Colors

I imagine

the women of Paris

put on

yellow

green 

pink

purple

red

sweaters

when they are 

home

alone

Brat

I am going to Paris for New Year's. 

Go me!

I have some friends who are going to be there and asked if I wanted to join them. This trip is crazy short notice, but I thought "Why am I saying no to this?" 

The trip will be a blast, even if more than half of it is a solo trip as my friends connected with their own family and friends in Paris.

Anyway, I was talking to a friend tonight about my trip. She has family in Paris and travels there often. She saw in my Brat green coat, and gently and kindly reminded that women in Paris wear black and neutral. I forgot I was wearing my bright puffer jacket. I bought it last fall. I thought it was garish, but garish was exactly what I wanted. I wanted something that makes people's eye sore when they look at it as I bike to work. The bright color is also useful for crossing the street in the dark relative to my dark gray puffer. I didn't know it was Brat green until a friend told me last week. In the past year, I've gotten a surprising number of compliments on this jacket that I initially thought was ugly.

My friend is right about how Parisian women dress, and of course I want to look like a local. (When I was in Paris in high school, a french person asked me for directions, which--not gonna lie--was a highlight of my life.) 

Nevertheless...

I think I might wear my Brat jacket in Paris. Fuck it neutrals. Fuck black and beige. I've worn dark colors and neutrals my entire life. Who cares what the Parisians think of me? I mean, I'll be wearing my Brat coat over my dark gray dress and black leggings, so the rest of me will be wearing my french uniform. Ironically before the sartorial conversation, my friend and I were talking about embracing the messiness of life. "Life grows in the mud," she said. I'll take a page from our dinner conversation and go with the bold, the messy, the uncertain, the unpredictable. I'll go Brat.

Let's see what happens. If next season all of the Parisian women are wearing bright colors, you'll know where it started.

Tough Love Isn't Love

I heard about Rob Reiner's death where he and his wife were stabbed by his son, which is a horrific tragedy for everyone involved. I feel a special heartbreak for the surviving children who must mourn the loss of their parents and the reconcile the actions of their brother. I can only imagine.

Reiner's son had major mental health issues, and had them since he was a teen. Reiner had said in an interview that he regretted the tough love approach he took with his son, as that was what was advised to him at the time.

Having been deeply involved in mental health issues with my own family members--and my subsequent distress--I've learned that tough love isn't love. It is control.

Tough love is what people do when someone they purport to love isn't doing what they want them to do, so they "lay down the law" and a bunch of "or else's" to get what they want. That is control, and most people don't like to be controlled. The disappointed party manipulates, threatens, cries, screams, and whatnot so they can get the disappointee to break down and as the disappointed person wishes.

I get this is appealing when your kid has gone off the rails, and is completely unhinged, when you feel like there is nothing else you can do to keep the person you love from sliding down into substances, depression, anxiety, anger and depression. 

Instead of trying to control the person, we need to let go and detach with love and set boundaries that are clearly communicated. We can have consequences when our boundaries are violated. No one has to (or should) accept unacceptable behavior, but yelling and screaming and threatening has never cured someone someone with a major mental illness. At least not that I am aware of.

One of the most important thing I have learned is that my own need to control others very often gets me the opposite of what I want. No one wants to be controlled, but everyone wants to be seen and heard.

Jeong

I was reading my horoscope the other day in Free Will Astrology (see: https://freewillastrology.com/) and it talked about jeong, a Korean concept that is the emotional bond between people, places, or things through shared experiences over time. "It is deeper than love and more complex than attachment: the accumulated weight of history together. You can have jeong for a person you don't even like anymore, for a city that broke your heart, for a coffee mug you've used for years."

As my horoscope continues, "As the scar tissue of togetherness, it can be beautiful and poignant. Now is an especially good time to appreciate and honor your jeong. Celebrate and learn from the soulful mysteries your history has bequeathed you."

I read this the day after my water aerobics melt down where I was time travelled back to when I was pregnant with Ada, a golden era of my life and marriage. I think of my ex and the decades of shared experiences we had together. It can be hard to break free from this. How can I find a way forward without spending so much time looking back? How can I not be haunted by my ghosts?

I think the answer is to invite the ghosts in with acceptance, as hard as that is. Let the ghosts sit down and have tea. Ghosts become less scary when we can see them in the light. If Buddha could invite his monsters in for tea, so can I.

I recently had a hard time wondering how I can look back at my life for all of the years since I was nineteen. All of those years were filled with my ex. Sure, I had work and friends and the kids, but Jack was the common denominator. He knows my history, and I know his. I can't pretend that he didn't or doesn't exist.

Maybe the answer isn't so much to look back, but to be here right now, and to look forward. I have a friend who rides horses. Today she told us you are supposed to look at ahead of you, and not look at your hands of the reins. Your hands and the reins won't help you get where you want to go. 

I was talking to a friend about Phase 2 of divorce where the wounds have stopped bleeding and we can start moving forward. We see our exes move forward without us, and that is hard. It can feel like betrayal.

Moving forward without our exes can also feel like betrayal, even the inconsequential stuff that our exes don't know or don't care about. 

I am still figuring all of this out. One day I should get it right.

Happy Days and Waterworks

I went to water aerobics last night at my gym. It was the second time I’ve taken this class. I’ve been in the pool countless times before, doing kick board laps. 

Before the class, I was sobbing. I was crying and crying and I couldn’t stop for about twenty minutes. It was kind of weird. Work has been crazy lately, but not that bad. 

When I got to class, the crying continued. I saw my neighbor in the class, which was nice. It is good to get to know someone in my building. 

Water aerobics. Water aerobics. Water aerobics. 

When I was pregnant with Ada, I was taking water aerobics. It was my first pregnancy and I was clueless. I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant, either. Before I knew I was pregnant, after one class felt like I was having my period but didn’t and what the heck was this about?

Duh.

That was a happy time. I don’t want to sound dramatic about it, but being pregnant with Ada was probably the happiest time of my life. My career was soaring, my marriage was in a peaceful and wonderful place, and I had never been in better shape outside of high school.

Life was good.

Really good.

And the Ada died.

I grieved and I cried and all the things. I was grateful when Claire-Adele and Pedro came along, of course. I love them and I think they are two of the coolest people I know.

And still. 

Jack believes the root cause of our marriage collapsing was Ada’s death. I call bullshit on that, but that is what he believes. It is his truth, and I do believe he probably never properly grieved for Ada and instead kept his sorrow and sadness buried instead exposed to light where things aren’t as scary.

Nevertheless, I am back at water aerobics and damn it is hard. I love water aerobics because it so both cardio and resistance without a lot of pressure on my knees.

Maybe it was the water aerobics twenty seven years ago that made me feel so wonderful. Life can be good at times but sometimes we miss seeing how good it is because we are preoccupied or distracted. Maybe it was water aerobics that helped opened the gates to my well being. 

After Ada died, I stopped going to water aerobics. I couldn’t go. It was too painful to go back to the pool where I felt so relaxed and energized and full of peace.

And happy.

The pool reminded me of when I was happy and I wanted no part of it, even though it was just a pool and water.

Even though I was sobbing last night before the class, I went anyway. The teacher waved and said hello to me. She knows my name somehow, bless her heart.

I still cried at the class. The pool is a salt water pool, so my tears blended right in. 

Accepting where I am right now is a powerful thing, as hard as it is. It is okay to cry at the pool and sob before class. I’ll be okay. It will all be okay. Happy days will come again, but I’m gonna need to slog through some sad ones first.

Scars & The School Board Race

My left knee is a mess.

It is covered in scars from bike crashes and an ACL surgery. The ugliest scar is from when I took a tumble delivering a campaign yard sign to a neighbor when I ran for Seattle School Board ten years ago.

My neighbor, Mr Eckhardt, was an elderly man who lived on Ravenna Blvd. Ravenna Blvd is a beautiful thoroughfare through Northeast Seattle designed by the Olmstead Brothers to connect Green Lake and Ravenna Park. It is one of the most beautiful streets in all of Seattle.

It was mid-afternoon in the late summer. I was going to deliver the yard sign before I truck down to Renton to watch my middle school aged son play in a soccer tournament.

I was wearing a khaki skirt and a navy blue cashmere sweater and I am drinking homemade hot chocolate in a travel mug for my mid-afternoon low-kay caffeine boost. It is summer in Seattle--a little chilly so the sweater and warm drink are fine. I was lowkey dressed up, as I always was during the campaign. I learned the hard way that I always was on stage after I went to pick up my son at school after Rocket Club. I wouldn't say I was technically wearing pajamas, but I was wearing an old t-shirt and ratty sweat pants that I had slept in before. The kids were late, and I had to get out of my car and talk to my base. In my pajamas. My then husband was horrified when I told him about it.

"You are always on stage. All the time."

I thought that was a little extreme. I mean, it was a down ballot, local race. I wasn't running for Senate or Congress or City Council, but he had a point. 

I was the establishment candidate, running for office after a few years as a parent advocate and President of the Seattle Council of PTSA. I wasn't some rabble rouser candidate, lambasting the District and the current Board. I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I had to look and act the part.

My neighbor isn't home, but the eighty year old frail Mrs. Eckhardt is. She is shy and takes the sign. I thank her for their support of my campaign, and head back home. 

About twenty feet from her house, I trip on uneven pavement. If I were skiing, the fall would have been called a yard sale. Everything went flying -- the travel mug and me. I took years of ballet as a kid and I am more graceful than the average bear. Not to brag, but I usually don't fall. Last year, I was walking in Pioneer Square and my foot caught uneven pavement and I went flying, but I defied gravity (Take that, bitch) and avoided the ground and a lamppost. 

I wasn't so lucky in the summer of 2015. I hit the pavement hard. My travel mug popped open and the  hot chocolate burned my hand, but my poor knee took it the worst. Six months before a skiing tumble would lead my to ACL surgery, my knee had a pretty bad scape that my future surgeon and physical therapist would look my knee, grimace, and ask what the hell happened. 

It was ugly. 

The cry and screams I let out were uglier. A burned hand was one thing, and a bloody knee was another, but both? OMG. I let it all out.

I screamed and I cried and I ran back to my neighbor's house to ask for help. The little old lady was terrified at me covered in tears and blood and hot chocolate.

"Can you help me?" I pleaded. She led me into her kitchen. I ran my hand under cold water as she pulled out a clean kitchen towel. I wet the towel and cleaned my knee. The cold water and blood made the blood look worse, like there was way more of it than there actually was.

I was a mess. I walked home crying and blubbering, blood running down my calf.

It was the first time I had an emotional breakdown in public while running for office. Remember, I was the rational, logical, reserved and composed candidate. I wasn't out protesting, yelling and screaming. I was the one on the sidelines, watching the protests, listening, talking to people on the sidelines. Then I'd go back to the halls of power and get shit done. I likened my political style to State Senator Jamie Pedersen, the rational, logical, reserved and composed politician to who wrote the legislation for marriage equality in the State of Washington. While others were marching in the streets, waving flags and carrying signs promoting gay marriage, I imagine Jamie heads down, locked in the halls of government making those protesters dreams a reality.

That was what I aspired to be--the person who made those collective dreams a reality.

After my fall, it felt good to cry, even if my knee was full of gravel and my hand was toasted. After being buttoned up for months, it felt good to let loose and cry in public, full on with snot bubbles.

Looking back, I wonder why I didn't show my emotions more during the campaign, why I wasn't sad or angry or outraged, why I didn't cry and yell and pound my fist.

I don't know. Maybe if I had, maybe I could have won.

Bigger Than the Whole Sky

If there is a feeling in the world—with the exception of being a parent, Taylor Swift has probably written about it.

“Bigger Than the Whole Sky” is a song about grief, with some theories suggesting it is about a pregnancy loss. 

As many of you know, I had a stillbirth twenty-seven years ago. Each year around this time, I remember Ada. My dad sends me flowers every year on her anniversary, which I am always grateful for. 

This year, the grief hit me harder than it typically does, and I didn’t know why. Maybe I am looking back, and wondering how my life might have been different if she had lived. But why now? Why not when my kids were little? Why now that I am divorced and an empty-nester?

Maybe now I have more space for the grief, more than I did after Claire-Adele and Pedro were born. I was so busy being their mother that I didn’t really have time to miss Ada and wonder how my life might have been different. I was grateful—and am grateful—for my kids. I traveled with each of them this summer and it was great. I would trade them for all of heaven and earth. I am so lucky. 

And I still wonder what direction my life might have taken if Ada had lived. I might have been a working mom. Jack and I might have stayed in Chicago and not moved to St Louis or Seattle. Motherhood might have been easier, and then life might have been easier. I might have had less fear and more confidence and joy. I wonder if my marriage would have not have imploded.

Thankfully, it isn’t every day that I revisit this grief. I am learning not to fear this impending grief. Perhaps I can view it as a visit from Ada. She’s stopping by to say hello and wish me well. Maybe instead of crying about it, maybe I can welcome her in, and we can have a cup of tea.

Unpacking my Bags

The Seattle Mariners have made it to the next round of the Major League Baseball playoffs. Go M's!

I just checked baseball scores, and fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your perspective, the Cubs lost today to the Milwaukee Brewers, not advancing.

But what if?

What if the Mariner had to play the Cubs in the World Series? Who would I root for? The baseball team of my childhood and my twenties, or my current hometown team? I've lived in Chicago longer than I've lived in Seattle, but not by much. The gap gets smaller every year.

I was talking to my friend Christie the other day, a Seattle friend who was born and raised in Chicago. She was once called out on rooting for a Chicago team after living in Seattle since she was thirty.

"You haven't unpacked your bags, have you?" he asked her.

Have I unpacked mine? Would I root-root-root for my home team, or my hometown team? 

When the Cubs won the World Series in 2016, I was elated, not just for me, but my grandfather's ghost. He unpacked his bags when he moved from Sicily to the U.S. in his twenties. I think the first thing he did when he arrived in Chicago after finding a job was to become a Cubs fan.

When the M's won last night after a marathon fifteen innings, I heard the fireworks from T-Mobile at my downtown condo before the internet posted the score. I was thrilled, after biting my nails for most of the game. I wanted the M's to win, and I would have been sad if they had lost.

I love Chicago and I love Seattle. They are my two favorite cities in the U.S. Asking me which one I like better is like asking me to pick my favorite child. It isn't fair. 

Nevertheless, these cities aren't my kids. Should I be loyal and root for my hometown team, the Cubs? I saw my first Major League game at Wrigley Field when I was twelve. I attended games there in my twenties with my girls and Jack. Or, should I unpack my bags and root for the team where I live now, the city where I raised my kids, where I ran for School Board? Which city and team would I root for?

After much soul searching and introspection, I realize the answer is simple. I'll root for whichever team is losing.

Thank you for your Service!

I was at work today and one of the women had to leave to attend a PTA event. She is PTA president at her daughter's high school. 

"Thank you for your service," I said. 

Back when I was PTA president, people would say that to me all the time, but I didn't get it. Now I do.

Of course, we thank people for their military service, when then risk their lives and limbs for their country.

PTA, though, is different. People don't get paid for PTA. It is quiet, but it helps schools run. It would be great if schools were funded well enough that they didn't need a flotilla of volunteers to support them, but even well funded schools benefit from parent involvement.

This is service that helps all of our kids grow up and reach their potential. PTA work is often quiet and behind the scenes, like shelving books in the library or putting together a student directory or counting money from a bake sale. Or it is messy, where parents help in the lunch room, art class or on the playground. 

Even if my kids are grown and not in school anymore, they benefited from every parent that helped at their school.

I thank them for their service.

 

Skinny People and T&A

Ozempic has hit Seattle.

I have seen a bunch of people shrink before my eyes. It is a little weird to see someone who was previously carrying an extra eighty pounds in the gut look like a bean pole, like one of the guys I used to work with who had a truckload of health problems. I didn't recognize a woman in my building because she lost so much weight. And this woman I would not have considered heavy. Maybe she was a little thick, but not any more so than other middle aged women. She looks like a different person, and I saw her a month ago. I also have one friend who lost a significant amount of weight, and she looks fabulous.

I don't want to pass judgement on people who take the drug or don't take it. I clearly understand the health benefits of losing weight. There is a Seattle doctor who believes in prescribing Ozempic for her obese patients who have Type 2 Diabetes and are on multiple meds for high blood pressure and whatnot. She figured if you get rid of the weight issue, then everything else takes care of itself. Her patients on Ozempic don't need other medications, which is awesome.

Nevertheless, I wonder if all of these vanishing people are taking Ozempic to get off of meds.

I got an email from one of my health care groups asking me if I was interested in a weight loss drug. I plugged in my numbers and it popped back that I could lose up to 30 pounds. (I've lost at least ten pounds since my peak pandemic weight, which is nice.) 

Would I want to lose that weight? I am not so sure. Filling in the computer questionnaire, it made me wonder. I worked my way out of Type 2 Diabetes by adjusting reducing processed foods, sugar and alcohol. I don't have high blood pressure. I am not on any medications related to my heart or kidneys, nor am I on anti-depressants. I would love to be more fit, but I am not sure I wanted to be smaller. I think I'd rather exercise more--walk, play pickleball, ride my bike, hike and paddle board--before I'd take a weight loss drug.

I am also thinking I like my body more or less the way it is. I don't think I want to change my body that much that I'd take Ozempic. To be fair, when I gain weight, it adds to my curves. When I was complaining about my weight once to my daughter, she said it doesn't matter if I gain weight since it all goes to my "boobs and booty."

Even if I were to lose weight, I'd still have the same life, the same job, the same problems. Ozempic wouldn't give me a personality overhaul, make me funnier or kinder or smarter. 

Norway!

Aside from the emergency plane landing, the blustery arctic weather, and calling search and rescue to find my missing daughter, the trip was great!

A friend recently asked me the best thing about the trip, and I said the bread. In the U.S., whatever they put in the bread makes me fall asleep. In Norway, they had a hearty brown bread that I'd slather with butter and salt. Soooo delicious! And I stayed awake!

The boat ride through the fjords was amazing, beautiful, and peaceful. There were ten people on the boat, including the skipper. Everyone had to take turns making meals, cleaning the kitchen, and help running the boat. The skipper could do it all himself if needed, but everyone was able-bodied (some more than others) and we took turns at the helm and hoisting the sails. One of my co-workers asked if I was fully trained to be a deck hand. Yes, not as much as Claire-Adele. She was one of the few people on board who would jump off the boat onto the dock to pull the boat in. My agility isn't what it used to be.

One of the most important things I learned was how to get along with eight strangers in tight quarters for more than a week. One woman told her travel companion to fuck off and they didn't talk to each other for the rest of the trip. Honestly, I wasn't surprised that didn't happen more often. But then again, being kind is a choice. In order to survive and have a peaceful holiday, everyone has to give grace when crammed together like a bunch of sardines. 

I am not going to talk anymore. I know you want to see pictures. Here you go!

The Boat

The Northern Lights. Photo taken by a friend from the boat

At the end of the trip without washing my hair eight days. Not too bad!

Cabin

Fresh catch

My new hat and fancy sunglasses.

We got to hike a bit, which was nice.

Our boat, the Draco.

The Draco again

Red was the cheapest paint color ages ago. White was the most expensive. Who knew?

Me and a boat friend taking a cold dip.

The orange one in the middle is the Draco.

Me before the trip, both excited and terrified.

Trollfjord

Hibernating and Water and Boat

 I've been back from Norway for two weeks, and I am still hibernating from the trip. I am not sure what is going on. I feel like I have cotton in my brain,

Today, I got back on the water with my paddle board. Green Lake is full of toxic algae, so I went to Lake Washington. It was so nice to be back on the water, floating and bouncing and riding the waves. 

One of the weirdest things about being on a boat is getting off the boat and getting on land. When I've taken fishing trips with Pedro, we stand on a float boat for hours along the Kootenai River. When the trip was over, I get back to the hotel and the room felt like it was swaying. One of the women on the Norway trip called the phenomenon "Boat" when you are on land but feel like you are swaying like you still on the boat. It means your body has adjusted to the boat, and rebels when you are off of it. Or maybe my body was missing being on the water.

Today, I was happy to be back on the water. I never thought that being on the water would be my happy place, but it is becoming that way.