I Think I’m Adulting (Or Midweek Day Off)

Today a did a thing — a thing I don’t usually do.

I took the day off.

I got up at 5:45 this morning, and I made a list of everything I have to achieve before I board a plane to Michigan on Saturday.

Looking at the tasks I need to accomplish before I take off for Detroit felt like A LOT.

Picking up dry-cleaning, buying dog food, and getting a haircut could take up a whole day in LA by themselves, but when you add finding a reputable lawyer to establish a revocable trust and other such responsible nonsense… it’s all too much.

And just to be clear, I mean too much logistically, practically, and maybe more importantly: emotionally.

Sure, I’m capable of juggling all of those details with work, and I totally could have suppressed the emotions involved with the tasks facing me like I have so many times before, but this morning as I was roasting Brussels sprouts in bacon fat, I asked myself, “Why? What’s the point of that?”

I realized there isn’t a single task I could accomplish at work that was more important than addressing my own pressing personal needs today.

This is probably some kind of turning point in my evolution as a human or whatever, but I don’t know if I’m ready to give my decision that kind of weight.

That said, I’m grateful to be home to vacuum, research estate planing attorneys three time zones away, and watch my dogs sleep.

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Well maybe only one of them is sleeping.

Anyway, I’m home adulting on a Wednesday afternoon, but as responsible as I feel?

I also think it’s maybe time for a midday nap.

 

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Of Insomnia (Or Family Stuff)

It’s after 11 pm, and I’m still awake — a state yet unaltered even after listening to a sermon podcast, a few carefully selected songs on iTunes, and an hour of Harry Potter on Audible. After all of my *valiant* efforts at relaxing, I gave up and got out of bed.

I really thought I was tired… but I guess not.

So, here I am now… pouring out my heart to the internet at nearly midnight on a Monday. (Note to self: I really should pick up that prescription for insomnia meds from CVS….)

I’m in a weird place, which is probably why I can’t sleep.

I have a lot that’s going well in my life: I have two dogs I love more than my own life, many close friends, and a wonderful family. On the flip side, one of my dogs is living on borrowed time after a cancer diagnosis two years ago, I don’t see most of my friends as often as I used to (distance, kids. etc.), and my parents are facing health challenges that come with age.

I’m not really complaining: I’m glad I have people and pets I love enough to keep me up at night. That said, some nights the weight of life and loss weigh heavier than others.

I’m presently preparing for a trip to Michigan to see my family at the end of the month, and as much as I’d like to think I’ve prepared for it mentally, I know you just can’t prepare for what I’m facing emotionally… or otherwise.

Without betraying confidences, I will just say I’m preparing to parent a person who once parented me, and that’s scary.

It’s a kind of real no one can prepare you to face.

I’m going into the situation with the faith that God will lead me (as he always has), he will comfort me (as he always has), and I won’t be alone because I have him and all of the people he has placed on my path.

I’m not saying any of this is going to be easy, but it won’t be impossible.

But also?

If I’m being honest, human, and absolutely real… I have to admit this sucks a little.

I didn’t ask for this, but most of us didn’t ask for our lot in life. We all just play the hand we were dealt. We’re absolutely allowed to complain a little for a minute, but then we need to play the cards we’re holding the best we can. (It’s probably important to mention that I’m a lousy poker player so perhaps this entire analogy is crap.)

Analogy aside, I think we just have to do our best with our circumstances… whatever they are.

And in my case, I can say without a doubt as hard as this next chapter will be in my life, I know I’m the only person who can do what I have to do.

My entire life has prepared me to fulfill the role I must play — both because of my biology and also because the man who made me strong enough to face this needs me now.

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I’m strong because I’m yours.

And?

He made me stronger because he couldn’t let his only child off of the hook; she had to be as strong as he.

I love you, Papa, and whatever we’re facing, we’re facing it together.

You and my mummy made what I am, and I’m strong enough to slug it out until I’m tired enough to sleep.

Tonight maybe that means writing until I’m tired….

 

Book Club and Babies (Or I Get Over Myself)

Yesterday I hosted book club… at my place.

That may not sound earth-shattering, but you must understand that I used to revel in hosting friends for a variety of reasons. From my first Friendsgiving of 15+ people to Easter for 24, I’ve always loved cooking for the people in my life.

In my twenties, those gatherings generally involved people sitting on folding chairs with paper plates on their laps while my deaf Cocker Spaniel wandered around the room foraging for fallen food.

Brady was my first rescue, and one of the great loves of my life. He helped me grow up, and he made me a better, more loving human.

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He also tolerated my hugs.

As time has gone by, most of my friends have moved out of small apartments into homes with yards, and eating dinner off of paper plates on their laps has become less appealing. I’ve been hesitant to host since I feel like I don’t have as much room as many of my friends.

Sure, I have proper plates and an adult dining room table now, but the real estate problem was a lingering issue for me. I got over myself, however, and invited my book club besties to my place.

We had such a lovely afternoon of snacks, heartfelt sharing, and engaging conversation!

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Plus my friends brought me flowers! #likeduh

George also helped me make my bed before my friends and their babies arrived.

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Okay, maybe “helped” is a generous description.

I had to kick him off the bed to finish the job, but he’s so cute I forgave him for being useless at domestic chores.

Of Restaurants and Writing (Or Time For a Change)

Remember when I used to post regularly?

Yeah, I miss those days.

I miss writing in general.

I’ve let life get in the way of my creativity lately.

See, I took a job waiting tables because I thought it would help me focus on my own personal projects… and because I can’t half-ass anything, I’ve ended up managing the restaurant. Over time I’ve taken on more responsibility there, and the demands have dramatically increased.

In the beginning of my restaurant tenure, I loved seeing the smiles on customers’ faces, and I enjoyed hearing their stories. I loved remembering what they liked, and I got a great deal of satisfaction from being a bright spot in their days.

I still have those moments, but the burden of hiring and firing staff, and constant texts requiring my attention at all hours of the day and night have sucked so much time from my life that my writing has suffered somewhat. I’ve managed to keep my skills honed, but a recent taste of real writing satisfaction has left me wanting more.

I had a fabulous experience writing an ad-sponsored episode of TXT Stories for Facebook at the end of 2018. I worked on the project with a former colleague from my producing days, and he gave great feedback on my script. It made me miss the days when I spent all of my time around fellow creatives — especially smart ones.

I don’t regret the time I’ve spent at the restaurant. I’ve met so many wonderful people whose paths would never have crossed mine if I had stayed in the cocoon of entertainment. The experience has made me more alive and open as a human, but the time has come for me to return to writing as a career — not just as a side hustle.

So, this is me declaring that I’m back in the creative business.

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My dog is so excited for me that he can’t contain himself.

No, really… he is excited.

That’s just his face.

 

Dog Yoga and Grocery Delivery (Or Things I Do on Sunday)

It’s a rainy Sunday in LA. It’s the perfect day for staying home and making a big mess of bacon-wrapped food.

The sky is a deep gray, both of my Boxers are asleep, and I’m listening to country music while waiting for my grocery delivery.

I realize the confluence of country music and an urban indulgence like grocery delivery is a bit of a contradiction, but I see it as a perfect microcosm for my identity. While I have somewhat of a redneck sensibility, I am also a spoiled urbanite, and I can’t bear entering a grocery store on a Sunday. The parking lot situation alone is reason enough to stay home — never mind the LA drivers who are blinded by a bit of rain on their windshields.

That leaves me over-spending on Sauvignon Blanc and prosciutto so I don’t have brave the “elements” (read: a light mist) to make dinner.

I recently declared 2019 as the year of productive creativity, so I’m going to get back to my novel outline while I wait for my groceries to arrive.

But first?

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Dog yoga

It’s not nearly as cool as goat yoga, and it involves a pose George invented called, “Barking Dog.”

It’s so relaxing living with Boxers… but I wouldn’t change it for anything.

My boys are everything.

 

George Joseph (Or it’s Not 1999)

It’s 2019 now. I realize this isn’t news to anyone — I’m merely pointing out that 1999 was 20 years ago.

Also?

Prince’s single (and album) by the same name will turn 37 this year.

Now that we’re all thoroughly depressed and feeling terribly old… want to hear what I did this NYE?

I rang in the New Year on my couch watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire with both of my Boxers snoring on my legs.

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OK, maybe only Georgie was using my person as a pillow, but you get the idea.

I had planned to make myself a lovely filet mignon, but I was so tired by the time I got home from work that I settled for broccoli, champagne, and Trader Joe’s gouda mac and cheese. (I saved the steak for another night.)

We snuggled as the dogs watched their namesakes do battle with evil.

On the topic of namesakes, this is now going to be a terrible segue to the origin of Georgie’s name. (I did promise that story here after all….)

OBVIOUSLY, Albus was named for the greatest Headmaster of Hogwarts of all time, and I have frequently thought he should have a little Harry Potter as a buddy.

When I met the new nugget, I knew pretty quickly he wasn’t a Harry, however.

We spent 12 hours together before I dubbed him “George.”

After careful observation, his spunk and spirit reminded me of George Weasley. (George is one half of the Weasley Twin Duo who wreaked havoc at Hogwarts and went on to create their own joke shop.)

His middle name, Joseph, is a sadder story I’m afraid.

Shortly after rescuing George, I learned that my dad’s youngest brother James Joseph had passed away fairly unexpectedly.

His neighbor visited his home in hopes of borrowing a tool. The neighbor knocked on the door repeatedly and received no response. It had been snowing in their Northern Michigan town, and he observed there weren’t any footprints outside my Uncle Jim’s home.

When his persistent knocking proved fruitless, he contacted the local authorities. Officers arrived on the scene to find my dad’s youngest brother dead in his bead. He had died peacefully of natural causes.

While a peaceful death is always preferable to a painful or contracted one, death is still difficult for those left behind. I wanted to honor my Uncle Jim and felt that George should share the same middle name.

I don’t have human kids, after all so it seemed like the right thing to do. Plus my Uncle Jim was an animal lover.

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George Joseph means business.

I think my Uncle Jim would be proud to share a name with him.

 

New Baby Nugget (Or I RESCUED!)

So… I have news… belated news, but news nonetheless.

Albus and I have a new baby.

Hes’s super skinny…

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and he likes to sleep on Uggs.

See, three weeks ago Malibu and Ventura County were on fire. I was sitting on my couch watching college football while looking at images of the devastation of the Woolsey fire, and I wanted to do something. The air outside my place was hazy and full of smoke. My social media sources were filled with photos of horses dangerously close to the lapping flames, evacuated goats on the beach, and the Malibu Wines giraffe was left in harm’s way.

I knew there were so many animals I couldn’t save, but I wanted to do SOMETHING.

On an impulse, I googled “Ventura County Shelter.”

On the first page of their site, I saw the image of an emaciated Boxer. He had been surrendered that day. I said a prayer asking God to open the door if it was in his will for him to be mine and to close it if it wasn’t right.

I set out to meet the sweet dog called “Snoopy.”

The freeway to Ventura County was closed because of the fires but I found backroads to lead me to the shelter.

The voice of Jim Dale reading “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” on audiobook soothed me as I drove past plumes of stifling smoke as well as green fields yet untouched by the fire’s destructive appetite.

I arrived at the shelter only to be told they were closed for adoptions because of the fire. The woman behind the counter said I should come back the following day at 1 pm. She also cautioned me that Snoopy had stomach issues and they were a factor in his surrender.

Never one to give up, I showed up the next day, right on time. I had traversed the same backroads again, as the fires were still raging and conventional routes were unavailable.

When I arrived, I was again told they closed for adoptions. I offered another silent prayer. I reminded the volunteers they had told me to come today — at this time. I also said I couldn’t come again tomorrow because I had to work.

They consulted with one another and agreed to let me meet him. Again, they reminded me of his stomach issues. (Stomach, whatever. I didn’t care.)

I had boiled chicken in my purse in anticipation of meeting the little man.

They set him loose in the enclosure and I asked him to sit. He obliged immediately. I offered him a bit of chicken. Ravenous, he took the chicken so aggressively it seemed like he might take the tips of my fingers off.

I told them I wanted him — stomach problems and all.

They agreed to let me take him home for a mere $65.

$65 to save a life.

I would have paid so much more than that.

There’s so much more I want to say about him and his integration into my home, but I’ll save that for another post.

For now I’ll just say, I love the little guy.

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You’re HOME, George Joseph!

Your brother and I LOVE you!

More on the origin of his new name later….