Dear Ginger

Dear Ginger,

It's been four months since we lost you. Does it get better, because so far it doesn't feel better. It's hard to imagine it getting better. We hear a lot about time, all the things that will change with time. I've noticed that time rarely feels like a friend. It's unreliable. Elusive. Brutal with its forward motion when you're desperate for it to stand still for just a minute, painfully slow in its churning during heartache. I'm grasping at air.

Ben turned three earlier this week. Early in June I realized how unbearable it would be to be here, celebrating without you. I remember you at his family party last year, bundled up in a brown leather jacket because you were cold all the time during chemo, and as a result of your weight loss. We were so scared but also so glad that you were doing well, all things considered, and could be there. This year I thought being home might be too much for the Husband to handle. He misses you and is grieving so much. I suggested a vacation. Let's get out of town for Ben's birthday! Escape from our lives for a good chunk of time, and then celebrate away with my family, who I knew would rise to the occasion to make Ben's big 3 so special, and they did.

Ben saw his first movie at the theater on his birthday. Toy Story 4. Watching his face as he watched the movie (and plopped jelly bean after jelly bean into his mouth) was more fun for both of us than watching the actual film, and it was a good one. I took pictures so I could just look at that face later and remember. I wanted to tell you about it. I wanted to post the pictures to Facebook so you could comment and share.

Do you know when Ben tells us he forgot something he says, "I got forgot that..." I want to tell you about that and laugh together. He says so many funny things these days. His vocabulary has gotten impressively large. We think he seems pretty smart. Of course, he can tell me the number of times he's pooped in one day, but he still refuses to potty train. I can imagine the conversation you and I would have about that -- my bitterness at having to change his man poops, and his cheerful "no thanks!" when I suggest giving the potty a whirl. Maybe tomorrow, he says. I know you'd get a kick out of it.

He's moving into the preschool room at school. The toddler is now a preschooler. He's excited and proud.

Leaving Sunriver at the end of our vacation, Ben's little voice from the backseat suddenly said, "Hey guys, do you remember that Nana died?" We exchanged a look and said, yes, of course we do. He replied sounding a little wistful, "Yeah...but it's ok." It is ok, and it is so completely not ok. Your pain is over, and we all wanted that. The memory that can bring me to tears every time is us pulling up to your house on a sunny weekend day for a visit. You weren't sick yet, so Ben was still pretty little. You came out to the porch to greet us, and I opened the door to unstrap Ben from his car seat. I said, are you ready to go see Nana? He rushed to scramble out of his seat and run to the door to see you. So excited and joyful. You were waiting at the top of the stairs, and I can still see you leaning forward and smiling at him and hear your voice saying hi to him, mirroring his obvious joy at being with you. That small moment feels like it holds all the beauty of having you as a grandma and all he lost when you died.

Do you know how much I miss you checking in with me every few days on Facebook? As your cancer and treatment progressed, I'd feel apprehensive if I hadn't heard from you or seen a post in a little while, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief when you'd pop up there or respond to a post. Now sometimes I log on to my computer in the morning and stare at the monitor, feeling heavy and wishing so hard for an IM from you. I can open our chat window and see our conversation history, but the pain of both the before and after is still too real and raw. I just can't bear to look. But I want to save that history forever.

Explaining cancer and death, something I can't even wrap my own head around, to a two year old/now three year old really sucks. While his daddy spent time with and helped take care of you those last few months, Ben asked questions, and sometimes my own grief made it hard to think straight. As hard as it feels sometimes, we make a point to talk about you with him to keep your memory alive. I bring up photos and those videos we have of your last visit to our house in October. Ben's obsessed with the picture of you from the funeral. He remembers it and that his auntie took it home. I need to have one printed up for him, because I think he associates it with you being present, alive. When he asks me about you being dead, I tell him that even though he can't see Nana here any more, he can visit with you in his dreams. Tonight he said, "Yeah, I do dat already." He told me a dream he had about being at your house, and there were dragons (mean dragons, he clarified). He told me that Nana held him. I told him that you would always hold him and protect him from dragons, that you love him forever.

Do you know that I chose Fleetwood Mac's Gypsy to add to your celebration of life playlist? In my mind, the words matched the freedom and return to your real self after life gave you such an unkind and drawn out ending. I'm still so pissed about that. Fuck cancer. I will always remember taking you to the Stevie Nicks concert when Ben was a baby. Your first concert! It was around Christmas time and it was hard to find parking near Key Arena with the ice skaters and holiday shoppers and Nutcracker viewers.  After circling around for a bit, I scrambled to get us one of the last spots in a weird garage nearby. You were such a good sport. We had fun. Now whenever I hear a Stevie song I think of you. I've heard Gypsy a few times out in the world since you died, and I stop what I'm doing so it can tear at my heart a little. I wonder if your energy is nearby. I've listened to it alone in my car a few times and cried.

That night of the Stevie concert, you rocked Ben to sleep on your shoulder while sitting in Ruth's old recliner. I took a picture, the colorful lights from our sparse mistake of a Christmas tree glowing in the background. It's a little blurry. I love that picture. You had the magic touch of rocking Ben to sleep. He'd settle in and relax into you in a way he never did with me. I'd marvel at it.

God, what I wouldn't give to be in that moment again. Or any of the thousands of everyday moments we had with you. Just for a minute. But it's gone. How can you be gone forever?

You made your house feel like home, and you brought and held the family together. Now we're trying, but we're drifting in our sadness.

I won the mother-in-law jackpot. Before I knew you, I had no idea that was possible.During the year you were sick, I tried to tell you in different ways how much you meant to me, but was I able to make you understand? I don't know. I hope so. In the 10 years I knew you, you were always so great to me, but I felt your love and support the most during my pregnancy and after Ben arrived.

New motherhood was beautiful but hard for me. You understood. The nights you stayed up with Ben so we could catch up on desperately needed sleep. The summer olympics were happening when Ben was born, and I remember you sat with me on the couch one night in those early days, watching diving competitions while Ben marathon fed. The TV flickering in the dark living room through the July heat. When he finished I handed him over to you and went to bed. The days you spent with Ben when I reluctantly went back to work and grappled with terrible anxiety. You taking care of him one day each week, and sometimes more, eased my mind and made leaving him feel bearable. The dinners you brought for us to make and eat together, and the evenings we spent hanging out together with Ben, talking and watching Homicide Hunter because you liked crime shows. All the thoughtful gestures, all the time you gifted us to breathe and adjust to new parenthood. You gave so much to us and seemed to find such joy in that without wanting anything in return. You just seemed happy to be there and to be with us. You taught me so much about love in a way that I never expected or could have ever predicted. I don't know that I could ever fully express the incredible gratitude I feel, because it's greater than any words I have.

I wish that losing you was just a terrible flash of the imagination. But it really happened. I love you, Ginger. I miss you every day.

Megan

Cancer is the worst. Pancreatic cancer is particularly devastating because it's usually detected really late in the game, when the cancer has already spread to other organs. At that point, it's already stage 4 and terminal. This was the case with Ginger. Research funding for pan can has lagged compared to many other cancers, which is crummy because it's so tough to detect and treat. Pancan.org is a great place to learn more about the disease and how you can help. 

Tis the season…to be pregnant again. 11 weeks and counting. The Husband and I are playing it cool and just seeing how this goes. It’s hard to believe that we’re rapidly approaching the same point we made it to last time. Given what we went through in April to be diagnosed with a fetal trisomy, we have opted to go right to CVS this time. Our appointment is in a few days.

My mind drifted into the realization this morning that, by the time the end of December rolls around, I will have spent half of 2015 (6 MONTHS, people) in the first trimester of pregnancy.  Ugh. I know I have it easier than lots and lots of women out there, but that is 6 months of just generally feeling crappy and exhausted.  Which, you know, makes it a banner year. It reminds me that women are f*cking amazing and strong for making this whole life thing happen over and over. I'd be good with a one time success story.

I have a Yoshitomo Nara grump girl expression while reading pregnancy books and websites again. The bossiness and mixed messages are never-ending, and it annoys me. So...you must do everything in your power to avoid gaining even an extra ounce of fat during pregnancy. Exercise, exercise, exercise! But not too much, be gentle, but get in at least 30 minutes every day. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you are eating for two. Overeat at any point and doom will befall you and your unborn child. Put the brownie down. Now. Don't "diet" per se, but make sure you eat a tightly controlled diet, because every single thing that goes into your mouth is critical. Sleep as much as you can Ms. Baggy Eyes, but make sure that in addition to maintaining all your regular activities while feeling like crap you add prenatal yoga, arm toning exercises, two mile daily walks/jogs, and designing and preparing all organic, perfectly balanced menus to your already chaotic life. Have you started your list of unnecessary baby items to buy yet? Don’t forget to always, always be contemplating how you will fend off any notion of pain medication during labor. Look cute. Just look cute all the time. Oh, by the way, do you like this or that thing? TOO BAD, it’s off limits during pregnancy and for the 5 years you will of course be breastfeeding your child. What’s that? What’s that you say? You only had a sip of champagne on New Year’s Eve. Harhar, it’s adorable how you think you can decide for yourself. NO AMOUNT OF ALCHOHOL IS SAFE, DUMB-DUMB.

Mind your own business, internet! This is the place where I could get all defensive about my own choices and approach to pregnancy, but that isn’t really the point. My impression is that the vast majority of women want to have healthy and safe pregnancies…without going nutso in the process. We want information and advice, and we want to make the best decisions we can for ourselves. We already have to let go of so much control of our bodies and trust that it knows what to do. Yet, it feels like the medical community and random bystanders think this released control is up for grabs, to wield however they see fit. Sometimes this is helpful. Often it is not.

Not that I don't have my own demons to contend with, which I'm sure contributes to my irritation. I'm starting this pregnancy feeling  a tremendous amount of pressure and, frankly, dismay about my weight. I'm no skinny-minnie. I absolutely love food and enjoying rich, delicious meals on occasion. I try to balance this out with a healthy, lighter diet and exercise on a regular basis. I’ve worked especially hard at this between these two pregnancies. I've felt good about the changes I've noticed and my increased strength. Yet, I learned after my first midwife appointment that, no matter how I feel, the pounds have stubbornly held on. In fact, I gained. I saw the number in the comfort of my home while reviewing my post-appointment health summary and, well, there were tears. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my BMI is hovering over the brink of obesity, and while I’ll do my best to stay healthy and maintain activity, it will be pushed straight into it during pregnancy. And because I’m so OLD, the books and sites assure me that any needless weight gain will be much harder to lose.

I understand that concerns about the health implications and possible complications from excess weight are legitimate. It's anxiety-provoking, but I need to be mindful of very real concerns and proactive in addressing this with my doctor, not hide from the situation. Believe me, I really want to hide! But, my numbers are going to be scrutinized and discussed anyway. Of course I'm worried about the what ifs. Namely, what if no matter how hard I work to be healthy and manage my weight, I gain more than what’s recommended for my starting point?

The part that irks me about the weight issue is the judgy emphasis on looks more so than health. Constant commentary on the fact that fat is pretty much the worst thing you can be aesthetically prevails even during pregnancy! This thinly veiled message, often under the guise of "health," pops up in articles, boards, and comments all over the internet. I bristle reading on What to Expect that in the first trimester you simply look pudgy, not pregnant, like you couldn't keep your greedy hands out of the doughnut box. What to Expect is big on the doughnut talk. Obviously, the only reason why we ladies gain weight is, you know, our weak willpower against the almighty evil doughnut. Junk food. It's that black and white. I wish.

Ladies online really can't wait for their bellies to pop out so people will finally know they're pregnant, not just overweight. There's lots of talk about how to avoid looking fat and to manage your appearance to continue looking good (i.e. thin) until the telltale belly appears.  Clearly, the only socially acceptable time to grow bigger is during pregnancy. Otherwise you've simply let yourself go and are a terrible slob of a person. But, even with pregnancy as an excuse, there are countless ways that you could still become a hideous slob over these 40 weeks, so watch out!

I could go on and on about how our celebrity obsessed culture feeds into this and blah, blah, blah. It's been done. I can also sit around feeling miserable about myself and the ways I'm far from society's ideal, but I could do that any old day. It's no good. I realize that I need to take ownership of who I am and where I’m at, while also letting go of what I can’t control. If this pregnancy is a go, I’ll do my best to take care of myself, and I’ll have to trust that my body’s got this. I don't have to buy in to all the nonsense. I can find real inspirational stories from real women out there if I dig a little bit more. I love those women.

As my OB said last time, it would be a shame to let negative feelings about my weight prevent me from enjoying my pregnancy. That was a helpful point. The rebellious part of me that isn’t sniveling over unwanted pounds says, damn right!  Rebellious me also says it’s totally fine to block all the annoying pregnancy websites and bury the books in the backyard for the time being.

K...3?

The Husband and I decided that we missed having a little buddy around too much, so please meet the new addition to our household: Liz LeMON!!! (think Oprah voice here)

LL's safety zone - the kitty condo

She's an adorable little squeaker who came from the hardened streets of LA. We adopted her from a wonderful Seattle shelter, Whisker City, that rescued her from death row (literally hours before the doom) at a pretty terrible shelter down there. LL is  missing part of one ear, which we learned was inexplicably done at the LA shelter, too, and they ended up shipping her up to Seattle on a bus with her carrier propped up on top of kennels of dogs. 

She's a bit skittish, and no wonder after all that trauma.

Grumpy First Day Liz Lemon

But, more and more she's venturing away from the kitty condo and exploring her new space. We love her.



Dear Seattle, I love your passive aggressive notes

Last week I was reminded of why living in Seattle is so great when I found this ziplocked note on my car.

There's a lot to unpack here. OH MY GOD, IT'S SUPPOSED TO RAIN 3 DAYS FROM NOW. WHAT IF MY NOTE GETS DESTROYED???? Better seal it in plastic, just in case.

The underline really hits home how unwelcome it is to see my car in front of their house. I'm wondering, do we understand how street parking works, folks?  There aren't assigned spots. I'm certain this note came from our neighbors right next to us since I was parked in front of their house at the time it appeared. It took heavy detective to put two and two together. Figuring I should respond as a nice assertive neighbor, I went to their door to discuss the situation. They were clearly home but no one would answer my friendly knocks. Typical.

I've only caught glimpses of the couple who live there. The word that comes to mind is stodgy, and the woman usually has a pinched look on her face. They also have one of those little yellow sandwich board things that say, "Caution! Children Playing" placed at the end of their pristine driveway. The thing is that I've never seen a kid come out of that house, and we don't really have kids at this end of the block who play outside. It's all lies!!!

God, it's good to be back. The entertainment factor is a 10.

Change of Heart

On Friday, May 1st I lost a pregnancy. Well, to be clear, we chose to end the pregnancy, but it only felt of tremendous loss. Just that Monday, at the very start of the second trimester, my OB called to tell me the results of a fetal DNA test we'd had done the previous week. Her hushed, sympathetic voice informed me ours tested positive for one of the big trisomies. It was obvious that she hated delivering this news. I don't think it was obvious then how much it hurt to receive it. My mind clicked into rational mode. I don't remember pausing, or any immediate feelings, only asking about next steps. The sadness and crying part came later -- like seconds after hitting End Call.

My doc advised that we have a CVS and to have it soon. We were fortunate enough to get in the next day, and the FISH results on Wednesday confirmed what we already knew to be true. We had all the evidence needed to make a decision. I can't call it a decision at that point, really. We'd talked about possibilities like this before even getting pregnant, agreeing about what we'd do. More talking quickly showed that we remained bonded in that choice. Another phone call for another appointment. In just five short days, I went from being one thing to something completely different.

I am different. I'm no longer a pregnant woman. I'm not in my third trimester anticipating the upcoming due date (which also happens to be our wedding anniversary - ouch). After the procedure, we immediately went away for a couple of days to recover. We burned a memorial candle our dear friend had given us throughout our retreat. We took walks and talked and rested and allowed the sadness. We began processing a loss we'd never known. We came home and returned to our jobs. I talked to my many supportive people. I sipped wine and ate chocolate. My body de-poofed right away, and I returned to my pre-pregnancy clothes, almost like nothing happened. I cried sometimes, and took anti-anxiety medicine sometimes, and just went through the motions of being present sometimes.

And then my sister's partner was diagnosed with melanoma. Such a totally crummy situation for a young father and family. Not only were they dealing with overwhelming medical uncertainty, but also significant financial concerns. I was terrified for him, my sister, and baby nephew. Helping to put together supports for them provided a welcome distraction. During both my own loss and his health crisis, so many people rallied to offer pure love and generous help. Sometimes this arrived in the form of delicious meals, which is my kind of love language.  Luckily, the surgery to remove the offending mole on his temple, and a big chunk of skin around it, proved successful. After a scary period of waiting and procedures and more waiting, the verdict came in at Stage 2. He's cancer-free right now.

After that, our lease came to an end, and The Husband and I realized it's time to hightail it back to Seattle. We found a 1950s brick house to rent in a great neighborhood that still feels like old Seattle. Sadly, though, one week before we moved, our challenging but lovable cat went outside one evening and didn't return. We searched and searched and found no trace of him. Just the weekend before, he'd finally sat on my lap for, like, a half hour. This was huge. He wasn't a lap cat EVER, but he had curled up on my stomach once for a few minutes while I was pregnant. I thought we'd turned a corner on the affection, but now I wonder if he was saying goodbye? We moved away without our kitty.

There have been other little upheavals, losses, and missed opportunities, but I'll give it a rest before violins start tuning. My point is that 2015 hasn't been the best year overall. I think you've got it.

My long ago last post was all about baby ambivalence. Wasn't I about 90% sure I didn't want kids? Yes, I was...and then I changed. As our end of 2014 deadline to decide approached, I started having an inkling (if you call a month of hanging at the edge of a panic attack an inkling) that maybe I wasn't so sure after all. I realized I wanted the possibility of parenthood. The Husband agreed. The panic disappeared.

It would be dishonest to give the impression that we marched determinedly toward conceiving and never looked back. Nah, ambivalence didn't make a swift exit. We decided without making an effort. Our approach: Let's pull the goalie and see what happens! I stressed to the Husband that we would be lucky if I wound up pregnant in a year (or, of course, at all). We should just have fun with the process.

Instead, I got pregnant straight away. We were shocked. I yelled "holy shit!" when I glanced at the pregnancy test I had taken while working at home one afternoon, just to be sure that my barely late period didn't mean baby. Ta-da! It did. I broke the news to The Husband that night after handing him a glass of whiskey.

The first trimester was difficult. It felt unreal at first, until we saw the little bean on a screen and named it Garbanzo Seahorse. That's what the little blip looked like. Garb for short. I was scared sometimes. Money, careers, daycare, how would we make it happen? Eating became difficult. I hate cucumbers! I love cucumbers! I HATE cucumbers! I went through a phase of despising the smell of the kitchen. I had a particularly upsetting incident of extreme side pain while at a work event. Examinations and test results always showed that everything was fine. I always heard that things looked good.

I started feeling better as the end of the first trimester approached. We'd gotten used to the idea of a baby, and shifted from mostly freaked out to mostly excited. Except that I sometimes felt uneasy, especially during those later ultrasounds when Garb appeared minimally active and wouldn't cooperate for key measurements. We had to return for follow up appointments to see if Garb would kick it up a notch and change positions. Movement looked like a struggle.

I'm not claiming that I sensed something was off. How would I know anything the first time around? Mainly, I think unease came from hormones and the resulting mass of confusing emotions most of the time. Learning about Garb's genetic condition was a terrible blow; the decision was heartbreaking. Physically I've recovered, and emotionally I'm better. Mostly normal, I guess. Now I think about other things more often than not. Yet, grief still clutches on to me with its grimy nails every once in a while.

We remain at complete peace with our decision. We wish what was hadn't been, but we wouldn't do it differently if given another chance. I'm just different after everything that's happened. How could I possibly be the same? My heart has a Garb in permanent residence as we prepare to open ourselves up to possibility again.

Postponing Parenthood - Babies for us?

It's inevitable. You date someone for a while in your 20s and 30s, and soon you're increasingly faced with The Question. The choice of words varies, but the meaning is always the same: When are you going to get married? At some point, you say I do. Vows are exchanged, you begin to settle in to married life, and immediately there's another Big Question: So, when are you going to have kids?

DUH, you might say. Of course. Lots of us are fielding that question. Yet, I guess naively, I didn't expect it to come up so much in my little bubble of a world. Practically everyone asks. And I do mean everyone. Just last weekend I had a very awkward conversation with the owner of a nail salon after a pedicure. I didn't see it coming as she processed my payment at the counter. Are you married? she asked as she craned her neck to look for a ring. I saw her eyes register confirmation, and I felt that now familiar sinking sensation in my stomach. I knew predictably what comes next: Do you have kids?

See? She was it. There's no one left to ask. (I tried answering with a simple "no" as The Husband suggested I do, instead of rushing headlong into some sort of longer explanation in anticipation of follow up questions. The nip-it-in-the-bud-with-a-clipped-response strategy. No dice. Oh, so do you want kids? Are you trying? Waiting until later? She eyed me up and down doubtfully with that last one. I'm sure correctly assessing that there's little time left for "later" at this point.)

Whether by circumstance or choice, "maybe someday" has been the default answer. Yes, through my extensive personal research, I've learned there's a label for me and the choices I've made. I'm what the self-proclaimed experts call a Postponer.

When I was a kid, I always assumed I'd have kids eventually. I bought wholeheartedly into the singsong dream of love, marriage, and babies. Of course, my fantasy also included marrying River Phoenix...until I went through my NKOTB phase. According to the paper fortune teller, Joey and I might end up living in a trailer, but the minimum number of kids written on the lined notebook paper was always 1.

Looking back, I'm not sure I demonstrated a ton of early maternal flair. My preferred childhood games typically gave me the opportunity to be bossy, so that's something. One of my faves was playing school with my sister, with me as the teacher who was always trying to get her to sit in the corner wearing the dunce cap. She hated it and would often march off in a huff. Later on I tortured my littlest sister by telling her she was adopted. She cried and ran to my mother while I laughed. The storylines of my Barbie adventures involved cool outfits, fancy jobs, rearranging the furniture in the Dream House, a happening club scene, and lots of dirty sex acts with Ken. Sure, there was a surprise pregnancy or two for Barbie, which led to *drama*, but the kid would conveniently fade out of the storyline shortly after arriving on the scene. Much like how it works on TV.

I liked the idea, the excitement, of being pregnant and having a baby, but Barbie and I weren't too interested in the mothering that came after.

I did and still do like kids, though. I like talking with them and hearing their world views. Some of my best conversations ever have been with small children. It's easy to get a laugh out of the little ones, and I appreciate that. As a teenager my summers were filled with babysitting gigs, either for my younger sisters or neighbor families in need of cheap childcare. I worked in daycare my first couple of years in college, mainly with two and three year olds, and I was pretty good at it. A couple of little ones liked me enough that their parents asked me to babysit. I adored the kids and had a blast with them, keeping in touch with the families even after I moved on. But, without fail, I always felt relieved when bedtime came around. What I remember most is feeling happy and free as I drove home after the parents returned. You see, I enjoyed kid time best knowing that my own time would soon return.

Not much changed, and I continued to assume that one day I'd have kids. Except, as I approached my 30s and got to know myself better, my thought process shifted from "someday" to "maybe not". I witnessed friends starting families, and my own family welcomed two nephews and a niece. They're amazing and I love spending time with them. Often, tears come to my eyes thinking about how much I love them, and I can't wait to watch them grow up. Yet, I also want freedom and need solitude, two things that are in short order once kids arrive. I've had to acknowledge that I'm an introvert at heart, and I feel acutely when my energy supply is tapped out. I become prone to tears, mopey withdrawal, and emotional outbursts, making those around me miserable until I have some down time. Considering this, I can't ignore the nagging voice that asks, Do I want this? Am I cut out for parenting? And, at my clinically advanced maternal age, can I even have kids?

Parenthood choices weren't a pressing issue for a long time, as I spent a good chunk of my late 20s and early 30s single, so my flip-flop decisions were always purely hypothetical, driven by present conditions. Like being around a kid who was acting like an asshole. But now here I am. Newly married and 37. Bound in matrimony and our ambivalence about becoming parents, The Husband and I have postponed ourselves down to the wire. It's go time if there is going to be a go time, and I still don't know what I want to do. We don't know what to do.

Documentaries

Dudes. I watched a very disturbing documentary on the Orcas at Sea World the other night. It's called Blackfish. Very interesting and emotionally confusing. I thought I was turning on Anthony Bourdain on CNN and instead it was the very intense Blackfish. Perfect for a relaxing before bed watch while honeymooning on Maui.

The bottom line is that Sea World is holding Orcas captive (while telling outright lies about why captivity is "better" for their health and lifespan) to entertain people and make a buck, and the Orcas are pissed about their situation. On one hand, I felt really bad for the trainers who have died, or nearly died, by Orca attack at Sea World locations. There is some truly horrifying footage in this film, and I feel for the families and friends of those lost. But, on the other hand...DUH! Is it really surprising that the Orcas confined to such small spaces, with other Orcas who aren't part of their own pods, to spend their lives entertaining humans for food are dissatisfied? Hell yes those dorsal fins are collapsing! What would we expect of humans in a similar situation? If we were watching this as some big blockbuster film, I bet you serious coin that we'd be cheering on the Orcas to end their imprisonment and take down their oppressors. I'm outraged and sickened by Sea World's irresponsibility and cold-hearted pursuit of profit at the expense of both human and Orca lives. Blech. But again, not surprising when big money is involved. I really appreciated the openness of the former Sea World Orca trainers who shared their experiences and emotions. This is a must watch. Free the Orcas!

There are many must watch documentaries out there, many that are a lot more lighthearted.

The Story of Anvil
Life 2.0
The Queen of Versailles
Searching for Sugarman
Exit Through the Gift Shop
Sallinger (which I haven't finished yet and is a bit dark, but it's excellent just for Sallinger asking crazed fans/stalkers outright if they are mental patients)

Aloha! I'm sitting on the sunny deck of a cottage in Kihei, with my new gecko friend, waiting for my husband to return with some coffee for our breakfast. Case (formerly TBF) and I got married at the Kapalua Cliff House on Monday, October 28th, and now we're enjoying some solo honeymoon time in Kihei before returning home early next week. I can say, unequivocally, that the week leading up to, and the actual wedding itself, was the best week of my life. That isn't to say that there weren't any tense moments, because there were, but ultimately the joy of spending a week with so many people I love on the beautiful island of Maui is what is going to stay with me forever. I just want to burst into tears as I write this, partly out of happiness and partly out of longing to relive the experience again. But, much to my chagrin in this case, time keeps on trucking along.

It's unfortunate how my silly brain works sometimes. I'm having to take a break on my honeymoon to write about my overwhelming feelings, both of joy and loss. The happiness aspect is probably pretty self explanatory, and my silly brain likes to glide right by that anyway with little more than a passing glance. "Happiness, you say? Why spend time on boring old good times when doom and gloom are here to make things interesting!" I have no doubt in my mind that I've married the perfect man for me. I couldn't be happier with our relationship. Our wedding was amazing, and I look forward to spending my life with him. Sometimes I wonder, how could I deserve so much happiness? I am incredibly lucky.

But, good old doom and gloom over here are lingering over the loss, too. All the time spent on preparing the wedding, and it culminating into a lovely, once-in-a-lifetime event that is now completed. Saying goodbye to each of our friends and family who made the trip and shared in this incredible time with us. And now I feel like I'm also putting away an entire period in my life. My young and single days are wrapped up. I've been in a committed relationship with Case for 4 years, so, really, that ship had sailed awhile ago., I don't know why this feels like such a big deal. But it does. What's even more confusing is that, over the course of my decade-long single days, I went through (several) depressed periods about my relationship status. In retrospect, though, it was also the time when I learned so much about who I am and what I want in my life. I am grateful for that time, and I tend to have this feeling of strength from making it through, in my mind, wiser and happier.

I made homes for myself. I bought myself flowers. I traveled. I spent fun solo periods of time with family and friends. I went to countless concerts and ate blueberry pancakes with Em at 2am. I went to therapy. I read and wrote and took classes. I wrote long, sometimes overwrought, emails to Shannon, and I cried to my mom and sisters when life wasn't going as I hoped. I learned tarot and energy healing. I learned how to meditate and put together my own beautiful spaces for my own spiritual pursuits. I left religion behind a long while ago, but I spent time reading the bible to learn from it as an adult. I took naps and dreamed a lot. Sometimes I spent entire weekends alone, and my biggest outing was a run to Fred Meyer. These weekends would alternately depress me and rejuvenate me. I watched whatever girly movies I wanted. I ate good food with the people who love good food like I do (Elizabeth!). I cultivated friendships with an amazing group of women that we call the TMI ladies. I volunteered my time for different causes and began to understand what it is I wish to contribute here, even in the smallest way. I started taking long walks and then jogging.  I celebrated friends' relationships and, sometimes jealously, wished for my own. With the help of my friend Lindsay, I used space I had to start a little garden. I created. I created a life of my own. That's the biggest thing, I think. Shaping your life the best you can.  It hasn't gone perfectly. It's full of kinks and messiness and moments that still make me cringe when they pop up in my memory. But, I love and honor that this is mine.

None of this is going away, really. As I see myself starting to (VERY SlOWLY) transition from young and single to married and middle aged, .I have to remember that even though that time is behind me, and it is hard to say goodbye, all of it is still a par;t of me. At this moment I am blending my own experiences with those of someone I love very much. In our marriage, we will continue to build our lives both individually and as a twosome. We will create together.

I'm going through a phase where I have my mornings to myself, as I'm now working afternoons. I'm also working about 30 hours + hours with my therapy clients. I'm trying to savor this time while I can, because I know that--poof!--it will be gone when I (finally) find a full-time job. The job hunting process is going dismally slow for me, and I suspect for many people out there. I really want to do something related to why I went back to school (supporting neurodiverse people in higher ed and beyond), and the fword and I are thinking about moving away from Seattle, so there are a lot of factors at play. I get frustrated. I get restless. I don't love preparing job applications.

I find I tend to do this thing of not enjoying the moment. Right now I'm able to have leisurely mornings where I can exercise, take care of a few things around the house, make and eat a healthy breakfast, get ready at my own pace...Yet, my mind frequently wanders to what's next and here comes all the chaotic feelings. I can put a damper on it so easily with my busy brain. It's like another job constantly bringing it back to the present moment.

Lately, maybe because of this time I have, I'm thinking more about how I want to spend my time, particularly around technology. Like most people in the U.S., I can totally get wrapped up in my phone, tv, and spending endless hours on the internet. I'm feeling the need to take a big step back from that. I'm at a point where reading for fun is actually fun again for me, and I can't wait to devour books. I'm thinking about how I can volunteer again. I crave silence more often, and I want more personal connection than computer connection.

Of course, while trying to do some wedding planning, the computer is my friend. It's looking like we're heading toward Hawaii in October, peeps!

Prince is coming to the Showbox in Seattle in mid-April, and I was super set on going until I heard the news that tickets are $250 a pop. What??? I know this quirky little man who avoids eye contact is a musical genius and all, but I'm starting to think he's one sexy greedy mothafuckah. To be fair, the Showbox is a smaller venue and the law of supply and demand applies, I guess, which means I probably shouldn't get my hopes up for a Living Social deal on this one.

Before I was disappointed by the ticket cost, I was talking enthusiastically about the possibility of seeing Prince to the fword as we walked out of Red Mill the other night. I was all, "I feel like if I get to see Prince, this year will really mean something." As the words were coming out of my mouth, my engagement ring caught the light of the setting sun and I hastily added, "Also getting engaged." The fword started laughing and said that aspect hadn't even crossed his mind. He was too busy thinking about what a low bar I have if Prince was going to make this year meaningful for me.

What can I say? It's been a dream.

At the end of last week, the fword was terribly sick for a couple of days with a very bad cold/flu. He had body aches, a fever, stuffy nose, and persistent headache. I lovingly made him chicken quinoa soup and hot toddies, and forced him to inhale steam from a boiling pot of water. Now I appear to have the cold (so far without the horrible flu symptoms) and in talking about the possibility of it getting worse, I asked fword if he would make me soup if I became bedridden.

Me: Will I hear the whir of the food processor?

Him: What you'll hear is the whir of the microwave as I heat a can of soup from the store for you.

This is betrothed bliss.

Only in the movies

Dudes. The other night I turned on Pretty in Pink on Netflix while the fword and I were hanging out in the living room. I hadn't seen it in forever and thought it would be fun to have on in the background until we went to bed. Well, we got invested in watching it through to the end. I really paid attention. Wow. What a mistake. What is up with that story line???  Now, as a kid I loved Andie's wrong-side-of-the-tracks (literally, the train tracks are shown repeatedly in case we don't get it) story line and her interesting and defiant fashion choices. I rooted for a fairy tale ending for Andie and her bug-eyed hunky Blaine. I hated Stef in all of his Miami Vice uppityness, and I felt for charming Duckie in all his angst. And, Blaine's fancy-schmancy computer trick? Swoon. That's really stood the test of time.

The problem is that my kid self never noticed the ridiculousness of the ending. There is no cohesion whatsoever. It's like a critical piece of the movie was chopped out and no one on the crew noticed. You're going along fairly entertained and then it's like, wait...what? Blaine humiliates Andie with his lame-ass lie about "inviting someone else to the prom a month ago and forgetting about it". So transparent. Then, when she shows up at the dance with Duckie to show everyone that they didn't break her, Mr. Wimpy Lying Pants has the nerve to approach her and make an indignant speech about how the problem is that he always believed in her but she didn't believe in him. (Uh, yeah. That's how it works when you LIE.) And he finishes off by saying that he loves her. (He has a funny way of showing it, by not returning her phone calls) For some inexplicable reason, she totally falls for that crap and chases him outside in her hideous pink sack dress that's layered over hideous hot pink stockings. They kiss in a way that is supposed to be passionate but looks mildly painful. And that's that. Happy ending. I call bs!

Do you know what's even harder for me to believe? I'll tell you. I watched the first Sex and the City movie again the other day, and each time I see it I have one big problem with the plot line. It's not that Carrie and Mr. Big end up together. I made my peace with that when I faced the fact that they are two a-holes who deserve each other. No. It's that Carrie's assistant Louise has a degree in COMPUTER SCIENCE and somehow ended up as someone's personal assistant. No way, no how. In the real world she would be off making the big bucks and playing ping pong at some trendy tech company. She wouldn't have to rent her fancy purses; she would own them.

Get it right, movies!

Clearly I have busy brain while laying on the couch waiting to get sick. The fword has a nasty flu, and I'm working from home today to keep an eye on him. Sometimes we don't end catching each other's ailments, but the bottom line is that this is a small apartment. There are only so many places the germs can go. Sniff.

Good lord. I realized today that I've had this blog for nearly 9 years. I started it right before going to Paris the first time in 2004. Yikes! To be fair, I've gone MIA for chunks of time here and there. Like for two years during graduate school.

Since we last spoke, I turned 36. For some post-birthday fun, I accompanied my sister to Buffalo to see Mike Birbiglia and to freeze our arses off at Niagra Falls. Molly literally couldn't feel the ends of her fingers for a few minutes there while we were traipsing around outside. But we got some great pictures! The comedy show was hilarious, of course. The city of Buffalo is not. By day, the people are more outgoing and friendly than in Seattle. By night, we saw and heard a lot of shouting matches (and even some unfortunate physical scuffles) around town. There was an angry vibe that was completely foreign to me. I even started to miss Seattle's polite overcoat and passive aggressiveness.

We had a delicious dinner out the night of the show, but otherwise the food was just eh. Coffee was a serious problem. Little cafes misleadingly advertised espresso and cappuccinos on their outside windows, but when you walked inside you were faced with the "cappuccino" machines found in gas stations.Sickening sweetness at the push of a button. We finally tracked down a Starbucks and even that tasted different. Buffalo eateries are also into "breakfast zas." Za this and za that. I don't get it. Did I mention the bitter cold and the nightmare of riding with my sister in the rental car? She is one uptight driver. We had moments.

Shortly after that trip, TBF and I went on a romantic houseboat getaway to the Peninsula. And then, most importantly, we spent a week in Maui! It'd been a few years, and I was super excited to go back and to have TBF experience the island. It was beautiful, warm, sunshiney goodness that chased the Seattle dampness and the Buffalo freeze from my bones. We sat in the sun, played in the ocean, and ate so much delicious food. It was nuts. Whales! We saw tons and tons of whales, as well as dolphins and pretty fish on a snorkel boat trip. And, in what was the most ridiculously romantic sunset-on-the-beach-while-two-whales-swim-by proposal, I said yes to marrying TBF!

The proposal was followed by a ridiculously romantic dinner on the beach at one of the hotel restaurants on Kaanapali beach. It was an amazing time.

So now TBF is no longer The Boyfriend. He is The Fiance...except neither one of us can stand that word. We practice avoidance on that one, which can lead to abrupt awkward halts in conversations. TBF's latest brilliant idea is that we just call each other "f-word" instead. Like, I love you my f-word! Oh, that guy? He's just my f-word. Sometimes when saying f-word seems like too much work, we shorten it up to fword. We're going to have to get married as quickly as possible to eliminate the f-word. Except, I have absolutely zero interest in planning a wedding. So, you know, who knows how that's all going to come together. We'll make something happen, somehow, hopefully this year.

Saying goodbye to Maui at the end of our stay was tough. I have a lot of memories there, lots of good times with my family. I spent a month there after finishing my ugrad degree when so much was changing in my life. A significant relationship had ended, and I was about to start a new life and career. 9/11 happened while I was there.  It's where I met nephew Travis (WHO IS NOW 7!!!) and got to know him as a baby. Maui was a refuge from my Seattle winter blues for many years. I experienced a lot there, from minor lessons to big life changes.

It's hard to believe how much has changed, and once again I feel myself hovering on the brink of another shift. I'm working at my old job as I look for a new one. It's nice in many ways, but I'm increasingly ready for the next step. The F-word and I are interested in moving away from Seattle to better weather and a slower pace of life, at least for a while. I've chosen a path at this point that isn't probably going to lead to big financial gain. If I'm going to poor, I might as well do that in a place with better climate. I'm so ready! Job change. Moving. Marriage.

One thing I don't think I will change is my name. I don't think I'm ready to let that go and probably won't unless the fword and I decide to have kids. I'm still thinking on that one. Friend Em came up with the perfect solution. She suggested that if I'm going to change my last name, the fword should change his to Andeggs. Then I can be Bacon Andeggs! Ah-hahahahaha! Love it. Love her.

What's Happening

Happy New Year, everyone! The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of holiday activity. TBF and I spent Christmas with m family in Bend this year, and it was a wonderful, snowy time. I heart Bend, and I hearted celebrating the holiday where the snow made everything feel truly festive. As you may remember, my parents used to live in Klamath Falls and just recently made the move to Bend. They are settling in nicely. I think my mom's favorite part of the change is her proximity to a Trader Joe's. She loves that place as was evident by the majority of our snacks emerging from the freezer with the classic labeling.

I made a bundle of gluten free treats this holiday season including gf chex mix, chocolate dipped peanut butter crackers, white chocolate gf pretzels, and these easy cake batter cookies. I'm having fun experimenting with gf recipes.

TBF and I had a quiet New Year. As we slowly chugged along the snowy passes on the way back from Bend, it became clear that I was coming down with my darling nephew's cold, so I was a slow-moving Bacon for a few days. On NYE, we went for an early bbq dinner at the always yummy Bitteroot and then enjoyed a pretty quiet and boozy evening at home.

Do you all have New Year's resolutions? New jobs and moving are at the top of mine and TBF's list this year. We've long grown out of our tiny apartment (K2 is a space hog) and are feeling like it's time to quit Seattle. Have I mentioned that we're ready fora slower pace? I'm hopeful 2013 will bring lots of exciting changes. In addition to those two goals, I have the usual suspects of eating healthier and exercising more, practicing meditation, reading fun books again, getting back into music, traveling, and finding new ways to engage in the community. Small order, right? It's weird that it's taking so long, but I'm finally starting to feel like a normal human again after grad school.

Things I'm into right now: Fun books! Where'd You Go, Bernadette? and Mindy Kaling's book. Both really enjoyable, funny reads. I'm a little bit in love with Mindy right now. Her show is awesome. The Female Eunuch to satisfy my feminist exploration, also surprisingly witty and entertaining. Klyde/K2. Sleep. Salads made with quinoa. Who knew? New recipes. Down time with TBF. The Divine Fits, Lana Del Ray, new Cat Power, and the xx. This is 40 (I don't get the lukewarm reviews. It's not a work of art but it's funny). Shiny shoes. Scarves.Mark and Jay Duplass movies (I could write whole posts on how I adore that Jeff, Who Lives at Home is a much happier version of Signs or how I can see myself in the mid-20s leading lady in The Puffy Chair). Organizing my life, which is an extension of my resolution from last year. Take that, bathroom closet! Reconnecting with infrequently-seen friends who I've missed terribly. Making plans to take trips.

Things that are challenging: Feeling overwhelmed with sadness and helplessness over terrible things happening in the world.  Still not knowing what I want to do next in my life. Pervasive limbo and the resulting frustration of wanting to move forward but not quite being at a place to do that. Clutter. Adults who do baby talk. Seattle weather + lame bus system. The fact that my hair is at the awkward growing out phase where I should be wearing scarves to cover it. Paying back school loans. Boo.

Awkward and abrupt endings to blog posts. Not sure how to wrap this one up smoothly, so I will just say bye and wish you all many good things in the new year!

One of the best things that happened to me this month, so far, was going to the doctor. I know, right? When does going to the doctor ever really make anyone feel good? The whole situation is rife with unfortunate possibilities. You get poked and prodded in places you'd rather not. You might find out something is terribly wrong with you, or be faced with future appointments for uncomfortable procedures and tests that will tell you there is definitely something wrong with you. You engage in awkward conversations with a virtual stranger about your state of mind (if you have anxiety like me) and your sex life and your hormones and your possible plans for reproduction now that you're pushing your late 30s and....

And, you weigh in. Oh, the dreaded scale that inevitably produced a number that is at least 3 pounds higher than your scale at home. It's painful to watch. I feel the same kind of panicky avoidance of the doctor's office scale that I do about public speaking. That's saying something. Depending on my mood, tears may in fact spring to my eyes. My internal sense of peace (har har) spirals into a full-on self-esteem crash and burn. This time was no different.

You may be wondering about the upside I mentioned. Well, when I opened up to my rail-thin doc about my weight frustrations, her response really surprised me. I've tried a lot to lose weight over the past several months and still haven't seen much change. I expected her to acknowledge the issue and help me problem-solve. But, instead, she basically told me I'm fine how I am. I'm healthy, I exercise, I (mostly) eat right. My focus should be on maintaining and not gaining weight. She asked if I wanted to lose 5 pounds or what, and I was like, more like 20! She said my body most likely has a way it wants to be (hand motions to curves) and that I shouldn't even pay attention to what the scale says. And, do you know what? That conversation was totally liberating for me. I felt great.  Maybe because the words came from my doctor, I don't know. But, thinking about it, how often do we hear from anyone that we are good how we are? As a woman, shouldn't I always be trying to be thinner, prettier, younger looking? Shouldn't I be working to make my skin flawless and my hair shiny? I think the ladies at Lush in Seattle think so since a couple of them tried to sell me on anti-aging products while I was shopping for gifts the other day. I've made peace with my body...but my face. My FAAAAAAAAAAACE!

Heh. Whatever. I took the wonderful words from my doc to heart and promptly went home to bake and eat a bunch of Christmas treats. Power to the calorie! Delicious.

F-F-F-FEMINISM

I've been trying to read Chrystia Freeland's Plutocrats,and despite how well-written and interesting it is, I'm trudging along at a snail's pace. For a while I wasn't sure why. After all, I care a lot about income inequality. We studied this topic a lot in social work school, and this book definitely offers perspectives and insights beyond what we read about and discussed in class. If it's so interesting, why do I feel so detached?  I've wondered. I care but I don't feel connected. At the same time,I also recently finished Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman and, after a slower start for me, I loved it, especially the later chapters. Suddenly I'm feeling all rah-rah about feminism, and that is as surprising to me as my seeming disinterest in income disparity. What's happening?

Today, I got it. Also, social work school (and the work that resulted from it) overwhelms me. The questions and truths about this world and me and (more specifically) my expectations that cropped up during the MSW overwhelmed me, and some still continue to do so. The enormity of the problems overwhelm me. And here's what I think: the book on income equality is an energy zapper at this point. My overwhelm meter is currently filled up on this one, and I feel beaten into the dirt when I think about it. I can't seem to muster up a lot of hope on that one right now, and, therefore not a lot of desire to read about it. I'm not forgetting about it by any means, but focusing on it seems counter-productive for my state of mind right now. Feminism, on the other hand, is filling the energy up and giving. I feel a great sense of hope and empowerment from reading books by feminist authors or from watching things like Courtney Martin's TED talk.



Fail spectacularly! Do it in spite of the overwhelm! Help even one person! Those are the messages that are feeding me right now. The work is rough, with no promises of security or certainty, but you just keep going with purpose and pockets of joy.

I haven't spent a lot of time in my life thinking about what feminism is or means. Or, at least, I think about it but don't categorize it as "feminism". I sort of skirt along the fringes. Girl power! I guess. I came across Caitlin Moran in my readings about parenthood and making the decision of whether or not to have children, and then the other topics around feminism crept into my conscious and peaked my interest. I've always felt vaguely uncomfortable with the word since its definition has so often been generalized to regimented and unequivocal man-hating in our society. I've internalized that bs. I don't hate men. I like them. (Well, ok, there are a few I don't, but that's because they're unlikable arses, not because of their anatomy and automatic membership to the "patriarchy".) And, I mean, honestly, I've also had a fearful sense that identifying as a feminist could open me up to a whole new realm of judgment from all sides. Am I really feminist enough? Am I truly committed to the cause? Am I strong enough to deal with the criticism and outright hostility from those who think feminism is a crock, and, likewise, can I cope with possibly being a huge disappointment to the cause? I think it's entirely possible that I like, think, or do things the strident types would view with disapproval.  Do I want to fit in or not? I'm the anxious type. These things worry me.

But, you know what? F that! Instead of shying away, I'm now ready to thoughtfully and openly explore feminism and my role in it. The time is right. I can even say the word with barely any hesitation or awkwardness! I feel energized reading and hearing the inspiring words of women who really seem to get it and can articulate it so beautifully. Light years beyond me. I see the passion, intelligence, and drive of these amazing women, and I think these are the real articles. I think, YES! True role models.

I'm still in no-man's land as far as making any decision about having kids goes. Tis the season of holiday gatherings, and I'm having lots of opportunities to interact with the tiny humans. I love it. That never changes. They are usually the most fun party guests. However, while jogging yesterday, I found my mind likening the idea of having children to homework. Grad school reminded me just how much I hate homework. It's endless. Even when you get caught up...Even when you feel like you accomplish something and get satisfaction from the work...It's just always there. The work is never done, and there is always another assignment looming. I remember coming home exhausted night after night and still having a ton of work to do. I resented it. I resisted it. I can't help but wonder if I would feel the same way about having a child. Would it be like one massive, long, high stakes homework assignment?

Santa, if  you could bring me some clarity for 2013, that would be great.

Nails

The fact that the movie In Hell was playing on the television in the corner was a bad sign. We stood in the doorway, dripping wet, while the rain pattered outside, contemplating our options. No wait time. Good price. We weren't sure about the atmosphere: harsh, stark lighting, and powder blue walls. My sis and I had just slogged our way through the rainy Friday morning to have coffee and a chat at Cafe Vita. After delicious,warm drinks in a cozy corner of the cafe, we thought it'd be fun to get our nails done. Relax a little. Pamper ourselves. As a single mom, Molly doesn't have as many opportunities to do that, so we wanted to take full advantage of the girl time while Trav was away with his dad over Thanksgiving weekend. The bad weather led us to check out a new nail place just up the street from the coffee shop. The price and immediate service cemented our decision to give it a whirl. We plunked down a bit uncertainly in the poofy black manicure chairs.

"This movie is awesome!" said the man with the heavy accent who was filing my sister's nails. Not so much. Nothing about the moans, screams, torture, and beating scenes of In Hell improved the unrelaxing "spa" atmosphere. I kept making comments about finding the movie disturbing, stressful, traumatizing...but neither Mr. or Mrs.Nail Salon took the hint. I started to feel like I was in hell. When Jean Claude Van Damme finally got thrown into solitary confinement, I breathed a sigh of relief. Miserable peace. That lasted about a minute before he started hearing desperate screams from his cell. I couldn't take it anymore. My hints had gone unnoticed so I decided to take a straightforward approach. "Uh, could we change the channel? The violence is really bothering me." Visibly disappointed, Mr. Nail Salon got up and briskly flipped the channel a couple of times. We went from In Hell to Days of Our Lives. Fine. I can live with daytime soaps. I hadn't seen Days in years and years, but it turns out I was still very familiar with many of the characters.

Mr. and Mrs. Nail Salon worked away at our nails. Mr. NS started painting my sister's much earlier than Mrs. NS started on mine, and things were not going well. "You missed this side" my sister pointed out. "This nail looks really bumpy. Can you fix it?" she asked. Layer after layer, he just kept painting and painting over her nails. Another customer named Lisa came in ("Oh good! Days is on!") and soon after Mrs. NS moved me over a chair so she could turn her attention to Lisa while I waited for Mr. NS to apply my polish. I panicked as he approached to prep my hands. "No, no, no.Um, hold on a minute. I'm not sure about this. Look at her nails. They're messy!" I said while pointing accusingly at my sister's hand. Mr. and Mrs. NS did not understand, and they kept trying to sell me on some other polish. "No, no. The polish isn't the problem. I just don't want it to look messy! Messy!" Molly tried to explain, I tried to explain. Finally, Mrs.NS huffily abandoned Lisa to somewhat roughly paint my nails (while Lisa finished the job of removing her own old polish) and they still turned out...messy. Mrs.NS could sense our dismay, and she gave us a big discount, but still. We left disgruntled and giggling and comparing the flaws on our hands.

Shellac manicures are supposed to last about two weeks. While shopping for groceries the next morning, the purple shell of polish on my right pinky finger popped right off. One minute I'm selecting groceries off the shelf, the next I'm carrying around a nail at Safeway. This afternoon, I got this text from my sister.

Mols: My middle finger polish is about to fall off.

Mols: I want to give them the middle finger.

Me: I know, dude. I know.

Sigh.

Not quite as bad as the 4th of July debacle, but it's up there.

Can you believe it?

I'm back! I'm back! I'm back! A year to the day since my last post...

and I'm back.

A lot has changed. I've given the blog a new look. I've started a new blog with friends who are as interested in neurodiversity as I am. I graduated with my MSW. I've taken a lot of time to rest. I practice therapy on a very part-time basis now. Kittay died in March. We spent a little time pet-free, and in May, K2 joined our little family. I went to Vermont to visit Landmark College. I've taken exciting vacations to exotic locations like Rockaway Beach, OR and Wisconsin. I learned that my body is a lot happier when I greatly reduce gluten, so I've taken up an interest in gluten free cooking. I run a lot more. I'm working at my old job while I look for a new one. It's comforting to be back to the familiar, but I'm ready for something new. The question is what to do. Higher ed or mental health? Higher ed or mental health? Can I do both? I hope I can find a way to do a little bit of both. I volunteer my time to help co-lead a discussion group for parents of college-age students with Asperger's. I've loved getting to know this great group of people, and I've learned a lot from them. I don't meditate any more, and I miss it. I still read lots of books about therapy and Asperger's and ADHD, but I've also read Behind the Beautiful Forevers and Why Have Kids? and 50 Shades of Grey. I was so out of touch with the world that I thought 50 Shades was some literary piece with racy content, so boy was I surprised. My friend's mom recommended the book to her (without having read it) because she thought it was a good one about the aging process. Surprises all around on that one.

Oh,and a year later, I have a new hair person who I love! We share the same name! How can things go wrong? Well, ok, there is one thing. I'm growing my hair out after having it shorter for a long time. As great as she is, she always makes comments about how my hair is just basically going to SUCK until it gets a bit longer. I'm thinking, "hey, I think it looks pretty good," while she's talking about wearing head scarves and things. Hmph.

Change is the theme around here. TBF and I are ready for a change of residence and a change of pace. We are looking to move out of Seattle. *gasp!* I know, I know. I love this city, a few years ago I never thought I'd leave and yet...the shiny factor has greatly dulled. The winters are long and housing is expensive. Traffic sparks irritation. It'd be nice to have a little more space to stretch out, to store the Boyfriend's motorcycles, to garden. We have ideas but aren't sure where we're going yet. Stay tuned.

There are a few things that haven't changed. One is my klutziness. While jogging last month, I tripped on a curb and skidded across the concrete, scraping up my knees and arms. As is the way, a guy driving by in a truck witnessed my fall and came to a stop to see if I was ok. I jumped up, laughed, and gave a too exuberant "I'm ok!" wave and ran the two blocks home to clean myself up. I like to say that I'm susceptible to tripping and getting food all over my clothes, like I have absolutely no role in how the streak of avocado got on my shirt.

Everyone meet K2:

I'm thinking about dropping my current hair person. This probably isn't surprising to anyone. ThisI feel like I'm always going through this inner conflict with hair peeps! I've been seeing this one for probably almost a year. She does a good job very quickly (I'm usually out of there in a half hour to 45 minutes), which works well for my busy grad school schedule, and her prices are reasonable. The space she works in is cool. Also, she's nice. What's not to like, right? Well. Even though I always end up liking my haircuts, I feel like she and I do not communicate well. She asks what I want, I tell her, and then I get something slightly (or majorly) different from the last time. It's like she doesn't remember my hair at all. And, she likes reality tv shows. Cons.

A few days ago, I went in for a cut, and I say how much I liked the last one. I just want to have that again, taking off no more than ONE INCH. Off we go!

(Snip-snip, snip, snip, snip-snip, snip. Snippity-snip, snip, snip. Snip.)

OK, so the end product looks pretty good from the front, maybe a little bit shorter than I'd asked for, but oh well. Then she asked me, "Do you want me to shave your neck line?"

Me: Wait. What? Do I need that?

Her: I would.

Me: Oh, um, ok. We've never done that before. Is it shorter?

Her: (shrug) Don't think so.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Neck line shaved.

Me: I like it. I just think it's quite a bit shorter than last time.

Her: Hmmmmmm.

I swipe my card through her handy-dandy iPhone gadget, and this time I decide to not be as generous with the tip. Along with the inconsistent cuts, she's isn't one for putting much time or effort into the dry and style. The funny thing is that I still ended up liking my hair. So do lots of other people. It's just short. Hair grows back so no biggie. I just feel nervous going in there, because I don't know what's going to happen to it before I come out. I wondered to myself if she purposely took off some extra length after we appeared to have a disagreement about the show Sister Wives. She's creeped out by polygamy while I'm all, "Hey, you know, it's not my thing, but people are going to do what they're going to do, so whatever. That's fine."

Snip, snip, snip-snip, snip, snip. SNIP!

Most Awkward and Entertaining Exchange With a Classmate This Quarter (so far).

School of Social Work ladies room. Break in evening class. I had just finished washing my hands when a friendly classmate (who I had just met) emerges from the other stall and starts washing her hands. I'm drying my hands when suddenly she bursts out with, "Meg! You look like you should do roller derby!"

Me: Huh? What? Why? (pause) Do I look mean?

Her: No. You just look like you should do roller derby. It's cool! That's my dream. I really want to do that someday.

Me: Well...thanks.

Another awkward pause and then we both exit.

So...TBF moved in today. Yes, we've decided to take our relationship to the next level by officially squeezing our two lives into my one smallish apartment. So far, it's been a pretty painless transition. We've spent a lot of time together here over the past two years, and we knew we were ready to move forward. With my current school and not working situation, and his situation with his house, the choice to stay at this apartment made the most sense, financially, for the time being. Logistically, this would be a difficult time for me to move, and I don't think 18 year old Kitty would be up for a change right now either. So, here we are.

Of course, I wondered if I would freak out at all when faced with the reality of TBF's stuff. As you know, I've been on my own for a long while, and even though we've spent the majority of our time here these past couple of years, I've still been in control of this space. Making the transition from "my" to "our" is taking some time to process. Luckily, both of us have been working hard on paring down our stuff so that we can fit pretty comfortably here, and I think that's helped a lot. Overall, this move feels very right, and I'm excited and happy that we're doing it.

I can't even talk about school and practicum right now. That is its own very special brand of stress that, I must admit, I haven't handled very well lately. I will be acquiring a few therapy patients in the near future (from another therapist who is leaving the clinic soon), and I'm both excited and nervous about that. I really need and want the experience while at practicum, but I'm also concerned about effing someone up. Not to mention, it's kind of tough being a good listener for 50 minutes while attending to both your own responses and your client's feelings all at once. Know what I mean? Give it a whirl. I dare ya.

It's cold and wintery here. Kitty is back to her old tricks of holing up in her cabin in front of the heater until she gets hotboxed out. At that point, she stumbles out of her cabin and collapses on her side on the carpet a few feet away. Other times, she wanders out, stops, sits, and stares at the floor for a couple of minutes. I'm always like, Kitty! Learn to take a break BEFORE you feel like you're going to pass out.

I suppose it's no surprise to anyone that I'm a supporter of the Occupy movement. I've wanted to write about that lots, but sadly my time and energy is limited these days with school. I haven't been able to really get involved, and I'm hoping to do that soon. It's the one movement I really believe in, and it stinks that I'm not able to carve out the time to participate in the ways I'd like. But, you know, lots of people are writing and talking about it way better than I could, and I love them for it! One of the best things that's come from OWS is all the conversations happening about where we're at and where our society is heading. My favorite video on the movement is Jay Smooth's (who is the creator of another fave, How to Tell People They Sound Racist) Outing the Ringers. Check it out below! Another recent fave is this Rolling Stone piece.

The one thing that is baffling and disappointing to me, in many cases, is the media response to the Occupy movements happening around the country. Last night, my sis and I were both watching the stand off between the protesters and supports of Occupy Portland, since the camps were evicted from the parks starting at 12:01am this morning. Of course, the media was there reporting on each passing second, as hundreds of supporters flooded the streets. Instead of seeing this as an act of solidarity for the cause, or even discussing the cause at all, the media insisted on referring to the surge of participants as spectators hoping to catch a glimpse of the eviction drama. I'm like, REALLY??? They also paid an inordinate amount of camera time and discussion to the trampled grass in the park from the tent communities. It all boils down to ruined grass and people joining in for the fun of seeing people arrested. Yay.

Before I bolt, a couple of drive-by movie recommendations: 50/50 and Margin Call. Both really well done with great acting!

And, congratulations to friends Amy & Keith on the arrival of their adorable baby Oliver!