Defining Tea, Scones, Sticky Toffee, and the Myth of Corned Beef

A co-worker brought in scones from Safeway this morning. Immediately I was reminded that I haven't yet told you about the food in Ireland. Food is always a big part of any vacation for me and, this being my first European trip, I was especially intrigued about the epicurean delights I might encounter.

My only aside is that, because for the majority of the trip I felt like I was forcing down a ball of sandpaper heated to the temperature of molten lava every time I swallowed, I wasn't able to indulge in everything I wanted. In fact, I lost four pounds which is unheard of in vacation history. However, I made the most of what I could and fell in love with a couple of dishes and that's what I will spend the rest of my life obsessing over.

Our first night in Dublin we searched for and found the perfect little eatery. I'm calling it that because there is a distinct difference between pubs and restaurants in Ireland. If you ask for a food recommendation, they will ask if you want a pub or a restaurant. This place leaned more towards the pub side, but they did have more restaurant seating in the back of the building, whereas we sat in front by the bar. Of course.

We ordered a Guinness. Of course. Which isn't food, but it's such a staple of the meals there that it has to be mentioned. There is a specific way that Guinness is to be poured, which I didn't know at the time but one of us did, in fact, notice that night. Supposedly if you just order "a pint" you will be served Guinness but we always asked for it by name. Anyway, that night, we just couldn't get over the fact that we were drinking a fecking Guinness in fecking Ireland. Really, for the first two days I thought I was just on a movie set at Universal Studios because it was just so unbelievable.

The menu that night listed something called a beef casserole. Here, casseroles tend to be a jumble of a bunch of ingredients tossed together and that didn't sound extremely appetizing so I ordered the traditional Irish stew. The "casserole" turned out to be delicious beef covered in a hearty sauce next to creamy mashed potatoes. My stew wasn't bad, but the casserole was better.

Lesson #1: You can't rely on the descriptions/labels given on the menu. We started asking specifically what things were.

The next morning I fell in love. I had my first Irish tea and I will never think of tea the same way. I am as obsessed with Irish tea now as I am with sweet tea in the south. I could happily live off of both with some bread and cheese for the rest of my life. I had heard that Irish and British tea drinkers often pack their own tea when traveling because they can't be sure they will be served the same quality in foreign destinations. This is smart because they won't. American tea is rubbish. Even our tea houses can't compare. I don't know what it is about that simple liquid, but it changed my life.

Tea is something of a production, whether you're ordering in the morning, afternoon, or with dinner. It's always the same. You are brought a cup on a saucer, a small pot of tea, a substantial-sized creamer of milk, and either a jar of sugar or bowl of sugar cubes. These dishes are almost always white, always ceramic. If someone else at the table also orders tea, they get their own setup. You only share the sugar. It feels very special even if it's the standard custom there.

And the tea itself? I can't even describe it. It's soft and creamy and comforting and luxurious all at the same time. When I was sick and couldn't have booze, I had tea and didn't feel like I was missing out on anything. The first things I missed when I got home were Irish tea and Irish accents. Everything at home felt flat and dull without them.

The wife fell equally in love with the scones. Scones at home are often hard and dry. They're really pointless. Irish scones are moist and delicious, sort of a cross between a cake and a biscuit. You can slather them with jam or butter or even eat them plain. I don't think either of us could count how many she had while we were there but her eyes would light up any time they were on the table and she'd pout if they weren't.

There are a few things you'll find everywhere. Irish stew is one of them. It doesn't really differ from ours except they do like to put Guinness in theirs. Why not? Alcohol makes lots of things better. Also, in a country that is so often cold and damp, it's really a nice dish to warm up with.

Nearly every dessert menu had sticky toffee pudding. This isn't really pudding, it's sort of like bread pudding, but more cake-like and covered with gooey toffee yumminess. I only had one of my own the whole trip and it wasn't the best. The best was at Bruno's in Kinsale. It was just decadent and perfect and I didn't get enough because I had to share it.

Bruno's deserves its own special mention because it was the best restaurant on the entire trip. Kinsale is purported to be the foodie capital of Ireland and it definitely is that if Bruno's is any indication. Our B&B hostess recommended it to us and I will forever be grateful. Bruno's is a wonderfully inviting restaurant, part of which is housed in an old lighthouse. There was a fireplace in one corner and brick accents all over. The menu was short but you don't need a long list of choices when what you do is this fantastic. In-N-Out has the same philosophy and I will love them until the day I die. We had pizza, risotto, and ravioli. They recommended the perfect wines and it all combined to create an experience, not just a meal.

There are a few terms the Irish use that are different from those that are American. Beetroot is just a beet. It makes sense since it is technically a root, but they don't say carrotroot or potatoroot. Aubergine is eggplant and they had some fancy term for zucchini that I can't remember. We saw rocket everywhere and finally found out that it is merely arugula. Rocket just sounds more fun. Malt vinegar to us is just vinegar to them. Most of us know that chips are french fries, but these are the wider cut, a lot like what they have at Red Robin. They come with nearly every meal. There is no shortage of carbs on this island.

There are a couple of things you needn't bother ordering. Skip the hamburgers. The Irish are good at many things, but hamburgers aren't one of them. They either top them with really weird things like pickled onions or capers or they come to your plate bone dry. Also pass on the pancakes. The first B&B we stayed in had a limited menu, consisting of porridge (which is also EVERYwhere) and yogurt, which is always plain there and has to be doused in honey. I thought pancakes would be a safe bet but on my plate was a single, round object as dry as an American scone. Accompanied by about a teaspoon of syrup so I couldn't even mask the bland taste. The really comical thing is that the grocery stores all carry "American" pancakes in shrink-wrapped packages. Lastly, never, ever order nachos there. I don't even know what I was thinking except that I was cold and I wanted some hot cheese. My dog could throw up better-tasting nachos than these.

Lesson #2: You can't rely on your regular stand-bys.

Pastries in Ireland are hit-and-miss. A lot of them aren't as sweet as what we're used to in our sugar-soaked and soda-heavy diets. I did love the pie crusts. I don't know why they're so different, they just are. Less flaky, but with a hint of sweetness. They're delightful. What America has that sucks is chocolate. Our chocolate tastes like flavored cardboard compared to what they have in Europe. There were so many Cadbury options to drool over, things we just don't get here. I got D a bar with caramel and brownies and it has real layers of caramel and chunky pieces of soft brownie. Even their cheap, commercial, gimmicky, made-for-kids crap is dozens of times better than our "gourmet" bars.  Seriously, it breaks my heart.

Another very important meal all over the place is fish and chips. Fish and chips are the iconic Irish and British meal. Remember the scene in Angela's Ashes where his uncle eats his fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and he's starving so he licks the salt and grease off the newspaper when his uncle discards it? I was hoping they'd be wrapped in newspaper but they've probably learned something about how bad newsprint is to ingest with food. Anyway, I was really looking forward to this experience and Kristi found what claims to be the oldest fish and chips establishment in Ireland. We were in Dublin, it was our second night there, and we were ready to immerse ourselves.

But then they were awful. I have never had a meal with less taste than this one. This is why tartar sauce was invented. Even the grease didn't have a taste. Drowning them in vinegar just tasted like vinegar-flavored paper. Horrid. It was like 30-second sex. We did entirely too much walking and anticipating to make it even worth the trouble of ordering and picking up a fork. Unfortunately, this was the standard experience. These were definitely the worst, but most of them were just bland. On the last night, with our celebratory Guinness (for getting our ink done!), the wife tried one more time. This last option was made with cider batter and that just might be the difference between horrendous and outstanding. Or maybe they did something else magical, but these were the best fish and chips I have ever had.

Oh, speaking of fried, I have another new love. Fried brie. Just what it sounds like. They take a wedge of delicious creamy brie, batter that puppy up, and fry it. You slice your fork through that golden nugget and are rewarded with gooey, melty heaven. Tiny angels sing.

Sausage and bacon are not the same in Ireland. I couldn't wait to get home to have real bacon and I think it was one of the first things I ordered. Bacon in Ireland is like Canadian bacon, only slightly thinner and fried. Also very hard to chew. Sausage rolls are popular and consist of a pastry with sausage inside. Sort of like a sausage pop-tart but flaky. Their sausage is a different color, more of a white, and when we asked someone about this, he told us that it's all the rest of the pig that isn't used for other things. Well, we do the same thing with hot dogs, maybe it's just less processed. At any rate, it turned the wife off from it for the remainder of the trip.

The one thing I absolutely refused to put in my mouth was blood pudding. Because it's made with blood. They don't even hide the fact with a cute name. Why on earth would I want to eat blood voluntarily? I'm carnivorous enough that I like my steaks fairly rare and juicy, but they aren't called blood steaks for Pete's sake!! Kristi was fool enough to eat this crap not once, but twice. She claimed it just tasted like a veggie burger, which didn't make it any more appealing because I also hate veggie burgers. Blood. Icky.

One thing that I think is important to note is the fallacy of what is traditional Irish dinner. Every St. Patrick's day everyone wants to make a big deal of celebrating with corned beef and cabbage. This is wrong. Don't do this ever again. I never once saw corned beef on any menu. There might have been cabbage but it wasn't prevalent. Making corned beef because you want to be authentic is as lame as dying your beer green. Make a stew or fish and chips. That's the real stuff.

There is a lot more that I could bore you with, like what kinds of other gross sausages you find in the grocery stores or how giant the mussels are in coastal towns or how sad it is to know how much they love putting those adorable little leaping lambs into stew. But mostly what you need to know is that there are some wonderful dishes in Ireland to be found and they are more than willing to explain the odder-sounding menu items to you because it's important to them that you enjoy your dining experience. If you're ever in doubt, just order tea and a scone with some fried brie and you'll be happy as a clam.

The Best Trip That Wasn't.

I'm going to start the documentation of my trip with this one. This is not the good one. This is the one full of self-pity, the one about how my heart broke. But this isn't the whole picture and I want to get this one out of the way so I can talk about the real Ireland and the vacation not defined by a sore throat.

Yes, I got sick on vacation. I got sick in Ireland. And not just a little cold, not just a couple of days. And it kind of started with a bang. I felt it coming on the fifth day we were there. Sore throat, a little achy. We were staying at a bed and breakfast which also housed Ireland's Oldest Person and Ireland's Greatest Musician. So of course I stayed up listening to the Irish version of Purple Rain and Puff the Magic Dragon and partaking in Hennessy. I threw up violently that night and it wasn't from the booze.

I slept in the car while Jen and Kristi went to explore some caves. I skipped eggs benedict that I couldn't have eaten anyway with a swollen throat. I lost my voice. I woke everyone up with my coughing. I was unable to drink whiskey. Free Whiskey. At Jameson. By day five, when I realized this was far more than just a simple virus I had a meltdown. It hurt to cry, but the tears streamed anyway. I had to skip the horse races I had been dreaming about to go find an Irish doctor.

The diagnosis? Tonsillitis. Penicillin and pain meds that are illegal in the states. Which are so effective, that I was finally, nearly pain-free three days later. Rather than the three hours I probably would have felt at home. I expected to wake up the next day feeling normal but had another meltdown instead.

Being sick isn't fun. Being sick away from home is less fun. Being sick on a vacation that only comes along once in a lifetime is nearly tragic. I cried more than once over my losses. No horse races. No literary pub crawl. No drunken debauchery fueled by Irish whiskey. No frolicking with baby sheep or chatting it up in overrated pubs.

The greatest disappointment? That I wasn't me. I was far from my Best Self. I was not fun, I was not easy to be around, and I needed too much. My depression, anxiety, and self-hatred made an uninvited and unwelcome appearance.

There are truths in life. It is the truth that this wasn't the vacation I dreamed of. It is the truth that I missed out on more than I saw. It is the truth that I failed at a lot of things on this trip. It is the truth that I wish things had happened very differently.

But it is also the truth that I went to Ireland. It is the truth that I was with my best friend in a place that I never imagined I would set foot. It is the truth that I have unforgettable memories and it is the truth that nobody can ever take any of that away from me.

Boring Unicorns

D got her wisdom teeth out today. I was really, really hoping that I would get one of those funny "after" videos that are plastered all over You Tube. I mean, for $750 it's the least I could ask for.

Not so much.

When I went back, she was under a giant blanket in a wheelchair, simply looking drowsy. Sure, she was puffy and had tampon-like strings hanging out of her mouth, but she was coherent. She answered questions logically. So much for the entertainment. "I thought you were going to talk about unicorns and stuff."

We went to get a shake. While we sat in the car she said, "Did you want me to talk about unicorns?" Um, yeah. Something fun. "I can do that. Unicorns are cute. They can fly, so you can save on gas. You can paint them. And then you can stab someone when you don't like them."

Well, I guess that's worth about a buck fifty.

Like a Hooker

I did a Pure Romance party for some friends yesterday and then the wife and I went shopping. This is pretty much a typical conversation for us.

Me: I have a lot of smelly stuff on me.
W: You're like a hooker.
Me: Did you just call me a hooker?
W: Yeah, because you smell. Only nice. Not like a nasty hooker.
Me: Oh, right. I'm a classy hooker. I think that's called an escort.
W: You're like the hooker that's really expensive but then you don't put out.
Me: Exactly.

What I'm Grateful For

I've said previously that the wife and I started keeping gratitude journals, the only rule being we couldn't duplicate what we were grateful for. Some days, the not-so-great days, it's a little bit of a stretch. Like my socks are soft or I went a day without tripping over anything.

But some days, like today, these things just fall out of the sky and land in my lap! I'm going to share my items of gratitude with you today so you can get a little Joy in your world also. These are really, really good so get ready!!

1. I love the internets. The internets are full of magical wonders that you never even could imagine. Would you have ever thought of this? It's a snail in a sweater. A snail. In a sweater, people. That's all there is to say about that. You're welcome.

If you are lucky enough to actually know a snail in your life, you can buy him/her a sweater like this one here.

2. Next are these pink boots. They're pink. They're waterproof. They just might be the boots I need for Ireland. How can I not be happy wearing these? (I'm providing the link but don't order any for yourself in size 7 until I get mine!

3. We are grateful for three things daily. This one isn't even a stretch. It's like not even having to lift a pinky because it is that awesome and wonderful. Glamping in Ireland. Glamping in a freaking treehouse. I so, so, so want to do this!!

Stay in a treehouse? Yes please. A treehouse in Ireland? DUH!! Plus the campground is called Teapot Lane. It doesn't get cuter than that. Unless I'm sitting in the treehouse and a snail wearing a tiny sweater slimes its way across my pink boots. I might pee buckets of happiness in a moment like that. That is pretty much the trifecta of happy.

See? You don't always have to be grateful for your health or your kids or the fact that you had coffee in your house or office. These are all perfectly good things to be grateful for and you should be grateful for them, I'm just saying think outside the proverbial box. Appreciate more of the things in the world around you. Create some of them and spread that happiness all over the place!!

The Lesson About the Dog and the Lube

Last December I decided to become a Pure Romance consultant. I may have mentioned this. I may have asked all of my friends to hostess a party for me. What I haven't said is how much fun I'm having with it, how supportive everyone is, and how much I already love it. But this post isn't about that. It's much more disturbing than that.

Ruby Tuesday has always had a fascination with candy and lip gloss. She's such a girl. Even for a Boston Terrier. D can tell you how many countless times she's found a ruined, chewed-up tube of chapstick or lip gloss, guilty dog still smacking her lips in the near vicinity. My response is always "Don't leave your crap lying around where she can reach it." Because, clearly, it is never the dog's fault. 

I had a party over the weekend, with another one planned this week. So I didn't put my demo products away knowing I would be using them so soon. I went to Zumba and thought I'd leave the dogs out of their crates since I'd only be gone a couple of hours. 

Do you see what disastrous conclusion is just ahead?

Yes. Ruby Tuesday got into my demo products because they were just sitting in a bag on the floor well within the reach of her tongue.

I'm not sure what she started with. The cap of massage oil had been chewed off and dumped into the carpet. I think the mango scent was more delicious than the taste. For future product sales reference, it cleaned up nicely with no oily stain. 

She tore quite a bit into the Whipped lubricant. It's vanilla cupcake flavor, I really can't blame her.  I don't know if she had just gotten into it or got bored since it's mostly intact except for the hole near the cap and the teeth marks. I can save it for personal moisturizer use at least. 

Great Head appeared to be the favorite. She managed to chew a whole through the side of the tube and lick about two-thirds of it out. Strawberry must be her favorite. What really worried me about that one is the muscle-relaxing effect it has. I didn't even want to know what part of her might have been relaxed. Sleeping with her felt like it might be more of an adventure than I was looking for, but I was afraid to let her sleep alone in case she had any kind of toxic reaction. Which would have served her right, but still. 

Pure Romance products are not tested on animals. My dog tested them on herself without any negative side effects (other than the horrible shame treatment I gave her). However, I recommend not leaving your crap lying around where your dog can get to it. 

If you do, just do what I did. Pour yourself a glass of wine and get into a nice hot bath. With a few spritzes of Body Dew, of course. 

Topics of Conversation

Girls' road trips are always fun. There's the going somewhere, the music played loudly, food you don't normally eat, and the girl talk. W and I went on a quick road trip this weekend to our friend P's bachelorette party. Bachelorette parties provide great fodder for car conversations. These are some of the topics you may have enjoyed had you been a fly on the window.

1. The bittersweet melancholy of our children growing up.
2. Matchmaking.
3. Gossip. Of course.
4. The level of attractiveness of penises.
5. Delightfully morbid speculations on cannibalism.
6. How we would be haunted by whoever we eat.
7. Irrational yet completely normal love of cats and dogs.
8. The pitfalls of the wrong marriages.
9. The value of waxing.
10. The benefits of growing up.

Reacting to Today's Loss

I don't have anything to add fact-wise to the event that occurred at Bend High School today. I can't comment on this particular student or the parents. What I can surmise is the tremendous amount of pain that this child was in. What I can expect is that these parents are now in pain that we, especially those of us who are parents, don't want to imagine. Beyond that, I will not conjecture on the details surrounding this incident.

However, we live in a world of instant information, where everyone who thinks they know anything is willing to send it out to the ethernet without thinking about how their words will affect others. There is judgment. There is second-guessing of the school's actions. There are solutions being proposed based on anger. Anger born out of fear.

Again, I don't have those answers. But I am going to plead with you to stop. Stop and think about what you are saying. This isn't a television show. Nobody in that room today chose for this to happen to them. Nobody in that school could predict the reactions of every single person outside those walls. Please don't react with criticism but with compassion.

I have a feeling that today's tragedy will linger with me longer than most of this type. It happened at a high school in my town. So, yeah, there's that. It's close to home. But it's close to home in another way.

We think that these things can't happen to us. We think our kids are invincible to such damaging emotions and damaged psyches. But we're not. You're not. I'm not. This was D and me just a few months ago. Even knowing what she was struggling with, I never imagined that she could take her own life. Not for real. Not until she told me that she didn't feel like she could control or trust herself not to do it. I didn't want to believe it, who does? But I finally had to.

We don't want to think our kids can hurt so much. We think that buying them warm coats and feeding them pizza and going to their games and dances is enough. That's what parents do, right? Of course.

But there's more. We have to listen to them. We have to pay attention. Don't assume that sudden moodiness is just common teenage asshole behavior. It very well could be, but don't take the chance at missing something. Talk to your kids. Let them see you fail. Oh boy, that was a hard one for me, but they need to know that parents are also just people. That they don't have to live up to perfection or unrealistic expectations.

Know your child's friends. Notice when these friends change. Ask. Ask why. Ask about school and ask about activities and ask how they feel in their own skin. They want you to. They want to know that you care about more than just grades or game scores. They want to know that they're loved.

Tell them you love them. Every day. Hug them when they need it. Hug them when you need it. Hug them when it will embarrass them because they secretly love it then too.

And even if you do all of these things, and you still can't stop the pain of depression, know that you did your best. That we don't win all the battles. We just do our best. When one of us loses the battle, show up for them with love and compassion and kindness and acceptance.

Open your hearts to those affected by today's tragedy. Trust that people did their best. Be extra kind to those around you.

Tonight, hug your kids a little tighter. Feel the gratitude.

The Taste of Memory

I don't remember what it was, but a year or so ago D smelled something and remarked that it smelled like her childhood. Which is funny because she's still in her childhood. And also I couldn't think of anything that particular smell could be evoking.

Today I had a Jolly Rancher watermelon-flavored candy. It wasn't quite as strong as a scent would be, but it did take me back to my childhood. Which I am far from and I have the gray hair to prove it.

Anyway, it got me thinking about what flavor my childhood would be. There are a lot that I remember and I'll list them for you. (An excuse to make a list!!) Notice this will not be given in any order of favorites, i.e. I despise liver.

1. Abba Zabba. Aside from Jolly Ranchers, these were my favorite candy. My friend Jenny and I would freeze them before eating them. I lost a tooth in one once at the beach.

2. Liver. My daughter has never had this forced down her throat. I have neither eaten it nor made it as an adult.

3. Canned spinach. Mom, really? I don't think D even knows that this exists. Stringy grossness at its slimiest best.

4. Tacos. I asked for them every birthday.

5. Spaghetti. My sister asked for it on her birthdays. My mom made it out of the paper packet.

6. Oily meat. We experimented with a fondue pot for a while. I have vastly improved on the method.

7. Cheerios. My grandma made sure she had some every time that I visited. Until I was 21.

8. Chicken and dumplings. Family recipe.

9. Caramel cream pecan pie. We had this at Thanksgiving instead of pumpkin.

10. Lima beans. Another thing D has never been force-fed.

11. Fried catfish. Freshly caught by my grandpa.

12. Fish sticks. I was never a gay fish.

13. In-N-out cheeseburgers. The single defining meal of my California life.

14. TV dinners. My father, as a single man, was only capable of fortifying me in this inhumane manner.

15. Hot chocolate with vanilla ice cream. Because it was never that cold in California.

16. Fried chicken. I have yet to fry my own, but I'll beg to be invited anywhere that it's done.

17. Biscuits. The kind only my grandpa could make.

18. Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. We had them for breakfast on Christmas mornings.

19. Steak. The grill was used every weekend of the year, no matter the weather. Complete with wood chips.

20. Popcorn shrimp and hush puppies. Until I could no longer order from the kids' menu.

The Single Girl's (or anyone's) Guide to Happiness

A few months ago the wife and I started to keep a gratitude journal. Every night we would each (separately, in our own homes) write three things we were grateful for that day. The only rule was that we couldn't use the same thing more than once. After just a few days, I started to see little things that I wanted to write down that night. A co-worker's laugh. Sushi. The smell of my dogs' feet. How comforting it is to listen to guys talk about sports (even though I usually tone that shit out). After a few weeks it started to make a real difference.

I started to look for other opportunities for gratitude and happiness. And, when D went through her serious suicidal thoughts, we looked for her happiness too. She did something brave that day. She asked for help. Someone told her she was pretty. Someone told her they want to be like her.

You see, if you look for the positive, that's what you will find. Even on my down days, I didn't have to reach that far. It could be something simple like a pair of fluffy socks because you don't have to conquer the world every day. When you open yourself up to positive, it walks right through your door.

As I mentioned before, being so close to losing D put things into perspective. It made me more willing to take risks. Failure sounded more like an inconvenience than an obstacle.

So I talked to my friend M who is a Pure Romance consultant. It sounded fun, I have student loans to pay off, and I couldn't really think of any reason not to do it myself. Someone doesn't want to do a party with me? No problem, my kid is alive today. It really is that cut-and-dry.

What I found, is that when you remove fear of failure, you open yourself up to real possibilities. The company is offering an incentive for new consultants. Book six parties in 60 days, get free product. I started with the idea that I would just see what happens. No agenda, no expectations. Still, six sounded like a big number and outside my realm of possibility.

You know what? I got those six parties booked. I worked the booth at a wedding expo and booked two more. It is almost falling into my lap. Which only makes me want more. I am very close to believing that I can have everything I want. I do believe that I can be really happy.

Last year the wife and I decided to move to Nashville this year. When I was saying "next year" it felt very far away. Now that it is just a few months away, I canNOT wait for it. It feels like letting go and taking a leap and I have all the faith that I am going to land as light as a feather. (Although don't ask me to think about the actual logistics of moving because I will break out into a panic-induced sweat.)

The wife has the most fantastic job opportunity there and is interviewing today. It just feels right. It all feels right and good and the way it's supposed to be. I told her I have everything crossed for her but I know she's got it already. It's time.

I'm a Disney girl. I love Disney - the man, the movies, the park, all of it. I used to think that I believed dreams could come true. I wanted to believe it, but I didn't really. Because I wasn't open to it. But they can. Sometimes you create them and sometimes you just open yourself up and let it come to you. Don't think this doesn't take work, because it does. But even working your tail off will never work if you aren't really open.

A month ago I told my therapist that I don't think I'm allowed to be this happy. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. But that is stupid. I deserve to be happy. We all do. There are going to be challenges and frustrations and setbacks. That is part of life.

The cliches are all true though. Life is what you make it. And I'm going to make mine great. Really, really great.

Discretion Is Overrated. Apparently.

There seems to be some kind of correlation between my heater going out and my vibrators making an appearance. Or maybe it's having uninteresting men in my house?

So a month ago, my stupid heater went out. It was blowing cold air and this was during that 50-below-freaking-zero cold snap we had. What I didn't realize is that the access to the vent is in my bedroom closet. The closet that holds my dresses and shoes. Luckily, most of my really good shoes are in boxes but I was worried about my babies.

What I was not worried about, because I didn't even stop to think that someone crawling around in dust and spider webs and whatever other god-forsaken things are up there, was that he might use my bathroom to wash his hands. And I didn't even think about it until after he was done and left. And wouldn't look me in the eye. Whatever, weirdo.

But no. I'm the weirdo in this instance. Or the sexual deviant. Because after he left I went to the bathroom and saw my vibrator out there on the counter for all the world to see. TOM. The big one.

Last week the damn heater stopped working again. Another guy came out. Thank goodness. I also was very diligent in making sure that all vibrators were safely put away and there was no underwear on my floor. Yay, good for me.

When he looked at the thermostat, it showed the battery was low. He asked if I had batteries. AA batteries. I panicked. I knew that I had already scoured the house for and stolen from other devices for my newest friend. I pretended to look in my kitchen drawer, hoping against hope that they would magically appear there. No. Of course not. So I crept to my nightstand and, as-discreetly-as-I-possibly-could, pulled two batteries out of my new toy. Of course he knew. Everyone knows what it means when you take batteries out of something in your nightstand.

I'm not sure what the lesson is here. I don't think there is one. It's more like some perverse Murphy's Law. If my heater needs to be repaired, a vibrator will make an appearance. Live and learn kids, live and learn.

Defining Self-Harm

I opened up publicly about something that D and I have been going through yesterday. Because of the responses I got, I wanted to talk more about her self-harm. This is going to be long and might contain triggers, so please proceed with caution. 

Also, I want to add the disclaimer that I am telling you this from my perspective as a parent. I have not self-harmed, although I have been in dark enough places at some points where I could see the attraction of it. I am not a medical professional so I can only answer questions based on my experience and suggest that, if this ever happens in your family, you need to talk to a professional. 

D told me herself that she was cutting. This was after she told her school counselor and her pediatrician. While I was hurt that she didn't tell me at first, I was proud of her for standing up for herself and asking for help. I had to put my ego aside. 

To learn how to cope with this, I talked to her school counselor and her therapist. I scoured the internet for information. I read groups for parents and cutters. I read medical reports. And I still couldn't wrap my head around it. 

Her counselor's opinion was that, since her cuts were so neat and symmetrical, she wasn't suicidal. She was looking for control. A lot of what I read confirmed that cutting isn't necessarily a suicide attempt. Because she had only been doing it a couple of months, I thought maybe it was just a phase. Her counselor also told me that it comes in waves at the high school. A group of girls will suddenly start doing it at the same time. 

In that first year, I went through a thousand emotions. I'm not proud of a lot of it, but then I was coming from a place of fear. When I felt she was doing it just for attention, I threatened to take away privileges. When I was really scared I yelled at her and told her I didn't understand her, that she was just stressing me out. I pleaded. I cajoled. Once, when we were in the dressing room while she tried on a bikini, I fought back tears when I saw the lines on her hips. I blamed myself over and over and over. I defined myself as a failure. 

I tried to be reasonable. I tried to be understanding. I shamed a lot. I researched more. I asked her why. Why? 

D is somewhat of a control freak. If we have an argument, she can't leave it to resolve itself later. She has to have it all smoothed over the moment she wants it. Which isn't realistic when I'm still angry. So some of the way that she chose to cut convinced me that she just needed that control and that was the way she found it. And some of that was true, but she also explained that it was a way to punish herself. She hated that she was depressed and felt sorry for herself knowing that there are so many people with "real" problems who have it worse. So she hurt herself. 

In my more reasonable moments, I told her that it scared me. I told her I didn't understand. I told her that everything I do is just because I love her and I want her to be happy. I let her know that I was wrong. Her response? Gratitude. Gratitude for telling her that I too make mistakes and I don't expect her to be perfect. 

In the really good moments, she expressed that she wanted to stop. One month she said she wanted to cut deeper, that she wanted to see how far she could go. She told me she liked it. I know that sounds like a horrible moment, and it was truly terrifying, but it told me that she was really working it out. She was testing her limits. Until, one day, she did cut too deeply. And it scared the shit out of her and she really wanted to stop. 

So then, like an addict, she started counting how long between cuttings. Two weeks. Several days. A month. When she made it to six weeks and then self-harmed again, she told me she was ashamed and worried that I would be disappointed. "But you said you were proud of me for making it so long." I hugged her and told her I was proud of her, no matter what. I was proud that she kept trying and I was proud that she opened up to me. 

I think her real suicidal moments came when she stopped cutting. Because she no longer was allowing herself that release, she was just stuck with all of the ugly thoughts bottling up inside of her. I told her that was pretty normal. Often, it gets a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. 

And, just like with the suicide, I don't think her self-harm is entirely behind us. I hope it is, but it served a purpose for her and she might find she "needs" it again. She has said that she doesn't want scars that she will have to one day explain to her children. She makes lists of reasons not to do harmful things. 

Now, why have I told you all of this aside from my own catharsis? Because there are dozens upon dozens of reasons that people do things that we can't explain. And if you're one of those people, or the parent of one of those people, it is really scary. And people judge. However, the biggest reason that people judge is because they just don't understand. It's simple ignorance. If you're up to it, you can try to educate them. If it's not in you that day, just walk away and take care of yourself. 

If someone you love is hurting, get help. Get help for them and get help for you. I went back to my therapist to help me cope and be able to better support D. Talk to people you trust. Gather the wagons, build your cocoons, and trust that it will get better. Communicate, communicate, communicate. 

Whatever It Takes

A few months ago my world came crashing down around me. I came home to D crying and telling me she wanted to kill herself. We've been working on and dealing with her depression for nearly two years and that included cutting, but I didn't realize just how bad she was feeling. While I hated her cutting, I told myself that, because it was out in the open, it didn't indicate any actual suicidal ideation.

She didn't want to tell me at first because she didn't want to scare me. She asked a friend to come get the knife that she had previously used to cut herself. The one she found hidden in her room. But when she found that she was afraid to be alone because she might really hurt herself, she had to tell me. I did my best to remain calm and supportive for her, but on the inside I was shattered.

We made appointments with her therapist and psychiatrist. We discussed inpatient treatment and we added an additional medication. We evaluated the options and decided that we would work to avoid the inpatient option. First, there isn't a facility in our town and she would have had to go away and neither of us was in love with that idea. She's also been behind in school and missing another large chunk of time didn't feel right. Still, we left it open as a backup. Because I would do whatever it took.

Those first few weeks were incredibly painful. My baby girl was miserable inside her own skin and I couldn't do anything to change that. I was terrified that I would lose her. Every morning I went to wake her up I would pause at the door, hoping against all hope that my worst nightmare wasn't about to come true. I canceled plans with friends so she wouldn't be home alone. I rearranged my work schedule, I let her break the normal rules of hanging out with friends after school. I did whatever it took to make sure she felt safe. Safe from herself.

In the beginning, she didn't want anyone to know. I wanted to respect her wishes so I didn't talk about it. And, although I wasn't ashamed of her and her feelings, I felt like I had failed as a parent. Where did I go wrong that I didn't protect her from this?

And then I had a Halloween party. I had fun. I laughed, everyone else had a good time, it was successful as far as parties go. When everyone left, I fell apart and sobbed to my best friend. Because if I'm going to lose it with anyone, it's going to be her.

A few days later I opened up to the few people I trusted. The amount of support I got was overwhelming. It gave me hope and enough strength to keep trying and to feel less alone.

D also talked to friends and received the support she needed. Her new meds started to kick in a little bit. I checked in with her daily, asking her to rate her emotional scale. Anything below a five required a plan of action and we knew what those actions were. While most of us can handle a low of four or even three or two, D spiraled to zero almost immediately from that point. We evaluated the reasons for her ratings and how we could change them. The important thing was to be in touch and communicate every day.

A couple of months later she thought she had it handled. She put off therapy appointments, she even canceled one at the last minute to go to play rehearsal instead. A couple of days later she walked in the house and fell into my arms crying, saying again how tired she is of feeling this way. So we talked about how we're stuck with depression. This is a thing that we have, like some people have asthma or any other physical disability or health issue. We have to take care of ourselves, we have limits that we have to respect in order to take care of ourselves. Some things are too much sometimes and that's okay.

Now, a few months later, I think we're over the hump. We've learned what we need to do and what to look for. And, while I can breathe again, I'm not naive enough to think we're past this for good. We're just not. D, as a high school senior, is dealing with a lot of emotions and fears and doubts and excitement about what will happen in the next few months and in the future. It's all very normal and expected. To someone with a tendency towards severe depression, these stresses can send her spiraling down again. My hope is that we have both learned what to look out for before it gets to that bottom level.

The greatest lesson I have learned through all of this is that there is a lot of shit that just doesn't matter. During those dark weeks, I couldn't even focus on my weight like a normal neurotic woman. Because who cared if I lost those 15 pounds and looked amazing? What does that matter if my baby girl is gone? My job seemed nearly pointless. My friends, who I have always known that I appreciate and tell them fairly regularly, meant the absolute world to me. I gained enormous perspective. I became less afraid of a lot of things. Because the scariest thing in the world is losing the person you love the most. Everything after that is just an afterthought.

I think D has learned the strength she has. It takes real courage to ask for help. It takes a hell of a lot to tell someone the ugliest part of yourself and risk not being understood or, worse, ignored. Not only did she ask for help, but she kept asking for help until she got what she needed.

I asked her permission before sharing this with you. She didn't hesitate to say yes and that tells me how much she has grown and how much self-acceptance she has gained. My reason for telling you is that if you feel alone, you're not. If you're afraid to talk, don't stay quiet. If you're not heard the first time, try again. Try someone else. Do not lose what is important to you because of fear.

Most of all, don't lose hope.

Creating Compassionate Change

I need to say something. This may not be something that you care about, so you are free to ignore me, but I hope you do care. I think it's important to care about the creatures that we share our planet with.

You may or many not have seen The Cove. You may or may not have seen Blackfish. If you haven't, I think it's important that  you do. If you have, I think you need to take time to think about what you have learned in order to make the right decisions regarding any action you may take.

When I first watched The Cove, I was so horrified that I swore I would never again attend a marine park. Ever. The images were absolutely heartbreaking in a way that I can't even describe. There was a lot of information presented at the beginning of the film, but all I could focus on afterward was the blood (SO much blood!) and the screams of the dolphins. I recently watched Blackfish. I found it more informative, less graphically disturbing, but just as important.

What both of these films tell us is that the way we treat marine mammals is wrong. Taking animals from their homes solely for financial gain is wrong. Separating families is wrong. Requiring animals to perform for sheer entertainment is wrong. Forcing groups of animals together in small spaces is wrong. This is all wrong and it is all cruel.

I went to Sea World as a child. I went as an adult. These are good memories; they were good times with my family. What I was taught from these experiences was that this treatment was okay. It was glamorous. There was the star of the show, there was the music, the leaps out of the water, the power of their splashes. I thought that these animals loved what they were doing as much as I loved watching them perform. I was wrong.

There is a saying that when you know better, you do better. I think we now know better. Marine biologists and behaviorists have made enough discoveries about the emotions of these animals that tip the scales in favor of change. I don't think that can be debated.

However, what most people are suggesting and urging and asking for is probably not the answer. Boycott Sea World and parks like it. Hit them in their pocketbooks where it really hurts. Close them down and end the cruelty forever. I admit that this was my first reaction, as I said.

But stop and think about this.

If Sea World and its likenesses close, what happens to the animals? Those born in captivity won't survive in the wild. Who is going to pay to locate a whale's pod and have it transported from California to Norway or from Florida to the Pacific Northwest? Who is going to oversee these assimilations? Forcing any park to shut down just to cease existing will cause more harm to these animals. This can't be the plan.

Sea World, being in the biggest spotlight, is in the best position to affect change for marine life. They have the financial resources to transform the existing entertainment platform to one of a sanctuary. Sanctuaries are the best option for the majority of these animals. Trainers and other park personnel who have known these animals and come to care for them could best help them through the transition. Observing them in a habitat closer to their natural environment would allow us to learn more from these wonderful creatures. Wouldn't it be wonderful to witness the birth of a whale not born in captivity, from a relationship between two animals instead of artificially?

Now, I don't have all of the answers. Obviously. I'm not a biologist. Or a zoologist. I do know that radical, reactionary behavior doesn't work. I think if we really care about these animals, that we can come together to create a solution that is more beneficial than harmful. One that opens up a dialogue where we all learn something and we create a better world for all living creatures.

This is the action I would encourage you to take. Boycotting can be a powerful tool, but communication can bring about real change. Talk to the decision makers and ask them to make better decisions. Educate yourselves on all of the options. Open those dialogues. Speak from caring and compassion rather than fear and judgment.

We now know better, it's time to do better.

I Suppose I Could Just Shave My Head

I have a lot of hair. It's like my hair took being a Leo literally and grew itself to epic proportions. On a daily basis. I have pregnancy hair, but permanently. It never goes away.

What this means is that I regularly kill hair dryers. I have to get a new one every two to three years because no mere mortal appliance can maintain the stamina it requires to dry my hair on a daily basis.

I killed one a month ago. It didn't actually die, it just gave up on warming up to hot air, like it just wanted to go in peace by blowing out arctic blasts instead of completely giving up. I let it. However, I still needed to dry my hair so I borrowed D's. For a month. It was one of those little travel-sized things and she hardly ever used it so it only lasted a month. Barely.

Finally, last week I bought a new hair dryer. It's cute. It's pink and black. I think it heard the rumors about me and hasn't worked its way up to full power yet, but we're getting along. So far.

Anyway, this was the conversation about the new hair dryer.

D: I like your new hair dryer.
Me: Thanks.
D: Did mine die too?
Me: Yes.
D: I like our new hair dryer.

Like Mother Like Daughter Like Grandma

I got the following text this morning from D.

"I have a gig tonight, it's an outdoor gig, it would be really nice to come home to hot coco and egg nog.... :)"

I glossed over the misspelled word and replied, "It sure would...."
She answered, "*cough cough* yes mom, it would *wink*"

I shared her message with my podmates and J said, "She is so like you."
Ha ha.

A few minutes later, there was this conversation.

Me: "What are you going to do without me on your own?"
D: "Probably die."
Me: "Probably."
D: "Haha. We will cross that bridge when we come to it."

And suddenly I was talking to my mom.

Pros Only

Winters can be hard. Winters can be really hard as a single person. It's cold, the holidays happen, etc. It can suck.

So the Wife and I thought we'd make a list to make ourselves feel better about being single. Like a Gratitude List only for being single. The things we appreciate about being single. It was supposed to make us feel less sad, but it's had kind of the opposite effect. I don't feel less sad. I feel more happy. I feel really appreciative. At first it was just little things. But then it was just an overall feeling of, "I am really okay. Really." As in, I actually prefer this life. For now. I don't know what will come later, but I am really good right now. Without any convincing, I'm good. I'm good with me. I'm good with Now.

If you're not okay, or you need a little reminder that you are, here is a little list of some of the things we've come up with. We add to it regularly.

I can go home when I want. I have nobody to answer to.
I can flirt whenever I want with whoever I want. Everyone is fair game and so am I.
I can complain about being fat while stuffing my face with apple pizza and there isn't anybody to judge me.
My relationship with my kid is mine. Right or wrong, we will figure it out together.
The possibility still exists. I'm not stuck. Hope is good.
My future is mine. It is limitless.
The mistakes I make are mine and I only have to answer to myself.
I can set the heater at whatever temperature I want.
There is no video game talk in my house.
I can watch whatever, whenever I want on T.V.
My dogs sleep with me and I don't have to explain that.
No sports. I only watch the Kentucky Derby and the Super Bowl, and the latter for the commercials only.

If I get too cold, I have two very willing puppies to snuggle with.
Life is good.

Here We Go.....

Senior year. I have had thoughts about this year since D was born. There are emotions and stresses and all of that blah, blah, blah. Etc., etc, etcetera! The things is, shit's getting real, ya'll.

This week was kind of major. Not in a really life-altering way, more of a reminder of what's coming up. To-do list check-offs. We ordered her cap and gown. She thinks it's funny to tease me and said, "Are you ready to cry?" as she handed me the order form. As if. I don't cry when I have to shell out money. Okay, I do, but for different reasons. Last night we chose her senior pictures. Also last night, for the first time ever, she came home at 2:00 in the morning by herself. (Catching Fire premiere. Very important stuff.) And then she got up early and went to school. Like an "adult."

See? It's not that big of a deal. And yet it is. Every step takes us closer to the End. The end of childhood. The end of my days as a "mommy." It's terrifying, and heartbreaking and freeing. All at the same time. I'm glad there are these little steps to inure me to the idea that my little girl is going to go away soon. If we had to jump off the cliff all at once, I don't think my heart could take it. I know my sanity couldn't.

How to Tell if Your Dog is Losing Her Freaking Mind

The carbon monoxide detector starts beeping at 4:30 in the morning because its battery is low. Like smoke detectors, these things only happen during the hours you should be fast asleep. You know that it's beeping, not because it wakes you up, but because your dog is clawing at your face to tell you that it's beeping.

You get up, unplug the damn thing, throw it in the coat closet, and head back to bed. Since both dogs are up, you let them out to potty and then call everyone back to bed. You think that you still have plenty of time to get a decent amount of sleep before you have to get up for work.

You are wrong.

The boy dog never realized that there was pre-sunrise drama, so he settles back down to sleep like a Good Boy. The girl dog thinks that the beeping signaled the end of the world and she wants to you stay up and freak out with her until that happens.

You pet her and tell her it's okay. That's not enough and she continues to pant as if the bed were on fire. You try to pull her close to you to reassure her. She pants her bad doggy breath right into your nostrils. She won't stop shaking. You try to ignore her and turn to the other side. She walks across your head, pulling your hair out along the way, so that her breath can be directly fanning your face again. You pull the covers over your head, thinking she'll eventually give up. No. She starts to walk in circles over you, walking across your head, your side, your head, your hip, circling faster and more frantically each time.

After about 30 minutes, she finally gives in and lays next to you. Only you can feel her staring at you because her face is half an inch away from yours. It's like her line of sight is boring into your cheekbone. At this point you are starting the countdown until your alarm will go off so you close your eyes and hope for the best.

You never go back to sleep.

When you get out of bed to take a shower, she goes with you. At this point the boy dog thinks it's just time to get up so you let them outside one more time but inform them there is no breakfast until after your shower. For which they follow you into the bathroom. Both of them. When you get out, you have to avoid stepping on dogs. One of which is perpetually ravenously hungry and the other of which is still shaking and insists on walking between your feet. For the rest of the morning. You nearly kill yourself tripping over her a dozen or so times and you would throttle her if she didn't have such big, sad eyes that look at you with absolute trust that you will make her world right again.

You sigh. You crate them both before leaving and just hope that your neurotic dog doesn't give herself a stroke while you're at work. And that she will allow you to nap when you get home.

When Good Friends Go Bad

Last week, at book club, the subject of age came up. With the exception of one, we are all over the age of 40. A couple of us were talking about how our eyesight has changed just over the last couple of years. The skin under my eyes has gotten thinner this year. We are noticing small changes that amount to our impending mortality.

I shared a story from my late teenage years. I worked at a Hallmark, where I rang up many, many old women. Old women are always buying cards. Or at least they were back in the day before they started costing upwards of $4.00. I digress. I would hold my hands on the counter, watching them write their checks, comparing my smooth skin with their wrinkles and age spots, their gnarled knuckles. My hands became a source of pride, a symbol of my youth and vitality. And, because of this foolish pride, I have watched my hands age over the years with growing sadness.

After telling this story, M asked if that was really such a difference. I had her lay her hand down flat on the table and laid mine next to hers. "See how I have more wrinkles?" She looked down and gasped, exclaiming loudly, "Oh, WOW!!!" Um, okay. They're not that bad. It's not like they're all shriveled into dry tree branches. Plus, the weather here is very drying and I hadn't recently moisturized. No need to make me cry!!

I think I'm just going to wear gloves around her from now on.

Teaching the Birds and the Bees

Note: This isn't going to be very interesting, I just had sort of a random memory the other day that led to other thoughts and this is just how my brain works.

I learned where babies come because my sister was born when I was seven. I thought it was pretty disgusting. Once, when shopping with my mom, she asked me what I thought about black bras. Who asks a nine-year-old this question? My mom, apparently. I told her I thought it would make her a slut. She didn't buy it.

One day, when my sister was five, she came into my room, dropped to all fours on my bed, and started humping the air. "I'm making babies!" This is what happens when you take your five-year-old with you to breed your dog. Any time she wanted to annoy me from then on, she would hump the air on her hands and knees.

Because my mom had been so open about sex, I wanted to be that way with D. Except I didn't feel open and I was never really prepared. One night, when she was four and taking a bath, she asked me the dreaded question. "Where do babies come from?" I tried to answer as calmly and as simply as I could.

Me: Well, the man has a sperm and the woman has an egg. When the sperm meets the egg......
D: Ha ha ha ha..... The sperm meets the egg!! Say it again!!
Me: The sperm meets the egg.
D: hee hee hee, ha ha ha..... Say it again!!!

Yes, hilarity ensued. That was the end of that.

When she was nine, I was slightly concerned that she hadn't asked again. She had a friend who recently gained a baby sister. Concerned she might get wrong information from friends, I asked if she had any questions about that baby or birth and told her that she could ask me anything, secretly hoping that she wouldn't. We happened to be out at lunch and she said a quick okay, then took a bite of food. I thought that was it until she said, "Okay. So how does it happen? That thing, sex." Again, I explained as simply as I could using the physical description of the act rather than the "when a mommy and a daddy love each other" bullshit. She just sat there, staring at me. Finally she said, "Okay. That is even grosser than I thought." Which was the end of the conversation.

Over time, I did get used to talking about the subject. Mostly because I'm a smart ass and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. D thought she could embarrass me one night. While she had a friend over.

D: What is 69?
Me: It'a a number.
D: But what is it?
Me: A number between 68 and 70.
D: But what else? (while giggling and looking at her friend.)
(Oh, we're going to play that game are we?)
Me: It's a sexual position.
D: That's what I thought.
Me: Would you like me to draw you a picture? Are you sure you know? Maybe I need to make it really clear for you.
D: Ew, gross! No!! Mom, you're sick!!!

At least she left me in peace and went to her room.

I Guess I Can Try the New Beehive Hairstyle Now

J: Do you have aerosol hairspray?
Me: No.
J: Why not? How can you not have aerosol hairspray?
Me: Because I care about the environment. Besides, I don't use that much hairspray. Also - I'm not my grandma.
J: I can't believe you don't have aerosol hairspray. Everybody has aerosol hairspray.
Me: Apparently not everyone.
J: I can't believe you. Seriously.

A couple of days later:

Me: What is the deal with stupid aerosol hairspray anyway?
W: I have some. It's different now, it's not like it was in the 70's.
Me: Oh. Nobody told me that.
W: Yeah, you can join the 21st century now.

Excuse Me, What?

This conversation happened between D and me this morning. Please note that she asked me to make her breakfast before this conversation took place.

D: Does it seem crazy to you how grown up I am?
Me: How what you are?
D: Grown up.

Me: Um.

D: .......

Me: When was the last time you made a grilled cheese by yourself?
D: At E's house. It took us like half an hour and we burned the first one.

Me: Yeah. So what were you asking me? 

Red Lipstick

When I was in college, I had a particularly difficult class with a particularly difficult professor. The only way to write a paper that would pass would be to write the paper that he would have written. In other words, I had to read his mind, which was nearly impossible as I am not someone who enjoys spending large quantities of time with lab rats. I did spend many hours sitting outside his office waiting to review papers before I turned them in. I spent hours inside his office while he scribbled red marks all over what I had already painstakingly written. Only to repeat the process.

The weeks spent in that class resulted in a few nightmares. It was my waking life, however, that became really bizarre. Any time that I couldn't get past a paragraph or a sentence for any paper I was writing for this class, I would go clean something. The bathroom I shared. Another roommate's dishes. The kitchen sink. My closest. Myself. I was taking up to three showers a day that I didn't need. My roommates loved me. My developing OCD would have frightened me had I been able to take a step back and see how crazy I looked from the outside. Instead, I was tunnel-visioned and head-down until the class was over and I was able to return to a state of normalcy.

The recent experiences with D and her (fucking) depression have brought some of that back. I don't have the energy to scrub my toilet four times a day, but I have made the effort to return to my former Self. The Self I was before I was aware of my own depression and before I lost myself in the Bad Relationship. This Self paid bills on time (with less money than I have now), made and cooked weekly menus with groceries bought specifically for that purpose, and generally had her shit together. She even invited other small children over to bake and decorate cookies, something this current Self would run shrieking from.

I still am not about to invite small children mess into my home, but I have started picking my clothes up off the floor more than bi-monthly. I washed sheets and put them back on my bed in the same day. I planned a week of meals and bought the necessary groceries. On a Sunday no less, instead of lying on the couch alternating between napping and watching other people cook on Chopped.

Finally, in order to complete the transformation of this New Self, I made a small purchase. The Old Self, while she had her shit together, did not pay much attention to her own appearance. She went days without putting on a spot of makeup. She expunged most semblances of femininity in favor of raising a daughter who valued her internal worth over her outward appearance. (Which, by the way, was completely futile as my offspring has always been the girliest girl she could ever be.)

My New Self, as she grows older, embraces her femininity. Her shoe collection alone can attest to this fact. She understands that she can be both strong and fallible whether she's wearing a dress and heels or going out as Plain Jane. She's a woman and she enjoys it.

To that end, I attended a lipstick party over the weekend with the sole intention of finding the perfect shade of Red Lipstick. I've tried to wear red before, because I think it's powerful and sexy, but never quite thought I could pull it off. Any red I attempted I immediately covered up with lip gloss to tame it down, silly it up, dilute the power, erase the real woman I wanted to be.

Don't misunderstand; I don't think that Real Women are defined by something as superficial and trivial as their lipstick. Or their hairstyle. Or their professions, their relationships, or their parental status. For me, this is my symbol of the woman I want to be. Put together. Strong. Capable. It's my new cape, the symbol of the hero I want to be for my daughter and for myself. It's smaller than a breadbox and will melt in the sun, but it represents more to me than just a stick of what is, essentially, colored wax.

My red lipstick is the detail that reminds me to pay attention to the details. It's the personal touch that tells the world I'm ready. And, more importantly, that I got this.

Not Today

“There is only one god and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: “Not today.” 
― George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

I love this quote. I think it is my favorite line from this whole series and, if you're watching it, you know there are some really, really excellent lines. Like anything that comes out of Tyrion's mouth.

So this may be disjointed because there are things I feel and there are things I want so say and there are things I can't say and they're all competing in my head. The main thought and concern is how desperately, painfully unhappy my Bugabooga has been. Depression is a motherfucker and it has a tight grip on her at this point in time and I hate it more than anything else. More than snow and the inventor of Crocs, more than people who hurt animals and even more than 50 Shades of Grey. But you know what? Depression doesn't give a shit. It's nastier than Honey Badger, who at least offers some entertainment and inspiration to be a Bad Ass. Depression just takes over and ignores all attempts to thwart it.

What depression is really good at is creating barriers between the depressed person and anyone who cares about her. This is what it has done with D. No matter what I say, or how hard I try, or how much I will her to be better, none of that gets through. She's under the invisible shield of depression. Except it doesn't work the way that a shield should, it doesn't protect her. It hurts her. It lies to her. It tells her she's worthless and useless and dumb and a waste. None of which is even remotely true. She's beautiful and talented and wonderful. She's loving and sensitive and this is how it takes advantage of her. Damn it.

And then there is my own depression, which acts more like a door. It shuts me in, and turns down the blinds and makes it darker for a while. Only doors can be opened, even if I have to pick at the lock for a while to get out. I think, however, that it relishes in the fact that it takes me away from her for a little bit, that it uses up the energy I need to help her. I hate it for that.

If the universe worked in the way that it should, D would feel better because of the simple fact that I love her enough to make it so. I'm the mommy, I'm supposed to make the boo-boos go away. I lost that power a long time ago and I desperately want it back. It's my right and privilege as a mother to make my child's life better.

But here is the thing I have learned, which was reinforced yesterday. We are not alone. If you are reading this, and can relate to what I am saying at all, and if you take nothing else away from my rambling, know that you are not alone. You are not alone in how you feel and you are not alone in that you have to go through this on your own. The thing is, that when you ask for help, you get it. I can ask for a million dollars or a pony until I'm blue in the face and it isn't going to happen but if I ask for help, it's there. It just is. In the form of friends, family, discovering that other people feel this way or have felt this way, or those who can't even comprehend what you're trying to say but still care and want to help and offer to help and do help.

I think D feels like she is the only one affected by her depression. She's not. It breaks me into a thousand pieces on a nearly daily basis knowing that she is so miserable and I can't change it. And then I feel like since I'm her mom, that it's up to me and me alone to Fix It and help her but that gets overwhelming and I get tired and I want to stop even though I know I can't. So I ask for help. She asks for help. And what an hour ago seemed insurmountable suddenly feels a little more manageable. Even if it's just for a little while. An hour, a day. It's enough to keep me going. It helps her stop crying for a little while.

It helps us say, in the loudest voice we can manage in that moment, Not today.

My (Non)Shrink

Therapist: "You still dress so cute."
Me: "Yeah, and I've gotten a little fatter."
Therapist: "Yeah, well. That happens.

Um, huh. Yeah, that's not very therapeutic.

Is it Because of My Potty Mouth?

Me: How do I say that I'm not attracted to guys old enough to be my dad, or overweight, or bearded, or guys who hunt or are general rednecks who only drink beer without sounding like a total bitch?

B: Say you're looking for "refined."

Me. Oh, good idea.

J: No, you can't do that. Refined wouldn't be attracted to you. I mean, come on.

This is why I'm still single.

Refractions

D had her senior photos done today. I tagged along for a bit. Not even 20 minutes in I decided that I couldn't handle it.

To the photographer: "Can you get just a couple of her with her nose scrunched up? Just one or two? She made that face all the time as a baby."

"Good grief, this is just like the setting of her one-year pictures. Outdoors. Denim dress. Her feet were just cuter then. Fatter. Adorable."

This is senior year. There are times I really want to kill her. Already. School only started in September. October is only half over. I think I could really strangle her.

And then, there she is. In that perfect pose, like a natural. That smile; it's always ready. Whenever I ask, as long as there's a camera in front of my own face.

This child. The one I love oh-so-much. The one that has grown before my eyes. It's a jumble of memories. The moments so full of pride that my heart could burst, the times I feel I have failed in every possible way. Strangely wrapped up in these images being captured on a beautiful fall afternoon. With that beautiful smile.

I am proud. Because she's beautiful and her own person. I'm desperately sad because my moment of influence is nearly over. We are so close to that finish line. I continue to cheer her on, pick her up when she falls, and bite my nails over those final moments.

What's the lyric? A picture paints a thousand words? It's a million more for a parent.

God and Gays and My Kid

"They" say that there comes a time when you have to let your child go and trust that you have instilled in them the proper values and ways in which to view the world. But "they" don't live with my kid and they haven't watched the Really Dumb Teenager things she has done lately. For these Dumb Reasons, I haven't been ready to let go.

D started attending church a few months ago. At first it was sort of an interesting rebellion. I think I took her to church once in her life and I believe the bible is just a very old book with some nice stories. Also some not-nice stories. She didn't choose drugs or drinking or raccoon-rings of black eye-liner. She chose Jesus. I told myself it could be worse.

And then it got a little weird. She got a little judgey and wanted to know why I wouldn't go. She begged me to attend services with her. I acquiesced only when she got baptized because it was a Really Big Deal to her. (Unlike the fancy stepped tubs I was used to seeing as a child, they used a horse trough. Huh.) Surprisingly, my non-believing self did not spontaneously combust. Maybe Jesus forgives you when you're supporting your only child for his sake.

All along I tried to temper her fervency for the holy spirit with healthy doses of reality. She denied my claims of religious hypocrisy, holding fast to her belief that these were Good People who only had her best interests at heart. Unlike her mother who went through 52 hours of labor? Huh. Again. I finally just asked her to promise that she would think about what she was told, rather than just blindly accepting whatever was spouted in her general direction. I wanted to impress upon her that she could still decide for herself what is right for her because the world just isn't black and white, as much as one might wish that it were.

She came home after her most recent youth group complaining that the members there were anti-gay and she doesn't believe it's right. She opened up a bit more a couple of days later saying that the adult male in the group gushed about how "amazing" sex with his wife is while the other adults nodded and murmured "amen." "Don't you think it's really inappropriate to tell teenagers how great sex is? Isn't that irresponsible?" I've loved her more in other moments, but as soon as she said that, I was pretty damn proud of her.

She missed church this Sunday, partly because she was really sick, but partly because she wants to make the move to a different church. She wants to "love God" while being able to accept and be accepted. She decided she can no longer be a part of or support an organization that goes against her beliefs. Or the rights of hundreds upon thousands of people across the world, if we want to get down to the real issue.

I may be able to let go just the tiniest little bit. She does get it. She's showing real maturity. In this case. I'm not going to go all crazy and just throw her out into the world, but I might let her cross the street by herself. She's earned that much.

Because I love her and am proud of her and want to support her for standing up for what is Right, I have offered to help her find another place of worship by attending with her. If you're worried about me converting as a new fanatic, don't. I suppose I will be thrown out sooner rather than later. I have this mouth, you see. It doesn't come with a filter.

How Marriage Works

This conversation took place today between my work spouse and me whilst on our way to lunch.

Me: "You always take the long way. Every single time."
Him: "Can there be one person today who doesn't yell at me?"
Me: "Seriously though. This is the long way!"
Him: "Am I allowed to punch you in the face?"
Me: "No, that is domestic violence."
Him: "This seems very one-sided."
Me: "That's how marriage works."

Operation Pug Transfer

Last week the Wife fostered a pug for a hot five minutes. Yesterday I went with her to deliver the sweet old girl to the next stop on her journey to her forever home. (Note: If you give up your dog for the sole reason that it is old and no longer "fun", know that there is a special place in hell for you.)

However, this isn't a story about rescue. Or maybe it is. I may need to be rescued from myself. You decide. Just don't judge.

We drove halfway to Eugene to meet this other dog lady. We skipped breakfast. Which is always a bad idea when the Wife and I are together because that's when we make bad decisions. Monumentally bad. Twenty minutes in, we realized our mistake. An hour in we were starving. And that's when the dangerous cravings started.

"You know what we haven't had in a while? Red Lobster."
"Well, we are halfway there at this point."
"Wanna?"
"Why not? We're spontaneous!"

We are idiots. A quick two-hour trip turned into an all-day event. The first half was fun. We laughed about old boyfriends and bad sex ("Your face is weird, but I sit on that sometimes.") and planned on ordering everything on the menu because we were famished. The trip home? Not so fun. I was sweating butter and wanted nothing more than my pajamas and my couch. On top of it all, we had the first big storm of the season. Buckets and buckets of rain. Monsoon-type winds. Windshield wipers that need to be replaced. It was not awesome. "We could be napping." "What? There aren't any restaurants closer to home?" "We really shouldn't be allowed out unsupervised."

Oh well, I guess it's a lesson learned. Until next time.

The Most Monumentally Fucked-Up-Beyond-Any-Semblance-of-Recognition Week

It started Sunday with my teenager acting like a teenager. That is probably all I need to say about that other than my entire day was ruined and I questioned why anyone signs up for this parenting gig anyway.

Then there was That Episode of Breaking Bad. If you've seen it, you know exactly what I'm talking about and how difficult it was to function at all either mentally or emotionally on Monday. Knowing that other people were just as shell-shocked as I was got me through the day without overdosing on my anti-depressants.

Next came Tuesday. The day I will forever relate to the Red Wedding episode from this last season of Game of Thrones. Only the blood was shed in the office and it wasn't literal blood but might as well have been. That is what this lay-off felt like. The people that I most admire, respect, and trust all gone in one foul swoop. Until the next day when there was one more. All we've been able to do in the office is huddle together in small groups wiping tears and asking why, why, why? I was able to hold it together in the office until last night when I came home and sobbed for half an hour.

Words like "financial" and "strategy" and "consolidation" were thrown around. Meaningless words to a group of people who have been together for 15, 20, 25 years. At 7 years I am the kid sister of the group. This is a deep loss and it will take time to recover. What comes out of this at the end will forever be changed. Yes, this is a job, but when you work as hard and for as many hours and you come to know the person next to you on a more-than-personal level because you attend their weddings and their funerals and their birthdays and bridal showers and watch their kids grow up, these people become family.

I've spent the last three days processing my feelings. Anger, sadness, insecurity, wariness, a deep loss of trust. It hurts. We're all hurt and feeling bruised and exhausted and drained. And, because I have some bizarre, misplaced sense of needing to be a caretaker, I've made the step to organize a goodbye party so that we can have some form of closure. It's not my job. I haven't been there the longest, I don't know all of the stories and the history. And yet it's the one thing I can do because of the deep gratitude I feel towards these people. I can't change any of it, but I can do this. I can offer a time to say we love you, we honor you, we will miss you.

So, that's enough. Right? Surely that should be enough. If only.

In a moment of weakness I agreed to go to the United Way breakfast this morning. My condition was that it couldn't make me cry. I was promised it wouldn't. I was lied to. The United Way is very good at pulling on your heart strings in order to pull the wallet out of your pocket and they did it again. Because I didn't cry enough last night, I guess.

It's Thursday, we're near the weekend, I might be able to breathe again. I would be very wrong.

Because what did I see when I pulled into the garage at the end of the day? A fucking near-tarantula-sized spider on the wall next to the door into my house. I couldn't even walk into the house. It just sat there, daring me to go past it. If you've spent any amount of time here, you know how I feel about things with eight legs. Thank everything in the heavens above that the Raid was in the garage. Only when I sprayed it, it fell behind a box and now I don't know if it's dead or if it's going to seek revenge on me in the middle of the night in some pesticide-induced craze.

All of this can't be attributed to the full moon, can it? Whatever is going on, the Universe needs to get its shit together. That spider was the last damn straw.

The Case Against the Pinky Toe

Pinky toes are completely unnecessary. Completely. I kinda hate them. Let me tell ya why.

First of all, and maybe most importantly, they don't fit well in the cuter shoes. They stick out at the side of sandals, they get smooshed into the sides of closed-toes, they get blisters almost as often as heels. Why for? Shoes aren't really made for pinky toes. Except maybe for those weird five-finger shoes that are an abomination to fashion.

Come on, shoes don't look cute with giant spaces on the sides. The Chinese were kind of right. Sorta. Feet should look a little dainty.  On women, not dudes of course. Now, I'm not advocating that we resort to breaking and binding the entire foot, that's just crazy, messed-up shit. But we can lose one toe per foot. We can.

I have mentioned this idea to friends before. Their response? "Oh no, we can't live without that tiny digit. It helps us balance!" Wtf?? Balance? What are we? Apes? Let me tell you, that toe does nothing. Least of all keep me from losing my balance.

I broke my toe once. The pinky, of course. I nearly broke it a second time recently. Same toe. Same useless pinky. I couldn't walk on that side of my foot. And guess what? I never fell over. Not once. Not once while I walking along, or getting out of the shower, or in the car, or any other place that I could have stumbled or lost my balance, did I suddenly need to use that stupid toe to keep me from toppling over. In fact, the opposite was true. Putting weight on it hurt, so I had to lean that foot inward. Instead of using the lame toe like some ape digit.

So there it is. We don't need this little toe. It doesn't work. It doesn't fit. It's too delicate and easily broken. It doesn't serve a purpose. It is a bane to our existence.

Do you hear that, Evolution? Can you make that a priority now? I'm okay with mine falling off tomorrow.

Ouch. No, Really. Does This Look Normal To You? New Friend?

Labor Day weekend. You're supposed to do something awesome to close out summer, right? So I hear. So the wife and I went up to the lake to enjoy the last rays of the summer sun. It was nice. It was warm. And then I thought I'd venture out into the water. Not so brilliant. It was murky and clung to my flip-flops. Ew. It's much better to be back on shore.

We brought sandwiches with us. They weren't awesome. The lettuce was wilted. We discarded it. The birds noticed it. One, in particular, flew down next to the hand holding my sandwich. EEEK!! Birds!!!! Temporary Hitchcock moment! Whew.... Okay. He only wants a piece of my wrap.

Hmmm....How badly do you want my tortilla? Ten inches away? Yes. Six inches away? Yes. With a "peep-peep" thank you. At one point, my new friend fluttered his wings right in front of me. EEEK!!! Okay, breathe. Regroup.

I tore off a small piece of pesto-covered tortilla and put it on my leg. Out of curiosity. And, curiously, my new friend landed right on my foot. My toe. And then my leg. He hopped right over to his little pesto-covered morsel, grabbed it up into his beak, and flew off. He actually did this over and over. Alighting on my toes, my foot, my calf, my thigh. Whatever got him close to the food I offered him. He had a friend who was less brave, we tossed our carbs to him at a distance.

After we'd had enough, and our new friends had seemingly had enough, we hauled our supplies back to the car. Supplies. As in a small cooler with now-empty beer bottles, a towel, sunscreen, a book. Not enough to trip me up. Not really. But I still managed to get stabbed by a stick along the way.

Oh, I forgot to mention that the chair I was sitting on ripped while I was sitting in it. It wasn't a steep drop, but it was jarring enough. Landing straight on the ground. On my tailbone.

Yes, you would think I was bruised enough from this excursion. You'd be wrong.

The wife and I arrived back at my house. I took a quick shower, gathered food and drink supplies for the evening. I forgot my glasses. I'm old, I need them. So I jumped out of the car and hurried up to the door, catching my pinky toe on the lawnmower. OUCH!! WTF???

It's okay, just a stubbed toe. Only, looking at it, it looked a little crooked and set apart from the others. Not a good sign.

I've actually broken this toe before. I was told than that once you break a toe, it's that much easier to break it a second time. Shit. It throbbed. I drove anyway. My toe throbbed. I wanted to puke, but I ignored that feeling.

I downed some ibuprofen, I swallowed some vodka. I watched some cheesy tv. Something about sharks and ghosts and tornadoes. Incredibly lame, but cheesy enough to take the focus off of the pulsing in my swollen digit.

Tomorrow doesn't bode well. The temperatures are dropping and I hoped this would be the week that I wear the cute shoes I won't be able to wear in another month. My swollen pinky toe is already protesting and asking for freedom and breathing room.

Because it hurts like hell, I may need to accommodate. How much does one need a pinky toe anyway?....

The Beauty of the Bulldog

I've always hated the term "so ugly it's cute." This is probably because I heard it a lot as a child since I grew up with English Bulldogs. My mom got her first, Astarte, when I was four. Our dogs were never ugly to us, we loved them. I always loved and still love the little pit on top of their noses where the velvety, fuzzy hair is. I used to poke my finger in that little hole and pet that fuzz over and over with every dog we had. And they always let me. This is because English Bulldogs are the best dogs in the world.

They're the best because you can do anything to them and they don't care. They're like Honey Badger, they don't give a shit. Unlike Honey Badger, they won't bite two-thirds of your face off. 

I was a little bratty when I was a kid. Actually, our boy George found the perfect hidey-spot in the yard under a small grouping of palm trees. He loved this spot. I loved this spot. I was small enough to fit into his little cave and so I pushed him out every chance I got. Thinking back, I deserved to be bitten for this. I would bite someone pushing me out of my cozy nap spot. I get just grumpy in general when anyone wakes me up from a nap now. Push me off the couch or bed and you're risking losing your head. But George didn't care. Or he did, but he didn't show it. He just sat outside patiently, waiting for me to get bored or called into the house and then he would return to his little dirt den. 

I can't remember if it was Venus or Cassiopeia that my sister tormented endlessly. It was one of the white sisters. One day she thought that the dog in question would enjoy using her head as a pillow. Over and over she grabbed the dog's head and tried to lay it on her own. Except she was grabbing the poor dog's throat and finally the dog had enough and threw up. Dog vomit. All over her face. I laughed while my sister held back her own gag reflex, but I think she knew it was her fault. 

And seriously, how awesome is a dog like that? Wake it from a nap by shoving it out of its comfort zone? No biting. Repeatedly choking it to make it do something only a 7-year-old thinks is funny? No biting. A little vomit, but who could blame her? 

The English are the root of my love for anything smooshy-faced. If it snorts, snores or farts relentlessly, I will love it. (Note that this only applies to four-legs. Two-legs who exhibit the same behavior will be kicked to the curb.) I already know that I will have dogs all of my life and my next one may just be a little bully. 

I'm okay with the slobber, I'll just steer clear of the gag reflex. 

Lesson From My Dog

I don't know if you've ever heard anyone talk about what they've learned from their dogs. It's usually said during the old age of a dog or shortly after their death. "My dog taught me how to live." "My dog taught me about patience and kindness." "My dog taught me how to love again." Well you know what? The only thing my dogs have ever taught me is that if you eat poop, you'll just throw it up. Or that if you eat q-tips or condoms, they'll come out in your poop. And if you bite someone, they'll likely bite back. As you can see, this isn't a big learning curve. Not that deep or meaningful. I mean, it's certainly good to know what happens if you eat poop or a condom, but it's not like I was hell-bent on trying it.

This summer my little hippopupamus Ruby Tuesday changed that. While I was 18 light years away from her in Tennessee, she stayed with her friend Gracie The Pug. I use the term "friend" lightly here since most of the time she has been anything but friendly to Gracie. However, the Wife and I insisted that they be best friends. I have repeated the phrase "Be nice" over and over and over and over. And over again.

So I wasn't overly confident about leaving her for over a week, even though I left a list of the "magic words" with our pet sitter. The first night our pet sitter asked if she could leave Ruby out in the house while she was gone for a bit. Uh, no. Better not. Let's not kill Gracie the first night.

But in the next few days I was texted photos of Ruby sleeping on the same couch as Gracie. Not right next to her, but I wasn't going to ask for the world. I received an update text relaying the bedtime story about how Ruby slept on one side of the pet sitter while Gracie slept on the other. The really shocking news? There were also two cats in the bed. WHAT??? Ruby slept with CATS???? Another photo showed Ruby sleeping on one side of a lap on the couch with a cat on the other side. Like four inches away!!! Holy hell!!!

Once I got home, I saw with my own eyes how my baby girl walked right past a cat. And she KISSED Gracie!! It's like I didn't even know who this dog was!!! On top of all of this, she was so happy. I mean, she's always happy to see me. She's a dog and she loves me. But she was bouncy and silly and doing this little horsey-kicky-butt-jump thing. She didn't even do that as a puppy.

Then I noticed a physical difference. My dog lost weight. A lot of weight. My little hippopupamus was replaced with a canine supermodel. Her waist was tiny. I could feel her ribs; who even knew she had any? I could even feel her spine.

With her weight loss she also lost her insecurities about being around other animals. She became accepting, even loving. And not like dogs have any big stresses in life, but I would even call her carefree.

So this is the secret to happiness. Get skinny. If I get skinny, I will be less irritable. If I can leap high into the air I will be nicer to people. If I can show off my spine and my ribs, I will be satisfied. Supermodel skinniness = happy life.

Now, if I can just get someone to reduce my meals to half a cup per meal. Twice a day.
Yeah, not so much.

Maybe I just shouldn't try learning things from my dog.

The Pacific NW Vs. The South

We already know that the south is a different sort of place. Southerners have those cute twangy accents. They use words like "y'all" and "reckon" and "dumplin' ". They really like fried food.

Pacific NW natives, on the other hand, boast about their mountains and independent western spirit. They dine on fusion cooking and use words like "Starbucks" and "IPA" and "sasquatch." The Pacific NW is the birthplace of the hipster.

I was able to observe the differences up close on my recent trip to Nashville. The differences weren't as glaringly obvious as I thought they would be; there are more similarities between the two areas than there are differences. Still, those differences were pretty big.

1. Southerners drink something called sweet tea. If you order tea, you will be given a choice between sweet and non-sweet. I don't know how many gallons of sugar go into sweet tea and I probably don't want to know, but it is freaking delicious.

2. In the south, mac and cheese is considered a vegetable. So are hash browns and fried apples.

3. There is a conspicuous lack of good coffee. So you drink sweet tea with breakfast.

4. There is a distinct lack of micro brews. Or breweries. I don't think I heard anyone ask what was on tap the entire time I was there.

5. Whiskey is moonshine. And boy, are they proud of it.

6. There is a church every 10 feet. Sometimes there are five churches in a row next to each other. They aren't all baptist either. I saw two Jewish temples on the same block.

7. Speaking of churches, those southerners really love them some Jesus. There are these things called prayer walls in stores. Billboards dot the highways with reminders that "Jesus saves."

8. As much as they love Jesus, they equally love their porn. I saw the same number of billboards advertising porn shops and strippers as advertising that "God is Lord" from Missouri through Oklahoma.

9. When someone in the Pacific NW calls you "ma'am", it sounds like an insult and a comment on how damn old you are. When someone in the south calls you "ma'am", it's just damn polite.

10. This one isn't a difference. Just an observation. Hipsters are everywhere. You can't escape them.

11. The morning shows in the south tell you what not to say to a lady. As in, don't ask her age or comment on how tired she looks. They also would have you believe that all southern belles want to be married before the age of 25 and offer lots of tips on how to attract a man.

12. There really is such a thing as southern hospitality and people really are friendly. One of our waitresses gave us her delicious recipe for a cake using apple butter and wished us a "truly blessed" day.

13. I could spend hours listening to the low, slow drawl of a southern man any day. The NW can't even compare with their metro sexuality.

14. There are bugs that will sing you to sleep at night. There are also bugs that will latch onto your skin to suck your blood and give you Lyme disease but, hey, it's a trade off.

15. The south is just as proud of its Civil War heritage and its plantations as the NW is of its mountains and breweries. The only difference is that one of them involved slaves.

16. I don't remember seeing a single Subaru.

17.  Southerners apparently don't believe in recycling. They still use styrofoam boxes. gasp!

Happy 29th!!

I was in Tennessee last week (in case you're new here) and the morning news show there had a segment on things that you never say to a woman. One of these things was to never ask her age. I may be in the minority of those who don't mind this question. Because 9 out of 10 times I get, "No way! You are not that old!" So it's worth it just for that reaction.

The other side of that is that I earn my age every year. Each gray hair is most likely caused by my teenager. As much as it frustrates me, she's doing what she's supposed to be doing: finding her way. Even if that means that I stay up nights worrying about her or spend hours making sure she's keeping up in school or listening while she opens up to me about her relationships, feelings, or depression. The blessing of that double-edged sword is that she keeps talking to me. The wrinkles are because I have friends to be concerned about. The laugh lines are from our times together that I treasure above most everything.

Each year brings a little more self-acceptance. Reasons to like myself a little more. Opportunities to grow and learn and share.

In this last year alone I was able to accept my dad for who he is and what he offers. After 42 years, that was huge. I got my sister back. I witnessed the passing of two very special dogs, which is an honor I'm not sure I deserve. I saw more of the country than I ever had. I made better decisions for me and for D. I got a damn MBA. I learned to be honest and I risked getting hurt. There were struggles and tears and laughter and heartbreak and each experience added to the sum total that is Me.

I think each year that goes by just brings me closer to myself. There are things I do now that my 20-year-old self never would have dreamed of. I speak up. I stand up. If the price of Being Me is a few wrinkles or gray hair, it's the price I will pay. Knowing who I am and accepting that is priceless.

I'll be a goof and I'll make mistakes and I'll be a friend and I'll be the only mom I know how to be in each moment. I do the best I can and I fall down and I get up again and I try it over and over and over. I will laugh too loud and cry too often because it's all part of the experience of Being Me. Next year I will know more than I do today. I'll have better friends even if there are fewer of them. I'll still be a crazy dog lady.

It's all part of growing up. Or growing older. Or Being Me.

Disneyland Vs. Dollywood

Ha ha, yes that is sort of a joke. Because, obviously, there is no comparison. It's not even fair to mention them in the same sentence. However, I want to point out why Disneyland costs as much as it does. When compared to what Dollywood charges, it's a total bargain. Plus I love talking about Disneyland because it's my favorite place on the whole entire planet. 

Oh, Dollywood. We had to call it Dollywalmart. Here are some things we noticed immediately.

1. There is peeling paint. Everywhere. It totally gives the impression that nobody cares about the place.

2. There are no ride monitors. You know, those people who ask how many people in your party and then direct you to the appropriate seat line? That saves a ton of waiting time.

3. The people working there are either young kids boring everyone in line by talking about football statistics or really old people who should either be in retirement homes or hospice. It's depressing.

4. There is an attempt to create a theme by having Dolly songs playing in certain areas that have something to do with the songs. It's really a rather pathetic attempt.

5. Their "mascots" are a sad, sad Corduroy Bear and Strawberry Shortcake. The bear's feet were filthy and Strawberry Shortcake scared the kids away. I don't know if it was her giant head or her odd strawberry scent. Mixed with the BO of what was surely a teenage boy inside.

6. There are more food places than rides. I guess the goal is to entice you into a food coma so that you don't notice how lame the entire park is.

Now, I wouldn't complain so much had I not spent $130 for D and I to spend a few hours there. I would have spent nearly twice that to enjoy Disneyland for a day, but it would have been completely worth it. Because why? I will tell you why.

Every detail is attended to. Each restroom has a theme based on the "land" it is in. The restaurants and food stands continue the theme. The uniforms, yes, continue the theme. By and large, these areas are cleaned on a more than regular basis. Also? The employees doing the cleaning don't care that their job sucks. They're happy about it. I once saw a young guy cleaning up excess trash while on roller skates. I asked him if he hated cleaning up after lazy people. He looked at me with a smile, but also like I had a second and third head. No, he actually, genuinely enjoyed his job! Oh, and he wasn't 70.

The characters stay in character. Their costumes are impeccable. They engage visitors rather than slumping through like they wish they were dead. They make you believe the fantasy.

Which is really what it's all about, right? The fantasy. The illusion that, just for a little while, you have escaped into another world. The Happiest Place on Earth. A place where you can be your inner child, your most innocent, happiest self. You're entertained, you're treated like Somebody. You get caught up in the music, the surroundings, the overall environment. Rides are an adventure. You get to immerse yourself in another world. For a day, a few hours, a few days.

Dollywalmart was more like reality. Buildings require upkeep. Old people have to work because retirement isn't an option for everyone. Food makes you fat. There isn't much worth waiting for. Entertainment is expensive. Family time is a chore. Humidity sucks especially when you're surrounded by other sweaty people in an enclosed space with nothing to look at.

There is no comparison. Like I said. I'll always love Disneyland more than anything; I didn't expect to convert to Dollywood. I just didn't expect to be depressed. If you have a choice, choose Disneyland. Or Disney World. Or Ripley's Belive It or Not. At least you'll be getting what you paid for.