Carrots

A week ago today was my dad's birthday.

We celebrated it in the hospital with a balloon, wall decorations, and cake for the nurses. I was nervous about recognizing his birthday. I was worried it would make him sad and I wanted to protect him from potentially painful nostalgia. But my mom, brave and bold, went to the car, got the supplies, and decorated my dad's hospital room while he slept. It was time to celebrate my daddy's birthday, dammit, and no amount of misfortune or trauma could prevent that. I was inspired by my mom's ability to persevere with one of life's beloved rituals despite the chaotic suffering that has hijacked my dad's life and smothered my little family.

One of the most uncomfortable lessons I am learning from this chronically devastating life experience is the terrifying fact that

No matter how much you hurt, life still goes on.

Seasons change and birthdays pass. The lawn grows long and the dead leaves pile up. The roof leaks and the cars need maintenance. The business trips come and go while my panic attacks ebb and flow. And all along, no matter what happens, my dad's vegetable garden continues to grow.

My dad. He loves to grow things. He is a patient and empathetic grower and tender of outdoor life. He has this quirky yet dignified grace about it. Like the time he duct taped spikes (Was it golf tees? Or maybe it was nails on boards?) onto the soles of his Docksider shoes in an effort to aerate our lawn. He walked around for a long time, stomping these little holes. I am not certain how effective the result, but this project demonstrated my dad's patience, grace, and quirky inventive spirit.

My dad buys little paper packets of seeds at Kraemer's True Value Hardware, and then he plants them in mismatched pots that (to my mother's obliging delight) decorate the side of our garage. I was so excited to see the vegetable pots this year. He labeled them with dates and contents and lined them up on the driveway on the side of the house. The last time I had seen this kind of vegetable growing enthusiasm was one summer when I was a kid and the two of us were such giddy green thumbs that we planted 37 pots and let them grow on the deck all summer long. My mom really liked that project.

For the past three months, we have fostered my dad's peas, radishes, carrots, flowers, and corn - yes, my dad grew corn in a pot - and it became a sort of honored ritual while he is away. Each night, we put the heavy pot of corn in the garage. We put the pot of corn on a dolly so that it could be rolled in and out day and night to be protected from the raccoons.

Now that it's fall, we have "harvested" the corn and picked the veggies.

This past weekend, my mom, brother, and I went through the task of attacking the outdoor projects that normally belong to my dad. My mom pulled up the plants, my brother checked the gutters, and I gathered leaves. I vacuumed my car, which has always been a task that my dad has taken care of - a gift for me just for being his kid. Doing my dad's tasks required a stiff upper lip. I felt teary when I saw his tools, his twine, and his pile of firewood for s'mores.

As my mom went around the house mechanically pulling out plants with the speed and precision that only moms possess, she came across a surprising discovery. In one of my dad's veggie pots, the carrots had grown to an actual edible size. This was surprising for us as we had not expected the "harvest" to yield much vegetable bulk. But there were 35 carrots that had grown in that pot. They had grown up to be real carrots in the three months since my dad has been in the hospital.

Ouch. There was something that stung about this carrot discovery. It was like coming across an unfinished game of chess on the deck of the Titanic. These carrots were my dad's. This was his project. And now, my God, what a grave responsibility to do the right thing with them. Do we cook them? Do we freeze them? Do we put them on display? Oh, the agony of discovering those unexpected carrots.

The only thing I could do to swallow my grief was to swallow some bites of carrot. I washed the dirt off one with the ice cold autumn hose water, and then I crunched into it with sniffling resignation. I felt I should be eating these carrots with my dad. For a moment I was distracted by the delightful flavor. The crunch of the carrot was extremely delicious - sweet and almost spicy in its natural goodness. We brought the largest carrot to the hospital to show my dad. He nodded in somber acknowledgment. When I told him that I discovered the half used packets of seeds on the garage shelf, we both teared up in a shared sense of homesickness and longing.

See, this is what I want to tell you. You won't know this until it might be too late, so perhaps you should consider it now.

My advice is to notice the everyday things about the people you love.

Notice the details, like the way they fold their clothes or the kind of toothpaste they use. Observe the people you love while they are doing the utmost banal of tasks, like washing the dishes, watering the plants, or cleaning out the gutters. While you watch your people, just allow yourself to overflow with gratitude. Feel yourself bursting at the seams with love. Go look at the messy bathroom sink of the person you love. Look at the items in use and celebrate this living display of everyday life. Savor the everyday artifacts of the people you love and just appreciate them as hard as you can.

I go in my dad's closet, and I run my fingers over his perfectly folded sweaters. I file through his handsome suit coats that he wore to church. I operate his electric tie and belt rack. I try on his Croc sandals and... I just miss him... so much. See, it's the little things. It's the normal things. It's the minutiae that make people uniquely lovable. In the end, it is so simple.

If I could take my dad home and have him whole and healthy for just one night from the hospital, I would simply go with him on a walk. We would walk in our favorite neighborhood park. Simple. I would just be with him. Simple. If I could have one more wish, after our walk, my dad and I would stand by the bread board in the kitchen and eat the carrots from his vegetable garden. Simple. We would stand there and chit chat and comment on the surprising success of this crop of carrots. Simple. I would give him a hug, tell him how I am so proud of him for being so brave and strong (I do this everyday anyway), and then I would just appreciate the idea that we were together in the same space, under the same roof, enjoying a simple night.

Noodles. (Revisited)

I had a strange coincidence happen tonight. The coincidence involves self esteem and noodles in a cup.

The last time I ate Noodles in a Cup was a Friday night, February 20, 2009. I know this because I wrote about it in a post called Friday Night Noodles In A Cup. In this post I poked fun at myself and my single life. I compared myself to my married brother who was going to Mexico with his wife. I pretty much summed up my feelings of inadequacy in the fact that I was eating convenient store noodles alone while watching the movie Ray in my dark messy apartment on a Friday night.

Fast forward eight months to this evening. I got home late to Uptown tonight after conducting an ethnographic interview way out in the suburbs. I interviewed a 29-year-old guy who owned a house and was in a three year committed relationship. This interview represented the same pattern that several of the interviews from this project have followed: I keep meeting these people who are my age or younger and they have opposite lives from me. They are married, they own homes, and they are almost boringly confident about what lies ahead in life.

One of the things I like about my job is that I get to see inside the lives of strangers and I am allowed the privilege of knowing their private thoughts, dreams, and challenges. One of the things I dread about my job is that I get to compare myself to the lives of strangers and I analyze my own life against their private thoughts, dreams, and challenges.

I cringe when people use this technique in writing because it should be saved for sixth grade essays and high school speeches, but let's roll with it: The definition of compare is: To examine the character or qualities of especially in order to discover resemblances or differences. However, if used as an intransitive verb, one definition of compare is:

To be equal or alike.

Hmm. This definition is oddly fitting for the activity I am referring to here which is comparing myself to others.

Without sounding like a braggart, I am a master at comparing myself to others and then kicking the shit out of my self-esteem when I inevitably do not appear equal or like them.

If my job does not offer enough ammunition for comparing myself to others, there is always Facebook ready and willing, 24/7 to complete the task. A constant, real-time stream of photos and 'status' updates, where someone out there is always guaranteed to be getting pregnant, becoming engaged, or wrapping up their graduate degree. But that someone somewhere is never me.

Somehow my life becomes a blank void as I scroll through pages of so-called friends at happy baseball games. Digital photographs reveal people out for drunk nights on the town, brand-new crusty babies with awkward joyful moms, and reunions with enormous groups of former high school buddies. I mindlessly click my mouse through entire albums titled "Other People's Weddings" and I gasp with shame over not having attended a single friend wedding in over five years.

Did I not make enough friends along the way? How do these other people have 15 weddings to attend this summer? Why don't I own a house yet? How did she get so skinny? How did he get an advertising job in Seattle? How come I wasn't invited to that Thanksgiving gathering? When did all these people become grown-ups? Where did all these people meet their fucking mates? How come they knew what to do and I didn't! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME!?

Stop.

Stop, stop.

Stop it.

This is the sound of the inside of my skull. This voice that just berates my self-esteem. If at these berating moments, my self-esteem had a Facebook profile picture, it would be of an awkward overweight Dachshund with a pink frilly collar. The image would be shameful and sad.

Last night I had a long talk with an out-of-town friend and I put words to the root of my problem for the first time. I told him that, "The reason I get so overwhelmed when I meet others and their lives are different from mine is because I feel like I missed some information somewhere. And I believe that the reason I missed this information along the way is because I used to think that I was special. Then, somewhere when I had my back turned and was too busy being "special", others caught up to me and left me behind in the dust."

I have held this belief this for a long time, but the elitist nature of the thought felt too embarrassing to discuss.

Today when I got home from my long day of interviewing and, [...ahem...], comparing myself to others, I was too tired to make dinner, so I randomly made a cheapo cup of noodles from the convenient store. I hadn't thought of the fact that the last time I ate the noodles was when I wrote about my life as a single person eating noodles alone on a Friday night back in February.

As my noodles marinated in boiling water for the suggested three minutes, I sat down to check emails. I had an unexpected email from my friend who I had spoken to the night before. I had to read the email three times just to make sure that it sunk in.

The meaning of it was to remind me that I should not forget that I have just as interesting and meaningful a life as those who I compare myself to. It is just that my life is different from theirs. In fact, a married young mom might feel envious of my footloose, jet-setting and haphazard freestyle living. My friend reminded me not only of this grass is always greener concept, but also that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing right now. I got a tingle of unexpected serenity when I read a sentence in the last paragraph of this email.

"We cannot let our judgement of ourselves, or the 'where we should be' factor strangle us. We are always EXACTLY where we should be, as uncomfortable and as unwanted those places sometimes are. We are there because we were meant to be there."

It made me dizzy with relief to be able to begin to consider the notion that I might actually (lonely Cup Of Noodles and all) not be behind, not be a failure, not be a soon-to-be-spinster, but simply just right where I am supposed to be.

The Things Left Undone

I walk out the front door of my parent's house and I gaze out at the lush green yard and the strategically placed plants. I quietly take in the scene, looking for clues.

I am looking for evidence. For signs of life. I am trying to find places that my dad has touched - places that are preserved in time from before his surgery in July. Today is the 60th day that my dad has been in a hospital bed, and I do not know what is going to happen to him.

I feel sad when I find our s'mores sticks near the portable firepit in the backyard. They are covered in cobwebs and mildew from months of inactivity on the s'more front. I look at those s'more sticks and I consider the fact that they are actually a third generation model. My dad had previously tried a few contraptions with coat hangers, but we found that those just conducted heat and made the marshmallows melt off.

I feel overwhelmed when I see the dead leaves amassing under the huge trees. In my mind's eye, I picture my dad with the leaf blower and the big black plastic bags, herding the four-foot piles of red, brown, and orange crumblings. Who is going to do the leaves this year? Me? My mom? Some pitying neighbor boy?

I have had a lot of time to think about what it means to lose someone you love. I keep trying out the idea, for fear that if I do not get practice in now, I will be punched in the nose if that time comes and I am not prepared. I have learned that the smallest things can make you miss a person because they are evidence of a time when things were normal and even boring. I now know that experiencing boredom is one of life's luxuries.

The somewhat boring part of my dad's life, in my mind, has been his "projects." Like any dad, my dad is always doing projects inside and outside the house. I used to feel bad, especially when he had multiple projects going that seemed to be making slow progress. But now I realize how talented my dad is at those tasks, and how much he loves them.

My mom and I went to the hardware store today. Last night as I watched her shuffle through mail, my heart broke when I saw her pull out the coupons to Kraemer's True Value Hardware, my dad's favorite neighborhood store. I felt sad to see my mom doing something my dad would normally do. I also felt sad because going to Kraemer's is just one of those special dad memories. I used to go to Kraemer's with my dad and the first thing we would do when we walked in was take a big whiff of that lovely do-it-yourself hardware scent.

Walking into the store with my mom felt awkward. We initially could not find what we needed, and we had to figure out the best value on plastic lawn bags for gathering leaves. My stomach knotted up in anticipation for all that lay ahead of us - Fall, Winter, Christmas and the whole holiday to-do. My mom and I both felt it, but we said nothing. How do we function without having dad around?

I have been missing my dad when I see the projects he would be working on right now. The leaky roof, the dying plants, the overgrown lawn. Today when I walked out the front door, I happened upon a project that sacked me in the stomach and deflated the wind in my lungs.

The Christmas Tree Lights.

My dad has had this meticulous (I would add never-ending and quasi-pathetic) project going on for sometime. He has been untangling the Christmas lights from our massive pine trees in the front lawn. Being that he puts them up again each and every Christmas, I am not sure what the end goal is in taking them down. I spot some tools and hanging reds and yellows. I decide to duck underneath our massive trees and have a look. I am momentarily stricken by the way in which this project was left so haphazardly in mid-progress. It's as if my dad took a lunch break and decided to leave his tools, ladder, and strewn Christmas lights just laying around until he got back. Was he working on this the day before his surgery? Did he think that he would get back to this project in a mere two weeks time?

My first year out of college, I had a big corporate job that gave me money that I didn't know what to do with. My college loans had not kicked in, I had no credit card debt, no car, and I lived at home with my mom and dad. It was a tough time for me and I was pretty depressed. I was dreading Christmas. But that was the year that I decided to give my dad a big Christmas gift.

I thought that this might be a dream come true for my dad. I wrote him a $300 check and told him to use it to rent a cherry picker to put up the Christmas lights on the pine trees in the front yard. This was the most wonderfully bizarre and extravagant thing we could think of, and my dad actually did it. I remember the beep beep beep sound of the truck backing up as my dad aligned it just right. My mom, who is considerably afraid of heights, could not watch as my dad maneuvered himself from many feet in the sky while decorating the trees. The neighbors looked on in curiosity, confusion, and probably horror. My brother and I made several references to National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

I have learned so much in the past few months. I think the most important thing I have learned is the true worth of a human life. There are things that only my daddy can do. There are things that only your daddy can do. There are things that I uniquely alone can do for my family and friends, and vise versa. Why does it take an unexpected chronic illness for me to fully comprehend and appreciate this?

I will continue to tip toe around my parent's house, looking for clues. I will keep noting the things that are unique to my dad, and hope beyond hope that he can tend to them again. I will make a commitment to view the man in the hospital bed as the same dad I have always known. He is that same man who stayed at my college art department with me until 4AM, helping me build frames for my paintings. He is the same man who goes on walks with me and comments on cozy-looking houses at night. He is the same man who eagerly drives to my apartment to bring me home for pizza dinner. He is the same man who takes the time to answer every question and allay all worries. He is the same man who knows Kraemer's True Value Hardware by heart. He is the same man who untangles Christmas lights from our pine trees.

He is the same man. He always is. He is my dad.

Business Traveler Chronicles – Hotel Room Vertigo

I am sitting at my hotel room desk past my bedtime and I have a raging headache. I think it is because I drank a stale beer from the mini bar.

In addition to my headache, my psyche is just getting slapped in the face with harsh realities after I made the bad choice of ordering a $15.99 in-room romantic comedy. Here's a tip: If your life is going well, romantic comedies add a bounce to your step and reaffirm your happiness, but if your life is in the gutter, romantic comedies make you feel like shit.

Other things going on in my hotel room at the moment... I have a toilet that takes a long time to quiet down. Like the first time I flushed it, I was poised to call someone up here to look at my running toilet, but I really did not want to have to go to those lengths. I walked over to the bed to see if the noise would keep me up tonight. Just when I realized that the running toilet was indeed loud enough to awaken my insomnia, the toilet stopped, and I was glad that no hotel maintenance person would have to destroy my detached sense of isolation in room 1512.

Hotel room living is just plain weird. You have weird thoughts and weirder insights that you just cannot achieve in the comfort of your messy apartment.

Hotel rooms have full length mirrors all over the place. This causes you to analyze yourself at odd moments, like when you are brushing your teeth naked and you are late to go meet with your client. You stand there, dripping cold shower drops onto the industrial carpet, and you sadly consider the fact that yes, you do indeed look even fatter than you did the last time you stayed here.

Hotels rooms give you a false sense of power. When you are in a hotel for business, you get to order room service without guilting over the astronomical added charges. 22% gratuity? That's table stakes for working with the Fortune 500's, baby. Yes, ma'am. I am here on b-u-s-i-n-e-s-s.

At least, that's how I used to feel.

Now? Oh, I get teary eyed with homesickness for a plain peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Before dragging myself to bed, I endlessly toil with my toothbrush, trying in vain to scrape out the ever-present taste of overly seasoned food and garlic. It is the taste, the essence that all business travel food exhibits.

It is the taste of eating out, it is the taste of airplane and airport food, it is the taste that lingers in your raw tired mouth like a cheap perfume.

You cannot get that taste out. In fact, it won't part with the insides of your mouth until you have flown home, passed out in your bed, and woken up late on a Saturday to eat cereal and drink coffee in your pjs by the TV. A friend or a family member suggests dining out, and your stomach churns just remembering that tongue paste that makes the roof of your mouth raw. No, you say, I am so sick of going out to eat.

When you stay in a hotel room, you have a 3' x 2' box you call home. Your suitcase. Early on you decide if it is going to be one of those trips where you impress even yourself with your Forrest Gump-like neat and tidiness, or if you are going to be a hell raiser and chuck dirty underwear around the room while responding to emails. You might say something like, "Fuck folding!" or, you might be feeling anal retentive and make your bed before house cleaning arrives. Both behaviors are valid. It may just depend on what city you are in and whether or not you are feeling solid with your travel working-out routine (if you even have a travel workout routine).

Probably the strangest element of hotel living is the Temporary Post-Slumber Amnesia Effect. This is that special, terrifying moment that most business travelers know about. I remember my dad used to talk about it when he was a business consultant. It is that rare occasion when you have been caught in the throes of a deep slumber, and you wake only to find that you have no idea where you are. You also have no idea who you are. You are simply blank, claustrophobic, and increasingly terrified. You experience a few seconds of Hotel Room Vertigo, then your alarm starts blaring, and you roll your eyes with lonely recognition.

Whoever invented the mini bar was a sympathetic person who understood the ins and outs of Hotel Room Vertigo. Sometimes you need the opportunity to crack open a stale beer and let your brain swell into a nice thick headache while you just contemplate...your life...in...hotel rooms.

Nobody Knows

My Dad. His hands. His striped shirts. His smile.

I wish we would have let the tumor stay. I wish I could have convinced my family to take him to Mexico for Gerson Therapy. My Dad was totally normal then. I feel like we have failed him. I feel like the system has failed him. It brings on tides of grief and guilt so strong I can't stand in the current. How could we have failed him so hard? What should I have done differently?

There is so much anger in me. I am mad at all of you. You normal people who talk of exotic trips and visits to the mall. I loathe your normal, boring existence. I hope for the day when we trade places so that you can understand my pain. Nobody understands unless they too have experienced the agony of chronic life threatening illness. Nobody knows what it's like unless they have seen a parent stare off in absent suffering. 

Nobody knows.

I turned up the heavy metal and I cursed God. I cursed his son, too. I am angry at them for allowing this grotesque catastrophe to happen to my family.

Thoughts Above The Clouds

Above the clouds. Flying from Houston to Minneapolis on September 11, 2009

I look out the Emergency Window, and the sky is so grey that I cannot see past the wing. I am flying in a DC-9 that is taking me home from my week of work in Texas. We are flying through thick, endless clouds.

One of the things about business travel that my dad and I like to talk about is the experience of breaking through the clouds to see the blue sky above. We especially like those early morning flights, where you are rewarded for enduring weeks of gloomy Minnesota Winter when you take off and get up into that milky, warm, sun kissed purple dawn.

On the current flight, the blue sky ain't coming. It is already 20 minutes post-take-off and we are stuck in high hanging meteorological muck. I tell myself not to get nervous - that the blue ozone is still somewhere up there where the weather system cannot reach. But it gets claustrophobic watching my reflection stare back at me, bouncing off the opaque sky.

I temporarily distract myself. I take out my Pop-Buddhist-Feel-Good book and learn about present mind and awareness. I look back out at the sky, frustrated that I am not getting my fix. It's like sucking down a stiff drink and getting zero buzz.

Where is my blue sky, dammit?

Resigning myself to the fact that, yes, we could indeed be flying through clouds at 35,000 feet for the next two hours, I let go of my expectant hopes for a sound release.

Then, suddenly.

It's like I have finally gotten to that point where I am no longer holding in my breath to keep the airplane up, and I happen to glance to my left.

That's when I see this.

Like cold ice cubes hitting a blue slushy, the sky is suddenly split into a blue frosting and white cream layer cake. Ah ha. There she is. My blue sky. Then comes the familiar urge to capture this moment, but the only camera on me is my iPhone. I risk it and turn on my phone, then quickly switch it to airplane mode. I snap a pic of my ozone sighting, then diligently turn my phone off.

Then, once the moment is captured, I put in my headphones and soak up the view. What comes next are the thoughts. I get these thoughts. They are different than normal thoughts on land. These are thoughts that can only come at cruising altitude above 30,000 feet. These are the thoughts I get above the clouds.

I have always been this way, ever since I was little. When I ride on airplanes, my mind switches to some strange analog mode where I see life differently. The whole world is down there, and I am all the way up here.

My mind languidly flows over memories and future fantasies. I lose track of what is pressing and "important." I see things at what Business Bullshit Bingo calls, "The 30,000 foot level" for all aspects of my life.

• Have I found my vocation or is it yet to come?
• Will I ever find someone and get married?
• Am I destined to do something great?
• Am I completely missing the point of all of This?

The thoughts above the clouds are like a gift from my subconscious to my conscious. It's like my subconscious says, "Here, Conscious. Take a hit of this shit. You will totally forget your piddily dink worries and you might have some space in your head for some real thinking."

When it is time to come back down through the clouds and land, my conscious mind comes back. But it is always altered in some way. I have a different view on this or that. I decide that I really could make my life much easier if I just bought groceries...I wonder about why I avoid simple self-improvement when I know it is holding me back...I find myself in a changed position and, if I hold onto the above the cloud thoughts, I know I can move my life forward in a better direction.

It took a long time to get above the clouds today. It was fittingly metaphorical because my life sure has a lot of fog, clouds, and general lack of visibility at the moment. But, what do you know, that blue sky was still somewhere waaaaay up there, just waiting for me to visit it.

It has been a long while, but, I saw it. I saw that mass of open space of indigo ozone where my head could open up, clear its hard drive and sluff off the dead skin for some fresh thinking.

Nightmare Journeys: Spitting Out Broken Teeth And Death In A Burning Car

They're baaaaack.

My nightmares. They visited me this morning. This is going to be an awful post, so do not read on unless you like graphic stuff.

The scene was perfectly set for some gut wrenching bad dreams. Last night I went dancing with my friend, Amy, then fell asleep on her hard futon until exactly 5:11 AM. I folded myself into my Jetta, and drove home on the quiet streets of Uptown. I managed to wash my face and put on some pjs before crawling into bed at 5:43 AM.

The dreams... They started with a classic anxiety show. It began with a broken tooth. I spit it out in my hand, and looked at the shard of white enamel and grey filling. Then more broken teeth started coming out. My mom was there. She had me spit the broken teeth into the palm of her hand. It didn't hurt, but I remember becoming increasingly concerned as more teeth came out. Just this big pile of tooth shards was amassing in her hand. I told myself not to panic and just to get it all out. So I just kept spitting out all my broken teeth.

In the next scene, I was setting up a tent on a hill. It was storming and rain was pouring down. I was waiting for some campers to join me. I got soaked in my tent. I remember that I was feeling this creeping dread as I was waiting for some news about my family. I knew something was very wrong.

Next scene... Sitting at a long table, my dad was there, and maybe some lawyers. We were learning the awful news that my mom had been killed by either her Bridge Group or the Women's Club. They had burned her alive in a car. Then I learned that my aunt had also been killed, in some related scenario. I could not believe the news. I could not understand why they would have killed her and how my aunt could have died at the same time. My two women, GONE.

Next I was in the balcony of a church by myself. I was so grief-stricken that I considered that it might be too hard to live the rest of my life. I was thinking about my mom, about how I had no idea of what she would want for her funeral. I thought about how her dad died when she was young. Then I realized that I would eventually have to get rid of her stuff, and I didn't think I could bring myself to do it. I decided that I would select a suitcase-worth of her things and that would be what I would keep.

I was missing my aunt – I wanted to talk to her. I was trying to get in touch with my cousins. Apparently part of my aunt's death was connected to the fact that my cousin Matthew had not sold enough cookies out of the excuse that he had dance class, but then these murderers discovered that Matthew had only attended dance three times.

Next I was at a convenient store in a car with some girl. I was trying to make myself look presentable for some family reunion we would be attending. But I accidently put pink eye shadow all over my cheeks and forehead because it was dark and I had a different purse.

We made it to the family reunion. Some relative stopped me and said, "You have so many nieces and nephews here – such a big family you have!" I walked around this crowded basement looking for my dad. It seemed that no one knew my mom had died, and this was my dad's side of the family. I found my dad around the corner. He had a paper plate with veggies and appetizers and he was wearing his white and blue Nautica sweater.

"Dad, I just can't believe this about mom. Are you sure? Are you positive she really is dead?"

My dad looked at me with a let's discuss this outside look.

We walked outside and I felt bad, as though I had ruined his temporarily nice time. I could not shake the feeling that, besides my dad, I had no one now. My mom and my aunt were gone and I was choking over the inevitability of death. I couldn't believe how hard it was to get through each second without suffering from excruciating depression.

I was so disappointed that we had never planned for this. We had never talked about WHAT TO DO IN CASE OF DEATH.

When I woke up this morning, I called my mom immediately. Ironically, she was happily out for breakfast with her Bridge Group. She listened to my sobs and patiently said in a delightful way, "But honey, nobody is burning me in a car. My friends are being very nice today!" I told her in total seriousness that I wanted us to plan out each of our funerals, and, in a more serious tone she said, "I know. There are a lot of things I wish we would have planned for."

I called my Aunt Susan next. Told her the whole story. "But it's a beautiful day! I am going for a walk, you should come!" I had the strange Twilight Zone sensation that I knew something that no one else would accept or realize – That we are ALL GOING TO DIE.

Hmm.

There is only one person who will get this and who will give me the space for a nice long opportunity to chat this out. I'll just call Dad.. –

Wait. Ohhh. I see.

This dream. This horrific series of events. THIS is what my subconscious is managing on a day-to-day basis while I put on my high heels and putz around at work pretending that I am not utterly devastated that my dad lies mute and paralyzed in a hospital bed. THIS is what my brain is working on backstage.

Amazing, really. Amazing to think that we can become accustomed to grief and just get on with things. We are so adaptable... just keep the line moving please, thank you.

I want to go over to the hospital and tell my dad about this anyway, because I know he understands every word I say. I want to get in some "Dad Time" where I can be the center of his concerns, and we can pretend that he will drive over to my place and take a stroll around the lake.

Death. I gotta get comfortable with it. It is part of life. So is breaking teeth. Death. I need to allow you to be okay in my book so that you can't come creeping after me at night.

Le Kansar Klub

OK, so, here's the deal.

I am starting a new club. Or, to get technical, this time it's a klub. Yes, yes, it is weird to be starting this one on my own without my dad's input, but he'll approve. This is going to be a really chic club. Trés exclusif.

It's called the Kansar Klub.

It's a happening place. A place where you can just... be with your misery. The Kansar Klub is for anyone who has been affected by cancer in some way:

• Maybe you have had cancer
• Maybe you have a friend who has a dad who has cancer
• Maybe you know of a girl who had to have a mole removed off her back because it was cancerous
• Etc, etc

Kansar Klub Agenda/Rules/Guidelines:

1. Members of the Kansar Klub must be in possession of some type of chapeau/hat (preferably a beret) for klub meetings
2. When a member of the klub is tired, he/she must, in an exasperated way, state in a French accent, "But I'm Le Tired"
3. Each member must, at some point in their membership, make bars or some type of dessert for meetings
4. Meetings take place whenever you want, wherever you want, and however you want
5. Each time you assemble for Kansar Klub, each member must, no matter what the circumstances are, find some way to laugh a little out loud (at LEAST a chuckle is mandatory)

Other items:

• Must own min. of two stuffed animals
• Must at least attempt to sleep in on weekends
• Must have at least one decadent food which one consumes in excess at times
• Must be available to give and receive hugs
• Leather pants a plus

If you want to join, please leave your comments below. Applications will be accepted until the end of the Fall when SNOWFLAKE CLUB begins.

Sincerely. I mean it.

Suzanne

Maybe You Should Sleep At Home Tonight

"You might want to start thinking about reintegrating back into your normal life."

This is what I have heard. From my brother, mother, aunt... I find myself wondering what the hell they mean by that.

"You haven't been to the gym, you are not eating proper meals, and your stuff is all over the living room." (- Mom quote)

Hmmm. How does one "Reintegrate" when each day is a regurgitated nightmare of the previous? How can I go live my Uptown Life when my dad happens to be an integral part of that experience? While my dad patiently waits in his quiet hospital bed?

On any given evening back in the day, my dad would call and have an interesting proposition in mind.

• "How about I come pick you up and bring you home for some Davannis pizza?"
• "What about a stroll (stroll = total Dad word for 'walk') around Lake Calhoun?"
• "Maybe I could stop by and we could do a quick Facebook tutorial?"

I was sick of the family's requests for me to "reintegrate" so last night I stayed at home in my apartment. I spent some time making piles of my shitty mess of clothes, mail, paper towels (= make shift toilet paper), empty shoe boxes, and empty boxes from jewelry I have ordered countless times on etsy.com (= retail therapy).

Some interesting things happened with this reintegration experiment. I have to admit, I did sleep well. And this morning was pretty scrumptious with the whole solo coffee/cereal/cigarette-on-the-stoop routine.

I feel more in place, as though I am finally able to snap a lid back on a Tupperware container and get it sealed tight again after it was misshapen by hot dishwater.

But, something is missing.

My eternal chauffeur, my never-quite-a-grown-up, my fellow exploration partner is...not... Here.

Kicking A Brick Wall With Slippers On

One step forward, two steps back.

I have been hearing that phrase a lot with regards to my dad, and it makes me think of some 80's pop song. My dad is still in the ICU, now with a breathing tube back in.

Two nights ago we had a particularly sharp discussion with a neurologist, and I was left reeling with the Missing Feeling. (See: I Am Watching A Boat Outside My Hotel Window In Seattle). I could hardly say goodbye to my dad that night. I looked at him and had a tightening in my chest as if I had just discovered my car had been stolen.

I thought of him wearing his stripped Polo shirts and I pictured him puttering around in the backyard. The memories of when my dad were OK became so overpowering that I could scarcely get a breath of air to go down my clenched throat. I thought about sitting by the fire and chatting about business travel together. I thought about the nights when Dad would come to my apartment in Uptown, just to hang out.

This Missing Feeling was drenched with a sense of powerlessness at the inevitable 10,000 mile journey ahead of us. I wanted to find a short cut and pull my dad out of the burning building in the nick of time. The more I allowed this feeling to overtake me, the more I felt as though I was bound in a straight jacket in a white room with no windows. The more I thought, the more it hurt. I was trying to get myself to stop, but I couldn't. Inside it was,

"No, he's MINE, give him back, GIVE HIM BACK."

It was like kicking a brick wall with slippers on.

I want to knock that wall down, but I can't do it. And the more I try, the more it hurts.

Eye See You (Blink If You Can Hear Me)

This is the story of my dad's journey with colon cancer.

This journey is far from over, but right now my dad is at a resting place - an oasis of the mind where I currently cannot fully reach him. My dad has always been the most avid reader of my blog. Writing is the one way I can try to reach out to him. Dad, one day you will read this and you will not believe the journey you have traveled with your mind, body, and spirit.

June 11th. I was sitting on my couch eating raw honey out of a jar while watching Larry King Live. Suddenly my apartment door unlocked and I rolled my eyes as I watched my mom sneak in, breaking our, "Call first before arriving in case I have a boy over" Rule.

My mom ran in, "Ooo, I have to go to the bathroom so bad!" She went to my bathroom to pee. Then she walked directly over to my couch, sat down, and I diligently placed my sticky honey spoon down on the table to give her my full attention.

"Dad had his colonoscopy today. They found something."

"Wha?"

"... And it is cancerous."

"What, Mom? What?"

The following six weeks were a blur. We are a private family ("we" meaning all members with the exception of yours truly - private people are not public bloggers). So, honoring our Norwegian, stoic, private spirit, we did not tell many people that my dad had colon cancer and would require surgery.

We also struggled with the whole "cancer" nomenclature. "Let's call it a growth – It's only one small part of the colon and the rest looks great, so, it's just that little affected area, right?" Right.

If there is one thing I can be proud of, it's all the special time I spent with my dad before we got into the real thick of this ordeal. We would go for drives (See: Cozy Houses At Night), have fires with s'mores (See: S'mores Club), and we would just talk and talk until it was 1:00 AM and he would say, "Ok, Runsk, you might want to start thinking about thinking about getting home so you can rest before work tomorrow." That is a joke we've always had – my dad is so gentle that he always does a double suggestion like that. For example, when my mom put him in charge of waking us up in the morning, he would softly call up the stairs to me and my brother: "Guys, you may want to start thinking about thinking about getting up?" Ah, my Daddy. So sensitive that he has to give the double suggestion. No direct commands come from Daddy.

Two surgeries later, three new stuffed animals, TEN pairs of new shoes, two new pairs of jeans, a new dress, a new jacket, a new purse, endless art projects, junk food, restless sleeps, and crying fits... My Daddy is very sick, semi-conscious and all tubed up in the ICU. I find myself asking how did we get to this place? Surgeons, Neurologists, Critical Care Doctors, Nurses...

It's just a blur of people walking in and out from behind the curtain, each having to be told that my dad is "Chuck" and NOT "Mr. Andersen."

Daddy can blink when we tell him to. Yesterday we said, "Blink TWICE" and he did. We all cheered. Sometimes I go into his room in ICU and I just vent. I tell him how I don't get along with my mom and brother the way that I get along with him. I tell him how I need him because he is the only guy who really gets me and how we haven't figured out life yet. I tell him that I am not ready to lose him yet. I tell him that he is my fellow explorer in life – that he is Lewis and I am Clark and we need to cross into the great Wild West together.

No matter the outcome, life will never be the same. I will never spend another Sunday night pouting with my mom and dad (pouting cause I have no hot boyfriend to make me dinner) and being indecisive about which movie to go see with them.

I will never roll my eyes at my dad's sensitive pensiveness, the fact that he named his brain Herman (I actually love that), or that he and my mom sometimes bicker. Life is ever so delicate. I watch Daddy's chest move up and down with the help of his breathing tube, and I think about playing catch with him in the backyard. I hold his swollen feet and I think about how they get grass stains when he mows the lawn bare foot. I hold his puffy hands and I remember how he taught me guitar when I was little. I remember how he encourages me to take deeper breaths so I can sing on key. I remember him laying on the floor next to the piano and lifting his hand up and down to teach me when to crescendo and decrescendo with my piano competition piece. I think about driving back from Gull Lake with my dad, eating ice cream cones so huge that we "got bored" with them. Dad rolled down the windows and suggested we toss them out on the highway – "A snack for the deers."

Dad always used to take video of our family vacations, and no matter how banal the content (South Dakota Corn Palace, Driving in the Badlands, Standing by a creek) he would come up with the BEST narration/commentary. I would laugh so hard and wonder how if he had it all scripted out or something...

Each and every human being is so exquisitely priceless and unique. And God takes some of us off the Earth onto our next journeys each and every day. But, God? Not my Daddy, OK? Not yet. That would not be fair as you have not even sent me my Prince Charming yet.

Dad – Just keep blinking. Try to squeeze my hand. I think I saw your furrow your brow when I threatened to run away the day the doctors thought you were brain dead. By the way - the MRI and EEG told us that your brain is amazingly young looking and active. So, see Dad? You need to go get that PhD in Psychology and we also gotta start a band. We gotta drive around, look at cozy houses, then have some s'mores and talk our good talks about the meaning of this silly life.

I love you, Daddy.

Come back to me.

S'mores Club

My mom is clearing the dishes, it's 10:00 PM.

"I'll go make a fire." Says my dad.

For the past couple of years, my dad and I have had this ritual of enjoying s'mores together in my parent's backyard. He builds a Boy Scout worthy teepee with sticks and logs in his Father's Day portable fire pit, then puts "Boy Scout water" on it before setting it ablaze. My job is to set up the tray with marshmallows, graham crackers (split in half) and Hershey's chocolate (portioned out for individual servings). I try not to overload the tray, knowing that we will continue to make s'mores until the supplies run out (sometimes I go inside and get more graham crackers and chocolate, if the conversation is really good and not nearing an end). We talk a lot about the past, memories of Gull Lake, camp, and family vacations.

This is S'mores Club.

My dad and I have a tendency to talk about all the "clubs" we are in:

• Book Club (We talk about reading stuff together, but we normally just chat)
• Tea Club (For drinking tea, and talking)
• Fat Club (For when we are trying to lose a few pounds together, again, mostly just talk, and thwarted by S'mores Club)

S'mores Club is incredibly relaxing. The fire is usually the remains of our Christmas Tree, and the aroma of sap mixed with sensual smoke is as intoxicating as baby powder. The huge trees in the half acre backyard swish and shhh as water trickles in the garden fountain.

I like my marshmallows fried. Just totally burnt to a crisp. Sometimes I try to be civil and go for a golden brown, but then I say to hell with it and torch the thing. My dad does the same thing. Every time we get a real flamer, I have to tell the story about when a flaming marshmallow fell on top of my hand at Jidana Day Camp. My dad never remembers this one. "Remember dad? You had to put stuff on it because I got those blisters?"

We talk about our memories of our Samoyed, Kodi, and how he always added a layer of interest to S'mores Club. He used to get his leash tangled around the fire pit, and then he would look at us expectantly, blinking his long white eyelashes. Sometimes Kodi would get the remnants of a s'more, and he would crunch it with a bit of foam collecting at the corner of his massive mouth. Craw, craw, craw, the satisfying sound of our dog enjoying his little piece of the Club.

My dad and I share our philosophies on life during S'mores Club. Phiosophy intermixes with past memories and future hopes. "Maybe it's all just about this or that... I remember when I thought that in the past I would... Oh, remember the time you videotaped our drive through the Black Hills in South Dakota!... Dad, you think I will ever get married?...."

My mom usually skips S'mores Club, as s'mores are not as enticing a treat for her tastes. But she joined us last week, and the three of us talked about the what ifs of life and I found myself wishing that my West Coast brother were there. We would talk about airplanes and paragliding. I would trail off in my thoughts, enjoying my brother at the offspring helm for a bit.

Then my mom would look at her watch and say, "I hate to be the bad guy, but..." and my dad would say, "Well, to be continued..." and my brother would say, "Suze, let me play you this one new song..." The four of us would watch the orange embers turn to red, and, if life were sweet, we would plan our road trip to Yellowstone and Glacier National Park with our winnings from the Powerball lottery.

The Mystical Power Of Mint Oreos

I pull open the easy-open-tab on the top of the package, and it reveals three seductive rows of crisp and creamy black and green cookies. I crack open a fresh (not sour!) bottle of milk, and pour out a frothy glass. I slink over to the couch, turn on Larry King Live, and get to work on my new best friend.

Mint Oreo cookies. They put Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies to shame. With each new cookie comes a stronger desire to consume more, and as I take in the power of their green phosphorescence, I ponder my abilities to say up all night creating a charcoal mural on my living room wall.

A week ago, I would have scoffed. A week ago, I was on a 24-hour raw food diet, where "soup" was a cold puree of celery, carrots, and pears, and my body was a temple. A week ago, I was on my way to physical Nirvana by purging the impurities of my body and pooping every two hours.

But not now.

Now is the time to indulge in the power of packaged delights. It is the time to say "Who cares if I eat half a sleeve of Oreos for breakfast? I mean, really, I am an adult."

I sip my home brewed coffee and I consider my slight tummy ache. I remember what it felt like to be a well-oiled machine, living off mangoes and swearing off anything that ever had feathers or fur. I remember the feeling of cleaning out my gut, an homage to the current state of my hate for the colon, and I internally remark upon the fact that, until my mother arrived to help me clean my biohazard apartment, mold was growing in my mini food processor.

Hello, Mint Oreos. You make me fall in love with you. You MAKE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU. You little assholes. It's OK, you were designed that way. I wake up in the middle of the night, and as I lie in bed considering my options, I remember that half of cookie sleeve #3 is still available for consumption. But, damn it, I am out of milk. I guess I will have to just drink water and forgo dunking.

M-I-N-T-Y goodness. You are such a flirt. You toy with my tummy, leading me to believe that I will at some point feel full. But all I am left with is a pasty bloat, perhaps brought on by yellow dye #5 and blue dye #1. Don't try to fool me with your frosty green appearance. You are FAKE, Mint Oreos, fake like my bright blond hair.

But, I don't care. I love you just the same. You are my cookie, heck, our Nation's cookie. You are sickly addictive - that is your mystical power. Just like cigarettes and alcohol, you draw in kiddies and old farts alike, and you make us feel that we are your best friend. We believe that you are there for us - for breakfast, lunch, and midnight snack, if we need you.

But when all three of your sleeves are gone, well, it's like a bad break-up. I can mourn your loss, or I can seek you out again at the corner market. I can start this whole charade over, beginning with the promising appeal of sliding back your easy-open-tab on top...

Mint Oreos.

You Assholes.

Nightmare Journeys: Cancer in Canada

It is 5:20 am. I am still waking up and trying to get myself to breathe deeply after this particular nightmare. I am sitting in the dark at my kitchen table, with only the glow of the computer screen and the sound of the up-and-at-em birds to comfort me back to normal.

You know how sometimes you have dreams that can be explained and unfolded like a Law & Order story? It's almost as if you can sift through the evidence and find reasons for why you dreamed this or why you dreamed that? THAT was how this dream went. It's like there is a reason for each piece to this dream.

Let us begin...

I was in Canada. I was hanging out with my two friends, Tess and Steve. We were on this army base in this laboratory full of bubbling glass beakers and tall glass windows. Tess was filling out paperwork, and I was just kind of goofing off with the beakers and science tools. Then suddenly Steve was wearing a white lab coat, and he was getting up to go to the bathroom. He took something off the long wooden lab table – my leather journal. I remember thinking that I should take it back from him, because I knew that I had probably written about him in there. But he just smiled and would not hand it back. He walked out the door.

Tess and I were left to ourselves at the table. She was filling out this document that turned out to be a health form. Tess, they should know that I am American, right? Oh yeah, they should. So I got a different form. This one had two very terrifying propositions:

A. Allow us, under this Government Clause, to operate on your cancer.

B. If you do not agree to these terms, a journalist will be trained on how to operate on your cancer and your tumor will be removed.

What the fuck?

OK, so, I get it, suddenly it was apparent that both Tess and I had cancer, and we were at this army lab base to get it taken care of. Not a usual day, no, but the premise felt clear.

Steve came back. I had the distinct sense that he had taken my journal with himself to the restroom for some quiet reading time. He flopped the book back onto the table and motioned for me to go look at the lit wall where x-rays were being shown to patients. He had some photograph that turned out to be the insides of my abdomen.

It was weird because, up until now, I had thought that Tess and I were both suffering from breast cancer, but this must have been something else for me. Steve started to explain the game plan for my cancerous tumor, as though he had been medically trained in the time that he was away at the bathroom with my journal.

"See this tumor area here? We will have to go in and remove it, along with some bone, and then it is going to be surgically reinserted into your left forearm."

"But why?"

"This is just how we do it in Canada."

"What!?"

I started to panic, and I was looking for that medical form I had filled out. It seemed to me that I was getting different medical treatment because I was American. Tess was sitting at the table and she tilted her head in pity as she looked at me, as if she knew this were to be my demise all along. Meanwhile, she found out she had breast cancer, and she was patiently waiting to hear about the next steps she had to take.

Suddenly, a group of women walked in the lab door, and I recognized all of them. I was happy to see some familiar faces from the States – it was Laura, Shannon, Liz, Erica and Alissa – girls from my high school chamber choir. Apparently they were all here at this lab to get their cancer taken care of, too.

They all looked at me sort of like they knew something that I did not. I started feeling like they had been talking about my cancer. I looked over at Steve and Tess, and they were both silently staring back at me. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was the only person in the room who actually had cancer, and there was this sick realization that no one there had the actual intent to help me.

I was like a lab rat.

An experiment.

Tainted flesh for carving practice.

It was a sinister awakening.

From there I woke up at 5:00 am, and I was immediately aware (in real life) that my nostrils were just sucking air into my chest with only about a 50% ROI. I quickly hopped out of bed and started downing water and pacing the floor. I still feel like I cannot get enough air into my lungs, and I am feeling that untrustworthy feeling one only knows once medical diagnoses creep into one's blasé life on a lazy Thursday evening.

I could give you a reason for each piece to this nightmare journey – Reasons why my brain conjured up this bizarre concoction of events.

I hate that I am now having actual dreams about cancer. I would rather dream of being stuck on the back of a wild elephant who is trampling through the African forest, looking for food.

NOTE: I do not have cancer. This was just a dream. However, I don't doubt that some Canadian medical practices could be whack, and my friend Steve probably would read my journal on the toilet.

Cozy Houses At Night

"Oooo!" says my Dad.

"Look at THAT one!" says me.

We are driving around the lakes, soaking in the incredibly cozy views of all the rich houses in town. Genetically wired with like-minds, we finish each other's sentences with ideas of the activities that might be going inside the amber-colored rooms.

"Well, they... Those people just finished a dinner party. It was a barbecue and they had a nice time hanging out in the hot tub sipping on martinis in the back yard."

"And what are they doing now?"

"Well, the guests have left, and now the older couple who owns the place are both wearing slippers and listening to jazz. He is going to sit in his oak and leather library, and he will climb the rolling ladder 12-feet high to read a bit of Thoreau's Walden."

"What will they do tomorrow?"

"Well, neither of them work. They do Foundation and Charity work, of course, but, you know, no corporate crap. They are totally from old money. So, she will get up early, take the Mastiffs for a walk, then putz in the garden. He is going to eat breakfast in bed (maybe assembled by the in-house chef?) and then he will read The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times."

"Later, they will drive to the St. Croix and take their 40-foot Sea Ray on the river. They will meet up with a group of friends from Princeton, and they will have an afternoon anchored at the sandy shore. They will paint, they will fish, they will play cards and smoke cigars. Later, they will roast marshmallows. To end the night, they will go eat steaks in Stillwater, then sleep in the cuddy with opera playing on the built in stereo."

"Wow. Sounds nice! Maybe someday, huh?"

"Yeah. I gotta get to know those people. We need to edge our way into the old money crowd. Maybe they need a dog walker?... Dad! Look out for the pedestrian in the crosswalk!"

"Oh! Sorry, Runsk. I better drive the car!"

"Dad – Maybe next time we can get someone to drive a car for us so that we can look at the houses the whole time without having to worry about traffic."

"Sounds good, Suze. We'll do that."

Nightmare Journeys: The Ship

For the past few weeks, I have been plagued with complicated and realistic nightmares. This morning I awoke with a nightmare so fresh and raw that I reflexively started talking out loud explaining what had just happened to me, as if a CNN reporter were in my face with a camera and microphone.

Early this morning, I was on a ship. It was huge, with a vast system of floors that represented, of all things, college dorms. My ordeal began with a decision I had to make. I was trying to decide if I should move my dorm room to the first floor. I was comparing the bathrooms on the first floor vs. the third floor, and I decided that the bathrooms on the first floor were more spacious.

Once I decided that I would move my belongings to the first floor, I drove my silver Volkswagen Jetta to the first floor parking lot next to where the ship was docked. This was when I looked out over my right shoulder and noticed an undulating pattern in the water. The ocean waves were massive. They weren't yet whitecaps – they were great mounds with menacing rounded tops. They looked like double black diamond downhill skiing moguls.

The sky was grey. No one was around.

I went inside the college dorm ship and started to settle in. That was when I noticed the movement. The ship had been tethered to the shore. We were docked in an area that resembled a cu-de-sac canal. The ship was gaining speed, pulling back and forth, back and forth, whipping around this cu-de-sac canal.

I found myself in the underbelly of the ship. Something felt very wrong and I felt panic rising in my throat. There were these crashing sounds. I looked out a porthole and found that the ship was smashing into cars parked along the canal. Oh no! There goes a red mini van! Look at that demolished Mercedes!

It dawned on me that my VW Jetta was parked out there. My almost-paid-off, first car purchased out of college. My means of transport. "My car is parked in the parking lot! What if the ship hits it?" Nobody responded to my question. The people were silent. They just sat on ladders and looked out the portholes.

I crawled forward to get a view of where the ship was tethered to the concrete parking lot. To my shock, I discovered that we were on a gigantic rubber cord, and I could see that the cord was vibrating with power and movement. There was no stopping this rogue ship!

The ship had taken on a sinister mind of its own.
We were stuck in an unstoppable game of
Crack the Whip.

I crawled back to where there was wooden scaffolding lining the wall next to a porthole. There were these wooden rings stacked on top of each other, interlaced like an old fashioned jungle gym. If I could fit my torso through those rings, I could crawl up through the hold and get onto the deck of the ship. Maybe then I could find some people who actually gave a fuck about the impending catastrophe, and maybe then I could get some help in stopping this ship.

I started crawling into the wooden rings. The rings were made of cheap plywood, or maybe it was particleboard. They were shoddy and sliver-ridden. They were rubbing into the spaces between my ribs. I barely fit.

CRASH!

The ship had whipped itself into the shore at my right. I pictured my innocent little Jetta, blaring its car alarm in protest and fear. At the same time, I heard a sickening crunching sound and discovered that the crunching was coming from the wooden scaffolding and the wooden rings gripping around my ribs, hips, thighs. I was going to get crushed! I was getting crunched, crunched, crunched and there was nothing I could do.

I was afraid of what was happening outside, I was afraid of what was happening inside, and I was stuck with no one around to help. The claustrophobia and inevitability seeped in, and I knew I was totally fucked.

Then, I woke up.

Oddly enough, hours later, I still feel anxious, I still have the sense of needing to gather people to help stop some evil, moving object. I still feel like I am on that ship. That is the thing about nightmares – There is some truth to them. A dream is not just a dream. Dreams come from some hidden place of slumber and then they evaporate in the light. Everybody seems willing to shake their heads at them with a Nah, just forget about it... let's go eat brunch.

The nightmares become invisible, but they are still present at daylight, lurking around somewhere out there, just like the moon.

I Think I Would Have Been Happier In The 1920's

I think I would have been happier in the 1920's. Those women seemed more like me. Somehow I think that just by my ability to braid and curl my thick hair, I deserve to be transported back to those roaring times.

I want to wear long pearl necklaces and thigh high stockings. I want to put my cigarette in a long black stick between my red lipstick-stained teeth.

I want to go find my Grandma Nina in her high school class, and work the Summer shift with her in Glacier National Park. I want to get in trouble drinking whiskey in the urine-smelling cabins, and go skinny dipping with the kitchen staff in the cold mountain lake behind the chalet.

I think I would have been happier in the 1920's. Women didn't have to throw themselves at men back then. They were precious just by virtue of being delicate ladies. The rage of the time was to slap on a pair of pants and strut around town like you were piss-drunk naked. I want to feel the thrill of voting for the first time, and I want to do my tippity tap on my telegraph typewriter.

I want to be a girl Friday who cuts her hair above the ear and rolls it into curlers at night.

The Shhhh Trees

Do this for me.

Close your eyes and take in a breath. Go ahead, I'll wait...

What do you feel at this particular moment? What do you feel inside your head? Inside your gut? You might feel:

• Bored
• Hungry
• Impatient
• Content
• Annoyed
• Silly
• You might feel... anxious

Anxiety. It is the monkey who has recently hitched a free ride on my back. I have not visited the zoo or the tropics of late, so I am not certain from where he came. He was uninvited, and he smells. He's been sleeping in my bed and spitting in my morning oatmeal. He has been grinding his dirty little thumbs into the stiff parts of my neck. I offered him my over-ripe bananas to see if he might leave me alone, but he said, "No. Bugging you is too much fun."

In the city where I live, the buses pretend to not see you and every person is one step away from an exasperated eye roll and an "f-you for cutting me off in traffic!" Sometimes I drive home from work and just grip the steering wheel in hopes that I will make it to my narrow alley parking space in one piece. Then, once parked, I sit in my car, gathering up the energy it takes to bag-lady it into my apartment carrying laptop, purse, groceries, gym bag, or the high heels that I gave up wearing half way through the work day.

I look to my friends for guidance, commiseration, and support, but perhaps they too have smelly monkeys on their backs – boyfriends, bosses, and bills that dig claws into those penetrable, fleshy vulnerable parts that go unprotected. I sometimes reach out, and I am reaching and reaching for a familiar calloused hand, only to find that hand occupied with tools and other torments that make it impossible for my palm to grasp it.

Tonight was a breaking point. I caved on my diet and drove through the McDonalds drive through. I drove past my beautiful co-worker, perched on her bicycle with a look of confident purpose, and I slouched down in my seat with hopes that she would not recognize the french fries and Big Mac that was stuffed into my squirrel-puffed cheeks.

Why I ask myself. Why can she do it and why can't I? I tell myself if only I got out and exercised, if only I took that meditation class, if only I created some artwork or saved some starving orphans in Africa. If only.

If only, If only... If only I were better.

I make it to my parking space in a cloud of secrecy and relief. I mumble simple instructions out loud to myself, being the encouraging voice to get me through the tiresome threshold of transferring sh*it from automobile to place of solo dwelling. "Keys out of ignition, cell phone into purse, laptop bag goes on left shoulder, purse goes on right, lunch bag into left hand, books into right hand, put the proper key into the building door..."

I wearily shuffle down the hall to my basement apartment and I lock the door behind me. No one can find me here. No one knows that I am going to quietly eat the remainder of my cold Big Mac and watch my Netflix movie on a lovely summer Friday evening. No one will know.

I watch my movie. It is about China, cholera, and complicated love in the 1920's (The Painted Veil). The movie makes me cry. I empathize with Naomi Watts' character, who is lost, and disappointed with the ugly truths that come with growing into a faulty marriage. I keep crying and it seems to be a good idea so I just keep going, depleting my fuzzy roll of toilet paper as I repeatedly blow my nose. I never remember to buy Kleenex.

I decide to make myself a pathetic drink as I never seem to have beer or wine when I need it. The beverage I concoct is Crystal Light fruit punch with a modest splash of Bombay Sapphire Gin. I decide to go sit on my stoop and smoke a cigarette. (Yes, I smoke, occasionally. It's especially good for times like this.)

Outside, it is dusk and the neighbors across the street are enjoying a friendly cookout. I sit on my stoop and absent-mindedly look up. The trees are gently swaying in the cooling night air. The weather is supposed to get rainy and chilly by tomorrow morning, and I internally nod my approval. Sometimes, when life doesn't feel so in order, sunny days are happy for everyone else but me.

I watch the strange pattern of the ginkgo leaves, and they make a soothing sound in the breeze. It is like a "Shhh" sound and it comforts me. Soon, my cocktail has taken the edge off the tail end of my anxious, girly cry. I remember that it is healthy to have a good cry sometimes, and I lax off on the worry that I might be plagued with chronic anxiety for the entirety of this complicated life.

"No, Shhh, shhhh, say the trees. You are just being human, which means, perfectly imperfect. Shhhhh, shhhh, quiet down now, and appreciate being alive. We do, and you should too."

Okay, Trees. Perhaps you are right.

Shhh, shhh, Little Monkey, shhh your little mouth shut.

Remember Those Giant Jaw Breakers?

It's lunchtime for me at my office desk and I am sharing unsolicited commentary on my meal:

"MAN. Salads take a long time to eat."

[Silence]

That's OK, the designers probably have their headphones in. Or, maybe my statement was so true and incontestable that there was nothing more to be said. As I sit in this silence proceeding my salad-eating epiphany, I am suddenly struck by an image from long, long ago.

My eyes are closed, my head is bent at the neck. My feet are swishing left, then right, creating a dragged circle in the sand beneath my body. The weight of my body is held by a suspended tire swing on the elementary school playground. I hold onto the metalic-smelling chains with my left hand and in my right hand is my most prized possession... It is like an egg from an exotic bird, it is a jewel crafted from the unique whittling of my own mouth, it is my very own, very precious, sanctifyably sticky, 

Giant Candy Jaw Breaker.

I do not have the statistics to indicate whether this was an isolated fad of the early nineties, or if perhaps it was reserved to the Midwest, but Giant Jaw Breakers were most certainly a delicacy if not a status symbol when I was in elementary school. If you were part of this elite crowd, your mom or dad purchased one of these baseball-sized hard candies for you at the General Store. Once you had the perfectly round, perfectly mysterious object in hand, you had to stop admiring it and start licking it. Once you began, there was no turning back – Basically, you embarked on a two week project to get to the middle of that mother fuc**r so that you could show your friends your accomplishment.

See, as you worked your way down, new colors were revealed with what we believed to be new flavors and textures. In truth, our mouths were so raw and ravaged by the time we hit the epicenter of those balls that all we could taste was pasty sugar mixed with stale saliva. Proper etiquette was to hold the jaw breaker in the same thin, tissue papery plastic that it was sold in. The slow dripping of acidic saliva would burn holes into that paper, thus giving your jaw breaker an even more weather beaten appearance. Like a pair of worn jeans with the perfect amount of fringe at the seams, a weather-weary Giant Jaw Breaker gave you street cred in the third grade.

I remember what it was like to observe friends who were further along on their jaw breakers. It was intimidating and inspiring at the same time. To see the odd lack of spherical form (they would become cavernous and then eventually flatten out on top) was like seeing the girls grow leg hair. There was jealousy, there was awe mixed with silent disgust, and there was also the underlying promise that, someday, I would get there too.

When I was in college studying art, I learned about a Contemporary Artist who freaked me out to the point of fascinated-revulsion. (This was a similar emotion that I felt when I viewed those advanced jaw-breaker-lickers on the play ground.) Janine Antoni created works of art out of blocks of chocolate, soap, and lard. In "Lick and Lather" she licked her self portrait out of chocolate. In "Gnaw" she did performace-based art where she slowly gnawed away at 600 pound blocks of chocolate and lard. The point was something about blurring dimensions and love/hate, yada, yada – but here is what has stuck in my mind about Antoni all this time. Somewhere I read that from her work on "Gnaw" she developed numerous canker sores from gnawing away at the chocolate and she would puke from gnawing on the raw fat. YIKES!

Dare I say, I feel that from my jaw breaker experience I can somewhat relate with Ms. Antoni. See, at first you were real excited about your jaw breaker. You convinced yourself that yours was somehow special, with superior markings and color-bands in comparison to the other Giant Jaw Breakers you spotted during recess (We could only suck on them during recess. They had to be put away, safely inside our desks once we were back inside the classroom. I hated this rule because I would get pencil shavings on mine.)

Eventually, the newness and wonderment of the Giant Jaw Breaker wore off, and soon it became a big fat pain in the a$$. Problem was, no one was willing to throw in the towel. You had to LICK IT OUT, I mean, stick it out, to the very bittersweet end. This, of course, resulted in multiple canker sores, swollen tongues, ill-tasting peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at lunchtime, and, of course, exhausting sugar comas.

I remember the day I finally got to the center of my Giant Jaw Breaker. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, 12:40 PM, and we had just lost the kick ball game. I was wearing my red corduroy jumper (...I am totally kidding). No, but, I do remember when I finally got to that g*d forsaken core of that Giant Jaw Breaker. I think I remember feeling a sense of loss and relief. It was common for most kids that, once they reached the center, they bailed on the remaining half. Much like how I have bailed on my now wilted salad after getting through all the exciting toppings. The rest is just, well, the other half, which is boring.

Moral of the story? If you decide to go get yourself a Giant Jaw Breaker, just be warned. Your co-workers probably won't find it as awe-inspiring as the third graders on the playground, but it will still prove to be a challenge for your grown-up mouth. There is no outwitting those things. You too will be sucked up into the tangle of curiosity and enslavement, wanting to know what color is next in the never-ending bands of jaw-breaking flavor. My advice? Buy one, give 'er a few licks, then smash that bit*ch on the sidewalk. Show no mercy.

That's what we did, once we got to the middle.

Fast Food Victory Lap!

"I'd like a Number Two with a Coke"

I grew up on fast food, more or less. My mom definitely cooked for us, but fast food was the Milkbone of my dry dog food diet, the soy latté of my urban restaurant rotation. Whenever I finished an agonizingly embarassing piano lesson (I never practiced) or when my best friend, Alicia, slept over, I got to have a Dairy Queen medium(!) Oreo Blizzard or a Jr. Whopper meal from Burger King, respectively.

I still eat fast food today, but it has taken on a different connotation from when I was a kid. When I was younger, there was a certain level of mystery and anticipation involved (will Mom take me to McDonalds after ballet class? Does this blue ribbon from my swim meet earn me some KFC?)

What is different about fast food in my life today is that I am now in charge of the purse strings, and with a steady paycheck, I can treat myself to as much of the happy greasies as I want. UNFORTUNATELY, what has also come with age is the knowledge that fast food is only your friend for so long. You might start out chummy like a temporary friend you meet at the bar. But eventually the guilt and self loathing sets in and you stare longingly at the chicken breast you had thawing in your refrigerator that you had the best of intentions of eating when you put it there in the morning.

I'm sorry, Mr. Chicken breast. I'm sorry. Tomorrow is a new day, and perhaps I can help myself from being such a gluttonous slob next time.

Because of this dilemma, I have learned to set parameters around when fast food is appropriate for my consumption as an adult. At first these were just the spontaneous times when suddenly I would say, "Hey! – I'm going to McDonalds!" Recently, though, I have noticed there is a pattern to these moments when I crave (and feel I totally deserve) two cheeseburgers, medium french fries and a Coke (that's a Number Two Meal from McDonalds, in case you did not already know that). 

Here's the deal – I happen to indulge in fast food after any type of big event that warrants celebration and/or the soul-comforting nature of greasy goodness. These can be happy times, these can be sad times. They can be times when I am so hung over that I am not able to put an ounce of food in my tummy until 6PM the next day.

Times When Fast Food Is Acceptable For My Life As A Mature Adult:

Days when I am so hung over I am not able to put an ounce of food into my stomach until about 6PM the next day. (Remedy = McDonalds, Number Two with a Coke)

The two exciting yet stressful times when Sara and I were live guests on 107.1 with Lori and Julia for our Singles in the Cities show. (McDonalds, Number Two with a Coke)

Any illness that incurs a sore throat and woe-is-me, fml attitude (Dairy Queen, small Oreo Blizzard)

The day after an all-nighter for work, after the presentation, and after taking off the tight business suit (Burger King, Whopper Meal with a Coke)

Heading out to Lake Minnetonka to hang out on a boat and splash around at Big Island (Taco Bell, two chicken soft taco supremes, nachos, with a Mountain Dew)

A few weeks ago I treated my mom to some McDonalds after we ran an errand to the DMV. I spotted a McDonalds, and although this instance was outside of my normal standards for the appropriate occasions that allow adult fast food consumption, I thought, to hell with it.

"Mom, pull over, I want to get some McDonalds. How about you. Do you want some too?"

"Oh... well... I don't know! What do they have? I have not been there forever, and I get so flustered at the drive up window." 

"I don't know... There's like the regular stuff and now they have lots of chicken stuff, too. Just – Just, pull up to the window, duck down, and I will yell into the speaker. You won't have to say anything."

I ended up ordering my mom a Number Three or something. I remember that she insisted on stealing all the napkins because she was wearing a nice pair of khaki pants. I diligently unfolded each napkin and spread it on her lap as she drove. Once I had about 15 napkins picniced across her lap and three more bibbed in her blouse, I set up a nice little spread of her Number Three McDonalds meal for her to enjoy.

I was proud to see my mom engage in a little bit of reckless driving. We all know that eating in the car while driving is just about as dangerous as texting on the cell phone or kicking back a few shots of vodka while stopped at an intersection. Anyway, I knew that my mom was apprehensive about Dining While Driving (DWD), so I was pretty proud of her renegade spirit.

This was all good and fine until suddenly, out of nowhere, a cop pulled out right behind us. It was unclear what to do next, but my mom was clearly concerned about a copper observing her fast food feast while she cruised 60 MPH down the freeway.

"QUICK – HERE HE COMES... GET THIS FOOD OFF OF ME!!!"

I hesitated a moment before destroying my carefully constructed Napkin Pants Protector. It had taken me a good five minutes to get all those napkins unfolded and evenly spread across her lap.

We thought that the cop was after us. His siren was on, and we were half in shock while cradling our soft innocent cheeseburgers. They didn't ask for this trauma. It was we who were too impatient to wait until we got home to eat our fast food. We just had to eat it in the car. Was this a crime? We were not sure, but suddenly we knew that it seemed too good to be true to have indulged in fast food for no special occasion while DRIVING A CAR. It is probably illegal in some states.

In a quick jolt, the cop pulled out and up to our left, then sped on to ticket a car at the next intersection. Here we thought we had been the culprits, but now we were safe to consume the remainder of our tepid french fries and watered-down Cokes.

My mom and I looked at each other, and with all the seriousness of a woman wanting to finish her meat, she commanded:

"OK, He's Gone. Now, 

RE-ESTABLISH THE TABLE."

This, of course, meant that it was my duty to unfold and "reestablish" the special bed of napkins to go in her lap to protect her khaki pants. 

I started at my mom for a moment, and, with the stress of the cop gone and the realization of her ridiculous command, we laughed until our eyes watered. 

After my laughing fit quieted and I ceased to choke on french fry remnants, I dutifully re-established the table, and we rode to my apartment with silent, ketchup-stained grins.

State of Complainment

I am currently sitting at my desk alone in an empty office. I do not need to be here. I do not need to go home. Nothing of any particular importance needs to be done.

I am not hungry. I am not full. I am not hot. I am not cold. I am not excited. I am not bored. I am not waiting on an important document to be signed. I am not anticipating any pertinent phone calls.

If a waitress came to my table, I would tell her, "Nope, I am fine. But check back with me later. Maybe."

I walked downstairs to look out at the empty parking lot. I retrieved my lunch bag from the office kitchen refrigerator. I observed my car, sitting there, parked by itself, waiting like an ignorant loyal donkey, waiting for me to make up my mind about attacking the end of rush hour. Rush hour at this time of day is reserved for people like me – People who linger at their desks and look out at the window with blank stares, while their minds try to register the fact that the work day is done. 

It's a Civil War Summer evening, with crickets chirping and frogs croaking. A contemplative soldier paces the grassy fields at the end of a bloody battle. He kicks an abandoned boot and slaps an aggressive mosquito off his dirty forearm. The flies take over the field as the sun sets on a the golden steamy haze of victory and death.

The battle has been won. Now what?