I just went through a big change. My husband and I bought our first house. Just a few months after marrying, Steven and I moved to the little town of Lockhart, an up and coming spot 30 miles from Austin, We kept our jobs and he lengthened his commute. We packed up our belongings, six canoes and three bikes, two pets, a U-Haul and many, many boxes, and I cried a lot. I was nervous about living in a town of 13,000 people. And I hate moving. And change. When we went to unload we found that the utilities had been shut off, so after depositing a couch and chairs and clothes and bedding, we trucked back to Austin for another week. We kept our bed, our crappy tv, and ate meatloaf and green beans and potatoes from the prepared foods section of the nice grocery store, while we watched Rick Steves reruns on the bed with Milton and Guthrie.
Now that we are settling in our new town is immensely charming and hospitable. We have a chorus of frogs in our big back yard, and can see the stars at night. There is still a lot to adjust to, a lot of work to be done at the house, but possibility seems to surround this new move.
One of the Austin treasures I was most anxious to leave was my Zumba class.
The fall after I finished treatment, I felt too tired to do much more then walk around the block at night. Though I handled chemo with as much spunk as I could muster, and my body worked brilliantly and beautifully for me, it all took the wind out of my sails. I still haven't quite felt the same since then. I felt upset that the steroids that combated nausea and hormone treatments to preserve fertility led me to gain weight. I didn't like the chemo curls that grew into my hair. I think mostly, I wanted to feel like I had more control, like things had never changed. But they had. And different people's grief wants to eat different things, and mine wanted carbs. A lot of carbs. Good, thick rosemary bread with salt crusted on top. Mama lil's peppers marinating in olive oil- hunks of goat milk feta, glasses of wine, sausage and sauerkraut. Soul food. My grief did not want to eat salad.
So it has been a slow and confusing process, and it turns out the part after the hard part can feel just as hard. And my (now) husband was, and continues to be, an endless well of patience and kindness, even when I come home in a small tornado of sadness and fear, blowing that wind through all the cracks in the house.
So I decided that staying home every night wasn't helping. And walking wasn't enough. I needed community. And some cardio.
My parents helped me get a gym membership at an LA Fitness close to me. When I signed up they offered a free hour consultation with a trainer, and like a real dummy I went for it. It was terrible- the guy would have been nice enough if we shared beers at a bar, but as he tried to educate me on my body mass index and how I was overweight and different ways I could workout to get fit, I completely shut down. He wasn't trained to hear real truth from women, and I think this is probably a common experience. It was not the place to disclose things like- "Actually I am depressed because not too long ago I was bald and can't make sense of this experience, and no, I don't want to lift weights, but do you have any fun dance classes? And fuck off."
Well, it turns out, they did. I went to a few Zumba classes that were lacking a certain spark and level of quality, and then on a fateful Tuesday night I walked into Priscilla's class. And she was a force. A gorgeous dancer, and a beautiful human being who radiated confidence, joy, and positivity. All qualities that seemed to be in short supply in my own life. The music was loud. I sweated and I stayed the whole time, and I didn't fall over, or feel pain in my chest. I could do it. I tried to go every Tuesday and Thursday. One week we did a song she loved and she had us bring flags from our home countries. It was amazing. On her birthday someone brought cake and we ate it right after class at a table next to all the treadmills. I started to recognize the other women who came every week, and there was a whole die hard crew of us. I swam laps a few times, and tried some of the machines (they all made me feel motion sick after awhile, so I stopped using them.) But the only class I wanted to go to was Zumba.
There was no way to really convey to Priscilla what her classes meant to me. It was the first time I had felt confident in my body after going through some serious trauma. It hammers home that just by being who we are in the world and sharing our gifts, we may offer strength in ways that we may never know. By sharing that light within you, you truly help others find their own.
And Zumba helped fulfill a lifelong fantasy of mine. In another life I would have loved to be a dancer. I envy their grace and their athleticism. Maybe even more then being a dancer I want to be in a dance MOVIE. On my best days in Zumba, I felt like I was in that scene in Center Stage when Jodi goes to the dance class in the city, the co-ed one, and she just lets loose. I felt just like that.
So, I cried when I told Priscilla I was moving. Traffic in Austin is too horrendous, the timing was not right for me to drive back into the city for her classes. I couldn't stop crying, in fact.
And yet. This is where the story keeps getting better. Steven, without my asking, looked for Zumba in Lockhart. And there is a studio. With a teacher named Ariana. She has four kids, and the first time I went to class there were so many fun ladies there, including her 74 year old Mom, wearing sparkly silver sneakers! And she shines in a different way then Priscilla, and just as brightly. And I got to thinking- these classes, when they are done well, is what I imagine church should feel like. Fellowship, feeling safe, singing and sweating and dancing, and at the end you leave cleansed, and with new energy, and maybe you still carry tiredness or brokenness, but you were surrounded by love, and you left feeling capable and whole again. And sometimes there is twerking.
So, I don't go to church, But I do go to Zumba. And I am starting to feel like myself again, little by little, My old self, funnier and more confident and wanting to be creative and take more risks. And I hope I will find lots of places for new community, and lots of hidden treasures, in my new town of Lockhart. And I will do my best to keep you posted.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Saying Yes
I have lived in Austin, Texas for 5 years, a fact that would have seemed impossible to me before I arrived. A friend told me recently she knew I wasn't coming home when I flew away to Europe, and then came home to pack my bags for Texas.
I decided to travel because I was lonely, I was stuck. I had a sty in my eye that wouldn't go away- like a canary in a coal mine it dogged me until I finally worked up the courage to leave. Leaving home, and my family, and my comfort zone, took me most of my young adult life to find the courage to do.
My grandma, Nanny, had died of lung cancer, and our family was bereft, swimming in loss and the empty space she left behind in all of us. I dated a man, briefly, who flew away to New Zealand, and I was so jealous of his adventure- I yearned to be away.
Friends told me to go. They collected money and hid them in plastic Easter eggs, and gave them to me for my birthday. I cried, cracking open their brightly colored shells as dollars spilled out. I deposited the money in my checking account, walked to the travel store up the street from my house in Seattle, and sat on the worn out carpet. I had a stack of books: Eastern Europe, Turkey, Germany. I decided I wanted to see where my grandmother Ruth was from. I wanted to go back to Poland, to see the land my family was from, before they were killed in World War II. One of my best friends was working as a clown in Germany. A friend of our family was an artist and lived in southern Turkey. My trip came together. I bought a ticket.
My roommate Kyle, who had sort of acted as a surrogate partner, sans any kind of romance, had been my sidekick. He bought me beers at the bar, protected me when I was too scared (always) to go talk to guys at parties, even set me up with an arborist friend of his. When I finally left the blue house I had shared with him and Samm, one of my very best friends, he picked me up and swung me around and hugged me. I fought back tears, got into my sister's car, a house plant on my lap, all my treasures, clothes, and thrift store mugs safely wrapped up in boxes in the back seat, and we drove off. I felt terrified, and I felt free.
When I was in the bookstore in Seattle I remember pulling out a book on Texas. I flipped to Austin, looking at pictures of beautiful green trees and water in this far off place, descriptions of hot sun, tacos and brisket, a thriving art and music scene, and I imagined what a life might be like there.
This was in my mind when I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, to stay with the brother of a friend. He was a teacher at an international school in the city, and he played in a Tiki Band. He loved rockabilly music, and Austin, Texas. In this little apartment in the middle of Germany, there were Austin bumper stickers, bats, and cowboy boots.
I knew that romantic love was hard for me. I am independent, strong willed, sensitive, and sometimes anxious. I am sentimental, stoic, and careful. I was worried I would never find someone who was a good fit for me. I was worried I would be alone, that dating was too hard for me. I left Seattle in large part because I had to shake myself up, push myself to date and reinvent myself.
I went to Berlin, and stayed in an empty apartment that belonged to a friend of mine. I drank wine, read paperbacks, walked to cafes and cried as I wrote long emails to my closest girlfriends and my Mom, convinced that even in a foreign country I was doomed to be beholden to my fears of putting myself out in the world.
In retrospect it seems to silly- I do remember crying and writing epic emails, and I also remember feeling so at peace and at ease, in love with my solitude, my chance to be in the world without attachment.
There are so many more stories I want to tell about that trip- milking goats on a farm in Poland, finding magic and friendship in Bodrum, Turkey, getting stuck for days in Frankfurt while the snow piled on the sidewalks . . .
Eventually my few months of adventure came to an end- I remember thinking that I could choose to extend my trip and stay, or use the money I had left in savings to make a new start in Austin. Texas called to me. My old job tried to get me back and I said no. My friends threw me a goodbye party at Ed's Korthaus on Phinney Ridge. We drank beer and whiskey, played arcade games, and said goodbye.
I flew to Austin with two suitcases and a guitar, like a character out of a Portlandia episode. I wore a lot of sunscreen. I bought a bike. I found a funky rental house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood. I decided to stop acting- something I had loved and worked at for much of my young adult life, and I adopted a dog instead. I got a job working from four to midnight at a hip bodega in downtown Austin. And then, I met someone. He was adorable, and polite, and worked as a pedicab driver on the weekends. I was still stinging from a breakup, but surrounded by a vibrant city full of eligible bachelors I hadn't known since high school, unlike Seattle. My co-workers Tim and Dan (thanks, guys!) encouraged me to ask out this young stud.
His name was Steven. Steven Markowski. I found out later he used to bike around to the different Royal Blue Grocery stores downtown (I worked shifts at all three) until he found me. I started to give him leftover deli food, broken cookies, and looked forward to seeing him. I finally worked up the courage to ask him out.
I stammered and blushed and asked if he wanted to hang out, then scribbled my name and number on a yellow post-it note. He said yes immediately. Steven, thank you, thank you, thank you, for saying yes.
We went on a date, then another, then another. Weeks turned to months, and flowed into years. We drove to the far reaches of West Texas, to New Mexico, to Colorado. We watched movies, went to restaurants, walked around all the parks in town. He showed me all the beautiful places in Austin. He bought me a new bike light so I would be safe riding home from work. He bought special dog biscuits, and was very kind and gentle, and convinced Guthrie to love him.
I got diagnosed with cancer. I had open heart surgery. He brought me a basset hound puppet, and my favorite blanket, and refused to leave my side for the week I was in hospital. He never wavered. He said yes to being my partner, to not turning away from fear or the unpleasant months that followed.
We have had happier times since then, and healthier times, too. We watch PBS at night, we eat Chinese food from Trader Joe's, and we have made our little house a home.
We decided to get married. I found a turquoise ring that I liked. He flew to Seattle to surprise me on Christmas and I got the stomach flu. He waited til we were back in Austin. He made me a scavenger hunt in the house, with photos of our life together, and letters. It led back to a little yellow post it note from years ago.
We are getting married in June, next to the San Marcos river. I am so grateful for my life here in Austin, I so thankful that I had the courage to say yes. Not only to love, but to change, and risk, and moving away from home.
Big things can come from small risks, y'all. And despite sickness, and loss, we never know what beautiful roads are ahead, just waiting for us to take that first step.
I decided to travel because I was lonely, I was stuck. I had a sty in my eye that wouldn't go away- like a canary in a coal mine it dogged me until I finally worked up the courage to leave. Leaving home, and my family, and my comfort zone, took me most of my young adult life to find the courage to do.
My grandma, Nanny, had died of lung cancer, and our family was bereft, swimming in loss and the empty space she left behind in all of us. I dated a man, briefly, who flew away to New Zealand, and I was so jealous of his adventure- I yearned to be away.
Friends told me to go. They collected money and hid them in plastic Easter eggs, and gave them to me for my birthday. I cried, cracking open their brightly colored shells as dollars spilled out. I deposited the money in my checking account, walked to the travel store up the street from my house in Seattle, and sat on the worn out carpet. I had a stack of books: Eastern Europe, Turkey, Germany. I decided I wanted to see where my grandmother Ruth was from. I wanted to go back to Poland, to see the land my family was from, before they were killed in World War II. One of my best friends was working as a clown in Germany. A friend of our family was an artist and lived in southern Turkey. My trip came together. I bought a ticket.
My roommate Kyle, who had sort of acted as a surrogate partner, sans any kind of romance, had been my sidekick. He bought me beers at the bar, protected me when I was too scared (always) to go talk to guys at parties, even set me up with an arborist friend of his. When I finally left the blue house I had shared with him and Samm, one of my very best friends, he picked me up and swung me around and hugged me. I fought back tears, got into my sister's car, a house plant on my lap, all my treasures, clothes, and thrift store mugs safely wrapped up in boxes in the back seat, and we drove off. I felt terrified, and I felt free.
When I was in the bookstore in Seattle I remember pulling out a book on Texas. I flipped to Austin, looking at pictures of beautiful green trees and water in this far off place, descriptions of hot sun, tacos and brisket, a thriving art and music scene, and I imagined what a life might be like there.
This was in my mind when I arrived in Frankfurt, Germany, to stay with the brother of a friend. He was a teacher at an international school in the city, and he played in a Tiki Band. He loved rockabilly music, and Austin, Texas. In this little apartment in the middle of Germany, there were Austin bumper stickers, bats, and cowboy boots.
I knew that romantic love was hard for me. I am independent, strong willed, sensitive, and sometimes anxious. I am sentimental, stoic, and careful. I was worried I would never find someone who was a good fit for me. I was worried I would be alone, that dating was too hard for me. I left Seattle in large part because I had to shake myself up, push myself to date and reinvent myself.
I went to Berlin, and stayed in an empty apartment that belonged to a friend of mine. I drank wine, read paperbacks, walked to cafes and cried as I wrote long emails to my closest girlfriends and my Mom, convinced that even in a foreign country I was doomed to be beholden to my fears of putting myself out in the world.
In retrospect it seems to silly- I do remember crying and writing epic emails, and I also remember feeling so at peace and at ease, in love with my solitude, my chance to be in the world without attachment.
There are so many more stories I want to tell about that trip- milking goats on a farm in Poland, finding magic and friendship in Bodrum, Turkey, getting stuck for days in Frankfurt while the snow piled on the sidewalks . . .
Eventually my few months of adventure came to an end- I remember thinking that I could choose to extend my trip and stay, or use the money I had left in savings to make a new start in Austin. Texas called to me. My old job tried to get me back and I said no. My friends threw me a goodbye party at Ed's Korthaus on Phinney Ridge. We drank beer and whiskey, played arcade games, and said goodbye.
I flew to Austin with two suitcases and a guitar, like a character out of a Portlandia episode. I wore a lot of sunscreen. I bought a bike. I found a funky rental house in a neighborhood called Cherrywood. I decided to stop acting- something I had loved and worked at for much of my young adult life, and I adopted a dog instead. I got a job working from four to midnight at a hip bodega in downtown Austin. And then, I met someone. He was adorable, and polite, and worked as a pedicab driver on the weekends. I was still stinging from a breakup, but surrounded by a vibrant city full of eligible bachelors I hadn't known since high school, unlike Seattle. My co-workers Tim and Dan (thanks, guys!) encouraged me to ask out this young stud.
His name was Steven. Steven Markowski. I found out later he used to bike around to the different Royal Blue Grocery stores downtown (I worked shifts at all three) until he found me. I started to give him leftover deli food, broken cookies, and looked forward to seeing him. I finally worked up the courage to ask him out.
I stammered and blushed and asked if he wanted to hang out, then scribbled my name and number on a yellow post-it note. He said yes immediately. Steven, thank you, thank you, thank you, for saying yes.
We went on a date, then another, then another. Weeks turned to months, and flowed into years. We drove to the far reaches of West Texas, to New Mexico, to Colorado. We watched movies, went to restaurants, walked around all the parks in town. He showed me all the beautiful places in Austin. He bought me a new bike light so I would be safe riding home from work. He bought special dog biscuits, and was very kind and gentle, and convinced Guthrie to love him.
I got diagnosed with cancer. I had open heart surgery. He brought me a basset hound puppet, and my favorite blanket, and refused to leave my side for the week I was in hospital. He never wavered. He said yes to being my partner, to not turning away from fear or the unpleasant months that followed.
We have had happier times since then, and healthier times, too. We watch PBS at night, we eat Chinese food from Trader Joe's, and we have made our little house a home.
We decided to get married. I found a turquoise ring that I liked. He flew to Seattle to surprise me on Christmas and I got the stomach flu. He waited til we were back in Austin. He made me a scavenger hunt in the house, with photos of our life together, and letters. It led back to a little yellow post it note from years ago.
We are getting married in June, next to the San Marcos river. I am so grateful for my life here in Austin, I so thankful that I had the courage to say yes. Not only to love, but to change, and risk, and moving away from home.
Big things can come from small risks, y'all. And despite sickness, and loss, we never know what beautiful roads are ahead, just waiting for us to take that first step.
Monday, January 19, 2015
Needle and Thread
In the middle of a challenging, hot, interminable summer, my sister Shelley came to visit. She stayed for three weeks- took me to the pool, made me smoothies, watched bad TV with me, and cooked us big pans of pasta primavera. From Virginia, my youngest sister Melissa sent me gifts, cards of sad, perfect dogs wearing t-shirts, and long, rambling letters. If I had ever needed the house that sisters built, this was the year.
I was at loose ends- summer in Austin, as you may well know, is HOT. I was lacking some important things, like hair, and a job, and one day Shelley looked at me and said, in a way only she could- "Dude, you need a hobby. Seriously. How about sewing?"
I've enjoyed other pursuits in the past, like photography, singing, and playing guitar. As it turned out, watching Netflix every day and weeping is not actually considered a hobby, so I took her advice to heart.
She took me to a hip fabric store on South First street, where I bought a small stack of fat quarters, some buttons, the requisite needle and thread, and got to work. First I made a stuffed animal cat, for my little friend William Wolfheart. (He loved Cat Cat- I recently made him Dog Dog so he could start a collection.)
Then I started sewing pouches, bright little square bags with snaps and embroidery thread sewn up the sides. Maybe I make that sound cooler then it was- they were VERY simple.
When my Mom joined us in Texas she bought me a machine, a simple and very easy to use Janome, and then we were really off and sewing.
I started making bags, and slowly I moved to other square projects, like pillows and pillow cases, napkins, and finally, quilts.
I had never needed a hobby so much in my life. The beauty of sewing, of taking scraps and pieces of beautiful things, putting them together to create something new, was like meditating, or praying, or spinning straw into gold. As rapidly dividing cells were being destroyed throughout my body, I was focused on creating. It turned the dark, endless hours of uncertainty into something useful- time to build something new.
This fall I took two classes at the Singer Northwest Sewing Center, literally a block away from my house, and two doors down from an adorable fabric store called The Cloth Pocket.
My classes were peppered with the kinds of characters you cannot make up- the Vietnam Vet who asked me if I was a Mennonite because of my hat (I gave him a wide berth) my teacher Caroline, small and sassy, with a lisp and a passion for Renaissance Fairs, and my favorite student, Mac, a butch lesbian firefighter with a wicked sense of humor and a newborn baby daughter.
I come from a long line of seamstresses- both of my grandmothers, and my great grandmother, as it turns out, were brilliant and creative, though I sadly did not express interest in learning the craft while they were still with us.
Apparently I have the knack for it, and when I sew I stick the tip of my tongue out of the side of my mouth, just like Nanny always did. I remember the sound of the machine and the cool concrete floor of the basement, where Nanny would sew during the long hot Virginia summers. I remember Bubby, her small frame at the kitchen table, gray hair done up beautifully, sewing in our house when she would come to visit Seattle. She used to mend our towels- we still have some with wash clothes sewn over the holes, and they continue to live in the linen closet, decades later.
I wrote about my grandmothers in the previous post, and in reflecting on what they endured, it seems significant that during this difficult time I embarked on a creative journey that led me back to them.
Quilting feels similar to writing- you tell a narrative, without knowing exactly where it will go, but hopeful it will far outlive you, and serve as a way to share your heart with those close to you.
Now, when I talk on the phone to my Mom or sisters, as we run through the events of our day we also ask- did you make anything recently? We describe the square shaped projects we're sewing, imagine beautiful quilts we can make, and through the act of sewing, stitch ourselves closer together as a family.
So thank you, Shelley, for driving me to the fabric store on that hot July day. All the great journeys of our lives start once we've had the chance to dip our toes in the water.
 |
| Quilt I made for my parents. |
 |
| Bag party! |
 |
| Pillow Party! |
 |
| My first quilt, made in class with help from Teri :) |
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Ruth and Alice
I was in Nordstrom a few days before Christmas, thinking of Bubby. My grandmother Ruth was a lover of children, gold lame, cheesecake, and most of all, her family.
When we would shop at Nordstrom as kids she would be given a plush chair by one of the sales people to relax in, while my Mom and sisters and I picked out a new sweater or dress. When we would thank her for buying us gifts she would just smile and kiss us and say, "it gives me pleasure." She always looked classy- long grey hair brushed and shined, rolled up in a neat bun, big sunglasses and a nice outfit, a big smile on her beautiful face. Sometimes she would talk to the sales girl and pat her hand as she told her stories or asked her questions.
She was a petite Jewish woman from Poland, who immigrated to Manhattan by herself in her early twenties, and lived for most of her life in an apartment in Canarsie, Brooklyn, where she and my Grandfather Barney raised my dad and uncle. A few years after her arrival in the states she survived the loss of her entire family to the terrible inferno of Nazi hatred and violence. Her village was utterly annihilated, and the letters from her mother and sisters stopped arriving.
She passed away when I was a junior in high school, and it pains me to think that I have now lived without her for as long as I lived with her, though her memory has not faded in the least.
She seemed to live by a simple set of rules, some of which are as follows:
- When you are old you are allowed to walk down the grocery store aisles and fart
- Always keep a clean house, even if that means scrubbing the floor with flea dip
- Granddaughters are God's greatest gift.
- Give generously to those around you
- When your son comes home with a red haired girl who he will marry, take him aside and make sure he knows not to take her across state lines, since she might be in high school still. (My Mom was 22.)
- It is possible to still look smokin' hot in a bathing suit when you are 60.
- It is possible to survive terrible loss with grace, and maintain a kind and loving heart.
I cannot speak of one grandmother without remembering the other. Nanny was my hilarious, fast moving, delightful Greek grandma, who could fry a squid and sew a dress like a boss.
My Nanny, Alice, once sent a Christmas card to all her friends and family, on the front of which was a picture of two bears, a boy and a girl, the girl bear with a surprised look on her face. The inside of the card read "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas." It wasn't until my Mom called from Seattle, laughing hysterically, that Nanny realized the boy bear was fondling the girl bear's boob.
Nanny was also a survivor of war, who came at the world with spunk, humor, and a personality that was vibrant, irreverent, and unabashedly all her own. Her childhood was spent in Greece, living with her Mother and her 4 siblings in Nazi occupied Athens. She was able to return to the states as a teenager, and a few years later met my Grandfather. They had 4 children and were married for 55 years.
Nanny died 5 years ago, and my Grandpa Dave has survived her passing with such strength and love- he writes and publishes poetry, practices the piano, drives across the country, swims 3 times a week, and cooks for himself. He is 85 years old, and still going strong.
There doesn't seem to be a smooth way to transition from talking about my grandparents to the next subject, so lets just get it over with.
Strange to look back and see that I have not written for almost year, and what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year it has been.
I was diagnosed with germ cell cancer last spring, after having open heart surgery following the discovery of a tumor in my chest the size of a large grapefruit. I am not ready to write about all this yet, but I need to get it out of the way so I can write about other things- like sewing, and dogs, Texas, my childhood, and, of course, my grandmothers.
Though I am not particularly religious, I imagined Bubby and Nanny holding court at the gates of Heaven, standing watch and barring the door, refusing to let me enter so soon.
Steven's grandfather Ermine is there too- he passed last spring, and last night I heard a story about him when he worked as the manager of a 7-11 in Houston, a story which I love. A customer got angry with him once and called him a honky- Ermine, thinking the man called him a donkey, yelled back "takes one to know one!" So for the record, Ermine is up there too, drinking Pearl beer and playing poker and watching out for me.
I went through chemotherapy this summer, and lost all my my hair, but I got through it like a champ with help from my parents, and sisters, my boyfriend, my friends and family, my dog, Dr, Chadha, and of course Nurse Sharon. My hair is back now, and it's still red! So, if you see a photo of me on social media, that's what's up with the new look.
Just to clarify- I did not get sick because I worry a lot, or because I ate cheetos as a child on road trips. Cancer, and disease, and misfortune, has nothing to do with our goodness- I did nothing to bring this upon myself. I understand more about grief now, about how to adjust to a new reality after experiencing a core level loss.
The key for me is to contain the impact of that loss- to put in on a shelf with the rest of my experiences and let it gather dust while I move right along.
Bubby survived the loss of everyone she knew. Nanny survived the war. I survived this, and I have lots of work to do to reach my goal, of one day being the classy old lady in Nordstrom who can fry her own calamari, sew her own clothes, and buy dresses for her grandchildren.
When we would shop at Nordstrom as kids she would be given a plush chair by one of the sales people to relax in, while my Mom and sisters and I picked out a new sweater or dress. When we would thank her for buying us gifts she would just smile and kiss us and say, "it gives me pleasure." She always looked classy- long grey hair brushed and shined, rolled up in a neat bun, big sunglasses and a nice outfit, a big smile on her beautiful face. Sometimes she would talk to the sales girl and pat her hand as she told her stories or asked her questions.
She was a petite Jewish woman from Poland, who immigrated to Manhattan by herself in her early twenties, and lived for most of her life in an apartment in Canarsie, Brooklyn, where she and my Grandfather Barney raised my dad and uncle. A few years after her arrival in the states she survived the loss of her entire family to the terrible inferno of Nazi hatred and violence. Her village was utterly annihilated, and the letters from her mother and sisters stopped arriving.
She passed away when I was a junior in high school, and it pains me to think that I have now lived without her for as long as I lived with her, though her memory has not faded in the least.
She seemed to live by a simple set of rules, some of which are as follows:
- When you are old you are allowed to walk down the grocery store aisles and fart
- Always keep a clean house, even if that means scrubbing the floor with flea dip
- Granddaughters are God's greatest gift.
- Give generously to those around you
- When your son comes home with a red haired girl who he will marry, take him aside and make sure he knows not to take her across state lines, since she might be in high school still. (My Mom was 22.)
- It is possible to still look smokin' hot in a bathing suit when you are 60.
- It is possible to survive terrible loss with grace, and maintain a kind and loving heart.
I cannot speak of one grandmother without remembering the other. Nanny was my hilarious, fast moving, delightful Greek grandma, who could fry a squid and sew a dress like a boss.
My Nanny, Alice, once sent a Christmas card to all her friends and family, on the front of which was a picture of two bears, a boy and a girl, the girl bear with a surprised look on her face. The inside of the card read "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas." It wasn't until my Mom called from Seattle, laughing hysterically, that Nanny realized the boy bear was fondling the girl bear's boob.
Nanny was also a survivor of war, who came at the world with spunk, humor, and a personality that was vibrant, irreverent, and unabashedly all her own. Her childhood was spent in Greece, living with her Mother and her 4 siblings in Nazi occupied Athens. She was able to return to the states as a teenager, and a few years later met my Grandfather. They had 4 children and were married for 55 years.
Nanny died 5 years ago, and my Grandpa Dave has survived her passing with such strength and love- he writes and publishes poetry, practices the piano, drives across the country, swims 3 times a week, and cooks for himself. He is 85 years old, and still going strong.
There doesn't seem to be a smooth way to transition from talking about my grandparents to the next subject, so lets just get it over with.
Strange to look back and see that I have not written for almost year, and what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year it has been.
I was diagnosed with germ cell cancer last spring, after having open heart surgery following the discovery of a tumor in my chest the size of a large grapefruit. I am not ready to write about all this yet, but I need to get it out of the way so I can write about other things- like sewing, and dogs, Texas, my childhood, and, of course, my grandmothers.
Though I am not particularly religious, I imagined Bubby and Nanny holding court at the gates of Heaven, standing watch and barring the door, refusing to let me enter so soon.
Steven's grandfather Ermine is there too- he passed last spring, and last night I heard a story about him when he worked as the manager of a 7-11 in Houston, a story which I love. A customer got angry with him once and called him a honky- Ermine, thinking the man called him a donkey, yelled back "takes one to know one!" So for the record, Ermine is up there too, drinking Pearl beer and playing poker and watching out for me.
I went through chemotherapy this summer, and lost all my my hair, but I got through it like a champ with help from my parents, and sisters, my boyfriend, my friends and family, my dog, Dr, Chadha, and of course Nurse Sharon. My hair is back now, and it's still red! So, if you see a photo of me on social media, that's what's up with the new look.
Just to clarify- I did not get sick because I worry a lot, or because I ate cheetos as a child on road trips. Cancer, and disease, and misfortune, has nothing to do with our goodness- I did nothing to bring this upon myself. I understand more about grief now, about how to adjust to a new reality after experiencing a core level loss.
The key for me is to contain the impact of that loss- to put in on a shelf with the rest of my experiences and let it gather dust while I move right along.
Bubby survived the loss of everyone she knew. Nanny survived the war. I survived this, and I have lots of work to do to reach my goal, of one day being the classy old lady in Nordstrom who can fry her own calamari, sew her own clothes, and buy dresses for her grandchildren.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Masterpiece Failure
I was planning on catching y'all up on life in Texas, including holiday stories and photos, but then I watched Downton Abbey this Sunday, so here we are instead. It's been a day and a half and I am still livid, so hold onto your horses while I get this out, and then back to our regularly scheduled programming.
I imagine the internet is raging with opinions about the second episode of Downton Abbey, Season Four, which featured a shocking and violent rape of one of the show's favorite female characters.
I was watching it at the house of the girls I babysit, once they had gone to bed, of course. I didn't see the very beginning, though my Mom tells me there was a brief note that the episode contained adult content and was for mature audiences.
Hey, let's try that again. How about: Warning, Episode Contains a Disturbing and Violent Sexual Assault.
It has taken me a day to articulate why I am so unbelievably angry. This is what I've come up with.
I understand she is a character, and the actress was not actually hurt. That said, seems like a cheap move on the part of the creator and writers. It's widely known the show lost three lead actors last year, and now in season 4 we see an immediate escalation in violence. Rape is not just simply a plot device- and that is how it was used- to push the story forward, to create drama, to engage ratings for an extremely popular show.
This is not why I watch television on a Sunday night. I watch it to be entertained, to forget my own worries, to spend time with characters I love before starting the work week. Death in childbirth and death by automobile were very upsetting, but you have crossed a line.
Clearly I have a very high sensitivity to this content, but I can tell you I am not the only gal who had trouble sleeping after watching that episode.
Another show I love, Friday Night Lights, had a similar situation arise. One of the high school characters, Tyra, was attacked by a man in a parking lot- she fought him off, and when she and her friend Landry ran into him again at a Mini-Mart, they killed him and threw his body in the river. Now, I could have done without this story line entirely, but at least they killed the bastard and got away with it. Also, Landry goes and tells Tami Taylor, who is the high school counselor and wife to Eric Taylor, the football coach, and she goes straight to Tyra and takes her to the police and make sure she is okay.
What did I learn from Downton Abbey? That even if you are in a loving and stable marriage, you are not safe, even in your own home. That you will feel victimized and choose to tell no one. Mrs. Hughes, do you want me to call Tami Taylor for you? I think you need a compassionate, strong willed high school guidance counselor from Texas to step in right now.
We know this happens all the time, and did back then, too. You had a choice, Mr. Fellowes, to be a better writer then that, or to choose to not have it go so far. It's your television show, so you can choose what happens. Let me re-write that scene for you. Anna fights off attacker- stabs him in the eye socket with Mrs. Patmore's cooking knife. Someone comes downstairs and finds them. Mrs. Hughes goes and tells Carson, who gets Mary, who gets a gun and shoots the asshole out behind the barn.
When it gets down to it, the truth is this. Evil exists in this world, and violence against women is very pervasive, very frightening, and very real. We do not watch shows and movies to see Evil win. We watch to be given a respite from the violence of the true world, and we watch to see our favorite characters succeed, and be happy. We need to see Evil defeated. We do not want or need to see sexual assault.
Clearly I won't be watching this show anymore. Yesterday I was aware that I needed even better self care then normal, so I was especially nice to myself. I played with Mabel the baby, who I nanny, and we spent time eating Veggie Booty, carrying around a red ball, and reading books. And we laughed a lot and practiced finding our nose and mouths and making funny fish faces. Then I bought two donuts and ate them on the back porch while drinking coffee, while the steps where drenched in afternoon sunlight. Then I weeded for an hour, and took a nap with the dog.
All of this sustained me, calmed me, nurtured me. This is what we need right now. This is what's important.
I imagine the internet is raging with opinions about the second episode of Downton Abbey, Season Four, which featured a shocking and violent rape of one of the show's favorite female characters.
I was watching it at the house of the girls I babysit, once they had gone to bed, of course. I didn't see the very beginning, though my Mom tells me there was a brief note that the episode contained adult content and was for mature audiences.
Hey, let's try that again. How about: Warning, Episode Contains a Disturbing and Violent Sexual Assault.
It has taken me a day to articulate why I am so unbelievably angry. This is what I've come up with.
I understand she is a character, and the actress was not actually hurt. That said, seems like a cheap move on the part of the creator and writers. It's widely known the show lost three lead actors last year, and now in season 4 we see an immediate escalation in violence. Rape is not just simply a plot device- and that is how it was used- to push the story forward, to create drama, to engage ratings for an extremely popular show.
This is not why I watch television on a Sunday night. I watch it to be entertained, to forget my own worries, to spend time with characters I love before starting the work week. Death in childbirth and death by automobile were very upsetting, but you have crossed a line.
Clearly I have a very high sensitivity to this content, but I can tell you I am not the only gal who had trouble sleeping after watching that episode.
Another show I love, Friday Night Lights, had a similar situation arise. One of the high school characters, Tyra, was attacked by a man in a parking lot- she fought him off, and when she and her friend Landry ran into him again at a Mini-Mart, they killed him and threw his body in the river. Now, I could have done without this story line entirely, but at least they killed the bastard and got away with it. Also, Landry goes and tells Tami Taylor, who is the high school counselor and wife to Eric Taylor, the football coach, and she goes straight to Tyra and takes her to the police and make sure she is okay.
What did I learn from Downton Abbey? That even if you are in a loving and stable marriage, you are not safe, even in your own home. That you will feel victimized and choose to tell no one. Mrs. Hughes, do you want me to call Tami Taylor for you? I think you need a compassionate, strong willed high school guidance counselor from Texas to step in right now.
We know this happens all the time, and did back then, too. You had a choice, Mr. Fellowes, to be a better writer then that, or to choose to not have it go so far. It's your television show, so you can choose what happens. Let me re-write that scene for you. Anna fights off attacker- stabs him in the eye socket with Mrs. Patmore's cooking knife. Someone comes downstairs and finds them. Mrs. Hughes goes and tells Carson, who gets Mary, who gets a gun and shoots the asshole out behind the barn.
When it gets down to it, the truth is this. Evil exists in this world, and violence against women is very pervasive, very frightening, and very real. We do not watch shows and movies to see Evil win. We watch to be given a respite from the violence of the true world, and we watch to see our favorite characters succeed, and be happy. We need to see Evil defeated. We do not want or need to see sexual assault.
Clearly I won't be watching this show anymore. Yesterday I was aware that I needed even better self care then normal, so I was especially nice to myself. I played with Mabel the baby, who I nanny, and we spent time eating Veggie Booty, carrying around a red ball, and reading books. And we laughed a lot and practiced finding our nose and mouths and making funny fish faces. Then I bought two donuts and ate them on the back porch while drinking coffee, while the steps where drenched in afternoon sunlight. Then I weeded for an hour, and took a nap with the dog.
All of this sustained me, calmed me, nurtured me. This is what we need right now. This is what's important.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
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 . . .
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 . . .
Friday, November 8, 2013
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.
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."
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.
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 |
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! |
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 |
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
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.
Friday, October 18, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, September 6, 2013
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. :) |
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
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.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
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. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)