FRIENDS LIKE THESE

Our weekend plans with my brother and sister-in-law fell through rather suddenly and it kind of paralyzed us for a few minutes. We had done all the weekend chores ahead of time. Laundry was done. The tiny grocery list for the week was taken care of. The Cabbage got to go to the school dance that they were originally going to miss. It was Michael’s birthday weekend and the weather was really nice. It seemed a bit dumb to spend it sitting on the couch. So we decided to drive over to Lawrence and explore the shops on Mass. Street. I was a little concerned that this would be a bad idea because it was Sunflower Showdown weekend. Kansas named their rivalry game after a flower; in Oklahoma its’ called Bedlam. Maybe Oklahoma rivalries are more rowdy. I mean, just two weekends ago Oklahoma State fans threw our goal post into Theta Pond in celebration of our win over OU.

There were a few day drinkers out stumbling from bar to bar, but the game started later in the evening, so the crowds were not bad. Truth be told, those day drinkers were normal day drinkers for a Saturday in a college town. We had an easy time of strolling up and down the street and browsing around in some of the shops. We found a really great thrift clothing store where the Cabbage found a clunky pair of Mary Janes in their size. I nabbed a wool dress coat that still had the original tags and a comfy sweater. Then we wandered around a used bookstore. At one point, I was standing in front of a display of old books. My back was turned to the cashier and I could hear her talking to someone on the phone. This is what I overheard: “Look, you’ve made it this far. You only have two more months. You’re doing really great. I’m so proud of you.”

I stood there for few minutes, pretending to be interested in the books in front of me and I thought what a great friend this person is. She sounded honest and genuine in her support for the person on the other end of the line. Most of us have that person who will call with similar words of support, but it is nice to know and witness that sort of support in the wild. I bought a ridiculous old paperback, purely for the cover and when I walked up to the cashier, I saw a skinny mangy looking black cat pacing along the counter. A small child was trying to pet it and the cat eyed him with suspicion before moving securely out of reach. I paid for my book and met Michael and the Cabbage outside. Later on Michael asked me if I had seen that woman in the bookstore talking to the cat. I looked at him and relayed the words I had heard. Then I said “She wasn’t on the phone?” He laughed and replied “No. She was saying all of that to the cat.”

What a lucky cat.

We left Lawrence in time to go over to Jenn and Wade’s for the tail end of their Friendsgiving, an even that we thought we were going to miss. We walked in and were immediately embraced with strong hugs and plates of food. All the others had eaten already and the crowd of guests with small children were packing to leave. Wade sat with us at the table while the three of us ate, giving us his full attention as we discussed everything from our day to where’s the best chicken in the Kansas City. Then we sat around the backyard fire pit with people Michael and I do not know well, but conversation was easy and we laughed so hard at ridiculous things. Eventually we got the nudge from the Cabbage that they were ready for home and bed. We packed up and received more hugs as we departed. I was so grateful that we made it and that they made space for us, that they were genuinely happy to have us there. Making new friends after a certain age and after moving to a new city where you don’t know anyone is not easy. But, I’ve managed to do it. I’ve always been good at collecting interesting people, but I am surprised that I have managed to collect people who think I’m the interesting one.

I would say get yourself someone who speaks to a mangy skinny cat the way that cashier in the shop does, but I suspect you are like me and have number of those someones in your life already.

We are lucky cats.

MY LATEST COLLECTION

That kid that looks surprisingly a lot like Chris is still in high school and still part of the drama department. I know this because I watched him stumble his way through a production of Fame on Saturday night. Chris played up his tone deafness and lack of rhythm for comic relief, but would not have ever thought to audition for one of our college’s musical performances. So in a way, I got a glimpse of what Chris would have been like in a musical and it was just as entertaining as you would think it to be. Does anyone even remember that play Chris and Drake Matney wrote together? Chris’s character limped around the stage with toilet paper stuck and trailing from one shoe and his fingers superglued to his chin like the Thinker. Now set all of that to song and dance.

I figure I have about two more years of this kind of torture before that kid graduates or Michael takes a full time drama teacher position at another school.

Any way. It was a lovely evening. I dragged Terry and our friends Jenn and Steve along for the show. We had drinks at Terry’s before hand and Michael, who had been in charge of building the set, told us about a giant mirror they had built to wheel out for some of the scenes. So every time the mirror came out on stage, Terry and I cheered quietly. I think Terry even took a picture of the mirror. We were it’s biggest fans. I’m proud of Michael for doing the thing, making changes in his career that he needed to make to save his sanity. He still complains about his students, but just as much as he complains, he talks about this aspect of his teaching career with excitement and enthusiasm. The next day, we had lunch at a Chinese place. My fortune cookie fortune said “The path to success is often lonely.” and Michael’s said something about excitement and enthusiasm being infectious. They felt like honesty fortunes rather than advice kind of fortunes, but then I called bullshit on my fortune. I said that if you are excited and enthusiastic about the thing you are trying to succeed at, then the people around you will be infected and be excited and enthusiastic in their support of your success.

Maybe I should write fortune cookie fortunes?

The best interaction came at the end of the musical when everyone was exiting the auditorium. I was wearing a green romper with wide legs that could easily fool people into thinking I was wearing a dress. A little old black lady walked up to me and gripped my hand tightly. She said “I just wanted to tell you. I loooove that dress. I think I could look good in a dress like that.” I smiled and replied “Of course you would look amazing in a dress like this, but guess what? They’re pants!” Then I did my little jig that shows off this aspect of the outfit. She gasped and said “Shut up!” Then she leaned in closer and said “Do you want to hear a joke?” I nodded and replied “Of course!” Then she proceeded to tell me a hilarious and inappropriate joke.

What did the black lady’s tampon say to the white lady’s tampon?

We’re both stuck up bitches.

We laughed and then she went on her merry way. Then my friends asked me if I knew that woman. I told them that I had never seen her before in my life. Then I added that this is just a thing that happens to me. I’m magnet. I collect interesting people. And that lady is not just the epitome of interesting. She had a really strong grip for a frail looking woman and stylish in her floral print dress. Now that I really think about it, after reading Karen Walrond’s book Radiant Rebel, that woman defines rebellion. I mean, here is a woman who, despite appearances, is very strong. She’s bold and brash and not timid about speaking her mind. She tells off color jokes to complete strangers! I bet she has some really great off color stories she could tell me too.

It’s encounters such as this, that make me very appreciative of my interesting people magnet.

WITCHERY

Thursday night, I dreamt of snow. There was a bunch of other things in that dream that I only remember in a hazy way, but the snowing part I remember clearly. Some time early last week, someone said something about living in Kansas City for at least ten years now and not remembering that it snows in October sometimes. I told that person that it does because I have pictures of my Halloween decorations covered in snow. Yesterday Facebook wanted to share a memory of four years ago where I took a short video of snow falling from the sky. Sometimes it snows in October. I dreamt of snow on Thursday and it snowed on Sunday.

Clearly, I am a witch.

I was thinking of witches and spells while I was in Cape Cod. It’s hard not to considering all the history surrounding that area and witch hunts where in one year fourteen women were hanged for witchcraft. Could you imagine giving someone the death penalty for witch craft today? Can you imagine how completely ridiculous that sounds? Part of me believes the human race has evolved beyond that, but while I was taking pictures of the Founding Fathers National Monument, a woman popped up out of nowhere talking about the need to take this country back to the government of our Founding Fathers, back to a time when she didn’t have the right to vote or have her own bank account.

We are prone to believing ridiculous things.

I was reading some thing recently, it was probably a random meme, about how you shouldn’t dismiss your woo. “Woo” referred to the mystical lala crap that I not only dismiss, but completely ignore. I have many friends who thoroughly embrace woo. They follow the complicated version of star signs where you don’t just know your astrological sign for the month you were born, but the moon phase at the time of their births. Some of them not only know this about themselves, but they know it about others and how to use all of this to understand their relationships. I cannot hold any of that information in my brain. I seriously have to look up my star sign whenever I think to ironically read my horoscope. Even that feels complicated because I’m some sort of Acquires Capricorn blend because January 20th is more than an Inauguration Day. I’m more woo adjacent. Like I’m the one you text when you’re worried about mercury poisoning from your pot because I can tell you if mercury forms a bond with the THC compound. It can because THC is a thiol compound which is also why it smells very much like a skunk. Skunk stink is also a thiol compound.

Organic chemistry is my witchcraft.

I’m just the type of personality that believes there is a scientific explanation for everything. Once someone asked me if ghosts were real. The person didn’t ask me if I thought ghosts were real. They wanted to know if ghosts were real, which felt like a loaded question. Like the person was testing my scientific credibility. I told this person what I tell everybody who asks me about souls and spirits. The Law of Conservation of Energy states that energy can neither be created or destroyed, only converted to another form of energy. Humans contain energy. Sometimes that energy stays close and does weird shit like make the lights flicker and sometimes it goes back into the planet, helping trees grow tall and strong. It goes somewhere and scientists are still working on figuring out the wheres and whys. It is of yet to be explained.

Sort of like this rambling post.

Years ago, while on a trip to Boston, Michael and I took a day trip up to Salem. Salem is pretty much what you’d expect it be. There’s historic witch houses and people walking around in costumes depicting the 1600s. Every other shop is a spells and crystals shop. It feels more like Silver Dollar City without the rides than it does historic despite it being an early European settlement. Any way, we spent the hottest day of a Massachusetts summer there, exploring the town on Bird scooters. I found a lovely journal in one of the shops that reads “Book of Spells” on the cover. I bought it thinking that I would write down ridiculous spell components, but I only wrote one or two before the journal was abandoned along with a stack of other abandoned journals. That’s a Chris thing, to have stacks of journals with only a few pages of written things in them. Another bit of energy I must have absorbed because now I have a similar stack. My book of spells was abandoned because I couldn’t really think of any spells I’d like to cast. I mean really. How many spells does one need to live a happy life? Maybe I should start writing spells for living a content life. Or maybe I should just devote this journal to revisiting organic compounds. As of right now though, that journal’s fate is still yet to be determined or explained.

Like ghosts.

CAUGHT

The last two months have been overwhelmingly filled up with social functions and moments that have acquired me to be ‘on’, smiling and engaging, pleasant and appeasing. During the weeks, I take care of the household chores so that I can say yes to things asked of me on the weekends, even if I don’t feel that yes in my heart. Sometimes it is just easier to say yes and go along because I’m too tired to advocate for my own time. Advocating leads to arguing and disappointment and it just takes up too much energy. So for the last two months, I’ve been on the go, actively listening, trying to participate in the conversations, making too many decisions for others and sleeping for maybe five hours a night.

What happens when you drop someone like this off in a place of isolation?

Well…at first there’s a little bit of panic. I got into my rental car and had to navigate through Boston traffic all alone. My route included driving over the Sagamore bridge which had me clenching all of the muscles. All. Of. Them. I made it to Woods Hole, checked into my room and once I was standing in that room, I kept looking around to see who else might be there. Was I sharing this space with someone? I was not. I was alone in a dorm room with a bathroom all to myself. I looked at the two twin sized beds, took the pillow from one and placed in on the one I would sleep in and unpacked my things. Then I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself. I was too brain dead to start work, but it was too early to go to bed. I hadn’t eaten anything since early that morning and it was close to dinner time. I ventured out in search of food and waited around until it was close to sunset. Then went on a walk with my rented lense. I walked to Stoney Beach, but was disappointed with the view. Too many houses blocking my view of the sunset. I walked away from the beach and over to a public dock. I looked at the sky and gasped. Then I ran to the end of that dock to start taking pictures. This is the moment I felt something break open inside me and I thought I was going to weep with relief as the weights I’ve been carrying lifted. The truth is, I didn’t realize until that very moment just how worn thin I’d become.

I spent the next day working in the lab, taking a break for lunch and eating in solitude. By lunch time on Thursday, I’d finished up all that I needed to do in the lab and decided to drive over to Chatham. I saw so many wild turkeys. There were times I’d have to stop because there would be a group of them in the road. I laughed to myself as I thought about all the depictions of the first Thanksgiving I’d seen that always included a turkey. I drove down a country highway with colorful trees on my left and an ocean on my right. The sun was bright and sparkled through the gold and red leaves. It reflected off the water. Every where I looked, I was struck with ridiculous beauty and tears would just roll down my cheeks without me even realizing it. Once I made it to Chatham, I found a place for lunch and was seated next to two women who were traveling around the Cape together. While I waited for someone to bring me a menu, they asked me if I was traveling alone. When I told them that I was indeed traveling alone, they both exclaimed “Good for you! You’re so brave!” I just smiled.

Was I brave?

I think I can remember a time when I was brave, but lately…even while doing brave things I have felt cowardly. But yeah, there was a time when I had no choice but to be brave. Maybe I fell out of the habit of bravery? Maybe ‘brave’ isn’t the correct word. I’d run out energy to advocate for myself. Maybe this just made me feel cowardly. The whole time I was on this trip, I kept a list of thoughts. I made an effort to write down my wants and needs. I wrote down snippets of things that would would pop up into my head amidst all this silence and alone time. I created a road map for better communication and how to advocate for my needs. I made a pros and cons list for the rented lens, which wasn’t hard. There’s only one thing on the con side of that list. I even allowed myself to think about the next art showing.

While I was still Chatham, I wandered into a little boutique with the charming name of The Fisherman’s Daughter. I browsed around, caressing the hand knit sweaters and thinking about a hat. Then I stumbled onto a jewelry case and found a sterling silver bracelet with a fish hook latch. There was something about its simplicity that made me purchase it. I told myself it was a treat for me, something I had earned for doing the hard things. Hooks are meant to catch things and I’d just spent a week catching ideas and releasing some mental garbage that is not serving me. Now I look down at the bracelet encircling my wrist and see that I have caught myself.

I went to the land of witches and hooked myself.

THE LAND OF THE WITCHES

Saturday evening, Michael and I sat by ourselves at a table in the corner of a reception hall and watched as our friends Jenn and Wade made their way through the crowd, thanking people for coming to their wedding. I looked at the people in the crowd and realized that I hardly knew anyone there. There were less than a handful of people that I knew. I did not care about this because I was really only there to celebrate the union of Jenn and Wade. Also, Jenn had asked me to take some pictures of her during a private moment between Jenn and Wade when they would see each other for the first time before the ceremony. So Michael and I sat at our table, filling out the wedding games that had been left on the table and eating charcuterie. I said to Michael “I don’t get it. Why has Jenn latched onto me? Of all the people we’ve met through camp, what is it about me?” Look, I’m not saying that there’s something unlikable about me. It’s just that Jenn is cool, like Pink Lady Rizzo cool and while I’m not as prude as Sandy, I am probably as dorky and unhip as Sandy.

Michael said “Well, look at who Jenn’s just married. Wade is just a really good person and Jenn’s a really good judge of character. She recognizes good people when she sees them.” He’s not wrong about Wade. Wade is the nicest, most generous human. He’s interested in whatever you have to say no matter what you’re talking about. He’s a total nerd like me and he gives excellent hugs. Plus, when he looks at Jenn, his face says it all. She’s his one. Finding the one and having the opportunity to share your life with that person is a very special gift. The next morning, Jenn sent me a text thanking me for being there and taking pictures. I was in the middle of editing those pictures when she texted. I responded to her with a similar question I’d presented to Michael and told her that I was editing those photos for her now.

Honey just you being you. You are a beautiful genuine soul who is always willing to dive deep and talk about REAL shit. Idk. I just love you. You’re stuck with me.

Jenn’s a pretty amazing human to be stuck with, but I am still awed by how it is possible to continue to make these important friend connections as we grow older. Making new adult friends is hard. We are all ruled by ridiculous color coded calendars. Life is busy. I am lucky.

Jenn’s text surprised me, not because of the nice things she said, but by how she sees me as someone who is willing and easily talks about the hard things. It’s one of those comments that made me tilt my head to the side like a curious puppy and ask “is that true?” I think she might be a little right. Like for instance, I write about a lot of difficult things in this space. I pour my heart out here, but there’s some environments where this is not true. I have a grievance that I have been holding onto because I cannot seem to find a way to broach the subject without encountering defensive maneuvering. This is with a person that I have struggled to communicate with for years and a grievance that comes and goes. Recently though, it has become intolerable. I’m noticing that the longer I go without saying anything, the more likely I am to say something mean or snappish. I have done a lot of biting of my own tongue. This person does not create the kind of environment where I feel comfortable with talking about real shit. At least not in the way that Jenn does or some other people in my life.

Tomorrow, I fly to Boston where I will then take a two hour drive by myself down to Woods Hole and the Marine Biology. I will stay in a room by myself. Take meals by myself. There will be a few solo adventures in between doing an inventory of our lab space and closing it down for the winter. I predict there will be hours and hours of nothing but the voices in my own head and that this will be a good opportunity to organize and write down my thoughts. Watching Jenn and Wade make promises to each other, made me think about what I want in my own life. My want is going to require me to create a comfortable environment where I can dive deep into talking about the real shit. This means that I will need to be able to present my grievance in a clear and constructive manner. Basically, I’m going to spend a week not talking while trying to find a way to talk.

I’m going to the land of witches in in hopes of finding my voice and the courage to use it.

THE CONDITIONING

I’m attending a wedding next month where the dress code is ‘cocktail attire’. My closet is void of fancy dresses. I don’t think I’ve dressed up since that time I was the Bearded Lady for the AIDS Walk Open four years ago. So I have been on a grueling hunt to find something fancy to put on this current version of my body. I pulled ten dressed from a sales rack in Nordstroms and finally when I got to the last one, I thought “Oh…I like this.” The material felt nice. The style was versatile in that I could dress it up or down. I was sure that it was the one. Then I took it off and saw the price tag that read $445.00 and it wasn’t on sale.

So the hunt continued.

While I was skimming through dresses at Nordstroms Rack, I overheard a young woman say “Oh! I really like this one!” I looked over to see her holding a formal up to her body and I remembered that it is homecoming season. Young women were out looking for dresses for the first high school dance of the season, which feels very Jane Austen. Then I heard her mother respond to her daughter “It looks way too small for you.” and I cringed for the girl. I saw the girl look at the tag and say “It says it’s my size.”, her voice wavering slightly. This did not soften her mother who then said “Well it looks too small.” And there I was, swirling in a pool of comments centered around my own weight, every hand slap as I reached for a second dinner roll, and the reasons why I’ve consistently worn oversized clothing all through life. I wanted to tell that girl not to listen to her mother, try the dress on, make your own choices about your own body. Tag sizes are meaningless. I’d just spent weeks trying on dresses “in my size” and each one was too tight here and too big there.

So, fuck corporate fashion sizing and their non-standards.

If I was braver, I would have told that girl to not cultivate that seed of doubt her mother had just planted. I would have said to her to not even let it take root. Spit it out now or end up with an overgrown garden of poisonous plants. You will waste so much time and money trying to remove the poisonous plants so that you can cultivate a beautiful garden of wild flowers and sundrops where you can feel good about how your body looks. You will forever be pulling weeds. Then I thought about that mother and how she’d been conditioned to plant seeds of doubt and how each woman in that family was probably nothing but poison gardens. Shedding those seeds onto other woman is the only way of life they know.

Is this the reason I chose not to have children? Did I think I would be like these women and be unable to see my child without criticism? When asked about my choice to be childless, I’ve always said that I didn’t think I had it in me to raise a good human being. Now I know better. The answer is that I didn’t/don’t want the responsibility of raising a good human being because what if I was the one with the critical eyes, shedding poisonous seeds of self loathing. Though I know that’s not true because of the visceral reaction to this mother/daughter interaction and my desire to protect that daughter. I have spent a lot of mental space, reimagining that scene and how I should have just blurted out “size guides are stupid. Let the girl try it on before you make her feel like a poopsicle.”

I did manage to finally get a dress, though I went about it in an unconventional way. I found a shimmery shear kaftan on the Anthropologie sale’s rack and a slip dress with lace trimming in a matching color at Nordstroms Rack to go under the kaftan. I plan to match it all with strappy heals and subtle jewelry. I purchased new mascara and lipstick. The outfit is appropriately uncomfortable and fancy. I’m sure I will look appropriately uncomfortable and fancy as well. But while I’m all dressed up, I will be thinking of that young woman wondering if she was able to shut out her mother’s voice in order to find a dress that makes her feel beautiful and good about herself.

RAISINS

I cannot remember what the Fortune Cookie journal prompt was on Saturday, but it had something to do with baking. It led me to write a story of Chris and I in my own bakeshop that specialized in cookies. The story began with Chris asking me what’s the worst thing you can put in a cookie and my response was immediate and swift. Raisins. This prompted Chris to start throwing out ideas for terrible cookies. With each idea, I argued that his ideas could actually work. Brussel sprouts could be caramelized with honey or shaved and treated like a carrot for carrot cake style cookie. Sauerkraut could be the ‘salt’ in sea salt caramel style cookie. Black licorice could be mixed with orange. I kept a notebook of cookie ideas and I paused our discussion to write down of these ideas. We laughed at his failed attempt to convince me that there was something worse than raisins.

Later in the day while running errands, I overheard a young dad trying to wrangle his toddler. “No son, you can’t have that tractor. We need to go find the raisins.” It took all of my restraint to not scoop the little one up and ask him if he was safe and do I need to call child protective services. Clearly he was being tortured…with raisins. Then I wondered if I’d written a short story to conjure raisins because they just kept showing up in random ways, sneaking into my day like my bad memories. The bad memories are those moments of regret that I keep buried in the back. Occasionally that box falls over and spills out, revealing moments when I was unkind and intolerant of Dad or that early time in my life when I was angry about J’s existence. Every fight and argument with Chris (the handful of them) gets rehashed and played over. And don’t think for a minute that this box is only for the dead. Nope pretty much every negative interaction comes up and gets picked apart. How could have I handled that better? I should have said this instead of that. I should have bought those groceries for that woman. I could’ve should’ve.

No matter how many times I try to pick them out like I do with raisins in a cookie, the bad memories never go away. They are also a bit of a surprise because they show up at random times usually when I’m feeling good, safe and secure. That’s my brain yelling out a warrior cry of ‘SABOTAGE!’. I am hard wired for self-sabotage. I will always be picking the raisins out of cookies and granola bars because that one time in high school, I said something mean about another girl in an attempt to fit in with another group of girls and I will need to revisit those actions every five or ten years. There are for sure to be raisins in that slice of carrot cake because of that one time I yelled at Chris for buying a metal desk. [To be fair, I was 100% right about that, but I didn’t need to yell at him. He knew he was wrong.] These bad memories pop up so that I can rehash them over and over again in an attempt to make them good memories or just not so bad ones. But they’re too much like raisins and I hate raisins.

I truly hate raisins.

It’s funny to me that I could take Brussel sprouts and sauerkraut and make them into a fancy cookie, but raisins are still the worst thing you could to do to a cookie. If I have the imagination to dream up a black licorice and orange cookie, than surely I have the imagination to make something good with raisins. I can take the worst thing you could put into a cookie and at the very least, make it interesting. What if you took raisins and apricots and blended them into a paste. Then you used that paste as filling in a vanilla oatmeal sandwich cookie?

That might not be so bad.

DREAM SEASON

Last night I dreamed that we were on a trip and I had climbed up to an old church to take pictures. For some reason, I set my camera down (my super expensive camera) and then walked back down the hill to find Michael. I was half way down when I realized my camera was gone. So I ran back up to the church and searched frantically for my camera. While I was searching, an older man pulled up in his car and rolled down the window. He spoke with an Eastern European accent and held up my camera. “Are you looking for this?” He asked. I said “Oh my god, yes! Thank you!” and reached for the camera. Then I noticed the lens was missing. I said something to him about it and he said that I could have the lens back for $100. I felt ill and embarrassed and I didn’t want Michael to know that any of this was happening. I didn’t have $100 cash on me and asked if I could Venmo him. He told me that he’d wait for me to go to the ATM at the bottom of the hill. Then I said “Shake on it?” and as he reached his hand forward, I reached inside and grabbed the lens. I woke up before I had to tell Michael anything about leaving my camera behind or losing the lens.

I was relieved to wake up for a number of reasons.

It doesn’t take much to unpack that dream and see that it contains a lot. It contains a lot of fears, which is completely normal. So I keep telling myself. But it is not just the showing. I’ve put a lot of things on my personal calendar for the next two months. I have my yearly check up scheduled, a dental check up and a colonoscopy all on the books for September. I am constantly adding to my work calendar and balancing that work around appointments. All of that juggling means that I end up double booking myself. So far this is only working because some people I work with are not on time. Then there’s Michael’s calendar which is a topic I’m not discussing. Keeping track of it all feels like training for fighting villains in the Matrix. By the time these next two months are over, I will be bending space and time.

This week we will be witnesses to a super blue moon, the second full moon we’ve seen this month. This moon also coincides with perigee which means that low tides are going to be extra low and high tides are going to be extra high. Storms reaching landfall during these high tides can produce coastal flooding, beach erosion and rough seas. Hurricane Idalia is predicted to hit Florida on Wednesday. Hurricane Franklin is heading towards the East coast this week and predicted to produce life-threatening rip tides. I’m not into star signs and moon phases, but even I have to admit that rare full moon events and hurricanes feels like a physical manifestation of how I’m feeling these days. It is all going to be a disaster or completely okay. I predict that the dreaming is going to be straight up horrible this week.

Even though there’s a lot going on, I’m still considering signing up for an online course on storytelling in photography. What if I did NANOWRIMO in November but used some of my photography to tell the stories, to inspire the word count? That sounds pretty nice right? Theoretically that does sound pretty good, but I might have a new challenge for November and that would be a twenty minute nap everyday. We’ll call it NANONAPMO. Your reward for committing to your daily nap is being well rested.

I’m a self-care guru.

TELLING STORIES

Tattoo artists and studios were illegal in the state of Oklahoma until 2006. People who wanted safe and legit tattoos went on road trips to the surrounding states to get their permanent ink art. Christian conservative values taught me that tattoos were ‘bad’ or ‘trashy’. It was for sure not a lady like thing to have done to yourself. A tattoo on a female was the same as a short skirt. It labelled you as ‘easy’ or ‘asking for it’. Of course, this didn’t keep me from wanting one or thinking that tattoos were super cool. It just meant my body wouldn’t be seeing one until I was no longer a dependent. Even then, it took me several years of living on my own (with Chris) before I felt brave enough for my first tattoo.

Every tattoo on my body tells you a story of the person I was in that time. At first, I didn’t see it. I sort of discovered the stories of the old tattoos while writing about the new one. A tribal elephant on my ankle tells you a story of an impulsive moment in Vegas, a woman who was discovering her wild side. My Ganesh on my back tells you a story of removing obstacles and moving into a better way of living. The words on my arm are part of my story of managing my way through sewer backups, caring for a dying husband, and then really hard stuff that comes when someone dies like getting the right size coffee can to contain their ashes. “Je suis forte.” It’s the moral of my story, a cross stitch to hang on my body as a constant reminder that if I can do that, I can do anything.

So what story does this new bit of art on my body tell?

It kind of tells the story of my past.

For the first thirty four years of my life, I lived in Oklahoma. I was born there and just like every kid growing up in the rural school system, I know the song from the musical by heart as well as the B.C Clark Jewelry jingle. I know the places they show us on Reservation Dogs. We had a nesting pair of scissor tail flycatchers living in a tree where I grew up. We saw them every year. I pulled wildflowers from the pasture. I collected native plants during my Oklahoma Taxonomy of Vascular Plants course in undergrad. The Indian Paintbrush is my nod to my Oklahoma roots. There are people and places there that I will always love even though for years Chris and I talked of moving from that state. Without Oklahoma I would not have a claim to Chris. We would not have met. His initials are part of the vintage camera in the tattoo. He bought me the first camera and saw a potential in me that I did not see and sometimes still struggle to see. The camera in this tattoo tells a story of who I’ve become; it’s me. I’m the camera.

I have always been the camera.

Later on in the evening after I got the tattoo, Michael was carefully inspecting my arm. I asked even though it was too late “It doesn’t bother you that I have Chris’s initials carved into my arm?” He was adamant in his reply. He said that this tattoo is a work of art with the native Oklahoma flower and the camera. He said “Oh, no. I’m not bothered at all. I don’t belong in that tattoo.” And he’s right. This tattoo is not part of our story and who knows, maybe someday I’ll get a tattoo that tells a story of us. Though for now, this tattoo story feels like an ending.

It feels like enough.

Special thanks to Eric at Fountain City Tattoos for taking my clipart idea and turning into something magnificent.

A BATCH OF RANDOM THOUGHTS

The other night, I decided to remove my toenail polish and clean up my toenails. They were not long enough to require cutting, just a little filing back. As I moved from toe to toe, I got to one toe where the nail was quite a bit longer than all the rest, like it had gotten skipped over during the last pedicure. I said to myself that this is my coke nail and that thought cracked me up like you wouldn’t believe. I did not mention this to anyone until now, mostly because the only person I know who would have found it to be as hilarious as I did is no longer physically here.

Michael and I have slightly different senses of humor.

Today is Michael’s first day back to work after a nice but weird summer break and I have to get back into the routine of things. One of those things is spending time on Sundays to prepare veggies for the meals we have planned during the week. I started doing this back in the early Spring and wanted to slap myself for not starting this habit earlier. I just didn’t realize how much easier this would make my life. Well, about a month ago, I received a newsletter from Wirecutter about this vegetable chopper. Normally I would say no to any kitchen gadget. No one needs a special tool for cutting avocados or pineapples. You just need a good set of knives, but this chopper went into my cart because sometimes I’m a sucker.

The chopper arrived and Michael immediately cut his finger on it while washing it. We had not even chopped a vegetable yet. It didn’t really come with instructions, just a small sheet of paper describing the different blades and a list of safety rules on the box. The best, most favorite safety advice on the box hands down goes to number two on the list: Get the kids away from it. That is the exact sentence. Since Michael has already demonstrated that he can’t be trusted with the new chopper, every time he goes to use it I yell “Get the kids away from it!” I don’t think he thinks this is as funny as I do. Really he should feel lucky that I let him use it. I had a mandolin for about five minutes once. I sliced open my thumb with it on the first try. Chris took it away and I never saw it again.

I used the chopper on Sunday to get our veggies ready for the week and I love it so much. Every time I chop onions, it looks like I’m bawling. Red, teary eyes. Snotty nose. The works. Even if all I ever do is use the chopper to chop onions, it was worth the money. It took me a minute to dice an onion and then it all fell into a closed container. The container is big enough for me to chop an onion and a bell pepper without needing to be emptied. Then I easily poured the contents of that container into a ziplock baggie and labelled it ‘Tacos’. There were no tears or sniffles in the process of chopping onions and my life is significantly improved. That chopper cut down the amount of time I used to spend chopping vegetables by half if not more. I got a bunch of things accomplished yesterday because I spent less time chopping.

Coke nail toenails and vegetable choppers, at first, don’t really sound like they belong in the same category, but both of these things are excellent examples of self care. I’m taking care of my toes. I’m eating lots of vegetables. I’m finding ways to make it easier to eat those veggies.

I’m making my life easier.

AUGUST IS MAKING MY ANXIOUS

Last week when I sat down to re-do our dry-erase calendar, I got a little jittery when I started about thinking about all the things I needed to put on the calendar. Then I realized that most of those things I needed to put on the calendar were really things that are happening in September. But then I realized that things that needed to go on the calendar for August were things that I needed to do to be ready for September and I crawled inside myself and turned off the light switch. I recently saw a posting from a Facebook friend who is also a therapist about the anxiety of starting a new school year and this is exactly how August feels.

What’s that fable about the ant and the grasshopper? Something about being lazy until the last minute and then starving to death during the winter because YOU DID NOT PREPARE?!?!?! It’s me. Hi. I’m the grasshopper. It’s me. Except it isn’t me. I’ve always been the ant in this story. Ask anyone who knew me in college or even my coworkers. If I am required to do a presentation at work, that presentation is prepared a month in advance. I am not a procrastinator, usually, but now I’m procrastinating all kinds of things. I’m procrastinating scheduling my yearly cholesterol check. I’m procrastinating scheduling that stupid colonoscopy. I did almost schedule an appointment with Michael’s dermatologist, but they aren’t taking new patients. So now I’m procrastinating on finding one who is taking new patients. All of the above requires talking to someone on the phone and I straight up toddler style stomp and whine do not want to do that.

My procrastination does not end with preventive health care, though. I’ve agreed to teach a four week beginning yoga series in September. I have to figure out how I’m going to cram my usual eight week course into four weeks without killing my students, but I haven’t really even thought about this until yesterday. I even sort of forgot about it. Then sometime around 3:00 AM yesterday, I woke up and said “Oh…wait. I’m teaching yoga next month on Tuesday evenings.” What have I been doing all summer? I for sure have not been taking advantage of the extra time allotted to me while the Cabbage and Michael are home doing all the chores. The chore fairies of summer are gone. The Cabbage is on vacation with their mom and Michael goes back to work next week. I think the biggest thing I accomplished over the summer was reacquainting myself with where middle C is on a key board.

On the last day of this month I will be hanging my photos in a downtown Starbucks. It’s happening. I checked. Which means I now have twenty three days to get my shit together. Today. TODAY. I ordered more prints. Prints that will need to be put on matting backs and into plastic sleeves. Prints that will not get here until the middle of this month. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!? The things I have left to do to be ready for September’s show is as follows:

• Figure out prices for selling

• Make name cards with price tags for all framed prints

• Figure out that whole Venmo QR code thing

• Sleeve up all non framed prints

• Throw up three or four more times and hyperventilate into a paper bag

Actually…that list isn’t so bad. Most of that list could be taken care of by the end of the week. The non-framed stuff doesn’t need to be really ready until October 6th. I think most of the anxiety is coming from inexperience. I have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m doing this. Imposter syndrome settled in hard when Chad told me that he’d only ever had one photo in an art showing before and here I am filling up a Starbucks. The not enough crowd has started jeering pretty loudly in my head even though everyone around me keeps telling me how great this going to be. Look, I want to believe the crowd who thinks this is great, but I am a fraud. I might as well be hanging coloring book pages on the wall.

Now to be fair, while writing all this, it stressed me out so bad that I called and made that cholesterol check appointment and I’ll get a referral for a dermatologist while I’m there. I also sent a spreadsheet of expenses for the show to Michael so he could help me decide on pricing. He is a math teacher. I’m taking advantage of this resource. I guess, what I’m learning is that I need to write about freaking out over not doing the things I need to do in order for me to actually do the things I need to do. I’m not the ant, but I’m not quite the grasshopper.

I’m more of a grub worm kind of a bug that just digs down deeper in the winter months.

BASEBALL AND MATH

I generally do not give Michael Father’s Day gifts. I also do not push the Cabbage to do this. I might ask them what they plan to do for their Dad, but I do not drag them to the store to purchase a last minute “World’s Best Dad” mug. I respect that Michael is a father, but he’s not the father of any of my children. Father’s Day is not my responsibility. Those responsibility belong to the two people who decided to have the Cabbage. Though occasionally, I have ended up getting Michael a gift because I just saw something that I knew he would like and it just so happens to be near Father’s Day. Like one year, I got Michael a pastrami sandwich kit from Katz’s Deli. There was nothing in this kit that I could eat except the pickles. So it is not like he could really share, but I didn’t get it for him because I wanted the pastrami sandwich. I knew that Katz’s Deli was the best pastrami he’d ever tasted in his life and that being able to eat that sandwich again would bring him joy.

One of the few times I was in my car last month, I heard an advertisement about a lecture at the Linda Hall Library about the analytics of baseball. There would be a panel discussion of Big Data and statistics and how all of this changed the game of baseball. I think. I don’t really know. I signed us up for the free event. When the time came, we rode our bikes to Tiki Taco for dinner and then over to the library. I had never been inside Linda Hall Library. It’s a place I have wanted to visit for some time and I was not disappointed. It’s filled with old books and art deco light fixtures. It is the library you want to live inside. Michael and I got to the event early so I could wander around, but also do some people watching. It was kind of a predicable audience. Lots of older, white-haired gentlemen wearing ‘dress’ shorts and white socks pulled up their calves. One guy was wearing a trash panda t-shirt that Michael coveted. He looked it up and showed it to me. I told him he should order that for himself for Father’s Day because I never prompt the Cabbage to do anything. He made a noise of approval and I looked over just in time to see him write a gift note to himself. “To the best dad in the whole world.” We laughed and laughed about it.

Then we settled in for a talk about baseball and statistics and it was the most boring thing I’ve every had to sit through. And I’m a scientist! I had no idea what anyone was talking about or who anyone was talking about. This is what I heard: “Blah blah blah. Baseball. Pitcher. Blah blah War. Blah blah blah. That guy on third should have run to home. Blah blah blah.” All of this is fine. I am not a sportsball kind of person and I knew going in that I would not be the slightest bit interested in what was being said. I knew this because this was a Katz’s Deli pastrami sandwich kind of gift. While I was I hearing all the blah blah blah, I was paying attention to the joy that was happening on Michael’s face. When the moderator pointed out someone from the Royals in the audience, Michael whispered “I thought I recognized that guy!”. When the moderator introduced the first person for the panel discussion, some guy who built some baseball statics website, Michael shimmied in his seat and then turned to me to whisper “That’s a good website!” He laughed at the occasional baseball related joke and nodded his head in agreement to something a panelist said. He was in to it.

It was adorable.

When I told Michael and I had gotten tickets to this, he said “You’re going to be so bored.” I think he was thrown off by me getting tickets to something that would only interest him. I waived away his concerns about my interest level by saying that I was sure there would be some interesting aspects. I’m not going to lie, I found the panel discussion to be mind numbingly boring, but the people watching was great fun. The best part of all was seeing how much Michael enjoyed the program. That’s worth sitting through a panel discussion of “blah blah blah, baseball”.

QUIET

I haven’t experienced this much silence in … years(?). There’s the hum of mechanical things, nature sounds. No radios or TVs. No background chatter. The quiet took some getting used to, but not long to settle into. Once I started getting used to this new quietness, I realized just how much effort I had been putting into tuning things out. My ears began to open up and I found myself actively seeking noises. A rustling of the leaves could be anything from a bird, a chipmunk, possible a coyote. A snap of a branch revealed a deer, snacking its way through the cemetery I passed on a morning walk. Woods Hole is a bit of a thorny flower. I could easily find myself steps away from a stunning view of the bay or the ocean. The thorns come from the isolation. Without a car, you are a bit stranded. The closest grocery store is the town over, a forty five minute walk. There are no street lights and when the sun finally sets, the darkness is deep. Lights out is a serious LIGHTS OUT! I’m sure star gazing is amazing. The skies were overcast most of the time or filled with smoke from wild fires in Canada.

I took a day for myself and rode the ferry over to Oak Bluff on Martha’s Vineyard. The tourist season is just beginning in the cape. The island was busy, but not overwhelmed with swarms of people. I was able to walk right into the first bike rental shop and rented a bicycle for the day. I took the ocean bike path to Edgartown, stopping occasionally to take some pictures. There’s a bridge that’s featured in Jaws that you have to cross on your way to Edgartown. Much of the movie was filmed in this area. I had inadvertently put myself on a Jaws tour. I almost felt Chris’s hand on my brakes as I pulled over to photograph the bridge. I rode all the way to the far side of Edgartown, to a small lighthouse. The steps of the lighthouse was crowded with a group of small children eating sack lunches. I continued to walk past the lighthouse, out to the beach, picking up some shells along the way. A sailboat sporting an American flag for it’s sail drifted by and it was in this moment that I started to understand why this place felt so unsettling and uncomfortable.

In the days leading up to this excursion to Martha’s Vineyard, I had had a number of conversations regarding affordable housing and poverty. The Cape is a place of wealth. Beautiful houses with well manicured lawns sit in wait for residents who only spend maybe two months of the year there. Meanwhile, science researchers are struggling to find housing that is cheaper than three thousand dollars a month. America has a real misconception of poverty and who are or are not considered to be at poverty level. Poor does not conjure imagery of someone highly educated, but when you are barely making $50,000 a year in places where the median rent is over $3,000 a month, add on utilities, groceries, insurance and a hefty student loan payment, you are poor. Too many Americans are just one emergency medical bill away from homelessness. I found that being surrounded with so much wealth, and wastefulness honestly, to be off putting. And I wanted to like this place. I wanted to be able to ignore all of that but it is nearly impossible when my lunch of a cup of soup and side salad cost me $30, a loaf of bread was over five dollars.

I learned a lot about getting a lab space ready for visiting scientists, like how sea water tables work and things I should plan on for the next year. I learned to tune into the sounds around me and settle into the silence. I could have spent hours combing the beach for shells or just sitting in the sand and watching the sun drop down during sunset. There were moments of peace and pure joy, but I also learned that all of that comes with price tag that many of us cannot afford.

THIS AND THAT

Over the weekend, I had a consultation with an artist regarding my next tattoo. It has been scheduled for August and I am very excited to see what he comes up with based off all the stuff we talked about. It will be a camera and it will include Chris’s initials somewhere on the camera. That is all I can tell you. He asked me why I was choosing this particular design and I told him that I have my first photography showing coming up in September, something that every time I think about makes me want to vomit. As an artist who puts his art onto peoples bodies every day, he completely understood the vomit reaction. He’s used to working on a much shorter time frame. So I surprised him with all my planning and pushing the tattoo date to August. I’ve been sitting on this idea for over eight years. Two and half months is nothing.

But, all of this got me thinking about what I need to do to get ready for the show and I started breathing high up in my chest. I told Michael that I am not ready and he said we have time to get you ready. Then I gave him a specific task: find me space to flatten out the prints I ordered so they can be framed. He decided that his work bench in the basement would be a great space for this and immediately got to work cleaning it off. He also told me that giving him this task was very helpful because he cannot read my mind. Also, I never ask help. So he will complete this task and then sit around until I give him the next task. This turned out to be a good communication moment for us, which brings me to my next thing. It is June and since I will be out of town all week, we decided to do thing we do every year in June since we met. Every June, we make a conscious effort to have dinner at Bella Napoli’s, the scene of our first encounter. After work this evening, I will pedal my bike to Bella’s and meet Michael and the Cabbage there for half price pizza.

We are romantics.

Ten years is weird.

I have had two people in as many weeks ask me if Michael and I have gotten married. The answer is no. We have not gotten married and will not be doing so in forceable future. At least not until Michael manages to whittle my ‘hard nos’ down to a ‘fine, whatever’. He’s too busy with his education and school things to do much whittling. We can verbally renew a five year contract, though that may not happen until December. The contract renewal requires a Tiffany’s. Usually, any ole’ Tiffany’s store would do, but I really really want to go to the newly remodeled Tiffany’s in New York. The contract can sit it out in limbo for the next few month. This works very well for us and this relationship, but ten years does feel…strange. Yet, here we are still tolerating each other. Saturday, we took our growing collection of cardboard boxes and opened them up. We laid them out flat in an 18 x 10 rectangle and pinned them to the ground. The idea is that it will kill the grass and make it easier to dig out a spot for us to pour or own concrete pad. Some day we’ll put a shed on that pad. In the meantime, I keep referring to the cardboard space as my patio or (break) dance floor.

While a cardboard patio (of break dancing floor) is temporary, it is the beginning of something more permanent. I think this sums up our relationship nicely.

THE ONLY EXCUSE

I’ve been a ‘member’ of the Yoga In the Park facebook group for years. I joined the group thinking that I would go to the yoga events, but I never do. The group usually meets at 2 pm on Sundays outside of the Nelson Art Museum. So..yoga with shuttlecocks. The teachers rotate and vary. The class is free but donations are recommended. I see the reminders for classes all the time and I always come up with some reason for not getting my butt off the couch. That’s not fair. My butt is usually not on the couch at two in the afternoon on a Sunday. I’m usually in the kitchen chopping vegetables for the week or folding the last of the laundry. So my usual reasons for not going is that it is just inconvenient.

My marshmallow body is the excuse I’m using for everything these days. I just sit back and watch as my barrel shaped torso get larger and larger. I’ve taken to buying the kinds of dresses that keep you guessing on the shape of the body underneath, partially for reasons of girth and partially for reasons of I like to keep people guessing. I’ve been minimal maintenance over here for months. This attitude is fading. I have been consistently getting ten thousand or more steps in every day and I’ve added weights to my yoga practice. So, on Sunday when Michael asked me if I had plans, I told him that I was thinking of going to yoga in the park. He said if I rode my bicycle, he’d ride with me to the Nelson and then go do his own thing while I did yoga. I agreed and we figured out a way to strap my yoga mat to my bike. We were at the Nelson in no time and agreed to a meeting time. He went his way and I went mine.

I found a nice spot in the shade to roll out my mat and did some people watching while I waited for class to start. The class was nice, not too flowy but moderately challenging. My biggest distraction was the guy who rolled out his mat directly behind me. I mean DIRECTLY behind me. I’m sure that at some point during the class, his nose was inches from my ass. Surprisingly enough, this was not the thing that bothered me the most. What drove me absolutely bonkers was that the guy was wearing heavy wool socks. His yoga mat wasn’t a true a yoga mat, but one of those really thick gym mats and every time I was in down dog, I could see this man struggling. It took all my willpower to not be yoga teacher Cindy and tell the man to at least remove his socks. By the time savasana rolled around, the sun had shifted. So I moved my a foot forward to be in the shade and to create some distance.

And this is why I make for a terrible yoga student.

Michael rode up just as I was putting my yoga mat on my bike. I told him about yoga and wool socks. Then we rode our bikes to Char Bar in Westport for linner. We spent most of our afternoon on our bikes and I was not mad about it. In fact, I learned two things that day. First, I don’t think I like yoga in the park. I mean, I didn’t hate yoga in the park, but it may not be the yoga class for me. Secondly, I love riding my bicycle. Like, I really enjoy riding around on my bike. When I was a kid, I went every where on a bike. Bicycles went with us on camping trips. I always had a bike. Once we moved here, I hated riding. Even Bessy the Bingo bike turned out to be only mildly enjoying to ride and that was only if I wasn’t going anywhere with Michael. Because I am slow and I don’t like to work hard. It’s raining here today and I am actually sad that I couldn’t ride my bike to work. And I am little confused as to who I am now because I never thought I would be someone that enjoys riding a bicycle to and from work. My ebike makes me less slow and I only work a little. That’s not true. I get in decent cardio workout while riding. I never stop peddling and the peddle assist kicks off once you reach a certain speed. It’s only there to give you a nudge up the hill.

A nudge up the hill is all I needed.

THEY'RE BACK

Sunday morning, after being gently nudged many times by Josephine, I got up and headed to the kitchen to make us both breakfast. When I stepped into the kitchen, I noticed the bag of cat food was sitting on it’s side near the pet door with a large hole chewed into it. I realized then that this is why Josephine had been nudging me for the last hour. I shouldn’t have been surprised. A week or two ago, Josephine treed a raccoon in our backyard. It was an early morning, still dark out, and I was getting dressed to take her for a walk. I could hear her barking her head off while I tied my laces. I walked out with a flashlight to see what she was barking at and there it was, a raccoon nervously staring back at me from its perch in the tree. I looked down at Josephine and said “Yup, there’s a raccoon. Now are you ready for your walk?” She happily abandoned her guard post for our walk because walks are her favorite. And she’s smart enough to know there’s nothing she could do about the raccoon.

I wish I was smart enough to know this.

I sprayed all of our pet doors with fox urine. The cat food has a new home behind a closed door. Michael set his trap and baited it with marshmallows. I used most of what we had left of our little spray bottle of fox urine, so I ordered more from Amazon. Since Amazon is what it is, when I searched for fox urine, it suggested I buy spray and granules. First, I should tell you that two days ago I ordered stamps from Amazon because I can’t seem to physically get to a place that sells stamps. Those stamps are scheduled to arrive Thursday. The box of fox urine spray and granules arrived this morning. Overnight. It was almost as if Amazon was saying “I see that you need to mail a card to your mother for Mothers’ Day. That’s nice, but it seems like this whole need for fox pee is an emergency situation.”

Is it an emergency situation? Yes and no.

Early this morning, Josephine demanded to be let out. Her barks shifted from warning barks to fighting snarling sounds before I could get my shoes on. By the time I got out there she was in a full on tussle with a raccoon and I think the only thing keeping her from damage or causing too much damage was me yelling her name. She let go just long enough for the raccoon to dart away and over the fence. I checked her over and there doesn’t appear to be any scratches, but the incident left us both a little shaky. There is going to be at least one week this summer where we will have no choice but to leave the pet doors open for the cat. Why I care about that dang animal, I don’t know. I took a lovely nap on Saturday. A nap! Me! I napped! It was a miracle. I woke up refreshed with a dog on one side and a cat on the other. I laid there a few more minutes and then the cat stood up and projectile vomited across my bed. It’s fine. I was going to wash all of those things anyway, but seriously. The cat is a jerk, a jerk that we have conditioned to eat from his bowl on a table in the dining room area. Not the basement. Not the garage. Though moving his food to those areas just means the raccoons are going to eat the food in the garage or basement. We’re going to come home from vacation and Albus will now be sharing his space with a couple of stray cats and three raccoons. They’ll be playing poker and smoking cigars in my basement.

Summer vacations are stressing me out.

Except it is obvious that I need a vacation. I saw a thumbnail image of an ad in my Facebook feed and at first glance I thought it was an ad for a deep learning cell tracker program. It was an ad for tile for a bathroom. Look, if you’re a cell biologist, you would have thought the same thing. Any way. All I can do now is make the whole outside of my house reek of fox urine and hope for the best. I was going to say that I should be like Josephine and happily abandon my post for vacations because vacations are my favorite, but now I know that Josephine doesn’t always abandon a post and go on to full attack mode. Maybe it’s really about just deciding what battles to fight.

So I’m settling on being somewhere between abandonment and fighting.

GHOSTS

The kid was good. Not outstanding, but good. The problem was that even though he looked like a young Chris on that stage playing a role that Chris would have been playing, he was not Chris. The kid didn’t quite have that magnetic ability that Chris seemed to have whenever he stepped out onto a stage. Chris always managed to draw your focus regardless of the role he was playing, lead role or bit part. And he did this without force or ego or intention. He was just the guy that when he stepped out on stage, you noticed him and you thought “Oh…this guy is going to do and say something important.” The kid on stage didn’t have that. He had to work for it, but there’s potential.

Maybe I’m wearing rose colored glasses.

On Sunday, the Cabbage made a request to go to the book store. They had a gift card burning a hole in their pocket. I’ve gotten into the habit of being a hermit on Sundays and not leaving the house, but I agreed to this request. I’m never going to say no to books. Or fruit. So, we all went to the book store, scattering in separate directions upon entry. I browsed the new paperbacks, picking up a couple of books I remembered reading reviews for in the New York Times. Then I sort of wandered aimlessly through the science section and eventually walking down the reference/education isle. I noticed a copy of Bird By Bird prominently displayed on the shelf. This was the thing, Chris’s writing bible, that forced me to sit down on the floor with my head in my hands. Ironically right next to a display of Crying in H Mart.

This book store is my H Mart.

Sitting on the floor in the bookstore, crying next to a stack of books about crying and grieving, reminded why I usually have to be bribed to come here. We used to spend countless hours in this book store. Often, we’d sit in the cafe area with an overly sweet hot beverage and flip through magazines or pretend to write in notebooks. Half of the time we were chatting and discussing whatever it was we were reading and the other half was spent in quiet, in our own little world bubbles. Often we were with friends. I realize now that I’ve avoided this place since Chris’s death. I have to be begged and cajoled, bribed with ice cream whenever Michael wants to go. It just got mentally added to the list of things I don’t do anymore, like movies and live theater. The last movie I saw in the theater, I sat partially alone, watching Everything Everywhere All at Once. This is probably how I will also see the new Wes Anderson film that is supposed to come out this summer.

I’ve seen more onstage productions this year than I have in eleven years. Michael has been having Alexa play show tunes and I sing a long until it’s a song from Les Miserables, Phantom, or Hamilton even though it came out after Chris died, and then my throat closes up because theater was a really important part of our lives. The first time I truly noticed Chris, he was on stage in Much Ado About Nothing. If it were not for the theater, we may have never spoken to each other. I would not have spent so many not wasted hours in a bookstore.

To the kid on stage: keep it up and it may all lead you to your best friend. It might lead you to the person you will want to spend hours with in bookstores and weekends in movie theaters. You will spend hours dissecting and discussing these movies and plays. You will have friends that go on to other things and other productions and you will be their biggest cheerleader. They will remember you forever for it. They will also remember you for your wit and comedic timing, but mostly for how much you supported them.

Keep it up and it could lead you to a really nice life.

FIRST DATE FAILS

Friday evening, Michael and I ended up eating at a Thai place downtown. It was a new to us place and I was excited because they had som tum and sticky rice on the menu. I never see this on the menu at a Thai place. I mean, they usually have it listed as papaya salad because white midwesterners don’t know what som tum is, but they never have sticky rice. It was a busy night, not just for the restaurant but for the whole of downtown because of First Friday. This is the first one of the season where the weather has been nice enough to wander around outside and browse the art galleries and food trucks. The Thai place was packed and noisy. Big garage style windows were open so that the street sounds mingled with the restaurant sounds. The place smelled like walking into Sang Wan’s house.

Michael said that if this was a first date, it would be a terrible one. We both had ordered Thai beers. He had ordered chicken wings, both of us were eating our appetizers with our hands. Chris and I partially joked and partially seriously agreed that if you really wanted to get to know someone on a first date, then you should go out for BBQ ribs or spaghetti. This is what I thought of as Michael tore into a messy chicken wing, but that was not the reason why Michael had said that about first dates. He said it because at some point I’d have to explain why I was so comfortable and familiar with Thai food. I’d have to explain how I knew to take my sticky rice and use it to pinch up some som tum or how I knew the difference between hot and Thai hot. The difference between a tiny end of Thai chili versus half a Thai chili is vast.

What Michael failed to realize is that I didn’t need to be in a Thai restaurant to ruin a first date. Checking the widow box on the dating app was a guarantee to add a sourness to any and all of my first dates. I went on a number of bad, weird, awkward, at times slightly dangerous first dates. Men picked me out of the line up as a curiosity and I agreed out of my own curiosities. They all wanted to know the gruesome details of death. I was the car wreck they were slowing down traffic to gawk at and look for bodies. And I let them. I let them gawk and ask their stupid questions, not because I felt that I owed them this, but because I didn’t care. I was a sideshow queen, an oddity. At the end of one of these dates, the guy would walk away disappointed that I didn’t put out or even offer up a hand job. I’d leave disappointed in wasting my time.

My first date with Michael was only slightly awkward, but it lacked that circus sideshow feel. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed in the presence of a man who was not (is not) Chris. There was only one brief moment when he looked at me with pity as he asked me about Chris. It was a brief, rip off a bandaid moment. I think Michael is the only one who could tolerate me and my constant Chris stories. I can’t pass the artichokes in the grocery store with out clutching my chest and coughing out ‘arti-choke’ like Chris used to and Michael just shakes his head and says “is Chris in the house today?” and I’ll throw my hands in the air and say “Woop, woop. Chris is in the house!” He tolerates and even finds it funny, though he’ll never fess up to the last part. He meant it when he told me that Chris never goes away.

I used to pick all the places to meet these men on first dates. Usually it was at Bella Napoli’s because it was close to my house and they have a great pizza special on Monday’s. Some times, we’d meet at a pub in the neighborhood. My feelings were that if I was going out, I might as well pick a place with good food. I ended up paying for my portion anyway, so I didn’t see that it mattered.

I never once chose a Thai place for meeting anyone.

YOUR SEAT'S SO BAD...

I had just about given up any hope of see Hamilton live on stage. Tickets are just too expensive and hard to get. You really have to buy season tickets just to get a chance to see the production here and two seasonal theater passes never seem to make it into our budget. Probably a month ago, Talaura sent me a message to remind me to enter for lottery tickets to Hamilton, which was good because I had completely forgotten that the Hamilton productions set aside a number of tickets for a lottery. In fact, I no longer even had the Hamilton app on my phone (Gasp!). I downloaded the app and then entered the lottery for every show date it would allow.

Then I forgot about it.

Last week, I received notice that I had won the lottery. This alone is thrilling. I don’t understand why confetti never just spontaneously falls from the sky any time any one hears that they have won a lottery. Now, Hamilton lottery tickets are not free. You still have to pay for your two tickets, but the tickets are $10 a piece. TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS TO SEE HAMILTON. I am the daughter of a man who never forgot to ask about his AARP or Senior Citizen discounts. Seeing a hugely popular Broadway production and only spending $20 for tickets has my inner penny pincher dad jumping for joy. The down side is that I had no idea where we would be sitting. The email you print to redeem the tickets says something about possibly sitting with an obstructed view and maybe not being able to sit together.

Tuesday morning, Michael walked into the bathroom to finish getting ready while I was in the shower. He said “I heard that are seats are in the first or second row.” I replied “Well, I heard that we may have a partially obstructed view and may not be sitting together.” This started the ball rolling. “I heard the seats are way at the top.” “And I heard they make you work as an usher for the first half.” “I heard the seats are backstage.” “I heard the seats are in the alley behind the theater and you have to view it through a peep hole.” This has been our back and forth for two days. On the day of the show, Michael texted me to say that our seats really were in the first or second row. He provided a link to a blog post from another lottery winner. I said “I heard our seats were on a SpaceX rocket and we’d have to watch from the space station.” I just could not wrap my brain around getting front row seats for $20.

Is there anyone out there that remembers Chris’s bit about seeing Robert Goulet in Camelot? When he first started telling the story, he got distracted because he said something about how he had a really good seat. Then someone in the group asked “How good?” To this day I don’t think any one knows what Chris thought of Camelot or Robert Goulet’s performance because he went off on a tangent about his seat. “The seat was so close, I could have shined Goulet’s shoes. It was so close that half way through the show, Robert Gulley asked me to carry him around piggy-back style to finish the show.” He went on and on and each incident was more ridiculous and hilarious than the last. Of course, I could not help but think of Chris and Robert Goulet while Michael and I volleyed back and forth with how bad our seats might be.

Michael and I were still joking about our seats while we ate tacos in the car before the show. He said “I bet our seats are in the second row.” I looked up at the white painted wall we’d parked in front of in a parking garage and said “These are our seats.” I don’t know why, but this was the funniest one. As it turned out, our seats were in the second row, almost center. I don’t think I’ve sat so close to a stage since Mom took me to see A Chorus Line when I was thirteen. Not a single member of that cast was of a color other than white. All white. All skinny. All making the idea of ever being a person who was not skinny, not white could be on a stage impossible. The fourteen year old girl sitting next to me last night said “This is way better than Disney+” and I think that reaction alone is the reason why I greatly respect Lin-Manual Miranda. He created something that inspires and excites all ages, genders and ethnicities. Last night we watched the most diverse cast give a spectacular performance that made us chuckle and cry.

Our seats were so close, at one point they asked me to pick up slack in the percussion pit.

HOURS

Chad sent me a text asking if they could spend the night at our place Saturday night. They had been on the road in eight to ten hour stretches for over a week. I told him that there would be clean sheets and a warm bed for them and tacos. They arrived that evening, road weary, with their two dogs who were in desperate need of leg stretches. I gathered them all inside and then we kicked all of the dogs out to the backyard to bark it out. By bark it out, I mean Josephine had to explain the house rules to Sadie and Mabel. Loudly.

We ate. We laughed. We played games. We laughed even more. At one point, The Cabbage asked us “How do you guys know each other?” Chad and I looked at each other and shrugged. Chad replied “We met online.” Our story that we’ve explained to people so many times has finally become something we can now reduce to a simple three word sentence. That night, I dreamed of landing at an airport and then having to hitch hike home. When I arrived, Chris was there. He was still sick, but he was better. He said “I think the treatments are woking.” I don’t remember anything else from the dream, but I woke up early the next morning to find Chad sitting on the couch in our living room. I sat down at the opposite end of the couch and pulled my feet up underneath me for warmth.

This is the second time this month I have sat in this same position, in my pajamas with sleep crusty eyes and hair poking out at odd angles on top of my head, talking and visiting with Chad. The two of us are always the early birds and we end up whispering to each other while everyone else is asleep. It reminds me of that Folger’s commercial at Christmas when the older brother comes home to surprise the family. His kid sister is the only one that sees him sneak in during the early morning hours and they meet in the kitchen where she settles herself on a kitchen counter while he makes coffee. This is a rabbit hole thought that leads to the ongoing joke Chris and I had about a monkey’s paw, a joke he found so funny that I found a drawer in his desk filled with plastic monkey paw keychains.

Then, all too quickly, we were saying our goodbyes at 7 AM.

It seems inherent to always want more even though our relationship formed on less.

Time, time, time
See what's become of me
While I looked around for my possibilities. - Paul Simon

I thought that was the Bangles for the longest time, but discovered it is a Paul Simon original.

Time, time, time…..

Quality over quantity. This is the real lesson I am learning here.

I think the treatments are working.