Lost & Addiction

Last week, Jack and I went to Montana to visit the Boy. It was a good trip. One whole day was devoted to parent training, which is emotionally exhausting but helpful. I feel like our family is in a much better mental health space than we were two years ago. The Boy said that the kids who are doing the best in the program have parents who are also doing their own therapy or other emotional/spiritual work to heal themselves. He acknowledged our progress, which was appreciated.

The weekend still had its challenges. The worst part was driving in Bozeman, which is completely absurd because it is a small town with very little traffic. How hard could it be? Yet, driving in a new town always poses challenges. Several times before we got in the car, I asked Jack if he knew where he was going or did he need me to navigate.

"I know where I am going," he would say.

And then we would get lost, which pissed me off because I specifically asked if he knew where he was going ten minutes earlier. I'd then get out my phone, turn on Google maps and let the Google lady tell us where to go. The Boy -- and his friends we later found out-- hate the electronic sound of the Google lady's voice. We all are pissed, which is no fun.

When I got back to Seattle, I told this story to our family therapist. His reply:

"It is okay to get lost."

What? No it is not okay to get lost. What if we missed our dinner reservation and there was no other restaurant open and we had to eat hot dogs from a gas station on the Boy's last night of pass and he wanted to eat in a nice restaurant and then he was crabby and inconsolable and...?

It is okay to get lost.

It makes sense, but I still struggle. I've lost a daughter, a brother to schizophrenia and a mother to dementia. I've lost love and jobs and an election.

"It is okay to be lost," our therapist said. "Sometimes the greatest adventures happen when we are lost."

This week, I also thought about addiction. One of my friends was talking about four parts to addiction that I can relate to:

• The need to know
• Seeing what is wrong
• Drama and intensity
• Perfectionism

These unhealthy behaviors have plagued my own life. I often think that if I can figure things or people out, I will get the outcome I am looking for. I often look at what isn't working in my life instead of celebrating what is good. I try to avoid drama, but I certainly qualify as intense. I am not a perfectionist: I just don't make mistakes (hahaha.) The connecting theme of these ideas are control. 

My friend then mentioned the antidotes:

• The need to know --> faith
• Seeing what is wrong --> gratitude
• Drama and intensity --> love and connection
• Perfectionism --> embracing humanness and imperfection

The antidotes celebrate different themes: uncertainty and imperfection and love.  It is okay not to know everything. It is okay not to be perfect. 

It is okay to be lost. 

Chamber of Commerce Day & Pier 62

This morning, I went for a walk before work. It was a beautiful and quiet morning. After my trip to Montana this weekend, I realized I need more exercise in my day. This trip was the first time I've been on an airplane in almost a year, and the first time I've spent a lot of time in public in ages. I feel like I've turned into a naked mole rat, living in my hidey-hole, which is not a good thing.

I didn't realize how much weight I've gained until I was out and about. The magic mirror in my closest tells me I am the fairest of them all, that the extra pounds just add to my curves. The mirrors in Montana were much more blunt: "Those curves are really pudge, honey."

So this morning I went for a long walk. I was gone for an hour and now I am fit to be the President of Seattle Chamber of Commerce, telling everyone how beautiful and wonderful Seattle is. The city is re-doing the Waterfront along Elliott Bay. It looks like they finished the re-do of Pier 62 recently. If it weren't for Covid, there might have been a big opening celebration. But no. Instead of a party where you might catch a highly contagious virus, you get photos on my blog.

The new Pier 62

The floating dock -- above and below.

View from the Old Stove Brewery

Snow White Privilege

I love to shovel snow. I know I am weird, but shoveling snow is one of my most favorite outdoor chores. Yesterday morning, I went out to get my newspaper and I saw one of the officers of the HOA (Home Owner's Association) outside shoveling a path through the courtyard. I said hello and said I'd be willing to help after I got back from the Market. Plus, I needed to take pictures of all of the snow in downtown Seattle, because that is what Seattlites do -- we take pictures of snow like we have never seen it before even though half of the town skis every weekend in the winter because the snowy mountains are better than the city's cold, gray drizzle.

I digress. So today I decided to shovel again. The courtyard stairs were still full of snow, so I was shoveling them. A few people walked by and thanked me for shoveling. This one couple--whom I did not know--saw my shoveling the steps. They needed to go down the stairs to get to the garage. 

"Excuse me," they said, waiting for me to stop shoveling so I could let them pass. Their tone had a little ahem to it, as if I did not know that it was my role to let them pass. In fact, they seemed mildly disgruntled that they had to interrupt me. I was kind of annoyed and then I figured it out: they thought I was the help.

Oy.

Oy. Oy. Oy.

I was pissed. I continued shoveling, and for two seconds I thought about flipping a heavy, wet load of snow over the edge of the stairwell, maybe splashing them on the head. But they were already gone, so my potential act of aggressive-passive-aggression never came to fruition. Besides, that would have been mean.

Then, I had an even funnier thought: what if I did throw the snow over the stairs and plopped them on the head. What if they threatened to have me fired? I would have been happy to tell them my name and have them go to the building manager to "fire me." I can visualize the building manager explaining to them that I live there. Wouldn't that have been hilarious?

So funny.

Except when it isn't. Here I am--a white woman who lives in a pretty posh downtown condo getting pissed off because some people treated me rudely because they thought I was the help. I had a nice little revenge fantasy going, which is fine. Sure, I have faced a decent amount of gender discrimination, but I don't have to deal with micro-aggressions or other assumptions on a daily basis. I probably haven't dealt with any crap like that ever. Okay, once when I was in college I was working my summer job at the deli. It was a cool morning and I was wearing my Northwestern University sweatshirt. One of the usual patrons came and started to tell me all about Northwestern: that it was in Evanston, Illinois, that it was on Lake Michigan, that it was such as good school, blah, blah, blah. I let him carry on, and then I said,

"Yeah I know. I go to school there."

He stopped talking. I don't think I ever saw him again back at the deli. He might have been too embarrassed. 

So, once every few decades I have to deal with insensitive douche-bags not having common courtesy.

Other people have to deal with that kind of shit on a daily basis, where someone makes an assumption about them because of their race, gender and/or ethnicity. One of my Indian co-workers picked me up at the airport. The parking patrol woman thought he was an Uber driver and told him to move along. 

"Uber drivers can't park here," the parking lady said.

"I'm not an Uber driver," he said. "I'm picking up a friend," he said. Then, I show up, a middle-aged white woman with a laptop case and the parking lady probably thought "Yeah, he's an Uber driver for sure."

I can't imagine having to deal with that crap all of the time. It would suck. 

I guess the point is: if you are a racist or sexist or snob or classist or whatever, be courteous and civil and kind to everyone you meet anyway. This way people won't have to feel your racism, sexism, or classism. I have a Jewish friend who wants to know upfront who is anti-Semetic. I can understand his perspective, but maybe if people were kind--even if they had to pretend they were nice, their racism/sexism/classism might eventually fade. They might forget they were a racist/sexist/classist in the first place.

The Snowy Day

It snowed in Seattle, which meant the town would have shut down if it wasn't already shut down from the covid quarantine. A non-pandemic snow day is a time to pause and reflect. Given that everyone is staying at home anyway, we already are overdosed on pausing and reflecting as we are stuck inside with puzzles and making soups and bread.

Why is today special then? Because the snow is something novel to cheer us up during the doldrums of winter.

This is way more snow than we usually get, but how much snow we have been getting seems to be more and more each year.

Fox did not loving his first bounce in the snow today. He hid went I tried to take him for a walk this morning. By this afternoon, he figured out that the sidewalks would be shoveled and he was eager to get outside. Thought bubble: "My god lady why do you need to take my picture?" You'd think he was one of my kids when I they were twelve and hated getting their pictures taken.

Fox out for his afternoon walk. The snow is almost as tall as he is.

Kids were sledding on this street today. They probably could ski on it, but this crud needs to be groomed.

Pandemic be damned. People were out and about today. Le Panier was open and the smell of croissants were everywhere. I would have gotten one but the line was out the door.

Several people tried to drive up this big hill today. Most failed.

My produce guy Jae was open today. Most other shops were closed. Jae said he was the only one on the highway coming in this morning, so when he zigzagged across the highway, no one else was there for him to hit. He risked his life so I could have spinach and mushrooms with my steak for dinner tonight. What a sweetie! It was hilarious when I crow landed on the blueberries. For the birds, an open air fruit and vegetable stand was the bomb.

I brought all of my geraniums in so they wouldn't freeze. I also brought some bugs in. One fly tried to get out and I let him be free. He probably would have been better off inside, but hey -- it was his choice.

This morning, Tom Douglas was out shoveling the sidewalk in front of his restaurants Seatown and Etta's. For lunch, they were giving away free mochi donuts with the purchase of clam chowder. The flecks are gold. 

Last but not least, here are pictures of my snow covered skylights. I love the patterns..

Bird & the Window, Part 2

Yesterday, the little reddish bird was back, banging against my window.

Why, little bird, why? Why do you continue to bang your sweet little head and body against my window? It defies reason that you keep making the same error of judgment, this same bird who amazes me as it flies through a tangle of tree branches to land on a branch. Man created our own version of air travel and helicopters, but we can't navigate the skies so well to land on a tree branch as brilliantly as a bird. When I see the bird smash into my window, I wonder how can a bird be so smart and so dumb at the same time.

The window defies the little bird's logical ideas. Something larger and literally unseen is at play here, that the bird cannot understand.

I think of all of the times I've dealt with Jack and his addiction. Dealing with someone with an addiction defies logic. I was like the little bird, flying into the window. "Maybe if I fly a little to the left, this time I'll make it through," the little bird might think, or "If I fly a little faster, maybe I'll get it." I would read books on communication (see: Nonviolent Communication by Marshall Rosenberg, which is a really good book) and try those techniques. I would talk to friends who would say "If you just told Jack exactly how you felt, he would get it. Say it just like you told me right now..." Like the little bird trying to get into my dining room, nothing I did worked. 

I think of the expression from Rene Descartes that I learned in 7th grade French class: 

Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait point.*

or

The heart has reasons that reason will never know.

I have been struggling at work recently, flying into a pane of glass there, too, though not because of addiction. I have had conflict with people who are inconsistent and are regularly changing their minds about what I should do with my career now since my little department has been dissolved. I still have a job, but I feel like I have been orphaned, even though I still work on the same team and with the same people. My purpose now is different. Greater conflict is now arising because no one in the organization has taken on my old work/purpose because leadership deemed it unimportant several months ago. Now the gap is beginning to show, and people in other groups in the organization are seeing the impact. I get really frustrated when one week it is "Lauren this is what should happen," and the following week is the opposite.

I need to let go of logic. I need to realize greater things are at play that I don't understand, including people's thoughts, feelings and emotions. I need to realize that perhaps they are just as lost as I am, or they too are little birds flying into their own pane of glass.

* Like other romance languages, French assigns gender to common nouns. I am surprised that heart is masculine while reason is feminine.

The Bird and the Window

There is a large rosemary hedge outside of my dining room window and in this hedge is a bird. I don't know what kind of bird -- it looks like a large, red sparrow. For the past two days, this bird flies into the window and bonks its head. Two minutes later, it flies into the window with a thunk again. And again. And again. I am not thrilled about this mainly because I don't want to go outside on my patio and see the little bird lying there dead with a broken neck from smashing into the window after the 73rd time.

This little bird fits the definition of insanity: trying the same thing again and again, expecting different results. 

But is this little bird really crazy, or insane? Is the little bird stupid?

I don't think so. I think it is something else.

I would say the bird is blind, but the bird's vision is fine.

The problem isn't really the bird as much as it is the glass. The bird can't see the glass in the window. The bird see "nothing" and it wants to fly into my dining room. Why it wants to go into my dining room is beyond me. Maybe it is building a nest and wants to check out the neighborhood. I don't know.

At times, I feel like this little bird, flying into panes of glass I can't see. All of my logic and good sense tells me I should be able to fly through the window, and then I am shocked and sore and angry and dumbfounded when I bang my head and crash to the ground.  

WTF? I think. Why can't I fly through that space? I should be able to fly through that space, but I can't. Why not? I am flying the way I usually fly. Why do I keep banging my head and crashing to the ground? What is wrong with me? What am I doing wrong?

There is nothing wrong with me per se. I can see fine. I am not crazy. I am not stupid. Instead, it is the combo of me and the glass together that is the problem. Just because I can't see the glass, doesn't mean it isn't there. I sense and feel the glass every time I hit it, and every time I am surprised.

If I know the glass is there, if I admit the glass is there, maybe then I can stop trying to fly in that space. I can fly someplace else where I won't get so banged up and bruised.

The History of Sketch Comedy and Time Warp 2010

This weekend, I listened to the entire podcast series, The History of Sketch Comedy by Keegan-Michael Key. I read about it in the New York Times and downloaded it for free on Audible. I usually don't listen to podcasts, but this one sucked me in. I'd listen in the car, while I was cooking, while I was working on my new jigsaw puzzle or coloring. (Don't judge me.)

I loved the series. It was so entertaining. Instead of showing clips from Saturday Night Live or the Carol Burnett Show, Key would act out the scene using voices and while he explained what was going on. He is a terrific voice actor. That alone is worth the price of admission, even though it is free, it can be a pain in the butt to set up an Audible account.

This podcast is more than entertaining. I was learning something new. In one of the articles, Key said his wife pitched the idea as an NYU lecture on comedy. I had seen or heard of most of the stuff he was referring to, but I didn't realize why I thought it was so funny. He talks about an SNL skit called "Black Jeopardy" with Tom Hanks, and "Meet Your Second Wife!" with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, both of which I has seen before and laughed.

There was some comedy I had never heard of before, like some of the sketches from Dudley Moore and Peter Cook's "Frog and Peach" sketch from the 1960's or so. When there was something new and interesting, I'd google it and watch the skit on YouTube.

There was some comedy I completely missed, though: Andy Samberg and the Lonely Island. They write parody songs making fun of pop music and rap. This trio rocked the comedy scene in 2010. In 2010, my kids were in elementary school. I was driving places and making sure kids did their homework and running a PTA or two. The only media I consumed was Facebook, Stephen Colbert, and paper copy of the Seattle Times. That was it. I didn't watch television or movies. Watching television during the day makes me depressed, and at night I didn't have time with the kids around.

Now, thanks to the power and glory of YouTube and Spotify, I am catching up on pop culture circa 2010. I feel like I am in a time warp, like I missed a decade or something. What should I have been wearing? What about hairstyles? I have no clue. I was stuck back in 2000 like when Claire-Adele was born.

Anyway, The Lonely Island is hilarious. I've watched Jack Sparrow featuring Michael Bolton like ten times. Mona Lisa is funny, and also an earworm. Some of their songs are completely raunchy and inappropriate, but man it is good to laugh.

A Blank Page is Potential

A blank page is potential.

I sit and look at my coloring book and see the blank pages 

filling them in during meetings when I am not on the agenda but 

need to pay enough attention.

I wonder how beautiful the pages will be when I add color.

I imagine how they will look when I am finished. 

Other times I don't plan or have an idea,

I move forward from my heart.

Every time, it looks a little different than I expected or imagined.

The yellow marker I pick might not be as bright or cheerful as I had thought it was.

So be it.

From there, I pick the next color to compliment what is already on the page.

What I end up with is just beautiful, even if it not what I thought it would look like.

I am pleasantly surprised at my progress, my results.

I like it because it is started and it is mine. I am on the journey, on the way to being done.

A blank page is potential.

The Freezer

After my last blog post, I was curious about these online food subscription services. I went to the Daily Harvest website and started poking around. I had a $25 coupon so I thought what the heck. I'll give it a try.

I picked the fourteen item plan and filled my cart* with miso soup, oat bowls and smoothies. All of it will delivered next Wednesday! Yay! The fine print said it would be good to be home during the delivery so I can pop everything in the freezer. That's no problem in the work-from-home world. I clicked the confirm button and then a picture popped up of a woman with her arms spread out showing all of the stuff she ordered. 

Oh shit. 

That is a lot of boxes and my freezer is crammed full of food I've been hoarding since the beginning of the quarantine.

Now I am trying to go through and eat my frozen homemade chili and soups and whatnot. I started with the biggest containers and will take it from there. 

I will see how this works out. I am mostly excited about not eating the same stuff day after day. I am looking forward to variety. I'll keep you posted.

* Will people 150 years from now know where the word for internet shopping "cart" came from? Will they know it was named after a large metal basket with wheels that people used to drive through "grocery stores" or "Target"?

Cooking

When this pandemic is over, I am never cooking again.

Ever.

All of my meals will be carry-out, delivery, eaten in a restaurant, or leftovers. 

I made this realization a few weeks ago when I had carry-out oysters and salad from Seatown, a Tom Douglas restaurant. Tom Douglas is a major Seattle restauranteur who immediately closed his eight restaurants last March at the first whiff of the coronavirus. In the past few weeks, he re-opened Seatown for carry-out. My oysters were personally shucked by Tom Douglas himself. He was standing outside at the oyster bar, shucking away last Saturday afternoon.

Why should I cook if Tom Douglas can do a better job than I can? The salad was way more interesting than anything I would make. This week, I went to Seatown and had coconut fried shrimp over a green mango salad. 

I could make a fancy salad, but I'd have to buy $35 of ingredients that would spoil before I could eat it all. And it would take me a while to make it. Plus, I'd have to think of the idea of making a green mango salad, which, like, I would never do.

Here is a comparison: I don't make my own clothes. Someone else makes the clothes, and then I go to the store and buy a sweater or skirt or whatnot. Why should I cook my own food? It is easier and better to have someone else do it.

This is, of course, assuming I can afford eating out all of the time, and not getting super fat or unhealthy. Unlike a sweater which I can wear for ten years, I would need to get new meals three times a day. That would be an unpleasant drag on the bank account. But hey--that is why god invented money.

Maybe there is a cheaper, middle ground where I won't go broke eating out...which brings me to the mail I get advertising fresh meals delivered:

The algorithms of direct mail know who I don't want to cook but I want to eat. They are guessing I like interesting food but don't have the bandwidth or desire to make it.

Independence v Responsibility, and Pandemics

The Boy was in town over the holidays and he was a little jealous of his friends' independence. Most of them can drive and have access to cars. Two friends could drive to the mountains to ski (which terrifies me as a mom, but whatever) and another drove to a park to hike. He wished he had that independence.

Sidebar: I heard an interesting talk about jealousy recently. We can be jealous of all kinds of things, like money, fame, and love. I see jealousy as having these components--

The speaker said jealousy can turn into hatred, but I think it starts with self-hatred. We hate ourselves for not having that cool job, great car, or thighs of steel. We might not recognize that as self-hatred at first, or it might not be hatred. It could be grief. The Boy might be sad that he doesn't have the same freedom his friends have. He might regret the choices he made that led him to needing to go to Wilderness therapy. We can also move to acceptance, where we know we can't have what we want. I can't make my mother's Alzheimer's go away, for example. I could fight and argue and scream, but it wouldn't change her condition.

Back to the Boy. 

"You have the shitty part of independence," I told him. "You don't have a car. Instead, you get to do your own laundry, make your own breakfast, lunch and dinner. You have to grocery shop and have a budget. You have to clean your own toilets."

"It's called 'responsibility,'" he said.

Yeah. That. He takes care of himself first, and then also takes care of his housemates when it is his turn to make dinner and clean the kitchen.

The Boy is learning responsibility first, independence and freedom second. I wonder why the Founding Fathers came up with the Declaration of Independence? Should they have also come up with a Declaration of Responsibility, too, to balance it out? Or were their wives and slaves taking care of all that: the kids, the home, the crops, etc.? 

My good friend Eleanor Owen turned 100 years old last week. Her life has been bookended by pandemics. Her mother's firstborn son died of the 1918 Flu. Eleanor's mother stayed hidden away for three years during the 1918 pandemic. "My mother was either carrying a baby, delivering a baby or nursing a baby during that time," Eleanor said. "She had to hide."

I was talking to a friend this weekend about the 1918 Flu. Were people as downtrodden as we are now? How did they cope? 

Perhaps some of the answer is in our perception of responsibility v independence. Eleanor's mom felt a sense of responsibility to care for her three young children. Did it make her less miserable to focus on her responsibility instead of losing her freedom and independence? 

Maybe. I remember Eleanor's story about living on a farm in upstate New York ten years after the pandemic. When she was young girl, the family's cow was in heat. The neighbor refused to let her bull impregnate the DeVito's cow. Eleanor and her sister's recognized the problem. In the middle of the night, Eleanor and her sisters dragged their cow out of the pen, and brought it to the neighbor's farm where the bull took care of business. Ten months later, the cow had a calf. All was well. At an early age, those girls had both responsibility and independence. They took care of their cow, and did it on their own. Too much responsibility is dreary. Too little can make us spoiled.

Okay, now I sound like someone writing two hundred years ago about big topics like Responsibility versus Independence. Ugh. Here is a cute picture of my dog. Why? Just because. As soon as a blanket fell on the floor, he claimed it as his own.

Good News: Happy 100th Birthday to Eleanor Owen

My dear friend Eleanor Owen turned 100 years old on Friday. She wanted to have a big party, but covid killed her plans. 

"If I get covid, three weeks later it will be bye-bye Eleanor," she told me at the start of the pandemic. As such, I've stayed away from her. I am consider myself reasonably sociable, but Eleanor makes me look like a homebody by comparison. Eleanor always is having someone over for lunch or dinner. In the pre-covid world, I had season tickets to the UW Theater. Eleanor was my guest. I'd drive to her house where she'd make an amazing Italian meal that would be too special or complicated to serve in a restaurant. Once she made this tomato based dish with some kind of meat. After the sauce had simmered, she cracked three eggs in the sauce, covered each egg with a massive slice of mozzarella cheese, and then let the eggs poach for a few minutes. The whole thing was slopped up with a thick, crusty bread. It sounds odd, but it was delicious. After dinner, I'd drive Eleanor and I to the play. 

I am delighted Eleanor has made it to 100, especially with as much energy as she has. I called her Friday afternoon to wish her a happy birthday. People were calling her all day, and dropping off flowers. 

"I am exhausted by love," she said.

Hopefully, next year I can make it to her 101st birthday bash.

In other news, we have a new President. The old one was dissed by the Proud Boys and almost all American manufacturing in recent days. I have some friends who are or were Trump supporters. I can love my friends and not be a fan of the man himself. For me, Inauguration Day this year was like the Super Bowl, Academy Awards and Valentine's Day all wrapped into one.