One

My shih tzu Chewie is on multiple medications for his heart condition which has worsened recently. One of the medications, a diuretic, is severely impacting him. He doesn’t want to eat because his already large tongue is swollen from dehydration. It’s so bad he whines because he is hungry, but with his huge tongue it is hard for him to eat.

The lyrics from the song One” by U2 came to my mind. U2 has always inspired and comforted me. To me, they have always been a spiritually minded band. And while their early albums were political as well, they all really speak to faith. 

The song “One” is an apt example of this because it is hymn like: “We’re one but we're not the same We get to carry each other, carry each other.” 

The words capture a universal truth. We are one. We are all not the same. But we have an obligation to one another. This is nowhere more true than with pets.

My two shih tzus are my best friends. Other than my husband, there is no one I’d rather live with. For me, they’re the ones I carry. Literally at times. I always carry the fat one, Frodo, up the stairs because he’s lazy (should have named him Samwise), and Chewbaca, otherwise known as Chewie, trots behind us. 

Late last night, Chewie and Frodo had both stood by the bed waiting for me to pull them up. I picked them up and put them both on Adrian’s side. Falling into the bed, I cuddled Chewie and stared into his caramel colored, Wookiee looking face. Chewie licked my face and I sighed, exhausted.

Tonight, on the way home from work, I picked up a roasted chicken. When Adrian grabbed a leg and started eating it, I said, “hey that’s for Chewie!” Adrian laughed and said, “You think he’s going to eat a whole chicken?” I spent an hour trying to feed Chewie, to no avail. When Adrian tried, Chewie’s taste buds awakened and he ate a piece of chicken and some toast. I clapped and almost shouted, “hallelujah!” My eyes welled up with tears for the little shih tzu who ate. 

Sometimes, one little victory is enough. 

On the haunt

I have learned to fit in anywhere. It could be from my years of corporate law practice playing the role of Eliza Doolittle. Or maybe it’s because I am a natural chameleon. Regardless, I don’t ever get intimidated.

I act like I own the joint. And then they think I do. Whether it’s a five star hotel or a fancy restaurant, I have the swagger to pull it off. And it’s not my clothes, because I dress quirky. It’s mostly attitude. (And some privilege perhaps of “passing”).

As an example, I am in San Antonio for the Macondo Workshop this week and quickly realized I’m far too old for a twin bed dorm. Even though the dorms are clean and modern with a fabulous game room, they are still dorm rooms. And I shivered all night with the one blanket provided (bringing to mind the Joni Mitchell lyric, “I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne”) and woke up wanting to explore before class. So I decided to find the famous haunted hotel next to the Alamo. I am writing this at that haunted hotel, the Menger Hotel. The hotel is stunningly gorgeous with the coolest old timey furnishings. Definitely worth the trip and the parking charge.

For the last hour, I have been working in the Menger Hotel’s gorgeous courtyard, birds chirping, after having breakfast. I could care less if anyone questions me. But no one has. And they won’t. Plus, I figured, I patronized their restaurant (which was bland Howard Johnson type buffet food) so I can enjoy their beautiful patio.

A few years ago, a writing friend of mine let my husband and I stay her condo in Molaki, Hawaii for a free vacation. She even let us use her car. We crashed the bar at the only hotel on the island for their free customer happy hour. After an hour and a couple of free drinks each, the manager said, “how do you like your room?” I said unapologetically, “We’re not staying here.”

The manager got such a kick out of my honesty that he bought us another round and I told him I’d write up his hotel on my blog. We even became Facebook friends.

So I will continue to sit here in this haunted patio sipping my coffee. Not a care in the world. If you see me, just wave.

Tumbleweeds

Some days, I feel like a tumbleweed. Rolling in the wind. Time just passing me by.

Sometimes, you drive down a dust filled highway and see one. They always look dangerous to me, so prickly. But if I am a tumbleweed, I am defined by what is missing, and not by my thorns.

It has been a hard couple of weeks. My dog Chewie has a severe health issue and I am overcome by anxiety and sadness over it. Most days, after work, I come home and go straight upstairs with him after giving him his meds. I watch mindless television while he sleeps on my stomach snoring. It's like they sing in that old Kinks song, "the only time I feel alright is by your side".

I know it is probably not "normal" to feel like this over a dog. But, I can't help my feelings. Chewbaca's been by my side for over ten years, through my infertility treatments, through deaths, through sadness and joy. Chewie follows me around like a duck whenever I am home and to have him not be there anymore, his long tongue sticking out of his little brown Ewok looking face and those soulful, caramel colored eyes looking into mine. Well, I seriously do not even want to imagine it.

For now, I just do the best I can. The same old song and dance. Everyday. Get up. Medicate him, feed and walk him and Frodo. Go to work. Think of him mid day, hoping he's OK and drinking enough water for all the meds he is on. Come home and pick him up as soon as I walk inside the house.

But, I am mindful of our time. Trying to be positive while realistic, knowing that eventually the day will come.

Until then, I will try not to let it bring me down.

This Writing Life

I realized, after reading some of my more recent blogs, that I never told my readers/friends what happened with my quest for a MFA in creative writing. I know I said that I was taking the plunge, but when push came to shoving myself into the pool of creative writing, I floundered and kind of took a dive off a short board rather than a tall one.

It was a very difficult decision. In order to take the fully funded/free ride brick and mortar offer I received from UCR, I would have had to give up my job as a deputy public defender, a job I love. And, I am good at it. Plus, there is no such thing as a two year leave of absence, at least not with keeping your pension and years of service intact. As much as I was grateful for the opportunity, I declined. It just about broke my heart into pieces to say no.

Finally, after putting it off, I called UCR, and pulled the trigger. Once it was final, I knew in my heart that as hard as it was to say no, I had made the right decision. I am forty something and need security along with my writing. And, dammit, my clients need me. They really do. Desperately.

Even more more importantly to my life as a writer, it gave me a huge surge of confidence to know that UCR saw something in me that I didn't necessarily see in myself. The adviser told me that the professors were impressed by my talent and dedication to my craft. That external validation is everything because while I know that I may seem self assured, I am not. The imposter syndrome is real and pernicious and I have a bad case of it with my writing.  But not anymore. In the end, it was definitely worth the application process to hear that I am worthy.

Then, I had to decide what to do next. After much consternation, and with the advice of trusted writing friends/teachers/advisors, I elected to go with an online low residency MFA. I chose University of New Orleans ("UNO"), the least expensive option between UNO and UCR Palm Desert. There is no funding with low residency MFAs in creative writing, so I knew it had to be affordable. And it is (UNO is about 75% cheaper than UCR Palm Desert).

Someone said to me during my decision making process that I could not have it all, but I am going to try. Seriously, I am going to try to have it all. Just watch me.

GO

There’s a song called “Go” by Tones on Tail that I used to listen to in high school. It was an infectious song that made you want to jump up and down. Back then in the 80s, we used to go to a club called Marilyn’s in Pasadena and they would always play the song at the end of the night. The song would come on and my best friends and I would run onto the dance floor screaming with joy, dancing in a circle holding hands.

I wish I could still feel excitement like that. Most days, I feel hobbled and so damn old for my forty something self. Yes, I know I need to exercise and eat better, but the worse I feel, the worse I eat and the less I move.

Even when we were in France last month, I didn’t feel young and free like I thought I would. I was happy, yet also anxious, worrying about this or that and in constant pain from my foot issue.

Some days, the only place where I feel like me is here. On the page.

It’s as if I am my real self here and all of the other “JEMs” don’t matter. Here, I am only JEM the narrator.

I am not:

The attorney who over preps on a regular basis, and cares so much about her clients that her stomach hurts.

I am not:

The girl who can’t sleep, or the early riser who wakes up and quickly downs two double espresso shots to start the day.

I am not:

The sad girl who drinks too much then wakes up in the middle of the night asking herself if she’s just like her alcoholic father.

I am:

The happy girl who dances to Bowie and The Pixies whenever she can. The woman who loves her two shih tzus to distraction and loves to make her husband pancakes.


I am:

The girl would sell her soul to see a punk or post punk show and who adores The Cure, X and U2 so much that they make her cry when she sees them live.

I am not:

The woman who thinks she is too old, and tired.

I am not:

The girl who weeps every time she thinks of her failed IVF and that horrible day when all her dreams of a baby shattered into fragments.

I am:

A writer.

I am:

The girl who tells herself every morning, “GO!” And then the girl gets up. Maybe not with as much gusto as she had at sixteen, but still, it’s something.

Dreams

Today is a new day. I have been in a funk lately. Upon returning from France, my foot worsened and I was forced to stay upstairs in bed most nights unable to do much of anything.

But this last week was better and today, I feel optimistic. I had a piece selected for a podcast. It is a memoir piece detailing my childhood food memories. The story was a piece I had put in a drawer years before and when I saw a pitch request a couple of weeks ago, I pulled it out and sent it. And, the editor accepted it with minor changes.

It taught me that you just have to seize opportunities. Listen to your instincts and act. Take a leap. Don't overthink it and magic can happen because every action has a reaction.

The next thing on my agenda is to do a dream board. I made one years ago, but it got destroyed and thrown away in a move. A dream board is just that, a visualization with pictures of your dreams on a large board. I plan on making it tomorrow. While making it, I will also verbalize those dreams aloud. An agent. Not only one book, but two or three.

Years ago, I saw a psychic and she told me I would have three children. I always thought they would be literal, but now I realize, after my infertility struggles, that perhaps, just perhaps, those children were meant to have spines made of paper and not of bone.

Putting one foot in front of the other

Like most people, I take my feet for granted. I had been given the gift of mobility. Then all of a sudden, poof, I had it taken away.

Well, not completely taken away because I could walk. It’s just that every step felt as if someone was stabbing my left heel. With a pitchfork.

The issue started a little more than a year ago. At first, it was a mild pain when I stood at work, then more severe, but intermittent. Then it was constant, and every little step I took was agony.

It worsened when we were on vacation in France. I decided it was cab time and while I wasn’t happy to miss the Palace of Versailles due to the walking required, I muddled through and still did the Louvre, the Sacre-Coeur, and the Eiffel Tower, along with other attractions. One day, I walked more than I should have and had to elevate for hours before I could even take a step.

When we got home, I saw a podiatrist. Many call podiatrists sadists, but mine was sweet and especially kind when I cried huge crocodile tears like a baby during the cortisone shot. Imagine someone freeze spraying your foot then jamming a needle into an already tender heel with liquid that feels like nitrogen. That’s a cortisone shot.

Then the podiatrist referred me to a prosthetic device office. When I got there, I was horrified by all of the racks of special shoes thinking, is this what I’ve come to? Suddenly, I remembered when I was seven years old and my mom took me to a podiatrist. They forced me to wear huge, weird shoes with owls on the front, (yes owls!) that were meant to correct my pigeon toed gait, but instead just marked me as a sad, seven year old nerd.

Because of those damn shoes that I wore for a year, I refused to have my eyes tested (owl shoes AND glasses were unacceptable to my seven year old self). I squinted at the board through elementary school and lived in a blurry and fuzzy world until junior high.

Thankfully, the office informed me that I was just there for a brace and a boot. The day brace was annoying, but tolerable. The night boot was awful. I was supposed to wear it at night to stretch the tendons. It basically kept my foot at a 90 degree angle while I slept which was uncomfortable hell. The first night I didn’t sleep and then in the morning, I couldn’t walk without shooting pain in my foot.

Today, I woke up and while I wouldn’t say I am pain free, my foot does feel better. Like most people do, I’ll keep putting one foot in front of the other. And maybe I’ll even dance a little. To The Smiths or Pixies of course.