eaten some BBQ sandwiches and watched The West Wing, but I have tried my best to do other things too, like take Guthrie for walks, and weed the front yard, and sit with my Anne Lamott book and my coffee and take lots of deep breaths. I may go buy myself a bucket of kosher salt and put it on the shelf near my kitchen table, so in between big thoughts about life, I can remember to stay in the present, and not take myself too seriously.

Dancing to the Shiner Hobo Band

Let me tell you a story. It starts on Thursday morning, when my sweet Texan boyfriend picked me up in the old purple truck, and we headed towards the open country.  We were on our way to the tiny town of St. John's, for the Fourth of July church picnic. This church picnic is the stuff of legend, drawing crowds of a few hundred every year, and I was going for the first time.

On the drive towards Fayette County we saw a road runner, and then I slept in the car while we tried to beat the clock and arrive before the high sun hit the the top of the truck.  We stopped at McDonald's so I could get a coffee, I asked for a small but the only sizes they had were medium or large.

The highway gave way to two lane roads and the houses became more spread apart- we went past an old gas station with a billboard above it that said, "JESUS," and then came to the church.  American flags lined the road, and I saw a car on which someone had written, "Wendy Davis is my hero."  We parked his truck under the shade of a tree, next to all the bigger trucks, and headed in to find his parents and grandparents.

We were given food tickets by his Mom, so we waited in line and were rewarded with a paper plate heaped with fried chicken, green beans, sauerkraut, beef stew, and german potatoes.  Drink tickets were $2, and there were cases upon cases of Shiner Beer and Bud Light.

We ate our food, visited with his grandparents and extended family, and walked through the picnic.  I grabbed this shot of the farm auction.

We also visited the dunk tank and ring toss, and Steven won a bottle of coke. Then, it was time for dancing.
The picnic area was filled to the brim with old folks and babies sharing picnic tables and folding chairs, and live Polka music filled the air for hours. There is a rich history of Eastern European immigration in Texas, and  the culture continues to thrive. Kolaches abound in bakeries throughout the state, street names in the country make you feel like you are driving through the Czech countryside, and all the older folks know how to Polka.

Seriously, this is a thing! The best dancers were all over 70 years old, and they moved with the ease of partners who have known the joy of dancing for decades. Steven's grandparents, Ovella and Ermin, met in their twenties at a Polka dance, and have been married for 60 years.

So, I mustered up my courage and I hit the dance floor. I danced with Steven, his Mom, his brother, and his Uncle Lloyd. I polka danced, two-stepped, and waltzed. We listened to fabulous live bands, my favorite being the Djuka Brothers, known for their hit, "Grandpa Drank Too Much at the St. John's Picnic," and the iconic Shiner Hobo Band.

The Shiner Hobo Band was started following World War I by local soldiers recently returned, who longed to get back to playing that old time music. They decided to wear mismatched clothes with patches, the look has remained the same ever since. The band thrived until the 50's, and then slowly disbanded after the death of the director. In the mid eighties it was revived, and now includes up to 30 members, sporting accordions and guitars and suspenders, bringing the joy of Polka to folks here in Texas. The band member directing the song wields a sparkly toilet plunger, and everything is played from memory. It is, in short, a really good time.


  The Shiner Hobo Band

After a few beers and a few hours of dancing we headed back to his Grandparent's house to watch The Coal Miner's Daughter and take a nap. We were back at the picnic that evening, for hamburgers and fireworks and more dancing. I took this picture of a hat in a car.

We checked out the church and cemetery, I marveled at all the Polish and Czech last names and looked out over the land adjacent to the church.  Ermin grew up on the that land, 80 acres that is still being farmed today.  He told us he was an altar boy, he would go to school and do his church duties, then hop under the fence and run home for supper. He knew a lot of the young men buried in the cemetery who died in World War II.

  

I wondered what it must be like for him- after growing up on the land, marrying and moving to Houston, he and Ovella returned years ago the countryside where they grew up, where all the roads are familiar and the history is so rich and so present. Of course things have changed, their friends have started to pass and they are not able to dance much anymore, but there is still so much joy in their lives.

By the time we finished our walk through the cemetery and I finished my ruminations on the nature of existence, I was full to bursting with food, beer, and good old Texas sunshine. We reveled in the early hours of the evening, and then the whole party walked toward the field to watch the fireworks brighten the starry sky. 

I fell asleep exhausted and happy, with the quiet excitement of someone who has just had a great time at a party she hadn't known existed.  

In the morning we rose early so I could get back to Austin to sell pies and sandwiches. Grandpa's pet jackrabbits were running through the field, which was golden under the weight of the morning. We ate a Kolache, packed up the purple truck, and were back on the road.

All in all, it was a lovely fourth of July, and maybe next year you'll find me in the same blue dress, dancing the polka to the Shiner Hobo Band.

  

                                            

World's Toughest Canoe Race

This morning, Steven and his brother Michael returned to Austin after completing the Texas Water Safari. The water safari is a 260 mile canoe race that runs from source to sea, starting at the mouth of the San Marcos river, and ending in Seadrift, Texas. In order to finish, participants must complete the race in 4 days and 4 hours.

They must also brave extreme heat, no sleep, dams and log jams, gigantic swarms of blood sucking mosquitoes, rapids, canoeing through the night, and rivers full of alligator gars. More on those later.

They don't call it the world's toughest canoe race for nothin'.

I saw him off on Saturday in San Marcos, and had the chance to watch the first part of the race. 115 boats entered this year, and 81 finished. In order to be considered a finisher, you must complete the water safari in 100 hours.

Start of the race

It was a hoot to see the river full of canoes, friends and family lining the bank as folks got their paddles ready and adjusted their gear before the start. There were lots of people with fancy outfits- leggings to protect them from the sun, gloves, and long sleeve matching shirts. There were also some real characters there- rough looking guys with big beards and cowboy hats and shorts with the Texas flag printed on them.  

It's the kind of event that people get hooked on- when you look at the registration page it will list the number of times the person has raced, and the number of times they have finished. Some guys have done this for decades. This was Michael's second race and Steven's third. I saw that lots of family had signed up to race- brothers, couples, fathers with their sons or daughters. There were also a good handful of women, both in teams and going it solo. Bad ass! They team that won overall was a 6 man boat full of some of the brawniest men I have seen on a river!

There are different classes of canoes that can enter- aluminum boats, carbon fiber boats, a few kayaks, and you can enter as a solo racer or as a team.

At one of the viewing spots I chatted with a woman who told me her son was racing with the man who might become his father in law.

"Well," she said laughing, "If my son does well in the race then I think he has permission to marry her."

I guess you could say the Texas Water Safari is a good way to separate the weak from the strong- good luck man! 

The first recorded trip was completed in 1962 by two Texans named Frank Brown and Bill "Big Willie" George, who traveled from San Marcos to Corpus Christi in a v-bottom boat.  They finished in 30 days, and decided the next year to establish a race.

In the old days, you had to pack all your food and water for the duration of the 4 days.  If you ran out, you drank river water or tried to refill your jugs from a hose in someone's backyard without getting shot at.

Now there are Team Captains who follow each team in a car, and stop at certain checkpoints to resupply them with water, ice and some food. But don't go thinking this is some kind of luxury cruise.

Steven's parents, who were his Team Captains this year, said that past Victoria they had to stay in their car because the mosquitoes got so bad.  Steven corroborated this, saying, "I had to piss running backwards to keep them from biting me!"

His folks did a stellar job, and had no choice but to fully join in the mania, sleeping about 6 hours over the course of 4 days as they drove to meet their sons at sketchy bridges and muddy banks at all hours of the day and night.

On the first day, I tagged along and watched at a few spots along the river in San Marcos.  First was Rio Vista Dam, where two guys broadsided a rock in the rapids with their aluminum boat.  The boat took water and began to wrap around the rock, and that was the end of the race for them. Apparently it took a fire truck and a winch to get the damn thing out. Here are a few actions shots from San Marcos for your viewing pleasure.

Cottonseed rapid

Rio Vista

The first section of the race covers many beautiful miles of clear blue river, with overhanging trees, numerous onlookers cheering you on and turtles watching from the river rocks. The second night is when it starts to get freaky, brackish water and steep muddy banks, and parts of Texas where it's best to stay in your boat rather then befriend the locals. Oh yeah, and there are tons of Alligator Gars.

Alligator Gars are basically prehistoric fish with two rows of sharp teeth, similar to alligators. They are the largest freshwater fish in North America, with adults averaging 8-10 feet long and weighing at least 200 pounds. They don't tend to bite people, but they are scary as hell.  Here are some photos from the internet:

My pet Gar

So many teeth!

They have been known to jump out of the water, and knock into the bottom of canoes as they pass by. They are attracted to light, and apparently jumped at a woman's headlamp last year and fractured her rib. This year, as Steven and Michael were paddling in the dark, their friend called out (pretty calmly) from about 15 feet behind them- "Gar in boat!"

A young 2-3 foot long alligator gar had jumped out of the water, landed in his boat, and was crawling around underneath his seat! No one was bit, but the gar was kicking so hard that it took a few of them to overturn the boat and finally get him out.

So when people ask me if I would ever do the race, I just think about giant mosquitoes, dinosaur fish with teeth, and not sleeping for 4 days, and the answer is decidedly NO.

That said, I love supporting the people in my life and I was impressed by what a friendly community has been formed around the Texas River Safari, and canoeing in Central in Texas.

After 81 hours on the water, and a total of one and half hours of sleep for Steven, he and his brother paddled to the finish line in Seadrift, coming in 43rd overall and 7th in their class.

Today he says he wants to take a break, but I have a feeling that when sign up time comes around, his name may be on the list for next year.

If you're looking for an absolutely crazy, memorable endurance event with a bunch of other maniacs, this might be for you. Signe and Ben? Uncle Eric? All my friends in the Northwest who think rock climbing is hard core . . . Sounds right up your alley, and I promise I'll be there to watch.

The one thing I know for sure- the World's Toughest Canoe Race is not for the faint of heart.

Happy Paddling, y'all!

Mike on the left, Steven on the right. They are twins.

www.texaswatersafari.org

I Hate Sleepovers

I was a child of routine. As you may have read, I loved my stuffed animals and my pets. I loved the pictures on my walls, the sound of my Dad playing guitar at night, my blankets, my room, my bed.  

When I was really little I started a tradition we would call Naked Ranger time. It consisted of me throwing off my towel and running around the house buck naked after bath time, and enlisting my sisters to join. This would prompt my parents to exclaim, "here come the Naked Rangers!"

Three serious sisters

In short, I liked being at home, and still do to this day.

In elementary school I would get invited to sleepovers every once in awhile, and a similar pattern would ensue. I would show up and play with the other girls, but I would always get tired and fall asleep first. I hated games like Truth or Dare, and still do.  Didn't like the pressure, or being told to do dumb shit, or being asked things I would rather keep private. In the morning I would wake up first, and eat a granola bar and read a book in my sleeping bag, or better yet, go upstairs and socialize with the parents who were drinking coffee and making pancakes. 

Usually though, I wouldn't make it through the night. Yes, I was that kid. My resolve would cave once 11 pm hit, and my parents would get the phone call asking in a trembling, quiet voice, if they could please come pick me up. They always did, and I remember it was with great relief that I loaded my overnight bag, stuffed animal, and sleeping bag back into the station wagon, ready to be back at home.

There was a famous sleepover, Katie Sharkey's birthday- we watched Groundhogs Day and had such a great time, and I remember that her family was always warm and very kind. I still had to make the call though, and in a tremendous show of parental patience my parents let me sleep in my bed, and then brought me back in the morning so I could eat waffles and bacon with the other girls.

For this reason, sleepover camp was never really an option.  I remember going to a father daughter weekend  with Camp Fire on Vashon Island at Camp Sealth- it was pretty fun, but even with a parent there I was itching to get home.  I remember that my friend Sarah was there too, she ate a Marion-berry pie and threw up, and it's strange that I don't remember more about the trip.

Sarah was one of my closest friends, one of the kindest and loveliest kids you ever laid eyes on. She had long dark hair and a sweet smile, and came from a nice Jewish family. I liked sleeping at Sarah's house. Her family would have Shabbat dinner, and I was allowed to turn lights on and off since my family wasn't very practicing. I remember once we made cookies at my house, and the dog put his paws on the table and ate about a dozen when we weren't looking. Sarah also watched my hamster once when we went to the east coast, and the damn rodent got out of its cage. The Munro's frantically looked for it, and finally lured it back into its cage with a ramp and a peanut butter sandwich.

This trend continued throughout adulthood- I was known as the girl who fell asleep at dorm parties in college, and just from tiredness, not from the use of illicit substances. Just last week I tried spending the night at my boyfriend's, but at 4 in the morning I was wide awake.  We usually sleep at my house, but you would think after a year and half I would be fine to not sleep at my place. But I missed my dog, and my bed was more comfortable, and his house was loud. I said I was fine, I would try to sleep for a few more hours then go home. He looked at me compassionately and said, "We can go back to your house Lindsey, it's okay."

So we did, and when I told my Mom that I didn't make it through a sleepover she laughed so hard she started snorting.

There is a balance between comfort and adventure. I've spent weeks sleeping in the mountains with only the night sky as a roof, and months on my own in other countries, everything changing and unfamiliar. But I have the wisdom to know that I am a creature of habit, and will always find solace in the quiet rhythm of a well kept and familiar home. In the words of Kenneth Grahame, from Wind in the Willows-

"He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."

Shortcake and Sunflowers

I've been carrying around little scraps and bits of things to tell you, and don't know where to put them.  So, today you get odds and ends all wrapped up together, sort of like a blog pinata.

The sunflowers in my yard are 5 feet high and still growing, and I have fought back the weeds so my little collection of plants has room to grow. I bought them at the grocery store- 1 basil, 1 rosemary, 2 tomatoes, a sad pepper plant, and the fig tree I promised Emily I would keep alive.

I sent packages the other day, to friends in Taos, Boulder, Memphis, and Seattle.  Sending packages is one of my favorite things to do.

One of my other favorite things to do is make strawberry shortcake. This the second or third time I have mentioned shortcake in the past 2 months.  I'll move on to a new dessert now, I promise. But seriously, for about $6 you can get a small carton of whipping cream, a plastic container of strawberries, and some Pillsbury biscuits.  Eaten on the porch on a warm Texas night, watching the fireflies- I don't miss my slugs or raincoats back at home.

Early morning sitting on the couch with Guthrie, reading Annie Dillard's An American Childhood, drinking coffee out of the little white mug with painted mosquitoes on it that we found at a garage sale in Santa Fe.  The bottom of it reads "Sharon, 1976," and I wish I knew its story.

Reading an email from Shelley in Bellingham, missing potato burritos and Boulevard Park, and her most of all.

Went running the other day, tripped on the sidewalk, and skinned my knee. Flailed around on the sidewalk in front of Steven and he said, "Lindsey, you've got to pick up your feet when you run." Then I pointed and said, "It's bleeding!" He replied, "Yes, I don't think a band aid will help you much,  you'll be okay."  This reminded me that I have been dramatic about injuries for the last few decades.  When I was a toddler I apparently ran screaming around the side of the house searching for my Mom, scaring the shit out of her for what was, in fact, a hangnail.

Found a baby possum in my recycle bin on the back porch- he climbed in there to eat peanut butter and then got stuck.  Funny looking guy, pretended he was dead and I believed him.

Went to Target and felt sorry for myself because I didn't have enough extra cash to buy crap I didn't need, like a throw pillow and a candle, and a stuffed giraffe for my friend's daughter. This was probably for the best, or the list of packages from above may have included a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle for my Dad's stuffed animal collection.

We went to see a minor league baseball game last night, the Round Rock Express versus the Reno Aces.  The Express swept the Aces 4-0, and two players got hit with baseballs, one in the face and one in the shin. Our favorite players was a guy named Tuffy Gosewich.  We ate dollar hot dogs and kicked off our sandals while the sun set over the field.

Off to go water the sunflowers and throw on a summer dress, and get ready for the 95 degree day.

Hope you enjoyed your blog pinata.  Sorry I didn't include any baby bottles of booze, I know those are always a hit with adults.  I promise to write again soon!

Pickle Joins the Hamster Guerrillas

I have a story to tell you.  It's about three girls, two parents, and a small village worth of rodents. My first pet was Rosie the guinea pig. She was white with brown spots and had little brown ears.  I loved her. I fed her carrots, and held her, and once I got really mad at my sister for trying to bathe her with the garden hose. The one day, Rosie died, and I learned about what it meant for a special pet to die.  I tried to feed her a carrot but she wasn't moving, and Doug (my Dad's best friend from the last post, who recently partied it up at the Newman homestead) said to me, "you know honey, I don't think she's ever gonna eat the carrot."

So, we buried her in the backyard, under a tall pine tree, and my Dad performed the eulogy. Apparently, as I wept over the open shoe box that held her, my father came up with a rhyming eulogy on the spot, which nearly drove my Mom to laughter.

After Rosie my sisters got two guinea pigs- Shelley named hers Shelley, and Melissa named hers Fuzzy.  The little critters had been sick when we got them from the pet store, and the died within a week.  They went under the pine tree.

Shelley, Shelley, and Fuzzy

Now my memory is getting spotty- there was Marshmallow the teddy bear hamster, Scooter the dwarf hamster, the sweet mouse named Midnight, another guinea pig named Shelley, a mama guinea pig named Ginger, and a bunch of cannibalistic gerbils.

Soon to be a cannibal.

I wish I were joking about the gerbils.

I remember walking into the room I shared with my sister, looking in their house, and knowing something was horribly wrong. Apparently the pet store had sold us a boy and a girl, they had babies and then the Dad started eating them.  My Mom told me that after she cleaned everything up she took all the gerbils to the local animal shelter.  In her words, "the girl at PAWS was looking at me like I was fucking crazy! But I just couldn't handle it anymore, so I took the cannibals to the shelter."

Ginger and a remote control.

There was also my rabbit named Cosmo, who was jumpy (imagine that) and not as cuddly as a dog, and who I got tired of, so I gave him to one of my sisters as a birthday present.  On a side note, I have a habit of doing that- re-gifting things to other people, particularly my sisters. There were other gift giving occasions when the sisters would chide me, "Lindsey, I know you had two copies of that book- I saw it in your room!"

The story that takes the cake might be Pickle, the hamster that ran away.  One day he disappeared, and my Dad took us aside and solemnly told us that Pickle had run off into the backyard to join the hamster guerrillas. Being a literal child, I though he meant that Pickle had joined the hamster gorillas, who lived in the backyard in gorilla suits.  When I was in college my parents told me that what had really happened to Pickle was that the poor guy had fallen down an air duct and broken his neck.  Before we would get home from school they would run around trying to locate the source of the smell.

The pine tree is still in our backyard, and I wonder what will happen if my parents ever move.  Should we put a little picket fence around the tree, to let people know what lies there?  My Dad has joked about putting the house on eBay instead of going through the monumental task of cleaning it out.  The add could read something like this-

"House full of memories.  Comes with a full basement and rodent cemetery in backyard.  Offers accepted."

Pickle, wherever you are, I hope your days are full of sleeping in the shade and shooting guns in the jungle.

Rest in peace, my dearly departed little pets.

Theodore Roosevelt Said That

A couple weeks ago I shared this fabulous quote that my friend Elizabeth had posted online.  Though she is brilliant and beautiful and charming, the person who famously said, "Comparison is the thief of joy," was Theodore Roosevelt.  Just wanted to give credit where credit is due.

That got me thinking about some other great quotes I've heard lately from people in my life. Before I get into this, let me say that I spent the weekend in Virginia, celebrating my Grandpa's 85th birthday. He is my only grandparent left, and I love him! My parents were there, and my sweet sister, and our cousins, aunts and uncles, his rakish friend Peter, and our favorite family friend, Lisa Mirabelli. (Some folks are SO fantastic and powerful that the first and last name must always be used.) Lisa, if you read this, we adore you, and wish we could cook you shrimp and grits and cake for dessert every night!

A note about my Grandpa- he loves handmade pottery, and Bill O'Reilly, and wildflowers, and had his first poem published a couple years ago in his college's alumni journal.  He loves driving but dislikes flying, and is a retired geologist. For the last handful of decades years he has gone swimming 3 days a week, and he is in damn good shape. And he loved my Grandma Alice, whom we called Nanny, for 55 years. We all love and miss her still.

Also, I got to see my sister's magical, imperfect life, complete with pocket pals, farm kitties, cool housemates and crazy thrift stores. And there was her budding new community, Whisper Hill Farm where she's found her people, and the little Charlottesville Farmer's Market, where she slings coffee and kale.  I tried to set her up on a date with a cute guy who worked in the liquor store with toothless Judy, where I went to buy bourbon for whiskey pie.  If you are a cute young farmhand in the Shenandoah Valley, I have a sister for you!

But I digress.

Actually, I would like to digress again.  The humor in me writing a post all about anxiety while on a family trip hit me like a load of Xanax once I got back to Austin. This is how it works- you love these people, and you let all your shit hang out, and then you write in your blog about it.  To the Noble's and Newman's- there aren't a lot of us, but we are high quality characters, I'll give us that.

So, on to the quotes.

There is an old saying of our Grandpa's, "If you're nervous, go to bed!" Seriously good advice.

Also, when as a small child we would yell at our parents, "I HATE YOU!" they would calmly say, "Well, that's your prerogative." That's what happens when you're raised by a social worker and a sensitive Jew.

Steven gave me bluebonnet seeds for valentine's day last year, and they bloomed again this year! Only one plant came back, but it's bursting with flowers. He looked at it thoughtfully and said, "you know Lindsey, it's not the number of bluebonnets you have, it's the size that counts."

He has also been known to say, "Every time you put ketchup on a hamburger, Texas cries a little."

I promised my sister that my dying words will be to grab a grandchild and yell, "Your great aunt shit in my yard!" (It's a long story.)

My Dad had a raging party with his best friend that's he known for 40 years, whose name is Doug McChesney. Apparently the two person party culminated with him saying to Doug, "Next year- Burning Man, Mark and Doug naked in the desert."

Totally something Theodore Roosevelt might have said.

Just to bring it back around to what we were talking about earlier, the morning I flew out my Grandpa and I were talking about coffee. He brews it extra strong when the Seattle relatives come to town.  He laughed as he was doing it and said to me, "You know sugar, for me coffee was never some big thing. Just warm water that makes you shit.  And that's fine by me."

Amen. Here's to you, Grandpa, and a life well lived.

The Art of Practice

Today I'd like to talk to you about anxiety.  I am pretty sure I have been concerned since the day I was born.  Not to say that I wasn't a delightful, happy, red-haired little lady, but I was worried a lot of the time, too.

 "Ginger Bangs"

I think one of my main goals in life is to not be so worried.  For me, that is more important, and more valuable, then a big time career or a fancy house or a truckload of money.  It will bring me more peace, and more acceptance, than anything else.

At its core, anxiety is the anticipation of something bad happening.  (My dog trainer told me that!) I think it has a lot to do with expectation, with fear of the unknown, with loss, and with imperfection, but I don't know how to put all this into words quite yet.

Something else important about anxiety: you cannot think your way out of it.

Let that sink in- I've been trying to THINK my way out of it for 30 years, and it has never worked.

As my Mom says, anxiety manifests as energy, and it has to go somewhere.  So it sits inside and festers and grows, or you find a way to get it out.

In college I acted in a lot of plays, and sometimes that worked.  In the past I have tried to think about it really hard, and talk about it a lot, but the energy still sits in there and grows.  I like to cry, too, but I've promised Steven I am working on not crying about things I don't need to cry about (like haircuts, ans going to the vet.)

Here's a picture for you- dealing with anxiety is like wandering around the mountains in a giant orange life jacket, even though you're 1,000 miles away from the ocean. Instead of picking wildflowers you're looking for sharks.

This is immensely frustrating to me! How do I take off the life jacket? Where do I put it?

It has been humbling to realize that I may always have to live with the life jacket.  That said, I might take it off every day, or forget I'm wearing it and just smell the mountain air and gather armloads of wild sunflowers.

This is the truth, my friends.  I've realized recently that the real work is not to pretend that anxiety does not exist, but find a way to accept my nature, manage it, and find ways to get that energy out. It's been daunting to realize that I can't just go running once, or eat salad a couple days a week, and feel great.  I gotta run a few times a week, I gotta sleep well and eat well, consistently.  My therapist prescribed MEDS: Meditation, exercise, diet, and sleep.  (The other kind of meds can be a useful tool, too.)

To keep with the mountain metaphors- self care is like a really great tent.  You don't go to Walmart- you buy one at REI with a lifetime warranty.  That said, the tent needs to be taken care of for it to protect you from the elements.  The more you neglect it, the harder it will be to patch it up.  But REI makes great tents, and they'll let you start over if you burn too big a hole in yours.

This is the art of practice.  Of putting in the daily effort to manage the stress and energy of the big demons. It gets easier.  And it helps to have compassion for yourself, a mountain field to walk in, and solid tent.