Things About Chasing Tail(s)

I've figured out that life is a never ending game of tail chasing. Either you're chasing someone else's tail or you're chasing your own tail of self-identity. If you're lucky, the game of chasing tail that does not belong to you will be short lived and the victory will remain for ages. Or, if you're like me, it's an endless game of both. Many of us find ourselves in the confusing world of perpetual self-tail chasing along with the constantly frustrating and disillusioning chase of tail that isn't our own.

I've got no advice to offer on the subject of chasing the tails of others since I have little success from which to draw, but I am gradually learning a thing or two about chasing my own tail. 

Lately (loosely translated: all the time in my whole life), I find myself in the midst of an identity crisis. When I was 19.5 years old it was the teenager fresh from the bunkbeds of a shared room with a little sister to the bumperpad-to-bumperbad cribs of two small infants in a studio apartment with a husband I barely knew. When I was 26 it was the almost-certified wildland firefighter banished from the practice controlled burn because it was "unsafe" for me at 6 months pregnant with child number four. At 32 it was the untapped teenage angst in the body of a single mom with four kids, three jobs and a full credit load of online college classes and a penchant for microbrews. I've always been seeking "myself," but it isn't until I got to be 41 that I realized that my "self" might be just as enigmatic to me as it was when I was three years old and climbing to the top of my Dad's Oak etageres to see if I could fly. But my "self" is also as familiar to me as the pillow I keep tucked between my arms every night. I know who I am. Sometimes, I just can't see the forest for the trees. 

Mark Manson talks about the diversification of identity, and I guess that's what I've always struggled with. I know how many things I am, and I know that a lot of those things don't fit the prescribed mold, or at least, not in the moment. Three year olds don't generally fly, even from a six-foot etagere. 19 year olds aren't the best mothers, unless they're a saint, like my younger sister might have been, or maybe even my Second Daughter given the chance (but thank you for waiting). Pregnant ladies aren't the best suited for wildland firefighters and 32 year olds should just stay away from microbrews, I've learned. 

But through it all I keep pushing, keep seeking"myself." And now I am 41. I am older and wiser and doing 41-year-old things. Going to my kid's ball games and graduation ceremonies. Paying my bills and having a savings account and learning the correct pronunciation for Roth IRA, etc. I wear jeans without holes (occasionally)(unwillingly) and craft lofty and condescending justifications for my tattoos. Deep inside though, I am still chasing my own tail. Trying to figure out just who I am, and the difference between what I WANT and what I NEED and who I AM. Those lines get blurry. But the definitive moment is always just barely out of reach. Like my tail.  

I always imagined that grown ups had no question about who they "are." They are just THEM. Doctors, teachers, mothers, transportation planners, rocket scientists. It seemed so simple. I thought maybe if I decided What to Be, that I would suddenly find this serenity and zen about self-identity that would once-and-for-all end my need to climb etageres. (By the way, if you haven't Googled etagere yet, you can click on the link.) But I've decided at least 23 times what to be when I grow up and I am still not completely sure that I can't fly. Because what IF?

So the tail-chase has continued. Sometimes I thought that if I caught the tail of someone else that I was chasing, I would suddenly KNOW. The epiphany of why I exist would descend upon me in an opaque and irrefutable destiny and all of my seeking would come to an end in the person that I belonged to. I'll admit, it seems to work for a year or two, maybe even close to a decade, especially if you bury your soul in the fabric of another person and/or community who Clearly Know What's Best For You and Don't Mind Telling You. But at the end of the day, or the decade, it's really up to you, or, in this case, up to me, to know who and what I am, and what's best for me, and if I know ANYTHING, it's that nobody can tell me What's Best for Me but my very own self. (I have at least 6 for-real psychologists who will back me up on this in their less-than-helpful-self-help-techniques. For a fee. )

But anyway, here I am, 41 and still chasing tail. Still slightly insecure about what I know about myself, but knowing, deep-down and just-the-same that I KNOW who I am. I am Liv. Not Liv the mom, Liv the firefighter, Liv the Writer, Liv the EMT, Liv the girlfriend, Liv the NOT girlfriend, Liv the former wife, Liv the messy, Liv the teacher, Liv the Cashier's Assistant, Liv the student, Liv the Avett Fanatic, Liv the emotionally unstable, Liv the self-aware (The psychologists told me that. For a fee.), Liv the beer girl, Liv the wannabe... I mean, yes, I AM all of those things... but I am not just one, I am every one, all of the time. And if Liv the writer is feeling angsty at Liv the mom's basketball game, then Liv the self-aware can take the steps to do what she needs to do and get the words out. And if Liv the former wife (please review my stern disapproval of "ex" terminology") is making a mess of Liv the girlfriend, or even Liv the NOT girlfriend, then Liv the self-reliant can make the adjustments she needs to make because ALL of those things in me have given me the tools to adapt. 

Chasing tail makes the world go 'round, as it happens, both biologically and psychologically. It's the ones of us that keep seeking and keep asking questions, like "Why am I cooking french fries at 41 years old?" that make life bigger than a single wide mobile home and a 1992 Ford Escort. Not that there's any shame in starting there, Daughter with said vehicle. 

Mark Manson, whom I clearly revere and tend to overcite, says that the idea of seeking your passion is bunk, because we're already putting our time into the things we're passionate about. For some of us, that's a 9-5 job that gets us where we need to be financially, a legitimate passion to pursue. For some of us, that's hours of journaling hopeless love letters that will be burned, unread at a later date. I know people in both camps - some more intimately than others, and I believe it's true that we put our money (read:time/energy) where our real passion lies. For me, when I get writer's cramp from journaling, it seems to be at the local brewery. I am not ashamed. I am me. And I've got some fine tail to keep chasing. Plus I MIGHT be able to fly. Who knows? 

Did I mention Liv the Whisky Drinker?

Things About Beer, and Words

Today, it happened. Today, as I sat cozied up to the bar at my favorite brewery, some guy came up next to me and started talking beer. It wasn't ten minutes into the conversation that he asked me if I was the "one who writes the stories in the paper." I answered in the affirmative and he said he recognized me from the headshot with my beer column. This means I am famous. This makes me a celebrity. I have arrived. I will be selling autographs later.

It's not really that I am famous. It's really just that beer is the great equalizer. It brings people together and levels the playing field across generations, fashion sensibilities, mood swings... Beer is love. Beer makes every conversation bearable, every task (almost) enjoyable, and any company endurable. Beer is the best.

Lately I've been having a hard time writing. I mean, I can do the stuff I have to for work, but I have certainly been feeling less than inspired to spew original ideas that have any real merit. Running into somebody who reads, and actually digests, and maybe even enjoys, the words that I write, helps me feel like I am not always screaming my words into an echoless void, which might be a writer's worst nightmare - it's definitely mine.

When I left my post as the writer at the Silverado, it was more of a release of the THING that offered me a pathway into the community than it was quitting a job.  Much like beer lubricates a conversation, or a relationship, or a bad decision, writing for a local paper gave me an in. I let it go because I knew my heart was headed in a different direction, which it always it, the direction with less commitment and more insecurity, because I like adventures. And suffering. And I like having an "in," but I've found that I also like to sit back and observe in anonymous ambiguity, watching and waiting for inspiration.

I love writing about things I love. Like beer. Or history. Or psychoanalytical bullshit that I make up randomly. I don't love writing about things that I don't care about and then having to have conversations about those things with people who read my stories and expect me to be interested and/or have expertise, when in reality, I did what I was told. And doing what I am told has never been my favorite.

So back to the beer I go. For drinking and writing and making friends. And back to the writing, for thinking and understanding and being famous. Or not. Either way, as long as there's beer.

Things About Feathers and Angels and Heroes

In 2015, my life was forever changed during a very short visit to the shores of the Normandy region of Northern France. My fascination with the history of the World War II battles that transpired there had made it one of the most compelling places in the world for me to visit, and I finally got to, with my mom and Dad (who is also a war history buff) and sister. What I experienced in the brief time I spent there in the surf, on the once blood-soaked sands where the fate of the world changed forever on that June day so long ago, in the villages that still wore the battle scars from days and weeks and months of onslaught, and in the American Cemetery at Normandy - what I felt, I don’t know that I’ll ever have words for.

We stayed the night in an old bed and breakfast overlooking the town square of Sainte-Mère-Église. my bedroom window looked directly out on the bell tower of the old churchyard where American paratroopers had dropped, miles off course from their intended target, and many had met a quick end, falling into German guns like gifts from above. I stood in the moonlight by my window that warm June night in 2015, some 71 years later, and could see it all happening.

But the most surprising revelation on my trip to Normandy wasn’t on the beaches where the boats landed, or the cliffs that the Rangers scaled, or the cobblestones where thousands of American boots marched, although those places left a deep mark on me.

 The most peculiar and unexpected awakening happened for me at a castle. The most ironic part was that I wasn’t very happy to leave the battlefields and war museums to visit a castle, but my family was keen on it, so I went along grudgingly. The castle had once functioned monastery, and a prison, and many other things throughout the centuries.

The dramatic spires of the place jut up out of the ocean from the giant rock perch where Mont St Michel sits against the backdrop of the English Channel. The ancient church is an island when the tide comes in, and somewhat inconvenient to reach even when the tide is out. Surrounded by sea water or bog-like sand, the old monastery and it’s supporting village were built in and ever climbing spiral upward, as the rock allowed no more outward growth.

Toward the top of the man-made mountain is a Great Hall, where perhaps once Kings and nobles dined. Where once monks chanted in echoing reverence and solemn glory.  The ceiling of the great hall, arching nearly 30 feet overhead, was filled with floating white feathers. Suspended magically in the air by some invisible force.

I asked several people what the feathers meant. I went home and googled it, and found no cohesive answer.

While I was there, I sat in a courtyard and wrestled with my own soul over some of the never-ending personal battles I was facing. I was staring up at a golden statue of St. Michael, the patron saint of soldiers, law enforcement, fire fighters and EMTs. The monastery was dedicated to him, and emblems and depictions of the arch angel were everywhere.

I sat there, while my family milled about the passageways and halls of the ages old stone buildings, and I had a talk with St. Mike. I made him some promises, about keeping my faith for as long as he would keep my brothers and sisters safe. The cops I love and the soldiers. My firefighter daughter and all of my friends on the line. I promised I would hold fast to believing in the protection he offered and the reasons that so many people run bravely into the fray for the freedom and safety of others.

St. Mike answered me, in a way, with the feathers, which, three years later, I learned were part of an artists display for an evening event. But for me, they were the floating remnants of a battle between good and evil. Pieces of an angel's wings left suspended throughout the ages as he wrestled the dragon. I saw the fight between right and wrong, between freedom and tyranny, between danger and security being waged in a timeless space that continues every day that brave men and women engage in the battle.

Francesco Maffei, The Archangel Michael overthrowing Lucifer, ca. 1656

Shortly afterward, I had the feather of a Red Tailed Hawk tattooed on my arm, because those are the feathers of my homeland (now you know why!), and because I wanted a constant reminder of the war being waged and the pledge between me and St. Mike for my loved ones. Most days I wear his medal too, right next to my heart, where I hold the faith that good will always triumph, as it did on that fateful June day so long ago in Normandy, when thousands of heroes ran up against the dragon of evil and remain buried on that shore.

Normandy will always hold a very special place in my heart, and I can't wait to go back and have another chat with St. Mike about our deal and all the ones we are proud of.

Things About Crying in the Sink

I used to joke that all of my exes*, rather than being from Texas, were from Wisconsin. Back then I took some pride in the fact that other than the mere fact that I had more than one "ex*" to claim, there wasn't much else about my life that resembled a country song. The fact that they were from (as I think it should be called) the Middle East of the U.S.A., just meant that there was less deep-south heartbreak to correlate with my breakups, plus, my dogs were still alive and my kids were all smart and attractive, and nobody in my family had been thrown in jail in a couple of generations.

Lately, my bragging rights to a relatively melodrama free life have been circling the drain. Both my big dogs died, leaving me bereft and without a hound dog to ride shotgun in my pickup. My employment situation wavers perilously on the brink of the down-and-out blues, and my love life went tits up, relegating me to a life that is the smack dab epitome of a cry-in-the-sink country song.

Most of these things, with the exception of two dead dogs, I can boil down to matters of choice. My career path has been, to say the least, a meandering one, for which I make no apologies and generally thrive in the flexibility and enjoyment that I usually get out of it, however much stability is lacking. That's a choice I've made and I own it.

 In love, I can only blame my choices for the broken hearts I have borne. Either I chose the wrong guy, or I chose the wrong behavior. And maybe sometimes, like my recent past, I chose both.

I'd like to say that my choosing has gotten better over the years. Albeit much too gradual for my impatient taste - but I know that I have been choosing better and better in the men department and I know that as far as behavior goes, well, I wouldn't hardly recognize the girl I was ten years ago if I bumped into her today. I am getting better, no matter what they say.

But still, no matter how real those increments of improvement might be, they haven't arrived me at blissful perfection yet, and while the number and geographic diversity of my "exes*" have grown a little, so has my ability to be the kind of person that someday, when I choose the perfect guy, will make me nigh unto perfect myself, and I'll be singing the B side of that heartbreak album about heaven and having everything I ever wanted. Someday.


*Authors note: I am strongly adverse to the terminology of "exes" - I tell my girls that once a relationship ends, you aren't their anything, and they aren't yours. I don't like the ownership idea that it conveys. I have former husbands and past boyfriends (don't really like that word either...)... but they aren't "MY exes."

Things Lately

It's been a rough couple of months. I feel like I keep saying that over and over and the months get rougher rather than better. The sun is out now so that helps - it almost looks like we might have a spring after all, now that it's summer.

A few weeks ago I said goodbye to one of my all-time besties, my old hounder Truck. Truckles. Trucker. Truckladite. Even now, sitting in a conference room on the last few minutes of a lunch break at some sort of fire training, listening to my classmates talk about sales on RVs, I find myself choking back tears. Even now it's still too soon to talk about it. Maybe it always will be.

Since then it has been a marathon of work hours, training hours, writing deadlines, softball games, track meets, doctor appointments, surgeries, conference calls, multi-hour drives, etc, etc, etc, and never less than two of those at once, all day, every day.

And then there was the day that my romantic entanglement became disentangled. One day I have a boyfriend and Big Plans, and the next day I am single and not a plan on the horizon. I swing wildly back and forth between feeling the most lost I have ever felt and feeling wide open to new adventures, what ever they may be. Something big is coming. Something good is coming. Life is never what you expect.

In all of that, I am still learning. Or maybe I am learning more. I am learning that it's ok to not be ok. I am discovering that no matter how important and necessary you feel a person is in your life, the power they have is really your choice. I am finding out that absolutely NOTHING is so important that it should keep you from being true to yourself, proud of the path you've carved and honest to the people around you.

I am learning that I have a herd of badass kids that are more awesome than even I know, and I am truly grateful. I am learning that you can't underestimate the power of the love of Good People. And there are lots of Good People.

Things About Good People

I am not a Luke Bryan fan. Ima just get that out there right off the bat. But he's got this new song out and with some of the stuff that's been happening in my life lately, it fits the bill, and I can't avoid it.

I started a blog post about the things in my life that have been hard lately. I said goodbye to my old hound Trucker a few weeks ago. My kids are all growing up and facing Real Life struggles that I can't (and shouldn't) help bail them out of. My little pod of security that is my kids and dogs and small town life is unraveling in every direction, and the transition is hard. My life plays a little bit like a country song right now. But the bigger thing than all of that is the GOOD. The AMAZING things that have been happening. HUGE things and teeny things, but AWESOME things.

Because most people are good.

Some friends came and mowed my lawn, raking up piles of thick, wet grass with their bare hands after I asked just to borrow their lawnmower. They refused to let me help. Then a few days later, they showed up and dropped off a brand new lawnmower on my front porch. Not because I deserve it. Not because they're looking for credit... because they're good, kind people with big hearts in the middle of their own adversity. They're the kind of people I want to be.

Somebody else donated enough money to sponsor FIVE local Veterans to participate in the Catch 22 Memorial Day Shootout. I can't even tell you how big that is in my heart. For every business that I have marched in to, and every email I have sent, and phone call I have made (and I HATE talking on the phone) - this one donation made every step worth it. Because the donor (who asked to remain anonymous) is Good People. Like all of the local businesses who pitched in, big and small, to help out local vets. Good People.

I wrote about my friend awhile back, and her lifetime love that was slowly slipping away from her. An optimistic note from her and the love she has for him, in the hardest of hard times, give me faith that it's out there. Deep and abiding love. She's Good People.

When I am having a hard day, my kids, the ones I never give enough credit to, rally around me like my own little Secret Service Detail. Somehow even I raised some Good People. They're amazing.

I don't even have enough thank yous for all these Good People. But I love you all.

Things About 104

The other day I got to visit somebody who will be 104 in a few days. 104 years old - in human years, even - and she's got a quick tongue and a sharp wit and sometimes gets those two things confused, which, at 104 is Exactly All Right.

She told me that perhaps it was time for me to consider a new profession because what I do and the means of doing it can be rough on a body. She's not wrong. At 104, you aren't often wrong. She wasn't quite feeling herself, a little disoriented, as so she was in the hospital. She told us that if anything she said made sense that somebody should take note of it. If you're 104 and aware that you might be saying things that don't make sense, I think you're probably doing pretty well.

She said that she never planned on being 104 and wasn't quite sure how it happened. It just flew by, she said, and the closer she got to 104, the faster it seemed to come. Here I stand at 40, thinking it took me positively forever of doing All the Wrong Things to get here, and she says that 2.6 times my years happened so fast she can't account for it.

She said that she wasn't sure why God wanted her to be 104. That she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be doing. As if taking some time to visit the Critical Care Unit at the local hospital wasn't preoccupying her, or even important in the slightest.

At 104, she has plenty of advice to give, and absolutely no reason to not give it. She recommended thinking hard about my future, and how I want it to be, which is something that I tend to avoid because it's Scary. She said that I can do whatever I want. At 104, I guess she would be an expert. Maybe she became an expert from doing things other than what she wanted, or maybe she always did exactly what she wanted. Either way, it's good advice, because I CAN do anything I want.

She thinks being 104 isn't a big deal. It's just something that happens. Granted, it happens to less than .02% of the population in the U.S., but still... I don't think I have ever belonged to a demographic so elite. Other than percentage of Homeschooled U.S. Residents with the Last Name Stecker and Multiple Pet Dachshunds, or something ridiculous like that. Actually, there's probably a lot of us like that, so never mind. 104 is special. It's rare. Although researchers say that by the year 2050, that percentage will have grown nearly tenfold, so in another three decades, our odds of making it to that age improve greatly.

In the meantime, my 104 year old friend is a long term anomaly in a world with a shrinking attention span. She's pragmatic and practical, still sporting a sense of humor and an analytical eye for success and efficiency. She was born in 1914. She's seen this country through a half dozen wars, technological progression, economic depression, recession, and cultural revolution. When she was born, most homes didn't have electricity. Now most INDIVIDUALS have hand held devices that connect them instantly with The Whole World. When she was born, automobiles had only been commercially available in the U.S. for six years. In 1914, planes had barely gotten off the ground. When she was born, white males were the only legal voters.

Compared to the changes that she has witnessed, our own societal and cultural changes seem to be crawling at a snail's pace. It's hard to imagine, but it's easy to understand the black and white worldview that more than a century has given her. Of course I can do anything I want. Look at the last 100 years. Anything is possible. Who knows? I might live to be 104, and I can only hope, still possess a quick tongue and a sharp wit - only occasionally confusing the two.

The view from a 104 year old's home. She's got it figured out.

Things About That Time of the Year

Call it Spring Fever. Call it Cabin Fever. Call it discontent. It's that time of year again. The time when it's too warm for boots and too cold for flip flops and everything I try to wear is Exactly the Wrong Thing. The weather is having an identity crisis just like I am. The house is too stuffy and the yard is too mucky and the only thing that feels good is being in the car and cruising down the road to anywhere, slightly over the speed limit with loud music and somebody that doesn't annoy me. Or a dog.

Unfortunately it's also that time of year when it seems more important than ever that I remain gainfully employed and so I find myself cruising up the road to places I'd rather not go, slightly under the speed limit behind a chip truck (if you have to ask, then you've never been on HWY 25 to the Canadian border) that has just thrown a rock the size of a golf ball into my already cracked windshield. It's ok, I didn't like that windshield anyway.

Seems like of All the Years that I've been complaining, this one should be the least complain-worthy. I've got a brand new-to-me house, living in the "Big City," and all-in-all, thing are looking mighty upwards for me. And yet, here I am, with complaints to register in spite of it.

I was reminded the other day, while talking to Someone Amazing, that this is part of my cycle, something I go through every. single. year. Like in 2017, and in 2016  and again in 2016 , and in 2014, and a lot of other times in between and before and probably ever afterward. It's just part of my year. Part of appreciating the other seasons when I am happy to be home and snuggled in, waiting anxiously for the first snowfall of the year and getting Christmas Trees. Or escaping the sweltering heat with a cold beer in a shady hammock. Spring is a restless season for me. And that's ok. It makes me re-examine and re-evaluate where I am at and what I am doing. Sometimes I come out knowing I am on the right path, and sometimes I get to re-adjust. Discontent isn't bad if it moves us to the next step, or the next phase, or the next level of commitment to the thing that we have been dragging our feet about, like a retirement plan, or a book to write, or Someone Amazing.

The good news is I get to bust out soon. In a few days I will be on my way to sunshiney and oceany things in Mexico with people that don't annoy me. And then it will be time to get to work. Time to travel and be busy and be homesick and discontent that I don't have endless hour to kill in my stuffy house and mucky yard with somebodies that do annoy me. And dogs.

Things About Poohology

In answer to a flagrantly libelous article that went viral on Ranker, wherein the author made some wild extrapolations in regards to the characters of A. A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh books, I have this response: You are wrong. Cheryl Adams Richkoff, although your list-format blog post was based on the research of neurologists and pediatricians, namely Sarah E. Shea, Kevin Gordon, Ann Hawkins, Janet Kawchuk, and Donna Smith in a study in 2000, I have to question whether any of y'all have ever read even one of Milne's classic books. The assumptions about the psychological disorders that the playmates of the 100 Acre Wood suffer from over-analyze, overreach and overlook the most important theme of Milne's characters: childhood innocence and imagination. From my extensive research into the material, I believe Milne actually stumbled upon childlike versions of what are actually full fledged personality types in the psychological realm. So, Mr/Ms. Richkoff, Shea, Gordon, Hawkins, Kawchuck and Smith, try some Poohology on for size. I'm betting you're a bunch of Owls.

Poohology: a rough breakdown

Christopher Robin: The Reluctant Leader

"Christopher Robin came down from the Forest to the bridge, feeling all sunny and careless, and just as if twice nineteen didn't matter a bit, as it didn't on such a happy afternoon, and he thought that if he stood on the bottom rail of the bridge, and leant over, and watched the river slipping slowly away beneath him, then he would suddenly know everything that there was to be known, and he would be able to tell Pooh, who wasn't quite sure about some of it."

Christopher Robin is a young boy with very little life experience, yet in the eyes of his friends in the 100 Acre Wood, Christopher Robin is an unstoppable force of brilliance and a magnetic director of events. Christopher Robin is unintentionally the guiding voice to people all around him, in all walks of life, old or young, he is a natural, however accidental, leader. People look to him for advice and direction, and unwittingly draw insight from every casual remark. Christopher Robin does not seek followers, nor consider himself much of a leader. He is charismatic but matter of fact. He is pragmatic and black-and-white about issues. He is logical and develops solutions without really trying. Christopher Robin’s weakness is a certain ambivalence to his ignorance. He is the master of fake-it-til-you-make it, and can lead the blind blindly into chaos and mayhem. A wiser and more mature Christopher Robin begins to operate in awareness of his followers and make choices based on the outcome for all. He is confident (externally), curious and occasionally prideful. He can be defensive, or humble, depending on maturity and context. Christopher Robin is a loyal friend unless his aptitude is questioned. He can easily walk away from a person that threatens his self-confidence and perceived position in life. He usually has many casual friends and one or two close confidences. Even with those he is deliberate and guarded in communication. Vulnerability is a rare trait for Christopher Robin, but demonstrates health and maturity. He works well with all of the other characters, but has a special fondness for Pooh (the abstract intellectual) and Piglet (the selfless loyalist). He is a problem solver and an instigator. He is relied upon heavily by all of the other characters. He thrives on taking care of the others and being dependable and trusted. He is a hard worker but can be easily misled or distracted sometimes, this also depends on maturity and humility.

“Always remember... Yo are braver than you believe. Stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.”

Winnie The Pooh: The Abstract Intellectual

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."

Nobody quite knows where Pooh comes up with his brilliant ideas, but somehow, they always make sense. Getting from point A to point B is usually a profoundly complex route through Pooh’s stuffed-with-fluff head, but he gets there, and usually right on time. Pooh is predictable, dependable, logical in his own strange way, and a steady emotional anchor. A mature and healthy Pooh provides an atmosphere of safety and reliability to all of the characters, all though they lose patience with his round-about reasoning. He is not usually very industrious, but will pitch in when asked, and promptly get distracted. He is usually not a multitasker. Winnie the Pooh is somewhat of a mystery to many of the other characters. He is usually well liked, but often held at arms length. He works best with Piglet, who serves as his interpreter to concrete thinkers like Rabbit and Tigger and Kanga. Pooh is quite intelligent, but not always in a practical way. His solutions are not always implementable, but his thought processes provoke some fascinating insights. Characters like Piglet and Roo, and occasionally Tigger, are drawn to his rambling intelligence and can be followers. Pooh is usually somewhat unaware of the other characters and their needs. He can be somewhat introspective and be blissfully unaware of crises around him. When these problems are pointed out to them, he is eager to help, and sometimes happens to land on a stroke of appropriate genius. He is a giver, but he is also mildly greedy. He cares deeply for people but an immature Pooh does not communicate this very well. He can come across as self-focused and uncaring. Pooh likes everyone but does not feel the need to seek out or pursue relationships, other than with Christopher Robin. Most friendships come find him, and if they go away, he won’t necessarily notice.

Piglet: The Selfless Loyalist

"And then Piglet did a Noble Thing... 'Yes, it's just the house for Owl,' he said grandly. 'And I hope he'll be very happy in it.' And then he gulped twice, because he had been very happy in it himself."

Piglet is an odd little man. He is fiercely loyal, to the death, of his friends and perhaps even total

strangers – when it comes to the protection of someone else, he is fearless and proactive. His self image is usually frail enough that he can’t see the same course of action in his own defense and is often taken advantage of by characters who prey on his loyalty. Piglet is intelligent and very logical. He is successful in most endeavors and unfortunately, much of his success is usurped either intentionally by unhealthy individuals or unintentionally by unaware characters like Pooh and Owl. Piglet will be the last one to state his own needs, but he is a homebody and is very particular about his own lifestyle. He is expressive in his own comfort zone, but does not feel the need to broadcast his individuality. He would very much rather not ever be the center of attention, and when he springs to someone else’s defense, his only holdback is the realization that he is drawing attention to himself. Usually a price he is willing to pay. Piglet can ultimately develop hard feelings and become cynical, but he compartmentalizes these feelings and tries to pare out bad relationships. He is a one-friend kind of guy usually. He gets along with most characters but will only invest heavily in one or two characters at a time. He likes Pooh because Pooh needs an advocate, and Piglet is just the man. He and Rabbit identify in certain areas, as well as Kanga, but Tigger overwhelms and annoys Piglet usually, unless Pooh is there to run interference. Piglet avoids conflict and is a peacemaker, usually at his own expense. He is also a little bit prideful, and easily embarrassed (refer to center of attention discussion before). He doesn’t handle attention very well, negative or positive, and would rather just not be noticed.

"Piglet lay there, wondering what had happened. At first he thought that the whole world had blown up; and then he thought that perhaps only the forest part of it had; and then he thought that perhaps only he had, and he was now alone in the moon or somewhere, and he would never see Christopher Robin or Pooh or Eeyore again. And then he thought, 'Well, even if I'm in the moon, I needn't be face downwards all the time,' so he got cautiously up and looked about him."


Eeyore: The Emotional Realist

“We can’t all and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

Thanks to Walt Disney, everybody has got Eeyore pegged all wrong. Eeyore is a realist. He sees things the way they are, in black and white. He has good days and bad days and expresses them very openly and emotionally. While everyone else can make the most of a bad situation Eeyore will patiently face the negative and hope for better luck next time. Eeyore is intelligent and thoughtful, aware of others and their needs to a fault. Eeyore can be depressive or exuberantly joyful. He is creative whether he is talented and artistic or not. He is a plodder. He keeps going, a slow and steady pace, regardless of the situation. He is a great friend for those that can tolerate the emotions he wears on his sleeve. He’s somewhat competitive and enjoys a good friendly debate. He doesn’t like conflict but he does enjoy negotiation. He has utmost respect for Christopher Robin for his creativity, but can see CR’s haphazard underqualifications. Eeyore acknowledges Rabbit as the leader he is but loses patience with Rabbit’s disconnected emotions. Eeyore and Tigger have a love hate relationship because they are the most emotionally expressive characters, and often find themselves in direct opposition, i.e. the thing that makes Tigger exuberant is often Eeyore’s bain, and vise-versa. He is good friends with Piglet and one of the only characters intuitive enough to not abuse Piglets’s selflessness. He is one of Piglet’s only defenders. Eeyore has little use for rambling philosophies or bloviating. Pooh and Owl often annoy him, as he can be somewhat selfish and doesn’t like to waste time or energy on things that seem vain or useless to him. He does not like to be mothered or bossed around but he can establish a good rapport with Kanga and Rabbit. Surprisingly, Eeyore gets along well with Roo, and can tolerate immature characters better than most, perhaps because they also wear their emotions honestly and unabashedly.

“'Oh, Eeyore, you are wet!' said Piglet, feeling him. Eeyore shook himself, and asked somebody to explain to Piglet what happened when you had been inside a river for quite a long time.” 

Tigger: The Well Intentioned Blunderer

'“Oh Tigger, where are your manners?”
“I don’t know, but I bet they’re having more fun than I am.”'

Tigger is a whirlwind of emotion and energy and spastic motivation. He is intelligent but so often distracted that his thoughts don’t ever connect. Tigger likes almost every one immensely, but his chief concern is being known for who he really is,“the only one”. Tigger is compelled to feel unique. He becomes intolerable when his uniqueness is threatened or the attention is not fully on him. Tigger is highly opinionated but lacks the pride that causes conflict in this area. He is overwhelmingly curious and opposing opinions trigger more questions in his mind, which he will pursue until he gets distracted. Tigger rarely follows something through to absolute completion. He is full of big ideas and great beginning energy, but finds it hard to stay on target until the end. Most of the other characters enjoy the entertainment that Tigger provides, and calculate the loss that Tigger’s unintentional clumsiness may cost as well worth the friendship. Tigger is the character that will make everyone else late for an event, or invite too many people, or commit social faux paus without even knowing there are lines to be crossed. He creates a headache for Rabbit who truly admires his wanton joy, but feels compelled to complain about it. They are a surprisingly strong relationship, though both will protest. Tigger can also become depressed, and his saddest moments make Eeyore look like a clown. He gets along with Pooh and Owl but is easily bored with their rambling. He and Piglet often end up toe to toe because Tigger has carelessly offended another character, a wrong which Piglet feels compelled to right. Tigger is brave and will try anything. He responds to dares and bets and sometimes he talks bigger than he can follow through on, which again results in conflict between characters. Tigger loves to take care of others, but can’t usually think outside of his own tastes and preferences, and has difficulty providing needs that aren’t similar to his. His energy is infectious and for all of the damage he inflicts accidentally, he is usually a welcome part of anything going on in the woods. Tigger can also be a work-horse, and is far from lazy. He can be a good multitasker when he is healthy and mature.

“Just because an animal is large, it doesn't mean he doesn't want kindness; however big Tigger seems to be, remember that he wants as much kindness as Roo.” 

Rabbit: The Effective Perfectionist

"'Rabbit's clever,' said Pooh thoughtfully.
'Yes,' said Piglet, 'Rabbit's clever.'
'And he has Brain.'
'Yes,' said Piglet, 'Rabbit has Brain.'
There was a long silence.
'I suppose,' said Pooh, 'that that's why he never understands anything.'"

While it’s true that Rabbit is somewhat of a worrier, no other character in the hundred acre wood is as productive and logical. Rabbit is one of the only characters that makes things happen. Rabbit is also one of the few characters that can save the others from the brink of disaster and recover from most catastrophes. Rabbit thinks ahead. He sees logical solutions very clearly, and operates mostly in black and white. He is usually extroverted, an excellent multi-tasker, and gets along well with most characters. Tigger tries his patience to no end, but also give him a perpetual project. An unhealthy Rabbit can become very manipulative, and with his keen tongue and intellect, can easily accomplish his goals at the expense of others. A healthy Rabbit reaches these goals by using cynergistic and cooperative methods. Rabbit is the only character that can really pull the whole crew together to make an absolute success. He is detail oriented and very observant. He cares for others and will bend over backwards to provide for them according to very formulaic and logical needs. He can be very good at controlling his emotions, but he feels things very strongly and is good at expressing himself. He is vociferous and very much a take-charge type. While he doesn’t care about being the center of attention, he is very much concerned with being effective and productive, and will dominate the group to make things happen. He can be smart almost to the point of manipulation in getting the ear of Christopher Robin to coordinate plans. Rabbit has a very tender side that is nurturing and selfless. But for Rabbit, everything must be done in the right way, the correct order, and meet all of the rigid standards he has set for himself and everyone else. Rabbit goes through occasional burn out, but always bounces back to keep the group functioning. Kanga is one of his biggest supports, but they often disagree on implementation tactics. 

"'Ah!' said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them."

Owl: The Meandering Reasoner

“Owl explained about the Necessary Dorsal Muscles. He had explained this to Pooh and Christopher Robin once before and had been waiting for a chance to do it again, because it is a thing you can easily explain twice before anybody knows what you are talking about.”

Owl’s strength is his knowledge retention and perpetual quest for information. While he may lack self and others awareness, he can usually make up for it by providing necessary information to the people in his life. Often detached from the bigger picture, Owl gets somewhat preoccupied with his own interests and forgets that everyone around him doesn’t share this preoccupation. Many Owls become specialists in a specific field because they are keenly interested in something, although some become general knowledge hounds and might be drawn to teaching or other information-based work. Whole Owl is very intelligent, common sense and basic things like spelling sometimes escape him. He is more brilliant than practical, in many cases.
  Owl’s concern for others is manifest in helpful ideas and suggestions usually rather than actions. He often provides direction (which may or may not be practical and useful) and instruction for the doers around him. He can be an effective leader, but won’t generally be a great follower or employee. Owl has a sensitive ego that needs to be stroked, but is also fairly good at self-generated confidence, based on his objective knowledge of his own skill level or useful contribution. Owl is not highly emotional or easily swayed but misfortune of his own or that of others. He’s fairly pragmatic and practical, if he’s not too much in his own head.

“‘Well,’ said Owl, “the customary procedure in such cases is as follows.’”
“Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTERED TOAST”

Kanga: the Intuitive Caretaker

“'I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?'" 'Hardly at all,' said Kanga"
Kanga is everybody’s mother. Always in tune with the needs of the people around her, she can also project forward and anticipate future needs. She’s meticulous and thorough in her administration, but organizationally she operates according to a very personalized system. Kanga is a planner and does not like to stray from the designated pathway. She is reticent to relinquish control or follow blindly without explicit understanding. Kanga is usually a homebody - not adverse to socializing, but not seeking it out. She cares deeply for the ones closest to her. More in tune to the needs of those around her, whether they agree or not, Kanga is more empathetic than Rabbit, with whom she has quite a bit in common. Fastidious and something of a worrier at times, she is happiest in a world that she feels in control of. Extremely focused and not easily distracted, it takes quite a bit to get Kanga to engage in frivolous behaviour except very occasionally.

"She knew at once that, however big Tigger seemed to be, he wanted as much kindness as Roo."

“Now it happened that Kanga felt rather motherly that morning, and Wanting to Count Things—like Roo's vests, and how many pieces of soap there were left.”



Authors note: The Roo personality is a questionable standalone. Originally, I considered Roo the representation of childhood, a follower-type persona (see Stage One of Mark Manson’s four life stages) that we all eventually grow out of. That being said, I am re-examining the Roo character and am including him in the lineup for the time being.
Roo: the Effervescent Follower

Roo is the one you want on your team. Perpetually enthusiastic and courageous, his curiosity about life is contagious. What he lacks in organizational skills he makes up for in zeal and willing participation. Arguably the universal embodiment of childlikeness, some Roos never grow up. He might make a great employee, but is dangerous in a leadership position a he is usually not in tune with the bigger picture or very good and thinking or planning ahead.

Things About Thoughts

The thing about the human mind is it's a closed loop. I mean, things get in. Lots of things, all the time - we are introducing new information into the little speed track in our head. But once something is in there, it never leaves. Even when you think it does. Even when you can't remember and you want to... it's still in there. Even the things you want to get out of your brain, they circle around and around and around. Like that time you saw your great uncle in his maroon underwear. Or that Selena Gomez song. It's there for keeps. Sure, you can practice real hard at filing those undesirables away and make a habit of repressing them. You might even be successful at forgetting most of the lyrics, but it will ALWAYS be there, somewhere.

I am not a bible thumper, usually, but there are a couple verses that I memorized as a kid that still surface in my thoughts at semi-useful times. One of them is the verse from Second Corinthians (yes, that's a real book in the bible, you heathen) that talks about taking every thought captive. Sure, it goes on to talk about obedience, blah blah, and in context it's about vain thoughts that are irreverent, which might be the thing in the world that I am best at, but the practice it refers to is a useful one.

"...Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ..." 

2 Corinthians 10:5 (KJV - because I may be a rebel, but I am an orthodox rebel)

This is one of my antidotes to anxiety. To grab the thoughts swirling inside my head, sit them down and try to filter them through an objective lens. It doesn't always work, but sometimes just the exercise of it gets my mind into a different rut than the panicked frenzy that it was prior to the attempt. And when you think about it, it's pretty much a rephrasing of what the great stoic philosopher Seneca said, that we suffer more often in our imagination than in reality.

“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality”

― Seneca

If I had a nickel for every time some random thought crept into my mind without any real basis and wrought havoc on my soul, I'd be a zillionaire. We all do it. At least I think we do. Or maybe I am just fucked up beyond all recognition. Thoughts like "nobody even likes me." Or "I'm such a dog," (welcome back, 1988). Or "the way he said goodbye - he was so happy to leave me..." or "my kids can't even stand me" - that's a good one. Where do these thoughts come from? If I knew, I would have the thought generator fired. But I can't, so there they are, forever in my mind. I can grab them one at a time and have a Reasonable Conversation with myself about the fact that they are erroneous. I might even be able to convince myself, but after awhile, a new wave of trauma, real or imagined, will wash them all out of the places where I have them neatly filed and they will slam into the walls of my mind with new ferocity.

And the waves never stop coming. Sometimes it's a tsunami after a break-up, or the death of a loved one, or when Hannah Montana quit being available on Netflix. Sometimes it's the gentle persistent lap of repeated hurts over time that erode the banks where we have stored those useless, baseless thoughts. Sometimes it's a hurricane of stress and life changes that leave everything in your mind topsy turvy and disheveled. Sometimes there are just SO MANY THINGS on your mind that it begins to pile up like an episode of hoarders and the bad thoughts are all mixed in with the good ones and the necessary ones and the memories and they begin to tarnish everything. 

How do we keep that shit cleaned up? I guess it's one thought at a time, just like a recovering hoarder, or after a hurricane. One by one, taking them captive, looking at them, putting them back where they belong. I guess trying to be prepared for the waves, trying to catch them when they're falling out of the vault, before they impact the serenity and stability of your day, of your imagination. Before they become worry and anxiety. Lock that shit up. It will never be completely gone, but you can see it for what it is and file it away and keep an eye on it so it will have a harder time escaping next time. 

There's no perfectly beautiful solution, because there is no perfectly beautiful mind - except Russel Crowe's, of course. But there are steps, there is a pathway to being less crazy. I've been walking it for awhile, in my own meandering and imperfect fashion. The bible talked about it to the Corinthians. Seneca said it before Jesus was an itch in the Holy Spirit's toga. It's a thing. 

Human minds have been inventing fear and trouble with their minds since they've began using them. Check out the wild imaginations of the earliest cave artists if you don't believe me. Our minds are the monsters that haunt us. Our mission is to conquer them. 

Things About Spilled Milk

Today I am teaching high school. Today, some jackoff in the high school thought it would be funny to put a bag of rotten milk (yes, our milk comes in bags here) in another kid's locker for him to discover. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but the milk, WELL past it's prime, was discovered and aerosolized somewhere in or around the school and the smell has persisted for HOURS. The sickly-sweet-sour smell of rotten, solidified milk. Smashed into the carpet, thrown out on the sidewalk, tracked by dozens of careless feet through every classroom, rotten milk.

This is EXACTLY how bullying works. You think you're picking on one dumb kid. You think it's funny. Then you find yourself staring down the barrel of inescapable stench that YOU CAUSED. Think about this. Every practical joke you played. Every blind eye you turned on the other kids that were being unkind... guess who gets to enjoy the aftermath? We all do.

We teach our kids to be kind to others. We model this behavior. We call them right down on the carpet if we catch them not being kind. Cause if we don't, the next thing you know they're shoving rotten milk in That One Kid's locker and then when That One Kid comes back in two years and shoots everybody in his class, everybody will say, "but why?"

Milk. That's why. The rotten stench of milk. For days. Lingering. Milk on top of all the other practical jokes and mean names and unkind words and just plain heartless behavior. There's always milk behind the why. Just because the smell isn't always there doesn't mean the repercussions won't be.

Even if there's real mental illness, which there might be. Even if they have good parents, which they usually don't. Even if they're smart, or dumb or ugly, or weird... look back in the lives of all of these murderers who are taking innocent lives and you will find milk. Some people find inspiration in the milk and go on to create beautiful things. Lucky for us, only a few of them come back with their rifles. Lucky only a few just kill themselves. But it's a few too many.

Just because it's not your locker. Just because you didn't put the milk there. Just because you weren't involved... you're still smelling the milk. You can't get away from it. Your friends can't. They'll wear the stench home on their clothing.

Actions have consequences. Spilled rotten milk is worth crying over when it's used as a weapon. When it's used to communicate rejection and hate. It's not funny. It's not kind. It's deadly.

We have to see the milk for what it really is, the first symptom of a lethal condition.

Kids will always be kids. That's why we're here, to remind them, to chastise them, not to make excuses for their behavior or justify their poor choices. We're here to help them learn from the spilled milk before it becomes spilled blood.

After all, we're all in this together.

Things About the Whelm

"I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be - whelmed?" - Chastity, 10 Things I Hate About You 

it's a long road to... somewhere.

I am some level of whelmed right now.  I am overwhelmed with the amount of mental and emotional energy that I'm supposed to be putting into a lot of things right now, but I am underwhelmed with the payoff of said things in the near future. Sure, they're investments in the bright and beautiful down-the-road, or whatnot, but being an instant gratification kind of a girl, I find myself making up for the over and the under whelming by avoiding it all and throwing tantrums. Does being caught right in the middle make me just whelmed? Or is it cabin fever? I feel bad calling it that since I get out to do more cool things than a lot of people I know, and I really can't complain. Even so, here I am, discontent as always, complaining.

All the energy goes out, nothing comes back in except some piddly paychecks and well meaning criticism. It's frustrating. I'm not even sure what to look forward to because nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. It's Friday. For some people, the weekend means a break. For me it means more work and instability than the other days. I've grown to distrust weekends with their shiny attractiveness and poor followthrough. They're just like every other day of the week. Disappointing. They just keep coming and going and I am stuck running in place on the slimy log of time as it rolls in the sludge, trying not to fall off into the pit of despair.

The problem I have, according to some of the self-help books I am reading, is two fold. 1) I give too many f***s about things I shouldn't (i.e. everything), and 2) I bought into the bull crap that life is supposed to be good, or pleasant, or that happiness actually matters. I'm trying hard to give less f***s. But I still can't understand why we're here if we spend the few years we have just being miserable so that we can die. And here we circle back to the meaning of life and ages-old rhetoric of "bringing glory to god" "being a good person" "making a difference" "earning a mansion in heaven along streets paved with gold and choruses of angels lining them - but no dogs because animals don't have souls" kicks in. Blagh. Meh. Poop the duck.

I want a life full of happiness like warm crusty sourdough bread with way too much butter and swirling glasses of dry red wine. I want dogs. I don't want to be a 'good' person. I want to make people laugh. I want to be a memorable person.  I want to be making moments that make the meh days manageable.

For awhile, I was on the 'no bad days' band wagon. But I've realized that that ideal is just as unrealistic as streets of gold or being a good person. There are bad days. And bad weeks and bad months and bad years. Like my brilliant baby brother says, if all days were perfect, there would be no perfect days. It's ok that some days are bad. As long as some days aren't. I am trying to focus more on the 'no wrong turns' philosophy, that tells me that even meh days are serving some purpose down the road. Even if it takes EONS of suffering to get there. Meanwhile, here I sit, in The Whelm, with my bad days and my misguided ideals and misplaced f***s, waiting for something that I haven't quite identified yet. Probably sourdough bread.

Things About St. Valentine

Before you write off Valentine’s Day as another invention of American corporations in the quest for perpetual revenue from mass produced greeting cards and several thousand tons of seasonal candy, take a moment to consider the long, if not convoluted, history behind the holiday. Long before it was chocolates and diamonds and fancy dinner dates, Saint Valentine’s Day became a celebration of enduring love.

Valentine of Rome was a Christian saint in the 5th century who was martyred in 496 AD for his faith. He was buried on February 14th, and the anniversary of his death was observed by the Catholic Church after he was canonized. According to legend, Saint Valentine wore an amethyst ring embedded with the image of cupid. He officiated at the illegal Christian weddings of Roman Soldiers, who were forbidden to marry, as the Emperor Claudius II believed that married men did not make for good soldier material. It was said soldiers would recognize him by his cupid ring and request the performance of his secret nuptials. The amethyst later became the birthstone for the month of February, and is said to bring love. St. Valentine is said to have cut hearts out of parchment and given them to the soldiers that he ministered to, beginning the tradition of heart shaped cards.

Eventually Valentine was imprisoned for his Christian ministry, and while in jail, he is said to have healed his jailer’s daughter, Julia, from blindness. A letter sent from his jail cell to the girl was signed “from your Valentine”, perhaps the first Valentine ever sent. After his death, Julia planted an almond tree with pink blossoms near his grave. The almond tree is still symbolic of undying love and friendship.

The Catholic Church removed St. Valentine’s day from the General Roman Calendar in 1969, but the holiday was well rooted in tradition across the globe by that time. Speculation has tied the holiday to the ancient Roman feast of Lupercalia, a three day celebration of fertility in mid February, but there has been no traceable connection to this observance and the later resurgence of the romantic theme appointed to February 14th by poets and lovers who were far removed from Rome’s pagan roots.

The first romantic association with the church holiday of St. Valentine’s Day wasn’t until nearly a thousand years later, when Geoffrey Chaucer, the English poet, penned the verse: For this was on seynt Volantynys day, Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make. ["For this was on St. Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate."] Later, scholars would argue that the Valentine he referred to was not Valentine of Rome, but the feast of St. Valentine of Genoa, who died nearly 100 years before Valentine of Rome, which was observed in early May, a time more likely for the mating of birds in Britain.

Whatever the reference really meant, Valentine’s Day was securely established as a celebration of love on February 14th by the beginning of the 15th century. Following Chaucer’s lead, French and English poets latched on to the theme and over the next 200 years, references to Valentine’s day, featuring birds and romantic love surfaced across Europe. The oldest surviving Valentine came from Charles, Duke of Orleans, referring to his wife as his  “very sweet Valentine” while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London in the 1400s: Je suis desja d'amour tanné, Ma tres doulce Valentinée… Even Shakespeare gave a nod to the holiday in Hamlet in the early 1600s.

Mass productions of romantic poetry, cards and love notes was well underway in England by the end of the 18th century, and in 1847, the first commercially produced Valentines were available in the United States. It wasn’t until the late 1900s that the traditional note giving escalated to chocolates and jewelry. This became a trend in the United States when the candy and diamond industries saw potential for growth. It is estimated that over 190 million Valentines were sent in the United States in 2015, not including homemade exchanges between school age children. The average amount spent on a Valentine’s day gift in the US last year was $131.

However you choose to observe (or not) the festival of love that is Valentine’s Day, the story of St. Valentine, perhaps embellished over the years, is a good excuse to let the ones we love know that we are thinking of them. It’s also a good chance to break out the scissors and glue stick and show our love with a little bit of creativity and personal attention. Maybe we don’t need diamonds and puppies to tell our Valentine’s how much they mean to us, but since the middle ages, we’ve been using poetry to get our point across. The cliche “Roses are Red” rhyme began in 1590, with Edmund Spenser's epic poem The Faerie Queene, but was adapted into a nursery rhyme in 1784 from Gammar Gurton’s Garland:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,

The honey's sweet, and so are you.

Thou are my love and I am thine;

I drew thee to my Valentine:

The lot was cast and then I drew,

And Fortune said it shou'd be you

Things About A Chicken

Juniper the Chicken - Belmont Goats

I am not a chicken fan. Not, that is, unless it is breaded and deep fried, or sautéed in butter, or slathered in Alfredo sauce. So I guess what I mean is that I am not a fan of chickens that are alive. They smell weird. They’re dirty, and I have residual nightmares of the chicken coop of my childhood home from whence proliferated numerous horrors. To this day I cannot eat brown eggs. Irrational? Yes. Do I care? No. 

But today I heard a chicken story - a story about a chicken, that nearly moved me to tears. I have a couple of friends whom I admire greatly that are chicken lovers. We’re talking chickens on the dining room table that are still alive and will not, under any circumstances be eaten by any one, ever. Chickens who have sweaters knitted for them and sport names like Frida, Russell Wilson, Bilbo Schwaggins, Betty and Bacon. (Because Bacon and Eggs, get it?) Anyway, these chicken-loving friends of mine have tried very hard to humanize the dirty, feathery, beady eyed little producers of all manner of grossness but have been largely unsuccessful with me - or so I thought, until today, when I got caught up in the story of Juniper.

Juniper is a hen. A garden variety, brown and black speckledy hen. She was part of the menagerie at this place in Portland, Oregon called the Belmont Goats. On their website, Juniper the hen is described thusly:

“Birthday unknown. Joined in March of 2014. We have 14 pet goats; they have 1 pet hen.”

Leave it to Portland to have a goat farm/petting zoo/therapy center in the middle of the city. The Belmont Goats is all of that and more, boasting a herd of 14 goats and one hen. Until today.

Sometime, in the middle of last night, someone broke into the fenced area that is the Belmont Goat Field and made off with Juniper. With the hen. Because as weird as Portland is, it’s also still Portland. A call for help went out in the morning when the fowl play (ahem…) was discovered, and all of the Facebook Lands were bereft. Juniper became an instant celebrity. Even I, the un-liker of chickens, especially plain brown speckledy ones, was moved to the verge of tears.

“Folks, someone broke into the Belmont Goats field next to Wattles Boys and Girls Club on 92nd & Harold last night. All of the goats are present and accounted for and don't seem any worse for wear but Juniper is missing. Juniper is our very loved, very patient and friendly chicken. She sleeps in the barn with the goats.” the volunteers who take care of the Belmont Goats, or more appropriately, are taken care of by said bovidae specimens, spread the news far and wide, and if social media gets around anywhere in the world, it gets around Portland, and quickly.

The fence assailant/hen-napper left a donation of human excrement at the park, which I would assume some forensically trained hipster was hot on the brink of testing for DNA, but thanks to the power of the Facebook grapevine, and Lord knows how many shares later, one of the volunteers' neighbors found the chicken at a transit station more than three miles from the Goat Field.

If I felt foolish that I nearly cried when I heard that the goat-pet hen was lost, and that the worst was assumed of her fate, then it's safe to say that I was utterly embarrassed by the tears of joy that literally overtook me when someone posted a picture of Juniper on someone's lap in somebody's car, homeward bound and safe. It’s a chicken. But her bright, beady little eye stared defiantly off into whatever direction it is that a chicken looks, scoffing at the mischief maker(s) who would have been her undoing. Not this hen. Not in this town. Not a chance. Juniper just knew, strutting in that odd chickeny fashion across the lightrail platform a jillion miles from her 14 goats, she knew that one of her many friends would find her. And they did. 

"Juni on her way back home"

I am not a fan of chickens. Or goats, in particular. But I will be watching the Belmont Goats and their social media just in case that DNA comes back and the chicken snatching pooper is brought to justice. And hooray for Portland. Thanks for making me feel like there is still magic in the world. You stay weird. Welcome home, Juni.

Things About Butte

I am sitting in the second story of a building in downtown Butte, Montana, that used to house a newspaper, more than 100 years ago. The narrow plank wood floors show the carefully restored wear and use of what was probably the photo and lithograph developing area, based on the chemicals they encountered during restoration, according to the current inhabitant. A “reasonably good-looking” in his own words, and “epically talented” brewer, he’s the man behind Muddy Creek Brewery, which, according to Google ratings, is the best brewery in Butte. Whether Google raters know anything remains in question, but Muddy Creek seems to know their beers. A sample flight brings me three blondes, a thick vanilla stout and an obligatory IPA (this is, afterall, a microbrewery). Any other flight with multiple blondes would normally sound better as a sexual encounter than a beer tasting, but Muddy Creek mixes it up just right.

Being a 'professional' beer connoisseur, my methodology for sampler consumption is quite scientific, if not flawed. I always try them all and then drink the balance from least favorite to most, so I can savor and enjoy the best beer, leaving the establishment with the taste of it still on my breath. I say flawed because as we all know, after the first four or so samples, it doesn’t really matter two shits what they taste like. It’s all delicious.

In the case of Muddy Creek, it was a mid-afternoon time-killing stop wherein I didn’t plan to hang out for unending hours redefining the meaning of inebriation. But in spite of the steady stream of right-on-the-brink of too-loud classic rock (my least favorite genre), I feel right at home here. The beer is good and the tables, crafted out of old cable spools, coupled with late 1800s woodwork give me the industrial warm fuzzies. It helps that they let me bring my road weary dog in from the car so she could lie in stiff tension on the wood floor, staring at the resident stuffed black bear named Stout, just across from our table.

My plan was to stick with a modest four sample flight before moving on responsibly and checking into my budget-priced Econolodge room for the night. But the reasonably handsome master brewer insisted on throwing in a sample of his Storm the Door Vanilla Porter, and I didn’t want to be rude. That fifth sample, after all, spells the end of productivity for the day, unless you count a blatherous post about beer and the merits thereof.

But back to the beer: The Dirty Blonde was a basic, easy drinking, 5% ABV classic golden hued blonde. None of that over-hopped hipster microbrewing overkill. It was comfortable and good. The Blue Sky Blonde, which the epically talented brewer says is their most proliferously distributed beer, is a blueberry blonde. I am not one for fruity beers, and I have been out-blueberried a time or two, but this one is a winner with a 5% ABV. The berry factor is subtle enough for the manliest of rednecks to abide with. The Mandarin Tango is another 5% ABV blonde with some subtle citrusy and other almost unidentifiable flavors that were good, but bordered on a visit to Bath and Body Works. Still a smooth drinker, lots of my Budlight girlfriends would dig it. The Skinny Cow IPA was a good IPA at 6% ABV. Not one of the cleanest ones I’ve tasted, and nothing that I wanted to send a postcard to my ex-boyfriends about, but if you’re an IPA drinker, which I am when the mood takes me, it’s doable. Storm the Door was a good vanilla stout, the talented and handsome brewer wasn’t wrong, but not being a dark beer aficionado I would have to defer to one of my more surly friends for a professional verdict. It clocks in at 6.2% ABV. The fact that I didn’t hate it was good enough for me.

After my accidental flight of five, I found myself with a full pint of the Dirty Blonde. Like the talented and handsome brewer says, it’s the only place in town that you can have a dirty blonde and not leave with an STD - an especially poignant statement considering the longest operating brothel in United States history is very literally just down the street a few blocks.


While the whole town of Butte with it’s rollicking hills and crumbling brick buildings won my heart, Muddy Creek certainly clinched the deal. I want to come here and buy the whole town and make it the next Dollywood. Except cooler. Never have I seen so many extremely badass buildings lying vacant and hopelessly abandoned. I am glad Muddy Creek made a home here in the old newspaper office, and it feels just about right to sit here with AC DC and type my little heart out next to a dirty blonde and a mini dachshund.

 

Things About Change

 
I wasn't going to post in this blog anymore. I feel like it's time to shift gears and move into a new space. But I have been a little bit emotional lately and sometimes my feelings feel better when I give them words. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s that I’ve been to Mexico, Washington DC, Denver, celebrated Christmas with The Whole Family, bought a house and moved, had hip surgery and commuted over 5,000 miles in the last month and a half. Who can say exactly why I burst into tears at random intervals or the minute I hear anything by REO Speedwagon. It’s a mystery for sure.

All I know is that I feel awfully fragile, and not in a completely bad way. Just… RAW. Ready to feel all the feels and work through them. The sadness of moving away from the town where I have lived for the better part of 20 years and (mostly) raised my kids. The excitement of starting fresh, on my own, as a homeowner. The struggle of trying to decide whether to let my old Truck dog go be with Jesus or watch his frustration over a new life in a new house with limitations that I never enforced on him back in Northport, much to frustration of the baseball coaches and custodians of the school next door.

I am feeling all the tearing of the transition of my kids from children to adult, weighing out how much I can and should help them in the fight to become responsible humans. Sorting through how much is My Fault and what I have to let go for them to figure out. I am riding the waves of happiness and uncertainty that a fairly new relationship pushes toward the shores of my heart. Most moments I feel lost. Some moments I feel joy. All moments lately, I feel fear.

But what I do know is that all of these feelings, the good ones and the bad ones, are meant to bring me to the place where I belong, wherever that is. Fear and uncertainty protect me from wandering recklessly off course, bringing caution along as a guiding light of stability. Sadness and grief remind me of how very much I have been given in the happy years I have had at my old place and with my old dog. Glimpses of joy give me hope that the steps I am taking are the right ones, headed in the right direction. And stress and anxiety, well, they give me gray hair, and I guess I am about due.

For every time my heart cries out silently to the universe for help, I turn back to face the battle and the help I need is there. Not always in the form I expect in. Not always in a surprise check for thousands of dollars or an army of strong backs, although those things have happened for me, but sometimes in the showing up of a friend with a story, or in the plight of another friend who has much larger hurdles to face than I do, and a way that I can help them with the flood that is drowning them.

Amor Fati. I am in love with the fate that I am given. It is not always beautiful, but it is always mine. And while I question my decisions every. single. day. I feel overwhelmingly blessed that I have decisions to make, and they are mine entirely. There is no wrong that cannot be made right. There is no obstacle that cannot become the path, and even now while I can’t lift my arm, I can say that there is no pain without purpose, even if that purpose is a speedbump.

I will slow down. I will take only the responsibilities that are mine to bear, and no more. I will listen to MMMBop on repeat and cry wantonly if it gets me closer to peace. I will write the stories to pay the bills to make the life that I have chosen. And I will always be thankful that I can do that with a beer in one hand.

Things About The Normal Days: a useful list

I googled "how to stay focused and content," looking for a Quick List of Useful Instructions that would keep me from waking up wishing that I was ANYWHERE in the world but here. I didn't find a list. In fact, I didn't find anything useful except for a PowerPoint presentation with some Seth Godin quotes that I liked but didn't really have anything to do with what I was looking for. So I decided to make my own list, because maybe somebody else is out there looking for a Quick and Useful List of Instructions and if somebody is going to make some up, it might as well be me, right?

How To Be Content And Focused On the Normal Days:

Step 1) Drink. No, not that kind. Drink coffee. I have a few friends who claim to have been redeemed from the power of chemical stimulation and are now caffeine free, and some who have never even dabbled in the stuff. These people are usually super peppy and optimistic and clearly have no grasp on reality anyway, so I discount their caffeine naysaying with all of the vigor of a triple shot americano and no breakfast. Coffee is the stuff of life. Or it's at least the stuff of reasons to get out of bed in the morning and not yell bad words at the first biologically active thing that crosses your path. Like the dachshund. Or a spider. Or the mold growing on the inside of the cream carton. Coffee helps. It's the chemical boost to get you to the next step. I strongly recommend coffee first thing in the morning, preferably with someone that you can say bad words to about the things that are wrong with first thing in the morning and they will agree and still love you. That is the best way to have coffee.

you can get this shirt HERE

Step 2) Dress. Put on the right clothes. If, say, you wear the wrong jeans - the ones that cut right in at the fattest place you have (and all real people have one of those places), or maybe your socks don't match your trousers, or you can't find your favorite belt, or you get to work and the shoes you're wearing are just WRONG, the whole day is shot. Make sure that what you are putting on your body brings you joy, like those Japanese de-cluttering methodologies, if it doesn't make you happy, take it off and throw it on the ground and cuss. Then find something that brings you joy. Like sweatpants. Or holey jeans that feel like sweatpants.

Step 3) Talk. Share your frustration. This might sound like I am encouraging negativity or complaining, but it really does help make the day seem ok when you realize that you're not the only one who doesn't always want to be wherever it is that you are and don't want to be. It doesn't have to be an elaborate dumping session. Human beings are empathetic animals, and sometimes a quick exchange of a knowing look with a "coffee is good this morning"  grunt, speaks volumes. And you just know. We're all in this together. All the normal. All the people. All the time. And it's going to be ok. If you want to level-up this step, and combine it with the power of Step 1, deliver coffee to someone else. It's like telling them,"I know, life sucks, but here's coffee," and it makes both of you feel that much better. Trust me, it does, even if it's gross coffee.

Step 4) Listen. I have watched music visibly change the attitude and posture of people. I know for a fact what it does for me. Sometimes it's angry rock music that takes the angst out on a drum set for you. Sometimes it's Alison Krauss lulling you gently back to sanity. Sometimes it's the music of absolute silence. Peace and contentment can be found behind the wall of noise-cancelling headphones plugged into nothing. Or the interior of a car with no sound but your own weird breathing. Find the noise you need to make this day ok.

Step 5) Daydream. Some people call this meditation, not paying attention or slacking off, but for me, unplugging from the four jobs and three conversations I am in the middle of for just a few minutes is the only way to keep myself from freaking the eff out. Sometimes I drift back to that Mexican Hermit Crab on the beach, or sometimes it's the warm squishyness of All The Pillows in bed last night, or Holding His Hand. But if I can let my brain disconnect from Right This Moment, Right This Place for a few minutes, I can come back and plug in with a little more energy.

Keep Calm and Scuttle On

Step 6) Eat. Days when you are really questioning where your life took a bad turn are not the days to be eating salads. Save your salads for those peppy, optimistic days after you quit drinking caffeine and your whole world is wonderful. Eat something that makes you happy. Eat something that makes you feel good. I don't care what it is, but you have to WANT it. Crusty white bread and pasta? Sure. Medium-rare ribeye? OK, if you can afford it. Cheesy bread? Definitely. Life is too short to be miserable on top of being unhappy. Eat something you love.

Step 7) Move. Go above and beyond rolling over on the couch. Get up and move. Shuffle to the kitchen for more coffee. Stand by the window. Every step you take gives you a thousand more possibilities that you will see, touch, smell, hear, feel something that reminds you of why you are here. Something that excites you. Of course, there's also the increased risk that you will see, touch, smell, hear or feel something that repulses you and confirms your suspicion that life sucks, but it's a risk worth taking. If at all possible, get outside. Unless you're one of those people that hates fresh air and all living things and prefer cardboard and drywall and scratchy upholstery to dirt and rocks. In that case, stay inside and move around. It takes all kinds, after all.

Step 8) Sleep. Find a way to get good sleep. Not having good sleep and not eating good food are the Two Primary Reasons for Hating Life. I just made that up but it sounds really good. Everybody's sleep trigger is different. Sometimes some of us need a little help. A glass of wine, a heavy dose of muscle relaxers, a swift kick in the head... Figure yours out and cash in on it. Don't miss sleep. It's not worth it.

Step 9) Give. Try to notice one person during the course of your day that has it worse than you. Maybe it's the hobo on the street corner or the single mom with a broken down car (not me, this time), or maybe it's the One You Love that has to put up with you. Find a way to give them something. A coffee, a hug, a jump start, or maybe a big and sincere thank you. Get outside yourself for a minute.

Step 10) Love. If there isn't a single person that warms the cockles of your heart then you should seek help more professional than mine STAT. But I'm willing to bet everyone reading this has at least one person that you can see when you close your eyes and be overwhelmed with gratitude for the place they hold in your heart. The people who don't have anybody are probably on a different blog about how to build bombs and stuff. Love your people, or person. Hold the hand. Steal the kisses. Feel the love. Go after it actively. You need it. It needs you. It's easy to let the doldrums convince you that you're not worthy - at least for me it is. That's when its the most important to find the love and bask in it.

Reading through my Quick List of Useful Instructions, I should probably rename it something like "A Hedonist's Guide To Everyday Living," because it's all about what feels good. But we're so good, these days, about beating ourselves up and Making the Tough Choices and Taking the High Road that we forget about how good life can feel if we let it. Sometimes the rougher path is the right one, but sometimes the Normal Days need a little love boost.

Things About the Holidays

Current Mood

Feliz Navidad, Amigos!! Ok, so it's officially the Holiday Season, and if it weren't for my kids transforming my house into some holiday extravaganza of mismatched Christmas attire while I was in Mexico, I am not sure that we'd be getting in the spirit of the season at all. It's December 13th and not only do we have NO TREE to date, I also haven't made it to Costco to purchase the wreath for my door that has been a tradition since 2003 when Aunt Tracey brought one to my house and I felt like a Real Live Grownup. In fact, my Costco membership expired and I am not 100% sure that I will renew it, which feels like the most sacrilegious of all perpetrations, since Costco is like home to me. But I only have like 1.5 children at home at any one time these days, so all I end up with is rotten lettuce and moldy cheese. Also a Grocery Outlet just opened in Colville. But I digress.

It's true that we swapped out some holiday traditions this year for a visit to the Nation's Capitol (not to mention my foray to Baja), but we still have enough time to sneak in a few of the prerequisites. The advent calendar hangs on the wall, sadly neglected like a cast-off chore chart. 13 days behind, and nobody seems to care. I guess that's what happens when all your kids are old. We haven't made a single Christmas Cookie, and my sister and I keep playing leapfrog in scheduling, canceling and rescheduling things like tree hunting and Gingerbread Houses (OK, so she beat me to the tree, but still). This is holiday reality. Basketball games instead of gingerbread, fevers of 102º instead of tree hunting... But it's still the holidays, as evidenced by the jingle bells strapped relentlessly around the neck of the poor, deaf Old Truck Hound. 


Speaking of hounds, I took a little nostalgic detour through Grinchland this morning - we haven't had time to watch it yet, but we have the whole story on CD that stays in my disc changer in the car year round - I pretty much have it memorized. Anyway, I was thinking about how much I relate to Max the Reindeer/dog, because he really doesn't mean to take everybody's crap, but he's just loyal to his guy, and wants to make everybody happy. He tries so hard, pulling that GIANT sled of confiscated merriment, and it finally gets the best of him. I can't help but thinking that Max is in part responsible for the Grinch's turn, for the 3X growth of his cold, Grinchy heart, as the faithful little dog quietly perseveres, waiting for his master to Get It.

Well folks, I figured it out. The Grinch is Real Life. Bills and responsibility and stealing all the joy. It's overcommitment and obligation and worry. But once we hear the music for what it really is, and that none of those things matter - not the snoof or the fuzzles or tringles or trappings. Max is the people we love and the ones that love us, reminding us that we can do All Those Things, but do we really need to? Or can we just go eat Roast Beast with the rest of the Whos? Maybe Christmas perhaps, means a little bit more...

Things That You Can't Take Seriously

Life. Life is way too short to take so seriously. The other day, I posted about how old I was feeling, the aches and pains, and how certain I was that the End was near. Turns out that I was having a reaction to a medication that I was on. Once I realized what I was doing to myself, stopped taking the drug and gave it a couple days,  I found myself with plenty of energy and pain isolated to my shoulder and 1.5 hips. Feeling sheepish, it occurs to me to share with all of you the reminder that it really is often darkest just before the dawn, or at least before the realization that you have an intolerance for certain antibiotics.

Life is short and it's funny as hell. I have been forgetting that a lot lately. Forgetting to laugh at the ridiculous things. I blame part of that on the time this summer that I got in big trouble for laughing at the ridiculous things in a blog about a fire situation... which the bosses didn't think was funny. The fact that I became infamous from the post was almost as funny and ridiculous as the post itself, but a threat to my job made me kind of crabby. But there's a balance, right? And you have to know who has the cojones to make fun of life with you, and which incident commanders are all about maintaining a facade in the throes of chaos. #lessonlearned

I guess I've been so caught up in the sort-of-serious aspects of my life lately that I forget to talk about the ones that are not at all.

Like when I thought for several days that the resident bear was getting into the garbage in the front yard, but it was really Old Man Truck whom we caught red-pawed early one morning. And Old Man Truck himself, the zombie dog who will live forever. I don't think he can see or hear a thing, but his hound dog nose, even in it's current state of decomposition, seems to work well enough to steer him in the direction of the garbage, recently relocated out of reach of "the bear."

Truck. The undead, zombie truck. He's a 13-year-old hound who is quite literally falling apart at the seams.

Even in the aches and pains, there is comedy. I had the orthopedic surgeon's assistant in stitches the other day when I couldn't remember which joint I was there about, or which one I would choose if I had to focus on one, or how to explain how each one was slowly obliterated over the years....

(I never finished writing this and so now here it is, published in it's unfinished glory.)

Things That We Didn't Do: On Baja Dogs and Breezes

We came to La Ventana to kiteboard, or more accurately, He came to kiteboard. I came for the beach and the beer and the warm sunshine on my face. A little fishing village nestled into a protected cove on the Sea of Cortez, La Ventana was founded in 1940 by a disenfranchised pearl diver and his family in search of a new beginning. Most parcels of land in the La Ventana bay were co-opted by the government, subsidizing small family plots until 1996 when Mexican law changed and granted ownership to the longtime farmers and ranchers who had worked the land for generations. La Ventana became a mecca for wind sport enthusiasts in the 1990s as the daily El Nortes (northerly fronts)  make for a wind sport enthusiast’s wet dream. It was a history I could relate to - a new beginning and the dream of doing my job somewhere that wasn’t cold and dreary. Anywhere that wasn’t the snowless frigidity of post-holiday wintertime in the northwest.

We got into La Ventana just in time for dinner on Thanksgiving night, and by some miracle, one of the little restaurants squeezed us in for an all-the-trimmings turkey dinner buffet, sans reservations. Later, He would say how it was the best food we had the whole time we were there, the piles of deep fried turkey and mashed potatoes so creamy that they couldn’t have been real. Even the wine tasted better than the merlots we had back home. I would agree with Him, except for the bag of totopos that the last residents of the Casita had left behind. They were salty and perfect. I couldn’t stop eating them at midnight and for breakfast, and while we laid out in the sun on the plaster roof top in the late morning the next day.  

All I wanted was a space of seaside to sit next to and write. Or daydream. Or drink. Maybe all at once. There was seaside, all right. Miles of it, white and sandy and the perfect amount of warm. Occasional Canadian kiteboarders drifted by, and the fourth generations of the family farmers, picking up sticks off the beach and being chased by little white Baja Dogs everywhere.

Late Friday  morning, we walked three miles along a dirty highway to cash in whatever tourist panache we had for a couples massage at the only large resort in town. We paid the going rate willingly, if for no other reason than to feel like we could afford it, and then we tromped back down the highway and then the three minute trail of sand and clay from our Casita to the beach with all of His kiteboarding gear and sat expectantly in the sand, waiting for the wind to pick up. And waiting. And waiting. In between the waiting, we wandered over to Baja Joe’s where everybody goes for coffee, and then beer, and then tequila, and some killer Asada Tacos. Saturday we repeated the process, but with less waiting and more tequila, the kiters bemoaning the quiet air over their Pacifico and nachos. Frustrated windseekers found solace in the mellow beat of a reggae band at Joe’s on Saturday night, the dance floor carelessly littered with multinational escapees of all generations and some of the farmers.

There wasn’t much accounting for Sunday morning, thanks to the Peyote IPA and the number of Baja Fogs that Paula the bartender made for us the previous night, but by afternoon, the waiting game began anew, and in anxious earnest as the wind picked up just enough to rustle the palm trees in the courtyard at Baja Joe’s and tease all of the pent up athletes. Kiters with small physiques and large kites hustled out to the beach to catch the gentle breeze, but those of greater substance knew the wind wasn’t enough to carry them offshore, so the wait continued.  

I didn’t do very well at proving that I am good at working “anywhere,” since unplugging and not caring about work seemed so much more important than getting 18 new stories cranked out and all of my deadlines met ahead of time. But it was heavenly. No place to be unless we wanted to be there, and nowhere to go except where our feet would take us. Lazy afternoon siestas were punctuated with walks up and down the beach for food, catching sunrises and sunsets if we felt like it, counting the constellations we could name and making up new ones. After a few days we found the Baja Dogs on our heels like the farmer’s kids, weaving in and out of kite shops and little make-shift patio restaurants that most of the locals seemed to run as a by-the-way businesses along the beach.

Another night at Joes’ brought in a cover band that played everybody’s favorite song from all generations and genres. The dance floor was full of expatriate and unfulfilled kiteboarders dancing to “Jesse’s Girl,” locals still wearing the uniform of the restaurants next door from the shift they just finished, old run-away hippies and Baja Dogs. Pacifico bottles rolled across the paving stones and beer splashed between the toes of bare feet while the band played AC/DC and Elvis covers. That night nobody cared that the wind hadn’t come for them. That night the moonlight and the tequila and the music was enough.

He only got out on His kite once, and even then it wasn’t His kite, but a bigger one that He rented, hoping the bit of wind that picked up one afternoon would do it. It didn’t, and after fighting His way down the curving shoreline, He endured the walk of shame back up the beach, board in hand, to get back to the more readily accessible sport of beer and tacos and dreaming up ways of smuggling Baja Dogs home to the northwest. Secretly, I didn’t mind the lack of wind, mostly because I was selfish and liked Him next to me on the beach. But Him being next to me made for less work getting done and more lazy wave-gazing, watching the hermit crabs scuttle sideways across the beach and staring at the cloudless sky as if the wind might suddenly appear visibly. I wouldn’t call it a loss, for Him or for me.