Put It Together

How I wish I was put together. I want to have dark, sleek hair. With no grey. With a tight butt and a trim waist and sexy long legs. How does it feel to want?

My foot is better, but I look at myself in the mirror and think, I am a mess. My hair looks matted. My eyes have bags. And the wrinkles. It’s easy to say you would never spend money on expensive face treatments when you’re young. But staring down the lens of fifty, only a few years away, has made me consider what I thought I never would.

Now, I’m sitting outside in my David Bowie t-shirt and my pj shorts, thinking what’s clean to wear to work today? Or what’s clean enough.

Thankfully, I have a trove of black dresses to rummage through. Pair those with tights and flats and a blazer or cardigan and I’m good enough. I seriously do not know how people wear high heels and fancy outfits to work. It takes too much out of me. Who are they trying to impress? Other county workers? Ha!

I prefer a black dress uniform I can accessorize. Because after waking up at 5 am, picking up the house a bit, giving the dogs their food and meds and walking them, I could care less. Or is it I couldn’t care less? Either way, I usually say fuck it. Especially on days like today where I don’t have court.

And while I know I should just go to Macy’s and buy some new suits, at least four, I just do not have the energy. Or the inclination. Truth be told, I would rather sit here squinting on my phone writing than do anything else. I’ve been working on a story about my high school days and I love (crave) the feeling of falling back into my fifteen year old self, back when my life had possibilities so immense they were scary.

I know where life leads. If I follow the safe path, seven to thirteen years until retirement. Then I can live. And write. Write all day in bed. A cup of coffee on my bedside. Hell, I’ll IV the caffeine in if I have to.

What am I saying here? That I’m unhappy? No. I think I am just yearning for something more. The unsafe. The unseen. The unknowable.

Yesterday

Yesterday, I felt something I hadn’t in a while. Joy.

I was at work. I was slammed. Running around as usual. Trying to get my paperwork done and my cases called.

But then, I slowed down. I talked to a client outside for an hour about her son after I got her case dismissed. She hugged me. She thanked me over and over and her gratitude was food for my soul.

Another client’s family came up and thanked me. They brought me a beautiful card. They hugged me.

Another family member thanked me. Blessed me.

My heart swelled. It was as if a higher power was putting all of the love on one day to remind me that it’s all I need.

A writing friend posted an excerpt from a poem called Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye and it really spoke to me. Here’s a portion of it:

“Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore...”

I guess what I realized yesterday is that you have to be present and you have to be kind. The universe will pay you back tenfold.

And, all of my sorrow has a purpose.

A day

Today is just a day. An ordinary day.

My life has a pattern to it at the moment. I get up early between 4-5 am and medicate the dogs. It takes me an hour to coax Chewie to eat his food and meds. Then I walk the dogs, sometimes twice. I drink espresso and pick up the downstairs and do laundry while watching my latest addiction Face Off (a character special effects/makeup competition) on Sci Fi Channel.

At 7 am, I make Adrian coffee and both of us something for breakfast and then go upstairs to quickly get dressed and leave for work by 7:30 am. I feel as if I live a lifetime every morning. On the days I carpool with Adrian, we will sometimes skip breakfast and get a smoothie.

Then work. That’s a whole story in itself. Best saved for another day. But I love my job and try to be efficient with my time.

When I come home (by 530 usually), we eat. If Adrian’s not home yet, his mom and I wait for him to eat. I give Chewie his night heart meds and then take the dogs out. By 8 pm, I’m beat. I go upstairs and take my medicine for my chronic issues which makes me drowsy and a bit dazed. I lay in bed and want to write. And at times, I do. Sometimes, I read instead of writing, with my lil furry Wookiee by my side. I listen to his breathing and it lulls me to sleep. My husband comes to bed about ten pm, sometimes inadvertently waking me up, and if I wake up, I will try to keep my eyes open to watch tv with him but they will eventually close.

My days are merging together, like a film on fast forward. Everything is blurry. Is this what middle age is supposed to be like? Or am I in crisis and just trying to get by, one day at a time?

Does it even matter? Should I care? When I was in Texas a couple of weeks or so ago (it already feels like months ago), I was on edge yearning to be home. And now I’m here and I’m sleepwalking through my days.

But maybe it’s just a day. An ordinary day. An ordinary life. There’s some beauty in that. I think.

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.