Dear Irony: Whatever You Are

It's been 10 years so I think it's finally ok to say: I don't get irony.  I don't understand the modern use of "irony" and all its social relevance/volume.  I don't get what it means when someone says something is ironic, I'm confused about how an entire person can be ironic, am in the dark as to why someone only "likes" something "ironically", and feel totally lost when I get called out for doing something based on its irony.  And I am mostly confused on this last point because as I mentioned from the jump, I can't possibly be doing something to be intentionally ironic if I don't even know what the application of irony is.

When I was 12 Alanis Morissette released "Ironic" and I thought I understood what that song was about.  She lists maybe 40 examples of irony so it makes it pretty easy to get.  Plus, I listened to "Jagged Little Pill" so very regularly, so I was truly familiar with the ins and outs of her ironic tales.  Ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife = irony.  You're like "so many spoons and it's totally the wrong utensil!".  So.  Irony.  Man finally boards plane after years of fearing air travel and then dies in said plane when it crashes.  Sad.  Ironic.  And so on and so forth.  You were probably there.  You remember.  You likely also played pretend with your closest friends about who was which Alanis personality ridding around in that car (I was the squirmy dancy one in the back seat who eats some kind of snack she finds in her hair).  Many years later, around the time "irony" made its serious debut into my life, people started remarking about this song "none of it is ironic.  It's all just unfortunate coincidence".

I'm not stupid but I guess I figured Alanis Morissette wouldn't go around writing multi-plaitnum hits wrought with mis-information.  Too trusting? Perhaps.  Our bad, Alanis.

I distinctly remember my first experience with "new" or "cultural" irony.  It was 2003, I was 20 years old and in college.  There was a dance party in someone's room (as was the regular occurrence) and it was hot, loud, and full of good times.  Someone was rotating through songs on a playlist and they were coming--hit after hit--making us all cheer and sing along like partying in a tiny room was something we had invented.  A song ended.  The next song came on.  It was Phil Collins.  People started mildly bopping around but I, in my bald and joyful sincerity, turned to my friend and shouted "YEAAAAAHHHH! I LOVE PHIL COLLINS!".  My friend replied in the most casual of ways "Me too, but only ironically!".

What followed was a moment I have experienced thousands of times since then.  There was a look passed to me that wanted to know if I, too, was in on the irony.  It was a test with a silent question who's answer predicted everything that mattered about me in the social hierarchy.  That one answer would determine if I "got it" and was therefore cool enough to be cool, or if I didn't because presumably I was a dweeb who didn't know anything about cutting the edge of the cutting edge and should be left to eat alone at meals.  I failed the test that night.  Having been in this situation for the first time I was confused and shouted back "Cool!" and continued dancing.  Over time I learned that a new, mysterious movement was underway and as a means of hiding my embarrassing stupidity about what irony actually was, I started agreeing that I too liked things ironically.  I did this for some years, never knowing exactly why we were saying it.

Another conversation, later, when I got bold enough to ask someone more about this "ironic" phenomenon.
Them: "So, take Journey [the band]."
Me: "ok."
Them: "You like Journey, right?"
Me: "Yeah."
Them: "But you don't actually like them."
Me: "Yes I do."
Them: "No, you don't.  You like them because it's ironic."
Me: "I like them because I think their music is good."
Them: "No, you like them because it's ridiculous and you don't actually like them, but you just like listening to them because it's hilarious and ironic."

And that was about the best explanation I ever got on the matter.  I like something because it's funny and I will spend my time doing/using/listening to this thing but not at all because I actually like it or believe in it.  In fact, I don't really like it at all.  I like not liking it and putting on a show of how much I fake like it.

HUH?

I will be totally honest that for years of my young twenties I stayed silent about things like this because assimilation mattered to me, acceptance was important, and I was insecure about not "getting" something that my peers seemed to be so in on.  But now that I'm older and I don't give a shit about all that I'm going to come right out and say that that seems fucking RIDICULOUS to me.

We are a generation of people who made it our jobs to go around fake liking things, and essentially filled our lives full of stuff that didn't matter to us at all? Why would anyone do this? Isn't this just the grossest misuse of time?  Aren't you just playing a joke mostly on yourself for being so wrapped up in things you don't care for? Furthermore, how can you even distinguish between what you like and what you like "ironically" when the two occupy your life to the seemingly same capacity?  I'm still confused on this.  My survival strategy through the first few years was to continue liking whatever I liked but say that I liked it ironically when someone asked and that was the "correct response". In the following few years I replied with things like "who cares" and "whatever, man".  And finally, in the last few years I have gotten far enough away from it that it really doesn't come up all that often, but when it does I just ask "how is that ironic?".

I'm 30 and I don't get it.  Everything I do I do because I actually believe in it.  I listen to the music I do because it feels good and I enjoy it.  I wear the clothes I wear because fashion is the funnest thing and whatever I'm wearing is my actual, genuine, whole-hearted taste in fashion.  I have no idea why someone would waste their time doing otherwise.  But irony, being so lumped in with the also ever-confusing culture of hipsterdom, is expected somehow of people who like cartoon t-shirts and Baz Lurhman songs.  People now just assume I am in it for the irony. And I guess what bothers me the most about that is that I have no defense against it because I am, as I already said, confused by what it means.

Irony, according to dictionary.com (ultimate source, of course) is "the use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning". Ok, I get that, kind of.  It's sarcasm essentially.  Sarcasm is fun, sarcasm has it's place.  "OK," I'm thinking, "maybe I do understand irony.".  I read about it on the internet.  I discuss it with others.  It seems hard to nail down but essentially comes back to being a large, social form of sarcasm.  Leading me to believe:

Irony is a safeguard against bullying and criticism.  It's a defense so no one makes fun of you for liking what you like.  People who are genuine are the most vulnerable to alienation, being the receiving end of a joke, scorn, and torment.  Irony makes you impenetrable.

Am I right, people? If all you dudes with your funky mustaches say you do it ironically because you fear being mocked, I urge you put down your pithy shield of irony and just come right out and believe in your funky mustache! If you are into drinking Fresca because it is a delicious and refreshing beverage I, for one, WILL NOT make fun of you for doing so.  I will say "Yes! Right on! You are allowed to do that sincerely, because you are a human being with feelings and choices to make!".  Tattooed adult ladies who like Taylor Swift can parade this as honestly as they please, because it does not make them less hip at the rock show or professional in the workplace, it just also means they enjoy sweet songs about puberty and heartbreak. (thank you, all the adult ladies) AND ANOTHER THING, asshole sitting at my bar, I wear overalls because I like them and have been wearing them literally since I had legs long enough for Osh Kosh and NO I don't at all get why that is ironic because "people in Portland are doing it or whatever", I'm pretty sure I do it with sincerity because my love of wearing overalls is sincere!

My dad told me I look cute.

Am I wrong?  Is irony not, in fact, a safeguard as I presume it is?  Is it another thing entirely? If it is then someone please explain it to me.  

We are all adults here.  People should feel brave enough to like what they like and be who they are, and people should remember if they are being taunted for it then the bully likely has some insecurities of their own.  
You do you.  

A couple of months ago I told a friend about a tattoo I wanted.  This friend is one of the coolest people I know so I was nervous to get her opinion.  "I'm thinking...would it be neat if I got a tattoo that just said 'sincerity forever' or would that be too dorky?" My face did the thing where everything squeezes together and I brace myself for laughter and eye rolling.  She presented me with a giant, full toothed smile and replied "I love that.  It's like, the most you tattoo there is.".

So there you have it.  Sincere sometimes despite myself.  Sincere because I don't really know how else to be.  I tried other ways: it sucked.  You can be sincere and be funny.  You can be sincere and be sharp.  You can be sincere and laugh at yourself.  You can be sincere and still use sarcasm.  You can be sincere and wear bart simpson shirts (I'm doing it right now).  You can be sincere and like Journey.  And if you ever feel alone in that, just remember I'm out here flapping in the breeze, too.  

Dear small moments: laying on the floor

A few nights ago I walked into our living room to find the Giraffe laying on the floor in the dark, listening to music.  "Remember when you used to just lay on the floor and be quiet and listen to music?" he asked.  I do.  "It feels nice," he said.  Then he closed his eyes again.  He looked remarkably peaceful.

I spend so much of my days "doing" or being preoccupied with what I should be doing, that standing there watching him it started occurring to me that I can't remember the last time I just let go of responsibility and laid on the floor and listened to some music.  Music has become an accessory to a busy life: working, commuting, cleaning, socializing, writing.  There, with his eyes closed, looking remarkably peaceful, he seemed to be on to something.  So I decided to put down my list of things to do and join him.  He picked song after song (I threw one in there) and we laid quietly listening for almost an hour.  No to-do's, no pressure to get up.  Just us, and the floor, and the music. 

We played: 

wonderful tonight -- eric clapton

shelter from the storm -- bob dylan

big sky country -- chris whitley

crazy mary -- pearl jam

lay lady lay -- bob dylan

solsbury hill -- peter gabriel

that's how strong my love is -- ov wright

And then we said goodnight to our neighborhood of Rainier Beach and went to sleep.  It was truly one of the nicest ways to spend an evening at home.

Dear Carlee: a letter to my 15 year old self

Dear Carlee,

Now you are 30.

The first thing you need to know is that we didn't do it.  

Take a look at the list you've been making of all the things you plan on doing by the time you're an adult--say 30 years old--and try to understand right away that almost none of those things have gotten done.  Really hardly anything.  

I know.  It's disappointing.  You are upset.  And I'm sorry.  But I'm only sorry because it's painful for you and you are feeling hurt.  I am not sorry because I think I did anything wrong or because I have any regrets.  I don't.  

Listen, when you started making these plans for us I know that you really thought it out.  You had the best intentions and I know how confidant you felt that we could do it.  I don't think you were wrong.  A lot of things have happened between then and now, and we never could have planned for them, and being a little farther along than you I have to say that a very large part of life is bending to change, finding yourself, and embracing that the journey is a million little steps in a dozen different directions, not bullet points on a to-do list.  We've been really busy.  We haven't forgotten the goals you set, and we haven't given up, and we haven't decided they don't matter.  Not at all.  Carlee, we are trying to live life on life's terms.  The list you made was made on your terms, and that is a wonderful thing about it--that you were independent and strong enough to know exactly what you wanted and you reaffirmed that for yourself everyday.  I love that about you, I honor that about you.  You made those plans for us when you were safely inside a construct where the future meant nothing but what you imagined it to be, and that list in that time and place was the perfect thing for you to be creating.  But it cannot be our road map.  And I think part of why it is so painful for you to hear that we have not followed your road map is that for the last 15 years I have let that be the control in how we view our success.  And that is my fault.  Carlee, your plans for our success are useful reminders and motivation, but they are not healthy measurements for how well we are doing.  Unfortunately, today I am going to have to burn our list.

So here is some disappointment:

We have not starred in any feature films.  We have not had our own television show.  Sorry, we haven't even had a guest role on a television show.  We don't have anything published.  No one has made our movies, read our stories, or done our plays.  We have not had tours, reading our works for thousands of people whom we have inspired.  We don't have a rap career.  We aren't rich.  We don't own couture shoes or diamonds or a new car.  We aren't even a little well to do.  We don't vacation.  We don't have children.  We aren't married to Leonardo DiCaprio or Ryan Gosling or Matthew Lillard.  We aren't married at all.  We have not won a single award for our performance abilities.  That also means we haven't won an Oscar.  No accolades for writing, either. We aren't a member of a successful theater group.  We aren't on Saturday Night Live.  We have never done stand up comedy.  No one interviews us about our opinions on things.  We do not get VIP seating at shows.  We are not friends with Ani DiFranco.  We have not bought our parents their retirement homes.  We don't own vacation properties or a ranch in Montana.  We don't live in LA with "a little place" in New York.  We have no tangible way to prove we are helping to change the world in a positive way.  

Did I get it all? Have I missed anything? Look over it one more time.  Not one of those things has gotten done by a benchmark you so faithfully believed was far enough away that there was ample time.   So that's some bad news.  On top of which you can add: we still have acne and a jiggly belly, we suck at doing laundry and keeping things tidy, we have debt, we run late, we sleep poorly, we still have a "day job", we live in the city we grew up in, and sometimes we still feel afraid and uncertain.

But there is good news:

We have friends--actually enough people like us that there are friends we go for years without seeing but still love very much.  We are decent looking (for a while there in our mid twenties we were not feeling so certain it would work out this well).  We have dogs.  TWO dogs.  Remember how voraciously we anticipated the day we could get a dog? We went to college and it was the one we wanted and we graduated.  Our voice is in a museum.  We sing in front of other people and sometimes they seem to really like it.  We have a career, ok? We HAVE a career.  It doesn't look the way you thought it would, but I've worked really hard at it and I'm proud of it so I'd appreciate if you didn't judge our progress on that too harshly.  We are a working actor.  What you didn't quite know yet was how much "working" and how little glamour was involved.  We've kept writing and we are trying to figure that out but it's a lot harder to navigate than "writing then publishing" something, so it's taking some time.  We are healthy.  Actually, the healthiest we've ever been.  We have a healthy relationship.  The kind that you were always really hoping for but feared didn't exist?  We have that.  And he's really good looking and funny, so don't worry.  We also love ourself.  I know you don't want to hear about how hard that was to work through and you think it's a little embarrassing to share, but I have done a lot of work to get us to a place of actually enjoying who we are and believing we are ok, so just take a moment and appreciate that.  We bought a house.  We bought it with our non-celebrity handsome-man-partner and we make payments on it every month.  We have health insurance.  We have a job where we have responsibility and we feel fulfilled.  We own just a ton of clothes (more than even you imagined).  

And the best news of all:

It gets better.  We feel inspired and touched and moved all of the time.  We can openly admit that we are sensitive and that is ok--great, even.  We don't feel quite so overwhelmed by the pressure to always do the right thing.  We are available  to other people in a way not even you knew was possible because now we are also available to ourself.  We accept rejection as a daily part of what we have chosen to do, and not as a measurement of our worth.  We take more chances.  We treat ourself kindly; with compassion; with forgiveness.  We spend time alone.  We help other people and we allow them to help us.  We are a lot happier now, doing a million little steps in a dozen directions, than you are at 15 feeling so overwhelmed and anxious by all the things you are supposed to achieve.  We are excited to get older, and to see what happens next.

Let me leave you with this: Life is not a movie.  I've tried--like, really tried--and it just doesn't go that way.  Life is unceremonious change and disappointment and surprise and changing your mind and crying on the bus and trusting yourself and being present and unfiltered joy and weddings and funerals and babies being born and always learning.  Life is a journey.  You know that Dan Eldon book you are obsessed with?  The one that says "the journey is the destination"? That's true.  We are doing it right now.  We are doing it, Carlee.

So.  I know you are determined.  And I love you.  Stay determined.  I know I will.

It's been really wonderful getting to know you.  

I'm making a new list.  And it's full of things you don't really understand yet.  But when you get here, you will.

Love,

Carlee

Dear Dreams: A Serious Announcement

For a long time I didn't understand that there was, or could be, a difference between goals and dreams. I thought they were the same thing.  Goals = dreams.  That all of the things you imagined, enjoyed recreationally, played-make believe about were in the same category as things you sought after with intention.  That you were somehow beholden to achieving your dreams the same way you were beholden to achieving your goals.  Which, in some cases, can be true, but certainly not always and it led to feeling quite overwhelmed by all the things I was *somehow* going to have to manage to cram into my life.  But THEN I eventually realized that dreams and goals are not always the same.  Goals are something you can tangibly work towards, and dreams can be absolutely anything that makes you feel good, regardless of its likelihood of ever coming true.  What a relief! Dreams have no boundaries.  Dreams are whatever the hell you want them to be. Dreams are dreamy.

A goal is "I want to be an accomplished writer", a dream is "I want to be Jay-Z's best friend" (true story).

So, here I am, everyone.  About to turn 30 years old.  I am wearing a fashionable ensemble of adult acne and a Garfield nightgown and I want to share with you a life dream.

It has been a dream of mine, for some time, to be a professional mascot.  A PROFESSIONAL MASCOT.  There it is.  I want that.  That is a DREAM.  Professional mascot.

Dreams in action 

I finally admitted this to my mother a couple of weeks ago and she laughed for over 20 minutes.  With each detail I added into this dream she laughed harder.  When I demonstrated some of my dancing skills, she wept.  And it felt really good to share that with her.  We laughed together, she doubled over on the ground, me gesticulating wildly as a moose or bird or dolphin.  It felt so relieving to say "I have a dream...to one day be a professional mascot, and YES that is hilarious, and that's ok."  Because it's a goddamned dream, and that dream is real.

I think I would be a great mascot.  It is an excellent combination of my inherent skills and serious interests.  It involves marginally embarrassing oversized dance moves, people pleasing, performing, getting crowds totally psyched up, inciting laughter and joy, being involved in sports teams without possessing any athletic abilities, amazing costumes, and the best 90's dance songs.  You get to wear that luscious plush head so you are totally anonymous and just free to get out there and rock that crowd so hard.  Some people dream of being Justin Timberlake, I dream of being the Mariners Moose.

If I got to be a professional mascot I would make everyone so proud.  I would just really dedicate myself to making the funniest, most passionate routines the game has ever seen.  I would cry.  Sometimes I work on my dance moves.  Sometimes I explore character development and my "signature style".  Sometimes I imagine the stories I could tell through the art of the mascot.  Sometimes I build my catalogue of mascot songs ("Y'all Ready for This" "Whoop, There It Is" "Who Let the Dogs Out" "Good Vibrations" "Might As Well Be Walking on the Sun" etc).

The Wheedle is the best

I know this is not a "cool" dream.  I know I don't get any street cred for un-ironically announcing this on the internet.  But I don't care.  It is something I carry around with me that brings me so much joy to think about.  I realize now that if you don't tell people what you want and how you feel no one is able to really share your life with you or celebrate in your successes or support you in times of need.  So I'm telling you all, people everywhere, that I dream of being a professional mascot and NOW if I ever get the thrill of actually becoming one you will know how truly powerful that is.  You will know that for this pizza faced cry baby, it is a dream come true.

And I think it's important to say that before I turn 30.  Just put it right out there.  Come clean.

This Seahawks mascot is doing a triumphantly epic job

Maybe someday I will get an opportunity to be a mascot.  I sure hope I do.  As I've already said, I'm pretty sure I would do a first class job.  But maybe I won't.  And that's ok, too.  Being a mascot is a dream.  It lives in my head and heart along with being Jay-Z's best friend, having diamonds in my teeth, and wining an Oscar along side Philip Seymor Hoffman.  It lives with dreams.
And having dreams is important.

Dear Writing: the Death of Ideas + Content

It's pretty simple, really.  I sometimes have this fear that if I write too much, I will use up all my good ideas.  And there will be nothing left.  Like I have a predetermined amount of funny jokes, witty references (still waiting to use those), insights, snarky remarks, social commentary, plot lines, characters, experiences, morals, questions, big words.  Like a female has eggs.  I only have so many of all those things to use, and I can't acquire more, and if I use them up too quickly, I will be done.  I will go into writer's menopause.  And that will be it.  There will never be another thing for me to write ever again.

I have realized I am actually afraid of that.  Isn't that crazy?
Wait.  Let me rephrase that.  Is that crazy?
Is it a subconscious tactic in procrastination? Like if I hold onto all my ideas because I have a fear of running out of them then it presents a fairly logical reason to ration writing of any kind.
Maybe it's a subconscious act of self-protection. That, in keeping all my ideas to myself, I am protecting myself from ever being exposed to failure and the possibility I'm really not good at writing at all and the long drawn out existential crisis that would surely follow.

I mean, these are all possibilities. Simply discovering the fact that I have been walking around believing I only have a limited number of things to say for the rest of my life was pretty incredible. The realization of this fear has made it easy to see the humor in it and takes away the power of its potential truth.

And on the other hand, some of the writers, comedians, storytellers, and musicians I admire most spend their entire career telling the same kinds of stories, just with different details, circumstances, and feelings. So maybe it's not such a bad thing.

Maybe, a person should just do what they feel moved to do.
Maybe a person should just do what they feel moved to do and fight the critical voice inside of them that says it's repetitious or boring or old or recycled or not any good at all.
Because maybe the bigger point is not weather what you do is any good or not, but that you have a thing that you feel moved to do at all.
Maybe having that thing is part of success, and just doing it is the other part. Maybe its goodness or abundance or popularity is an ancillary bonus.

Maybe I should write because I like to write, and if I only have five stories to tell I will just spend the rest of my time telling them over and over and that will be the truth of my life. And at least there will be a thing that I enjoy doing.
Ok. Yeah. Maybe that's it. I feel comfortable with that.

Champion voice: 1
Critical voice: 0

See you next round, fear breeding critic.

Dear Relationships: We Missed Our Anniversary

*It took 3 weeks to post this because that's how long we looked for a photograph of the two of us that was nice.  We are historically terrible at taking pictures together.  So here's one from a date last spring that has been spliced together. *

So the thing is that right now I am feeling really grateful and sentimental and reflective but you have to understand that last night I was at work, starving, building cocktails into a keg while the Giraffe and I passed a couple of texts back and forth about how we were pretty sure it was our anniversary.  And being elbow deep in simple syrup and coconut cream I got really disappointed in our lack of planning, and feeling hangry (hungry + angry, in case you've never been there) I sent this text:
This is dumb.  Who cares.  Let's just pretend we don't even have an anniversary.

Because I am a grown up wordsmith who is at all times deft at communicating feelings!

Needless to say we spent the rest of the evening discussing it, eating tacos, and watching tv in bed with our dogs. As you do, when you are at the end of an anniversary you forgot to celebrate.

I felt confused about the whole thing, really.  One thing about me is that I love celebrations.  I love holidays, weddings, birthdays, ceremony, tradition, sentiment expression, pinatas, everything.  I love occasions to do something different and exchange your feelings with a loved one.  So it seems quite odd that I would have let a day like this arrive and pass without any planning or preparation or love notes.  But it just kind of...happened.  I thought about things we could do all year, we talked about how it was coming up, and then, whoops, there it was.

This is in part due to the fact that my intentions come from the best place, but I easily build expectations that cannot possibly be met.  So in worrying I won't meet the expectations I have created I wind up doing absolutely nothing instead.  If we can't go to Palm Springs and learn to play golf in funny outfits looking totally tan and beautiful for our anniversary then we will do nothing! (side note: playing golf sounds really hilarious but I have no serious interest in doing it. I mean, it's golf.)  It is also due to the fact that for the last two anniversaries we have been in flux.  It always falls during that time of year when money is tight, there is no routine or schedule to our lives, and we are just focusing on the fundamentals of survival.  It's kind of inconvenient to spend money and time doing something that doesn't matter the way paying bills, working, making career goals, seeing family, or fixing our furnace matters.  If our anniversary was in August we would be golden.  So, I guess it's our bad for melding our universes in the dead of winter. (Hey, single people! Shack up in the summer! It will likely be more convenient later on!)

I think it is also due to the fact that when you finally reach the day you are supposed to celebrate the fact that you have this awesome relationship you realize that it is kind of meaningless to point it out on one day above all others.  It's like Valentine's Day.  Why do we celebrate that?  Shouldn't we be celebrating love all year long? I don't know how it is for other people, but I am blessed to be in a relationship with a partner who communicates his love to me on a daily basis.  We are thoughtful and romantic (ew) with one another on days that don't mean anything and not because we have to but because we want to.  Every day for the last two months the Giraffe has come to me in the morning when it is time for me to get up, knelt down beside the bed, kissed me, and handed me a cup of coffee.  That is some thoughtful romantic shit!  That is not a thing that he is obligated to do. (although I am getting quite accustomed to the luxurious treatment.)  That is a thing he does because he loves me and wants to add to my happiness.  We say thank you for things we are thankful for in the other person.  We talk about feelings, special memories, and plans for the future.  We do this at the grocery store, walking the dogs, and aimlessly looking at the internet on our respective computers.

It was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and in five years I can say that expressing sentiments and celebrating our relationship has not faded in the slightest.  To be honest, as we continue to become more grounded mature human beings it has probably gotten better.  It is an inherent part of our relationship.  Exchanging feelings of love is woven into the fabric of our relationship like some sappy, embarrassing sweater that you can't take off. I feel self-conscious to admit that because I am afraid it sounds like I am saying things are perfect, and they are not.  Our relationship is real, and therefore imperfect.  I am just very very blessed to be with someone who naturally communicates feelings with a similar frequency to me.  (I said similar, not equal!)

So it was our 5th anniversary yesterday, and I was feeling disappointed that we didn't do anything and then also feeling confused about why it mattered.  Because honestly, aside from the implied societal pressure to give a shit about it, I don't think it actually matters that much at all.  What really is special is that we have been together that long, and have done all the things that we have done, together, and when you're our age five years still seems like an impressive amount of time. But there is nothing pertaining to love or gifts or feelings that I need from him that I don't already get.  Except maybe some lavish gifts.  What can I say, I love presents.

In the end we wound up eating a bag of tacos (not a euphemism) and reading the email I sent him with his flight itinerary so many winters ago, when he met me in New York and our relationship began.  And sharing a moment of acknowledging that the journey thus far has been incredibly special, and we want to continue on it together.

Maybe someday when we're married we'll "do" more "things" to celebrate.  But for now, it turns out discussing our forgetfulness, a sack of Mexican food, and an email is just as meaningful and a WHOLE LOT cheaper than a weekend away. To walk away from yesterday feeling disappointed would be to miss the point.

I would also like to take this moment to publicly thank the Giraffe for "hanging in there" all this time.  I'm sure that I'm nice or whatever, but just ask any of my exboyfriends, being with me can be a real THING.  It takes a lot of patience, driving me around, doing the laundry (I'll just let it go unwashed forever), listening to me talk my way through everyyyyyyything, reminding me it's time to go to bed (and get up), planning, processing, problem solving, navigating feelings (all the feelings), and picking up after me (tiny tornado) to be in this relationship.  So, thank you Cary.  Your incredible patience and kindness does not go unnoticed.

And now that I've sufficiently grossed myself out with the public displays of affection I'm going to go listen to some super hard rap songs and act really tough.

It's ok to admit that love is nice and feelings are real.
It's just a little embarrassing to be all about it out loud.
I'm working on appreciating as much as I practice complaining.

Dear Mom, thank you for the small moments

I come home from work tonight, at the end of a long day that comes at the end of a long week and I am so exhausted. Cary puts on my mom's vinyl copy of Crosby Stills Nash and Young's "so long" and goes into the kitchen to make dog food. The fancy lights I bought for our living room six months ago, that we finally installed six days ago, are on and they make the house feel warm. It is a golden womb. Sadie sits watching Cary cook for her with intrigue and patience. Walter is laid out majestically on our shaggy rug, practically camouflaged, and he wags his feathered tail each time I look at him. All I can think of is how much I have just done, how much more I have to do, and how badly I have to pee. Then, "our house" comes on.

"I love this song," Cary says. "I used to always listen to this song when I was a kid, and just imagine that what they were talking about was exactly what being a grown up was going to be like." Then he quietly goes back to cutting carrots.

I am standing here, in the golden light of our living room, in a house that I have bought with a man that I love, exhausted, covered in sticky sugars from work, looking at a little dog wagging his little tail at me, listening to the record play, and something washes over me.

Growing up I listened to my mother play and sing this song countless times. Hearing it makes me think of her singing it, and it feels safe. I am thinking of this song, and my mother, and my mother singing this song to me smiling, and it hits me. In this small, insignificant moment, it hits me. My mother has passed the torch to me and this song is my life now. The possibilities in this song are now open to me. The opportunity to have a home and share a life of work and joy and small moments with the people I love is now mine, and I am taking advantage of that opportunity. I am nearly 30. I am the age my mother was when she sang this song. She has handed it off to me. I am an adult now.

I have always looked at my mother as a person I will never catch up to but dream of being like. She is unparalleled to anyone else in her beauty, humor, love, zeal, authenticity, talent, and kindness. In my mind my mother is IT. She is the beginning and the end and knows secrets I will never know because she is other worldly and I am a regular human. I love my mother beyond measure.

Tonight I discovered that she was raising me to be the woman that I am, and that I am, right now, in this moment, in the golden light and music, a woman. I discovered that she has given me the secrets. With a voice like vibrating honey and a spirit full of radical joy, she raised me with this song and was preparing me for a life of happiness and success. I inherited humor and wisdom and grace (well, some grace) from her because she gave it to me. She gave everything she has to me. Because she loves me beyond measure.

And tonight I discovered that my respect for this woman is now matched by a new level of gratitude for the life I have, in such great part, to her. Under her care I unearthed my life's purpose at age 4. Under her care I found I was a (loud) feminist at age 15. Under her care I chased after my dreams and fell down over and over and over and over and did not give up. Under her care I found a partner who is so loving, thoughtful, respectful, wise, and funny he is nearly fictitious. Under her care I have been able to work on viewing life and it's successes as a long game, full of failures and unexpected changes. Under her care I have evolved.

I cannot think of a funny way of saying what I want to say. I suppose it's just not very funny. This song is playing and I know something I didn't know before and it makes me love, respect, appreciate and understand her in a new way. It makes me know her better than I did five minutes ago. And that is a gift she has given me.

To the most radiant, kind, strong, warm, beautiful woman, with the most beautiful voice and happiest eyes, thank you. Thank you for helping me to become what I am. In this small moment, I have so much to be grateful for.
Love,
Your daughter

Dear....Oh whatever, who gives a care.

Who gives a care, you guys? I barely have any cares to give. Not a one care to give at all sometimes.

This, coming from a person who generally has an abundance of cares to give about a great many things.  One thing I can usually count on is that I am always giving a care about at least one thing or another.

This post is really about balance, you guys.  Because what is happening here is that I am coming out of functioning for a prolonged period of time with a deficit of physical and emotional reserves.  I was, for a prolonged period of time, tired and still having to function at an exhaustive pace.  This type of thing has happened before, sure, but it happened in a new way.  A new, tired way.

Here's what it was, as succinctly as I can possibly put it:
My father moved in with us for the "summer".  My summer lasted a loooong time. In September he moved "out" but was still frequently around for two more months, showing up to drive me around, do yard work, and procure fast food.  My father is many things, and deserves about a million of his own blog posts, but how he pertains to this particular subject of my being tired is that he is is a person who needs constant communication and interaction.  Constant.  From the moment he appears until he's texting me a to-do list from bed, it is an incessant stream of conversation, questions, planning, and a running commentary of every single thing he sees.  ("Hey! Look at that guy!  He's a guy in a hat! Did you remember to take your vitamin?  Am I turning left here? Look! A dog! Fido McDoggerstein! Hoooooowwwwlll!") It is one of his most endearing qualities but it is also exhausting. As he is my father and I love him greatly, our summer partnership was something I experienced with patience (mostly) and joy, but it was also demanding of my time and energy.
The Giraffe took a job working on the campaign.  You know, THE campaign.  Necessary career move.  Totally understandable.  He had to do it.  It started when my father moved in.  Good timing, bro!  He went from working 10 hour days 6 days a week, to 12 hour days 7 days a week, and finally 15 hours a day every single day.  Non negotiable. What I'm saying is he was UNAVAILABLE.  Physically.  Emotionally.  We literally only saw each other a couple of hours a night on Saturdays and Sundays during which times we talked about the stress of his job and the bills dogs etc.  And we texted. Not only did I have to take charge of our previously shared responsibilities, I also had to be available to him as he truly needed support.  All of my needs had to either be met by me or get quietly tucked aside until some time in November.  A learning experience, a time for growth, a pretty raw deal.  Who knew I could come home from work at 3 in the morning and pack a lunch for someone I love? Not me! But I did it.
I work full time.  That means an average of 40 hours a week, occasionally more, rarely less. I work at night.  I do love my job.  Also, conveniently, working at night opens up the days in my schedule to do my career.  Career.  Job.  Two different things.  I do my career approximately 20 hours a week.  The point is for it to be more.  On good weeks it IS more, but that also means I am working and not doing something else like sleeping.  My career is non negotiable.  All the things in my life are structured to support my career.  So I do not say "no" to the career.  Also, in my industry, if you say "no" nobody waits for you to become available, they simply move on to the next person.  It behooves you, in my industry, to be available at all times.  Which I try my best to do, but which also means I often never have a free day or any time for myself.  So.  To recap.  I am working 60+ hours a week with a constantly changing schedule.
I don't drive.  It's a thing I'm working on, but I currently don't do it.  Taking the bus to anywhere I want to go is a half hour minimum, usually an hour plus.  Which really eats up time in the day.
On top of that I am attempting to have a creative life and seriously trying to gather the courage to make a little hip hop music.  It's important to me.  It's a thing that keeps me up at night.  It's a thing I have to do. (I know it will be hilarious but let's have a laugh about it later).
With what time is left over I invest in friend and family relationships, "me" time, eat, sleep, and pay bills.

SO. TO RECAP.  My "summer" (June - November two weeks ago) was a confetti whirlwind hellstorm sleepless excited electric hectic exhaustive marathon.  And.  Dare I say it.  There was nothing I could do about it.  Yep.  Not in my power to change it.  BUT.  And here's the grand wizardry of convenient timing in the whole thing--most of it was going to change at the same damn time.  November, month of relaxing changes.

November.  My father goes back to Arizona.  The election happens and the Giraffe's job is over and he comes back to real life.  My job situation changes and I get two weeks off before gearing up to open a new restaurant.  November was the ultimate turning point and the future-space wherein I could imagine lots of sleep, good food, emotionally rebuilding, watching tons of shitty tv; "regaining my strength" if you will.

So here I am, and all of the things I have just told you about have changed, and I am living in the middle of the free-time-vacation-zone, and do I feel rested and rejuvenated and relaxed? FUCK NO. I feel not good.  I feel stressed.  I still feel hollowed out.  I have almost zero cares to give about anything.  It's been a week and a half and I have been sick the entire time.  Also my acid reflux has been off the charts.  Also I've had bizarre health issues I've never had before, presumably "brought on by stress and exhaustion".  I have not been having a vacation.  I've been having a stressed out time.

So the last few days I've been like "what the what?".  How am I so shitty feeling when I am supposed to be relaxing and feeling better? (then I do the thing where I stress out about being stressed out which solves nothing.) What I thought would happen is that I would sleep for a couple of days and then bounce back and have a great fucking vacation.  Major disappointment delivered by real life.

Because I now know what's happening.    I get it now, and I'm finally starting to feel better.  Because here's the trick.  Here's where that word "balance" comes drifting into the dialogue. I was speeding down the highway with bald tires for so long, with no pit stops, that my car is broken.  It's not "out of gas",  it's fucking broken.  I hit my limit a couple months back and kept barreling onward and completely tapped out my physical and emotional reserves.  And then I kept going a little more. Which is awesome, great, I did a thing that was very hard to do.  But, see, a human is not supposed to do that.  That way of functioning is not a long term strategy for success or survival.  What I thought was that since I'm pretty decent at practicing self-care and I know I must be resilient to achieve my shit I might as well keep going and it would probably work out.  Nope.  Did not work out.  Ask my stomach.  My stomach is pissed right now.  I fed that thing french fries and soda for so long it is in a huge fight with me now.  I didn't die or have a breakdown or collapse or any of that shit but what did happen was that I wore myself out so badly it is literally taking me weeks to get back to normal. What the hell kind of way is that to thrive?  It's not, is the point.

So, balance, you guys. I am sincerely considering it's importance.  If I want to survive I have to practice self care and sleep and drink water.  But if I want to thrive I have to practice balance, too.  Balance breeds endurance.  And if I'm going to do this thing I need endurance.

This thing is a marathon.
I know I have to train for the marathon.
And eat well and go on vacations and say no and have at least one day off a week and watch crappy shows and schedule appropriately and stretch and check in and make sure I'm supporting myself as much as I'm supporting others and not ever work more than 50 hours a week.  It's a start.

It may take a little time, but with patience for balance I am hoping to be giving many cares about tons of things in no time.

Growing up is a lifestyle.

Dear Growing Pains and Some Kind of Destiny

*Edit: I wrote this about six weeks ago.  The moment has passed, but it's still important.*

following my destiny all the way to portland

My horoscope rocked me the way something does when it tells you exactly what you are thinking.  It said things are changing.  And I knew that.  And I know that.

Things are changing.  And a lot of those changes I can see and they are healthy and small and tangible.  And some things are changing and I don't know what they are or how deep inside me they are or if they are about me at all.  I feel like I am stuck in the middle of a stoned moment, where I am super high and I am slumped, slack-jawed in awe of the whole mystery and beauty and tragedy of life.  But I'm not stoned.  I don't do that.  That isn't what's happening.  What's happening is that I am totally sober, standing, slouched, slack-jawed in awe of some sort of bigger mystery that I can't understand or put a name to except that it's just life and that I am simultaneously being blown away and swallowed up by LIFE.  This is a weird trip.
Tonight, while wandering through my job, I surmised it thus: It's like life is a jigsaw puzzle, and we are each just a tiny piece in this giant thing.  And sometimes you have to think about what kind of piece you want to be.
That is not the best simile of my career, I can say for certain, but it is truly the only way I can explain to someone what the hell is happening right now.  I feel like a minuscule puzzle piece and I am thinking about what kind of piece to be.  Or what kind of piece I am, and weather or not I like that.  Maybe I should do a fucking puzzle right now.  Maybe that would level me out.

I find myself saying a lot lately "I wish that what I wanted in life was to be a mother.  Because then it would feel so much easier to reach my goals and feel happy with my success."  Being a parent is something that I understand the path to get to.  It's a perceptible job that takes certain requirements and produces really concrete results.  The same could be said for many other jobs in the world.  Police officer, teacher (why couldn't I have just wanted to be a teacher?!?!!), plumber.  You go through the process of obtaining credentials and licenses for your position, then you get the position, then you spend your life working hard at being really good at it.   It's a thing that has safety and predictability and a universal point where you can breathe a sigh of relief and assure yourself "yes.  I do this now.".  So lately I find myself longing for a career in life that has that concrete sigh of relief in it somewhere.  Because lately I am really feeling how high the chances are I may never get to do that.  My career comes with no universal benchmarks, points of plateau, safety zones, or tangible mile markers.  My career is a sloppy, desperate, compromising, always about to change, one-million K race.

And it is tiring and terrifying.  Most people in my career have "jobs" to supplement their careers FOREVER.  Until they die or are too old to work.  Are you kidding me? Forever?  I like being a bartender and I love my job, but having a job and a career 7 days a week exhausts me.  I feel like I can never take a break.  Like I've never earned one.  And truthfully, I haven't in a way.  Until my career IS my job there is a lot of work to be done.  I can't stop.  And while I am very proud of my accomplishments to date I cannot say that the things I have achieved in my "career" warrent, for me, any sort of pee-break or reprieve from the work.  I just haven't done very much.  And I know, if we want to get really honest, that what I actually accomplish day-to-day does not at all measure up to the amount of pressure I put on myself.  I haven't done very much in general, and I don't do as much as I could moment to moment.  And I don't know why.  That has me very confused.  I feel like I am wasting my own time and giving myself ulcers for no reason.  That's stupid.

Here's the thing: my entire life I have known what I wanted to do.  My entire life.  Since I was too young to know what a career was.  I have never once in the almost 30 years I have been alive changed my mind about what I had to do with my life.  And that's a lot of pressure to put on a person.

Right now I really don't know the difference between following my destiny, and being an adult idiot who is rigidly chasing the daydreams of a 3 year old.  What's the difference?  Is this my destiny or have I been too stubborn to allow myself to come up with new dreams? What the fuck is destiny anyway?  Are you there God, it's me, the plot to a 90's coming of age Rosie O'Donell movie.

I have always wanted to do the same things in my life.  Be a performer, a writer, and to help people.  I always thought that meant that I wanted to be an actor and a writer and that I would help people with the power of my art.  (Intermission for laughter)  But what I am, right now, today, is a person who does radio commercials, writes a blog no one reads, and gives advice to drunk people sitting at my bar.  My dad thinks I am a huge success but he's the only one! Shhh!  No one tell him!

So, this all begs the question: what's my perception of success?  Well, this is the part where things get really messy for me, because in weaving my intricate life dreams I felt that to be successful and, thereby, happy, I had to be famous.  Success equaled fame, and fame meant reaching as many people as possible. Yes, reaching them with the healing power of my art. Thousands, maybe millions of people.  Why?  I don't know.  It just always felt like the right thing.  Success, fame and happiness are all pretty much the same thing and achieving them was the only way to fulfill my life's purpose.  No problem.  Totally doable.  PSYCHE.  What a boner.  I really set myself up there.  Even as a more adjusted adult I can look at the goal of being a popular performer/writer as a nice thing to dream for but not the "thing" to work toward and yet I can't change my mind about it.  It's what I want.  Plenty of people in my field build manageable relationships with their crafts that don't pit them against ultimate success on a daily basis.  But not me.  No.  I have to find myself weeping while I stuff a bag of tea into a pot on Thursday night to realize my dreams are wearing me the fuck out.  If I'm not Philip Seymour Hoffman, I'm a failure.  That's a healthy way to live.

Everyday that I'm not doing something important and helpful and amazing I feel like I'm failing.  And so I can never congratulate myself for being a good friend, a hard worker, or a talented person and just relax about if for a minute. I can never sit back and trust that by the end of the year maybe my commercial will lead to a bit part in a movie somewhere (barfing while laughing) because I know I'm working really hard.  Or that I'll try to publish something I've written and maybe it will work.  Or that therapists will ask me to come speak at their conventions because I love talking to people about their feelings SO much. It just isn't like that for me.  It's hard to trust in something that is so uncertain. But if it's my destiny and I really believe that then it shouldn't be hard to keep blithely plugging away at it.  And if it's not my destiny, and I don't like the kind of puzzle piece I'm being right now, then I should decide to be a different kind of puzzle piece.  Wait.  What are we even talking about anymore?

And that's about where I'm at.  I don't even know how to think about what I'm thinking about.
I am not where I want to be in my life.  That will either change if I keep working at what I have started, or I decide to do something else.  But something has to change.  I feel that things are changing.  I just don't know what or how.  I only hope one day I can look back to my 3 year old self and tell her everything turned out just fine.

came back, time for a nap

Dear: Calling My Blog Back+ Our House

So this is a lot like the times when I haven't spoken to someone in a while and all these things are happening and they call me to catch up and I keep being like "I should call So n So back and catch up", and then I don't and then MORE stuff happens and I keep not calling them back and then finally SO MUCH stuff has happened, half of which sounds really boring once I stop to think about it, and the idea of finally calling them back is SO DAUNTING I just can't bring myself to do it.  Pretty much everyone I've been in a long distance friendship with has been on the other end of this with me (amiright?).  It's really hard for me to break the stupid pattern. For whatever reason it's like, really fucking hard.  Well, writing on this blog has been exactly like that.  Catching up is so daunting I won't do it.  But then I started to think about it, and I kind of realized "who even cares?".  Probably no one.  Probably no one is sitting around lamenting the lack of my interweb diatribes about events and ideas.  Yup.  Welp.  That realization made it a lot easier to just "pick up the phone and call my blog back".

The last thing I said was that shit was crazy with our new house.  That I was so stressed I was crawling out of my skin.  And yes, that was true.  That was totally happening.  Now I find it hard to engage in a level of stress that even comes close to what I was experiencing at that time.  It was ridiculous.  And also it was, on an intellectual level,  sort of unwarranted.  I say "unwarranted" because the terribleness of the situation did not change the fact that we had already bought a house (yeah you guys, bought a house) and that that accomplishment was amazing no matter what, and no matter what happened it would eventually be fine.  But here's the deal about that level of stress:  it does not come from an intellectual place.  It is completely emotional and spawned out of sheer panic and not knowing what to do as a result of being in a totally new situation.  A lot of why that situation sucked so badly was that we had a lot of things to learn, very quickly, and absolutely no experience in our lives was relevant enough to be a helpful tool.  100% gigantic new experience.
At any rate, the good news is that the massive hole that was dug around our foundation--exposing a retaining wall that was then cracking and caving in, compromising the safety of our house and the foundation of the neighbor's house--has been filled in.  The bad news is that our basement--the original issue which was quickly made less important by the massive hole--still leaks.  And ultimately we didn't know that we were buying a house with a leaky basement, so that's a pretty raw deal.  And for anyone wondering, our basement is not a dingy hole.  It is half of our house.  You might as well think of it as a "downstairs".  And we live in Seattle.  Where it rains 75% of the time.  So, not very ideal situation there.  Fixing this leak is a six-figure problem and we are a long way from having a six-figure answer, so it's something we are going to have to live with for a while.  Weather I like it or not (I don't).  Moving forward has been, and will continue to be, an exercise in changing the way I feel about problems I can't fix.  I detest when there is a problem I can't fix.  Basically all I like to do is solve problems.  So this ever-leaky basement is a gentle reminder that some problems take time and a little surrender.  Ugh.  Was that glass-half-full enough for you?

Who wants to hear about our leaky basement anymore?  NOT ME! At any rate, that's what that was.  And I'm back.
Xo

Dear Homeownership: The Monster Outside

Last month we got the keys to our new house.  The house we bought.  Together.  We felt ready to make a financial and emotional commitment of such large proportions not only because we felt we could handle it, but also because we wanted to make that commitment to each other and our relationship.  The last post I made on this blog was on the day we got the keys to our house.  It was supposed to be a joyous day.  It was not.  I have not made any posts since then because I have been too entrenched in a stressful situation which has, at all moments this past month, left me exhausted, drained, angry, confused, scared, and anxious.  The limits to what I am capable of withstanding have consistently been pushed.  In spare moments we have felt the small joys of finally owning a home together which is bindingly ours, but those moments are fleeting and always replaced by reminders of the monster outside.

Due to my passion for court TV and all it has taught me I have hesitated to post anything about the specifics of what is going on as I do not believe it would be legally wise for me to go around venting and complaining on the internet.  At this juncture attorneys have already become involved and the level to which this thing is going to go is still unclear.  I do, however, feel it is necessary to make some sort of explanation as to why I have been the absent, emotional, scattered, nervous, crybaby freak that is inhabiting this body for the last five weeks.  

One thing I have learned since becoming a homeowner in this absurdly stressful way is that large-scale issues that come up in homeownership are, at their core, really boring.  They are not like, super exciting to talk about and are hard to sensationalize to make them gossip-worthy.  They are just technical and beaurocratic webs of time consumption and loss of sleep.  I have tried several times to think if you could make a film about the epic situation we are in right now, and you can't.  It's just way. Too.  Boring.  And yet, despite something being this boring it still manages to be totally life altering, even if it is only temporary.  There should be some sort of "Boring Issue Stress Support Group" where people like us can go and talk about the things that really no one else cares about.  I actually bore myself when I tell other people about it.

There is a monster that lives outside our house.  It was here when we got here, and it wasn't supposed to be.  In the last five weeks we have focused all our efforts on resolving the unsavory situation and making the monster go away.  But despite all intentions and best efforts the monster has only gotten bigger.  At the start the monster involved several parties and today it involves several more.  It's not just a matter of dealing with something you don't like or finding money you don't have to pay for something; it is about satisfying all the many parties involved before any one of us can move on.  And all anyone wants is to move on.  And yet somehow no one can agree on how to make that happen.  And here I sit, with the Giraffe, at the epicenter of this mess, feeling like we hold all the responsibility for this monster because it's on our property, and also feeling like we have the least amount of control over what happens and how.  Or when.  All the responsibility and none of the control makes for a hyper-stressful situation.  What are you supposed to do when you can't do anything?

The monster outside represents the struggle of embracing helplessness.  I have surrendered in this process many times and still have to do it again every couple of days.  The monster outside represents the two sides to every story and what happens when each side stays steadfast in their belief that their story is the right one.  The monster outside represents what happens when the two sides go back and forth for so long: they leave an opening for a third party to enter.  The monster outside represents the mammoth misfortune of wanting to do something the right way, which is that the right way is arduous, complex, and spares no expense of people's feelings.  The monster outside represents what happens when people don't communicate and sincerely drives home how tiring communicating can be.  The monster outside represents my own fear of the unknown: never knowing the extent of how bad things can get and fearing the worst.  The monster outside is what it is and it is also more than what it is.  It is a leaky basement and a giant hole and 4 tons of dirt and cracks in the cement and insurance companies and lawyers and cop cars and terse emails and trails of mud.  It is also testing my resolve and the strength of my relationship and my fortitude and my focus and my ability to stop crying and put on a professional voice and questioning my trust in my own brain and ability to juggle and problem solving skills and sleep habits and nutrition habits and anxiety management habits and the little pessimistic voice in the back of my mind sneering at the optimistic voice "I told you, motherfucker.  I told you this would be hard." .

Someday this will all be fine.  Hopefully that day will be soon.  There are a lot of people involved in this process and all I really want is for everyone to be ok.  I'm not angry at anyone.  I do know and trust that it's going to be ok.  Eventually this will be ok and we will sit around our totally glorious house laughing at how crazy all this was.  I know that.  I DO know that.  We just aren't there yet.

We are still putting in 18 hour days of emails, phone calls, and relay races of information to find some proper resolve to this totally boring situation and make the monster outside go away.  

I've barfed, I've cried, I've hidden in the folds of my bed and shivered like a hairless dog.  I've reasoned with myself why I've got to stop feeling so stressed and it's momentarily worked.  The only permanent solution is yet to be discovered.

This probably raises more questions to anyone reading than it provides answers.  Sorry, America.  A totally boring explanation of something I didn't even explain.  But I've been feeling like I can't do anything.  Except this.  This is something I can do.  Ramble vaguely.