Monday, December 16, 2013

Bitter is Not a Genre

I don't ever write about my "romantic" life, a decision I made years ago, when I realized that

1. memoir was my natural landing place as a writer, and

2. just about every memoirist was writing and/or had written some version of something (and very often several versions of several somethings) either condemning or adoring current, former, even fantasy future lovers.

Whether full of venom or syrupy sweet blind - and blinding – love, the pieces I was reading left me feeling unsettled, since I had no desire to similarly expose the life of anyone I had ever loved, and I didn’t want to dwell on the life of anyone who had hurt me. So writing about current and ex relationships simply slid of my topics list. And since I don’t spend time imagining or looking for the perfect (read: nonexistent) mate of my dreams, the potential lovers of the future were out, too.

The thing about all this, of course, is that I didn’t consciously make these decisions or reason all this out at the time. It just sort of happened organically, so that, over the years, whenever people have asked me if I’ve ever written anything along these lines, I’ve literally had to stop and think about why I am one of few writers I know who has never penned a love story or a breakup story. Hell, I’ve never even written a sex scene. When I think about the reasons behind all this, all I can come up with is: Because I don’t want to. I find pretty much every detail of this aspect of my life either utterly uneventful, or too private and painful to dredge up, or too joyful to confine to a page, or too boring to mean anything to anyone but me.

And then there are the others. The “thems.” The exes and the priors and the ones who took me from “I” to “we” and then back to “I” again. The people with whom I have shared the most intimate aspects of my life. Just because I write and they don’t, does that give me the right to put all of our stuff out there for public consumption, as if I’m some kind of gossip soup kitchen willing to feed anyone who is starved for a juicy “love gone wrong” story? Although not every past relationship inspires feelings of romance and light when I think about them, no matter how much time and self-growth I like to think has happened between the “It’s over” and the now, my exes have lives too, and investing in the memories of our time together, committing to the moments we shared for long enough to shape a coherent essay or story or catchy little limerick (Ok, so I confess – there have been a few “Here’s why I hate you” limericks over the years. I’m not proud of that.), just pulls me back into a life that obviously didn’t work for me, even if I fell apart when all the bad stuff ended.

Few dumps feel good, especially since they are usually accompanied by endless iterations of “When God closes a door he opens a window” comments and emails and bookmarks from everyone who feels bad and doesn’t know what else to say. My solution to closed doors has always been to put on storm windows and buy really thick curtains to keep the garbage from getting in that way. Yet most of my past relationships share many commonalities, which, quite obviously, is why they all fall into the “past relationships” category. Of course, life became much richer and more fulfilling when I started to realize that so many of these commonalities go no further than my own mirror.

At some point, probably after the ugly demise of yet another pairing left me reeking of self-pity and the “woe is me” kind of victim talk that marks the recently cheated on, recently dumped best of us (hey, I’m not judging you for wallowing, and you shouldn’t judge yourself either – we’ve all been there, so group hugs all around), I started to take an honest look in that persistent mirror and ask "What did I do to get here and what am I going to do to make "here" a better place to live and work and play? ‘Cause, today’s truth is this: It’s dinner for one now. Again. Still. And no one but me is gonna make my life worth living.”

So, for better and worse, I have refused to combine my love life with my writing life, despite their shared ability to inspire feelings of happy and sad, fulfilled and drained, hopeful and despondent. I guess I've always felt that to write honestly about my romantic life, a few things would have to happen:

1. I'd have to reveal parts of myself that I don't want to reveal;

2. I'd have to reveal things about people I once loved – and people I believed loved me back - that could result in emotional collateral damage to others I have no business damaging;

3. In at least a few cases, I would be using my writing purely as a weapon of retaliation, which is something I promised myself -and still promise myself - I would/will never do.

Because Bitter is not a genre.

Still, over the years, I have been tempted to approach all this on paper, especially when people ask what my "deal" is. Do I date? Do I ever want to get married again? What about kids? What about growing old alone … doesn't that scare me? Typical questions I ask myself often, usually at 2am when I have nothing better to do than spin myself into a sort of abandonment-fueled panic attack. And writing is often the place where I can unload such worries and work through the logistics.

But the logistics went to hell when I ran into an ex over Thanksgiving weekend. And not just an ex. The ex. The one I think about when I examine my current lack of relationship, my perpetual state of lingering heartache, my refusal to commit to another relationship with the potential to wreak similar havoc on my life, with no guarantee that it will bring anything positive before the inevitable crash.

Oh the drama, right?

The actual passing moment the ex and I shared was quick. Uneventful. Anyone who didn’t know us, who saw us pass each other, who watched the ex nod, who heard me say “Oh. Hey.” as casually as if I were ordering my daily decaf tea from the barista who knows me by name, would have thought that perhaps the ex and I were coworkers. Or former classmates. Or perhaps slightly antisocial neighbors who rarely saw one another. No one would have guessed that I was facing the one person for whom I had been willing to degrade and humiliate myself. The being for whom I had changed into someone I didn’t much like, and into someone by whom I was embarrassed most of the time.

No one would have guessed that the brief exchange actually followed over six years of painful soul searching, or that, had my search not uncovered some sense of personal dignity worth preserving, I would have used this unexpected opportunity to simultaneously unleash my angry inner child and my pissed off inner adult, regardless of the spectacle it would have caused. But most of all, no one would have guessed that, after the encounter, I took to Facebook and wrote my first ever public words about this aspect of my life.  And it went like this:

"That beautiful moment when you unexpectedly come face to face with an ex who you thought broke you beyond repair, and are able to honestly think "Your loss" even as you say "Oh. Hey." and keep walking because ... you truly have better things to do now. #moveon.org."

A few of my closest friends got it. In fact, one read it and immediately sent me a rapid series of test messages:

“Which ex?”

“Are you ok?”

“You seem ok. Good for you!”

The final text simply said:

“And PS: it's weird to see you saying anything about your love life, by the way ... I guess I forget that you ever had one”.

Oddly, this ex of mine, the one who inspired the Facebook status, the one whose love and approval was once so monumental that the loss of it could have filled an epic novel (and that actually did result in volumes of bad poetry), has - apparently - finally become insignificant enough to break my “No writing about my love life” code of silence. And yet, I still have no desire to write much more than a 48-word Facebook post. Partly because this person still has a life. And because there would still be collateral emotional damage to the people who love this ex. The people this ex currently professes to love back. But the biggest, most important reason is actually quite simple: I have neither the desire nor the energy to commit to writing about someone who would not commit to loving me.

Sometimes I still cry when I remember how hard I fell from this particular relationship, not because of the ex I lost - a person I never really had to begin with -  but because of the parts of myself I threw away in the process. Although I fell out of love many, many years ago, the scars remained, in the form of questions: Why wasn't I a good enough person? What did I have to do to be lovable? What was wrong with me and how could I fix it? Only when I tired of not finding answers did I decide to break up with the illusion of love and allow my ex to truly be part of my past.

Perhaps it seems as if I’ve accomplished nothing since this person walked out of my life almost six Valentines Days ago, but coming face to face with the person who last saw me as a bitter and broken failure felt like a pretty significant success. In fact, it took that moment, that unplanned, unscripted thirty seconds in a brightly lit, people-filled hallway for me to realize just how much healing I have done. Apparently, the weight of grief lifted so gradually, so quietly, that I had to see the source of the pain to know, without a doubt, that it had actually left me. And I feel much lighter now that I have unpacked some of the relationship’s baggage and tossed its contents.  Sure, my heart still raced and my legs still shook at the mere sight of the ex, and at the realization that, whether or not I spoke or ignored, laughed or cried, stopped walking or sprinted wildly down that seemingly endless hallway, the moment was unavoidably in front of me, and the choice to interact - or not - was finally mine.

So I did what I wanted to do - not what I thought I should do, or believed I had to do, or imagined I shouldn't do.  I was simply myself.  Clearly I still have baggage, but it is my baggae to carry. I am glad I didn’t get rid of it altogether, because lugging it around all these years has made me stronger, and has taught me that I am perfectly capable of managing it on my own.  And  as long as I hang onto this lightened load, I can remember just how heavy and burdensome the baggage can get, if I let it. Even better, I can fill my baggage with the stuff I need, with the things that serve me and the moments that make life easier, happier, and more enjoyable, no matter the journey. 

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Blog Talk: Dancing With the Stars, 'To Do' list addictions, and bladder situations. Among other things.

So here’s today’s randomness:

  1. Maybe it’s just because I’m feeling old these days, but I am officially out of patience with the likes of Miley Cyrus, Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and the whole hip and happening crop of body grinding, cleavage bearing, butt-crack flaunting young female singers. I guess that’s why I hate myself a little more each time I realize that the awesome song stuck in my head, the one I can’t stop singing over and over, the one that makes me wish I still taught spinning class so I could use it for hill climbs and flat sprints, happens to belong to one of these … kids.  Why oh why must their music actually be … good?!  (And saying that I simply like the songs for their catchy beats and great rhythms makes me no better than the beer-bellied, middle-aged men who say they read Playboy for the articles.)
  2. We got our first real snow of the season last night.  Can somebody please tell me why, with every year’s first snowfall, I act shocked and dismayed, as if I didn’t know snow was coming, before I proceed to whine and complain, to anyone who will listen (and many who won’t), about the slick roads, the backed up traffic, and my soaking wet socks? Time to bundle up for the next six months.
  3. I’ve been watching “Dancing with the Stars” this season and I’ve pretty much fallen in love with the entire cast. I ‘m not a reality show person, but I do love dance, and, in the privacy of my own home, I often convince myself that, had I stuck with the weekly tap/jazz/ballet classes of my youth, I, too, could have been flipping and leaping and spinning around the dance floor with Derek or Maks.  Also, I would very much like to tell Len Goodman where to stick it.  And I’d also like to have a mani/pedi day with Bruno Tonioli .
  4. Even though I am an introvert by nature, lately I have been wanting to resurrect two former passions: my yoga practice and my involvement in community theater.  Since I belong to Meetup.com (even though my schedule rarely leaves me available to attend many events), I actually went to the site in search of something that looked ether yogic or theatrical in nature.  So how lucky did I feel when I found an upcoming meetup called “Yoga for Singers” being offered nearby, on a day/time that worked for me?!  I quickly RSVP’d “Yes” before I could talk myself out of going.  Turns out, I’ve found another reason why skimming quickly instead of reading carefully often creates more problems than it solves: I just received my confirmation for “Yoga for SINGLES” this Saturday afternoon.  Um, no thanks.  If I want to flaunt my single status, I’ll go to a wedding and sit at the kiddie table until I get hit on by drunk Uncle Ned, the  close-talking taxidermist-by-day, adult-movie-theater-owner by night who has never met an ass he didn’t grab or an onion he didn’t like.
  5. Today’s “to do” list included the following item:
    1. Make tomorrow’s “to do” list
I wish I was kidding.
  1. Today at work, a colleague asked a group of us what we liked best about Thanksgiving.
Me: (Jumping in first) Watching the parades and seeing all the floats and performances in Times Square!
Other coworker: Being with family and friends and feeling gratitude for another opportunity to spend time with the people I love most in the world.
Me: Wait  … Can I change my answer?
  1. Today when my doctor asked whether or not my generalized anxiety symptoms had improved, I responded: “I don’t know. Sometimes when I’m at home, I do wonder who would find me if I fell down my staircase and knocked myself unconscious.”    I’m gonna title this book:  “Coming Over to the Dark Side: How My Honesty Turned My Holistic Health Practitioner into a Zoloft Pusher.”
  2. I work in a cubicle environment, which makes for a very close and intimate space-sharing situation, whether or not you’re into that sort of thing. Sometimes I feel guilty overhearing office conversations, so I put on my headphones and blast the jam while I work. Other times, like now, I become so totally immersed in eavesdropping on the pieces of a conversation about what someone’s eighth grade daughter saw in biology class when she looked at a hot dog under a microscope that I simply can’t bring myself to do anything other than Google “hot dogs” and silently thank God for soy and legumes.
  3. What’s the medical term for “I’m worried that I may have hypochondria”?  I’m wondering if my copay would cover a quick office visit to either confirm or rule this out.
  4. Now that I’m 40, I answer to one of two masters at all times: Shy Bladder and Overactive Bladder. The real heel kickin’ fun comes when they team up and work together in an “I have to, but I can’t, but I have to, but I can’t, but I have to, but I can’t” sorta way.  Just another of nature’s reminders that self-control is the ultimate unattainable goal.

That's all.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Blog Talk: William Shakespeare, Wabi-sabi, and Boone's Farm

So here’s this week’s randomness:
  1. I value Lifetime Television for its ability to summarize an entire movie in a title:
    1. 'Crimes of Passion: She Woke Pregnant'
    2. 'Cyber Seduction: His Secret Life'
    3. 'My Stepson, My Lover'
With titles like those, you need not spend two hours watching the movie.  And although most people choose to veg out on a Sunday afternoon with a snack and a blanket and watch the movies anyway, Lifetime could be on to something.  For example, I am imagining how much more palatable Shakespeare might seem to high school English students if he’d had the Lifetime titling staff at his disposal. 
a.    The Blood Shall Remain on the Hands of the Killer (MacBeth)
b.    The Poison Drinkers Who Totally Made the Wrong Call (Romeo & Juliet)
c.    You Only Thought I Was Crazy But Guess What? I Win!  (Hamlet)
  1. Yesterday, when doing research on my novel, I came across the term wabi-sabi, which the Japanese use to express the combination of joy and sorrow.  I think that’s pretty beautiful. Though it is not to be confused with Wasabi, an extremely hot Japanese sauce usually eaten with rice or sushi. The one and only time I ever (accidentally) ate wasabi, I did feel a moment of joy, followed by a hybrid sort of sorrowpanicpainhorror. Followed by copious amounts of water. But I think wabi-sabi is expressing an entirely different kind of joy and sorrow, and not the kind that requires immediate hydration.
  2. I keep hearing about “agreements” between the US and Iran.  And all I can say is this:  Every single thing about Iran scares me.
  3. I’ve started something new (and I encourage you to try it): Before I go to bed each night, I write down three things that went well for me that day.  I don’t analyze them or try to repeat them the next day, I simply acknowledge them for what they were, and for how they made me feel.  Kinda makes going to bed more relaxing, and I seem to be getting up each day feeling a little more hopeful.
  4. I submitted an essay to a local arts/writing program called Bookmarks, where writers can send in work on various selected topics to be judged -- and hopefully accepted -- for a community reading.  I just found out that my piece “Recipes” was selected in the "Eat the Past" category and that I will be reading it at the Arts Center on January 6.  I submitted this particular piece for two reasons:
    1. It was an excerpt from my thesis, and I cut it down from 3,467 words to the required 750, which was a fantastic writing exercise and an achievement in and of itself. I'm finding that a thesis is a lot like a bridesmaid dress -- you’d like to invest in something you’ll be able to wear more than once. And (if you're lucky and have a few tailoring skills), you hope to mix and match and hem and bedazzle and accessorize the hell out of it, to turn it into a sort of all-occasion, or perhaps multi-occasion ensemble that works for just about any event or venue.  So, three cheers for a repurposed thesis!
    2. “Eat the Past” was looking for essays about the ways in which food has figured into our former selves and families to shape our current selves and identities.  I had the option of sending in a lovely piece about learning to make cookies with my mother, or taking the road less travelled and sending in piece that was painful to write, is still difficult for me to read, and that proudly refuses to end on a happy note.  So I guess I’m thankful to food for giving me the big ol’ gut that never leads me astray as long as I listen to it.
  5. I turned 40 a few weeks ago, and sometimes I am overwhelmed by how sad I think I should feel about not having a biological child.  Can it possibly ok to be ok with my lack of progeny?   Society says “No.”
  6. I’ve done a lot of Christmas shopping this year. I started early, and I bought really thoughtful gifts for people – things that have personal significance, one-of-a-kind things I had to order in advance and have specially made. Even so, I’m recalling the Christmases of my childhood, when I often got tee shirts and underwear folded inside a recycled Barbie box, or socks and dance tights folded inside a festive looking cookie tin. Yes, I got all the nice stuff too, but those red herring wrappings made for some bittersweet gift opening moments. I think I’ll resurrect that tradition this year. Anyone got an empty 1869 Château Lafite bottle big enough to hold 60 ounces of apple flavored Boone’s Farm?
  7. We’re expecting a N’oreaster the day before Thanksgiving.  It may snow two feet. Or not at all.  But instead of fretting over whether or not I’ll be able to head North as intended, I’m doing something I never do and have often thought would result in a painful, spontaneous death: I’m playing things by ear. If it doesn’t snow – great.  I’ll pack myself and Beckett into the car and follow through with our plans.  If it snows us in, no big thing.  I’ll go serve food at the local food kitchen and then take Beckett to the nursing home to do pet visits with people who are truly confined and alone.  Either way is a win for everyone – myself included. So suck it, Mother Nature. You’ve got about as much power here as the Wicked Witch of the West sans the ruby slippers.
  8. Moment of self-disclosure: I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors. You see, I can’t remember the last time I had a good hair day from morning til night, a sad fact that seems truly unfair and unfortunate.   Granted, the first ten minutes after I finish styling and spraying everything into place in the perfect lighting of my bathroom leave me looking supermodel-perfect.  But by 10am, my formerly flawless coif has turned into supermodel-used-to-be.  This whole phenomenon seems a trivial thing to worry and write about, which is why I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors.
  9.  The world consists of two kinds of people: Those who enjoy whistling, and those who hate listening to others whistle. Don’t believe me?  Try finishing your hour long treadmill run at the gym next to the guy whose workout music consists of his own whistled versions of Broadway show tunes and all six verses of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  On repeat.
That’s all.

Blog Talk: Lifetime Television, Boone's Farm, and Wabi-Sabi

So here’s this week’s randomness:
  1. I value Lifetime Television for its ability to summarize an entire movie in a title:
    1. 'Crimes of Passion: She Woke Pregnant'
    2. 'Cyber Seduction: His Secret Life'
    3. 'My Stepson, My Lover'
With titles like those, you need not spend two hours watching the movie.  And although most people choose to veg out on a Sunday afternoon with a snack and a blanket and watch the movies anyway, Lifetime could be on to something.  For example, I am imagining how much more palatable Shakespeare might seem to high school English students if he’d had the Lifetime titling staff at his disposal. 
a.    The Blood Shall Remain on the Hands of the Killer (MacBeth)
b.    The Poison Drinkers Who Totally Made the Wrong Call (Romeo & Juliet)
c.    You Only Thought I Was Crazy But Guess What? I Win!  (Hamlet)
  1. Yesterday, when doing research on my novel, I came across the term wabi-sabi, which the Japanese use to express the combination of joy and sorrow.  I think that’s pretty beautiful. Though it is not to be confused with Wasabi, an extremely hot Japanese sauce usually eaten with rice or sushi. The one and only time I ever (accidentally) ate wasabi, I did feel a moment of joy, followed by a hybrid sort of sorrowpanicpainhorror. Followed by copious amounts of water. But I think wabi-sabi is expressing an entirely different kind of joy and sorrow, and not the kind that requires immediate hydration.
  2. I keep hearing about “agreements” between the US and Iran.  And all I can say is this:  Every single thing about Iran scares me.
  3. I’ve started something new (and I encourage you to try it): Before I go to bed each night, I write down three things that went well for me that day.  I don’t analyze them or try to repeat them the next day, I simply acknowledge them for what they were, and for how they made me feel.  Kinda makes going to bed more relaxing, and I seem to be getting up each day feeling a little more hopeful.
  4. I submitted an essay to a local arts/writing program called Bookmarks, where writers can send in work on various selected topics to be judged -- and hopefully accepted -- for a community reading.  I just found out that my piece “Recipes” was selected in the "Eat the Past" category and that I will be reading it at the Arts Center on January 6.  I submitted this particular piece for two reasons:
    1. It was an excerpt from my thesis, and I cut it down from 3,467 words to the required 750, which was a fantastic writing exercise and an achievement in and of itself. I'm finding that a thesis is a lot like a bridesmaid dress -- you’d like to invest in something you’ll be able to wear more than once. And (if you're lucky and have a few tailoring skills), you hope to mix and match and hem and bedazzle and accessorize the hell out of it, to turn it into a sort of all-occasion, or perhaps multi-occasion ensemble that works for just about any event or venue.  So, three cheers for a repurposed thesis!
    2. “Eat the Past” was looking for essays about the ways in which food has figured into our former selves and families to shape our current selves and identities.  I had the option of sending in a lovely piece about learning to make cookies with my mother, or taking the road less travelled and sending in piece that was painful to write, is still difficult for me to read, and that proudly refuses to end on a happy note.  So I guess I’m thankful to food for giving me the big ol’ gut that never leads me astray as long as I listen to it.
  5. I turned 40 a few weeks ago, and sometimes I am overwhelmed by how sad I think I should feel about not having a biological child.  Can it possibly ok to be ok with my lack of progeny?   Society says “No.”
  6. I’ve done a lot of Christmas shopping this year. I started early, and I bought really thoughtful gifts for people – things that have personal significance, one-of-a-kind things I had to order in advance and have specially made. Even so, I’m recalling the Christmases of my childhood, when I often got tee shirts and underwear folded inside a recycled Barbie box, or socks and dance tights folded inside a festive looking cookie tin. Yes, I got all the nice stuff too, but those red herring wrappings made for some bittersweet gift opening moments. I think I’ll resurrect that tradition this year. Anyone got an empty 1869 Château Lafite bottle big enough to hold 60 ounces of apple flavored Boone’s Farm?
  7. We’re expecting a N’oreaster the day before Thanksgiving.  It may snow two feet. Or not at all.  But instead of fretting over whether or not I’ll be able to head North as intended, I’m doing something I never do and have often thought would result in a painful, spontaneous death: I’m playing things by ear. If it doesn’t snow – great.  I’ll pack myself and Beckett into the car and follow through with our plans.  If it snows us in, no big thing.  I’ll go serve food at the local food kitchen and then take Beckett to the nursing home to do pet visits with people who are truly confined and alone.  Either way is a win for everyone – myself included. So suck it, Mother Nature. You’ve got about as much power here as the Wicked Witch of the West sans the ruby slippers.
  8. Moment of self-disclosure: I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors. You see, I can’t remember the last time I had a good hair day from morning til night, a sad fact that seems truly unfair and unfortunate.   Granted, the first ten minutes after I finish styling and spraying everything into place in the perfect lighting of my bathroom leave me looking supermodel-perfect.  But by 10am, my formerly flawless coif has turned into supermodel-used-to-be.  This whole phenomenon seems a trivial thing to worry and write about, which is why I horde elastic hairbands and avoid mirrors.
  9.  The world consists of two kinds of people: Those who enjoy whistling, and those who hate listening to others whistle. Don’t believe me?  Try finishing your hour long treadmill run at the gym next to the guy whose workout music consists of his own whistled versions of Broadway show tunes and all six verses of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”  On repeat.
That’s all.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Blog Thoughts: 11/18/13-11/24/13


 
So here’s this week’s randomness:

1.    I blame Shonda Rhimes for my Friday morning exhaustion.  #ScandalHangovers

2.    Perspective, in a nutshell:

a.    Pimple at age 14: End. Of. The. World.

b.    Pimple at age 40: Yup. Still got it.

3.    Most recent “reason to hate townhouse living”:  Next door neighbors who never say “No” to garlic.

4.    I think my dog Beckett is having some anxiety issues.  Or perhaps he is once again sublimating his rage by literally eating my home. Either way, this (below) used to be my upstairs carpet. (Note, if you are able, the plethora of chew toys, rawhide bones, and the long, blue unnamed rubber thing he has at his disposal all day.  And yet, he prefers the taste and texture that only a finely laid carpet can provide.)

5.    I've been trying like hell to fictionalize my memoir. Which was originally my MFA thesis. In general, memoirs just don't sell - not unless people already know who you are because you've either written a bunch of other stuff or achieved some kind of "celebrity" status or have managed to pull a well-timed Britney Spears in public. I don’t generally work in outlines, and I don’t generally prefer to work in outlines, but the truth is this: if how you work and how you generally prefer to work is getting you nowhere, then you may want to make a change. Unless Nowhere is the place you intend to hang your beret.

6.   
rs" could mean so many things. All of them bad, but all of them helpful in terms of publicity).

Anyway, I've been fighting the inevitable, and today -- I am choosing to embrace it. I. Am. Outlining. Chapter by chapter. Character by character. Plot point by plot point. The whole lot of it. It's not how I generally work, and not how I like to work, but the life lesson here is this: If how you generally work and how you like to work has gotten you nowehere, you may want to make a change. Unless Nowhere is the place you want to be.

Lesson learned. But just know this: I'm going in kicking and screaming and hoping to make it out alive.

My writing room wall is now covered with fresh, bare white poster board and I am armed with my index cards and highlighters and markers and post-its.

Bring it on, Left Brain.
I don’t believe in using words like “Never” and “Always.”  That said, I will never be a skilled user of emoticons.  And I will always rely too heavily on the “LOL” and the “Haha” in most of my electronic communications, just to make sure people don’t mistake my sarcasm for angrybitchy.  Even when angrybitchy is precisely what I’m going for.

7.    This morning, I saw a commercial ThiThis morning I saw a commercial for a drug whose name I can’t recall, but whose main side effect is Gynecomastia, which, loosely translated, means “the development of breasts in men.”  I don’t know what this drug is used to treat or what it’s other complications are, but I would like to order a year’s supply of the C-cup formula for myself. So $20 and my collection of training bras goes to the first person who can locate this medication by name and secure me a refillable prescription.

8.    It snowed last night. Not a lot.  I think there’s about an inch on the ground.  Even so, I hate it.  Or at least I did, until I watched Beckett frolic through it as if he’d never seen it before.  This is his third winter, but it doesn’t matter – everything with him is a new experience with a very simple message: I need to frolic more.

9.    I’ve started writing for a fantastic publication called Elephant Journal.  They posted one of my pieces yesterday and I have three more in the hopper waiting to go live. I write for the sake of writing. I am my own audience.  I have no aspirations to become a world famous novelist or a nonstop book touring, book signing phenomenon. That said, it’s nice to see my work existing outside the bowels of my own hard drive.

10. At some point in my life, I was told, or overheard, that a good way to “save” a really ripe banana was to peel and slice it, and then pop it in the freezer, where it would stop ripening and would last for a really long time.  Most people use the frozen slices in smoothies or breads. I just generally pop a few in my mouth when I want a quick bite of something sweet.  Problem is: at any given moment, my freezer is home to no less than ten ziplock baggies full of peeled banana slices. This is part of my selective hoarding condition that extends to a odd few food items (think: bananas, canisters of oatmeal, and cans of low sodium chick peas), several cleaning products, and, apparently, the multiple bottles of mouthwash taking up space on the bottom shelf of my bathroom closet.

That's all.

 

 

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Miss America brings out our true colors.




am so out of the beauty pageant loop that when I am interested enough in Miss America to Google "Miss America" something big better be happening.

For starters, I'm pissed that I just Googled "Miss America" at all, because I absolutely abhor every single thing these pageants represent. They are NOT "scholarship programs" or "enrichment opportunities" and the bottom line is, after a post-win appearance on the next day's Kelly Ripa show (target audience: no one), Miss America vanishes into obscurity until the following year, when we must all endure an interruption in our regular network programming so that yet another crop of beauties can parade around in butt glue and bra inserts in pursuit of the almighty crown. The only exceptions are the Miss Americas who end up busted on a drunken charge (a la Rima Fakih) or the ones who occasionally appear at children's hospitals or animal shelters for photo ops, even though no one remembers what their platforms were or what versions of world peace they promised to achieve (though such promises almost always involve some iteration of the phrase: "because looking better leads to doing better.")


But since everyone has been talking about the racist responses to this latest crowned beauty, I was interested in the story, and yeah, it is pretty awful. Aren't we all from "somewhere else"? My family is from Ireland and England, but neither I, nor my parents, nor their parents, nor THEIR parents ever lived in Ireland or England. It's just where we're "from." On another note, I, myself, was born in Germany. My father was stationed there in the Army, and I was born in an American Army hospital on "American soil" and am 100% American. So does where one was born impact whether one should be able to call him/herself American?


If you're going to hate on this woman - or any of these women - hate her because she makes a living, and a name for herself, by exploiting her body to win something that should be based on brains and values alone. Hate her because she is, by virtue of her "beauty queen" status, a natural role model for young girls everywhere, and she is using that power to perpetuate a patriarchal ritual that puts women on display, assembly line style, where they all look the same, with no size or shape variation, no age variations, no crooked noses or flat chests or bow legs or cellulite.


Or, better yet, wait a year, then look at what she's done with her title. See whether she is even worth hating.
Because maybe, just maybe, she'll be the first Miss America to ever actually help (not just take photographs with) sick children, or support literacy programs, or put on a pair of boots and work pants and hand out food to the poor.. Or maybe, just maybe, she will achieve world peace. And then won't all the haters feel stupid.


After all, this is the country where Casey Anthony and OJ Simpson and George Zimmerman got fair trials and, ultimately, their freedom. And they all killed people. Miss America, whoever she happens to be at any given moment, is not a public safety threat. She is merely a pastime. And sadly, this latest one is really bringing out America's true colors.




Sunday, August 4, 2013

Albany, New York is Not Your Friend.


 
Last week, a report in Conde Nast Traveler Magazine declared the city of Albany, New York the "13th most unfriendly in the world and seventh most unfriendly in the country."  Apparently, Albany is unhappy, and Albany is striking back.  I get it.  No one wants to be labelled, especially when the label is negative.  And especially when the negative label fits.
 
But here's the thing -- we have a saying in memoir that goes something like this (depending on which iteration you hear): "If you didn't want me to write 'bad stuff' about you, then you should have behaved better."

So for the sake of your own sanity, chill out, Albany. You're unfriendly. Big deal. I'm an absolute bitch if I don't get breakfast within an hour of my morning workout. (And let's face it, it's not as if a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of tea turns me into Mary Poppins.  It merely brings my bitchy to a more bearable moody that most people areound me can handle.) But getting all defensive when someone holds a mirror up to your face is super unattractive and really just makes you look like a monkey on a cupcake.
 
I recommend you just focus on responding to the increasing numbers of shootings and stabbings, and for the love of all that is holy please do something about the strange, unidentifable smell lurking in Center Square.  Don't get caught up in the business of being prom queen. Those girls usually end up with a bunch of kids and a cheating husband before age 30 anyway.  Accept that you are, for the most part, and with very few exceptions, an unwelcoming mecca of indifference and intolerance, and simply move on.  You have bigger things to worry about, like crime reduction and saved lives ... you know, the things that really matter.
 
Regards,
Hasky
 
P.S. I apologize for unintentilnally offending any former prom queens. I once shared the above prom queen opinion with a woman who had actually been a prom queen (20 years before) and who really needed me to know that not ALL former prom queens have a bunch of kids and a cheating husband. I tried to both apologize and clarify by being all "Touche, I hear you. Maybe it's just your cheating husband who has all the kids," but that only seemed to upset her more. I don't know why. Alimony versus a bunch of screaming kids? Silver linings and lemonade, folks. Silver linings and lemonade.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Reflections on the death of a child

It hurts my heart when even the death of a child can't stop us all for a moment, just a single moment, to say "How tragic. How unfair. How avoidable." And, most important of all, "I'm sorry."

There but for the grace of (whichever Deity you believe in) could go any child. I'm not naive enough to think I will ever live in a world where these tragedies don't happen. Tragedies like this will always happen. And we will always struggle to prevent them from happening, and to achieve equality, because that's what we're on this Earth for. It's what motivates us to go to school and college, to find jobs and go to work each day, to fall in love, to start families, to buy and care for our homes, to adopt pets, to make friends, to laugh and swim and pray and cry and even argue. We are wired to strive and succeed. Yet we are united in our desire for the very same thing: we all want happiness. Even though we live in a world where we all, each one of us, defines that term so differently, based on where we come from, where we are, and where we are going, we are all working toward some form of that seemingly elusive ideal.

But when our hearts and souls tell us that the best thing we can do in response to the death of a child is to lash out, to attack and offend and take pleasure in just how witty and flippant and verbally manipulative we can possibly be, then our hearts and souls become dark and empty places incapable of feeling for a grieving mother and father, or a terrified community, or a hurting world. I'm not suggesting we all go mute, or take a vow of silence, or fail to express our opinions, I'm just saying the tone and the timing of the ways in which we do this, to ourselves and to one another, are precisely how we live in a world where lives can be so casually taken every day without reflection or remorse.

I decided to go silent on all things "Zimmerman" because I don't think this national conversation is about him anymore. It is about the aftermath, about the ways in which we continue to divide like metastatic cells, attacking one another, attacking ourselves in the process, willing to endure the pain of division if it just might get our single voice heard among the masses. I don't want to be a loud voice anymore. I don't want to convince people to believe what I believe about this trial, or this child, or this child's parents. I know what I believe, even as I know I can never be completely "right" about any of this, because, like the rest of the world, I know only one-tenth of what happened in this particular case on that particular night. But still, my beliefs are un-swayable, and there is more power in that knowledge than in attacking and mocking others for refusing to let me control their way of thinking, too.

I wish for all of us a world that will someday come together over tragedies like this, instead of creating deeper chasms. I wish for all of us a world that will mourn together over the losses we share, instead of separating over our differences of opinion. I really wish for all of us a world that can respond to the death of a child, any child, under any circumstances, with a simple "How tragic. How unfair. How avoidable." And, most important of all, "I'm sorry." And finally, I wish for all of us a world where healing together becomes more important than suffering alone.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

A Pina Colada Mea Culpa

So I can be an enormous asshat sometimes. And here’s today’s reason #3,415 why:

When I came home a bit ago after agility training with Beckett and running errands (and getting stuck in roadwork traffic for about an hour) in 90 degree heat, I noticed that there were people moving into the recently-vacated apartment across from my back door. (I live in a flipping “townhouse community” so that one person’s living room faces another person’s backyard, which faces another person’s front balcony, etc. It’s all very Melrose Place without the pool or the love triangles or the hot looking people.)

Anyway, back to the reason why I’m a total asshat. My first reaction to all the noise and banging was: Fabulous. There goes the peace and quiet. Because aside from a few smokers and the occasional loud stereo, it’s usually super quiet around here, and I love it that way.

But then, I checked my initial reaction, because … hello? These people are MOVING. They are lugging and unpacking and lifting all their Earthly belongings in the very same oppressively sweltering, 90-degree heat that I just bitched about when I had to endure it while sitting in my air conditioned car. When did I become such an old woman? When did I become so self-involved that people who can’t move into a new home in complete silence somehow give me reason to complain? Am I going to turn into that nasty lady who slaps at kids with her broom on Halloween when they come to her door looking for candy?

Hell no!

I refuse to earn the reputation of being an asshat. If someone wants to call me an asshat, it will be because he/she likes the word and enjoys throwing it around as much as I do. NOT because the term applies, and NOT because the very essence of asshattedness fits me as perfectly as my favorite fitted running shorts. No sir. No ma’am. No asshats here, thank you very much.

 So, after some reflection and a sort of “I will not go gentle into that good, bitter night” determination, I just did what any self-centered person who prefers, instead, to be self-respecting would do – I walked Beckett over to the new tenants and introduced myself and asked if they needed any help. I also said they should probably meet Beckett now, since they were about to become his latest obsession through our sliding glass door, whether they liked it or not. That got quite a laugh. Most Beckettisms do. I only wish they were jokes but no ... they're pretty much my reality.  The last people who lived in the apartment had a little dog who inspired Beckett to chew a hole in the screen part of my "screened-in door" in an attempt to break free and go play.  I did the repairs on that myself, but, truth be told, it remains "the door formerly known as screened-in."

Anyway, as far as today's new tenants were concerned, they had things covered.  There were tons of trucks and people milling about, and everything seemed to be running pretty smoothly. Still, they thanked me and my 5’2”, 103 pound self for offering to lug, tote, push, pull, and do stuff, even as they probably wondered whether I could fold socks without falling over. It didn’t seem like the right time to randomly announce that I am training for another Healthplex bench press competition – since the goal of the visit was less self-focus, more other-focus.

And now we’re back home, the Schnoodle and I, and we’re even more grateful for our AC and our quiet day. (Well, I am. Beckett does just kind of expect these things now). And now I’m thinking about how it wasn’t even a year ago that I moved here, by myself, save for the few large items I paid some moving guys to deal with. So I still recall, very vividly, what a bear it is to move, to make that transition physically, mentally, financially. To not yet know which of your belongings goes where, and to be dealing with everything in the heat of summer while trying to beat the impending rain storms threatening to bear down again today. The least I could do for these people is show compassion, kindness, and a little understanding. The most I could do is what I am doing right now: in the absence of helping with the physical labor part of things, I’m making a batch of frozen pina colada “bites” (they’re alcohol free but oh so perfect for hot summer days) and I’ll bring them over in a bit just to say “Welcome” and “Let the asshat in Apartment 3 know if you need anything.”

Til next time,
Hasky

And, should you find yourself in need of a similar form of edible penance, I give to you the frozen pina colada bites recipe.  Modify as you wish for vegan or vegetatian preferences, food sensitivities, etc.  Then enjoy.

Pina Colada Bites
  • 1 1/4 cups graham cracker crumbs (about 16 squares)
  • 1/4 cup no-trans-fat 65% vegetable oil, spread stick or butter, melted
  • 1 tablespoon sugar
  • 1 quart (4 cups) vanilla no-sugar-added, reduced-fat ice cream, slightly softened
  • 1 can (8 oz) crushed pineapple in juice, undrained
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
  • 2 teaspoons coconut extract, if desired
  • 1/4 cup toasted* flaked coconut, if desired
  1. Heat oven to 350°F. In small bowl, mix cracker crumbs, vegetable oil spread and sugar. Press into ungreased 8-inch square glass baking dish. Bake about 10 minutes or until dry. Cool completely, about 1 hour.
  2. In large bowl, beat ice cream, pineapple with juice and extracts with electric mixer on low speed just until blended. Spread in baked crust. Freeze to desired firmness.
  3. Remove dessert from freezer about 5 minutes before serving. Sprinkle with coconut.

Friday, May 3, 2013

Getting there ... wherever that is.

I've been feeling better about life lately.  Or trying to.  Wanting to.  And I was wondering, today, what has caused this shift from "I enjoy negativity and all its trimmings" to "I just want to lighten up and enjoy myself."  It isn't a transition that I assume will happen quickly, or even completely, in my lifetime, but lately I notice moments - longer and longer at a stretch - where I actually feel content. Almost at peace.  And as I think about how this is happening, here's what I keep coming up with:

1 - No. More. Politics.  Period. This is particularly challenging, seeing as how my life
(at least my M-F, 8:30-6:30 life) is dictated by politics and political agendas and vote-getting decisions.  Still, I don't have to absorb any of it.  My to-do list at work is basically, unchangingly, the same, day after day, even though the content of it may change from year to year.  I need not invest my energy in nonsense.  I know how I feel and what I believe, and I'm not interested in putting forth the effort to recruit people to my way of thinking any more.  And chances are, at least when it comes to the big issues, no one will ever successfully recruit me over to the opposite side either.  So why dwell and stew and wrinkle my skin over things I can't control?

2 - My "me" time is becoming more and more sacred and more and more about me.  I refuse to be yolked to my cell phone anymore.  Not when I'm home.  Or out walking with Beckett. Or just simply being.  No more disappointment over calls that never arrive. No more obsessive checking for messages that never appear.  I'm my own company, and I'm content with that.  I've even decreased my Facebook frequency significantly, though that remains an addictive work-in-progress.  Still, I think the important thing is to seek out people who would kill to spend time with you rather than allow yourself to be sought out by people who are looking to kill time.

3 - I'm trying the honesty thing.  And lo and behold, it's working.  That's not to suggest that I was previously an untrustworthy liar or anything. But typically, when given the choice between respectfully but honestly stating my opinion or my needs or my desires and potentially putting someone else out or going against public opinion, I cave.  I sell myself out.  I pretend to like things I don't like, I pretend to want to do things I simply don't want to do.  Funny how a whole new world opens up when you ACTUALLY make the time for things you really DO enjoy, really DO want to do, because you aren't spending all your time living someone else's version of your life.

4 - I'm focused on health.  I'm trying to see my body as a collection of functioning, amazing parts that somehow manage to work together despite how badly I've abused them.  I often wonder if my very soul suffers from Stockholm Syndrome, because it has yet to abandon me even when given the chance.  I think this means that I actually have a little bit of unconditional self love going on or something. I'm working on cultivating that.  I think it's an important step toward happiness.

I guess that's all I've got for now.  Maybe there's more, but these seem to be the biggies.  And maybe it's a good thing that some stuff is coming more naturally, so that I actually have to stop and ask myself what it is I'm doing, instead of knowing, planned moment by planned moment, what I'm thinking and feeling.  I think happiness is something we all deserve, but I also think it's something we have to find for ourselves.  And I don't think there's anything wrong with pulling a chair up to that table, holding out one's plate, and asking for a huge helping of the stuff.  I don't even think there's anything wrong with asking for seconds.  And doggie bags.  And leftovers.  There's plenty to go around, enough to feed us all, and more than we could ever possibly consume in our lifetimes.  So belly up, friends.  And bon appetit.

Til next time,
Hasky

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Just some things I realized this week


I have developed an addiction to Pinterest.  I know lots of people suffer similar addictions, but here's the thing: I don't cook.  I don't sew. I don't own a home. I'm not crafty.  I don't have kids or a partner.  I simply scroll through other people's lives and covet their food and their homes and their families and their ability to sort of "have it all."  It's pretty damn mesmerizing and time consuming.  Come to think of it, maybe my Pinterest addiction is somehow connected to my own empty life.  Why live it when you can watch it?  Or something like that.

It's the end of April and I'm still freezing.  I actually wore gloves to the dog park yesterday afternoon.  And yet, while I stood there wrapped as if for a late fall day, I was eaten alive by black flies.  How very incongruous that was.  I can't help but feel like this is Mother Nature's way of flipping us all the bird.  I don't know what her problem is, but as my own personal brand of rebellion, I am thinking of chucking a #2 plastic bottle out of my car window at an illegally high rate of speed and yelling "Save yourself, Mother Nature!"  This is merely a fantasy of course, since I cannot tolerate littering or people who engage in it.  Still, it's fun to dream.

The other day when I took Beckett for a walk at the Crossings, I watched a little boy of about 4 years old pointing and jumping and wildly telling his father about the ducks in the pond.  "Daddy, they're swimming!" he screamed.  Followed by "They're coming right toward us!"  Sad thing is, daddy was so busy texting, with his phone in his face and his back to his little boy, that all he could honestly do - and all he made the effort to do - was nod halfheartedly while mumbling "Uh huh.  Good deal, bud."  I don't know who I felt sorrier for, the little boy, whose father clearly couldn't be bothered, or the father, who will someday know the pain of an adult child who can't be bothered, either.  Whatever the case, texting while your kid is begging for your attention?  Shitty parenting move, 100% of the time.  As the years go by, don't even waste your time pretending to wonder why your kid doesn't call or come home when given the choice.  Kids never forget anything.

There truly are two kinds of people in this world:  People who watch and people who do.  I think both have value. I guess the trick is being the right kind of person at the right time.

I'm trying very hard to take a news-and-politics moratorium. It may be overly indulgent to decide that I simply don't want to sit glued to my television and computer watching day after day of gruesome violence and destruction and scandal, but there it is.  I'm checking out of it all for as long as my "need to know" mentality will allow.

I'm putting the final, FINAL (she said, for the millionth time) finishing touches on my thesis and dropping it in the mail to my thesis reader this weekend. About two weeks early. Because why not? I think it's ready, even though I'm not. And I guess that's the lesson for this week, folks - learning when to let go of something, knowing when it's time, when it's right, when every cue the universe is sending seems to be saying the same thing: "Let.Go." I actually wrote on someone's Facebook page yesterday, in response to a quote she had posted: "Accepting and releasing are the two essentials to living a free and authentic life."  Then I had one of those "Did I actually say that?" moments when I read it back and realized I generally don't live my life that way - I suck at releasing anything, even when that thing is serving me in a negative way, or not at all, and is well past its expiration date. And acceptance?  Well, that one remains as abstract as Pi. Still, I figure I have a better shot at learning acceptance than solving Pi, so I persevere.

Happy freezing cold last week in April!

Til next time,
Hasky




Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Trusting Instincts




Yesterday was a Sunday like any other - I was working on my Masters thesis and transferring various loads of laundry from washer to dryer and contemplating vacuuming my house instead of watching The Golden Girls marathon on tvland (The Golden Girls won, by the way) when I remembered that my dog Beckett was out of his favorite beef-flavored treats. Since there is very little Beckett can eat thanks to a finicky digestive system that is probably the combined result of his slow-to-develop “runt of the litter” organs and my reliance on the most natural (read: most expensive) foods and treats on the market, I didn’t want him to go through the week without the little freeze dried chews he looks forward to whenever he goes into his crate. So, even though I contemplated staying inside where it was warm and quiet, my “mommy guilt” got the best of me as I grabbed Beckett’s harness and leash. “Wanna go to Petco?” I asked. An unnecessary question, since I could barely get him into the car he was so excited.

The second we walked into the store, Beckett, who has memorized the layout and is, like me, a creature of habit, dragged me over to our regular first stop: the ferret cages. We always visit them first, and he loves to stand on his hind legs and peer at them while they slither around and play with each other and pretend to ignore him. He whines and paws and seems to think they can’t see him, though I suspect they fancy themselves better than him, as they turn their little noses up toward the ceiling and go about the business of simply being ferrets. As usual, though, his attention for the ferrets was short-lived yesterday, and within minutes he was pulling me toward the bird cages. Once again, he was on his hind legs, front paws in the air, head titling from side to side whenever the birds tweeted at him. I can never tell whether he is happy or sad to be outside their cages while they are locked inside, and I often wonder, when I look at him wanting so desperately to play with his little friends, which side seems more like captivity to him.

After Beckett sniffed a cute little cocker spaniel and failed to amuse an older, lethargic looking golden retriever, I finally coaxed him into the “cookie aisle” where he enjoyed his usual sniffing expedition of all the rawhides and meat-scented chewy things displayed at nose level. While I searched for the correct package and contemplated a new brand of biscuits, Beckett smelled and groaned and did his best to lick everything his little tongue could reach. Finally, I pulled the regular cookies off the shelf and did my best to tug Beckett toward the cash register. As usual, I had planned on a quick in-and-out, and, as usual, Beckett had planned on tasting everything (and everyone) in his midst.

As we headed to the front of the store, I stopped to price a package of squeaky toys hanging on the end of an aisle. And that was when a woman who looked to be about my age approached me.

“He’s a sweet dog,” she smiled and nodded toward Beckett, who by then was frantically pawing at the pork bones just beyond his paws.

I thanked her, always worrying that I sound immodest when I admit that I actually do, in fact, have the sweetest dog on the planet.

“Is he good with children?” she went on. I wasn’t expecting that question, so I stuttered a bit before responding that, yes, he loves children, though he tends to jump and lick any person short enough to serve as a potential playmate, so perhaps not all children would agree that Beckett is, to quote the woman, "good."  In fact, he can be quite the jumper/licker/freaker-outer, at times.

“Well, my little boy … was wondering ...” she hesitated. “He asked if he could pet the black doggie. So I just thought I’d see …”

“Oh of course he can,” I replied, saving her from what seemed to be an awkwardness I couldn’t quite understand. After all, I was dressed in my Sunday sweat pants, unimposing pony tail, feeling relaxed and approachable and open to conversation (which isn’t always the case, I admit with some regret), so I wasn’t sure where her discomfort was coming from.

Until her son walked around the corner. He was a beautiful little boy dressed in overalls and a turtleneck. He had a sweet, diamond-shaped face that looked too small for his large, square glasses. And he would not – could not – look at me, even when I said hello. He did, however, fix his gaze on Beckett while he pointed and repeated “pet the black doggie, pet the black doggie, pet the black doggie” over and over and over again.

“Yes,” his mother said. “You can pet the black doggie.”

Then she looked at me, seeming to struggle for words, until she was finally able to explain that her adorable son, who is seven, was diagnosed with autism several years ago. She and her husband had been wanting to get him a therapy dog, but he was so terrified of dogs that he become inconsolable and often aggressive anytime a dog was nearby. On the advice of one of the child’s counselors, the parents had been bringing him to Petco as a way of gradually exposing him to leashed, well-behaved dogs in a controlled environment, and so far, the mother told me, it had been working pretty well. The little boy could now walk through the store, could see and hear and even be in the same aisle with another dog, and not get upset. “Most of the time,” she added with a chuckle.

“But your dog is the first one he has ever wanted to pet,” she almost whispered. She was trying not to cry, and, in all honesty, I was fighting back some tears myself.

“How wonderful,” was all I could manage, before squatting a safe distance away from the little boy so I didn’t crowd him. “His name is Beckett,” I said. “And he would love for you to pet him.”

Inside I was panicking. At seventeen months of age, Beckett is just now coming to terms with some of his training – probably because, after fifteen months as Beckett’s mom, I have finally learned how to train him (which first involved training myself). Even so, he still suffers occasional lapses, particularly in public places where he is overstimulated and more than willing to suffer the inevitable “Time Out” later for the sheer pleasure of misbehaving now. But this moment was critical. A lapse for Beckett could become a lifelong fear of dogs that this little boy would always trace back to today.

As I thought about all the things that could go wrong in this scenario, imagining every possible negative outcome, I suddenly realized that Beckett had stopped sniffing and pulling and begging for the bones and toys spilling out of the rack above him. Instead, while I had been talking to the boy’s mother, Beckett had been sitting perfectly still, staring at the little boy, the little boy staring back at him, both of them looking away from each other now and then, but neither of them reacting to anything outside of whatever communication they were having. Not even when other dogs walked by.

So I did the only thing I could do. I knelt beside Beckett and said “It’s ok, buddy. Approach.” I was ready to pull his leash tight if he started to jump, but I could see, without a doubt, that he knew. He couldn’t jump. Not this time. And he wouldn’t. Instead, he approached the little boy slowly, gently, pushing his nose toward the tiny, outstretched hand until, eventually, child and dog touched. The little boy wiggled his fingers and Beckett licked them. The little boy waved his arms and Beckett followed them. The little boy crossed his legs and Beckett laid beside them. The little boy put his hands in his lap, and Beckett rested his head on top of them.

And we stayed like this, in silence, for twenty minutes. There was nothing else in the world except a mother and me, watching a little boy stroke Beckett’s head, his back, his tail.

“We’ve been working on this for years,” was all she seemed able to say. Though she was doing better than I was, as I stood there speechless, relieved, proud, inspired.

Before we parted, I gave the mom my phone number and told her that I would be happy to arrange get-togethers between her son and Beckett, if she thought it would help. She thanked me and assured me that she would call. And I hope she does. But more than anything, I hope that this beautiful little boy will now be open to the possibility of a therapy dog, and I like to think, if he is, that maybe Beckett had something to do with that.

It’s funny how, even though instinct never fails me when I pay attention to it, I often doubt myself and others, always letting my fears interrupt the natural flow of things. Thankfully, Beckett knew what to do yesterday. And, despite my panic, I knew it was time to let him try. Even the mother who approached me knew that, scary as it was, she had to let her son pet a strange dog, and she had to have faith that he would be alright. Still, it was the little boy who taught all of us to put away our worries and our preconceived ideas and our fears about what may have happened in the past. To simply experience that single moment, when his instincts told him that Beckett was safe, when his instincts told me that all I needed to do was believe in my dog and trust that he would do the right thing. I am so glad I listened.