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.

THE JOKE

There’s a joke I’ve been told a few times and every time I hear it, I don’t think it’s funny. I’ve heard it told two different ways now. The first telling I’ve heard goes something like this: A woman is in a grocery store at the checkout line. She’s placing her items on the checkout belt. Things like a salad kit, rotisserie chicken, some fruit….usual items. There’s a drunk man standing in line behind her watching as she unloads her basket. The man slurs as he loudly says “You must be single!” The woman turns, and asks “why do you think that?” The man, swaying on his feet, looks at the items the woman is purchasing and then back at her and responds “Because you’re so fucking ugly.”

It took me some time to really unravel what it is about this joke that I don’t find funny. It’s more than I just don’t think it’s funny; this joke makes my skin crawl. It’s because this is not a joke, but is a true story. Ladies, please raise your hand if you have ever had an unpleasant interaction with a drunk man. I can’t see you, but I suspect we are all raising our hands right now. I can’t help but believe that this ‘joke’ started out with one woman recounting the horrible experience she had while grocery shopping to a friend and then like a real shitty game of telephone, the story got passed around until it found a group of sorority boys who turned it into a joke. This so called joke then got passed around through the man-vine and became the antidote for every time a woman didn’t give them the desired attention they were looking for.

A joke can be used as a weapon.

This joke is the reason why women feel the pressure and need to always smile and please and placate. We have learned from experience that the drunk guy most likely will not stop at “you’re fucking ugly” but will continue to harass her all the way out the door. He may even follow her down the side walk, hurling slurs and attempting to touch, or grab. The drunk guy is dangerous. In most every situation, the drunk guy is dangerous. We are either tolerating the unwanted attention with a fake smile plastered to our faces or we are fighting off the unwanted attention, fake smile still in place because we are still trying to placate the drunk guy. Not because we are interested. We are never interested or charmed by this behavior. We do it all for our safety.

Not surprisingly, I have never heard a woman tell this joke because we all know the drunk guy in that story and we’ve all had relatable experiences. In fact, I wonder how funny the joke becomes when the circumstances are flipped. Recently, I heard a retelling of this joke. In his version of this joke, he’s the one the drunk guy is talking to, he’s the one the drunk guy calls ‘ugly’. The man telling this version of the joke did it so well that I didn’t even recognize it as being the same joke. His version was self deprecating, but also he had nothing to fear in this story. The man who told me this version is physically imposing. It took me a minute to see that this version did make me chuckle because there was no threat here. This version didn’t make me feel threatened.

Still, even with the change, this joke just isn’t funny. It’s mean and I’ve never found humor in meanness. The only fix I can come up with for this joke it to burn it.

I'M NAKED

It was a typical Saturday morning. I was at Heirloom, eating a biscuit sandwich and writing in my Fortune Cookie journal, and I watched as a young family came in, a mom, dad and a little girl who was maybe three. She was carrying her baby doll while Mom carried a basket of Shopkins. They settled in at a table in my eyesight and I watched as the mom peeled the child’s sweater off, hearing the crackling of static as it came over the kid’s head. The little one’s hair stood out, charged with electricity and she yelled out “I’m naked!” The mom chuckled and then calmly responded “You are not naked. You have on a t-shirt.” But the little one insisted. “I’m naked!” She proceeded to randomly let all of us know that she was naked as she colored and stuffed bits of cinnamon roll into her little mouth.

Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that doll she came in with was also naked but then I started to really relate to this kid.

“I’m naked” is just another way to say “I feel vulnerable.” I am naked. I feel naked. I can feel my nakedness under these clothes and sometimes, okay … a lot of the time, it makes me want to put on more clothes. Some of this stems from being two months into the year and still not back on my usual moving routine. I can feel my skin actually touching my clothes and have been conditioned to believe that skinny girls do not allow this to happen. I have also been conditioned to believe that I will never be a skinny girl. The “I feel vulnerable” side to all of this is that I have put myself out there for some things that’s a little outside my comfort level. There’s book club where I reveal hidden wishes and an art show that got bumped to September but where I noticed that I am the only photographer in the line up. I continue to wear a shoulder strap that forces my heart to be open. One of my so called ‘bad girl’ wishes is to take some nude pictures of myself and others. I am full into a I hate my body moon phase. Probably because I’m not lifting weights or training for a marathon or doing any of the things this capitalist fitness industry says I should be doing. I refuse to fall for the “Eat this to lose weight!” click bait, but only barely. This is perfect timing for taking off all of my clothes and taking pictures of myself.

Pile on the vulnerability!

Recently, I dreamed that my friend Sarah Fox and I bought matching jumpsuits. I was in love this thing. It was high waisted with wide legs and a sexy deep v type of halter top. It was perfect, except for the whole halter top thing. I don’t know how Sarah didn’t have this problem, but my halter top would not stay in place and every time I looked down I’d have a boob peeking out from this way or that way. I was constantly tucking myself back in. We were on some kind of roadtrip and we were on a road that contained epically stunning views at every curve and hill top. At one point, I noticed that Sarah was asleep at the wheel and I said “Hey, Sarah. Wake up.” and then we laughed and laughed about it for miles. Our lives where clearly in danger but we didn’t care. In fact, we found it hilarious.

Every curve and hill, a stunning view.

Exposed and vulnerable and finding it all to be immensely hilarious.

THE LIFE I WANT

As predicted, the weekend was everything that was needed. There was talking, listening, laughter, tears, more laughter, new games, a drunk trip to Walmart where I purchased a stuffed, fluffy chicken and some food. It was everything we needed and we made promises to do it again next year. On Sunday morning, Deborah made us breakfast and we ate our last meal together. Then we packed up our cars, but before we headed out in opposite directions, we squeezed each other tight. I told Amy that I would come down for her graduation (she’s been working sooooo hard towards a Masters in Library Sciences). I told Deborah that she’s going to get into grad school (she wants to go into speech pathology and taking classes to make that happen). We drove away from each other, still waving and grinning.

Then our weekend together was over.

I decided to take a different way home when I left Wichita. I chose a country highway instead of the turnpike even though it was not the fastest route. I have been using the weather as an excuse for being uninspired and unmotivated in getting out my camera. The weather is part of the problem, but not the whole of the problem. I thought that by taking a slower road, I would be less hesitant to stop when I saw something interesting. The first impulsive stop was for a windmill in a field of wind turbines. The concept of impulsive stops was too new to me and I rushed myself. The second stop took me down a gravel road to an old school house. The school house, while isolated and alone was at least kept mowed so that you could walk around the school. The building, itself was boarded up though. The field it sat in was quite except for the chattering of birds that I could not see. I spent more time here, listening to birds and judging the angel of the light. Eventually, I returned to my car feeling lighter and satisfied with what I had just done.

I made one more stop before I hit Emporia, a place called Cottonwood Falls with wobbly brick streets. I took some pictures of the old courthouse and then spent too long in search of an owl that I kept hearing. I found myself well off of main street before turning back and driving on to Emporia. That feeling of satisfaction stayed with me the rest of the day. I stopped to go through the Burger King drive thru in Emporia. Michael’s put Burger King on the banned list because they always get his order wrong. I had low expectations when I ordered my impossible whopper. The teenager working the window handed over my order and I found a piping hot sandwich that looked exactly like the picture with crisp lettuce and onions. It was the most perfect Impossible Whopper I had ever seen.

It felt like a reward.

The next day over breakfast, I told Michael about how good that drive felt and that I wanted more. He said that he was always willing to stop if I wanted and I winced. There have been a number of times when I have asked to stop and Michael’s response has had a tone of inconvenience to it. It happened enough times, that I have stopped asking. It wasn’t easy, but I told him this and I told him that I was no longer going to allow this to happen. I am going to ask to stop and I will no longer let him make me feel like I am inconveniencing him with my request. It was not an easy conversation to have, mostly because he didn’t realize he’d been speaking in a way that would make me not ask for something I want.

Effectively communicating wants and needs is difficult.

I devised a plan to ease into the asking by scheduling us on an evening trip up to a wildlife preserve just north of St. Joseph. It was surprisingly simple. I sent a link to the preserve along with a date and time I want to be there. It has been reported that the preserve is currently filled up with snow geese and I want to see them, photograph them. I received an immediate response of ‘yes’ and then we made dinner plans in St. Joseph. I find that I am excited and looking forward to doing something other than our usual Saturday evening thing of couch potato soaked in gin and tonic, but I also learned to stop caring about the reaction I might get to an ask. Because I want more of those lighter and satisfied feelings.

I am learning to ask for the life that I want.

THE VALENTINE COASTER

I put on a tunic shirt that reminds me of an old fashioned valentine doily card and then I took Josephine to the groomers’ for her 7:30 AM drop off. We were the first in line. I handed Josephine off to her wonderful groomer, Wade, and turned around to be greeted by two golden retrievers. I loved on both of them and then squeezed past to get out the door. Right out side the door, I was greeted by an enthusiastic golden doodle who also received some love and baby talk. Then I looked to my left and there was a line of dogs waiting their turn to be dropped off and for a moment I wondered if this was heaven. It was like a scene where the heroine runs down the hallway high-fiving all of her classmates. In this case I was the heroine and the classmates were fluffy puppies. I replaced the high fives with pets.

This is how every day should start.

Then I got in my car just in time to hear the end of a story from a woman from The Midwest Transplant Network about donating her husband’s organs after her husband died. When the story ended, they played one of his favorite songs which happened to be Remember Me from Coco. I pulled into the parking lot at work a sobbing wet mess and once again reminded that I have never been a fan of this holiday. But then I got to go pick Josephine up from the groomers’ and that’s my favorite part of grooming day. First of all Josephine is so excited to see me that she nearly drags the person put to the task of bringing her out to me. It almost feels like I am saving her life. Then there is the added bonus of Josephine looking her absolute cutest right after she’s been bathed and groomed. I just want to squeeze her and smoosh up her little face I LOVE HER SO MUCH!

On the way back to work after taking Josephine home, the radio started playing The Luckiest by Ben Folds which made me a little weepy yet again. In many ways I am the luckiest, for meeting Chris when I did and having our time together. Some people spend their whole lives looking for that thing we had. I’m not the old wife that dies two days after her husband though. I am the luckiest because I entered into my next relationship with a good foundation of what healthy relationships look like. I am the luckiest because I know that I was loved and that I am loved.

No pink doily cards required.

THE LEAST CONTROVERSIAL THING

I have a whole lot of (unpopular) thoughts running around in this noggin’ at the moment in regards to the Super Bowl. I love the enthusiasm this city has for their football team, but I have a hard time summoning up support for the NFL as a corporation, ethically speaking. So instead of ranting on about how the commercialization of sportsball has contributed to the systemic racism prevalent in this country and the perpetuation of glorifying violence, I’ll talk about something less controversial. Red Light Therapy.

Saturday, I posted a picture of myself in the red light therapy chamber at my chiropractor’s. Then, I had a number of people ask me what I thought about the therapy. I will tell you that I went in with the most skeptical, this is bullshit attitude. My chiropractor suggested it after my adjust last week because my arm and shoulder was still causing me problems. I looked at Dr. Fran and I said “Is this voodoo?” To which she replied with a chuckle that it was not voodoo, but then she said the thing that she should not have said to me. She said “it works on the molecular level.” Don’t say these words to someone with a background in molecular genetics. Just don’t. Their eyes will become strained from the severe eye roll they give you. Even though I knew that this was probably total nonsense, I agreed to signing up for six sessions. I felt results after the first session. I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt surprisingly better.

So I did the thing that I do and went back to work to do a deep science dive on Red Light Therapy and it turns out that it is not voodoo. There are a number of peer-reviewed journal articles involved in the use of red or near infra-red light to reduce pain and inflammation, stimulate new tissue growth and the various diseases that could benefit from this treatment. It is believed that the red light is absorbed by cytochrome C oxidase in mitochondria which leads to an increase in ATP production and inducing transcription factors involved in cell proliferation, repair and regeneration. Dr. Fran was not wrong. It works on the molecular level.

I have completed three sessions and I can’t deny that it is helping. I am no longer waking up in the middle of the night with arm/shoulder pain or toss and turn in an effort to get comfortable. I still have some mobility issues where I am not as flexible as I used to be, but I can finally reach behind my back and unhook my bra again. I consider this a win. This doesn’t mean that I do not feel like a ridiculous white walrus while laying naked in the red light therapy chamber. On my second session, I accidentally knocked the head rest out of the chamber while I was flipping over onto my back. I whacked the headrest so hard that it shot out the open end, hit the wall and landed almost completely under the whole chamber. Then I had to army crawl my naked body to the end of the chamber and reach around to fish out the head rest.

It was not my most graceful moment.

I also can’t seem to get Roxanne by the Police out of my head while I’m in there, except I change the lyrics to something about how I have to turn on the red light. Then the song turns from saving the sex worker to letting her just do her job and leaving her alone…Look, you’re in there for fifteen minutes. That’s plenty of rando thought time.

IF I WERE A BAD GIRL

There’s an exercise in this book on women empowerment that I am reading that asks you to fill in this sentence “If I were a bad girl, I’d…” It is an exercise designed to expose your desires. What would you do if there were no societal rules or the rules you set for yourself? I haven’t gotten any farther with this exercise than just giving it a tiny bit of thought. It is a little bit of an overwhelming question because of the infinite possibilities, but in a moment of stillness, I pondered this question and the first thought that came into my head was that I would quit my job and become a real photographer. I’d buy a camper van and drive out to the dessert to photograph all the different shacks and dwellings that break up the desolation. I wouldn’t worry about money because I’d conn some billionaire into funding my adventures.

The way the thought just put itself right there in that spot of my brain between my eyes was like having a cold cup of water splashed into my face. I mean, just two hours earlier, I’d had a wave of self doubt about my showing hit me so hard, I felt like I was drowning in it. But the pure selfishness of the thought itself felt like eating chocolate cake. I get that this is the point of the exercise. It’s not supposed to be about anyone else but yourself. It is your opportunity to be completely and utterly selfish. I also think it is supposed to flip your idea of ‘selfish’.

self-ish: (of a person, action, or motive) lacking consideration for others; concerned chiefly with one's own personal profit or pleasure.

So many of us women were raised with the belief of selfishness as a sin. We are taught to be selfless in all aspects of our lives. Your wants and desires come second to those around you, if they come at all. This, to me, makes those around us who subconsciously take advantage of our selfless acts the truly selfish ones. My bad girl request isn’t even all that “bad”, except the part about stealing. It does draw a pretty obvious map to some desires. This is the time of year when I come down with a case of wanderlust and want to be anywhere but here. I’ve talked about solo adventuring before but lack the amount of bravery required for me to (without guilt) load up and head out. It’s like I’m waiting for an invitation or permission.

Friday evening, Micheal, Phoenix and I travelled downtown to check out the art reception for the artist that is currently in the space where I will be hanging my photos in May. I also needed to measure the wall space. The reception was in the lobby of the hotel the Starbucks is attached to, so we walked in through the hotel. I froze immediately stepping through the doors because I was currently drowning in a new wave of self doubt. The current artist had tables and lots of merchandise. Handbag, backpacks, coin purses, watch faces. Anything he could print is art onto, he had it for sale. Michael took one look at my face and steered me directly into the Starbucks to measure the walls. I loudly in a panicked whisper said “I do not have merch!” Michael assured me that I did not need merch. We measured the walls and then I took a breath. I headed out into the lobby to introduce myself to the manager in charge of the art and the current artist. I asked questions. I socialized. I drank a terrible but strong margarita and we left.

I spent too much wasted time on thinking about possible merchandise options before deciding that I do not need merchandise. I’ll have postcards and prints. Michael made me templates of the walls with proportionally sized rectangles of my prints. I started placing rectangles and making lists. I curated the photos I want for the space and afterwards I thought “I am a real photographer.” Everyone else around me seems to know this better than I do. So my Bad Girl request, my opportunity for selfishness, is a request to do more to curate myself. Even my default Good Girl status can see that this is not a very Bad Girl request.

I guess, the thing I learned from this exercise is that I’m bad at being bad.

A NEW EDITION OF TTITIN

This addition of Things The Internet Thinks I Need starts with a list:

• mushroom growing kits (that’s probably true)

• swimsuits ( I rarely wear the one I own)

• expensive ethically sourced seafood shipped right to my door (I mean, yeah, but who do you think I am? Scrooge McDuck?)

• camper vans (my fault because I keep looking at camper vans)

• wedding planning (record scratch….whut?)

Yeah, so all of those things except one could possibly be of use. Oh…I forgot psychedelic mushroom counseling. Even that is of possible use to me, but wedding planning? Really, Internet? I don’t even know what magic code of words I have entered in any kind of search bar to merit a targeted ad about planning my wedding. They want to sell me the best gift for a bridesmaid and the best destination weddings and tips on floral arrangements. These are all things I didn’t do the first time around and if Michael ever convinces me to get married again, those are things I will not do the second time around.

I like to think that all this means is that the robots don’t remotely have a clue as to who I am and when the Robot Apocalypse happens, they won’t be ready for someone like me.

Pow! Pow!

That’s really all I have to say right now. I’m too busy at work to think about anything other than work while I am at work (and sometimes not). When I’m home, I spend an hour watching TV and the rest of the time reading. Right now, I’m reading Unbound: A Woman’s Guide to Power by Kasia Urbaniak. It’s a book recommended by my friend Erica. She and our friend Abi are going to have book club like meetings to discuss it. I’m on page fifty something and will continue to read even though I’m so wound up in a Good Girl Double Bind that I probably cannot be unbound. After this book, I plan on finishing Project Hail Mary before starting on What Fresh Hell is This?

I have compiled a folder of show prints and made a list of sizes.

I’m eating lots of cheese.

You’d think the Internet would have noticed and mentioned something about the amount of cheese I’ve been eating.

It has not.

I'M DOING MY BEST HERE

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a pod person, just going through the motions. On the outside, everything looks normal. Someone tells a joke, I laugh. It may be a slightly hollow laugh, but it’s something. I am interacting socially. It is the in between moments, those times when I’m alone in the car or walking the building, when I’ll realize at some point in the middle of the activity that I am not thinking of anything. Those moments are full robot mode, like a switch has been pushed to the off setting. My brain is not churning with writing ideas. Memories that often play like out like movies are staying locked away in the filing cabinet at the back of my brain. I’m not mentally placing photos on walls or designing yoga classes. There’s no making note of the things I am seeing as I walk or drive by. It’s just an absence of all thoughts.

On top of the blank empty hole that is my brain, my body feels like it is on loan from the Pillsbury Doughboy. Michael got me an Anthropologie gift card for Christmas, which I’m usually quick to spend, but Ive browsed the sale items both in shops and online and left with nothing. I don’t want to even try on clothes partly because of the whole doughboy situation but also because it just feels exhausting to remove all the winter layers just to try on something that I probably won’t be happy with. There is nothing worse than standing in the cruel lighting of a dressing room and trying on a mini dress that fits me in weird places and not others, my winter white legs bouncing light off the mirror. I always leave my socks on in these situations and the whole half dressed, bare legs, with socks look is particularly sad, but I know if I want to get the most out of that gift card, I’m going to have to try on a number of items and chose wisely. Heaven forbid I spend it all on one full priced item.

Maybe in the Spring, when I can see colors again….

Saturday, Michael and I went downtown to check out the space where I will be hanging pictures in May and to eat lunch at new to us Korean place. We parked somewhere in between both places so that we had to walk over to the coffee shop and then back in the other direction to the restaurant. We didn’t spend a long amount of time looking over the wall space for the showing. I took some pictures of the walls and Michael and I sat with hot drinks while I contemplated what I might want to print. Since we had some time to kill before the Korean place opened for lunch, we strolled for a few blocks, looking into shop windows and speculating on businesses in the area. For the first time in a long time, I felt a spark and an urge to get my camera out. I even got into it and at one point had to tell Michael to wait. When he asked what I was doing, I said “I need to stand in the middle of the street for a minute.” This is nothing he has not heard before, but when I was finally back on the sidewalk I knew that I would have to visit this spot again. I took a good picture, but not a great better. That good picture reminded me that I can do better.

I want to do better.

There are moments where I am really trying to not be that pod person. I can still feel a spark to take pictures. I signed up for an aerial yoga class this evening to force myself into some hanging upside down play time. I plugged my ears into some dance party tunes and moved my body. And then I spent that gift card on singular, full price item.