Dear Cason, Thank you

Dear Cason---

I’m not sure my words can do justice in expressing all that I feel for you, and all that I have to thank you for. However, since I was never one to back down from a challenge, I’ll give it my best shot.

The year you were born, 2016, was not my favorite year. The day that I learned you were with us, that you were growing inside of your mom, was a good day—one of my very favorite days of 2016, all because of you. Also, the day you were born was one of my top days ever. It was the in-between, buddy—those in-between days were pretty sketchy. 

I spent a lot of 2016 feeling sad. It was the type of sadness that I had a hard time understanding, because it didn’t make sense to me. I could look at my life and see that I had everything I’d ever wanted, and still, I cried every single day. I felt lost. Nothing felt right. But, because the sadness defied logic, I went on for a long time pretending that it wasn’t there. Turns out, pretending that something isn’t there doesn’t make it actually not there. Looking away from something doesn’t help it to go away.

Naming things, facing things—now there's a place to start. Once I finally admitted to myself that I was depressed—and not just a little bit, we're talking really, really depressed— I could do something about it. Depression blows, kiddo. I hope you never get it. If you ever do, it’s okay—about one out of every two Americans has a mental health problem at some point in their lifespan, and the most common bugger is depression. I know, what a raw deal. Anyway, at least you know who to talk to if it happens to you. (Note: That’s me. I’ll help you figure it out.)

I got some help for the depression, and I started to feel better. I made some decisions about what I wanted for myself, and that helped me to feel better too. By December fifth, the day you joined us in this world, I was well on the road to recovery. I wasn’t quite where I wanted to be, but I was feeling a lot more like me again. 

You were born on a Monday, which is my writing day. At 8:30 AM, the first exciting thing happened: I hit my 2016 fiction-writing goal of 80,000 words, a goal that I didn't know if I'd be able to reach. It felt like a victory over depression to have done this. At 9 AM, the second awesome thing happened: I picked up my phone and saw that I had a message from your dad, alerting me that you were on your way! I don’t know when I’ve last had such a moving, gratifying morning. I’ll never forget it: the smell of coffee, the joyous pounding of my heart as I typed the sentence that brought me to my goal, the way that my feet danced a silly jig under the table at the Mill when I got your dad's text, the dirty look the dude at the next table shot me because I was making too much noise.

And yet, even starting the day off with that kind of excitement didn’t prepare me for meeting you later that day. Something happened at the moment that I first saw your chubby cheeks and soft blonde hair. Something moved and shifted inside of me, like when marbles in a jar that have come to rest in a precarious position get bumped and suddenly all fall into a more secure place. My feet felt firmly anchored to the ground for the first time in at least a year, maybe longer.

I don’t know what you did to me, Cason, but I sure am grateful that you did it.

Maybe it was your innocence, your newness, the idea that you have a whole big life in front of you to live. This feels hopeful to me, the idea of you experiencing things for the first time, learning about our world, making it your own. Maybe I was able to see the world through your eyes, and I liked what I saw.

Maybe it was the dreams that came true when you came into the world. You were (and are) so very wanted. You made parents out of two of my favorite people in the world. You made thrice grandparents out of two of my other favorites. As for me, I had wanted to be an aunt so badly I could taste it. It was one of my not-so-secret secret wishes for 2016. (I even wrote it in my YearCompass year planning guide in January 2016—and choosing goals and wishes that I can’t control is NOT something I usually do.) I might be shortsighted, but I don’t think I wanted it for me. I wanted it for my brother, and for my sister-in-law, who I knew were going to be loving, doting parents. (And true to form, they are. As you know.)

Maybe it was the idea that your presence has given me an added purpose in life: to support your parents, to love and care for you. To let you do things at my house that your parents won’t let you do at theirs. (How long until you can eat ice cream? Like, maybe one more month? Haha. Don’t tell your mom I said that.) Maybe I’ll take you to your first R-rated movie. Maybe I’ll drive you home the first time you do something stupid in your teenage years. I guess we’ve got a few years to figure these things out. Let's start with the ice cream thing, though. (Shh. Seriously, your mom will kill me if she finds out.)

Every week since you’ve been here on Earth, I’ve gotten better and better. Your remind me that even though life is hard and painful, in some ways it’s simple and good. Your facial expressions and noises make me laugh. This weekend you smiled a great big smile at me and melted my heart. One time you peed all over me, and weirdly even that brought me a twisted kind of joy— hold on, let me explain, because I know that sounds weird. It happened while you were sleeping on my chest, and I was sleeping too, and we were both so soundly out that not even pee woke us up. It was nice to have slept that soundly, and to have been trusted that completely, pee and all.

I mean, no pressure here, buddy. I don’t expect you to be the lifelong key to my happiness or anything like that. Other stuff in my life makes a big difference. Your cousins Evie and Jonah bring me joy every day, and so does your uncle Jeb.  Your grandma and grandpa dole out healthy doses of unconditional love and unwavering support. (You’ll see.) And your parents are dear to me. They’re my best friends and they always have my back.

Importantly, I’ve learned even with the support of all of my family and friends, I’ve ultimately got to take care of myself, too. I’ve got to set limits. I’ve got to say “no” sometimes and “yes” at other times (a lot of times I mess up when I should be saying what. Perennial issue. Probably won’t be resolved by the time you read this, but I’m working on it). I need time to be alone, to think and to write and to exercise and to find my center. I also need time to be goofy with my friends. I’m doing all of that now, too, and it all helps.

Yet, I know that someday, when I look back on 2016 and all that came with it, I will credit you, Cason, with helping me to get unlost, with helping me to plant my feet firmly on the ground again. And all you had to do is show up. I imagine there’s no way I can ever repay you for this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t spend the rest of my life trying.

With so much love,

Aunt Allison

The night I became a Real Person (according to my grandma)

Probably most people don’t look back on their grandparents’ 50^th wedding anniversary party as “this time I got really hammered and made questionable decisions.”

But I’m not most people.

Ten years ago this month, we celebrated Nick and Doris Nicholas’s half-century of wedded bliss. I was twenty-four, newly married, and far worse at moderation than I am now. (Which, if you’ve ever been to a bar with me, should be concerning.) We’d rented a hall for this—and not just any hall, the Exeter Legion Hall.

The Exeter Legion Hall is an old, quaint party venue, and the only game in town. It’s pretty standard for a reception hall: partitioned bar area at the front, a big open space with a wood floor in the middle, a kitchen and bathrooms in the back. It perpetually smells of burnt coffee and old men’s cologne. But oh, how I wish its blue carpeted walls could talk. That hall has no doubt been a keen observer of Exeter’s unfolding history—family arguments, the beginnings and endings of social movements, the first meetings of lovers and the dissolution of marriages—it’s all taken place under the eyes of those walls.

So much of my own personal history has happened at that hall. Multiple wedding receptions, including my own. The annual Exeter Alumni dance. Proms. Pancake feeds. Estate auctions. Lots of other stuff. That place is a nocturnal creature: sleepy by day (bake sales, funeral lunches), and WILD by night (the fun stuff).  When I roll up to the "The Legion" after sundown, my body is conditioned to expect multiple strong drinks. Preferably drinks that feature bright green vodka, and preferably served by Stub Moore, a legendary drink mixologist of Exeter.

Yet, even though this was a nighttime event held at our town’s Monument to Public Drunkenness, it was my grandparents’ anniversary party. A family event, and also a community event. The thing you have to understand about my hometown, Exeter (population ~600), is that when there’s an event at the Legion Hall, all are welcome. It isn’t really an invite-only kind of venue. If you live in Exeter and you know the people being celebrated, and you don’t have anything else to do, you go up to Legion and say the obligatory “congrats” to whoever, then you drink Stub Moore drinks with your friends.

So I could expect, on that evening, to be in the company of all of my family and a big chunk of Exeter’s AARP crowd. All of whom knew me as a Good Girl. I’d been the valedictorian. I’d gotten a full ride to college. I’d never been in legal trouble. I’d married my high school sweetheart. I was working on a PhD in therapy. I helped people. Good. Girl.

I was left with two basic options on how to spend the evening of my grandparents’ soiree: Uphold my Good Girl image, or do the Legion Hall as it is meant to be done.

Here’s a clue as to the choice I made:

The real win here is my mom's face.

Those little bottles of liquor get me every time. It’s like I get thrown off by their cuteness and tininess  (“Oh look at you, you’re just a little guy!”) and forget how much of a punch they pack. I drank three or four of them, whatever I had in my purse, because gosh darnit, they’re so petite and tasty.

And then someone brought me a couple of Stub drinks. I was thirsty, and they were wet.

And then I became the world’s best dancer. So did my brother. It’s hard to describe what happened that night, to the tune of Sinatra’s New York, New York. I can say that there were many Ginger Rogers inspired jumps, and lots of frolicking and pirouetting (it was pirouetting in my mind, at least) on my part. I’m pretty sure there was some high kicking at the end—you know—“These little town bluuuues…are melting awayyyyy…” Both my brother and I fell at some point during the song.  We made Nicholas family history that night. Sadly, someone got this on video, so we could not preserve the graceful images that our mind would have saved for us. We’ve got the real, raw, ridiculous truth of it, now stowed somewhere in our parents’ entertainment center.

And here's a few pics of the raw, ridiculous truth

I think New York New York happened at like 9 PM, while most of the party guests were still milling around. This means that a big chunk of the Exeter geriatric population got to see me act as stupid as I ever have. My reputation was officially sullied. I don’t know if it’s ever recovered.

The night progressed. I sidled up to Exeter’s part-time police officer, a man I’d never actually met and wouldn’t have recognized, save his uniform. Leaning against the wall near the men’s room, I informed him, in a slurred voice, that he “couldn’t do anything to me, because I was the mayor’s daughter.” All of which was technically true, but incredibly unnecessary. I was of-age and not doing anything illegal (because being stupid isn’t illegal, and neither is bad dancing). I think the uniform and the liquor made me regress a few years, and I’d forgotten after all the years of illicit drinking in that Legion Hall, that I was, in fact, old enough.  Also, I think I seriously overestimated my dad’s power to get me out of stuff (if I had been doing anything illegal). I mean, being the mayor of Exeter is something, but it’s not like he’s Johnnie Cochran or anything.  “If the liquor’s legit, you must acquit!”

Still later in the night, my grandmother caught me scrounging for potato chips in the hall kitchen. Because I’m a maudlin drunk when I’ve had too much, I started crying. I told her that I never wanted anything to change and I didn’t want her to ever die. Drunk as I was, I remember saying this, because I remember feeling it and at that moment it was the rawest, most vulnerable wish inside of me. I was happy and I wanted things to stay the same. Grandma was a good sport. She laughed, hugged me, and wiped away my tears and the remnant potato chip crumbs that dotted my dress. She told me that everything changes, and it has to because “that’s life.”  Then she escorted me into the bathroom and made me put cold water on my face, because “you’re a mess, Alli.”

Eventually, the party died down and the hall cleared out. The drinking-aged cousins and I retired to my aunt’s for the after-party. (You know you have won at life when there is an after-party to your grandparent’s 50^th wedding anniversary. Seriously.)  I mostly dozed on the couch, exhausted from all of my socially inappropriate interactions and sweet dance moves. My brother and cousin drank wine and milk, per their report, because it’s all they could find. They sat together at the table, loudly quoting movies, one of them saying “Go back to your home on whore island!” I, because I hadn't (AND STILL HAVEN'T) seen Anchorman, didn't understand that this was a movie quote and took it as a statement directed at me. I sat up and told them that “I wasn’t a whore and had never been a whore!” And then I laid back down and went back to sleep, though it wasn’t great sleep, because someone kept yelling “Porkasaurus Rex!”

At about ten AM the next day, I awoke with a headache, cottonmouth, and a vague sense that I should be embarrassed but not completely sure of why. Images of the previous evening came back in fits and starts, with family merrily filling in the blanks of moments I’d forgotten. Someone got the New York, New York video out and made me and my brother watch it. Oh, the horror.

I’d hoped for a quiet, dim, salty lunch at home at my Mom’s, a meal that would help me recover my electrolytes and my pride. Mom announced we were going to the Community Spaghetti Feed. And where, pray tell, did that event take place? The Exeter Fucking Legion Hall. So, I got to walk immediately back into the scene of my public shame, and lucky for me, many of the same townspeople who had witnessed my antics the night before were there again. I wore a baseball cap and a big sweatshirt, incognito-like, and tried to keep my head down. My aunt and uncle applauded when I walked in, effectively blowing my cover. I’ll never forget the looks of frank disapproval, those pursed lips, those narrowed eyes, on the faces of Exeter’s Holier Than Thou delegation, and also the subdued laughter, the twinkling eyes, of Exeter’s “I have a good sense of humor” crowd.

I didn’t say much to anyone. Mouth too dry, brain too foggy, embarrassment too stifling.

But my grandma was there, and I talked to her. I told her I was sorry about the way I’d acted. She said to me, and I’ll never, in my whole life, forget this: “Alli, last night made me realize that you’re a real person.”

A real person.

Like when the Velveteen Rabbit had been held and played with for so long that he wore out, but then, because the boy had truly loved him, he became real.

I’d lived a life wound so tightly, guarded my “good girl” image so closely, that I’d at times forgotten to just be a person, a person with vulnerabilities and heartache and desperate, secret fears and wishes. Yet when my grandma saw all of that wear, all of that crazy, she loved me just the same. Unfortunately, it took a lot of liquor to bring the realness out of the twenty-four-year-old me. Over the years I’ve been working on accessing my authenticity while sober, because I've realized I’d rather be real than perfect.

There’s nothing I would go back and change about that night, even if I could save myself from embarrassment and one spectacular hangover. Ten years later, I’m so grateful for the honest conversations with my grandmother and for that unforgettable (literally—the family won’t let us forget it) dance with my brother. I’m not as glad that the town cop du jour only knew me as a lush, but whatever, I’m pretty sure my dad fired him anyway. (I’m totally making that up. But Dad could have fired him. Because he did have the power to do that.)

We’re coming up on Grandma and Grandpa’s 60^th wedding anniversary, and guess what? We’re having another party. This time it’s on a Sunday afternoon, there's no dance, and it's not at the Legion Hall. I think grandma might appreciate it if I didn’t get quite so “real” this time around—but I’ll ask her.

And to be safe: Someone lock down the Captain Morgan.

Does it get any real-er than this?

***

A few more pics from the night, for posterity's sake:

Ladies: Please stop diminishing yourselves

Every day I bear witness to you, women of my life--clients, friends, and family--going to great lengths to make yourselves smaller, because you think it will make you feel better. I don’t just mean that you are attempting to diminish yourselves size and weight wise, though that’s part of it. I mean I watch you literally shrinking, in body, mind, spirit.

You try to keep your ideas "reasonable," rather than big, innovative, ambitious. You try to tame your hearts and your passions, because you want to be seen as calm and cool- maybe because you want to feel "in control," maybe because you've learned from others that you are "too big," emotionally. You were told your emotions or needs took up too much space, so you squish them down, subjugate them until they are no more than an echo at the bottom of a dark glass jar.

You bend to your partners’ wills, while squelching your own needs, because that’s “what women do” (especially moms!). You try to be everything to everyone (and of course, fail at this impossible task), and in the meantime, you lose all allegiance to yourselves. You assume that by being less—of everything—you will somehow be worth more in the eyes of others.

You apologize too much. I am also extremely guilty of the crime of being overly apologetic. We say “I’m sorry” for everything, and most of the time, we have nothing to be sorry for. It’s like women live in this apologetic bubble in which we assume that our default position is wrong. With every apology we shrink ourselves by assuming the one-down position, by taking responsibility for a situation that might not even be ours to claim.

And of course, you are trying to be physically smaller. Sometimes a weight loss goal is very healthy and proactive: You want to be able to run with your children and not be winded. You want to be able to feel more comfortable on airplanes and at sporting events. You want to keep your heart healthy. I applaud these goals. They are great goals.

Ninety percent of the time, though, what I hear is: You want to be thinner. You want to get into a smaller size of bridesmaid dress for your sister’s wedding. You want to look desirable. These goals break my heart a little bit.

Why? Why does your goal of being smaller shatter me? Couple of reasons, first of them being that I can relate. Body image and I have not always had the most friendly relationship, so I feel extreme empathy for those of you in this situation. The other reason is that with those goals of being smaller, there’s an unspoken assumption that smaller is better. That you will be somehow be worth more, to yourselves or others, if you were just fifteen pounds lighter or a couple of dress sizes smaller.

No, ladies. No. You are the same you, the same powerful, wonderful, gloriously messy and flawed you, no matter what you are packaged in. Your worth is immutable. Your power is unassailable—you just need to realize it to grasp it. It’s always there for you. Just reach out and grab what's been yours all along.

And furthermore: your body is not a conversation piece, or a piece of art. It’s not here to be looked at, picked apart, criticized, approved or disapproved of. That’s not what it’s for. Our bodies are meant for doing things. They’re meant for gardening and walking and playing sports and cooking and lifting and reading and thinking and talking. We have bodies so that we can live, not so we can be looked at. Ladies, you are so much more than an object.

The other half of this equation? Stop objectifying other women. Please, for the love of God, stop this.

Let me share with you an example of how we inadvertently objectivity each other: I was working with a client in her mid-twenties last year, and one of her goals was to lose weight. She had good rationale for wanting the weight loss – she had just learned she was pre-diabetic and wanted to lower her risk— and so I supported her in working on this. She worked hard on a nutrition and exercise plan. She dropped many pounds and several dress sizes, and she and others could see the difference in her body. She felt better about herself, and she felt physically better as well. One day she said to me, “Allison, I have to ask: why don’t you ever say anything about my body? I know you’re on my side, and I know our work has been a big part of why I’ve been able to lose weight. But you never say anything about how I look. Do you notice the changes?”

And I said, “I can see how it might make you nervous that I don’t give you feedback about your body. You’re used to getting that kind of feedback from others?”

She said, “Yeah. It makes me feel good.”

And I said, “That makes sense. Of course it feels good to get compliments. Here’s something I want you to know, though: I will feel the same about you no matter what your body looks like. I’m happy for you in your weight loss, because you set a goal and have achieved it, and you clearly feel better, and that’s great! Yet, I thought the world of you before you lost weight. And I think the world of you now. Your worth to me is the same.”

The client started to cry. She said she’d never thought of herself as always worthwhile, regardless of her weight. She began to discuss how to others, especially her mother, her value seemed to be all tied up in her weight. Her mother seemed to like her more when she weighed less. She gave more compliments and wanted to go on more shopping trips and just overall seemed to like client more when client was at a smaller size. And she noticed mother’s disapproval at times when she was larger: a purse of the lips, a way that her mother had of tugging her shirts down “because your love handles are showing.”

Now, to be fair: I don’t think this client’s mother is a terrible person. I really don’t. I think the client's mom really cared about my client and wanted good things for her. Yet, I think that the mother is a victim of perfectionism, societal brainwashing, and doing a poor job of stopping to think about all the ways in which her actions could affect her child. No doubt someone objectified the mom at some point, too.

And I think that most of us, if we’re being honest, have probably acted like that mom at some point. Maybe not in such blatant ways, but I bet you’ve done it. Have you never gossiped with your cousins about your other cousin’s recent weight gain?  Have you never sized up the other ladies in the gym, at the office, at school? Have you never internally ragged on another woman for choosing to wearing clothes that you found to be unflattering on her?

Ladies, look deep within yourself and really give yourself an honest appraisal: do you value your friends, your mothers, your daughters more when they weigh less? And even if you don’t truly value them more, do you compliment them more? Want to spend more time with them? Accidentally give them the impression that they are better if they are smaller? If you look inside and see that you do, you wouldn’t be alone: all of us have been conditioned to do this shit. It’s just time to de-condition. Declare a moratorium on hating on your own body, and you might find that it’s easier to not hate on others’. Make a pact with your friends to not bitch about your bodies when you’re together. Agree not to objectify yourselves or others.

I also want you to know that to judge is human-- we're all doing it, all the time. It's adaptive, in many ways-- we're trying to put things into categories so that we know how to interact with our worlds efficiently. So yeah, your brain is going to keep popping off objectifying thoughts: "too fat," "too emotional" "too much," towards yourself and others. You won't be able to stop the thought parade. What you can do? Stop drinking the kool-aid. Stop buying into those thoughts. Recognize that thoughts are just thoughts and don't necessarily represent "the truth"-- about anything. Accept that you are inherently judgmental but that you can work towards being more compassionate with yourself and others. 

Being smaller won’t make you a better person. It absolutely won’t. So blow your hair out and wear it big. Take up space. Spread your legs at a basketball game like the dudes do—there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. (Dudes blame their packages for the leg spread phenomenon, but I don’t buy it. No dude’s package is big enough to warrant that much spread.) Wear a shirt because you like the way you feel in it. Unapologetically say your piece at your next work meeting. Tell your family how you feel and ask for what you want. Assert your needs with your friends. Dream big, smile big, laugh loudly, talk with your hands. Let enthusiasm light up your face. Don’t be delicate—be vast and brilliant.

You’re a person of worth, all the time.

Get it, girls.

Allison Fails: The evolving compilation

I fail a lot. As in: a lot a lot.

I cope with failure by telling other people about it. It's just what I do.

These fails are the short stories, the stuff that makes up my day-to-day life. Stuff that I post about on Facebook for status updates. The quick anecdotes that really aren't long enough to warrant their very own, long-form blog posts, but stuff that I kind of want to keep track of and have somewhere on my blog.

The best option I could think of handling these little ditties was to keep a running compilation. The bonus is that every time I add, I'll get a chance to go back and read about ALL of my recent fails. (And that, my friends, can be a bonus for you, too.) However, these will be dated with the most recent post being on top, so if you don't really feel like going back to read about every silly thing I've done, you don't have to. But I do encourage and recommend rereading. Laughing at me is good for the soul.

****
5/16/2018

I realized it'd been while since I posted an epic life fail, so here you go: 
Not long ago, I went through the checkout lane at my neighborhood Super Saver with these four items: children’s cough syrup, lice shampoo, a pregnancy test, and sauerkraut. It wasn’t my best day.

For my checker, I end up with a teenage boy who I often see there...so I’m doing my damndest to not make eye contact and just get the hell out. He slides the first item through the scanner.

Boy: So, you expecting?

My first reaction: completely gobsmacked by the question. Second reaction: Do I educate him? Let him know that a) if I’m buying a pregnancy test, I *don’t know* if I’m expecting, and b) it’s pretty much never going to be okay to ask a woman about a pregnancy test she’s buying at Super Saver?

Third reaction (and the one I went with): 
Me: Welp, it appears I might be! (silly, theater-style exaggerated shrug and goofy smile)

There’s a semi-long, awkward pause. I see that boy’s eyes land on the lice shampoo. My knuckles go white around my debit card as I brace myself for the next question.

Boy: So, sauerkraut for supper?

(AUTHOR’S NOTE, for the curious: No, I wasn’t. The only unexpected lives in our home that week were the lice.)

8/23/2017

Seal on my water bottle is messed up & water just spilled into my lap. Just in my crotch region, though. They call me Dr. Pee Pants. 

8/19/2017

I had to push my dinner away because I kept smelling something weird as I was eating, and it made me lose my appetite.

It's four hours later and I'm realizing that the smell was me. 

Winning at life this weekend.

8/18/2017

When you are diligently cleaning all the wood in your office..and realize you've been dusting with Lysol. 
I now have germ free shelves. And a shop teacher, wood fanatic hubs that *might* disown me.

8/16/2017

Just thought I'd share my last three meal choices with you all, for kicks:

1) Last night's supper: apple pie with Cool Whip. 
2) Today's breakfast: PB & J 
3) Lunch (at 2 PM): Greek yogurt

8/14/2017

I've listened to Hook by Blues Traveler four times today. I really don't know why, but it's all that sounds good. I've never really even liked Blues Traveler much. 

It's like the time I could only eat Arby's sauce (straight out of the packet), but with music.

EDIT: I also tweeted about this. It was not an especially complimentary tweet. AND EFFING BLUES TRAVELER tweeted back. *Sigh* #allyfails

UPDATE: And THEN all of the BT loyal came out with their pitchforks, after my head....so I deleted my Tweet! Yikes! Who knew I was so controversial....

8/6/2017

Superego: Are you gonna shower this weekend?
Ego: Why? Who cares?
Id: Also, let's eat sweetened condensed milk with a spoon.

7/14/2017

Pulled into Super Saver and saw James at the gas pump. Waved at him. He doesn't see me, so I wave bigger, flapping my arms wildly. Still doesn't see me. Drives away.

Guy at the next pump waves back. Flapping his arms.

6/12/2017

When you show up for your first night of volleyball at a new place. And walk into a strip club on accident.

5/16/2017

I accidentally brewed myself a fully caffeinated cup of coffee today. I started wondering if I had when I realized I felt IN LOVE with life and had SO MANY great ideas, but couldn't follow through with any of them. Instead I sang just Angelica's rap from Schuyler Sisters seven times in a row, while also trying to pay my biller and finish a case note and answer emails. 

The fact that my hands are shaking was another giveaway. James has confirmed my error by sending me a picture of the offending K-Cup. 

As a point of reference, I get a slight caffeine jolt from decaf. The most I will usually ever go for is half-caff, and that's pushing my limits. 

My clients are about to get either the best or the worst therapy experiences of their lives.

5/3/2017

Wanted to go to bed early. Instead, I inadvertently started a political debate on Facebook and spent upwards of an hour arguing with my husband about whether or not to soak crusty dishes before washing them.

That sounds about right.

4/26/2017

Last night while reading, something I do EVERY NIGHT, I managed to badly scratch my face. Deep enough that it bled. With my thumbnail. Just thought I'd share.

4/17/2017

This morning I discovered a brand new patch of white hair had cropped up on my head, seemingly overnight. Appalled, I moved closer to the mirror to examine. I ran a hand through it in desperation, trying to figure out what style would hide it best. The white crumbled off into my hands. And that's when I realized it was just Cool Whip in my hair. 

I don't know whether to put this in the Win or Fail column.

4/12/2017

Awesome morning conversation #2:

Evie: Jonah, what's black and white and red all over?
Jonah: I don't know.
Evie: A newspaper! Get it? R-E-A-D all over?
Me (having an epiphany): Oh my gosh. I totally get that joke now. I've heard it lots of times but just thought it was really stupid. Never understood the red part.
Evie: Mommy, sometimes I wonder about you.

3/6/2017

Saw my accountant today. I managed to make only one awkward and completely unprompted confession: one time, three years ago, I forgot to pay the electric bill for our house and got our power shut off. Fortunately, because I can't seem to stop myself, Tom has agreed to be my financial sin-absolver. He said this would only cost $50/month. Also, I brought him a six-pack of beer for his troubles, because I was pretty sure that I would say something stupid today.

#forgivemeTomforIhavesinned --> Tom, we have a hashtag now

(For more on my relationship with Tom the accountant, click here. He got his very own post.)

3/3/2017

Just spilled most of a bottle of Peppermint essential oil all over the front of my shirt, so much that it soaked it through. I smell like an effing Christmas village, but my stomach and chest now has this curiously cool tingle that I don't mind.

2/24/2017

I'm setting the record on first-world problems this morning, the most dramatic of which being 1) I bought almond butter that is salted, and it's gross and I hate it and it made me not be able to finish my breakfast, and 2) I fell really hard on the ice this morning, wounding my knee and my pride. 

In an attempt to heal my mood, I chose my Queen playlist, which always helps. First song up on shuffle mode: Another One Bites the Dust.

Tomorrow, or whenever my knee stops aching, I will laugh about this. But for today, I say: eff you, gross salty almond butter; eff you, stupid treacherous weather, and eff you, Freddie Mercury, for mocking me.

12/30/2016

So, I purchased $5 gift certificates for my office mates to Taco Inn, which is this small-biz, Lincoln-only, sort of good Mexican fast food place that all of us happen to like. It was more or less an inside joke/gag-gift-that-wasn't-really-a-gag-gift gift. Before Christmas, I placed the gift certificates into four Christmas cards, which I then put in my purse to distribute at work on my last day before Christmas.

I however neglected to distribute said cards, and the unmarked envelopes remained at-large in my purse. As it happened, the time came when we needed more Christmas cards to distribute to neighbors, friends, and family just before and on Christmas. Since I had a few in my purse, I grabbed them out and handed them out.

Including the Taco Inn-filled cards.

So now random friends, family, or neighbors have received Taco Inn gift certificates from me. I feel weird about this, for many reasons: 1) Taco Inn is not usually a gift card I'd distribute to people...I think folks are going to be looking at this and thinking "WTF, why Taco Inn? Couldn't it at least have been Chipotle?, 2) Will people feel like I went out of my way to give them a gift, and now feel like they have to give me some sort of gift card to a random place in return?, 3) Only FOUR people got a gift card, but we handed out 70+ cards. It feels like I inadvertently instituted some sort of lottery for my friends and family in which the prize happened to be really crappy.

If you were a lucky winner: Congrats! Enjoy your Taco Inn!!


12/8/2016: 

Yesterday I went to the bank (same bank where I recently poked myself in the eye with my sunglasses, incidentally). 

There’s this rug in front of the door that I trip over EVERY time I leave. Yesterday being no exception, I tripped—but I tripped hard. Like the kind where you trip and then that turns into a stumble and then you almost fall. I didn’t *quite* fall, but instead landed in what I can only describe as a “superhero crouch”—you know, how Spiderman lands after a big jump? Kind of squatted down but alert and ready for action? That was me. 

I somehow also landed facing the tellers, which was great, because I got to see their concerned/amused/horrified faces. One had stepped around the counter and was halfway headed towards me, looking terrified (because you know, I’m a very intimidating person). “Are you okay, ma’am?” he said, stopping in his tracks as I looked up at him. Maybe he thought I was about to pounce or shoot a web or something. 

And I swear to God this is what I did: I hopped up in one fluid motion, dropped straight down into a curtsy (I have NO IDEA why I chose to do that), said “just kidding” and then walked out.

Awesomely, I have to go back to that bank tomorrow.


******

10/26/2016

You need these facts to understand this story: My calves are kind of scrawny, and my feet are exceptionally long—genetic gifts from my father.

Yesterday I changed into my gym clothes in my office, which is something I regularly do after my last session. But yesterday I was in a rush. I was wearing skinny jeans—cut for someone whose legs and feet are proportionate. So I’m standing, because in my mind this makes things go faster, and pulling my clothes off at the rate of fricking Clark Kent. The jeans slide easily off of my legs but then stick when I get down to my LONG ass foot. The jeans are not made for these feet. I pull and pull, and I’m hopping backwards on my other foot as I pull. Unbeknownst to me, I was gaining ground as I hopped—leading to me hopping into the side of my therapy chair and going ass-over-teakettle over the arm of it. When the tangle of limbs and clothing and frustration and bemusement that was me landed on my rug, the jeans were still attached at the ankle. Because FEET. Size 11, y’all. 

Also, I collided with my socks on the way down and one of them was stuck to my face, somehow. 

#whathappensinmyofficestaysinmyoffice #notreallythough

******


10/20/2016

Yesterday I went to the bank. The light was golden, the trees were technicolor, and the air was crisp. All of this sensory input had a positive effect on my mood and outlook. And I was wearing these newish pants that I like. And the breeze was rippling through my hair, which I'd actually washed that day.

All of the sudden, I felt cool. Like a cool, empowered girl (woman?) walking out of the bank, her psuedo-trendy booties marking her progress on her journey back to her beige minivan. As I walked, another gentle wave of wind blowing back my tresses, I whipped my sunglasses off of my head to put them on my face...

...and stuck myself in my eye, hard, with one of the earpieces.

And that was the end of my 5 seconds of feeling cool.


#lizlemon

A day in the effing life

12/20/2016, 11:16 PM

Man, I know that some days are just like this, but shit, you guys. I’m spent.

I started the day hungry, because I had to do a fasting blood draw this morning. My doctors didn’t schedule the draw until 11 fricking o’clock, which meant two things: 1) I got hangry, and 2) my doctors hate me. I mostly stayed away from people, for the sake of humankind. It was the biggest relief to stuff a cold, stale PB & J into my mouth at 11:15. It honest-to-God was.  

I worked for a little bit, because sometimes I do that. Then I had a break between clients, and I decided to go to the effing mall. Again. I’ve already been there, oh, seven or so times so far this season, which is about seven times too many. But seriously, I needed to get my kids some bathrobes for Christmas, and I’m cutting things too close to the Amazon Prime deadline. My kids are NOT forgiving about late gifts, and mommy already messes enough shit up— I’m for damn sure giving them their damn bathrobes on mothafucking Christmas Eve. (Sorry for all of the cussing, Baby Jesus.)

After visiting EIGHT stores in search of aforementioned bathrobes, I found one for each kid, in two separate stores. Riding up the escalator of the second-to-last store, I had the realization that I would literally rather be counseling someone back from the brink of suicide than be doing what I was doing. I’m serious.

BTW, Evie’s robe is going to be like 3 sizes too big, but whatever, she’ll grow. She will have the damn thing ON CHRISTMAS and that’s what’s important, right?

Back to the office for an hour, to work with a client who is doing exceptionally well, and then to the gym. Those two hours of my day were glorious, golden. I moved right from a therapy flow to a solid workout and left the YMCA with the sheen of hard work and accomplishment on my body. (AKA, sweat. I was sweaty.)

The hubs had somewhere to be tonight, so it was just me and the kids. Arriving home all pumped from my good session and good workout, I offered to cook for them—I mean, we’re talking full-on “I will actually turn on the stove” cooking. They wanted Easy Mac. So they had watery noodles with cheese powder out of a plastic cup and I had some leftovers that I found in the fridge. (Now accepting nominations for Mom of the Year.)

After supper Evie stood up to clear her plate. Halfway to the kitchen counter, she froze. And then all Hell broke loose. A loud, ungodly sound came out of her…something I can only describe as “rage sobbing,” because she was screaming but tears were coming out of her eyes. And it was appalling because it came out of nowhere—like zero to “I’m losing my shit” in a second flat. I sat frozen at the table, spoonful of soup halfway to my mouth, not knowing what the hell was going on.  “I STEPPED IN TEDDY’S PUKE! AAAHHHH IT’S SO GROSS, I STEPPED IN IT, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?”

Yeah, she stepped in cat vomit. Our cat Teddy is a fatty and regularly eats so much that he throws up.

I attempted to be soothing, telling Evie that it was okay, we could just wash her foot off and I’d clean up the floor.

“I CAN’T WALK! I CAN’T WALK!”  Rage sobbing. Mild hyperventilation. It was fantastic.

So, because my nine-year old daughter was rendered an invalid via cat puke, I grabbed her under the armpits and manually hauled her towards the bathroom. She helped me out by hopping lightly on her unsullied foot as I pulled her up the stairs. Once we got her feet taken care of, the rage sobs ceased almost as abruptly as they’d begun. She, miraculously, could walk again. All was quiet on the Western front.

Then Jonah got up from the table and walked right through the vomit. And he yelled at me. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME, MOMMY?”

Because clearly, my son needs to be given a directive to NOT walk through cat vomit.

We got him cleaned up. Then I cleaned up the vomit on the floor, so that we could all stop walking through it and raging.

A few minutes after the vomit had left the building, the kids approached me, together, all clean feet and calm faces. They sweetly asked if we could go to Barnes and Noble. Their request was just too pure, too good. I knew they were in cahoots, had cooked up some kind of evil plan while they were tending to their puke feet.

The thing is that I really like Barnes and Noble. I like books, a lot. I like coffee almost as much as I like books. I like the smell of books and coffee mixed together. So I said yes. Consequences be damned.

As it turns out, while they were somewhat interested in books, what they really wanted was to look at Pokemon cards. Barnes and Noble was a bust on Pokemon cards, having no packs available under $6, which was Jonah’s entire life savings. (By the way, I don’t do buying Pokemon cards. I do buying books. The kids know this about me and thus brought their own money. Smart kids.) Because they’d both behaved exceptionally well at Barnes and Noble, we stopped at Target to look at Pokemon there. They both found what they wanted at Target, they bought their cards, we left.

At this point I was feeling like a smooth operator. Everyone was content, and we were going to get home at a good time. The steaming cup of tea and the episode of the West Wing that I was about to enjoy was in my mind's eye, just moments away from becoming a reality. 

Then Jonah opened his pack of cards and WAS NOT HAPPY with the Pokemon that he got. Meanwhile Evie had ended up with not one but TWO of the cards he wanted, which she hastened to gloat about. Jonah started hitting Evie in the face with his stocking cap, repeatedly. This just made Evie laugh, and so Jonah had progressed to slapping her with his hand. “I had to, Mommy,” he explained. Of course you did, son. Of course you did.

Bedtime took freaking forever, because they needed baths, and they dawdled around, and by this point I was all unfocused because I realized that I needed to have their teacher’s Christmas gifts ready by tonight, and also I needed to have their Christmas program outfits laid out tonight so they are ready for tomorrow, and also, the Christmas cards haven’t been sent and presents need to be wrapped and fudge needs to be made and Oreos need to be dipped and a grocery list needs to be crafted. Tis the season to have a mental breakdown, y’all.

I did the teacher gifts and the Christmas cards. The rest can fricking wait. Mommy needs a hot shower, and maybe a sedative.

How was your December 20^th, 2016, friends?

Dear Grieving Person: I STILL see you (Part 2 of a Grief series)

Dear Grieving Person—

I still see you.

I know you’re still reeling.

It’s been awhile since your loss. A couple of weeks, or a couple of months. Maybe even a couple of years. Grief moves along at a different pace for everyone.

But the rest of the world moves on at a predictable pace. The casseroles have stopped being delivered to your home. That overabundance of flowers? They’re long wilted and gone, out with the trash. You’re not sure what to do with all of the empty vases. People no longer look at you with those big, puppy dog eyes, pity oozing out of their faces. In some ways, it’s a relief that people are treating you somewhat normally now. In other ways, not so much. Your boss is less and less forgiving when it comes to your less-than-optimal work performance. Your friends and family, who at first were so patient, so understanding, now sigh and withdraw when they notice that you look sad—again. Still.

See, everyone else’s world kept turning. Everyone else’s lives are much as they were before your loss. And they all want you to go at their pace, to move on in accordance with their timetable. They look at your mopey countenance and they think, “How long is she going to stay like that?”  

Non-grievers don’t get it. They don’t get that your world, the world as you know it, has stopped, has stalled out on its axis. They don’t get that there is a hole in your life where there once was someone or something incredibly vibrant, meaningful. Something that was a part of you is gone from you, forever. Your world doesn’t know how to spin, hasn’t learned how to keep turning with a hole in it.

You have good days here and there. Maybe for you that means getting through supper without crying or getting through the day without listening to that voicemail that you can’t bring yourself to delete. Maybe it means being able to go more than five minutes at a time between mental snapshots of your lost beloved’s face, their smile, their laugh. Maybe on a good day, you laugh a little, or find yourself so caught up in the present that you forget to be sad.

But still, every morning when you wake up, it’s the same: a few seconds of peaceful unawareness, and then you remember. Awareness comes crashing in and pain descends over you like a pea-soup fog. Every morning is still like that. Every morning, you remember your loss and feel it profoundly. Some days, you shake it off, it doesn’t stay in your mind or keep your head on the pillow. Other days, the pain is worse than ever, and you wonder how you’ll ever bounce back from this.

Even though it’s been awhile now, sometimes your grief is stronger than it was at the beginning, because the hole in your life is more palpable now. You’re running into moments that are entirely alien.  Something funny happens to you, and you want to share it with your person….and then you realize that you can’t. Their name pops up in your calendar, your gift list, your phone, social media, but they’re not in your life anymore. Their chair at the table is vacant. A constant in your life is missing. Your life is different, and though you’re working hard to re-equilibrate, you haven’t yet found your new normal. And the finding of it is exhausting.

The sharp pains of loss come upon you unexpectedly, like cat burglars on a quiet street. They sneak up, steal your attention and your motivation. They steal your sparkle. Sometimes they steal your breath, knock the wind right out of you. This is frustrating, because so many times, you’re unprepared, you can’t see it coming. You wish you could see it coming. But then, a part of you is glad that you can’t. A part of you is grateful for moments of blind optimism.

I still see you, griever.

You will find your way through this. A new normal is coming. Someday, this will all be easier to carry. Someday.

But for today: just grieve.
*****

To read Part One in the Dear Grieving Person series, click here. 

On going to the butt doctor

12/8/2016

I went to the GI doctor today. I do this once a year.

For the past several years, I’ve had nothing to report. All was well on the Crohn’s disease front. Lately, though, I’ve been having a little trouble again. Which sucks to have to say out loud, because I don’t want to have Crohn’s disease and fare better when I can forget that I do.  

But what super sucks, even more than having the disease itself, is having to admit to my doctor that I’m struggling. Why, you ask?

Because the GI doctor is the butt doctor, that’s why.

This visit started out much like they all do: First, a nurse came to get me. I got weighed, temperatured, pulsed, med checked, questioned. And blood pressured.

“One hundred and twenty-three over sixty-five,” the nurse said, as she removed the cuff from my arm. She looked at my chart. “That’s on the high side for you, isn’t it?”

It was. My BP runs on the lower end of things, usually about 100/60.

I looked up at her. “Yeah. Probably because I was greeted with that when I walked in.”

Does anyone else think it's weird that the reflex hammer is sitting right there next to the lube? It gives the impression that they somehow go together. Which leads to a mental image I recommend not giving in to. 

“You think maybe you guys could work on your exam room ambiance a little bit?” I was (mostly) joking, but why would any place of business use a bottle of lube as décor? The nurse said the bottles were left out like that in every room, just sitting there on the counter. Ready for action. A statement piece, really, only these bottles of EZ Lubricating Jelly say “Oh, aren’t you in for a treat today?!"

But the laughter and joking around between me and my nurse was all a distraction, a cover for the serious business at hand. We both knew the truth: a rectal exam was impending. (Cue that music that they play on The Price is Right when contestants lose. It’s like a sad trombone but with more flair.)

Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’m kind of sensitive about my ass. Not my actual derriere, the muscle part—I’m pretty whatever about that. I try to look back at it at least once a month, just to ensure that it’s still there. No, I’m talking about my inner ass. Shouldn’t your inner ass be some kind of temple, really? I know I prefer not to have random people poking around in mine. Which is unfortunate for someone with inflammatory bowel disease, because let me tell you, all of the medical people want a piece of that. They all want to talk about it, examine it. Take it to dinner, maybe. It’s All Ass, All The Time when I go to GI Specialities in Lincoln. (I invite any GI-focused practice to borrow "All Ass, All the Time" as a tagline. Copyright pending.)

I learned about the ass fixation of this place the hard way. When I was twenty-two and quite sick, I had my first visit to GI Specialties. My new doctor—youngish, not bad-looking in a Dracula kind of way-- asked me many, many questions about the state of my behind. And then the ultimate, the question that there was no way I could have prepared myself for: “And, to be clear, you’re not having anal sex?”  Best part: my mom was in the room with me. I turned every shade of red and shook my head. “Okay, that’s good,” he replied. “That’s not something you’re ever going to be able to do, just so you know.” I was fine with that. My mom? Equally fine with that.

So at this recent visit, my nurse practitioner, Rebecca, comes in, and predictably, we talk about my butt for awhile. Then we talk about poop. Because if there’s one thing that GI doctors like to talk about more than butts, it’s bowel movements. Honesty, my life has been altogether too shit-centric for years—first it was mine, but then I got that under control. Then I had kids, and anyone with kids knows that at least half of parenting is cleaning up poop.

But I digress. Let’s get back to talking about butts.

I halfheartedly tried to talk Rebecca out of the butt exam. I mean, aren’t there better ways to get to know each other?

I’m not sure I’d ever seen Rebecca for a visit before. Since I only go once a year, and the office randomly assigns me to whichever APRN is available when my appointment is due, I’ve seen many. But I’ll remember Rebecca now. I liked her a lot. She was funny and kind and she seemed like someone I’d enjoy having a couple of drinks with. Also, she had fantastic hair. I found myself wishing that she didn’t have to look at my butt, which I was convinced would unnecessarily destroy any positive vibes she was feeling back towards me. My butt isn’t pretty. I tried to tell her this.

But she persisted. And I, knowing the fight was pointless, dropped my drawers and gritted my teeth.

It was quick, relatively painless. Rebecca is a professional, let me tell you. At the end, she told me that my ass wasn’t even in the Top Five worse asses she’s ever seen, which was reassuring. 

I got a prescription for a new butt medicine, got commended on already having my flu shot for the year (Gold Star!), and then I was sent toddling on my way.

That’s what it’s like to go to the butt doctor.

Now you all know.