Disney and the Kraken

Today I flew to Orlando to attend a conference for work. The last time I was in Orlando, I was a sophomore in high school as part of band and drill team trip. I think we performed at Epcot Center. Or the Magic Kingdom. I remember I had a boyfriend at the time and we hung out with this hilarious guy Jay on the trip. He was a riot. Jay said I was "frumpy" and he meant it as a compliment. There was a time the bus stopped for breakfast at a diner. There were probably eighty kids on the trip, and we all had to use the bathroom to clean up. There was only one bathroom for each gender, and one girl locked herself in there for fifteen minutes applying her make-up while everyone else waited to brush their teeth. Everyone was pissed. I think what Jay meant to say was that I was low maintenance or not vain because I didn't hog that bathroom. I also I remember eating dinner at some fancy place at Epcot with hydroponically grown lettuce and bleu cheese salad dressing. That is about it.

On the plane today to Orlando, I was working on an embroidery project called "Release the Kraken." When I first saw this picture, I thought it was cool because most embroidery kits are about flowers or inspirational quotes. This one is full of drama and monsters. Gotta love that. It reminds me of something my friend Diane would have created.

As you can see, I'm not done yet. At first, I felt sorry for the ship being potentially assaulted by the Kraken. Then I realized, the Kraken was there first. Actually, the ocean was there first, then the Kraken, and then the ship. The Kraken has the right to chase the ship off its turf. Right?

Now I am at the Disney World Resort, which is the size of the City of St. Louis. I'm only kind of exaggerating. This place is massive. I am staying at a spot in the resort that has a lake in the middle. After dinner, I walked around the lake, which was peaceful. There is music piped in around the walk around the lake, which was nice. The moon was out and the hotel was beautifully lit up. I was thinking of how this would be a lovely place to paddle board, as the water was calm and probably warm. Flying in, I saw lots and lots of little lakes or ponds. Central Florida could be a paddle board paradise!

Then I saw the sign.

These signs were posted every fifty feet along the perimeter of the lake. I remember hearing a story years ago of a toddler that was eaten by an alligator at a Disney park. I don't know all of the details, but yikes! Now there are signs everywhere. Montana has bears. Florida has gators. Why do beautiful outdoor places also come with predators?

Which reminds me of the Kraken. What was here first? Probably the pond, then the alligators, and then the resort. The alligators are like the Kraken, and we are on their turf. Proceed with caution.

The New Zoo

I haven't worked in an office in two years. Since the pandemic started, I got a new job at a new company. I went to my new office for the second time ever today. The first time I visited was for my first day of work a year into the pandemic. Today I went in because I scheduled an appointment to prove my employment eligibility to the HR people. When I started the job, I had scanned my citizenship documents, but now they need to see the original. So I did that today. 

Not only was I figuring out a new space, I was figuring it out alone as the office doesn't officially open until April 18. I drove around the block a few times to find the entrance to the parking garage down an alley. I had to see if my temporary badge could get me into the garage. I had to find my new desk in a maze of cubicles. I had to find tea and coffee and water fountains and kleenex and the bathroom. I had to log into the system. Brian, one of two people on my floor, set-up my monitors and docking station.

The office is beautiful, but my only complaint were the lights. My delicate eyes hurt from being around fluorescent lights all day. Maybe my monitors were too bright or too far away. Whatever the case, it was different.

I went to lunch as a place was described as "bougie." I figure I'd squeeze getting in before everyone returns to work and then not find a seat. One of my favorite fabric shops is town is kitty-corner to the office. Good for the business. Bad for my budget.

I didn't get much actual work done as I spent a lot of time walking around trying to get my bearings, which part of work. I felt like all of sense were firing at full speed. My eyes were aching. My ears were picking up infrequent and quiet footfalls and a phone call in the distance. My nose was tickled by dust that accumulated in cracks and cervices. I burned my tongue at lunch on baked eggs.

I was talking to my team lead, filling him in on my experience. 

"I feel like an animal in new surroundings, and I am trying to make sense of this," I said.

"You are in a new zoo," he said.

No Masks

This morning, I went out to get coffee during work. I grabbed my keys, my jacket, and my mask, as usual. 

Then I realized I don't need to wear a mask to the coffee shop as the State of Washington dropped the mask requirement indoors. Yay!

Except then I had to brush my teeth before I left. While I was up, I put on some make-up. Now I am going to have to attend to the giant zit in my nose I developed while working out in a mask. It took me an extra five minutes to get out of the door.

It is funny what we get used to, our habits. What was so annoying for the past year and a half became something I adjusted to, and now I need to adjust back.

Live & Duh & Delicious Mistakes

What do you want first, the happy story or the sad story? I'll decide: the happy story goes first. If the happy story goes second, it will sound disrepectful to the sad one.

Live

Claire-Adele, Pedro and I have begun to embrace the very simple pleasure of live entertainment again. Pedro has walked by the Moore Theater a few times and looked at the marquee to see who is playing. He drops a name, and I say "Hey let's go," and he says "Sure." (My god I am the coolest mother in the world.) In the past few weeks, Pedro and I saw the comedians Mike Birbiglia and Fortune Feimster. Since the Moore Theater is a few blocks from the condo, it is an easy venue to hit. It is relatively small--like three thousand seats and the ticket prices are reasonable to see comedians who have specials on Netflix. The place is small enough that I don't feel like I need to buck up for good seats because even the cheap seats have a good view. Pedro's girlfriend recommended I watch Feimster's "Sweet and Salty" on Netflix and it was fine. It was funny. I laughed, but seeing her live was waaaay better. She can rock a crowd that wasn't evident when I was streaming her show while I was riding the elliptical at the gym.

Claire-Adele has been to two NHL games in the past week in her new hometown, even though for one of the games she rooted for the Kraken instead of the Capitals. Live sports is her new thing, which is super cool.

It is awesome to be in a room crammed with people who are all laughing or cheering at the same thing. I felt alive. Pedro and I even had a local celebrity sighting at the Feimster show, which was extra fun. (Well, a celebrity in Seattle, at least.) Last year, Adam Grant wrote an article in the New York Times about collective effervescence:

"Peak happiness lies mostly in collective activity. We find our greatest bliss in moments of collective effervescence. It’s a concept coined in the early 20th century by the pioneering sociologist Émile Durkheim to describe the sense of energy and harmony people feel when they come together in a group around a shared purpose. Collective effervescence is the synchrony you feel when you slide into rhythm with strangers on a dance floor, colleagues in a brainstorming session, cousins at a religious service or teammates on a soccer field. And during this pandemic, it’s been largely absent from our lives.

Collective effervescence happens when joie de vivre spreads through a group. Before Covid, research showed that more than three-quarters of people found collective effervescence at least once a week and almost a third experienced it at least once a day. They felt it when they sang in choruses and ran in races, and in quieter moments of connection at coffee shops and in yoga classes."

Duh

Now for the depressing news. I had lots of time this afternoon to myself so I hunkered down with the Sunday New York Times. I have to admit that I typically hit the puzzles in the Sunday Magazine and Style sections first, checking out Modern Love, which is a brilliant column that everyone should read.

But then I saw a different, more depressing story that I didn't finish because after reading the first third, I knew the plot and didn't see a happy ending coming or any major plot twists. This article was Hidden Epidemic of Brain Injuries from Domestic Violence. The short version is "Research shows that survivors of abuse can sustain head trauma more often than football players. But they are almost never diagnosed."

Wow. I never thought about that, but of course! Women who get beat up by their partners on a regular basic for years have head injuries. How come no one figured this out until now? This is a big fat case of "duh." And that was super depressing, but sometimes super depressing things can drive us to take action! Like get those women in shelters examined for neurological problems. Some bruises don't show. 

Delicious Mistakes

I feel like I need to end on a happier note than battered women. Americans have this idea of sandwiching criticism between two positives. Like if you are late for work every day, your boss might say "I really love having you on the team and I value your contributions, but we miss your contributions when you are fifteen minutes late to the stand-up meeting. It would be great if you could get here on time so we can benefit from your ideas." In the same spirit, I am going to sandwich domestic violence news between two things of joy: live entertainment and chocolate cookies.

Here is a chocolate thumbprint cookie recipe from the Sunday magazine. The author was following the directions for a different recipe and messed up. The mistake ended up being delicious, worthy of its own recipe. I love the idea too that sometimes our mistakes lead us to something better than we could have imagined.

I can't wait to try this mistake out.

Colors and my Mask

This week, Seattle has been lit up with blue and yellow in solidarity with the Ukraine.

Which is fine...

...except these are the same structures that have red lights on Valentine's Day and orange on Halloween. They are blue and green when the Seahawks or Sounders have a big game. The war on the Ukraine isn't a sporting event. This isn't something to cheer for or about. When will these buildings change the lights to something different? Will these structures turn the lights green for St. Patrick's Day? Does that mean we no longer care about the Ukraine?

Perhaps I am being too cynical. Maybe when people feel helpless about a war thousands of miles away, they do what they can, which is pick a side and fly the flag. Would it be worse to not have the colors? Will the colors work like inspiring people to watch football, and inspire us to read more about the war, to follow it, to take a position? Maybe.

Even though a war is going on far away, the other 7.6 billion people figure out a way to carry on with their lives, going about our business. As I am.

Funny story -- I was at the gym other day riding the elliptical, watching Ali Wong, my favorite comediennes. I love Ali. As per King County orders, I had to wear a mask while exercising. In the middle of my workout, I pulled down my mask and took a gulp of water. As soon as I pulled my mask up, something hilarious happened in Ali's movie and I snorted out the water. Into my mask. I has a mask full of water and spit. It was gross, but also really funny. Most of the water leaked on to the front of my shirt, but I was at the gym so I just looked super sweaty. Fortunately, there was only one other person in the cardio room when it happened.

Pedro was unimpressed with this story. I can't wait until he is no longer a petulant teenager. Then, he might think I am funny. I can dream, right?

Crowds

I went to U Village this afternoon to run some errands. 

It was crazy.

I went to the Apple store to pick up some stuff and there were TONS of people there. I had ordered what I needed over the phone and it was waiting for me in the store when I got there. Earlier in the day, I had spent an hour on the phone with the sales rep, Chris from Texas, who was very sweet. We talked about seasonal allergies and he told me about his Navage nasal irrigation system. (Who knew such a thing existed?) I was kind of annoyed that Apple directed me to a phone rep instead of encouraging me to walk around the Apple store and see the stuff in person, play around with it and all. I wanted to play with the feel of the keyboards and see the screens and stuff. Sure, they have picture of the stuff online, but I wanted to touch it before I bought it.

When I got to the store, I was grateful I had bought the stuff I needed over the phone instead of waiting for a rep at the store. On the phone, I had Chris' undivided attention. The store, on the other hand, was chaos, packed with people. Except for the masks, you wouldn't know there was a pandemic. 

Since the pandemic, I've been to restaurants, movies, and the ballet. I've flown a dozen times. It is not like I've been living like a perfect hermit. Yet, this was the first time I was in the middle of a crowd.

I had been to the Apple store sometime in the pandemic (September 2020 maybe?) after I dropped my phone and it smashed to bits. I had to have an appointment to get in. Outside, there were security people letting a few people in at a time. When I finally got in, the place was empty except for a few workers in the front of the store at desks behind plexiglass taking orders. They wanted me in and out there as soon as possible. No browsing or asking questions. They assumed I knew what I wanted when I walked in.

This experience was different. Anyone could walk in. Everyone was wearing masks but there was no social distancing or limit to the number of people inside. People were poking around, hanging out. There was no five minute limit.

I was a little freaked out and overwhelmed at the experience, not because I was afraid of getting covid, but because I hadn't seen a crowd like that in a store since before the pandemic. It was weird being around so many people like that at once and I wasn't used to it. It was like I had agoraphobia, but I didn't have it flying or at the ballet. I think the difference was the Apple store felt busy in a hectic or unorganized way, unlike the ballet or airports. 

This was the first place I had been that seemed fully back to pre-pandemic normal, and it was odd.

Jekyll and Hyde, not Jekyll or Hyde

I was reading a review of the new documentary, "We Need to Talk about Cosby," about the ground-breaking Black comedian who also had a second life where he drugged and raped women. This world class talent was also a world class predator. How do we reconcile the two? Can we?

I haven't seen the documentary yet, but I hope to. Nevertheless, the last lines of the New York Times review read: 

But as Bell’s wise documentary also makes clear, there wasn’t really one Bill Cosby and another secret one. There isn’t a good Cosby and a bad Cosby, whom we can store in different mental compartments. There is just Bill Cosby, about whom we didn’t know enough and now know dreadfully more. In the end, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are always the same guy.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are the same guy.

I think about this line and my brother, and millions of other people with and without mental health issues. After Eleanor Owen's death, I am thinking more about my brother Michael. Eleanor gave me a very safe and sacred place to talk about my brother and his demons. My mom would always compartmentalize my brother into the sane Michael and the insane Michael. Even people with schizophrenia have moments of clarity. When my brother had flashes of rationality grounded in reality, my mom wondered by my brother couldn't be like that all of the time.

It is just dawning on me now: she saw him as two people. One she loved, one she struggled to love. She wanted the "bad" Michael to go away and let the good and responsible Michael run the show. 

I don't intend to comment on Cosby here, but the article is making me think of how we view troublesome people, people we love with difficult personalities or mental health defects. Which one of these people do we really love? In some cases, people love the weak version of a person, the person who needs to be taken care of because the caretaker might equate being needed with being loved. Once the caretaker is no longer needed, then they may no longer feel worthy of love. This can happen in romantic relationships, but it is also a death trap for parents who don't want their children to grow up and lead independent lives. Some parents want to be needed. All. The. Time.

I think of brother. He is the most bat-shit crazy person I know, by far. And I still love him. Part of loving him is fully acknowledging all of the horrible and horrific things he has done. If I didn't see the bad things, then I am not fully seeing him. While I still love my brother, that love comes with a truck load of boundaries. I can "detach from him with love" which means I can love him from a distance. I can send him cards in the mail, I can talk to him briefly on the phone, but I don't need to engage in all of the irrationality. 

Unlike Bill Cosby, my brother was never considered "America's Dad." Far from it. My brother was dude who was frequently homeless and lived out of his car for a year. Maybe the problem we have in society isn't that we put people on pedestals and are shocked when they aren't perfect. Maybe the problem is the pedestal in the first place. Who among us is pure enough to be placed so high as to have no faults? Yet, as soon as we put someone on that pedestal, we fail to see their flaws. We are blinded so we can't see the truth, even when people tell us. We want to believe the myths. We do, and our desired to believe keeps us from seeing what is really happening.

Eleanor DeVito Owen

My dear friend Eleanor Owen died today. She was 101. Two years younger than my late grandfather, Eleanor was born as the 1918 pandemic was concluding, and she died as the COVID-19 pandemic comes to an end.

I met Eleanor in a memoir class at the University of Washington in 2008. She was tiny but lion of a woman who freaked me out the first time I met her. For the first week of class, I submitted a very intense piece about my brother's battle with mental illness. The ten page story was going to be workshopped by the entire class the following week. As I arrive for the second week of class, this little old lady who looked and sounded like she vacationed in Kennebunkport with the Bush family came up to me. 

"Are you Lauren McGuire?"

No, I thought. No I am not. She was the very last person I wanted to talk to in the class about my schizophrenic brother and his tragic and chaotic life. Should I lie? Should I pretend I am someone else? I was terrified and wanted to escape. It took a tremendous amount of guts for me to write about my brother, and now this woman wants to talk to me about it. No. No no no no. No.

But I couldn't lie, no matter how much I wanted to. 

"Yes," I said.

She smiled, and paused. "I am Eleanor Owen, founder of the National Alliance on Mental Health. Local, state and national."

That was not what I expected. 

She kept talking but I don't remember anything else she said after that. It was like meeting someone and falling in love at first sight, except this wasn't romantic love. It was like finding an extra grandmother and fairy godmother rolled into one.

I later learned about Eleanor's bipolar father and schizophrenic son. She had other family members, too, with MI (mental illness), but Jody and her father had the most impact on her life. Eleanor was an eagle: strong and brave and courageous. I felt like a sparrow next to her, under her powerful wings. I felt protected and safe as I continued to tell the story of my brother. She took me in.

The after the class finished in June, and Eleanor and I would meet for lunch several times a year. She lived in a three story old house in the Roanoke Park neighborhood of Seattle. I would bring a loaf of Macrina rosemary bread and she would make lentil soup. Every time the soup was different and every time it was delicious. Everyday, she drank a small glass of wine with lunch, stopping right before the pandemic because of her age. Nothing fancy. She was a fan of Two Buck Chuck.

During lunch, I would talk about the drama in my life, and then we would talk writing. A week before the lunch, I would send her a draft of a chapter from my book, and she would me a chapter of hers. In 2017, we took a writing class together at North Seattle Community College. She was in her late nineties and still drove. She was pick me up on the way to class in her ancient Oldsmobile with the WAMI vanity license plate, sitting on a stack of pillows so she could see the road.

The last time I saw Eleaor was weeks before the pandemic. Before Eleanor became a full-time advocate for mental health, she was a drama teacher. I had scored season tickets to the University of Washington drama department's student presentations. We went to a few shows, but missed the rest of the season because of covid. She loved to give me advice about everything. Her last words to me were of thanks. She thanked me for sharing all of my problems with her. She was sincere. I thought I was an annoying Debbie Downer, complaining, but she saw it differently. She liked being involved. She liked that I confided in her. She liked that I listened to her advice and wisdom.

I knew Eleanor in the later years of her life when she was a writer. I read and re-read her memoir of growing up in an Italian family in New York during the Depression. Her once wealthy family lost much of their property, and moved to the family's summer home in upstate New York where the story starts. It is a beautiful tale of a mother, daughter, survival and forgiveness. It is the story of Eleanor's mother told from the eyes of a child. When I read her work, I compared Eleanor's mother to Atticus Finch and Eleanor to Scout.

I didn't see Eleanor during the pandemic, mainly because I would not have been able to live with myself if I was the one who gave her corona. I did talk to her a few times.

"If I get corona, it will be three weeks and then 'Bye-bye Eleanor,'" she said. 

I have no idea what she died of or how. I texted Eleanor on her 101st birthday a few weeks ago, but no reply. I wonder if she was ill. Before that, she had never been sick a day in her life. As long as I knew her, she lived independently. 

Today, I was reading her Wikipedia page (yes, she has one) and discovered her memoir was published last month. I can't wait to read the final version, to see how she decided to pull it together. What I had read over the years was a beautiful tale beautifully told. I hope is widely read and loved.

I never post pictures of myself on my blog because I hate getting my picture taken. 

Today, I make an exception. 

Eleanor hosting an event for my school board campaign in 2015.

192 Degrees

I had a dream the other night that I was listening to a weather report that said the temperature in Chicago was 192 degrees. My first thought was "I hope my grandmother doesn't die in this weather," but when I woke up I remembered my grandmother had died years ago. 

Then I thought about Elon Musk and his rocket ships, built with the intent that we on earth can someday find another home as the environment here evolves into something that potentially could not sustain human life in future generations. 

While I applaud his efforts for electric cars, I question the spaceship plan. How are we going to get billions of people a new home on Mars? That is quite the dream. Would it be workable? Doable? 

My mind switched up and got a case of science fiction. What if we built tunnels and homes underground as a way to sustain life on a planet that is falling apart. I don't want to become a mole person, but we could potentially live underground during times of extreme heat and extreme cold, and come to the surface during more moderate times. We could build places that would withstand potential flooding. There are subway tunnels that go under rivers--we could build places that would withstand temporary lakes forming above. We could protect people potentially from forest fires as well. We'd have to figure out underground agriculture. Maybe we would eat lots of potatoes. Would people want to live like this, underground? How many people would say "Screw it" and go out and bake to death in the 190 degree temps instead of living with no sun for months at a time? 

We've already lived under quarantine. How far would humans go for survival? Is the pandemic practice for future things to come?

Trapeze

I was talking to a friend who compared transitions to flying on a trapeze. Transitions are the moment we let go of one swing and before we grab on to the other.

There are so many transitions, whether leaving school or a job. It could be leaving childhood behind, or welcoming middle age. It might be reconciling the death of a loved one, like a parent. There is that moment when we are untethered, in the middle, neither here-nor-there. Letting go can be scary. We don't know what the next handhold will look like, or even if there will be one. There will be something, but we don't know what. We can be free or afraid.

The difference between

falling

and 

flying 

is 

faith.

Happy?

Last week, a friend recommended a new meditation app. I usually I use Calm but he recommended "Ten Percent Happier" based on a book by Dan Harris. I haven't read the book, but I thought I'd give the app a try.

I loaded the app on my phone on Friday, but I didn't try it until yesterday afternoon between eating my Top Pot Donut treat and before I went shopping for a new oven for the condo. I was really stressed about getting a new range. I called my friend Ellen to talk about it. She just moved and is remodeling her new place. Within the past few weeks, she's bought all new appliances. I told her I get overwhelmed looking at appliances, comparing features and specs and price point and consumer reviews. Really. It freaks me out.

Ellen suggested I listen to my heart to see how I should go about picking a range. 

"How did you pick your appliances?" I asked. 

"I pick the pretty one," she said.

To mellow myself out before I went shopping, I listened to one of the basic meditations on "Ten Percent Happier." I'm always a little nervous to try something new. I prefer the tried and true, the comfortable.

This meditation was about intentions.

May I be safe.

May I be happy.

May I be at ease.

This should be nice and easy, except it wasn't. I started arguing in my head with the mediation leader about happiness. Should I really wish to be happy? Isn't that asking for too much? I am with being safe and at ease, serene and sane. But happy? I read in a bunch of parenting books that you shouldn't want your kids to be happy, you should want them to grow up to be independent. Happy implies never making them upset or angry or disappointed. Life is full of pain. The challenge of life is to embrace the pain without being consumed by it. 

Then I started to think that there is something wrong with me for not wanting to be happy. In some twelve step programs, they talk about being happy, joyous and free. What is the opposite of happy joyous and free? I don't want to be sad, miserable or trapped.

Today I was talking to some friends and the conversation came up of what would you do if you had unlimited courage. The question was harder for me to answer than it should have been. 

To be honest, the first thing I thought of was to get season tickets to the Seattle Sounders. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it is because it takes courage to have fun, to be in a large crowd again. Sounders games are fun. It is cool to cheer for your team.

Maybe I want to have the courage to be happy, joyous and free.

Donuts + Pineapple

I started a job last March in the middle of the pandemic. Since I've been working remotely, I haven't gotten to talk to my co-workers very much. Yesterday, I broke down and booked a half an hour on my calendar with a woman on my team. I was going to tell her about a project I am working on and ask her opinion. Instead, we shot the shit, which was perfect and wonderful. 

We talked about taking care of ourselves, as middle-aged women are wont to do. She has abandoned sugar in her diet.

"I used to eat so many donuts. I had donuts for breakfast all of the time," she said. "At work, I would go to Starbucks and get vanilla lattes. It was the worst. Then I started reading about sugar and how awful it is on your body. "

I told my new friend and co-worker I know about sugar and carbs. My dad has Type-2 diabetes, which he manages through diet and exercise. Recently, my dad had to take a short break from exercise. He asked a nutritionist what he could do to manage his blood sugar if he couldn't ride his elliptical or lift weights for a few weeks. The nutritionist told him to meditate: it drops the cortisol in your body and drops your blood sugar. I knew meditation was spiritually and emotionally good for people, but good for your physical health, too? Who knew? Talk about win-win-win.

Anyway, today I was out and about and I all I could think about was donuts. The power of suggestion. My friend and I didn't talk about the goodness of kale and quinoa. We talked about the badness of donuts, which made me want a donut.

Donuts.

Donuts.

Donuts.

I don't even like donuts that much. I prefer croissants and scones and eggs for breakfast before donuts. 

Yet, there is a soft spot in my heart for Top Pot's Double Trouble--a chocolate cake donut with chocolate glaze.

After my morning meeting, I booked it over to Top Pot and got not one but two donuts! I ate half of each which is a whole donut. I finished it off with a mocha. 

Oh my god.

It was so good. 

I ate the donuts with a side of pineapple, in a very lame attempt to add balance to the universe, as if the pineapple will cancel out the evils of the donut. I think in some olden days, people could buy off sins if they donated to the church. Like, Yeah, I stole from my cousin but I bought new pews and a stained glass window, so in the eyes of god, I am good, right?