New Mantra: I Can't Believe I Get To Do This

I had a daily ritual that wasn't serving me very well. So I changed it.

... 

Every night, I would touch the box the holds Porter's ashes. I would picture him in my mind and tell him that I loved him.

My intention was to keep him close, and to keep his face sharp in my memory. I was so scared it would fade.

But too often when I pictured him, my brain would reach into the shadows and return the scene of Porter's death.

I meant to keep a happy ritual, but instead, it kept me locked in grief. It kept me tethered to death.

Every single night.

...

One day, I realized this was happening. And I realized that my ritual wasn't serving me well. So I don't say goodnight to his ashes anymore. Instead, I hung a picture next to my desk, and I look at it.

This picture.

This is Porter, enjoying his walk, at the very moment he realized that I was taking him to his favorite place: Frick Park. His eyes are brimming with excitement. I can just imagine that he's thinking, "I can't believe I get to do this!"

That's how Porter, who survived a lifetime of violent abuse, seemed to approach our life together: "I can't believe I get to do this."

He couldn't believe he got to sleep on such a comfy couch, or enjoy so many delicious foods. As my little rescue dog grew plumper and happier, he seemed to be grateful and eager for every moment.

That's the feeling that I want to keep close to me. So I don't say goodnight to ashes anymore. Now, I make myself say,

"I can't believe I get to do this!"

And I really can't. I can't believe I get to come home to the man of my dreams, and the delicious salad he prepared for me tonight. I can't believe we get to sleep in on weekends, and take naps if we want, and stay up late watching old TV shows together with our devoted dog. I can't believe we have as much as we do.

I can't believe my family survived so much, and loves me so steadfastly.

I can't believe this summer is so sweet.

I'm grateful and eager for every moment.

❤️

Thank You, Dad, For My Love Affair With Coffee

It’s no surprise to me that caffeine addiction may be hereditary.

Just check out this text conversation I had with my mom this morning: 

I know where I got my coffee addiction: from my dad. I also start longing for my morning coffee the night before.

My earliest coffee memory dates back to when I was 10. My dad got an espresso machine for Christmas and spent the rest of the day perfecting his espresso shots and frothy cappuccinos. The kit came with something I had never tasted before — hazelnut syrup. I loved the nutty new taste and stayed glued to my dad’s side as we giddily bounced our way from lattes to frappes.  

I just remember being really, really excited.

The next thing I remember is watching the sun come up. I couldn’t sleep a wink and didn’t understand why.

“It was the caffeine!” my mom realized when she found me bleary-eyed in bed the next morning. I think she felt really bad. (I didn't.)

It would be a few years before I’d succumb to full caffeine addiction. When I was a junior in college, I transferred to the University of Pittsburgh. I was fresh off a trip to Italy and convinced myself that I really wanted to take a Renaissance Art class, even though it took place at 8am on Saturday mornings.

8am! Saturday mornings!

Worse even, I didn’t live on campus. I took the bus from the suburbs to school, and on Saturdays, I had to get up extra early to account for the weekend’s limited bus routes. That’s when I discovered Starbucks.

I remember marveling at my first rich, bittersweet mocha. The way its fragrant steam seemed to soothe the puffy bags under my eyes. Back then, when I was young and new to the coffee game, I thought to myself, “Why, this is a perfectly good substitute for sleep!” I was hooked.

That was a long time ago. Now I need several coffees just to achieve a state of “mostly awake.”

But getting there, by drinking my daily coffee? It’s pure joy. Every time.

Thanks, Dad!

-->  -->

Grieving & Healing By Transforming a Room in My House

I found my cat Firefly when we were both just kittens kids: she a tiny, fuzzy stray and me a teenager in college. From that day on, she was my constant companion.

She moved everywhere with me, outlasting apartments, boyfriends, and jobs. She wasn't an aloof cat who kept to herself. This girl liked to be talked to, sung to, and cuddled all the time. She liked to be included.

By the time my husband and I bought our house, my little kitten was 16 and battling kidney disease and high blood pressure. She was slowing down. I let her have the run of the house, but I also set up a bedroom just for her. From the litterbox area in her closet, to the placemat with food and water in the opposite corner, to the comfy furniture and window access, I dedicated the room to her and her needs.

Over the next four years, Firefly left her room less and less. So I made sure to dedicate more and more time to visiting her there. I could tell that she loved Thursdays, the day I work from home and could give her at least eight hours to nap in my lap.

Then one day, with little warning, my Firefly's kidneys failed. I had to say goodbye. I spent her final nights sleeping with her in her room. Her vet came to our house. We sat on the floor of her bedroom, and my loyal friend passed away in my arms.

And suddenly, I had a cat room with no cat. Just walking past it and seeing her chair, empty, broke my heart. I sent my friend Madge a tearful video and a plea: help me transform this cat hospice into something new.

So that's what we did. We threw ourselves into designing a brand new office for me — in Firefly's honor.

First, I painted the walls the pale butterscotch color of her fur. As I moved furniture and climbed ladders, I thought about her and how lucky I was to have loved her. It was physically taxing and emotionally cathartic.

Meanwhile, Madge found a new rug that represented all the colors of Firefly's fur, plus her tiny pink nose and paw pads. (The pattern also makes me think of fangs or claws, which suits my feisty girl very well!)

Madge also encouraged me to declutter and organize, suggesting that I get rid of at least 50% of the stuff that was filling the small room. I scrubbed and painted the litterbox area and turned it into a space for books and storage, and grouped my crystal collection by color.

Then I added some special touches to remind me of Firefly, like a firefly-esque lamp, a furry pillow for her lounge chair, and a photo tribute wall.

Most importantly, I gave myself new views. I moved the lounge that Firefly and I spent hours and hours (not to mention her final nights) snuggling in. Now, it faces a completely different corner. I moved the desk we worked at together and bought a chair that feels brand new and doesn't remind me that my lap is conspicuously empty.

I still need a big piece of art on this empty wall — something that reminds me of the way my loyal companion made me feel. I'll know it when I see it. Until then, I'll keep working on filling this room with love.

This project turned out to be excellent medicine for grief. I got to spend time with Madge, sweat as I painted and rearranged, busy myself with shopping and planning and treat myself to something special and new.

Today, the room my cat died in is gone. But her spirit — so familiar and sweet — is alive in every detail.

Firefly portrait by Alternate Histories!

Exercise: What is Your "Money Memory?"

I just started listening to a new (to me) book: The 9 Steps to Financial Freedom by Suze Orman. I'm already learning a lot.

The book starts with an exercise. She asks you to think back to your earliest memory about money. She says that everyone has an early memory that holds clues to what shaped your relationship to money as an adult.

For example, she writes aboout a woman who, as a child, had to move every time her dad got a promotion. Every time she started to get comfortable somewhere, she was uprooted again. To this day, the woman associates gaining money with chaos. Other people associate money with shame or early traumas of not having enough.

I thought and thought about it, and couldn't think of a single defining money memory.

I realized, right away, how lucky that makes me. How fortunate I am to have grown up not thinking much about money. I felt secure, and I am endlessly grateful for that.

In fact, I had no idea how much money my parents had or didn't have at any given time ... until we went to the Outer Banks each summer.

As it turns out, my parents worked hard and made smart financial decisions. But nothing about our lives really changed with my parents' income. For much of my childhood, I wore my neighbors' hand-me-down clothes and my parents shared one car.

But when we went to the beach, our accomodations over time went from a hotel room ... to a cabin ... to a beach house ... to an oceanfront property with an inground pool.

The annual vacation splurge was one of the only things that ever changed. For 51 weeks in between, we kept a lean budget.

So I guess my "money memories" are about my family living, day-to-day, below their means. Those are the habits that define the way I try to live today.

It taught me to appreciate things. It was exciting when my mom let me pick out a new school supply, or bought me a new outfit (always at TJ Maxx) that didn't smell like someone else. But it's why I feel so confused (and often defeated) when I see friends living so much more extravagantly than I do. Maybe they make more money. Or maybe they just worry about it less. (Maybe both.)

I still have a lot to learn about money, and this book is teaching me that. It's also inspiring me to dig out the 501k rollover paperwork I have shamefully ignored for 5 years (!!!).

But right now, at this moment, I'm thinking about my smart parents and the habits they instilled in me.

Thanks, mom and dad.

That Time Michael Dukakis Wrote Me a Letter

Fun fact, if you're into nerdy 8-year-olds: 

In 1989, I wrote Massachusetts governor and 1988 Democratic Presidential candidate Michael Dukakis a letter.

I remember that I worked on it for a long time, starting over several times. I told him that I'd gone to see him give a speech at Market Square in Pittsburgh, and that he'd done a very good job. Once I was satisfied,  I added a portrait of him in crayon on the back. 

This was before the Internet, so when I asked my mom for Michael Dukakis's address, she didn't know. Somehow, she figured out that we could just address my letter to the Massachusetts State House, but that still left us without a zip code. So, she took me to the post office and we asked the clerk for help. A very nice man took me perfectly seriously. He brought out an enormous book, and together, we found the zip and shipped my letter off to Boston 02133.

A few weeks went by, and nothing happened. I wasn't expecting a reply, but I'd hoped for one anyway, and as time passed, I deeply regretted sending him that crayon portrait. I realized that it must have made my letter look so childlike. I filled with shame!

But then, one day, Michael Dukakis wrote me back. 

He wrote,

"Dear Jolene:

Thank you for writing. I'm glad to know I have such a good friend in Pittsburgh. Judging from the mail I've been receiving from all over the country, if we could have lowered the voting age to 8 we would have had a landslide victory!

I did enjoy the campaign. There were some good days and some not so good days, but I will never forget the beauty of this great country or the kindness, hospitality and decency of its people.

I remember the speech in Market Square, and I'm glad you were able to attend. I hope you will always remain interested in public affairs and that you will consider a career in public service. It is very important for our citizens to be informed and involved; you're off to an excellent start!

Thank you for taking the time to write to me.

Sincerely,
MICHAEL S. DUKAKIS
Governor"

He hadn't just sent me a form letter. He'd noted my age, my hometown, and the speech in market square. I was over the moon.

This weekend, two decades later, I dug through important papers and this letter surfaced. I wasn't sure what to do with it, but it seemed too important to throw away. So now, among a stash of treasured Valentines, concert tickets, political bumper stickers, birthday cards and condolences is my letter from Michael Dukakis.

I'm really sad today.

 

My brain: Your cat lived for 20 years. She suffered only briefly. You were blessed to love her for so long.

My heart: It's not fair that such a sweet, loving creature would get kidney failure and die. It's not fair that you're hurting. This pain is too much to bear. One of the sweetest blessings in your life was wrenched away from you. Why do you put yourself through this over and over? No matter what you tell youself, she's gone, and you'll never see her again because she's dead. Where there used to be life and and endless supply of love is just emptiness now. This hurts.

How Happy Are YOU, On a Scale of 1 - 10?

Recently, I joined my mom and dad for dinner at their house.

I looked across the table at my dad.

"How are you feeling?" I asked him. "On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the best?" It was a question his doctors asked him a lot when he was hospitalized last year.

My dad thought for a minute before he replied. "Eight," he said, with a satisfied nod.

"That's pretty good," I said, at the same time my mom cried, "Eight?!" 

"What's wrong with eight?" he asked.

"Why not ten?" my mom countered back. "What could be better than this?"

My dad motioned to the room and the plate of Chinese take-out that was getting cold in front of him. "Well, there's got to be room on the scale for feeling better than ... this," he said.

"Not me," my mom said, happily digging in to her noodles. "I've got my family with me and I'm eating my dinner. I'm a ten!"

She smiled at us, her eyes sparkling. And I knew ... my mom was being sincere.

We chatted some more as we ate our meals, and then we rinsed our plates and push them in the dishwasher.

"I think I'll go home now," I said, putting on my shoes.

"Oh," my mom said, her smile fading. "Now I'm an eight."

------------

I thought about that a lot over the next couple days, feeling happy that my mom was so content.

And I thought about it weeks later, when my mom and dad's sweet dog Winnie got sick and had to be put to sleep. I watched my mom say goodbye. She got down on the floor with her dog, wrapped her arms around Winnie's shoulders, and wept into her fur. On a scale of one to ten, I was watching my mom sink down to a one. It broke my heart.

I knew it would take her a long time to climb back up to ten. I know she's still working on it.

That's what makes my mom's heart so beautiful and so brave. I love my mom, and her great, big feelings. And I love the way my mom loves. She loves with all she's got.

If you're lucky enough to be loved by my mom, you get all of her. On a scale of 1 - 10, my mom gives a 10 every time.

The Worst Kind of Dude to Run Into at a Bar

I am alone at the bar, enjoying myself and watching my husband play guitar for the crowd, when a guy stumbles forward and requests a Pearl Jam song. I merrily compliment the guy's choice.

But within moments, it's all too clear.

I am now tangled in a conversation with The Worst Kind Of Dude in the World.

Let me count the ways.

1. He is explaining to me how good Pearl Jam is.
(Ok, so this dude doesn't know he's talking to the foremost Pearl Jam scholar in America, so I decide to let the mansplaining slide for a minute.)

2. Hold on. He then tells me that when he grows a beard, he looks JUST like Eddie Vedder.
(Game over. I'm sorry, scrawny dude with weak cheekbones and no chin, but this is impossible.)

are you for real with this?

3. He keeps screaming Pearl Jam lyrics and then forcing me to high five him.
(I don't want to keep doing this.) 

4. He keeps lamenting that even though he’s been to TWO THOUSAND concerts (as demonstrated by holding two fingers in front of my face repeatedly), he hasn't been able to see Pearl Jam yet.
(It's almost as though they haven't been touring the Northeast extensively for nearly 30 years. I refrain from mentioning that I've seen them 53 times because I'm afraid it will prompt him to tell me something that he thinks is more impressive than that.)

5. Now he's sitting at the bar, just bellowing "PEEEEEARRL JAAAAAAAAM" over the songs my husband is playing.

6. He just came back to my table and made me fist bump him.

7. He tells me "I'm feeling generous. Very generous," with a cocky smile before tipping my husband a single dollar. 

8. He wants his buddy to join us so now he's just sitting at my table and yelling "MY BRUTHA," over and over to the bar.

9. He's trying to describe the song "Wonderwall," but doesn't believe me when I tell him he's thinking of Oasis.

10. And finally, when my husband tells him he won't play any more Pearl Jam songs for him, the dude fishes his dollar bill back out of the pile of tips and mopes away.

congratulations!

Short of date rapists and serial killers, every woman knows that this is, truly, The Worst Kind of Man to Run Into at a Bar. (And even though he's probably not one of them, I'd still carry my drink to the bathroom with me before I ever left it alone near him.) He will continue to splash around the shallow end of the dating pool until he decides to settle down with a lady who deserves far better.

Be careful out there, ladies.

My Heart Breaks For the People in Squirrel Hill

As soon as I could afford to move out of my parents' house, I went to Squirrel Hill.

I was entranced. I didn't have a car, and I didn't care, because I felt like I had the whole world right outside my apartment. I was steps away from any kind of food I wanted, my library, little markets, and family-owned businesses that sold items from all over the world. (And even my own family's guitar shop.)

Squirrel Hill stayed open late, and I felt safe there, always sharing the sidewalk with someone making a late-night Korma run or families capping off their night with bubble teas and a peaceful stroll. And there were always neighbors who were happy to hang out at the spur of the moment. 

One night, I found myself sitting around a coffee table with a group of people from different age groups and backgrounds. The conversation turned to the day each person at the table had received their US citizenship. I had nothing to add to the conversation except my wide-eyed wonder, because I had never considered any of the feelings that my new friends were describing with teary-eyed pride and passion. I just felt lucky to be able to hear their stories and laugh at their jokes, all told in different accents. 

Squirrel Hill, and its community, and any place that fosters a melting pot of people, is SO special. I realize I am fortunate to be looking at Saturday's shooting from the outside in. But it breaks my heart that the community where I felt so safe and so exhilarated is grieving today. 

We must do better than this. ️

Ode to My Helpful, Healing Gemstones

They might relieve my headaches, boost my courage, and soothe my worries. Or they might just be pretty.

I loved crystals and gemstones when I was little. Now, as an adult with a paycheck, it delights me to drop thirty dollars on a bag of rocks on my way home from brunch.

My friend Christy rekindled my love of crystals when I was suffering from grief. When my dog passed away suddenly, Christy gave me love, sympathy, and a small green gemstone. For months, whenever the pain and loss seemed overwhelming, that little gemstone helped me stay grounded.

Whenever I felt crushed under a fresh wave of pain, I'd roll that gemstone in my palms and feel the cold contrast of the stone against my skin. I'd close my fingers around it, feeling it absorb my body heat and turn hot in my hand. I'd search for the tiny rainbows that bloomed inside it, or I'd close my eyes, reassured by its familiar weight and the knowledge that Christy cared about me. It interrupted my panic and brought me back to a gentler, more bearable moment.

That powerful little gemstone has another story, too strange and magical for most people to believe, so if you want to hear it, you'll have to ask me about it. But that gem reminded me that crystals make me feel good. The same way salt lamps give my home a cozy glow -- and may even purify the air, for all I know -- they feel good to have around.

Now I start each day by choosing a couple pretty gems to accompany me. Gems are thought to have metaphysical qualities, so I'll choose a milky white gem for its ability to inspire creativity, or my favorite purple-and-black gem, traditionally known to give strength to people with sick loved ones.

Since I've been in 10 (yes, 10) car accidents (that's another blog), I started keeping gems with protective qualities in my car. Maybe they're helping. They definitely make me a calmer driver. I rub their smooth, silky surfaces when I'm stopped in traffic, and I feel my driving-anxiety subside.

A lifelong sufferer of headaches, I started wearing blue goldstone around my wrist for its anti-migraine properties. That and my Excedrine help turn my panic to reassurance when I feel a first twinge of pain. That alone helps me feel better.

I love how every gem has a different weight, a different texture, and looks completely different depending on how it's reflecting the present light or whatever it's sitting next to at the moment. Held at just the right angle, a plain black sphere might explode with sparkles ... then go right back to being a modest little rock in my pocket. It gives me moments of pure joy.

And I like thinking about everything each little gem has been through to get to me: the product of ancient processes, tremendous temperatures, pressure, time, and space many miles underneath the earth's surface. Tectonic plates collided and centuries-old magma delivered the the shimmering little specimen I can place next to my laptop.

That's magic, if you ask me.

My Love Life in 6 Tom Petty Songs

In memory of Tom Petty, may I present ... my love life in 6 Tom Petty songs.

Free Fallin': I'm 9 years old and Free Fallin' is on the radio every time I get in my parents' car. I'm  entranced from its first airy strums. Scenery rolls by as my little-girl mind paints a music video set in a kingdom called Racida. In my imagination, I'm a good girl who loves horses, and a handsome boy writes my name in the sky. I feel deliciously secret longings about freeways and boys I haven't met yet. 

At school, a popular girl asks me what music I listen to. She is wearing a New Kids on the Block jacket covered with pancake-sized pictures of the band members' faces. I tell her I love "Free Fallin'," and she snorts, "You like Tom Petty?!" in a way that instantly tells me that I have given  the wrong answer.

I listen to "Free Fallin'" the next time it comes on the radio. Again, I'm swept away. Already, the line "The good girls are home with broken hearts" speaks to me in a way that New Kids on the Block never will.

Free Girl Now: I'm 29, and I'm fed up. The boyfriend I've adored with puppy-like devotion has let me down for the last time. I call my buddy James and tell him I've decided to break up with my boyfriend, for real this time. James makes me a celebratory playlist, and "Free Girl Now" is the track I play again and again.

It's hard to stay broken up, especially when my ex keeps trying to come back, but Tom Petty makes me feel like I can -- like I DESERVE --  to "Dazzle, dazzle the moon above." So I try.

Change the Locks: I fail. That same ex and I are on-again-and-off-again for several dramatic months. All the while, my dear friend James listens, rolls his eyes, and offers me the frustrated sympathy I need. Until one day, the break-up sticks. I'm ready to move on. James makes me a new playlist. This is the song I like best. The songs clangs into my apartment, blaring its mix of rage and sheer delight. I changed the name of this town, so you can't follow me down! 




  

Walls: Some days are diamonds. Some days are rocks. I am in my early 30s, and I am devastated. Recently dumped by someone I trusted, I come to the conclusion that I did not get the life I wanted. It seems cruel and unfair because I believe, with every fiber of my being, that I was born to love. 

Sometimes I have dreams at night that I've found true love, and when I wake up and realize the person in my dream wasn't real, I cry. I feel certain that I could love someone with a fire and loyalty no one's ever seen.

Instead, I go numb. I cry some more. I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up. I play this song on repeat. "You got a heart so big/ It could crush this town/ And I can't hold out forever/ Even walls fall down." 

Angel Dream (No. 4): It finally happens. 

"I dreamed you, I saw your face.

Caught my lifeline
When drifting through space
I saw an angel
I saw my fate
I can only thank God it was not too late."

American Girl:  I'm 34. I'm wearing white and sparkles and everyone I love is there. My best friends and I are on the dance floor. My wonderful family has come from far away to be with me. With us. Outside, I see my groom  standing with his friends. 

Billy floods my vision as the DJ pulls up one of the songs I wanted to hear today. Good old Tom Petty. Billy beckons me outside to pose for a wedding photo, and I dance for one more moment before running outside, through the most perfect day I've ever had. 

Make it last all night.

R.I.P. Tom Petty.

Thank you for the music.  

Nothing I Can See But You So Keep Dancing

I have a confession. Every time I hear this song, my imagination provides a music video. It's simple but vivid: just me and my Beagle Porter, dancing in our tiny kitchen without a care in the world.

The video is a scene that happened plenty of times in real life: me grinning and spinning, swinging my arms awkwardly and with happy abandon. Porter is prancing on his feet, ears flapping, his face radiating blissful devotion as he gazes up at me -- the way he always did.

I think the song strikes me this way because of this line:

 

"Nothing I can see but you."

That's how Porter loved. Porter had been abused, rescued, and nursed back to health, and he seemed to give me credit for all of it. He adored me. And judging by his clingy devotion, he didn't think he could live without me. Friends laughed if I asked them to hold Porter's leash as I dashed inside a coffee shop. Porter's whole world would grind to a halt, and he'd stare after me, frozen, panicked, and unable to function until I returned to him.

But the rest of the time, Porter was joyful. That was his gift to me: sunshine and joy at a time when I needed it most.

I will never stop feeling like I was robbed when I lost Porter. His accident was brutal and cruel and it pops back into my mind to remind me of the doom that waits around every corner, ready to take away everyone I love. Some days, it's a lot of work to fend off this feeling.

That's why I'm happy for this silly Justin Timberlake song, and all the memories of my little angel dog. Today I'm working in my yard, playing this song on repeat, crying a little, but letting my heart ache with gratitude and joy.

Can't stop the feeling, so just dance, dance, dance.

Just an Update

Me, horrified:  "We have a hole."

My living room, currently.

Billy, helpfully: "Well, one of your favorite bands is called Hole!"

I'm feeling overwhelmed this week. We're waiting for an insurance adjuster to come look at the big, soggy hole in our living room ceiling. The plumber said we may have to tear up our bathroom to get it fixed.

Our house has pretty much been under construction since June, which has been mentally and financially exhausting, making me miss the days when I just paid my rent and bought another designer handbag, without checking my bank balance. 

We celebrated our dog's second anniversary with us, and days later, came home to find her panting, trembling, and unable to walk. It looked like she was dying. Two vet appointments later, we found out her spine is dropping, or degenerating. She needs pain medicine every 12 hours and a new, gentle routine.

There are plenty of bigger, actual disasters to put things in perspective. Seeing those horrible headlines and heartbreaking photos is overwhelming, too.

In the mean time, here are some things I love right now:

• Downward Dog, which I didn't discover until after it was cancelled, but I am enjoying watching a TV show about a woman who lives in Pittsburgh and works in marketing and loves her dog. Just like me! The scenes when she walks him in Frick Park break my heart and make me long for Porter so badly, I ache. But the show still makes me happy.
  
  
  
•  Weekend dinners with my parents and husband. Today we went to Mindful Brewing.
  
• Big amethyst clusters like this one on my Instagram. I have 6 of these now and I can't stop buying them. I read that they have properties that help you sleep well so I put two next to my bed.
  
• Sending and receiving zine-style mail with my best girl, Madge. We've been packaging up treasure troves of collages, mini paintings, stickers, handmade booklets, and letters. A great mail day is a great day indeed.
  
• The butterflies in my yard. They are so beautiful, and inspired me to dust off my real cameras. I took this picture and hope to get to blown up some day for our walls! 
  
  
  
  
  

That's all I had to say for now.

Life With My Husband

Billy: "Boy, I loooooove watching videos of animals falling asleep. There's one that's so funny. Have you seen it? It's one of those ... what are those animals you like? Lemurs?"

Me: "I like meerkats."

Billy: "Then what's a lemur?"

[ We Google "lemur." ]

Billy: Okay, then I was talking about meerkats.

[ Billy shows me this video ]



Billy and me: [ Fits of giggles. ]

Billy: I'm serious though, Google "Animals falling asleep. I've done it. It's the best!"

That Pillow Fight in Wal-Mart: 4 Years Later

Four years ago today, my (future) husband and I went on our second date.

The night grew long, but Billy and I didn't want it to end. We drove around looking for something to do. We found that Wal-Mart was open, so we went inside, roamed the aisles, and found ourselves in the pillow aisle having a slaphappy pillow fight.

I already felt different with Billy than I ever had with anyone else. I found him exhilarating and exciting, but I felt perfectly comfortable with him. Like I could leave all my worries and hang-ups and insecurities at the curb and just enjoy him. Us. The feeling of sharing space with someone who could turn me on, calm me down, challenge me, and take care of me. 

I could surrender to this man. But this time it was different, because I wouldn't lose myself. Billy adored me too, and made me shine brighter than I did alone. Only two dates in, I was already certain that I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life.

Fast-forward to four years later. This morning. We're doing one of our favorite things: watching a cooking competition on Hulu and debating who should win, and who actually will. Billy made me a big plate of eggs and fresh tomatoes, just like I wanted, and I try to finish them all so he'll know how much I liked them.

As he reaches out and drapes a hand across my leg, I sizzle with excitement.

Still true:

 

Men

Tonight, at a party, I chatted with my dad and two other women.

A man came up to us, inserted himself into our circle, and interrupted the woman next to me.

"Looks like they're beating up on you," he said, and waited for my dad to laugh.

My dad looked at him, blankly, and turned back to the woman who'd been speaking.

"It's just you and three ladies," the man continued, poking my dad.

"Yes, and they're all so nice," my dad,
                                                    my wonderful dad,
                                                         replied.

This is What You Married, Buddy

Scene From Our Marriage:


Billy:     What are you doing?

Me:        Um. [ holds up phone]

 

The First Dog I Ever Loved

This is a picture of Nookie, the first dog I ever loved, taken in 1975.

Nookie spent the first two years of her life as a guard dog at an auto body shop. This elegant and tender-hearted girl made a lousy guard dog (She loved to drink beer and was frequently found passed out drunk on the concrete floor). She went to live with my grandmother, and the two fell blissfully in love.

As you can see, Nookie was better suited for portrait sittings, evening strolls and belly rubs. I was smitten with her and pestered her endlessly, but she sweetly tolerated me and taught me how to love and respect animals. 💜💜

It made me so happy to find this photo at my parents' house today.

Two Things I Am Grateful For Today

1. This cat.

Firefly is 17-and-a-half, has only one tooth, and lives with (carefully managed) irritable bowel syndrome and high blood pressure. She doesn't like to play or even leave her bedroom much anymore, which means she really only likes one thing: cuddling with me. She lives to cuddle with me. She waits for me, on her favorite chair, all day long. When I sit with her, whether for five minutes or a couple hours, she purrs and languishes and gazes at me. She shows me that I've literally made her whole day.

It's really sweet.

2. The life my husband gave me.

Last night, we went on a date to see his friends Justin and Brian play music. We enjoyed good music, good food, and best of all, we got to share the band's excitement when they nailed a song particularly well.

I realize that if I hadn't held out so long, I could have ended up with someone whose passion is video games or college basketball. That kind of life would not have thrilled me or even suited me at all. Instead, I got the only life I'm really suited for: traveling and hanging out with with bands and musicians.

Musicians aren't like any other kind of people, and they are my favorite people. Especially this one.

Heaven is Wherever My Animals Are

....

I didn’t grow up religious, but there are a couple things I place all my faith in:

1. Being good feels good.

2. Being bad feels bad.

3. When you die, all the animals you’ve ever loved come running to greet you.

Thinking about #3 has helped me through some dark days of grief. Now, when I die and cross over to the other side, I have my arrival all planned out. 

Woody

Woody will spot me first. Here on Earth, Woody used to lay inside the door of my dad’s guitar shop, casting a stern gaze at all the passers-by. Each time I approached the shop, he’d narrow his wary eyes … until I got close enough for him to recognize me.

I’d wait for it … that precise, adorable moment when Woody spotted me from afar. His whole expression would change. His alert ears would drop. His squared shoulders would go soft. His eyes would go wide and bright as his mouth opened in a doggie grin.

Yes, when I die, Woody will make his wiggly way toward me first.

But Porter, my dear, angel Porter, won’t be far behind. When Porter and I shared an apartment, he slept on a futon in the spare bedroom all day while I was at work. I lived for the moment when I pushed open our back door each day. Porter, waking with a start, would burst out of his bedroom, slide sideways into view, then get tangled in his own Beagle feet as he did a quick, gleeful pivot in the foyer.

One day, I’ll see him come tumbling into to view again … then careen around the clouds, galloping, ears flapping, and diving into my arms. I can’t wait to feel his stocky little body and bury my nose in his turkey-dinner smell. 

Porter

(Oh Porter! I miss you most of all.)

Betty

Betty and Nookie, the regal ladies, will bring up the rear. Betty won’t be the crooked, sick old girl I said goodbye to. She’ll be the sleek, athletic Husky who used to race me down grassy hills — thundering past me in a joyful blur. That’s the Betty I’ll see again. Billy the brown dog, my first love, will take his polite place in line, and sometimes, I feel like I can't even wait.

It breaks my heart to think of it now, as she sleeps beside me, but by then, my beloved cat Firefly will be there too. Her health has been failing, and every day seems like a bittersweet reason to celebrate. I don’t want her to go, but when she does, I hope she waits for me, too.

I hope it with all my heart.  

Firefly