Weekend and Worries

We did a lot of chores this weekend. 

When you are married to a gorgeous long-haired musician, you spend part of your weekend going to his gigs, and the rest of your weekend sweeping his hairs off your floors.

I'm kidding! To be fair, I shed an awful lot too. Between the two of us, the dog, and the cat, we can make a real mess, and a big chunk of our weekends are devoted to chores. But I am grateful to have this family to clean up after.

And I had a wonderful weekend. I'm glad, because I've been working so diligently to create happiness. I have a happy life, but it's a shame how sadness can take such a sinister hold anyway. You can do so many things, like yoga, or a keep gratitude journal, only to have your own mind and memories sabotage you anyway.

I really hoped our move would help me get over Porter, and the awful way we found him But the past month has actually been one of the hardest, and now I am experiencing flashbacks.

I used to think a flashback was like a memory. But now I know that it can be much worse. You can get trapped, reliving a horrific memory that's so vivid and real, it's as though it's really happening to you. You're there. It's so real that you find yourself desperately hoping it turns out differently this time -- and believing it actually might. And when it doesn't, you get to suffer the trauma all over again.

So what can I do? Just keep trying to let happiness in, I guess. This weekend I did that by loving Billy, and going to see him sing anf play guitar, and by working on our house. I hung artwork and cleaned and organized and focused on filling our home with comfort and love.

And I will keep doing that, for all of us.

Little Dog's Legacy of Love

Porter, right, with his friend Winnie

After our dog was killed, Billy and I were stunned by the outpouring of love that we received. Our apartment was filled with cards, letters, and flowers. Friends delivered cookies and lasagna and made donations in his name.

Some of the tokens came from people I didn't even know. Porter's dog walkers were crushed by the news and sent beautiful flowers and heartfelt texts.

Then one night, Billy and I came home to a sympathy card with unfamiliar handwriting. It was signed by Jimbo the maintenance man, who told us how much he would miss Porter.

Billy and I were surprised, and, to be honest, pretty suspicious. We didn't know Jimbo or how he knew that we'd lost our dog. We worked through strange scenarios and questioned our neighbors ... how did Jimbo know about Porter's sad passing? Had he witnessed it? Was there something sinister going on?

I barely slept that night as stories ran through my mind. The next morning, I walked down to our basement and found another maintenance man. I asked for Jimbo.

Jimbo came out. He seemed gentle and kind, and when I told him who I was, his eyes softened with sadness.

He said that neighbors in another building told him about Porter, and that he had delivered their flowers to our door. He told me that he loved making repairs in our apartment because Porter would always come sit with him and watch him work. He said that Porter was his little buddy. And, he said, Porter is waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge.

I drove to work in tears, feeling sorry that I had been suspicious of Jimbo. It turned out, Jimbo was yet another person who was touched by Porter's sweet and loving heart. Porter made so many people happy.

How many people lose their dog and learn that he had friends they didn't even know about?

Porter leaves a true legacy of love.

I'm still struggling to process how something so bad and so random could happen to such a good dog. Did the universe think we had more happiness than we deserved? Or are we truly at the mercy of such random, cruel accidents, every single day? Both possibilities are terrifying.

But my friend Kim told me,

"I believe that God needed Porter. He has bigger plans for him. Porter was here when you needed him and now he is needed by someone else." 

Normally, I believe that we're all on our own out here, grasping whatever we can in a detached and random universe. But I so hope this is true. Porter did arrive like an angel -- a little miracle -- when I desperately needed him. I adopted him, I watched him become healthy and happy, I got married, and my heart filled with love.

And then he left.

Porter, I hope your little soul is still spreading love. You were made of love .. and I believe you still are.

But I miss you with all my heart.

How 53 Chickens Made Me Feel Better

I love you, Chicken. 

I didn't feel ready for the world on Tuesday morning.

The cat and I uncurled at the sound of the alarm, but the space beyond my bed seemed too harsh, too unsympathetic -- a grinding sameness that I had not signed on for. There was nothing I could do but resort to autopilot and plod into my morning routine.

When I got to work, I approached the door gingerly, hoping to ease myself into another long day. But almost immediately, a surprise sound echoed through the building -- a piercing, perfect, cock-a-doodle-doo.

I burst out laughing.

This week, the organization that I work for was called to assist in the rescue of 61 birds. This is how I came to meet 53 chickens for the very first time.

That Tuesday morning, those of us who "had some spare time" were invited to help with the mass cleaning of chicken cages. I wanted to laugh at that suggestion. We're not an organization that allows spare time, and the weight of relentless deadlines was part of what had made the day feel so daunting when I woke up. Still, chicken-cage-cleaning sounded like an adventure I couldn't pass up.

The chickens had arrived in poor health, and you could see lice crawling all over their faces and feathers. The chickens smelled terrible -- a sweet, sweaty, garbage scent.

I followed instructions to put on scrubs and to wear a new pair of rubber gloves between each chicken. Then, I got to either wipe out soiled cages or take on the fantastic job of holding chickens.

Holding chickens -- in some cases, impressive, imposing-looking roosters -- is much easier than picking one up. I have yet to successfully do that. Their wings can break if you struggle with them, so, terrified that I'd break a chicken, I'd panic and back off as soon as they started to squirm.

One time, I came close to pulling a rooster out of the top of a two-story pen. But, he spun wildly and struggled against my face. I quickly placed him back down -- but after that, I smelled like chicken for the rest of the day. An oily, smelly sheen was  smeared across my cheek and clothes.

However, none of this is meant to be read as a complaint. Once one of my co-workers would hand me a chicken, I'd hold him and feel mesmerized. Each time, the chickens would struggle and fuss and then, properly pinned against my chest and supported underneath, they'd surrender. From there, I could feel the warmth of their bodies in my arms. I could feel their hearts beating against mine.

I learned how to soothe a flustered chicken by gently stroking  its head or chin. Sometimes, my co-workers and I would find ourselves unconsciously swaying as we held our chickens, as though we were rocking babies. My friend Christy held a chicken that nestled into her bosom. He lay his head across Christy's chest and slowly closed his eyes.

After a while, Christy and I walked her sleepy chicken and my restless chicken over to a window.  Both chickens craned their necks in focused curiosity, eager to see what was going on outside. Christy and I looked at each other in shared delight. She said, "They're looking out the window." The chickens were scared, confused, and not feeling well. It meant something to us that we were giving them a small but meaningful moment.

The chickens are all headed to local farm sanctuaries, where they'll spend their lives clucking and crowing and eating and digging in hay.

I'm really glad I got to meet them. I'd love to work with chickens again. Now that I've mastered chicken-holding, I'd like to practice chicken-picking-up.

Once again, I find that the best way to recover from sadness is to help someone who's worse off than yourself.

See what it looked (and sounded) like to clean the chicken cages:

Recipe for mending a broken heart in 50 days

If someone comes along and devastates you--ruins you for what will feel like the rest of your life--you will feel very lucky if you can do the following:

Find good friends. 

Cry to your mom, if she'll hear it. Schedule dinners and brunches with people who love you, even if your limbs feel too heavy to pull out of bed, even if you know you're going to cry in front of them and come home feeling soggy, drained and bruised. Let a very good friend tuck you into their bed and hold you while you weep. 

Find a professional.

He or she will probably say the same things that your friends are telling you, like, "It's better to know about this now than later" but somehow it will sink in differently. 

Find someone who's worse off than you are, and help them.

Maybe a sick, abused dog who no longer trusts anyone either. You can learn to trust each other.

Find good things.

Be relentless about this. Feed yourself good food. See doctors. Exercise. Get enough sleep. Get a haircut. Buy a new couch if you can. Make crafts. Try Zumba even if it makes you feel feel like a flailing muppet in a sea of mermaids. 

Find the holes in your story.

Why is your heart so broken? Maybe the story you were telling yourself was never true. Maybe you weren't as happy as you wanted to believe you were. Maybe now you can finally stop walking on eggshells all the time. 

Find out what you've been overlooking.

Maybe, just maybe, the sweet, deadpan guy you never seriously considered is flirting with you. And maybe he's secretly funny. Maybe you should let him take you to an arcade. Be nice to him, even if you're still trying to quell the banshee inside. He might be just what you need. 

Bedtime all the time

On Friday, my doctor told me to change my sleep ritual. One of the things I should do is use my bed only for sleep.

I currently do all kinds of dumb things in my bed, college-kid style. Things like:

• Eat my breakfast (every day)
• Eat my dinner (sometimes. shame, shame)
• Work
• Lose track of time playing Gems with Friends
• Watch instant Netflix, esp. Freaks and Geeks
• Read  (responsible answer) 
• Act stupid with the cat.
• '
• Remember, with startling embarrassment, the people I forgot to call back at work
• Organize my earring drawer
• Cut out magazine pictures of clothes and haircuts that I want 
• Talk on the phone
• Paint my nails
• Panic about deadlines
• Panic about everything that has disappointed me, especially at dark lonely hours when I should be sleeping.

Now it's Monday morning and the cat and I have already resumed our bad daily habit of taking breakfast in bed.

But surely our sweet morning ritual isn't contributing to anything negative. 

We'll see. This is the first five-day week of the new year, and I'm setting out to take some drastic measures to increase my happiness. 

Wish me luck. 

If this wasn't on the Internet, I'd have more to dish about. But anyway....

This is what it's like to work at my laptop.

Hey. You. Down in front.

Today I went to the first of two doctors to try to get a handle on my hideous migraines. I also visited my dad at his guitar shop and took a picture of this sign. Clearly, I get my marketing skillz from him.

The sign reads, "Like...totally tubular guitar stand. $14.95."
It is tubey.

Now I'm playing with photos of my cat.

Her water bowl. It's green.

And finally...
last night, a wise and endlessly patient friend talked to me about being sad. While I've gratefully lapped up advice from just about everyone I know, his advice was the most comforting to me because I've watched him tumble into the darkest depths of depression. I asked him how you find your way back out...or even just keep going. He said, first of all, you do it for the people who love you. And then, you do it because you never know what will happen the next day.

And today really was a nicer day.

I'm flipping sad.

I went to a glass mosaic class at the Pittsburgh Public Markets on Sunday, and I was a little startled when I made this.

It's a broken heart. It's quite literally my broken heart, and when I got home, I tucked it against a wall so I wouldn't have to look at the feeling that I'm already carrying around with me.

I want so badly to escape from this feeling. Sometimes, I get blissful moments of clarity--that life could be much worse and it will all get better. And my best friend reminds me that the ratio of good-to-bad moments will start to shift until the good moments finally start to crowd out the bad ones. 

But the days feel so long. And my feelings feel so big. 

Usually I like being this way, because I feel like I get to be a lot more enthusiastic and excited and exhilarated than most people do. But right now, everything hurts so oppressively badly... I can't seem to figure out how to take on this life.