FOOD DREAMS

The last few nights, my dreams have been filled with food. They are almost feverish in nature and often slightly gruesome. It started with a friendsgiving I was attending, except I didn’t really know any of these people. The table was filled with people I know through the internet, people I have never spoken with face to face. We are ‘friends’ because we like the content we each bring to social media. We are like minded humans. Our dinner plates each held a large whole fish and I watched as everyone at the table picked up the fish with their hands and tear into the flesh with their teeth like wolves or bears. I realized the fish wasn’t even cooked and in many cases, still a little bit alive. Yet, the whole time, I held meaningful conversations with those seated around me while they ripped and chewed on a raw whole fish. I awoke with clear memories of a candle lit table covered in a beautiful cornucopia of dishes and people picking fish skin from their teeth.

The second night of fever food dreams had something to do with werewolves eating Doritos, which at first sounds like something Chris made up. In fact, if I looked hard enough through his files, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a screenplay about werewolves who like to snack on Doritos in between meals of human flesh. The floor of where ever I was in this dreamland was littered with human body parts and bags of Doritos. I stood before a werewolf as he casually pulled perfect orange triangle chips from the bag. He offered me one, said “Want a Dorito before I rip off your arm?” I snorted and rolled my eyes. “You want my last meal to be a fucking Dorito?!? Just rip off my arm already and get on with it.” Thankfully I woke up before the ripping started, but my left shoulder was a bit achey the next morning.

Now, after writing this all down, I’m sitting here attempting to decipher the meaning of all of this. What is my brain really trying to say to me or warn me about? We are entering the season of overindulgence. This usually means I just end up adding more kale to my diet. I over indulge in kale. Last weekend, I bought two things of soup: one tomato feta from the refrigerated section and one jar of garden vegetable. When I presented them to Michael as lunch choices, he asked “Why did you buy the tomato soup?” I told him I bought it for the day’s lunch. Then he asked “Then why did you buy the garden vegetable?” I replied “That was my impulse buy.” Michael snorted and replied “No one impulse buys vegetable soup. That is not an impulse buy.” I believe he was implying that impulse buys were things like the various candies on display at checkout, not jars of soup.

Not so secret: I have on occasion purchased an extra bag of kale. I consider this an impulse purchase, a just in case we run out of kale purchase (we never run out of kale).

Maybe these dreams are my subconscious telling me to dig into a more primal side of life, a life of more decadent pleasures like eating a whole jar of caviar with a spoon made of pearl. Maybe that werewolf is just telling me to live a little and eat some junk food. I don’t know what any one at that dinner table could be saying. I’m not eating a raw live fish…but I’ll eat raw fish(?). Maybe eating something that is still moving is the next decadent adventure? I don’t know if I want that adventure and I am pretty sure I have reached an age were I can fully live a “Choose Your Own Adventure” life. Perhaps I will just start out by making an impulsive candy bar purchase.

A fish shaped candy bar.

THE PARABLE OF THE WREATH MAKER

Last year, my favorite store was selling a Christmas wreath for almost $500 and I got so mad that I yelled out some expletives. First of all I immediately fell in love the wreath. Of course I fell in love the wreath. It was adorable and whimsical and sophisticated. It represented everything I want to be in life. But that price tag made me furious. Now, to be fair, my favorite store is known for ridiculous price tags. I only shop there when they’re having 50% of already sale item sales. Even then, I am meticulous about my purchase choices. This Christmas wreath sold out before it even had chance to go on sale and once again I was outraged that someone was wiling to fork over that much money for a holiday wreath.

The second thing that made me mad about this wreath was that I knew I could make it. I could make it for way less than their selling price. Knowing that I could make the wreath was annoying because while I can do crafty, I don’t go out of my way to be or do crafty. If someone dumps a bunch of craft supplies out in front of me and tells to create, I will do so, but I don’t want to purchase the supplies, store the supplies or deal with any kind of mess. Crafts are messy. This is why my holiday wreath remains the same for two or three years before I decide it is time for something new.

By the time I saw the store wreath, it was already too close to the holiday to bother. So instead, I started doing the thing that I usually avoid. I started hoarding holiday craft supplies so I could make this wreath for this year. I told Nurse Jenn about the wreath while we were out at the zoo and she mentioned that she wanted to make Yule wreaths with dried orange slices and greenery. Then she suggested we gather at her place on Sunday to make wreaths. Sunday afternoon, I sat at Jenn’s table with a group of lovely people and we chatted about all kinds of things while we built wreaths. It was lovely and I left so much glitter at Jenn’s house. I wanted to build a live wreath, but I’m allergic to all of the things. I did make a small live wreath when I had finished assembling my own, but gave it to Jenn because I can’t hang it in my house. My eyes and hands were itching by the time I left.

It was all worth it and I am so proud of my wreath. It is not identical to the store one. I accidentally bought two church like houses, but went with them anyway. And I think mine turned out better than the store version. I bought a wreath off the sales rack for $5. I found multicolored bottle brush trees 6 for a dollar. I went a little overboard with those trees. I did not ten boxes (I left a whole bunch at Jenn’s).Two. I needed two boxes, but whatever. The most money I spent was on the little houses and I purchased all three for $15. Maybe $2 for snow. The lights I already had. So for $32, I made a wreath that some hoity toity store wanted to sell me for $500. It would have cost me $24 if I hadn’t gone overboard with the bottle brush trees.

I love a good deal and I love my current distractions from reality.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

In the past couple of years my employer has added some paid holidays that are not observed by everyone. Meaning schools are open, as well as most business, but there’s no mail or garbage pick-up. These are paid holidays that I have to myself because Michael has to go to work and I usually spend those days cleaning the house. Last time this happened, I used the day to have blood work done. This time though, I planned ahead and sent a text to Nurse Jenn asking if she also had the day off. She did! So we met for breakfast and then went to the zoo.

We went to the zoo without children!

Our zoo opened a new aquarium recently and I had heard all the rave reviews, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to see it for myself. The Cabbage has aged out of being wowed with zoo trips and Michael and I never seem to think to go just for ourselves. We get free zoo passes all the time because we live in Jackson county and some of our taxes help pay for the zoo. The passes have expiration dates, but it doesn’t keep them from piling up in the magnetic clip on the fridge. I yanked out the most recent valid pass, threw away the rest and Nurse Jenn and I walked into the zoo for free!

Without children!

I know I keep emphasizing the part about no children, but seriously, have you ever been to the zoo with kids? It should be fun and it’s not not fun, but it is work. It’s work because now you’re in charge of carrying all of the things, dealing with snacks, hand washing, meltdowns, not losing the child in Africa, making the walk from Africa back to the parking lot while dragging the hot, tired dirty child. Zoo Africa is just about the same distance away as actual Africa. It’s the furthest spot on the map from the parking lot and no matter how well you think you’ve planned it, you are always leaving it during the hottest, driest part of the day. And children do not think it is funny when you start singing Toto’s Africa.

Because children do not have any senses of humor.

This time, we didn’t have to think about or be responsible for anyone but ourselves. Though, Jenn did graciously cart my extra camera lens around in her bag. We took our time in the aquarium and then wandered out to only look at the exhibits we wanted to see, like the elephants and the rhinos. Then when we were ready to leave, we just left. No one cried or whined or begged to be carried. We just walked ourselves out of Africa while singing Africa out to my car. It was positively lovely and I used my camera, both lenses even! I don’t think I’ve ever had a more relaxed, carefree time at the zoo and I know a lot of that had to do with the company I keep.

The photographer me is very grateful to have had time at the zoo when there was very little traffic. I could have spent hours with my camera pointed at jellyfish or that one elephant playing with a stream of water coming down from a building. There was not a moment when I had to wait patiently to the side for someone to get out of my shot. Okay, maybe there was one. The octopus, Arthur, was pretty active and popular, but that was the only time I had to wait my turn. When we got out of the car, I said “Now which lens do I want for today?” and Jenn took that question away by tucking my zoom lens into her bag. There was a moment when we were near the elephants when I said “Okay, I think it’s time for a lens change!” and those words felt so professional that I thought maybe I know what I’m doing. I even had my own assistant!

Look, I know that some people are anti-zoos and I get it. But there are zoos out there that do the zoo thing really well and I think our zoo can be added to the list. When you walk into a zoo exhibit and are standing in awe of the sites and accessible knowledge around you, then you’re in zoo that is doing things right. For me, seeing all of the creatures in our aquarium feels me with wonder and amazement. Our planet is fucking amazing and I want to keep it that way. I am grateful to have easy access to this kind of inspiration and I’m really grateful I have people I can share that awe and enthusiasm with.

CAPTURING DINOSAURS

Sometime last week as we sat on the couch not watching TV, but scrolling on our phones, I got a notice that one of the last of Kansas City’s Drive-In Theaters, The Twin, would be closing permanently on November 17th. I relayed this information to Michael and said that I would love to get pictures of the sign before it gets demolished. Then Michael said “Why don’t I drive you out there Saturday evening?” There was a part of me that wanted to say “no, that seems like too much effort for five minutes of me screwing around with my camera.” but instead I said “Okay.” Then, at the perfect time of day on Saturday, Michael drove me out to Independence so I could take pictures of The Twin.

When we pulled up, there were three or four cars parked near the entrance. We figured they were all there to do what I was going to do, but as Michael pulled forward, past the entrance, I only saw one other person out with a camera and a tripod. The other’s were there to go to the movies. I got out of the truck with my gear and headed to the sign. When I got close enough, I asked “What are our chances that they turn the lights on?” The other photographer smiled and said “Right?!? That would be so awesome.” Then we did that dance photographers do when they’re photographing the same subject, being respectful of each other’s space. He left when it got darker but I had decided to try to use the flash I’d purchased a few years ago. I had made the purchase with the intention of learning some flash photography, but never really got around to using it. I used it Saturday evening and I couldn’t be happier with the results.

Finally, I signaled to Michael that I was done and we made our way home. Michael took us on a scenic route that put us in the path of a great neon sign for Mugs-Up and past an old drive-in theater that had closed years ago, the sign already nothing more than pieces. I am so glad I didn’t listen to that part of me that did not want to make the effort. Michael ended up driving us about half an hour from home for me to spend about fifteen minutes taking pictures, but there was one moment in that time frame when I gleefully jumped with joy as I looked at some of the preliminary shots. Not only was I doing the things, I was doing the things with newly learned skills, using the flash that’s been in my bag for two years. And I think if I can do this, if I can eek out fifteen minutes for glee just once a week, I can manage.

They never turned the lights on for the Twin sign and I am only slightly disappointed by that. The sign has seen better days and I am sure in it’s hey-day, the sign was glorious. Michael had doubts that the lights for the sign even work now. It reminded of me that time Chad and I were chasing neon motel signs in Cave City, Kentucky. Many of the old neon signs were off or not working. We stopped at each roadside motel with the light’s off on their sign and one of us would get out of the car to go ask at the front desk if they could turn the sign on. Most were nice about it, often nodding their heads and saying something along the lines of “wish I could, but the sign’s been broke for a long time now.” We would mumble something to match their regrets along with a ‘thank you’ before moving on to the next one. Sure it was disappointing to not be able to capture those bright neon lights, but we had so much fun jumping in and out of the car with our cameras, snapping away. The lights didn’t really matter. The time spent doing the thing was what was truly important.

Maybe next year, I’ll start working on a new showing. Maybe try hanging some things on some walls again. Just putting the thoughts out there feels like progress.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I avoided the news and the TV on Tuesday, but I did glance at my phone early the next morning just before heading out the door for Josephine’s walk. So I ended up walking with the knowledge that this country had chosen a convicted criminal over a black woman. I walked with a sunken heart and a weight of exhaustion settling into my bones. My thoughts turned to the work ahead, the volunteer work and monthly donations to come, things I could do to help those in my community feel safe. I thought about all the government programs that he has threatened to cut and what that will mean for scientific research. One of the members of his administration has already announced the plan to cut 10,000 scientists from the FDA. My friend Sarah may lose her job as a fair housing investigator with the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, a department that is on his list of cuts. Who will advocate for those seeking affordable housing? There are many things that benefit our communities that are at risk and I had to really ask myself if I had it in me to step in and help those who will be abandoned by this country.

I was born an activist. For as long as I can remember I’ve been raising money to save this planet, to find a cure for AIDS, to accessible healthcare for all, to public television that provides educational resources to everyone and on and on and on. For as long as I can remember I have been advocating for my communities and the importance of truly caring for each other. I have done this work before. I can do this work again. We do what we need to do protect and help the ones we love. On top of my monthly donations to Planned Parenthood and PBS, I will be adding monthly donations to OurSpotKC.

Our Spot's services empower youth, provide LGBTQ+ resources, and create safe spaces that foster growth and inclusion.

Our kids are scared. A fellow blogger shared a social media post from her daughter where she said “I am scared for my immigrant parents.” The new administration has plans for a denatualization project that would remove citizenship from immigrants (Chris’s mom is an immigrant). We are already seeing hateful rhetoric being thrown at people for being gay, trans, black, hispanic, not white. That rhetoric stands to increase with the new administration, particularly with plans to remove policies and rights that have been put into place to protect those people. There have been ‘friends’ on Facebook posting vague posts about not understanding why some people are unfriending them. This is why. It is because you chose someone who will put their lives in danger and they no longer consider you to be a safe person to be themselves around. No one should have to fear being their true self. Our kids should not be scared and it makes feel a little sick knowing that grown adults have done that, that they have created an environment of fear. My top priority is to change that and I believe that OurSpotKC is the perfect place to do that.

Josephine and I took our usual path to Tower Park that morning and I watched a layer of fog roll across the open areas. I could smell the campfire that had already been started at the main pavilion. There’s a handful of homeless that sleep in that pavilion at night and every morning, the first to wake starts a fire in one of the metal barrels nearby. This particular morning was chilly and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had taken turns keeping the fire going throughout the night. Josephine and I made our way to the north side of the park, the sky was still dark with just the tiniest hint of light at the horizon. But I could still see some stars. Sometimes I am surprised by the number of stars I can see in the city. The park is lit with motion sensor or timed lights and often they end up shutting off right as I’m walking up. I am an invisible woman. At one point I glanced up at the sky just in time to witness a star shoot across and burn out. To the see the stars at all in the city is a treat. To witness a shooting star in the city is a gift, but in this instance possibly a message from the universe.

The witnessing of a shooting star is a rare, awe inspiring moment. It is an event that causes us to close our eyes and wish for something good. I am grateful for that moment in the park, the timing of that shooting star and my opportunity to wish for a better world. That moment was also a reminder of the simplicity and power of ‘one’. Some of you may remember that video Chris posted oh so many years ago of the one guy in the crowd dancing like no one was watching. It didn’t take long for a crowd of dancers to form around him. The tiniest stone still makes a ripple when you toss it in the pond. All of these actions seem small, but they end up having huge effects. This was just the spark I needed to keep my almost burnt out flame of hope going.

I am grateful for hope.

DEAR WHITE HETERO MEN OF AMERICA

First of all, I guess I should congratulate those of you who voted for Trump. You did your part in maintaining the Patriarchal standard of white hetero males running the country. I will say that he did make it easy for you by manipulating and exploiting your fears. I guess I never realized how cowardly you truly are, but it does give me some ideas on how to manipulate cowards for a good a cause. I will say that one of the reasons all of this stings me is that I know some of you personally. So now I know that you place a higher value on your archaic reliance on fossil fuels than you do of the women in your life.

How disappointing.

Look, I know you had help from some women. I recognize and pity those women who just can’t seem to escape the social construction of a woman’s value being linked to a man. Some of this comes from their religious indoctrination. Basically, for their whole lives they’ve been told by their God that they must be submissive to the man. That’s hard brainwashing to undo. In the TV adaptation of Margaret Atwoood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (one of the most banned books in the US), the character Serena Joy is one of the defining voices in changing the government into a patriarchal, totalitarian theonomic state. In doing so, she took away her own rights to read, write, property, everything. It is only when she is punished for reading the scripture do you see her recognize the awfulness that she has played a part in. There will be a Serena moment for those women who support Trump. I just worry about that time frame. Like, how many rights are women going to have to loose before they break their social construct chains? I mean, we’re barely clinging to our rights to make our own decisions about our own bodies.

I’m not going to lie. I’m sad and disappointed with the whole lot of you. I thought you were smarter, braver, more compassionate than that. I don’t like thinking about some of you being fascists racists, but that’s all I can think about because you support a fascist racist. Sort of like if the shoe fits, wear it?… And I’m going to spend today being sad and disappointed. I’m going allow space for my grief and then I’m going to roll up my sleeves and get to work. There are plenty of charities that support women and our LGTBQ+ communities that could use my help and I’d much rather funnel my rage into doing something good for my community than wasting any more time or thoughts on the likes of you.

So, enjoy your day and your win. Raise your pitchforks and point your silly guns to the sky. Who knows how much longer you will be able to do such things? Winds of change are coming for you.

Sincerely,

Disillusioned White Woman of America

MORE THINGS THE INTERNET THINKS I SHOULD BUY

In this episode of Things the Internet Thinks I should Buy, I bring you food mills, underwear, boots, and cat sweaters.

Let’s start with the underwear. That’s the most fun because those ads contain women in underwear and there you’ll be, harmlessly scrolling along in social media land, when suddenly there’s just a big lace clad butt picture or some woman adjusting her boobs in her bra. Sometimes there’s music playing in the ad. It has definitely made harmless scrolling a not safe for work activity. I do though appreciate the reminder that I could do better for myself in the underwear department. My underwear is not functional or sexy. It is a layer of fabric between my naked body bits and my pants and that’s about it. Maybe ‘buying nicer underwear’ should go on my New Year’s resolution. Right now and off and on since August, I’ve been just randomly bleeding and ruining underwear like in the days of my distant youth when the menstrual cycle was a new thing to me. So, I don’t really feel like buying anything nice until I’ve got this all figured out. I did see my gynecologist this week and we’ve made a plan to figure it out and with fingers crossed, I might be normalish by the new year. Until then, I don’t deserve nice things.

That’s not true. I am deserving of nice things.

The next ad I keep getting is for a certain brand of boots. I love this brand and love the boots. I mean I desperately want these boots, but ever time I click on the ad, I see that they are sold out of my size plus they’re not cheap. I’m almost willing to overlook the price because I know this brand and I know they’ll be comfortable, well-made boots. But I can’t overlook the size. If I’m going to spend that kind of money on boots, I should buy the right size. So now when I see this ad, it makes me sad. The same is true whenever I get the ad for a spectacular space cat sweater. First of all, the sweater is not my usual fashion choice. It’s brightly colored with a giant cat in a spacesuit gazing into the distance on the front. I don’t know why I love it so much, but I do. I want an oversized version of this sweater to wear with my leggings and the boots that they don’t have in my size. The sweater is not expensive, but the website is scammy. Like super scammy. I am guaranteed to loose all of my money and identities if I attempt to purchase this sweater. So I need some legitimate company to sell this sweater and I need those boots in my size please.

I believe those are reasonable requests.

Finally (not really…I get a lot of ads), I keep getting ads for food mill/composters. They’re like trashcans but only for food waste and they break up the food for compost. And I want one. Yes, I know that I could just throw my food waste into a compost bin in the backyard somewhere. Except I’ve done this, but you can’t just throw food waste into a bin. You have to stir it up and adjust pH and do things with the compost. I am lazy when it comes to gardening. Also, are you aware that compost bins can spontaneously combust? Especially if you do nothing but put stuff in the bin. The food mill/composters do all of the work for you. Then all you have to do is figure out what to do with the milled up food waste. I think I could manage that. Nope. I know I could manage this. I just have this vision that this product will reduce our amount of weekly garbage by half. Maybe more. I mean…we set out one to two bags of garbage plus a full recycling bin every week. It’s not like we’re big trash producers, but I can see where we can do better. The food mill/composters are expensive. Like really expensive. It’s like when the Roomba was a new thing expensive. I am a patient person. I waited long enough for the Roomba prices to go down and now I have a robot vacuum cleaner. I have no doubt the same thing will happen with the food mill/composters.

Sure, I do get a bunch of other ads every day trying to sell me some really useless crap. Those ads are easy breeze bys. I am not annoyed by, in fact I probably enjoy, the ads for the underwear, boots, sweater and composters and I’ll tell you why. Those ads are helping me dream of a better future for myself. A future of nice underwear and comfortable boots. A future of crazy cat sweaters and even a better environment. I like this dream. I like the idea that I can be that whimsical type of person that would wear bright colored space cat sweaters. I honestly don’t care much about the underwear, but I wouldn’t mind a nicer bit of fabric on my naked body bits. I am a practical person, so of course my dreams have a practical nature and if I have learned anything from my mother it is the importance of a good quality practical boot. And that composter thing would just make me a better citizen of the planet. Do I understand that this is capitalism at it’s finest and “they” have figured out my financial weaknesses?

Yes. And I do not care.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

For many people, today marks the first day of their 21-day gratitude challenge. You may see these challenges posted in memes throughout all the social media formats. It is a daily gratitude practice that leads up to what Americans consider to be the most important day of gratitude, Thanksgiving. It is a lovely way to celebrate the month of November. I believe it also a great way to start a regular habit of daily gratitude. This is not how my gratitude practice began. My practice had nothing to do with Thanksgiving and I had to go to a real dark, woe is me place before realizing I needed a gratitude practice. There was a lot of digging deep in those days and building up of good habits, habits that helped to keep me alive after Chris passed. Some might call those habits life skills, but all of the writing, photography, and the continued quest for joy all started from a simple daily gratitude practice.

I’m not going to lie; the month of October was not an easy one. There was a lot of traveling. There were many tedious and stressful moments. There was illness..or is illness. Michael and I are still coughing and I really have no idea how much more snot I can blow out of my nose. I have an endless supply of mucous right now. But even though October was difficult I can pick out something from each day that made me smile or laugh. Each day there was something I was grateful for. Kleenex. A sunset. Pain au chocolat. Time with a good friend. My gratitude list is long and continues to grow.

Tonight, will be the first Friday in weeks where I’ve slept in my own bed. I will get up tomorrow morning and go about my usual Saturday chore routine, slowly bringing in some normalcy. Michael has been taking care of grocery shopping and laundry and the general household maintenance while I was away. There was a time in our relationship when leaving him to take care of all the things would leave me feeling guilty. There was also a time when Michael was very vocal about being inconvenienced. We’ve both had to do some work to change this way of thinking and behavior. I am grateful that while we might be slow learners, we are learning to work together as a team. I am grateful for Michael’s help during all the chaos of last month. I don’t think that without my gratitude practice, I would have been able to recognize his help in picking up the slack while I was gone.

There’s a lot of good things I wouldn’t notice and would go missing without my gratitude practice. There’s a lot good stuff that I would take for granted. When I remember the person I was before I started the practice, I cringe. Not only was I unhappy, I just didn’t like myself. I’m embarrassed by that past version of me. Sure, I could give dozens of excuses for my unhappiness like finances and living conditions and devastating loss that I just didn’t know how to handle. But my unhappiness leaked out of me and onto others. That feels unforgivable. I felt ugly and recognizing that ugliness, I knew I had to make a change. I could not change my living conditions or too much of my finances. I could not bring back that which was lost. But I could change my mindset. The gratitude practice was the beginning to that change in mindset.

Just something to consider if you’re thinking about starting your own gratitude practice.

AND THEN I DIDN'T SMILE FOR TWO YEARS

Last Thursday, before leaving for my weekend with Heather, I went to the orthodontist to get Invisalign. I thought they would just hand me some plastic teeth covers and that would be it. That is not how this works. First, the technician had to glue a bunch of nubs onto my teeth as well as a metal hook because I have to wear a rubber band on the left side. I was not prepared for any of this. The place where the rubber hooks to the top is poky and has worn a sore into my upper lip. Maybe that will get better when I change them out on Thursday for the next round of teeth covers. Invisalign is basically like making a claymation movie, except instead molding clay, you’re moving teeth. And they’re probably not really called ‘teeth covers’. This is what I have decided to call them because they feel very much like the plastic couch covers of the 70s and 80s.

I hate them.

I keep telling myself that all of this is for the greater good and the health of my mouth. None of this is cosmetic. It’s all about securely setting roots into the jaw bone and maintaining a healthy jaw so that I won’t have to pull all my teeth and get dentures when I’m 80. This is a good and important thing I am doing for my teeth. So many people have told me that I will get used to the teeth covers. They have told me that I will become so well practiced in prying them off my teeth and popping them back on that I won’t need the special hook tool the orthodontist gave me to pry them out. This skill is important because I can’t eat with them in my mouth. There’s no such thing as a spontaneous snack for me anymore. It’s not that I usually snack between meals, but sometimes candy and other goodies are brought into the office. Halloween means that our break room will be filling up with mini-candy bars and skittles. I’m going to have to really want it. Since Michael and I have both been sick, I have not tested out what it’s like to kiss with teeth covers. The orthodontist said to not eat with them in, but did not say anything about leaving them in during sex. It’s either going to be real weird or someone’s new kink. I mean, I’m sure I would not have to search hard to find that porn. I am not going to do that search. This is just where my brain went.

I am growing weary and frustrated with the maintenance of this body. I spent about an hour on hold Monday morning just to leave a message with my intern doctor that I’d like talk about the blood test results from the blood work she ordered two weeks ago. Tuesday, my plan is to make an appointment with my gyno to talk about my ten day periods and the extra one I’m having right now. Maybe it’s just because it’s the week of Halloween, a week of all things gory and spooky. My body wants our costume to be a crime scene or a mash up between Carrie and Slimer (from all the snot coming out of my nose). I know by body is aging, but right now with the teeth covers and the erratic periods, I feel very much like a thirteen year old again.

Aging is living.

MY LACK OF GRATITUDE

I recognize that I’ve missed a number of Thankful Friday entries for the month of October. I also have not slept in my own bed on any Friday night of October. This weekend will be no different. Months ago, Heather got tickets to David Sedaris and then said “Come up for that weekend!” It has been on my calendar since June, well before a planned work trip and an unplanned visit to my mother. To say that the month of October has been a bit packed with travel and feelings is an understatement. I have mentally started compiling a list of things I’m thinking of putting off until next year because I’m loosing interest in doing anything with the rest of the year. I keep saying to people “When things slow down…..” and that really does sound like January to me. I know that in the winter months, there will large swaths of time of nothing because it will be too cold to leave the house.

I also came back from Oklahoma with a nasty head cold that is making it really hard to keep up any kind of momentum. When I texted Heather to warn her about my condition, she replied “Take it easy and we will continue to take it easy through the weekend.” Other than an evening with David Sedaris, we have foot spa plans which requires me to do nothing and I can’t believe how much I am looking forward to doing nothing with Heather. I will admit that returning to a weekly gratitude posting was creeping onto my list of things to be put off until next year. Then I thought about how my weekend to come is something I would normally use for a gratitude post.

I may have only stepped away from this gratitude practice for a brief moment, but I have noticed a shift in my mood and outlook and not it’s not a good shift. How easy it is to slip back into old mindsets of negativity! It is so easy to fall into old ruts and just get stuck following an old path. The good stuff, the moments that make you smile, a lot of times those moments don’t just happen. We have to make moments of joy happen and be open to recognizing hints of those moments when they happen spontaneously. It’s exercise. It’s lifting the five pound weight over and over until suddenly you don’t even notice you’re lifting the five pound weight. I do the work so that eventually I don’t realize I’m doing any work. Joy and gratitude just appears easily. Well…I’m noticing that I need to do the work.

So, I’m grateful for a weekend of rest and time with a friend.

WHAT I BROUGHT BACK

Michael and I drove down to my mom’s Thursday evening, arriving just in time for us all to go to bed. The two of us and Josephine slept on mattresses that had been plopped down in Mom’s living room. I woke up early Friday morning, achy and frozen. We dressed and took Mom out for breakfast. The whole time, Michael and I steered the conversation to the positive and hyping up her big move. Then we went back to her house to load up the vehicles with the things for her new space. This did not take long. Her new space is basically a studio apartment with a tiny living area, a bedroom and bath and a small kitchenette with a small fridge, microwave and sink. We arranged furniture and that was that. Mom is now in her new home.

There were some moments of struggle, things she wanted to take but does not need like her microwave. For the most part, the transition was easy. It did not keep me from worrying about her for the rest of the evening. Michael, my brother and sister-in-law and I went back to my mom’s house to chat and plan the next course of action. I did manage to fill two garbage bags with trash just from clearing and cleaning the kitchen counter, but I quickly ran out of steam. There’s a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff that could be useful to someone. There’s furniture and dishes and pots and pans. I picked up at least five can openers while clearing the counter. There is not a table top surface that is visible from all the piles of knick-knacks and trinkets and just junk. The three of us, me and my siblings, all agree that we need time and space before tackling all of it. This will be how we spend Michael’s Spring Break.

I struggled to sleep that night. Partly because of comfort. Partly because I was so itchy. At some point on Friday, I broke out in hives and have scratched for two days. A big part of my struggle to sleep though was how I couldn’t stop thinking of Mom sleeping in her new space for the first time. Would she feel safe and secure or would she panic and have a restless night, jumping at every new tick or tock sound? The next morning, Michael and I got up early to head back home. I took my mom’s car and a small toy caboose with The Peanut Man emblazoned on the side. I also came home with a mild cough and lots of sinus drainage, which is not an unusual state for me when in Oklahoma, particularly in the Fall. I brought along a slight sense of dread and worry for my mother’s future.

I knew the hoarding situation was bad. I did not realize just how much my mother has declined mentally. I had been told and I had witnessed some of her fogginess, but it didn’t really register. It’s sort of like when the doctors told Chris and I that they found a tumor on his liver. We joked and called it a tortilla chip. It was cancer. Yet to this day, I can’t say that Chris died from cancer. The tortilla chip killed him. I was only seeing my mother’s decline in the times I could get down to visit, which filtered the severity. My sister was seeing and dealing with it daily. I talked to my sister right before we left Mom’s to head back home and she had finally gotten a good night’s sleep. I called my mother on Sunday to check in and she sounded almost like an earlier version of herself. She sounded strong and pleased. She said she had slept through two nights in a row. She’s making friends and I got a picture today of her participating in the day’s group painting project.

I’ve dropped the worry and dread.

I’m keeping the car and the toy caboose.

For now, we are all okay.

MARTHA'S VINEYARD CAMP MEETING ASSOCIATION

It’s easy to catch a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard from Woods Hole. Oak Bluffs has the most flexible ferry schedule. The first time I visited, I rode the ferry to Oak Bluffs, rented a bicycle and immediately cycled over to Edgartown. I didn’t really pay attention to Oak Bluffs, not even when I came back to return the bike and get back on the ferry. This time though, I learned something about Oak Bluffs that I can’t stop dreaming about.

In 1835, some men from the Methodist church in Edgartown purchased a half acre of land for holding religious camp meetings. They built a shed with a pulpit in the front and this was their area of worship. The worshippers attending would set up tents around the pulpit. The first meeting was a success and the tent city started growing. Sometime between 1855 and 1865, there were more family tents and people started to extend their time on the island. Sort of mixing their religious meeting with summer vacations. Eventually a local carpenter was employed to build cottages. At one time there were 500 small family cottages, now there’s about 300, some of them have even been insulated for Massachusetts winters.

Sarah and I walked by almost every single cottage. It’s not hard to do. They’re packed close together and they’re tiny. Yet each one is unique in color, trim and porch displays. I realize now that I never took any pictures of a whole cottage. I focused on the porch displays and the gardens and the neighborhood cat. We stopped in at the gift shop, where we asked all kinds of questions. I wanted to know how many of the cottages still belonged to original families. Only six out of the three hundred are still within original families. There are strict rules to owning a cottage. They don’t allow them to be rented out for more than six weeks a year. You will need three letters of recommendation, one of those from your religious leader, to purchase a cottage. These rules are in place to protect the community feeling of the place.

This was it. This is the kind of place I’m always talking about where all of our friends build our own retirement community, except the houses are already built. The ocean beaches are an easy stroll away, as well as the grocery store and ice cream shops. We could take the largest cottage and have it fitted for a doctor’s clinic for the minor issues of aging and there’s a hospital in Oak Bluffs for bigger issues. We could have amazing trick-or-treat nights for the local children and caroling in December. Our Thanksgiving Table could be set up in the open air tabernacle that sits in the center of the community. Our parties would be epic!

Our community would be joyful.

Community and not taking pictures seems to be a recurring theme around here. But our stroll through this little village inspired more than retirement dreams and the pictures I did take. I thought up a whole story about two girls from different families spending their summers together, riding their bikes out to remote beaches and flirting with lifeguards. They change into different people during their time off the island, but return to being the same old same old every summer. They grow up. They have struggles, but they always come back to the village. It’s their sanctuary, their healing place. There are stories to be told here. Stories of love and loss. Stories of destruction and growth. Stories of finding something worth hanging on to forever. I want to rent one of those cabins for as long as I am allowed and use my time to research and write.

I want to go to camp.

SUNSETS AND NORTHERN LIGHTS

The sunset that evening was spectacular. Sarah called it a “Lisa Frank Sunset” and I don’t think there is a more appropriate description. We witnessed the electric pinks of the setting sun from the deck of the ferry as we traveled back to Woods Hole from Martha’s Vineyard. It was so cold and windy that I would have to take breaks, ducking inside to warm up before jumping back out into the wind for more pictures. This moment and then on our last morning when we stopped at the beach so I could get lighthouse pictures are two moments of joy on my timeline map, stuck in with thumbtacks. Both times, my camera was in my hands and up to my face and I was snapping away.

The night of the Lisa Frank Sunset, I got restless and walked outside. I looked up at the sky and could see brushstrokes of pink still lingering in the clouds. I thought it was leftover sunset and since I wasn’t really in a good spot for taking pictures, I didn’t bother. When I finally went back inside, I sat on my bed scrolling through Instagram. Chad shared an image of the Northern Lights taken by a friend and it suddenly hit me. I texted Chad to ask where his friend was and he quickly sent back an answer. His friend had taken the picture in Massachusetts. I hadn’t witnessed lingering sunset. I had been staring up at the Northern Lights the whole time and didn’t even know it.

And I didn’t take any pictures.

Months ago, when I dragged Michael out to Smithville lake to see the Northern Lights, the only way we could see them was through the camera lens. We saw nothing with our naked eyes. This is why I am not sad about not capturing any images from last Thursday’s solar flare event. Seeing the Northern Lights with my eyes is something I never thought I’d get to see or experience. So often, when we think of things we can’t imagine living through or experiencing, they are the negative life experiences. “I can’t imagine…” “I could never…” I don’t know how anyone could….” All of those sentences end in a description of destruction and loss. What if I started flipping this narrative? Not just flipping it, but making it happen?

I can’t imagine ever seeing the Northern Lights. Check

I can’t imagine eating a baguette while gazing up at the Eiffel Tower.

I can’t imagine ever having the kitchen of my dreams.

I can’t imagine watching the sunset over the Grand Canyon. Check

I can’t imagine going to Ireland with my mother. Check

I can’t imagine doing anything more than just taking the picture. Check

I can’t imagine ever seeing a moose.

I can’t imagine checking off everything from my list because my list will just keep growing. In the meantime, I will place another thumbtack in my mental timeline and start linking all the other thumbtacks together with string. Then I can pluck the strings and let the memories vibrate through my soul.

A CHANGE IN THE TIMELINE

The timeline for moving my mother to assisted living has been moved up. My sister is desperate to put my mom someplace where she’ll be too distracted with elderly activities to do dangerous activities. I guess there was an incident a week or so ago where my sister caught our mother standing on the kitchen cabinets, vacuuming the top cabinets. This gives me a real glimpse at my own future and the old lady that I will be because my first instinct was to shrug and say “good for her!” I had to pause and think about why this might actually be a bad or dangerous activity for my eighty three year old mother who has been prone to falls. My mom is bored. She needs stuff to do, preferably stuff that doesn’t involve electric hedge trimmers or climbing the walls.

I have to admit that I straight up panicked when my sister sent me the text that she was trying to get Mom moved by the end of October. Between work and Michael’s school schedule, October is FULL and I don’t know how I’m going to get down there to help out. My sister is all ‘you don’t need to help unless you want to help’ and I of course don’t want to help but I don’t want her to have to do this alone. I am also struggling to find an estate liquidation company that a. works in the area b. will handle smaller houses and c. call me the fuck back! I do not want to be cleaning out the same stuff I’ve already cleaned out once in the middle of winter. Or any time really. To make matters worse, any time anyone asks me how I feel about moving my mom into assisted living, I start crying. I can’t talk about it. Thursday, after my sister’s text, I got on my yoga mat and started sobbing in child’s pose. No one had asked me anything. I was just doing my practice while sobbing uncontrollably.

Nothing to see here.

I think the reason I can’t talk about my feelings on this subject is because they’re so complicated. I truly believe that the assisted living home is going to be wonderful for my mother. She will have people her own age to talk with (or at), tons of activities available to her and outside gardens to wander. She will have a community, something she hasn’t had since leaving Collinsville. On the other hand, I am worried that my mother will isolate herself and find excuses and or complaints for not joining in with her new community. I can only imagine that the feelings are similar when sending a child to their first day of school. Will they make friends? Will they be liked by others? Will they be sad the whole time? These are all the things I worry about with my mother.

Then there’s anger.

Honestly, I’ve been angry with my mother since 2013 for a number of reasons, one of them being not listening to some sound wisdom from her children to not rush to sell the old house. But she refused, was adamant that this had to happen RIGHT NOW! At the end of the day, she did what she wanted without considering the consequences or her own future. She purposefully isolated herself and she didn’t take care of her body. It’s like she gave up on life without having the gumption or follow through to truly give up on her life. Instead she takes out her frustrations of still being around on her children. We are the ones that have to sit and listen to all the ways she is unhappy, disappointed and unsatisfied. We are well aware that her unhappiness, disappointments and unsatisfaction began well before any of us were born, that we are just part of the long line of it since her birth. Knowing this does not make listening to it all any easier.

I let go of the idea and feelings that I am part of my mother’s long list of disappointments some time ago, mostly because I have no control over it. I’m not angry at being one of her many sources of unhappiness. I am angry that she never took responsibility for her own happiness. I am angry at her choice to take her life lemons and turn them into just straight up lemon juice, refusing to add sugar for a nice refreshing drink. Instead she has just marinated herself in that bitter lemon juice and I am angry at her refusal to take responsibility for her own actions and choices. And this lemon juiced soaked woman is who we are moving to assisted living. My sister confessed that she’s been having nightmares about our mother getting kicked out of the facility and I couldn’t assuage her concerns.

That’s a valid nightmare.

I suppose my tears come from worry that my mother will not be able to take advantage of her new home and will not find joy in the company of new friends. I worry that she will park herself in a chair in her room and never venture out of her room, not even trying. This thought along with no longer having a home to go back to in Oklahoma are the things that send me over the edge. My touch stone is broken and unrepairable and my mother is sitting in a room choosing misery. And the estate liquidation company will not call me back which means that we will have to deal with the contents of our mother’s house on our own.

For most of my life I have felt unprepared or trained for the task of adulting. I didn’t know how to go about buying a house or even saving money properly. There are adult things I purposefully avoided because I knew I was ill-equipped, like motherhood. I just straight up avoided the things I knew for sure no one had even bothered to mention to me, let alone teach me how to deal with. All right, there were some tasks I had to deal with because they were unavoidable. Bodies don’t cremate themselves. While I was making it up as I go, I did manage to do those very hard adult tasks. I didn’t say I was not capable. I am untrained to deal with the aging parent side of adulting.

But I’m dealing.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Last Saturday, the Cabbage had piano lessons at 11:30. Her teacher holds lessons on the second floor of one the old warehouses in the historic West Bottoms. Sometimes I tag along, sometimes I’m busy doing other things. Usually, Michael and I wander around some of the antique shops in the area while the Cabbage is having their lesson. Then we’ll go have lunch somewhere after lessons. On this particular Saturday, I took my camera with me thinking I’d be inspired by the old, rundown buildings in the West Bottoms.

I’ve done this before, taken my camera along when visiting this area of the city. What has happened more often than not is that I don’t ever really take any pictures. I get distracted poking around a shop or Michael suggests getting hot beverages and then I’m holding a coffee and trying to wield my camera at the same time. It seemed like that same sort of thing was going to happen last Saturday too. I took a few snaps, drank a macchiato and then wandered around a shop that mostly sells houseplants. But something changed after lunch. We ended up at an old deli in downtown where the Cabbage ordered a slice of cheese pizza with extra cheese and a side of cottage cheese and Michael and I had a discussion about how badly we did or did not need to go to Costco. It was decided that need was not great and our time would be better spent wandering around the downtown public library.

The Kansas City Downtown Public Library is often on a must-see list. The parking garage is painted on one side to look like a giant bookshelf of books. The library itself is housed in an old bank, the vault is visible on basement level where the film and music section is housed. That floor also contains a display of Orval Hixon’s photos, including the one I shared here earlier this week. Every floor holds a treasure other than books and every floor has a window (or three or twenty) that provides an interesting view of the downtown skyline. And I had my camera out for all of it. I took my time, often letting Michael and the Cabbage get way ahead of me, often just wandering off from the group that was us. It was the most time I had spent consciously taking photos with my Nikon since maybe our trip to New Orleans back in March.

It made me breathe out in a sigh of relief.

This has been a very good week. Three days this week, I have ridden my bicycle to work. Michael installed a new and improved basket onto Valerie. My old Ikea one broke in a most annoyingly spectacular way last week. There has been time for my yoga practice and I made an edible loaf of sourdough bread over the weekend that was good enough to soak in the Sunday’s pot of beans and greens. I got us tickets to an event hosted by The Friends of Library this evening where we will picnic in Union Hill Cemetery and listen to ghost stories from some voice actor. When we still were not eating in restaurants because of the pandemic, Michael and I grabbed food to go from an area restaurant and had a picnic in this cemetery and it was one of my favorite things we did during the pandemic or ever. So I’m ending the week doing one my most favorite things.

This is week has been a reprieve from the chaos of my October Calendar, a moment of peace before I start running around like chicken for the next three weeks. I’m grateful for this calm before the storm.

ORVAL HIXON'S SISTER AND FRIENDS

Cleo is Orval’s sister. She’s the one in the back on the left, wearing the sailor collar. The little boat is her’s and the other ladies in the boat are labelled as her ‘friends’. After a brief poke-around on the interwebs, I realized that this was all the information I would find on this photo. Cleo’s older brother, Orval Hixon was a prominent photographer, specializing in vaudeville portraits, including a very young and topless Joan Crawford. There’s really not that much information out there about Orval either other than a few articles on his contribution to the art world in the Mid-west.

Everything else, the names of the other women, their relationship, all of it is left up to my imagination.

I could tell the stories of each of these young ladies.

I know by just the look on the those young faces what kind of girls they are. Cleo is just barely part of the gang, clinging desperately to the edge. She will do anything they ask of her and will employ any and all tactics just to be included. Cleo knows that the young woman, I’ll call her Agnes, in the very front is infatuated with her older brother and all she had to say at the end of her invites was “Orval will be there. He’s bringing his camera. Please come.” Agnes will be the one to persuade the others; her family is among the wealthy and elite. They vacation in Europe every March. Everyone listens to Agnes because she is the ‘it’ girl. Her sister, Agatha sitting behind her, has little choice in the matter. A year younger than Agnes, Agatha would rather be at home playing her piano, but instead is always Agnes’s chaperone. Betty, the young lady sitting next to Cleo is actually Cleo’s best friend. They have known each other the longest, spent nights on sleeping porches tracing the stars and telling secrets. Betty does not understand Cleo’s obsession with this gang of women, a gang we would label as the cool girls today, but Betty understands Cleo’s desire to be liked. Don’t we all want to be liked?

Now the young lady with the tie, that’s Penelope though everyone calls her PenPen or Penny. Both nicknames cause Penelope to roll her eyes and mumble something under her breath about not being a child. Penelope is sitting in that boat because her social climbing mother practically shoved her out the door when Agnes and Agatha stopped by for tea with their mother. Agnes opened her mouth about Cleo’s little boating excursion, leaving out the part that Orval would be there with his camera. Agnes’s mother thought this sounded like a perfectly wholesome activity; she felt Cleo was a little beneath them socially, but seemed very pious. Agnes’s mother hoped that some of her piety might rub off on her daughters. Agnes knew how her mother felt about piety and Cleo and invitations from Cleo were used often by Agnes even when there was no invitation from Cleo. Agnes made her invitation to Penelope to join them sound perfunctory and expected out of kindness. Agnes was not ever going to admit this, she thought Penelope was the prettiest girl in their class. She was also very cool, not caring what anyone may say about her. Agnes was happy to invite Penelope along. She suspected that Penelope smoked cigarettes and nicked bottles of wine. Agnes wanted to be a bad girl, but lacked the bravery required to do anything on her own. So, she latched on to people who would do the bad things for her.

Penelope didn’t do any of those things except the not caring part. As far as she was concerned she was just biding her time until graduation. Her father had mentioned the possibility of sending Penelope to a girls’ college. Now Penelope would have been happier if he had left out the ‘girls’ part, but college was college. Her escape. Her freedom, or as much freedom as a young woman could expect in 1918. Penelope wanted to be a journalist and travel the world telling the stories of war torn nations and the every day struggles of the poor. She wanted action and adventure and purpose. This is why her gaze at the camera is one of boredom. Penelope is bored with the whole affair, but most particularly with Orval himself. What a waste of a man and talent. All he wanted was to stay here and take portraits of vaudeville starlets. Penelope wondered if she could get him to teach her some basic photography. Then thought better of it. She doubted she could tolerate his postering and egotistical manner, which she was sure he would have. She also didn’t doubt that he would easily construe their lesson as something else and Penelope would spend the whole time avoiding grabs and pinches.

Penelope has a story that will reach beyond the usual dutiful housewife.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I had some time to kill between appointments on Thursday, so I walked over to a little coffee shop to grab a coffee. At the last minute I asked for a pain au chocolat. I gathered my coffee and treat and settled in at table with a view of the door. The place wasn’t busy at first, then a stream of people started to pour in. I sat there with my coffee and croissant, just people watching. A young woman sat at a table near me, her back turned from me. A few minutes later a young man walked by and stopped to ask her if her avocado toast was any good. She replied that it was and he moved on to settle at his own table.

I watched a woman secure the leash of her little dog to a table outside and then go in. The little dog watched and waited for her return. I watched as people left, passing the dog without a notice. How can you just walk by and not even say “hello puppy!”? A few runners were still out on their morning runs, probably near the end of their run. I wondered what all these people could possibly be doing. It was 9:00 AM on a Thursday. Where did these people work? I’m sure some were students, some retired. It’s possible that some were headed to work in one of the shops in the area that didn’t open until 10:00. Possibly some of the people getting coffee were actual tourists. I recognized some typical touristy clothings, new Kansas City t-shirts.

I sat there speculating about the lives of these people, but they could easily have the same speculations about me sitting in a cafe late on a Thursday morning. I myself am like a tourist without doing all the touristy things. Alone, in a cafe on a weekday morning with minimal commitments and even those are commitments only for myself, feels decadent. A treat. A treat that should not be this rare. A treat that shouldn’t be a treat. It is moments like this that leave me asking why do I put off doing things like this. I get a personal day every year and it sits there lingering while I use up vacation days or sick days. I’m even sparing with my vacation and sick days, saving up for I don’t know what. Later in the day, I cried on the massage table while the therapist pressed out tiny knots between my back ribs. She spent so much time on my shoulders that she left little time for the rest of my body. My upper back feels like it’s been beaten with a ball peen hammer today, my punishment for not taking care of myself sooner.

I’m trying real hard to focus only on the things I can control. I am trying real hard to tuck in moments of joy, to do more dancing, to leave space for being silly. Today, I am grateful for the moments this week when I remembered to leave space for the joy, the dancing and the silliness.

SOURED

The first quote in my new Saturday morning journal is something from Amelia Earhart and because Michael left multiple pages between the quotes, I have spent multiple Saturdays on the same story. The story that came forth was one of a woman trying to make a loaf of bread from a sourdough starter she had also created. So, it’s an autobiographical tale. I had left off the previous Saturday with the woman, Amber, eyeing her sourdough starter with suspicion. When I picked up the thread from there, I wrote about coming from a family that didn’t bake loaves of bread. This is true. We baked cakes, cookies and pies. Cornbread and biscuits. Rolls for Thanksgiving dinner. Never loaves of bread. I was raised in the west by people raised in the south. The leavening agent of choice was baking powder or backing soda and yeast sold in tiny square packets. Sourdough was something someone made in the north, on a coast.

I am not genetically predisposed for baking a loaf of sourdough bread.

Yet…I keep trying, tossing my failed attempts into the garbage each week.

As I tossed the latest failed attempt, Michael told me for the thousandth time about how he used to make really good bread. He worked at Subway and Planet Sub in his late teens, early twenties. So he knows how to make corporate bread for the masses. Then he asked if I just wanted him to make me a loaf bread, obviously oblivious and clueless about my motivations for my own attempts at making a loaf of bread. The truth is, I could also make a really good loaf of bread using the very same method Michael would probably use. I too have done this thousands of times. What I have not done, is create a loaf of sourdough bread with a crispy outside and a light, airy inside. I have not produced anything I want to slather with butter and jam or smashed avocado. Not ever. Not with the old starter and for sure not with this new one.

But it doesn’t keep me from trying.

Michael keeps asking me what he can do to help with the things I’ve been worrying about. “What would be easier for you?” is his go-to question. The answer I never give him, the truth, is that what would be easier is not have to answer the question at all. Just step in and take some action. He still hasn’t learned that while I am a very independent woman, it sure is nice to have someone else just step in and do something without having to be asked or told. You see it needs to be done, so you do it. But in all fairness, there is nothing I can do to fix or change or make things easier for myself either. I just have to accept the process and give in to the knowledge that there is nothing I can do.

All this time, while making my sourdough bread, I have meticulously weighed flour and water. I have had complete control over the ingredients, yet no control over the outcome of mixing those things together. And that’s the lesson. Each batch of bread is a reminder that there are only parts of a situation that you have control over. The moment I place the dough into the oven, I loose all control over what kind of loaf of bread it’s going to turn out to be. I just have to wait and see. If it fails, it fails and I just try again maybe with a different recipe or doing more to adjust the temperature of the house to accommodate a better rise. The important part is that I try again. And again. And again. And again. With each attempt, leaning into the unknown, knowing that I made an effort. I carefully weighed and measured.

All that’s left is the wait and see part.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Tuesday, we had a blood drive at work and when I went to sign in, they looked at my blood type and basically said I had good juice and asked if they could take extra. I shrugged while saying “sure” and they hooked me up to a machine named Alex. I squeezed a squishy heart for about forty minutes until the machine malfunctioned and the nurse declared that I had done enough. I said “Great!” and hopped off the table, grabbed a Sprite and bag of Veggie Wheat Crackers (I love these!) and went back to my desk. About an hour later, I went to meet my new intern. I was sitting in my exam room and decided that I no longer needed my bandage from the blood drive, so I ripped it off. Then I started bleeding. My new intern came into the exam room while I was rummaging around through drawers looking for a bandaid. I said “I’m not a junky. I need a bandaid.” New intern hesitantly said ‘okay’ before handing over a bandaid.

Everything was fine after that. She said absolutely nothing about the scale numbers, but did mention that her mother found some drug helpful with relieving hot flashes. Meaning, I am probably close to the same age as her mom. My new intern could have been my kid. Awesome. She talked me into getting my flu shot and then said we’d talk after I got blood work done next week. Then she started checking for swollen ankles starting with the right one and when she moved to the left one, I said “Yeah…that’s going to be swollen.” Then I told her what I did. She was only concerned about how I was managing the pain. I told her I’ve been managing with ice and grit teeth. She did not think I was hilarious. It was the weirdest meet-and-greet, but she didn’t sound like she had plans to drastically change what’s already working.

The ankle feels mostly better and I have started walking Josephine in the mornings again. The strange thing is that when I fell, the plantar fasciitis pain in the right foot, completely disappeared. Now that the left foot is healing, the pain in the right heel is back. My body has decided that I can only have one injured foot at a time. That is very generous. Meanwhile, I found a shirt that perfectly describes me and I ordered it through Amazon. It’s basically a bloody, dirty t-shirt with I’m Fine printed across the chest. For one whole day, when you asked Alexa about our notifications she would say things like “your bloody shirt will arrive today” or “your bloody shirt has been delivered.” And all of that makes up for the fact that the shirt is a little smaller than I’d hoped for. Michael said we need a Halloween party to attend and I said “whatever. I’m wearing this to work on Friday.” This is not a Halloween shirt, but an any occasion T.

I’m meeting Nurse Jenn for lunch today at the Nelson so we can get a sneak peak at the new Hokusai: Waves of Inspiration exhibit and then we’ll eat fancy lunch in the Roselle Court. It just dawned on me that this sounds like a retired ladies activity and if this is what my retired self is going to be actively doing, I’m ready for it. I’m all in. More of this please. It was recommended (Amani) that I need to have some me time. Lunch with Nurse Jenn is part of that. Next week, I have a dentist appointment followed by a chiropractor appointment and I decided that this was a great time to use my personal day. I went ahead and booked a massage for that afternoon.

Now I recognize that booking a massage is only a small step in the right direction, that I need to carve out time everyday just to care for myself. I am working on this. I am getting myself organized and putting me (not events) onto my calendar. And then sticking to that calendar. Follow through is sometimes not my strong suit when the subject is me. There’s also a tiny bit of me that thinks I shouldn’t bother with me until next year. This year is practically over. Make a resolution. Do better in 2025. Then I slap myself like Cher does to Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck. Time is relative! The concept of years is a social construct of organization. What I really mean to say is that I am working on getting myself out of this current glitch mode. The first step is admitting when you are in glitch mode, not just mentally inside your own head. For me, typing it out for my whole community to see is a huge motivator for getting myself together. Because I don’t want you to know that I am in glitch mode. I want to be able to share a better version of myself.

This week, I am very grateful to have a community who makes me feel safe enough to share glitch moments. I am grateful for a community that roots or each other.

I'M FINE

Last Thursday, I was in the middle of my morning walk with Josephine when I stepped and then rolled on a walnut ball. I twisted my left ankle and fell hard onto the sidewalk, scraping my knee and the palms of my hands. I laid there for a few minutes wondering if I was dead or just broken. Then I carefully peeled my body from the ground and hobbled home. And I treated the day like any other day despite having an ankle the size of a grapefruit and a bloody knee. I went to my chiropractor and literally said to her “I do not have time to take care of my body right now. Pop things together and let’s go.” RICE doesn’t work for someone who finds it impossible to be still.

Now, I have been sitting a lot with my foot propped up. In the evenings, I have been sitting with an ice pack draped over my ankle. I also have not taken Josephine on a morning walk since last Thursday. I am sitting at my desk now and stressing about the number of steps I am not getting today. I hardly ever sit at my desk. I’m mostly always standing because sitting is the new poison. I have an appointment this week for my yearly cholesterol checkup and my doctor is a new intern. I get a new one every two years, but this one didn’t want to authorize blood work before we meet. So I guess we’ll talk about my weight and my sporadic exercise routine. I can show her the lovely shades of purple and blue surrounding my left ankle. I can talk to my doctor about how I’m really trying to incorporate exercise into my daily life even though I’d really like to be taking a nap.

I kind of feel little bit like Artax stuck in the Swamp of Sadness.

About a month ago, I started my own sourdough starter. I had let my old one rot and die in the fridge and since I had already replaced it twice by asking my work friend for some of his, I didn’t feel like I could ask again. Also, I thought that by making my own starter, I might be more vested in taking care of it. Olga. I’ve named her Olga and she looks bubbly and smells ripe. I think it’s working but I have spent the last two weekends testing it out by trying to make a loaf of bread. Both experiments have produced hard dense, discus like structures that are very wet on the inside. To be fair, I never really made a spectacular loaf of bread with the old starter. It was mostly used to make spectacular pizza crust and maybe that’s how I should be testing out Olga. But I just want to get a loaf bread right. This feels like something I should be good at. Wait…this is something I used to be good at. The number of loaves of wheat bread I baked during my 4-H years was equivalent to a bakery and the bread was good. We liked eating the bread. All I can do now is produce lumps of dense dough very similar to the shape of my body.

Lump of my lump.

I get that I have a lot of mental space and energy being spent on other things right now. I have a day job that requires brain power and problem solving. I’m teaching a four week yoga session on building up a strong and healthy plank pose. I’m still teaching chair yoga once a week. I am always thinking about a current family situation and ‘always thinking’ really should translate to ‘always worrying’. Things will settle and be easier…next week…next month…next year. This is what I keep telling myself. I will be able to commit to my own body once some other things are settled. Once I’ve healed.

Or once I’ve made a decent loaf of sourdough bread.