Life – Page 3 – Tipsy Typer

Too Much of a Good Thing (remembering who I have become)

Have you ever watched the movie ‘Matilda,’ you know, 90s classic that was a staple for me growing up. Oh how I always wanted to be like her; reading the entire library, able to move things with my mind and bubbling over with adorable charm. Yes, that was the dream- minus the horrors of Ms. Trunchbull. We could all do without that little gem in our lives.

As it turns out, lately I have been a lot more like Bruce Bogtrotter than Matilda. He was the infamous cholocate cake boy (who incidentally grew into a pretty handsome man, only proving my theory that cake is a the most amazing human invention and can fix anything in your life).

Now- what do I mean when I say that I’ve been Bruce Bogtrotter? Well, remember how all he really wanted was some chocolate cake, and he just couldn’t resist so he stole a piece from the grinchy principal? His punishment after that sounded amazing: to eat an entire chocolate cake all on his own. Yes, it was a dream come true- until it wasn’t. As it turns out, too much of a good thing (even with something as glorious as chocolate), can still hurt you. The key has always been balance; something I am continually working on. After Nano ended I decided that I was going to give myself a little break, I reasoned that I had earned it- I hit my crazy big goal in November, and honestly, I was a bit tired. I craved the free time I never had, I desired that freedom the same way Bruce craved that cake. I simply couldn’t resist, though I knew the dangers of falling back into my old ways. So I opted to take time and relax, read my books, ease off of my writing projects and just give myself a bit of a break. Which was wonderful. Until it wasn’t.

All work and no play makes Katie a dull girl, and conversely, all play and no work makes Katie fall asleep far too early and lose her pizzazz. I loved the first week or so, well, actually, I still love it- it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to sit and read my books guilt-free without the constant nagging in the back of my mind on what I should be doing. So I read, and when I got burnt out on my current paperback, I started poking around online. A lot. And, as usual, the holiday season is a busy one for me- with ugly sweater parties, Christmas tree train rides, holiday plays, gingerbread houses, a first attempt at a wine tasting, family frivolity and friendly festivities. But as it turns out, a lot of other things fell by the wayside as I spent more and more time indulging myself. This blog even- it started to fade into a late night afterthought, a tinge of guilt, but no real desire to sit down and work. One of my projects has been languishing, neglected and alone on my laptop. Even my laundry has been a mountain that has flooded over the top of its hamper, continually threatening to topple on the unsuspecting cat who only wants to play with the dangling sleeves of my sweaters.

And you know what happened? It stopped being fun. All of this extra time I had on my hands- it was a waste. I was standing still when I have spent the past year pushing so hard to inch forward, one toe at a time. It felt like I was losing all of the ground I had fought for. To suddenly find yourself languishing, and knowing it was all your own doing- it kind of sucks. It’s like sitting in the bathtub until the bubbles are gone and the water is cold, you’ve overstayed your welcome and the relaxation turns into anxiety. I found myself killing time that was once such a precious commodity to me- by mindlessly scrolling through the interwebs, checking my Facebook way more than I should, and even finding myself so bored at night that I was falling asleep early, kindle still propped on my lap. There was no stimulation, no motivation, no fire burning me up from the inside and sparking life into my soul. I had become dull and faded without my inspiration to guide me. I had become the girl I was once upon a time when I would dream without doing and wonder why my life wasn’t changing.

Much like the chocolate cake; when you eat it for breakfast, lunch and dinner, it loses its appeal and pretty soon you find yourself craving an apple. You have to indulge yourself occasionally with a piece, but knowing it is a special treat makes it all the sweeter. That’s the balance I have to remember, I need to learn to teeter when I want to totter.

I don’t know who I am when I’m not writing, I lose my focus and start to feel like my very identity is slipping, I feel like a shadow of the myself. I have spent so much time this year working my tail feathers to the bare nubbins. And in spite of the dedication and laser focus it has required- it’s felt amazing knowing that I am doing something for myself, that I am taking steps towards a dream I have always had. So treading water- it doesn’t feel as good anymore. When I know what I am capable of, it hurts to do anything less. I feel like I’m wilting.

And so, here I am, frustrated with complacency and ready to strike back. It’s been fun, but I am sick of my holding pattern. So here we are my friends- Tipsy is back and ready to take a shot (I meant that in the dukes up, fight for myself kind of way- you know- hit me with your best shot; not shot of alcohol way, though technically that probably works too).

It’s time to come back to my new life, the one I fought so hard for. And now I can find comfort in knowing that I don’t think I am capable of slipping back into that girl I had once been- the one so full of unrealized dreams. Because I just tried, and though I did wilt for a time, I find myself blooming again. I can emphatically say: I am not that girl anymore. I am stronger than her, and damn it, I will keep on fighting for what I want. Because it’s the only thing that leaves me fulfilled and satisfied at the end of the day. Cheers, my friends, it feels good to be back. I’ve missed you. And perhaps I’ve missed me a bit too.

When snow day dreams turn into nightmares

So last night I told you about our impromptu snow day (more like an ice day) and how I needed to remember to act like a kid sometimes and just enjoy those moments that I couldn’t control. Last night I was quickly reminded that after dark you have to turn into an adult again, otherwise the world can be a very scary place.

I was just settling in to go to sleep at 11:30 when some strange buzzing sounds and light flashes woke me up before all went dark and silent. We lost power. Not only that, but it seemed a transformer blew- Zach saw a bright flash of turquoise light in the backyard that was so bright, at first he thought we had been hit by lightning (personally, I was wondering if the wizarding world of Harry Potter was finally going to reveal itself to us. Or perhaps they did, but then they did a memory charm and convinced us a transformer blew- eh, possible?). The neighborhood was dark, it was late, so we locked the critters in the room with us and cuddled up to stay warm as we listened to the ice falling outside.

At 2:00am we awoke to a crash in the backyard. In my frazzled state of half-wakefulness I thought I heard someone yelling, but was later told that no, it must have been a part of my dream. I lived in the woods growing up, and I know the sound of falling branches and trees- that definitely fit the bill. As we ran to the back door to get a better look, I was convinced that I would find a tree protruding from the neighbor’s house, or, at the very least, a smashed fence. Lucky for me, my fears were unfounded. The neighbors behind us have a few large trees. Between the weight of the ice, the expanding and contracting from the temperature changes and the force of the wind- the top just couldn’t handle it anymore and it snapped- toppling right into our yard and scraping against our patio awning and the back fence on its way down as it showered ice over our roof and cement patio. We got lucky, it didn’t seem to do any damage (except, perhaps, to the bush it landed on).

So back to bed we went, cuddled up to the cat and the dog (luckily at this point, our power was back on and things were starting to warm up a little bit). We were a tad jumpy, eyes opening wide every time we heard more ice fall. But eventually we lulled ourselves back to sleep.

Crash! The next one was at 4:00am, and at this point, I was beginning to feel like a pro, though, admittedly, it sounded closer to our bedroom than the last one. With the ease of a scene previously well choreographed, we locked the animals in and stepped out to investigate. Same thing happened, just a little farther down, just a little closer to our bedroom. The shape loomed ahead in the dark as we shone our flashlights at it. Once again, we were very fortunate- for the second time it hit in the postage stamp part of the yard that was unused. So back to bed we went, once again jumpy to all sounds of falling ice.

It was quieter after that. At 6:30 the dog couldn’t handle it anymore and had to be taken out potty, but by then the steady crashing of ice had abated- though you could see the war it had waged on our house in the form of ice balls and shards scattered across our patio. The dog stepped carefully before running back inside to the warmth that awaited him.

When it sounded like everything had been calm for a few hours, we went out to explore our little winter wonderland. About five minutes after taking pictures of the ice hanging off of one particular tree, we watched a big piece of it snap off and tumble into the yard. Needless to say, we have retreated back to the safety of the house and have put all critters on lock down until I feel comfortable that they will not get impaled by dropping debris. We still hear the occasional snap and crash as another branch falls into the icy hands of its own fate. One more hit the house, but it was spindly and didn’t do much from what I could tell looking out the window.

Our road is still frozen, but the temperatures are slowly creeping to the upper thirties, so I have hope that we will escape the ice castle today. It will probably take a while because there is still such a thick sheet coating everything. In the meantime, I will live off of coffee, which I keep a bountiful supply of. Though I must admit, I am getting quite sick of the soup that I stocked up on when I had the flu. I will do the laundry I have been ignoring all week. When we can finally cruise off our hill, I think I will enjoy a nice big burger or eat a whole pizza to myself. Just because it’s something different.

Whatever your weather, be safe out there my friends.

The Gift of Time

I was once a somewhat materialistic girl. I think we all are to an extent. Now don’t get me wrong, I have never been interested in name brands or personal items meant as status symbloys. I adored things that showed a bit of flare, a hint of the personality hiding just below the surface. I loved my stuff, I grew attached to it, and as such, I always struggled to part with it. And then I moved- and vowed to never again buy another unnecessary item that I would have to cart around with me for the rest of my life. If I ever had to move again, I was just going to burn everything and start over, yep, that seemed like a reasonable remedy. So much easier than packing box after box to haul to the next home. As it turns out, when all is said and done, I am a bit of a liar.

This last time I moved I became introduced to that dreaded three-syllable word: downsizing. It was a painfully therapeutic tool that was a necessary evil in my life. Severing ties with physical objects was difficult for me, far more so than I am willing to admit. I grew up beilieving that even the most trivial items can be repurposed, and that if I decided to finally let go of something, I would enevitably need it immediately. Couple that with the fact that I don’t own things that I don’t like. And if I like it, well I want to keep it. I’m was a recipe for disaster, and a constant frustration for my fiancé who grew up with the ‘get one, lose one’ philosophy; meaning if he wanted a new toy, well, something needed to be traded. As always, he is the yin to my yang. The problem was that we didn’t have room in our new living quarters, nor did we have the funds to dedicate to a storage facility. So we sliced things out of our lives. I combed and purged, combed and purged, over and over again until I couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore.

I’ve always wanted to embrace the life of a minimalist. I have read the books, I have started the work. But I’ve never been able to truly belong to the movement. I love color and variety too much to feel comfortable living with only bare essentials surrounding me. I embrace my creative nature in my living space, I don’t feel at home without at least a tiny sense of chaos, of odd juxtaposition, of inspiring objects that leave your mind reaching out for more. So no- I cannot be a minimalist. But I have learned not to bring more into my life than I can handle.

Which is why this particular season can be a bit tricky for my. It is the season of giving and receiving. You see, I am very careful about what physical possessions I bring into my life now. And I am perfectly content with what I have. There is not a single thing that I need. And at this point, I don’t have any extra room to dedicate to superfluous objects. For the first time in a long time I can say that everything I own enriched me in some way. Which is why I find it rather difficult when others demand to know what I want this holiday. The answer of ‘nothing’ does not seem to go over well, many believe it’s just a modest answer that I don’t really mean- you know, one of those tricks us women like to play on the unsuspecting men in our lives. Last night I overheard a conversation between two people that I found rather interesting. The man was like me- he didn’t want or need anything, and he would rather any extra money be spent on his grandkids instead. His wife, however, had a different view of the matter. She got upset that he wouldn’t say anything, and finally yelled, “it’s not always about you. The gift giving isn’t always about you, sometimes it is because other people want to do something nice for you.”

I can’t tell you why I found this so interesting; probably because I know a number of people who show their affection through the physical act of buying things for those that they love. And perhaps it’s also because I do genuinely understand the desire to do something kind for a person that you care for. We all want to see their eyes sparkle when we had them the perfect little item they never would have asked for. We get our own satisfaction in the giving; I’m like this as well.

So this year, I am trying something a bit different. For those in my life who still feel the need to pay for a gift (though I am always quick to tell them that I would rather they spend their money on themselves)- for those that don’t like this answer, I am asking them for something a little bit different. Either a picture of us or something important to us- no frame needed- for me to put up in my office to look at all year round and remind myself why I go in there everyday, something that will make me smile during those moments that test my patience and my kindness. Or else the gift of simple time- this is perhaps the thing most often neglected. We are all too quick to replace our own presence in someone’s life with a memento of us instead. As thoughtful as the item itself may be, nothing can replace the actual time we spend with one another. It could be something as simple as a walk down the street with a cup of coffee looking at Christmas lights, or a lunch at a new restaurant. Or even (as my sister did this year) a little Ugly Christmas Sweater Party with friends and family). This year I would rather we spend our money on experiences to bring us closer together. I am not an overtly social person, and I struggle to get out of my box and join the world some days. So the greatest gift for me is a shared experience with someone willing to give me the greatest gift of all- a few minutes of their precious time. That is all that I need. Not more trinkets to put on a shelf or keep in a box until I move to a bigger house. Just a couple minutes of your time, and perhaps a smile or two. This year I want memories, not merchandise. I want a Christmas to look back on always with the fondest of memories that will outlast anything you could buy in a store.

Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Right now I am sitting bundled up in blankets in my little office (I use this term loosely, as this little room doubles as my impromptu living room and occasional dining area- I live small). We put up our own strand of white christmas lights around the single window, and we are both working by their comforting soft glow tonight. There is a chill in the air and talk of snow next week. Yesterday at my dentist’s office we listened to all of those old holiday favorites everyone can sing along to. And tomorrow morning I have a date with my mom and sister to bake (hopefully) delicious holiday treats. It seems this year ran away with me before I could take a second to enjoy the scenery.

It is the time of year for thankfulness and small acts of kindness. A time to remember all that we have and make sure those in our lives know their importance. I can occasionally appear to be a cynic (I prefer the term realist) on the outside, but inside I have always been a hopeless romantic who falls head over heels in love with this time of year. As cliche as it sounds, it isn’t about the bows and shiny wrapping paper. It’s not even about the twinkling lights and eggnog. What I love about this season can only be found in the smallest of moments.

It’s in the way my sister’s eyes light up when she finds the perfect Christmas tree. Even at 25, the magic is never lost on her. We will tramp through the lines and lines of trees, scrutinizing every detail until our noses are as red as cherries and we can’t feel our toes. And then she spots it. She grins like she did when we were kids and she stole my first dollhouse. We make our way back with our prize slung carefully over our shoulders and warm up over hot apple cider and rice crispy treats. And then onward home to trim the little beauty in all its glory. That’s why I love this holiday- because it puts a smile on the face of a girl who doesn’t catch many breaks the rest of the year.

It’s in the way I can dance in my car on the way to work and not even feel silly (I strongly suggest Jim Carey’s The Grinch soundtrack for this activity). It’s in the pay it forward coffees as Starbucks. It’s in the excited way my nephews tell me all about their letters to Santa or proudly hold out their freshly cut paper snowflakes. It’s in the midnight snowball fights on the front yard (in which Zach will, at some point, drop some down the back of my shirt). It’s in the small little thoughts of coworkers who try to make the office a little bit brighter. It’s in the way we all speak to one another a little more kindly, smile a little broader, listen a little bit longer when we ask how the other is. It’s in the calming twinkling of those beautiful lights that dance across our faces on late night walks with the dog, all bundled up with gloves and scarves.

There is a magic to this season that is unparalleled. When you stop to enjoy the life that it breathes into a soul during these dreary winter days. There is a warmth to it that you won’t find come January or February. It’s unique, it’s comforting, it’s a hopeful conclusion to a long and busy year, holding delicately a promise for the year to come.

Welcome back, my dear, sweet holiday season. This year, may we remember what is truly important and learn to find some common ground. May we bring one another smiles and friendship without ill intentions. It is the time of year for openness and hopeful endeavors. My friends, may you find all of the love and promise that you had hoped for this season, may you rediscover the childhood joy that still sleeps within, and may you embrace the simplistic beauty that surrounds us. This year, may we find comfort building bridges to one another instead of constructing walls to hide behind. May we remember who we once were and who we still hope to become. Cheers, my dearest friends. May we all embrace this magic and hold true to the true meaning that breathes life back into our weary souls.

One Step in Front of the Other

A couple years ago my fiancé and I packed up the car and drove five hours to Leavenworth, WA during Oktoberfest. But we weren’t going for the beer, no, we were doing something much more reckless. The Oktoberfest Half Marathon! That is right- while college students were piling into beater cars and taking over the town for a weekend of boozy frolicking fun, we were pinning numbers to our tank tops and stretching nervous muscles in the freezing cold early hours of the day. This in itself wouldn’t have been a big problem- if I had taken my training seriously in the months prior to the final event. I stepped up to the starting line knowing that I was in way over my head. I don’t think I had run more than two miles straight without a break, and here I was expecting to push my body for 13.1 miles. Now, don’t get me wrong- a few weeks before the race I had decided it was important to know what I was getting myself into- my fiancé and I went for our ‘practice run’ one night. It took us hours winding through two towns to get in the full mileage. At one point I was running while dry heaving over the side of a bridge (that would be thanks to the pile of gummy bears I ate), but we did the full thing. So going into this event, I had an inkling of what to expect. And I knew it would involve a lot of pain.

The first few miles were fantastic, I felt like a superstar. There is something inspiring and invigorating when your feet are clipping in line with thousands of other people surrounding you, people who were just as crazy as you. We all went out there with something to prove, a goal to accomplish- and the excitement in those first few miles were palpable.

After a while though, even the buzzing thrill couldn’t keep my body motivated. The next miles were a collection of jogging bursts coupled with walking breaks. Intervals, they call them- and they seem to save my life every time.

When we hit the halfwalf mark, we came across a woman dressed as a bar wench, in the full German gear- she was running with us while carrying a stein full of beer. Beer that she was actually drinking. College students in town for Oktoberfest were lining the streets and filling her stein for her as she went. And you know what really killed me? She was beating me. I like to tell myself that she was drunk enough not to feel the pain in her legs, but I know the truth; she was just better, stronger, and perhaps even a bit more prepared in spite of her inebriated state. Although I can’t help but be impressed; drunk me knows better than to go outside for a jog. Drunk me wants to sit in bed with hot french fries while singing old Backstreet Boys songs to my always-patient fiancé who simply wants me to brush my teeth and go to sleep (and upon his request, this is where you insert the lyrics from ‘You Don’t Own Me’- thank you First Wives Club for introducing this little gem into my bag of tricks. This is quickly followed by some Joan Jett ‘Bad Reputation’ in response. Oh yes, drunk me can be quite clever with her song choices. She also becomes a fiercely independent woman- until she can’t open the pickle jar.)

By the end we were exhausted, everything hurt, but we were almost there. When we got within sight of that finish line we started running, every muscle in our bodies screaming, our lungs ready to burst. When we hit the finish line we clasped our hands and raised them in the air in triump- until the race attendants pointed to ANOTHER line several feet (it felt like miles) away, saying that was the actual finish line and racers had been confused all day with the inexplicable first mark. I personally think they did it because they thought it was funny- it was the cruelest joke that has ever been played on me. So we shuffled forward, arms still raised painfully for what felt like another five miles- until we were able to joyfully cross the REAL finish line.

At the end were apples and treats, along with a winning tshirt and a medal. That first bite of my victory apple was the best thing I have ever tasted. Everything hurt, the journey had been a rough one and I had been horribly unprepared. But you know what? I did it. I fought through the pain, I pushed myself beyond anything I ever believed my body to be capable of. And I crossed that finish line. Both of them. Looking back, it isn’t the pain and the cold that comes to mind first- it’s the pride, the deep satisfaction in knowing that the chips were stacked against me and I still pushed myself to do it.

We went back to our hotel, took hot showers (oh how I deeply craved a tub in that moment), and then we joined the crazy college kids at the bar for a celebratory beer while proudly wearing our medals. It was an amazing day. And it doesn’t matter that I could barely stand for the rest of the week, or that stairs made me want to cry for my mommy. I still did it.

The thing that I’ve learned: this life isn’t that different from that race. Especially for us writers (and most certainly during Nano). We all are jumping into these dreams and adventures feet first, with nothing but hope that we will be successful. We don’t always know what to expect. We don’t know what struggles we will endure. Sometimes we are rockstars, zooming through the crowd. And sometimes it feels like that woman in leiderhosen has all of her shit figured out while you are bumbling around like a blind man. You lose your faith in your abilities, it seems like everyone else has the secret except for you. But you keep pushing and you keep fighting, even when every fiber in your body wants to give up and call for a ride home. We are fighters, we push through all of the odds. We are plagued with fatigue, with feeling ill-equipped, and occasionally with false finishes that hide the distance you still have left to travel. But you don’t give up. As a writer, I sit down in front of my laptop even when the words won’t come. I type out my blog on a tiny touch screen cell phone when a roadblock falls in my lap (yes, I am still raining curses on my laptop and it’s inability to miraculously fix whatever is wrong with it). We find a way, no matter what. Because it all that we know, because standibg still means defeat and we aren’t ready to throw in the towel yet. We owe it to ourselves, we deserve our success. We must believe it, even if we don’t feel we are ready for it.

Why am I Hiding?

Last spring I accidentally sent my fiancé’s brother a picture that was meant for my fiancé. Now, before your eyes grow too wide at the thought of it- let me preface this conversation by saying that it wasn’t a ‘bad’ picture or anything like that. It wasn’t something that I would be embarrassed for people to see. I had decided on a whim to get back out and start running again with the dog, and I was proud of myself. So I did what any self respecting 20-something would do, and I took a selfie.

He jokingly responded that at least it wasn’t something more risqué, and in my usual fashion I made a half-serious, half-jesting comment that the reason I was working out was so that I would feel comfortable sending one like that. Now, I have known Josh since I was about fifteen years old- well over ten years, although there were a few in the middle where we didn’t really have anything to do with one another. We’ve always had a lot of the same friends, but we were never particularly close. We’ve always just joked with each other. But this time was different, instead of taking my comment as a half-hearted joke, he looked past to the underlying meaning and made a comment. From there we had an actual conversation: we were both in the process of trying to get ourselves in good shape and find a place where we were comfortable in our own skin. We both had our insecurities, but neither of us really realized them about the other. For once we both understood that we were feeling exactly the same, underneath all of the jokes. At the end of the conversation he said something that struck me: he said that was probably the first time I had ever opened up to him about anything. I was shocked at the truth of it- how was it possible that I had known him over ten years and we had never really had a conversation of substance?

I’ve always been a private person, but I never realized how truly guarded I am. There are only a few people in my life who know me inside and out, who can tell what I’m thinking before I ever say a word. It wasn’t always like this. I used to be such an open book, but somewhere along the way I closed the pages and tied the cover down so no one could see the content. I remember in high school- once people really started talking to me they would always say ‘you are nothing like I expected.’ I used to pride myself on that; I always knew that my reputation didn’t match the girl inside. Outside I was a ‘good girl,’ one of those quiet straight-A types that don’t have any sharp edges. Inside I was tougher, a rocker chick who was vastly misunderstood. As I grew up my different sides started to merge, and now I’d like to think that I am a more well-rounded person.

This conversation bothered me enough that today I am still thinking about it, months later. Mainly because I see how true it is. I’ve always prided myself on being honest; but is there true honesty when you are constantly hiding? I don’t mean to, I guess I just assume that people wont really care what I have to say. I guess after all is said and done, I am still like that little girl who is afraid of rejection. It is easier to be rejected for a public persona when I know that isn’t actually me than it is to be rejected for the person underneath. How many times do I share little anecdotal stories instead of spilling the truth?

If I were to die tomorrow, how many people would know who I really was, and how many people would know the face that I put on in the morning? It’s not that I’m being fake, I am who I am. But I’m not being deep. I’m not sharing all of who I am or what I do. Take my writing for example: it is a huge part of my life, it is my heart and soul, it is the thing that drives me. But I can probably count on one hand the number of people who know that it is even a hobby of mine.

So who am I? And why aren’t I more open? Those are the true questions, and to be honest- I don’t know if I have a complete answer. When you brush past the superficial responses of what I do for a living and what my hobbies are- who is underneath? I’m just a girl who is always trying to be better. I’m a girl who can’t process the world without a pen in her hand. I’m a socially awkward goofball who can dad-joke and nerd talk with the best of them. I’m opinionated, but I don’t like making waves unless I know I can trust you with my thoughts. I don’t make friends easily, mainly because I’m painfully shy, but when I do I am fiercely loyal. I am the kind of girl who refuses to go to the movies unless I can get popcorn too. I would choose beer over wine any day of the week. I find solace in books, living a thousand lives through fictional characters. I am a hopeless romantic wrapped in the hard candy shell of a realist. I am an enduring optimist who will run over to refill your cup if it’s half empty. I’m a terrible liar. I smile even when I feel like crying. I do a lot of the wrong things for the right reasons, and occasionally stumble across the right things for all of the wrong reasons. I am an enigma, a world of contradictions wrapped up in a Harry Potter t-shirt. I am a girl who has found her happiness, even though she is completely clueless half of the time. I am a girl still figuring out who she is, and for tonight, that will be good enough. The key though? Learning to let others see what I have discovered on this adventure. No more hiding behind smiles and polite comments. Love me or hate me, I want people to know me.

Shrodinger’s Election (it’s almost over)

I didn’t think this election season would ever end, but alas, here we are on that illustrious Tuesday that will determine the road we will take from here. Now, don’t worry, I’m not about to start pelting you with my political opinions and assail you with how ours might not align perfectly. We are all entitled to our individual opinions, and while we might be strongly opposed, we must respect one another’s right to maintain their respective stance.

I believe tonight’s election will be telling, though I am fearful. Partially fearful for the results, but more so for the reactions to these results. I have never seen our country as divided and charged as we were this year, and I will openly admit that I am worried how some will respond if their candidate is not chosen. After an election season that consisted of more mud slinging than general debate and more debasement than productive conversation, I can only hope that we will take these lessons we have learned and use them to better ourselves. It’s no secret that this election has been a royal mess- one played out on an international level. However, in spite of all of the name-calling and general embarrassment, one thing has happened: people have been forced to start those difficult conversations we have been avoiding. And while we might not like everything that has been said, it is a genuine step forward that the words have been spoken at all. Now we must take this momentum and use it to move forward. We must remember our compassion and find our respect again. We must remind ourselves that we have to come together if we ever want to make progress. We must remember that there is a time to speak and a time to listen.

No matter the outcome, I can only hope that we have learned something that will serve us well in the future. This is our country, these are our responsibilities. Cheers, my friends, may we find peace and progress in the coming months. (I know- a girl can dream).

3 a.m. in the Emergency Room

I didn’t expect to find myself dodging the beginnings of a political debate at 3:50am in the waiting room of the ER, but alas, that was exactly where I found myself last night (er- this morning?). Don’t worry- everyone is just fine, all will be well in time. Although I must admit, I am beginning to get a bit concerned with how much time I have spent in these waiting rooms in the past year- I am one flu away from wrapping my entire family up in bubble wrap and locking them securely in a safe until I determine that they are ready to rejoin healthy society.

You never know what to expect when you wake up each morning, what adventures will await you, what twists will turn your personal novel in a new direction? We tend not to think about such topics all that often, because we would simply drive ourselves insane with the possibilities. But five hours in the waiting room gives one time to ponder the questions of life that you typically do not ask yourself. Yesterday morning I crawled out of bed excited that it was finally Friday, and for the first time in weeks, I would be able to make it to happy hour with my friends afterwards. I pushed through a rather dull work day and then enjoyed a couple of drinks with friends at our favorite Irish pub.

After coming home I indulged in a rare treat: a hot bath with my latest book, followed by fuzzy pajamas and cozy blankets. I was just settling in to relax and do a bit of writing when my phone rang. At 10:30pm I left to go pick up my dad and take him to the Emergency Room. Ironically, I had been wanting to go out this weekend to visit with him- but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I didn’t make it back home until 7am on Saturday morning. Personally, I am impressed with my ability to stay awake. You have to understand- I am not a morning person, nor am I a night owl. I’m the type of girl who rocks mid-afternoon, and occasionally falls asleep while folding laundry at 9:30 (that happened to be my Thursday night, in fact). So for me to manage to stay wide away and functioning on a high enough caliber to operate a motor vehicle- for 26 hours straight- that was an achievement. I can’t really remember the last time I pulled an all-nighter. Probably because my poor psyche has blocked it from my mind.

There is nothing more colorful than a late night at the Emergency Room. You have all walks of life. The upset family of the woman that either drove drunk and got hurt, or simply drank so much that she required hospitalization (I couldn’t quite tell, but they were all rather distraught), the older church lady and her calming husband coming in because she broke her foot. The guy who was so high he had convinced people he couldn’t stand on his own two feet- not until he was faced with the prospect of being pushed around in a wheelchair (that was when the ‘miraculous recovery’ happened). The woman close to my age who offered me a page from her adult holiday-themed color book. The political debate that reared it’s head at 3:50am and went on for the next half hour. I was quick to whip out my book and bury my nose in it to avoid that particular hurdle. No good can come of middle-of-the-night politics with strangers. Luckily it was the church lady’s husband who got involved, and he was a pleasant, calming man, who was able to take a fiery debate and get people laughing. Then there was the lady with paranoid ideations explaining how her brain worked- surprisingly interesting, actually. Yes, the emergency room is a colorful clashing of all types, different people all in distress. And yet, they were all surprisingly supportive of one another, all listening attentively and taking turns speaking. Even at 4:00 in the morning.

People never fail to surprise me. We talk so often about the sad state of the world, about politics that divide and conquer, about lines drawn in the sand, biases, discrimination, riots, war, anger, frustration. We shake our heads in dismay. And yet, most people are not that way. Most people will offer a color book page to a stranger, they’ll help a near-catatonic man get up from his seat and get in the wheelchair- no judgment on what substances he put in his body to get him to that point. They just help. They offer condolences for pain, and luck for quick recoveries. Most people are inherently good. Most people will wave a goodbye when you finally are released to go back through those double doors.

Now, perhaps my nostalgic view is partially due to the fact that I got a minimal amount of sleep after I got home- in Washington state, you do not simply sleep through one of the few sunny fall days you are granted. Today is one of those rare beauties, and dang it, I will make it to a pumpkin patch this year without being rained out. So I got up, I got dressed, I drank a cup of coffee (soon to be many more), and I’m ready to push forward through my day. Because life waits for no one. And mid-afternoon naps can be delicious things if done correctly.

So far this weekend has not been what I anticipated, and yet, life rarely hands you the cards that you are expecting to play. This weekend was not what I had planned for, and yet in a bizarre twist of fate, it was exactly what I needed. I have been surrounded lately with friction, with tense moments and frustrated people, with arguments and biting words. I needed a restoration of my faith in people. We discover our humanity in the smallest of moments, not in grand sweeping gestures. It is in a perfectly timed smile, a nod of acknowledgement in a world where we all too often feel invisible. It’s in the few dollar bills it takes for one person to buy someone they don’t know a cup of coffee or a bottle of water. It’s in the straightforward conversations between two strangers on faith, life and love. Even at 4:30 in the morning in a sterile room. It is in the understanding that other’s needs might come before your own- so you wait patiently for five hours and secretly thank your lucky stars that your condition was not so serious to warrant being whisked straight to a back room. It is in the understanding that, after all is said and done, we are in this together. We can lift one another up or watch each other fall. The world is beautiful, even in the starkest of places.

So today I will grab another cup of coffee, I will check on my dad, I will pull on my rubber boots and squish my way through the mud to find a beautiful pumpkin. I will bring it home and decorate it with the family while eating the Halloween cookies that I’ve hidden on top of the fridge. I will make more memories, I will make my mark, and I will smile at the strangers that I encounter, I will buy a cup of coffee for the person waiting patiently behind me. We are all doing the best that we can. Perhaps if we simply decided that the act of trying was, in itself, enough- then maybe we could find some peace with one another.

Rainy days and Stormy Nights

There is nothing that compares with the smell of the asphalt after the first rainfall. I have never encountered anything more comforting than the pitter patter of those tiny drops dancing on my window as I sit wrapped up in my sweater. I adore the rain. Which is probably a good thing, considering I live in the Pacific Northwest; the birthplace of Starbucks coffee and Voodoo doughnuts, the home of sasquatch and the rainy capitol of the United States. The rain makes me feel like I’m home, washing away all of the toxicity of the everyday and leaving me clean and fresh, prepared to take on the world once again.

This weekend we are expecting a storm full of howling wind and pounding rain- the news channels cant stop talkin about it. And who can really blame them- two tornadoes touched down today, one of which hit a town on the coast about a two hour drive from where I am. It even caused a bit of damage as it raged through main street. We get a lot of rain, tornadoes, however, are a bit more uncommon. They expect that tomorrow will be the rough day for the storm- but luckily, I don’t think any more tornadoes are anticipated. Just lots of rain and lots of wind.

Personally, I’m actually a bit excited. I love any excuse to stay in without feeling guilty. In spite of the fact that I have a mountain of Halloween things I want to do this month, sometimes what you really need is a cozy weekend playing around your house. I’m not planning on going out much- maybe to the store to pick up some stuff to make pot pies, pot roast and soup. I’m all over the easy comfort food this weekend. I’m going to be taking advantage of this rare excuse to stay in and be productive right here; lots of laundry (ugh, my true Sisyphean task), a dash of cleaning, a few movies perhaps, reading a handful of chapters in my latest book, and oodles of writing. Its going to be beautiful.

I adore cozy weekends in my house listening to the weather raging outside. There’s nothing quite like the raw beauty of nature in all of it’s frightening glory to remind you of your place in this world. So cheers, my friends, to a cozy weekend and a lot of words. Wherever you are, I hope you stay safe and warm, and have one hell of a good time while you do it.

Missing Halloweentown: Childhood Dreams and Treading Common Ground

I am a Halloween junkie- I don’t think I can possibly stress that enough. I adore everything about this season, and I always have. As I get older I find myself falling even more in love with the atmosphere, the camaraderie, the general excitement that buzzes through the air. I have a soft spot for scary stories that you read by flashlight under your covers (although I will admit, I have upgraded to reading by the light of my kindle in more recent years). I love horror movies that keep me awake long into the night, forcing me to cuddle closer to my German Shepherd for safety. I adore the candy, the costumes, the hot drinks and cold days. I am also a deeply nostalgic person- I love traditions, which means that every year my dad has to sit down and watch The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown with me. And if we can’t be in the same place when it’s on tv, he always remembers to send me a text so that we can still watch it ‘together’ even when we are far apart.

I am fortunate enough to live in a beautiful place that is close to many holiday adventures. We are only a few hours from Seattle (they do haunted underground tours every year- taking you through the city hidden underneath the city, telling you all the spooky stories as you roam through a world of yesterday). Portland is only a few minutes away- they have some famous pumpkin patches (to include the Roloff farm) and amazing haunted houses this time of year. And then there is a hidden gem that spread through the internet like wildfire last year.

If you grew up in the 90’s you will probably remember the Disney channel movie Halloweentown, a place that I will shamelessly admit I always wanted to go visit. It’s no secret that every child has a fascination with magic- we all wanted to learn that we had special powers, that we could befriend werewolves, and dine with vampires (with the specific stipulation that we were not on the menu). I grew up and my dream to visit the realm of fantasy faded, though it never completely disappeared.

And then, to my complete wonderment, I learned that I could actually go there in real life. I could see the place that inspired so many childhood fantasies and stories. As it turns out, the movie had been filmed in St. Helens, Oregon. A mere hop, skip and a jump from where I live. And, to make this story even sweeter- they recreate their famed fictional town every year.

Last year I hopped in the car with a couple of fellow Halloween-enthusiasts and we trekked out to the little town- along with about 5,000 other people. It was a record setting turnout, considering the hype that social media started (after all, that was how I learned about it). We got to watch Marnie (actress Kimberly Brown, the star of the movie) light the pumpkin in the town square surrounded by some of the buildings featured in the film.

Now, normally I am not a big fan of crowds- and 5,000 bodies crunched into one little town square is a bit overwhelming under normal circumstances. But it is an altogether different experience when you are all sharing the same buzzing energy, it’s like a concert, the atmosphere is contagious. As we all chanted the ‘magic words’ together, I couldn’t help but smile- in a world that is so often polarized and easily divided between vastly differing opinions; there we were, 5,000 strangers standing in solidarity over a mutual love for something so simple- an old movie and an oversized pumpkin was all it took to bring us together, if only for one night. You see, it is usually the simple things in life that bring us the most joy, and it is the love of these things that give us a common ground to stand on. It is these little moments that we cannot simply brush aside. In a society where a single sentence can spark a wildfire of aggression and hate- we need to find our common roots and remember the importance of small moments. Little events like standing in a crowd on a rainy October night and counting down to light a pumpkin. Sometimes the simplest answers can be the most poignant.

Sadly, I missed the event this year (my brother made the tragic mistake of planning his wedding for the same day as the event- I know, the horror of this miscalculation is not lost on me). But I plan on still making the trek out there in the coming weeks. Why? Because what is life without experiences? Even simple ones like going to a fictional town to visit a pumpkin. Growing up is vastly overrated, and I don’t think I am quite willing to join those zombie ranks just yet.